Secrets

By Yvonne C.

Everyone has their secrets; from bloodthirsty vampires to graceful elves, from the creator to the dark destroyer, everyone has things they would rather keep hidden but all things hidden have a way of being revealed.

Two thousand years have past and things have greatly changed. Anya rules alone; her husband having vanished, as mysteriously as other elves in previous years, and dark forces are running freely across the no longer quite so Free Land.

Resigned to battling these forces without the help of her king Anya receives a letter requesting her presence – a letter written in a familiar hand, a letter asking her to come to a place she had never thought to see again, Kandar.

A land where evil swirls in the very air and can be tasted even in the water, a land no sane person would step in without good reason, Anya is compelled to go there. She must if she is to discover why she has been forced to spend the last two millennia alone. She must go there and she must go alone.

Daughter Jasmine, sharing more than just her raven hair with her father, gives chase, meaning to bring her home or discover where she has gone and why.

But there are those who want, and need, Anya to reach her destination, those known as the Secret Ones, and Mistress Alia (a witch who has more than her fair share of secrets) is determined to make sure their wishes are carried out. With the help of mysterious white warriors she blocks Jasmine’s way and ensures Anya’s progress. But the dark forces draw ever nearer. Will Anya reach her destination safely and what will she discover if she does? Are the answers to the questions she has worth her very life? Will discovering secrets give everything meaning or destroy all that she thought she knew and cared for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yvonne C.
• Release date: Oct 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310051777

Yvonne C.

Yvonne Carsley is a writer from the Northwest of England. She writes fantasy fiction and poetry under her own name and erotic fiction under her pen name of Blue Sapphire.Print copies of her work are available on Lulu.comAnd you can follow her blog on Wordpress...https://wordpress.com/stats/day/awriterswords32692851.wordpress.comand add her on Facebook if you like.She also enjoys digital photography and has work listed on...http://www.redbubble.comShe loves to write and read, admires particularly the work of Stephen King and Diana Gabaldon, and enjoys films and music.She likes cats, both big and small.She is an unashamed Trekkie and would love one day to go to a convention dressed as a Vulcan ambassador. Though at only 4foot 11inches tall it'll have to be a mini Vulcan ambassador!

Book preview

SECRETS

(Book three of The Free Land Chronicles)

YVONNE C. CARSLEY

Secrets

(Book three of The Free Land Chronicles)

Ebook (Smashwords Edition)

Written by Yvonne C. Carsley.

Published by Yvonne Carsley.

Copyright Yvonne C. Carsley 2014. All rights reserved.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Anya stood in the centre of the throne-room, her back to the closed doors and her eyes firmly shut. Her hands rested at her sides, dangling limply from weary wrists. There was a sheaf of crisp white paper clasped loosely between the fingers of her right hand and a pen held in her left.

She stood motionless for many long minutes, allowing the silence to wash over her, to bathe her in its cleansing fluidity. Sighing deeply, she moved at last to the table and laid down the papers, turning them face down so she would not have to read them again.

She was tired, bone tired and soul weary.

She was heartily sick of war reports – of hearing that the dark forces had gained another mile in their bid for more territory, that another colony had fallen, that more refugees were desperately seeking help, shelter and supplies. It never seemed to end: the ceaseless violence, the never-ending struggle, the daily flee from terrifying danger.

Everyday, it seemed, there was someone knocking at her door begging for aid, which she gave and gave and gave. But no matter how much food she sent, no matter how many medicines, no matter how many soldiers, it was never enough. The dark forces were creeping ever onwards, spreading slowly across the land like an impossible stain.

So far, her city was safe. Her people – family, friends and followers – were unharmed. The elves lived in their cities, in their safe little worlds surrounded by forests, mountains and rivers, and it was as though the world was as it always had been. Tucked away in their protective cocoons they did not see what went on beyond the borders. They did not see the dead bodies being piled up or the houses being burned to the ground. They did not hear the weeping and the pleading and the screams. All they saw was what happened afterwards but that was bad enough.

Just one hour ago a convoy of human women and children, shepherded by a few frail old men, had limped across the Weeping Walkway. They had been pale and haggard-looking, their faces streaked with mud and ash, their clothes torn and the remains of their belongings strapped to their exhausted bodies.

She had ordered her people to feed and clothe them. When they were well rested she would have a small platoon of warriors escort them to a safe location. Safer, anyway, she thought. There was nowhere safe anymore.

The dark forces stayed well clear of the elves though and so far the vampires and the werewolves were untroubled, a fact leading some people to presume they were somehow behind the recent troubles, but everyone else had suffered casualties. The dwarves and the trolls were being forced from their homes and had taken refuge in the hills. The volcanoes where the fire-dwellers lived had been blocked up and there was no way of knowing if any of them were still alive. The water-dwellers had been driven out of the rivers and lakes and had retreated to their strongholds deep in the ocean. The fairies, oblivious as always to the dangers surrounding them, were still being watched over by their elven guardians and were safe, for the moment. It was the humans that were suffering the greatest losses. It appeared they were being deliberately targeted.

