My World of Conceit

By Heather Glenn

An only child in a lonely valley is the one folks least suspect of arousing treasonous attention merely by the sight of her face or her ears. But when the truth of her heritage is finally revealed to Diana Firathor, treason is not the only risk she must take to seize the opportunity of a lifetime: a throne all her own. Her adventure spins her into a chaotic chase after legends and fame, fleeing from tyranny and enslavement. And as she ventures to lands of which she has never seen nor heard, trusting strangers and estranging friends, she must learn that there is so much more to ruling a people than the mere trifles of state. Her tutors try to teach her, but even such lessons seem to come too late. It is not until she is truly faced with the most difficult choice that she learns what doing the best for the people really means. It takes a little heart, a little more bravery, and a lot more humility and then more bravery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781449785406

Heather Glenn

Heather Glenn is an undergraduate student at Purdue University, double majoring in professional and creative writing. She was raised in Delphi, Indiana, where she was homeschooled along with her other six siblings. Heather hopes to use the gifts God has given her to further His kingdom for His glory!

Book preview

Prologue

Smoke rose from the simmering embers of the dying flame. It tangled and twisted its way up through the thick, murky air to the starless ceiling above. The trees surrounding the clearing turned their backs upon the proceedings, hiding their faces with fear. Even the very earth was cold and lifeless, willing at any moment to gape open and swallow the life above it insatiably. No warmth could be found but that which to ultimately scorch and burn. What light was left from the fire cast an ominous glow upon the black eyes observing it. The visitor cowered from his position opposite the dead fire in fear of the flame kindling quickly on the other side.

Like a volcano before the blast, he sat. His eyes poured molten lava over the scene that played before him, seemingly calm and serene. His long, strong fingers lay relaxed upon the arms of the onyx, make-shift throne into which he seemed to disappear. Robes of shadow and smoke engulfed his firm, sleek form. Flaring his nostrils like a dragon before breathing his fire, he exhaled slowly, the pent up steam releasing itself. His stark eyebrows curved and bowed into mountains of wrath. His clean-shaven jaw clenched, and his short fingernails dug into the metal arms of the chair in which he sat. Ears pointed like sharp daggers twitched as he attempted to keep every ill action from bursting upon every being in the small clearing about them.

"Have I made myself perfectly clear?" the cloaked elf asked, fuming.

Yes, majesty, the visitor replied, surprisingly timid for a man of his size and strength.

I don’t care how you do it, the dark elf said.

Yes, majesty.

I don’t care for the information you bring me; I have no need of money; and I most certainly do not favor your impudent excuses. Give me what I want, and only that.

Yes, majesty.

You are dismissed. The cloaked elf waved his visitor away. As the man backed away nervously, the elf stopped him. "General Cadonron, there are to be no mistakes this time. Tell me again, what is it I desire most?"

Cadonron replied quietly, Chaos.

Chapter 1

My Best Friend

Leaves carried by the cool water swirled around my thin ankles as I carefully stepped between the sharp river stones. My skirts slowly slipped closer and closer to the water, so I snatched them quickly away to keep them from getting wet. As I bent my face closely to the clear water, I could barely make out the waving image of a small, violet, clam shell. But as I leaned down to get a closer view, my curly brown hair fell over my narrow shoulders and dropped down into the swift current. I flung my hair back over my shoulder with a frustrated flick of my head.

Staring back into the water, the vision of the shell faded in the background of my own reflection: a girl of nineteen. I tried to smooth out the wavy, frizzy, uncouth hair I had been given by my mother. My big blue eyes, compliments of my father, smiled back at me as I sought the perfect gaze to set upon the next handsome man I would pass in Ellendale. I pinched my cheeks to add a bit more color to the rosy hues that already blushed on them, which I had been told was all thanks to Grandmother Lybna. Licking my lips made them look like smooth, florid silk compared to the frayed fragments of a pink cocoon come from this dry, hot, summer air. This came from Aunt Freyda. My nose, I was told, was more like Grandfather Jossy’s: a bit turned up, but small and unblemished by freckles. The little chin that curved up smoothly to my ears also belonged to Grandmother Lybna, come to think of it. But no one could account for my pointed ears. To all, that was a mystery, which my parents made sure was never revealed to anyone outside our valley. I tucked my bushy brown hair behind them to look at them and puzzle over them, just as I always had.

Ana! Ana! Have you found any more yet? the musical voice sounded through the trees.

I lifted my gaze to the shoreline where the flowing water swept away at the rough sand and rocks. Nëlla Marie Jaimyns strode between the beech trees along the stony shore, her figure as sleek and slim as the trees between which she stepped. The wind came up, blowing her stormy, scarlet, spiraled hair that normally went down to her waist back over her narrow shoulders. Like me, she took after her mother in this, although it was said that her mother tried to hide the color because she disliked it. Unlike her mother, however, Nëlla always let her hair down. Her skin appeared perpetually pale as if she were fatally ill, despite her perfect health. And although the fiery bush on her head had been there since birth, she never reflected any freckles on her cheeks or arms. She was wearing green that day, which I admired her for. She often avoided the color because it made the hues jump from her eyes and sparkle. She said it was too vain for her to wear green. For myself, I took every opportunity to wear blue.

I’ve only found one, I said, lightly plucking the shell from its aquatic home and tossing it to her.

That’s a good one, she hollered over to me as she held it up to the sun.

I tell you what, I don’t think I can take much more of this. I may not have any toes left by the time I get out of here, there’s so many sharp rocks.

Then come on out! We’ve got plenty to make a few strands.

It’ll make a lovely addition to our collection, I concurred as I stepped onto the larger stones that protruded from the surface of the river, all the way back to shore. