Spellbreakers

By Katherine Wyvern

Escarra, a small kingdom that has lost its old magical power, is threatened by the brutal slaver empire of Hassia. Only the long-lost hero Kjetil Alversen Hawkeneye can save Escarra now, but for a hundred years he has been sleeping an enchanted sleep in the ice palace of the Witch Queen of Dalarna. He alone can save them, but he can only be awakened by the love of a pure heart.

When Princess Leal and her faithful friend Daria set out to find him and bring him back to Escarra, they embark on an epic journey across five kingdoms. They face elvers and goblins, giants, dragons and black unicorns, but when they both fall in love with Ljung, the mysterious, alluring hunter who shares the end of their trip, his love could save the quest or doom it. Will his prowess and wisdom help Princess Leal, or will she lose her pure heart—and Daria’s love—to his irresistible appeal?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Publishing
• Release date: Aug 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781771309462

Katherine Wyvern

Katherine is a gipsy soul who lived in Italy, Norway, Germany, France and Spain but mostly in some private universe of her own. She is now settled, for a while at least, in SW France, where she lives in a yurt in the woods, with her boots and a horse as only means of transport. She's worked as a printer, a welder, and a gardener, and she has been writing since she can remember, mostly poetry, fantasy and erotica, sometimes mixed together in weird ways. Nowadays, when not busy with walking, horse-whispering or dream-weaving, she is usually painting, embroidering, or working her backbone off in the garden.

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Published by Evernight Publishing ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2014 Katherine Wyvern

ISBN: 978-1-77130-946-2

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: Karyn White

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Eric and Kaylee

who shared the long road with me

SPELLBREAKERS

Katherine Wyvern

Copyright © 2014

And it was said that his soul was taken

He was locked away – sleeping

For a hundred years under ice eternal

Untouched by the honey bees of June

Forever beautiful

And forever cold

In an endless frozen winter

A hundred years he waited

A hundred years he slept unmoving

He waited for the kiss of summer

And a gold wind from the south

The gold of the sun in the humming gardens

He waited for her kiss,

Her warm, warm kiss,

So he could be free

Then he could breathe and sing again

Sing the bees in the reveling roses

Sing the summer song of June

The summer song of love.

From the song of Princess Leal of Escarra and Kjetil Alversen Hawkeneye, last Warlord of the Elverlaen, as was sung by the troubadours of Castel Argell.

Chapter One

The adventure of Princess Leal of Escarra in the far northern kingdom of Dalarna began at court, one hot southern afternoon, nearly a month after mid-summer, in the year 1467.

It was a sultry day, with a lifeless pale sky, neither blue nor grey. Even in the great hall of Castel Argell, under its high vaults of stone, behind walls seven feet thick, it was too hot for comfort. There was a hope that rain might come, but when? The whole Val d’Eran was parched and dry. The leaves in the vineyards hung flagging in the sun. This far south, rain was a gift in summer, even in the mountains.

The ladies of the court, all in their most sumptuous gowns, swathes of pale Andalouan silks and rich Umbrian velvets embroidered, slashed, and pinked in a myriad of colors and patterns, fanned their faces ceaselessly, like a meadow full of trapped butterflies, each silently praying that the Hassian ambassador would get going, and get it over with. The heralds had been ready for their fanfare for a good five minutes now, fidgeting with their drums and trumpets, but the great ambassador was late.

It was outrageous, deliberately insolent. A bloody bad beginning to a most unpleasant business.

Well, of course you could say that this story began long before that. You could say that it started with the Red War of 1104, when the rivers ran crimson with blood and even the sky above wept scarlet tears at the atrocities committed on the ravaged battlefields. Or you could say that it started with the White Death of 1466, when men, women, children, sometimes whole families, were carried away by the silent inexplicable plague that swept through the kingdom, so that grief spared no one, rich or poor, good or evil.

But for Leal, it started on that grey dull afternoon, at court.

She was not even paying attention, really. "Are you all right, m’lady?" asked Daria, in a whisper, leaning over Leal’s shoulder. Her voice was almost covered by the fanfare that accompanied the fantastic light show overhead.

Yeah ... I mean, no, not really, no. I can’t breathe, hardly. Leal squirmed in her tight bodice. It was no good to wear a soft silken shift under a stiff damask bodice, if the shift bunched up in pleats and folds that itched like crawling ants on a sweaty skin.