Why, was the question. What did they have that the dark forces wanted? Was it their land, their wealth or their lives? With each new raid on a human population, men, women and children were killed, regardless of age, status or rank. Those who escaped were just lucky; fortunate enough to have been absent from their homes at the time of the attack or fortunate in being swifter of foot than those who died.

The dark forces did not care who they killed. The only thing they had in their favour was that they brought a swift death to their victims. Pleasure through torture was not a part of their agenda. They arrived at a town, village or city and simply swept through it like a forest fire: relentless, uncaring and totally devastating. They rolled over anything and everything in their path and moved on without so much as a backward glance.

And what of these dark forces, Anya mused thoughtfully. Who were they? Who sent them and what was their ultimate goal?

From the numerous reports, she had been privy to recently, there were, as yet, no answers to these questions.

The dark forces arrived, seemingly from nowhere, striding on foot and dressed from head to toe in black. Even their faces were covered, only their strange milky eyes unclothed and briefly glimpsed by their fleeing victims; strange eyes that held no love or hate or any other feeling besides that of single-minded unstoppable purpose.

They moved without sound, spreading out in different directions, always knowing where to go and what to do, as though guided by some inner voice. They carried no weapons, the merest touch of their hand bringing death to all who felt it on their shoulder. They were as mysterious as phantoms, appearing and disappearing, leaving no trail for anyone to track. They came and they went. Sometimes they would not be seen for days, weeks, sometimes months, and then suddenly they would reappear, like a weed rearing its ugly head long after it was presumed destroyed.

They seemed inescapable. No mortal weapon was effective against them. Blades pierced their bodies but did not hurt them, let alone kill them. Arrows passed through their bodies without spilling a single drop of blood and they could walk unharmed through blazing fire.

The only thing that might have bested them was magic but it had been centuries since a sighting of a witch had been reported and there were disturbing rumours that there were no witches anymore; rumours of some evil having taken them from the world. Anya did not want to believe such tales but it had been so long since her friend, and advisor, Mistress Unamanta had returned to her home and failed to send word about when she might be coming back. Was it possible she might never be coming back? She prayed it was not the case. She desperately needed the old woman’s counsel and not just because of the dark forces.

The alignment of the seven stars was a little less than one year away and soon her eldest daughter, Jasmine, would have to face a most difficult choice. When the first star made its move, Jasmine’s latent powers would be unlocked. The twelve spheres, gifts from the gods to their creations, would be taken to a pre-ordained location and there her daughter would use her powers to prevent them from being abused at such a critical time. And that was the easy part.

When the alignment finished, Jasmine’s powers would still be in effect and, at that time, she would have to make her choice. Keep the power within her and depart the world to wait in darkest space for the next alignment to occur. Wait in icy, silent loneliness (floating dreamlessly and unknowingly) until she was needed again or, in order to remain in the world, give up that power and pass it on to her firstborn.

Her daughter was currently with child and Anya knew that all these thoughts and more must have been going through Jasmine’s mind.

As her mother, she could give her advice and ensure that her child knew of all the options but, at the end of the day, it was Jasmine who had to make that choice. She could not tell her daughter what to do for the best. All she could do was tell her of her own experiences and then be there for her when she made her choice.

She did not want to lose her daughter though but she could feel her slipping away. She had felt it from the day she had been born. She had felt it even before then. She had felt the child growing within her for months and had known she was more her father’s child than her mother’s.

Jasmine had her father’s hair, her father’s eyes and her father’s power. They had the same mannerisms, the same beliefs and the same way of shutting people out when they were troubled. There was a place deep within her daughter (as there had been within her husband) that Anya could not penetrate.

There was a great love between mother and daughter, as there had been between her and Emkel. Of that there was no doubt but still there was that secret place within her, a place of high walls and locked doors, a place she did not possess the key to.

It saddened her greatly. It was as though she was being deliberately shut out of a part of her child’s life. It was not true. She knew that in her mind but her heart believed differently.

She heaved a sigh, moved to her throne and seated herself. She gripped the armrests of the seat, deriving comfort from their firm, never-changing, solidity.

Change was a major factor in her life. It always was and always would be and, though change was necessary for a healthy life, it troubled her. It was not so much that things were different now. It was more the speed of that change she found difficult to accept. Just when she had come to terms with one thing something else happened.

It had started with the death of her parents, a fact she had never even considered. Those people gifted with immortality rarely thought about death. It was not that elves did not die. They could and did but it was so rare and unseen, except in times of war, that Anya had never imagined it might happen to anyone she knew.

