Kinslayer Lasniniar Collection

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The Die Is Cast

Alfialys wandered beneath the shadows of the trees, drifting farther away from the banquet. The sound of murmuring voices faded from his ears as the hush of the ancient forest surrounded him. He knew he wasn’t fit company at the moment, and he couldn’t bear to surround himself with other elves.

The strange sense of foreboding that had haunted him since his sister’s wedding had only grown more insistent over the past few weeks, becoming a leaden weight in his chest. He had considered speaking to Eransinta and Curuadil about it, but they were still in the honeymoon phase. He didn’t want to be the one to dispel their happiness.

He had also thought about approaching Lady Iadrawyn with his problem, but he couldn’t even determine what was wrong. It made him uncomfortable to think about pestering the Lady of the Light Elves with nothing more than a nebulous feeling. He was certain she would be very kind about it, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself or waste her time.

Besides, Eransinta had a stronger connection to the Quenya than he did, and Lady Iadrawyn was now her family. If his twin felt it was important enough when he finally told her, perhaps she could try asking Iadrawyn for help on his behalf. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to think he was just being selfish and overreacting to the marriage of his twin...

Coward.

He knew his reasons were merely excuses, but it was not his way to burden others with his problems. Eransinta was usually his voice of reason in that regard, but he had chosen to keep her at arm’s length. The unfamiliar sense of doom hanging over him was getting worse, not better. He needed to talk to someone about it, and soon.

I’ll visit Eransinta tomorrow. There’s no sense bothering her with it tonight. Even if she decided I should go to Iadrawyn, I wouldn’t dare disturb her or Valanandir during the Feast of Remembrance.

His mind made up, Alfialys felt a sense of peace wash over him for the first time in weeks. He found himself yawning, his jaw opening so wide, it cracked. His mouth tasted of wine.

He hadn’t had much sleep lately. The most he could seem to manage was an hour or two before his hovering unease woke him and forced him to wander off on his own. He had downed several glasses of wine at the feast, hoping it might take the edge off. Usually he could hold his drink as well or better than any other elf, but his lack of sleep was catching up with him, and the wine was hitting him hard.

His legs wobbled beneath him and he sank down at the foot of a large tree, leaning back against the smooth bark between its roots. The grass beneath him was soft, and the tree seemed to cradle him. The evening breeze whispered to him of sleep.

His eyelids grew heavy and he let them slide shut, welcoming the warm embrace of oblivion.

Saviadro strode among the trees of Melaquenya with a sense of purpose. He wore a long, dark cloak. Any elf he encountered would likely assume he wore it to honor the fallen of Ralvaniar, but his pack was hidden beneath its folds, concealing his clutch of stunted dragon eggs and the starsilver vessel Zoltralan had helped him create. The dark blade the dwarf had gifted him also hung from his belt. He had hidden another satchel with supplies for travel in the northern end of the forest to avoid seeming conspicuous. He knew once he had succeeded in the first part of his plan, he would need to leave Melaquenya to avoid the wrath of the elves and secure his position.

It had taken him longer than he had expected to recover from completing the vessel. Even though he had begrudged the extra time, he knew better than to put his plan in motion while he was still weakened. The task ahead of him was a dangerous one, and would require all his strength and concentration.

The foolish elves still suspected nothing. They were all too busy flagellating themselves over the one time they had decided to use the Quenya to its fullest advantage—something that made absolutely no sense to him. He had mourned his dead parents every day since they had died on the battlefield. He didn’t need a special occasion to think about them.

Daroandir... Well, he was another matter. The other elf had been like an older brother to him, but Daroandir had begun to suspect his betrayal in the end. Saviadro liked to think he would have eventually managed to convince Daroandir to join him, but now he would never know. It was an unlikely fantasy, but one that had fueled him as he worked toward his goal—that and his friendship with the dark dragon, Nargaz.

Nargaz had been the one to see the frustration growing within him as Iadrawyn and Valanandir continued to hold back the full potential of the Quenya. He and Saviadro had understood each other. They both had known what it meant to be born to greatness. Unfortunately, Nargaz had died in the maelstrom on Ralvaniar, allowing Iadrawyn and Valanandir to escape with the Quenya on the wings of the only dragon to survive the catastrophe.

Malarin.