She felt a fumbling at her waist, and a slight relief came as the ties on the back of her corset were loosened somewhat. She kept her hands demurely crossed in front of her, trying to look bland and vaguely smiling while the Hassian ambassador finally—finally!—advanced along the nave of the great hall. The bodice gave way just enough for her to take a deeper sigh. It was not freedom, not even close, but better than nothing. She breathed easier, and gave a quick sideways nod over her shoulder to Daria, who stood a step behind her, out of sight, in a respectfully subservient position.

Leal tried to concentrate on the advancing figure striding among the columns of the throne hall. The Hassian ambassador was short and thin, a ludicrously small figure, topped by a dandelion-head of frizzy black hair. What he lacked in physical stature he made up in attitude. It was rumored that he was a favorite with Black Admund and that he had already been chosen as future governor of Escarra. As he advanced, he scanned the nave of the hall as smugly as if he already owned the place. Leal could have sworn that he was measuring the place for curtains.

His visit had been expected for almost a month. The Challenge time had come ‘round again, as it did every fifty years since what now looked like beginning of time, although it was in fact barely three hundred and fifty years.

The heralds’ trumpets rang on and on, perfectly deafening in the echoing stone-vaulted hall. The ambassador bowed stiffly in front of the king and queen, showing through the scarlet of his robes an elegant leg clad in a golden silk stocking.

Hail, Guillem, king of Escarra...

Leal’s attention wandered as the titles and formalities piled up. Come to the point, you ... you garish cockatoo, she thought, wary even in her thoughts, lest her expression give away her scorn. We all know you have the best archer and that Escarra is doomed.

... and the time has now come again. In the name of King Admund Schwarzwald the Third, I hereby challenge the king of Escarra to an archery contest, whose outcome will decide the fortunes of our kingdoms once again. It is King’s Admund’s pleasure to name a champion. Hristo Straightaim, of Kareli, will shoot for Hassia. You may choose your own champion. If he wins, your kingdom shall stand free for fifty more years. If not, you will accept the Hassian rule, at long last. You will find Admund a lenient king. To show respect to the royal house of Escarra, he will take the heir to your throne, the princess... he hesitated a moment, because the heir to the throne had changed twice in as many months, ...the princess Leal, as his rightful spouse.

Leal blinked three times. The words were clear yet made no sense. Spouse? Did he say spouse? Did he say Admund will marry the heir to the Escarran throne? Admund will wed ... me?

Behind her, Daria scoffed. A buzzing murmur like a thousand hornets rose among the mighty pillars that upheld the stone vault of the great hall. Princess Amata, Leal’s younger sister gave a high pitched giggle, quickly suppressed by an icy glance of her governess. Little Princess Beatriç began to grizzle and had to be taken away.

Lord Dionis, the king’s brother, his most trusted councilor, and the Escarran Master of Enchantments, stood up and coughed. His seat was several steps below the throne, yet even so he was in many ways a more formidable figure than King Guillem. He was taller, and in his youth he had been an extraordinarily handsome man. Even now, he was a stunning figure, with a lined but clean shaven face, a shock of white but thick, unruly hair and disconcertingly pale, piercing, commanding blue eyes. His heavy blue-black cloak was edged with a silver border of interwoven crescents, the mark of his order. The high rigid collar of the cloak framed his stern face and made him look even taller and more imposing.

He stepped forward, bowing slightly to the ambassador.

The Challenge is, of course, once more, accepted, he said in a soft voice, which mysteriously carried through the whole hall. However, it has never before been contemplated that the two royal houses should unite.

Never before has King Admund issued the Challenge, my lord. It is his prerogative to choose his terms.

The Master of Enchantments stared down at the ambassador with cold pale eyes. He rolled his shoulders slightly, and thunder rumbled overhead as he took another step forward. The great hall went darker. The thunder grew louder, gathering strength as Lord Dionis bore down on the Ambassador who took a hasty step back. Then the old wizard clasped his hands behind his back, pausing in his stride. A slightly condescending smile flickered on his lips. The light grew stronger again, and the last grumble of thunder died away.

We have heard these terms, lord ambassador. The king and his council will reflect on them. You will have your answer within three days.

He glanced back at the king, who nodded. He was deathly pale.

The court was abuzz. People high and low threw worried glances towards the royal family. Leal glanced at her father. He looked tired, older, and more troubled than ever. Unlike his brother, who wore his court clothes with flamboyant ease, the king always huddled in them as if looking for shelter. He was talking to his brother quickly, and Leal had the feeling that he was avoiding meeting her eyes. Queen Amara was talking urgently with one of her ladies, and shaking her head repeatedly with a troubled and anxious face.