One day she, and her brother, had been safe, secure in the arms of their parents and the next day those arms were gone. They went from living in a small house, low in the valley, to being taken under the wing of the king and being enfolded into the security of palace life. From having a family to being orphans and then to becoming the king’s surrogate children, all in the space of a day.

Then she had married the king’s nephew and been elevated from simple maiden to honoured queen, a role that had moulded itself around her with surprising ease after a jerky start. From ordinary single woman and loving sister to wife, queen and then mother with barely any time to sit back and take stock of her situation.

And then things had changed again, for better or worst she could not yet decide. The change was still occurring now, almost two thousand years later and until they stopped changing, all she could say right now was that things were…different. Oh, yes, she thought. Things were most decidedly different.

Your Majesty?

She opened her eyes wearily and then gave a little smile. Commander Ilmar, old friend, are you to be the bearer of more bad news today?

Regretfully, yes. Another convoy of refugees has just arrived and they report that the attacks upon their people are worsening. The dark forces seem to be moving with greater purpose than before. They’re turning their attention to people not actually in their path, going out of their way to destroy specific targets. Specific to them anyway. We do not yet know their motives. Most of the places they visit are being burned to the ground but some of these places are being searched beforehand. We were under the impression at first that their destruction was mindless and without purpose. Now, it would seem that they’re searching for something or someone.

If only we knew what and why. Are the dark forces threatening any of our borders, Commander?

"They seem uninterested in our cities or our people. Uninterested or perhaps afraid to challenge. I hope the latter. If they’re afraid, they’ll stay clear of us. If they’re uninterested there’s the possibility they might become interested."

Indeed. It’s curious how these dark forces are appearing to trouble the land at this point in time. Only a year until the alignment and they spring up, seemingly out of nowhere. Are they hoping to provide a distraction so that someone may hope to snatch the spheres as Aldar did, or is their appearance merely coincidental?

Unknown, Your Majesty, but I can assure you that security has been much improved at all locations where a sphere is kept. If someone is of a mind to snatch them they will find it most difficult to do so.

Maybe but I’m worried, Commander. The alignment is so close, dark forces are plaguing the land with mysterious intent and it has been far too long since anyone laid eyes on a witch. We have relied on them for their ability to see what we cannot and though we’re not exactly helpless without them we are at a disadvantage.

Not all magic is gone from this land.

Yes, there’s still Jasmine but her powers won’t become active until at least a month before the alignment. She cannot assist us with this new menace.

Perhaps there’s one other who will help.

Commander?

Ilmar reached out. In his hand, he held a yellowing envelope. There was just one word on the front and Anya froze at the sight of her own name written in painfully familiar lettering. She took the letter from Ilmar’s hand and, with shaking hands, removed the seal, and read the contents. Then reread them just to be sure.

Where did you get this? she breathed, her mouth suddenly dry and her heart pounding in her chest.

"It was given to me by one of my soldiers in the south. She received it from a cousin of hers that she met in the west while on leave. He received it from a travelling convoy and they received it from a cloaked rider they crossed paths with while making their way through the Kandar Valley.

Kandar!

This means something to you, Your Majesty?

Yes, yes it does. Thank you, Commander. You may leave me now. Visit with your family. I wish to be alone. Please inform the guards on your way out that I’m not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day. For any reason.

Yes, Your Majesty.

Ilmar marched across the room and opened the door. He turned back just once, meaning to ask what the letter said, but Anya had turned away, her back firm and resolute, like a brick wall shutting out all distractions. He opened his mouth anyway and then shut it again. What was the use? They had been friends for many years but there were still things his queen chose to keep to herself.

She talked about that place existing within her child, that place of secrets, that dark place at the core of Jasmine’s entire being, a place guarded by walls of iron and barred by locks of steel and all the while never realising that this place also existed within her. Whoever had sent that letter (and he had his suspicions), whatever its contents and whatever the reason behind Anya’s tense excitement over it, it had all gone into her secret place ; that place where no one else was permitted to go.

Sighing softly, wearily, Ilmar slipped quietly from the room and allowed the door to shut behind him.

----

Jasmine sat by herself in the small cavern behind the waterfall. Of all the places in Finlea, this was where she most strongly felt her father’s presence. If she concentrated hard enough she could almost hear his voice swirling around in the air, could almost see him standing by the mouth of the cavern, always with that secret smile playing about his lips; a smile meant only for her, one that had sent a shivery tingle down her back, a smile that spoke of things shared that only the two of them knew about – magical things.

Twirling a strand of her long raven hair aimlessly around her finger, she thought about her mother. As a child, she had often sensed her mother’s sadness but had not really comprehended it. Even when she had reached her full height, she had not fully understood. She had known that her mother felt as though she was being kept out, that the secrets she had shared with her father caused her pain but she had not known what to do to prevent that pain.