Saviadro’s fingers clenched. His contempt for Malarin was only eclipsed by his hatred of the Lord and Lady of the Elves. Malarin had become an ally of Iadrawyn and Valanandir early on, fighting alongside them against the dark creatures every step of the way. If not for her mindless loyalty, the two elves would likely be dead several times over by now. Nargaz had hated her, and she had become a large thorn in Saviadro’s side.

He patted the egg-shaped bulges at the bottom of his pack to reassure himself. He had already watched as she had flown away from the forest hours earlier to be alone, likely to wallow in her grief over being the last surviving creature of her kind.

Imagine her surprise when I raise an entire wing of dragons against her!

He let the folds of his cloak fall to conceal his pack as the entrance to the Glade of the Quenya came into view. He had been forced to circle around the Meeting Glade to reach it unobserved. A pair of sentries, each bearing a bow and quiver on his shoulder and a knife on his belt stood guard, despite their location in the heart of the Light Elves’ domain. As much as he hated to admit it, their presence was a piece of wisdom on Iadrawyn and Valanandir’s part, although Saviadro would have posted more than two guards if he were the one giving the orders.

I suppose I should be grateful.

His plan didn’t involve a confrontation, but the fewer eyes that saw him coming or going, the better. Besides, there was always the risk the sentries might notice a change in the Quenya and turn on him. But he suspected they had been chosen more for their fighting prowess than their connection with the very magic they were protecting.

“Saviadro,” the one on the left greeted him with a solemn nod. “What brings you here on the night of Remembrance?”

“Memories of my parents,” he said, schooling his expression into a mask of sorrow. It was not exactly a lie. “Memories of Daroandir.”

The sentry nodded. “It is a melancholy evening. Perhaps you should join everyone else in the Meeting Glade. Shared grief is often easier to bear.”

Saviadro shook his head. “I cannot bear to keep company with a crowd tonight. I feel a need to commune with the Quenya. I’m hoping it will comfort me.”

The sentry looked troubled. “Communing with the Quenya is every elf’s right. But are you certain you should be alone right now?”

Saviadro suppressed a surge of irritation at the sentry’s over-solicitous concern. “I will not be alone,” he said, managing a guileless expression. “The Quenya will be with me.”

“I suppose that is true...” The sentry gave him a measuring look. “Very well. You may enter. I hope you find the comfort you seek.”

He and his companion stepped aside, allowing Saviadro to pass between them.

Saviadro stifled a triumphant smile. “Thank you for your trust.”

He glided by on silent feet into the glade, already forgetting the sentries as his mind focused on the task at hand.

The interior of the glade was dominated by an enormous tree that towered above him, spreading its ancient branches to weave an unbroken canopy of golden and silver flecked leaves with the trees surrounding it. A shifting rainbow of light radiated from a large hollow in its trunk. The air pulsed with life around Saviadro, making his skin tingle and sending a shiver down his spine. He embraced the feeling, knowing it was only a small taste of what was soon to come.

He stepped forward, his feet seeming to move of their own accord. It had been so long since he had fully communed with the Quenya... The nature of his plan had always meant holding part of himself back. He yearned to touch the smooth bark, but he checked himself. At this point, there would be no hiding what he intended. If the Quenya became aware of his plan, he doubted it would prove merciful. He gritted his teeth against its allure.

I have not come this far to falter now.

He knelt before the tree, opening his pack to pull out the vessel he had created—a double of the Levniquenya. The soft light flickered across its smooth, silver surface. He took a deep breath to steady himself. He would need all his focus for what would happen next.

He reached out to the Quenya with the tiniest thread of thought, drawing some of its power to him—a mere whisper compared to what he would soon have at his disposal. He channeled it into the cool metal sphere resting in his hands, severing the connection as soon as possible.

Although his vessel was a twin of the Levniquenya, which stirred to life of its own accord to draw forth the Quenya according to Iadrawyn and Valanandir’s tales, he suspected his vessel would require both magic and a strong will to compel it to remove the Quenya from its intended home.

Sure enough, the vessel resisted him, but Saviadro had created it, and his will could not be shaken. He breathed heavily, his palms sweating against the polished starsilver until a line of runes flared to life along its circumference, glowing a sullen violet. Saviadro shook off his weakness. He was trembling from the effort.

Soon.

Soon, I will be the most powerful elf the world has ever known...

He rose to his feet, forcing his legs steady. He stepped toward the hollow in the tree, the glowing vessel cradled in his hands.