Finally, since nobody else was paying her any attention, Leal turned and stared into Daria’s perfectly horrified face. Leal had never thought to see her maid and friend so shaken.

Crap, said the girl, drawing some disapproving, astonished, or plain shocked glances from the queen’s ladies. Leal took no notice.

I must get hold of Dee. I am sure they can’t possibly consider this seriously, Challenge or no Challenge, she said. Let’s get out of here.

They made their way through the crowd of the royal entourage, towards the back of the hall, where a couple of doors behind the thrones gave the higher nobility a quick way out of the great hall. Leal grabbed her skirts impatiently to climb the few steps through the door and heard a muffled oath behind her. Daria had just stumbled on the edge of her dress again. Even in that dismal moment Leal grinned. She got a glimpse of the dark cloak and white hair she was looking for and made her way towards the Master of Enchantments as fast as possible in her ungainly court skirts.

Dee! Dee! Wait!

He turned and glanced at her sternly, then shook his head and made a sign with his index finger, bringing it to his pursed lips and then turning it vaguely in mid-air. Not now; we’ll talk later. The king’s council was already gathering around him, each man bawling and arguing as loud as they could. Nobody even looked at her, not even her father, as if marrying King Admund was a mere political topic, nothing personally to do with her.

Damn, she said, and then turned to Daria. I’ll catch him later. Let’s go up. At least I can get out of this bloody dress.

In Leal’s room, a snug low room on the west side of the keep with a little window looking out towards the snowy peaks of the Canigou Mountains, Leal helped Daria out of her dress. It was not the usual procedure between a princess and her maid, but Daria was not likely to ever get out of that gown without help, and she was so obviously miserable in it that Leal would not let her wear it a second more than necessary.

I swear, said Daria, muffled by a tent of cloth as she wrestled out of her petticoats like a cat in a sack, that I’d rather be a lowly butcher boy than the highest lady of the court. How can those gabbing geese wear stuff like this every day just beats me.

She threw her clothes in a corner of her cot and quickly dressed in a pair of well-worn breeches and a plain practical linen tunic, and then, sighing as if she had been freed from heavy irons, she helped Leal undo the ties of her tight corset.

Leal was trembling with tension.

I am sorry, princess, said Daria with infinite concern. Here I am, prating about my wardrobe sorrows, and you...

And I am to marry Black Admund, said Leal in a stricken voice.

Never believe it. It will never, ever happen. No Escarran lady has ever married a Hassian king, not in four hundred years. We are surely not going to start now, are we? Your father will never consent. And Old Dee will think of something. You know he will.

Leal nodded. She was not sure that her father would stand up for her, but she took some comfort from Daria’s words nonetheless. Guillem was an affectionate father to his children, more than was usual in a royal family. She knew that putting politics before his daughter’s happiness would grieve him beyond words. Still, he was a shrewd king, and Leal knew very well that in the end he would always put the good of the kingdom first. She could not put much faith in him, in the circumstances. Dee ... Dee was a different kettle of fish altogether.

The Master of Enchantments, Leal’s uncle, was her favorite person in the world. Well, he and Daria.

He was the most erudite man in Castel Argell, and he had been closer to her than either of her parents, since she had chosen to study the history and geography of Escarra and the western kingdoms under his tutelage rather than wasting time on learning the harp, and the complex court dances, and embroidery and fine deportment and all the princessy things her elder sisters had always liked. Perhaps because of this, he had always been very fond of her and Daria, who had often studied with her, more out of love for her than out of a genuine interest in book-lore.

If someone could tell her frankly what had transpired at the council, it was Dee. And he would come up with some wondrous plan to defeat the Hassian champion at the Challenge and save her from marrying Admund.

Leal changed into soft brown suede breeches, a pale blue tunic and a black doublet, hugged Daria quickly, and ran out of the door of her room.

I’ll talk to Dee as soon as they are done, she said, turning in the doorway, before closing the door. If ever you bothered with praying to the gods for anything, do pray for me now, will you?

Daria nodded gravely. She had never been so pale.

****

The king and his council sat in their chamber for hours. The oak doors of the council room were not quite thick enough to shut off the raised, agitated voices within, but no clear words were discernible.

Outside, the weather had finally broken. A gale of wind hurled sheets of grey rain against the old walls of the castle, drumming against the window panes and splashing down along the lofty archeres of the donjon’s stairs. Castel Argell stood in the storm like a timeless island of pale stone. Atop its sheer-walled cliff, dominating the Val d’Eran below in three directions from its vertiginous height, nothing had ever bothered the old towers of the fortress. No enemy had ever attempted taking it.