Some secrets were necessary. Some secrets were kept simply because they were of no interest to anyone else. And some secrets were kept to keep others from harm or to keep them from worrying. Everyone had secrets, whether large or small. Jasmine was sure her mother had secrets of her own but she did not pry into them and did not believe that her mother loved her any the less because of them. How could she make her mother see that, despite the fact she kept certain things hidden from her, that she still loved her? How could she make her see that she did not keep her secrets to intentionally hurt her? She kept them because it was necessary to do so. How could she make her understand that all people kept secrets, even when they had nothing to hide? Certain levels of privacy were needed by all. You could not share every thought, word and deed in your life. There was not the time or the inclination.

As a small child, she had often gone off by herself, wandering the surrounding forestland and had seen many wondrous sights. She had seen baby birds struggling their way out of a freshly cracked egg. She had seen fish that jumped out of the water to catch their prey. She had pulled a trapped deer out of a tangle of vines and watched as it ran away. All these things and more she had seen but had told none of them to her mother. She had not told anyone. They had been her moments, precious moments when she had learned small lessons about life, and she had not wished to share them.

She saw nothing wrong with keeping such things to herself. Nor did she see anything wrong with keeping the secrets that existed within her soul. It was her choice and her right to do so. She only wished she could convince her mother that she loved her completely and that there was nothing for her to feel bad, or sad, about.

She glanced up at the sound of a momentary interruption in the water’s descent and smiled. Leaping from her seat, she rushed across the stone floor and flung herself into the arms of the startled elf.

Uncle Ilmar!

Ease up there, little one, he said with a laugh. You’re crushing the life out of me.

Sorry. She released her grip.

Ilmar gently took her by the arms and pushed her away from him. He held her at arm’s length and studied her closely. You look different each time I see you, he said, looking her up and down. Have you grown again, little one?

I attained my full height two millennia ago, uncle, she laughed, but I am wearing a new dress. Do you like it?

She twirled, allowing the material to twist around her legs. The red silk shimmered in the light and the tiny silver flowers embroidered on the bodice gave off their own individual sparkle.

Ilmar smiled at the young woman’s exuberance. It’s very beautiful, as is its owner.

Oh, uncle Ilmar, I’m so happy. I know bad things are happening just beyond our borders but I feel so wonderful. Zuran is coming home tonight and I can’t wait to tell him the news.

News?

I’ve only told mother. If I tell you will you promise not to reveal the secret before I tell my husband?

Of course, little one.

I’m going to have a baby. She hugged Ilmar once more, this time being careful not to squeeze too hard. I’m so excited, she said against his chest, and Zuran is going to be thrilled. The rarity of elven births makes it special but for someone like him it’s doubly so. I can’t wait to see the look in his eyes. She stepped back. Would you like to be godfather, uncle Ilmar?

For a moment there was a look of, what appeared to be, absolute horror on his face but it was gone so swiftly she felt sure she must have been mistaken.

I’m…honoured you’d choose me for this task but perhaps you should ask one of your brothers. My work will keep me away from this city for months, sometimes years, at a time and I could not hope to fulfil my duties as godfather to a high standard, and your child deserves the best. I’m not the best. I…I do not deserve such an honour.

He turned away and stepped over to the mouth of the cavern, where he stood gazing through the watery curtain. Jasmine stared at his back, hurt and baffled by his rejection.

Aside from her blood family and her chosen husband, Ilmar occupied a special place in her thoughts. From a long time, he had been a friend, a protector and sometimes teacher. She had long ago given him the honorary title of uncle, something which pleased and yet seemed to upset him at the same time. Every time she used the title, he smiled but his forehead would crease and a deep sadness fall over his eyes. She never understood why but never questioned him over it. She was wise enough to know you could not force a person to speak of what troubled them. He would talk when he was ready.

But, like her mother, she had expected Ilmar to have been pleased about her news. Instead, he seemed almost frightened by it. Her mother had been the same but she had a reason for that fear. Jasmine knew who she was and what was expected of her. She knew that the spark of life currently growing within her might be destined to be the next Keeper, or if she made a different choice the child might be destined to grow up without a mother. Anya, though happy her child was going to have her own child, was nevertheless consumed with worry over that upcoming choice. Jasmine wanted to reassure her that there was nothing to worry about, that when the time came she would make her choice with courage and confidence but as her mother often said it was part of her role as a mother to worry.

Uncle? What is it? What’s wrong?