He steeled himself for the battle to come.

Alfialys’s silver eyes snapped open. He scrambled to his feet from where he had been curled up against a tree before his mind caught up with his movements.

Something was very wrong.

His head swiveled from side to side as he searched among the silent trees for the cause, but he was alone. The shadow that had chased him for the last several weeks seemed to hang over him like a shroud. He shuddered, wondering for what must have been the thousandth time what the unnatural feeling meant.

Go.

Go to the Quenya.

The silent urging seemed to come from nowhere. Before he had a chance to ponder what was behind it, his legs started carrying him through the trees at a run. For a moment, he rebelled at the compulsion, but after being without answers for so long, it was a relief to finally be given some direction.

Was this how his sister felt when she communed with the Quenya? He would have to ask her. But for now, he embraced it, increasing his speed as he wove through the trees, his white braids trailing behind him.

Fortunately, the Glade of the Quenya wasn’t far. He slowed to a stop as a pair of sentries came into view. They were both visibly startled by his sudden appearance, hands drifting toward their weapons.

It seemed strange they were still at their posts and not investigating whatever was happening within the glade, but as weak as Alfialys’s connection to the Quenya was, there were still those that were weaker.

Then again, perhaps whatever had summoned Alfialys had nothing to do with them.

“I need to enter the glade,” he said, trying to steady his breathing.

“I am sorry,” one of the sentries said with a shake of his head as he lowered his hand from the knife at his belt. “Another elf is already within, and I believe he wishes to remain undisturbed.”

Normally, Alfialys would never presume to intrude on an elf communing with the Quenya, but the silent prompting within him had only become more insistent.

“Please,” he said, in an urgent voice. “I need to go in there. It cannot wait.”

“Why?” the sentry demanded. “Why now?”

Alfialys shook his head, trying to keep a grip on his mounting frustration. “I don’t know! But the Quenya has summoned me. I would not disturb you for anything less. Please, let me pass.”

The sentry blew out a sigh. “Very well. I will not stand between any elf and his destiny. Just try not to disturb the other supplicant.” He stepped aside.

“Thank you!” Alfialys called over his shoulder as he hurried past.

He entered the glade on silent feet, mindful of the sentry’s request. He was expecting the familiar brush of the Quenya’s presence, but the air seemed alive with an angry buzz. An elf wearing a long, black cloak stood with his back turned, an aura of violet light pulsing around him. Mesmerized, Alfialys circled the glade to get a better look.

The other elf was barely familiar to him. Alfialys had not seen him in the forest often. He searched within his memories for the elf’s name.

Saviadro.

He was some distant cousin born on Ralvaniar, who never seemed to be around.

Saviadro’s fair features were frozen in a mask of concentration. His eyes were closed. His outstretched hands held a starsilver sphere edged with pulsing runes. The shifting rainbow light of the Quenya drifted toward the strange device in a steady stream. Every nerve within Alfialys’s body blazed with alarm at the sight. His doubts and fears fell away.

This was why he had been summoned.

An unfamiliar presence nudged at Saviadro’s awareness, distracting him from his work. He opened his eyes to find another elf in the glade with him, watching with wide, silver eyes. Saviadro recognized him as some brat spawned by one of his mother’s distant cousins. Still connected to the Quenya, it whispered a name in his mind.

Alfialys.

As the intruder stepped forward with an expression of grim determination, Saviadro was grudgingly forced to withdraw his focus from the Quenya, allowing the flow of power into his vessel to cease for the moment—at least until he could get rid of his unwanted distraction. He stifled a snarl of irritation. What were the sentries doing, allowing another elf to enter?

“Alfialys,” he said, greeting the other elf with a casual nod. “I did not expect company.”

“The Quenya summoned me. Urgently.” Alfialys had halted his advance midstep. The look he gave Saviadro was wary. “What are you doing?”

Saviadro schooled his expression into a polite mask. “I am merely performing a service for Iadrawyn and Valanandir. They have heard rumors that an outside force is targeting the Quenya, so they decided to have it moved to a secret location until the threat has passed. Iadrawyn would have done it herself, but today being the day it is, she isn’t as focused as usual. I am the only other living elf who was present when the Levniquenya was made, so I am performing the task in her stead.”

A little truth always makes a lie more palatable...

Alfialys’s slender brows knitted. “Why have I heard nothing of this supposed threat?”