Queen Amara had come as a young girl from the rich, fruit-laden plains of Andalou in the south, with its palaces of white marble, singing with fountains in mosaicked halls and enclosed gardens, and she hated the stern stone fortress she had married into. But to Leal it was home. She felt safe here, always. It was the rock-solid haven in the storm, in the cold of winter, in the dark of the night. It was the place to ride back to when she was tired from the hunt. She laid a hand on the stone wall, feeling the steadfast coolness of the castle, and tried to calm down, but in vain.

She took to walking up and down the corridor once more, seething with impatience.

The rain had ceased, and the sun was peeping out of fleeting clouds on a washed world by the time the meeting was over. When the door opened the chancellor and the king’s secretary scurried out, deep in talk, utterly ignoring her. The Lord Marshall of Escarra, imposing even out of his armor, bowed deeply to her, but barely addressed her with a mumbled greeting. The Chief of Justice gave an appreciative look to her breech-clad thighs then quickly schooled his face into a disapproving expression. The Lord Treasurer, an enormously fat man with teary eyes and a wheezing breath who had always been as kind as an uncle to the king’s brood, kissed her hand distractedly, mumbling something about a shame, a damn, damn shame.

Before he could say anything more the Master of Enchantments swept out of the council chamber like a storm cloud full of thunder, grabbed her by the elbow and whisked her away at top speed.

They walked fast along corridors and smaller halls, towards the east tower of the keep.

I hope you took particular notice of my thunder effects earlier. For a moment even I thought it was the weather, said Dee with strained cheerfulness, as they marched through the castle. It took me a long while to find the right spot where to place the thunder device, you know? Of course the minstrel gallery would have given a much better sound quality, but it might have been too obvious from the hall.

Leal glared at her uncle in exasperation. Dee, I have known of your thunder device since I was as small as Bea. Forgive me if I am not going to take any notice of it today. What is this damn shame old Lord Corder is babbling about? Don’t tell me that my father is really marrying me off to—to that monster? To Black Admund?

For a man of his age, and one who apparently spent most of his days in his library, the Master of Enchantments could walk fast. He took the winding stairs of his tower two at a time, and Leal had to scurry behind him in a most undignified way to keep up.

"Your father is not marrying you off, Leal. He undertakes that should the Challenge be lost, the heir to the Escarran throne, whoever that may be, will wed the king of Hassia, sealing the union of the two kingdoms. It is a reasonable political move. The Challenge is a symbol, a ritual, but it is the only thing that held Hassia at bay for the last three hundred years. The Challenge and fear. If we lose the Challenge, and there appears to be no doubt that we will lose it this time, Escarra will be nothing but loot for Hassia. A royal wedding may well be the only way of maintaining a degree of sovereignty on the kingdom, Leal. If Admund had not suggested the union, we might have had to do it ourselves."

While saying this, Dee reached the massive carved doors of his library. A valet stood in front of them, and opened them, bowing obsequiously. As they went through the doors closed softly behind them.

In the padded silence of his room Dee turned round and spoke again, in a much softer, lower voice. That said, I am grieved to the heart that this weight should fall on you, my dear.

Leal hissed in pure revulsion and stalked to the nearest window, and then back. But before she could answer Dee spoke again.

You understand of course, that this was never intended to be your role. If things had been different one of your elder sisters would have had to marry Admund. It is doubly tragic that they both perished of the White Death.

His tone had an edge to it that suggested that while he was sorry for her, he would not take any mewling, any tantrums, any wallowing.

He sat on the high chair behind his huge, book-scattered desk, and stared at her expectantly.

She sat down on the chair on the opposite side of the table and banged both elbows on top of the desk. She put her face in her hands.

I am sorry. Of course. I was extremely lucky to survive the White Death. I am grateful to be alive. I am. And I am the heir to the throne now. I see that it is not all bread and lollies. I see that I have ... duties. Responsibilities. You know I care about the kingdom and all that. I’d do anything to save Escarra, anything. But he is a brute. I would be what, his fifth wife? And what happened to the other four? Two died mysteriously, one was beheaded, and what about the other one? Oh right, that one just died of childbirth because the whelp was monstrously deformed. He is older than my father, and fatter than the Lord Treasurer. I am a strapping strong mountain girl, but I won’t live to see the dawn after my wedding night, Dee!