Nothing, he muttered. It’s just that…many years ago your mother told me she was with child and now you stand here and tell me the same and…and it just brings it home to me how swiftly things change. It seemed like only yesterday you were running around in the valley with a wooden sword playing soldiers with your brothers and now you’re all grown up and about to have your own child. It makes me a little sad, that’s all. He turned and smiled. Come here, little one, he said, holding out his arms.

Jasmine smiled happily and rushed again into his warm embrace. This time it was his turn to hold her tight but she did not mind.

You take care of this child, Ilmar whispered, stroking her hair. When it’s born never let it out of your sight, not even for a moment and trust no one but yourself to keep it safe, not even those you love. You hear me, little one?

Yes, uncle Ilmar, she replied, frightened by the tone of his voice and not understanding his meaning.

Good. He gently pushed her away. I have to go now. I’ve a long journey ahead of me and I’d like to be well on my way by nightfall. I may not be back for a long time. I shall think of you wherever I go and perhaps I shall bring you something on my next visit. Would you like that? A dress maybe or something for your hair?

I would prefer a stone.

A stone?

Whenever I go somewhere I bring back a stone. I put them in my garden and use them to create many different patterns. And when people from other lands visit my mother they often bring me a stone as a gift. Everyone knows of my fondness for them.

A stone. He shook his head in wonder.

I like having a solid reminder that there are other lands than this one. I would, someday, like to have a piece of every named place on this planet. If anything should ever happen to those places, I’ll always have that one piece, that piece that will always exist. No place will ever truly vanish from this earth as long as I have that one piece.

Well, alright then, a stone it is. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her head. Take care of yourself while I’m gone and take care of your mother. She needs you more than you know.

I will. Till we meet again, uncle.

Till we meet again, little one. He stroked her cheek gently then turned and stepped through the waterfall, and once again, she was alone.

She placed her pale hands on the wall, letting her fingers trace the patterns made by the ancient elven writings. She closed her eyes and let one hand drop to her stomach.

Father, she whispered. I wish you were here. Mother is so sad without you and when I make my choice she will be sadder. She needs you. I need you. Where are you? Where are you?

----

Anya finished reading the letter for the twentieth time. It was five paragraphs long but its content could be summed up in two words – please come. Even before she had started reading it, she already knew what her decision was going to be but still she read it over and over, as though in repetition she might change her mind. She half wanted to do so. The idea of answering the summons frightened her. What would she see when she reached the destination? What would she feel? Would she feel anything?

The needier side of her spoke in a stronger voice though. Casting aside all doubts and fears, it demanded she answer the call. You must go, it said, for if you do not you will always wonder and that wonder will eat into your soul as rust eats into iron. You must go.

Her choice made, Anya grabbed up her soft woollen cloak, from where it lay next to her throne, and threw it around her shoulders. She read the letter just once more, her eyes memorising the slope and curves of that once very familiar writing and then with some reluctance she tossed the paper into the fire.

She stood watching, ensuring every scrap was burnt to ashes and then, squaring her shoulders to the task set before her, she marched from the room. She did not look back. She would return or she would not. Orders had been written to inform of what should happen if she did not, orders she had drawn up over fifty years ago, as though knowing this day was coming.

Striding from the palace, she made her way down the mountain pass and on into the valley. Several passers-by nodded to her as she walked and she gave them a brief nod in return. She soon reached the stables, where a fine collection of mares, stallions and geldings were kept. Most of them were out in a neighbouring field, being exercised by their carer but three remained - two chestnut-coloured mares and a white stallion. She took the stallion and had him saddled and ready to go in less than twenty minutes. Bedroll, food parcel, bow and arrows, a short sword and her Qel blade; she ticked off these items as she fastened them to the animal and then mounted him. She set the horse to a steady canter and rode down the Iliarrn Pass, avoiding the curious glances of the Rahar lookouts sitting in the trees keeping watch over the valley.

Once she passed through the gap in the Golden Mountains she spurred the animal on to greater speeds and thundered across the Weeping Walkway. She felt bad about leaving the city in this way, quietly and furtively, but there was no helping it. She had to go and no one could know where she was going. If they knew, they might follow and she could not allow that. Her people would survive without her. She had taught them well. She would miss them though. Already she believed she was not coming back, though there was no proof that this would be the case. Yet she still believed it. Finlea and its occupants, even her children, were starting to feel like distant memories; ghostly echoes of a place she had once lived in seemingly thousands of years ago.

Her old life as queen and mother was slipping away and something new and unexplained was taking its place. Her heart thumped with fearful excitement and a sense of wildness was brewing within her. Danger beckoned up ahead and she was knowingly riding into it and for what? So that she might see once again that face? Hear once again that voice? Feel once again that touch? She urged the horse on faster and felt her thoughts turning back to that time when she had been most happy, before the good times had been snatched away by unseen fingers.