Saviadro gave him a sympathetic look. “Surely you don’t expect Iadrawyn and Valanandir to tell us everything. Besides, if word got out, people might panic, and our chance for secrecy would be lost. Only Iadrawyn, Valanandir, and I are to know where the Quenya will go. Even the sentries have no idea.”

Alfialys shook his head. “Then why was I summoned here? Why have I been living with this sense of dread?”

His eyes narrowed and his gaze flitted back to the vessel in Saviadro’s hands. His hand rose to his mouth seemingly of its own accord as his expression went to one of suspicion to horrible realization.

“You’re stealing it, aren’t you? You’re stealing the Quenya!” The words tumbled from Alfialys’s lips in a rush.

Saviadro winced at the accusation in spite of himself, his mind working frantically for a way to get rid of his inconvenient witness. Even if he thought Alfialys might be tempted by the promise of a portion in the Quenya’s power, Saviadro was unwilling to share.

The two sentries were still waiting just outside the glade. Now that Alfialys knew his plan, there was nothing Saviadro could offer that might buy his silence. Even though he already had some of the Quenya’s power in his possession, he still needed to bend it to his will. Three opponents in close quarters would not give him the opportunity.

There was only one way out.

“You’re right,” he said. His shoulders slumped. “I wanted some of the Quenya’s power for myself. I suppose you were summoned here to stop me. I should have known how foolish a plan it was. I’ve just felt so lost lately...”

Alfialys gave him a dubious look. “So you’re going to put back what you took?”

“I must,” Saviadro said, gently placing his vessel on the ground. “You’ve made me see that. I can only imagine what I might have done if you hadn’t arrived.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “We had better get Iadrawyn to help. I’m too weak now to undo what I’ve done on my own. I’m sorry I tried to deceive you. Can you ever forgive me?”

Saviadro opened his arms for an embrace. Alfialys appeared confused, but stepped forward to accept the apology unthinking. Saviadro wrapped his left arm around Alfialys’s shoulders, drawing him close. He whispered five words into the other elf’s ear.

“You’ve left me no choice.”

His right arm snaked to the cold blade at his belt, plunging it into Alfialys’s back before drawing it free. It gleamed wetly in the shimmering light of the Quenya.

Alfialys’s eyes widened in surprise and he uttered a strangled moan of denial. Saviadro stepped back to let him slump to the ground. He took no pride in what he had just done, but he had come too far for half-measures. He scooped up his vessel, thinking to return to his task. A strange shiver warned him against it. He connected with the power he had stolen, looking for the source of the warning. He was overcome by a sudden vision of all the elves in Melaquenya charging toward the glade, led by Iadrawyn and Valanandir. He growled in frustration.

How?

His gaze darted to Alfialys’s crumpled form. The other elf was still breathing as his lifeblood darkened his tunic in a growing stain. His long fingers clenched at the grass and he seemed to be murmuring to himself in a thready voice. Saviadro leaned over and grabbed a handful of white hair. Alfialys’s head rose limply from the ground. His lips were moving, but his eyes were rolled back.

“What have you done?” Saviadro demanded, giving Alfialys’s head a violent shake. The other elf gave no response. Saviadro let his head fall with a snort of disgust.

He knew his time had run out. Somehow, Alfialys had told someone what had happened, and now others were on their way. His best chance was to escape now before the sentries discovered what had happened. He had planned to take all of the Quenya, but that was out of the question now. At least he had something to show for all his long years of effort. Perhaps he could find a way to use it to gain the rest...

He knew he couldn’t turn back now. Even if the elves somehow managed to overlook his theft of the Quenya, no elf had ever killed another in the history of Lasniniar or Ralvaniar, and Alfialys was mere moments from bleeding out.

Saviadro had already doomed his soul to oblivion by his actions. He had no desire to face the wrath of his people as well. He muttered a string of curses at his ill luck. If Alfialys hadn’t interfered...

He shook his head. There would be plenty of time for stewing later. He stowed his vessel in his pack and exited the glade at a brisk pace with a casual wave to the sentries. He made certain to angle his path away from the Meeting Glade. He could already hear overlapping voices in the distance, raised in confusion and fear, reminding him of an approaching swarm of bees.

He slipped into the shadow of the trees and began to run, leaving the rest of the Quenya and Alfialys’s limp form behind him.