Dee smiled grimly. It could be argued that with a bit of effort and, uhm, application, he could be the one to not see the light of dawn. Elderly, crapulous men of obese constitution are easily victim to apoplexy, strokes, calenture and all sort of other interesting incidents when subject to much excitement and physical exertion.

Leal groaned. I am a royal princess. I was raised to be virtuous and innocent, so I can pretend not to know what you are babbling about. Please, Dee, tell me that you will save me from this. It is too horrible to contemplate. And if I just throw myself from the highest tower of the castle, or run away, the lot will just fall on Amata, and she is of delicate build. The prospect does not bear thinking of.

"Leal, my darling, would that I could. But they have the most formidable champion, as you know. They say Hristo Straightaim can core an apple at two hundred paces. The king’s messengers have been scouring the kingdom for the last five years. They sent messengers as far as Umbria and Andalou, but not an archer they could find who could beat Straightaim. They will win the Challenge this time. And once that happens, there is nothing at all that we can do to reverse the judgment. Rejecting the Challenge’s verdict would mean condemning Escarra to a completely hopeless war. You know very well that Escarran war-magic is not what it used to be."

Can’t you give me something? Anything? There must be a solution!

Dee spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

If I had a solution, I’d have spoken up a long time ago, believe me. I have no more wish to see Escarra enslaved, or you wedded to Black Admund, than you have. And your father has been most insistent that I devote all my time and resources to the issue.

My father, my father, said Leal, snapping out of the chair and pacing furiously up and down the room. She barely abstained from spitting on the dusty carpet that covered Dee’s floor.

The Master of Enchantments sighed with a dejected air.

Guillem is as unhappy as you are, Leal. Do not blame your father for all this. He has no more choice in the matter than you have.

Leal shot him a withering look and went to stand by the window, arms crossed, fuming. She remained stubbornly silent, refusing to concede the truth of Dee’s words.

"He always loved you more than any of his daughters, Leal, you know that very well. You always had your way in everything, even when it was not quite wise. Tell me, when did you last have a lesson in etiquette, dance, heraldry and deportment? When was the last time you embroidered as much as a napkin? You were not groomed to be a royal bride, and for that you must be grateful. You had more freedom than any royal child could ever expect. Of course there is a reverse to this medal. Of course it is much harder to accept this for you than it would have been for Sperança or Allegra. But they would have hated Admund just the same. Nobody said that doing your duty for the kingdom would be ... entertaining. I say again, do not blame your father. He is as keen as you are to find a way to win the Challenge and free you. But there appears to be no realistic way."

There was a silence.

Leal gazed at nothing out of window. She felt her life slipping through her fingers. She was condemned to this wedding then. With some luck it would be over soon. One way or the other. Then she thought of Dee’s last words.

There appears to be no realistic way. It was a curious formulation. She had known Dee for all her life. Even in a rush, half drunk, and hanging upside down from a tree, he could certainly have picked out words like a woman picks choice flowers in a garden.

Not even any fantastical, magical way? she asked finally, barely whispering. She did not leave the window, and she merely turned her face down and back, to peer at Dee from behind her shoulder.

The old man gave another deep sigh, but he sat up a bit straighter.

I wish there was, Leal, he said, but you know how things stand there better than most, said Dee. There is no more magic left in Escarra’s old bones. I can barely feel the pulse of the elements these days. All I can contrive are tricks and illusions. Masters of old magicked the arrows of their champions to ensure a victorious shot, but I could no more do that than bring Kjetil Alversen Haukka-Silma’a back into the world.

Kjetil who? asked Leal, suddenly turning from the window and stalking back to the old man’s table.

The magician gave her a surreptitious look from under his silvery eyebrows.

What are you saying, Dee? Who is this Kjetil Whatshisname-a’a?

Dee coughed and sniffed a few times, obviously considering what to say, and how. He sat back in his high chair, and steepled his fingers in front of him.

Do not get too excited, Leal. This is ancient history by now. Kjetil Alversen Haukka-Silma’a was an elvren warrior...

Elvren? Like ... an elf?

Ah, said Dee raising his right index finger in an admonitory fashion. You be careful there, princess. Elves—the singular is elf—are small, slender, winged creatures, powerful in green magic, said to be found solely in wild, undisturbed forests. They seldom have any contact with humans. Elvers are altogether more substantial, flightless creatures, found almost exclusively in the northern kingdoms. They do not fear humans at all, being quite comparable in size and physical prowess, and considerably more adroit in the use of an earthy but quite valuable form of green magic. The two races are loosely related, it is true, but either breed would resent the confusion. You might want to keep that in mind, if ever you meet any.