CHAPTER TWO

Jasmine’s safe return to her anxious parents signalled the start of a new role in the lives of Anya and Emkel. Having reigned for less than one year as king and queen of the elven city of Finlea, they now faced their biggest challenge – parenthood.

Less than two weeks old, Jasmine had been kidnapped and exposed to bloodthirsty vampires and treacherous witches.

Anya was resigned to the fact that, as a princess, her child was a target for every ne’er-do-well and villain for a hundred miles and had decided not to spend every second wondering about all the things that might happen. Her daughter had her own bodyguards and when she was old enough, Anya would send for a weapons master to teach her archery and sword fighting. She would be taught to defend herself just as every generation of elves were taught, male or female. The best defence was self-defence.

That had been one of Valiaresa’s little sayings, something the old warlock had said when he had still been going under his given name of Omni’leal. Thinking about the old warlock still made Anya’s eyes fill with tears. His death had secured the release of her child and she had no way to thank him. His demise had been a shock. In her short years she had never heard of a witch dying. She had not thought it possible that they could. They seemed as constant and eternal as the sun or moon; solid as rocks that could be leaned on, worn down over time but never completely eroded.

In his memory she had planted a tree in the centre of the valley. A thing of life that would grow and grow until it stretched towards the heavens. She made a pact with herself that every year, on the day Valiaresa had departed the world, she would visit the tree and spend a few minutes in contemplative silence, giving thanks to his memory. She wished she was able to do more but knew he would not wish her to spend her every waking moment grieving for him. If able he would have told her he had made the choice of his own free will, that making such a sacrifice was a brave and noble act, and that he had no regrets.

Still, Anya would never forget him.

While she thanked the warlock for his rescue of her firstborn, she lamented his death on behalf of her husband. Emkel had taken the old man’s death very hard. He had said almost nothing about it and to anyone else it was almost as though he did not care, but she knew better. She knew he was saddened and somewhat fearful. The old man had been a valued advisor and Emkel was a young king who valued all the advice he could get. He was also very angry, an emotion he refused to admit to possessing. He saw the warlock’s death as needless waste, convinced there was something he could have done to prevent it.

It was the magic.

Anya had seen Emkel night after night perusing the books in the palace library, the books on magic. He regretted giving up the power he had possessed as Keeper of the Spheres, feeling that he had been forced into making an unnecessary choice. If he had still had that magic, he said late at night in their bedroom, he could have prevented Jasmine’s kidnapping and therefore prevented the warlock’s death.

She tried to tell him it was not his fault, that even with the magic there might have been nothing he could have done. Valiaresa had been a mighty warlock and had been unable to foresee all things. Magic did not make a person all-seeing, all-knowing and all-powerful. It gave a person an edge. That was all. But no matter what she said Emkel refused to be comforted and there were times when he became so agitated he was almost in a rage.

Then slowly, as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, his anger dissipated. He became calmer, more in control of himself and finally the subject of the deceased warlock was dropped, and he turned back to the business of being king and a father.

With the warlock dead and Captain Ilmar bound for faraway lands, the council of Finlea was incomplete. Emkel chose to replace the missing members with Anya’s twin brother, Silrain – who had become a close friend and a source of great support – and, to many people’s surprise and, not to put too fine a point on it, horror, the vampire, Davilior, took the place of the departed warlock.

There had always been an outsider sitting on the elven council, an outside view often offering a fresh perspective on certain problems or decisions but, in the past, that outsider had usually been a witch, or warlock. Unamanta would have been a good choice to replace Valiaresa, the other members of the council argued. But she was a female, Emkel stated. Both missing members of the council were male; therefore, they had to be replaced with males. The council had always been made up of six men and six women. It was a harmonious balance and could not be disturbed. Then send for another male witch to take Valiaresa’s place, the council further argued. Emkel was adamant that Davilior remained.

He was determined to build up communications between the vampires and the elves. Davilior’s role in bringing his daughter safely home had been the first step. Getting Davilior to be accepted by the council was the second. Reluctantly they accepted that his mind was made up. As their king, they would not go against him but they made their feelings quite clear.

Their first meeting was a tense affair.

Davilior was seated between Emkel and Valmaya (one of the city’s most renowned architects) and the elf was uncomfortable to say the least. The tall, angular-faced man sat rigid in his seat, keeping his eyes fixed firmly forward. His hands rested flatly on the table and it was all he could do to keep from reaching for his Qel blade and plunging it into the vampire’s heart. Not that it would have done any good. The weapon was steel not silver. He was wearing a silver charm pendant however and its comforting weight rested against his bare skin, hidden under his robes. His cousin, Marissa (Finlea’s head gardener), sat to his left. She gave his hand a reassuring pat and out of the corner of her eye looked the vampire up and down.

Strange, she thought. He did not look so frightening and perhaps that was the problem. If he covered his fierce red eyes, he could easily have passed for a rather pale human and no one would know until he removed the covering or smiled to reveal his fangs.

Monsters should look like monsters, she thought. They should not look like anyone you might pass on the street, giving a friendly nod to as you walked by. They should stand out so you knew them for what they were. They should have horns, claws and slaver dripping from their gaping maws. They should not look like men, especially not quite handsome men.

She quickly looked away. Handsome? She glanced back. Yes, she thought wonderingly. He was quite handsome. His dark hair and firm build, coupled with his undeniable gracefulness of motion and almost regal bearing, gave him an air of sophistication and charm.

She chastised herself mentally. Do not be blinded by the glamour, she told herself. Demons often come walking wearing the faces of angels. Their words are often sweet, their touch soft and tantalising but do not forget what they are: killers, murderers, devils.

Suddenly Davilior’s head turned in her direction and his eyes locked on hers. She froze, unable to look away, her mouth wobbling as it was caught by indecision. Smile or snarl, which to do? He took the choice from her, his lips curling up before he returned his attention to the king.

Marissa blinked in confusion. The vampire’s smile had been one of wry sadness and weariness. It was as though he knew her every thought and they saddened him. Suddenly she felt bad, as though her private musings had been as sharp as swords and wounded him. What was wrong with her? She was feeling guilty over hurting a vampire’s feelings. Did they even have feelings? He is a monster, remember, she whispered inwardly. But was he? He had killed. He had drunk blood from the bodies of struggling victims but so too had the lion. Was it a monster? The cat played with the mouse before ripping its head off and crunching up its bones. The eagle smashed the tortoise on a rock by dropping it from a great height before dining on its exposed innards. Were they monsters?

What was the definition of monster? Someone or something that did what it did out of enjoyment rather than need or instinct? Who was to say if the cat did not gain enjoyment from the torture of the mouse or the eagle when the tortoise shell cracked open with a great shattering? Would that not make them monsters?

Marissa was a great admirer of the eagle with its power of flight and unerring eyesight and shared her home with three sleek grey cats that were often leaving bloodstained little titbits on her doorstep.

She gazed down at her slim-fingered hands and felt completely bewildered. A few moments ago she had been sure of everything. Now she was sure of nothing. Davilior’s weary smile had changed all that. She looked to her left where her twin Merrah was sitting quietly.

Twins they might have been but the two auburn-haired women were very different, as day was to night. Marissa was outgoing and outspoken, sure of herself and sure of others. She was fun-loving and a great lover of wild, exotic dances. Years spent travelling in her early youth had instilled her with a great fascination for everything new and exciting. She loved the exotic cuisine of the water-dwellers, the wines created by the fairies, the robust dances of the humans and the hospitality and humour of the witches.

Merrah was very different. She was introspective and kept her own counsel. She watched with curiosity the doings of other races but she could never be made to join in. She preferred all things quiet. She often visited the shapeshifters, finding great solace in their peaceful priestly ways. She enjoyed reading and writing and when not seen in the library, hidden behind a mountain of books, she could be found tending to the horses in the stables. She had an affinity with most animals but horses were her favourite, which Marissa found quite odd. Horses were wild, robust creatures that liked nothing better than to gallop thunderously though grassy meadows. Their temperament hardly seemed to match her sister’s and yet for Merrah they would do anything.

If they were too wild she could calm them effortlessly. If they were sick she could heal them. With a whispered word she could speed them up, slow them down, and make them follow any command she gave them.

She was a curious woman, sometimes more of a stranger than a sister to Marissa, but always there when she needed her. She rarely spoke her thoughts, except when directly asked for them but when she did speak every word was worth paying attention to.

Marissa was curious to know what her sister felt about the vampire’s presence. Her face and body language, as usual, gave nothing away. She had given Davilior a long stare at the beginning of the meeting, as the council had taken their seats, but nothing could be deduced from that stare.

Marissa’s gaze travelled around the table. It alighted on Kell’Sar (one of Finlea’s growing number of romance poets). A sleek-haired man with an open and honest face, he made no secret of the fact that he was more than a little afraid of the vampire but he was a man willing to give anyone a chance. Some might have called him naïve but Marissa found him refreshingly hopeful and optimistic. He was a handy man to have around in dark times, a man who would always be able to find the light and make it shine brightly for others.

Her gaze moved to the woman sat next to him, his wife of three thousand years – Ferrahn.

Ferrahn was a distant royal cousin but had eschewed a life of royal palaces and ambassadorial duties in favour of becoming a painter and sculptor. Her work was highly prized and many of her canvasses hung in homes far and wide. Ferrahn was in stark contrast to her husband in physical appearance. He was tall, for an elf, towering over everyone sat at the table and his hair was long and dark and left free to fall over his shoulders and down his back. Ferrahn had cut her blonde hair short, in contrast to the usual fashions of the Finlean elves and wore a copper band around her head – a twisted copper band of interlocking flowers granting her an almost fairylike quality.