He gave her another of those considering under-brow glances, and Leal was sure that he was hatching something in his dear old head. Something too crazy to bring to a council meeting, or even to the king’s private ear. Guillem was fond of his brother, but he had no faith at all in the old lore that was daily bread and wine for Dee. She sat forward, reaching across the table in a conspiring way.

I will take particular care of it. Tell me about this ... elvren warrior.

Well, his battle name, Haukka-Silma’a, meaning Hawk-eye, or Hawkeneye, gives away the gist of it, doesn’t it? He was, and I do use the past tense with some hesitation, a famous warrior of his clan, possibly even a chieftain of sorts, and vastly celebrated for his proficiency in the use of the long bow. It is said that he possessed a weapon of great antiquity and uncommon power. Some say it was made of dragon horn, although dragons do not carry horns to my knowledge, so that part might well be mere legen—

All right, all right, snapped Leal, waving her hands dismissively. Never mind the bow. What happened to him? What did you say about the past tense? Is he alive? Where? How? You said this was ancient history!

Dee raised both his hands, palms out, defensively.

I did say not to get excited, didn’t I? According to legend, and really, it may be all there is to it, Kjetil Alversen Hawkeneye disappeared from the northern world over one hundred years ago.

Leal sat back in her chair with a sigh. Oh, well, not much help from that one, then.

Dee drummed his fingers on the table-top a few times, looking thoughtful and keen.

Well, maybe not. And yet. Elvers are very long lived. Some say immortal, but that of course is so much stuff. However, one hundred years do not mean as much to them as they would to us. But what is more to the point, there appears to have been a rumor at the time, a rumor consistent enough to be passed down in songs and eventually recorded, that our good elver might have not quite disappeared, but ... Faded.

Faded? Like an old stain?

No. Faded. Like... he trailed off. He was obviously at a loss for a way to explain his meaning. You know how there is a notion that if you can find a fern seed on midsummer night it will give you the power of invisibility? he asked.

Leal burst to laugh. "That is a nursery tale. Ferns don’t even make seeds."

Well, no, not the common ferns. And yet it is a very well-known fact to the initiated that a particular rare fern called the imperial fern, or by some, the dragon-fern, does indeed, around midsummer, produce fruit and seed, and that this seed, taken fresh, with the due rituals, will allow a human being of pure spirit to ascend to a higher state of consciousness, or even, in fact, existence.

Leal laughed again. I know of several very common mushrooms that would do the same, and they are available year round, if you have the good sense to dry them.

Dee gave her a deeply disapproving look. I will pretend not to have heard that, my princess. No, what I am talking about here is not a brief culpable debauched self-indulgent exhilaration. This is High Magic in one of its most ancient forms. The ritual for passing to the other side is rooted in the oldest traditions of Men, Elves, and Elvers, and a dozen other races. But only a few have preserved the ability to perform it successfully. Only persons that are highly in tune with the natural elements and have no evil about them can succeed. It appears that few Men have the requisite qualities these days. But it used to be more commonly done of old, and it is said to be still a feasible ... way out, for some races.

Way out?

Out of the strife and hassle of the world. It is said that the Faded live a wholly spiritual, disincarnated life. They are more ... energy than flesh. Like light and fire. But with a soul.

And ... this Kjetil Alversen Hawkeneye has Faded, you say?

So they say. There is very little certainty. But one thing is sure: Elvers are not immortal, but the Faded are. Their existence is ingrained in the very fiber of the living earth. They exist in the light of all celestial orbs and in the very breath of the trees and in the heat of the fire. They cannot be killed by age or wounds or disease, no more than spring or moonlight can be killed. They are immortal, and according to some, all-knowing. If Kjetil Alversen Hawkeneye chose to Fade from the world, he is still very much alive.

Leal sucked her teeth for a while, thoughtful.

Supposing that he is indeed Faded and alive...

Dee nodded, waiting for more.

...can these energy-soul-thingies still pull a bow-string, you figure?

Chapter Two

But that is just an old tale, said Daria, frowning, although there was also a quivering of laughter in her voice. Her expression was flickering between confusion and disbelieving derision.

"I know, I know. But do we have anything better? Anything? Look, I would clutch at a tale much thinner and older than this. Dee is not one to go chasing rainbows and fluffy unicorns. You know him as well as I do. If he says there is something to it, there must be. He says that a person of pure spirit can, under due circumstances, speak to these Faded fellows. If