Ferrahn’s feelings towards the vampire were mixed. She trusted the king to make good judgements and felt that if he could see some good in Davilior then they should all try to follow his example. She must at least get to know the man before she made any snap judgements. He was a vampire, there was no getting away from that, but she could not blame him for his biological inheritance. Everyone was more than what they appeared to others. She would wait to see if he was more than just a creature of bloodlust.

Ferrahn shifted in her seat to get a little more comfortable and glanced at her sister, Alura.

Alura was a musician, her speciality the forest flute. She could be heard often playing late into the night, weaving some new piece of music out of the air as deftly as any tapestry put together with needle and thread. She was also the Wedding Witness and as such, it was her duty and pleasure to oversee the bonding of any couple and to note that bonding in the Book of Sacred Betrothal. She had inherited the task from her mother, who had inherited it from her mother and so on and so on. If Alura ever had a daughter she would pass that task on to her. If she did not she would appoint someone worthy as her successor.

Alura was an unusual woman. She kept her counsel, much as Merrah did, but always there seemed to be a secretive smile playing about her lips, as though she knew something that others did not. There was no hint of malicious glee in that smile, just a mirthful inner joy that sparkled in her eyes. She had shocked everyone at the start of the meeting by approaching the vampire and extending a warm greeting to him. None had been more shocked than he and he had been left speechless by her friendliness.

Next to her sat Celkilor. Her opinion was the complete opposite of Alura’s. She did not like the vampire’s presence in the city, let alone at the table. She especially did not like his close proximity to the king and had said so quite plainly. Her annoyance at being overruled simmered just below her outward appearance of control. It was only the reassuring figure of Galador, sat at her side, which stopped her from leaping up every time the vampire made the slightest move. When he leaned forward, when his hands reached out in some gesture…every little twitch of a muscle, every little blink of his eye caused Celkilor to clench her fists and grind her teeth. Every warrior fibre of her being screamed that this man…this creature, was a threat to the safety of her king and queen. She had taken a sacred oath to serve both and to do whatever was necessary to keep them from harm yet she was expected to sit calmly while a soul-feeder sat mere inches from their royal persons.

Galador sensed her unease and empathised but there was nothing to be done. It was the king’s right to choose who should sit on the council. Emkel had listened to the arguments of those who were afraid but had dismissed them as groundless. The vampire had saved his child and had brought her safely home. He had proven his character and in doing so had provided an opportunity for the elves and the vampires to build a few bridges. Creating a bond between creatures of light and creatures of darkness would not be easy, likely impossible, but if there was any chance, he was going to take it. If nothing else, it was good politics to remain on speaking terms with the vampires. Having one on their side would give them valuable insights into the thinking of the vampire population and would make them easier to deal with in future deliberations.

Next to Galador sat Silrain – Anya’s twin brother and second-in-command of the Finlean army. He worked under Galador, who had taken the departed Ilmar’s position as captain. Silrain’s courage and friendship had convinced Emkel that the youth was older than his years and that he had proven himself an able leader. Silrain had spoken little at the meeting so far and his eyes never strayed far from the vampire. He too had concerns about the man’s presence. Caution was warranted around any vampire, whether they had abstained from the blood or not, but he was willing to give Davilior the benefit of the doubt - for now anyway.

There was something about the man that aroused the elf’s curiosity, something in his voice or manner he could not say. It was an elusive, unexplained feeling, one Silrain was determined to pin down and name. As he listened to the king’s voice, discussing the matters of the day, he never took his eyes from Davilior’s face. Who are you, he wondered. What are you?

And so to our outpost to the north of Galagalas, Emkel’s voice broke into his musings. The captain has put in a request for more supplies of wood; what they’ve been using works well on housing and boats but is too rigid for longbows. Galador, have we enough spare to send them a wagonload?

Yes, and with plenty left over for at least three more loads, should there be a need for them.

Good. You will oversee the handling of supplies. Celkilor, there’ll be a meeting of all elven captains, worldwide, in three months time. I want you to ensure that all of Finlea’s captains are aware of it and that they understand that the meeting is mandatory.

Yes, Your Majesty. I shall see to it.

I see that the designs for a new rose garden are coming along nicely, Marissa.

"Yes. I have the designs almost finished and have already marked off a few acres of land for the purpose. My pupils have been very busy gathering specimens of every single rose imaginable. From our own Riverside Rose to the night-blooming Honey Rose, taken from the grounds of Palentaw, we will soon have every single one. And in no time at all we will have row upon row of them. I’m excited about the idea of creating a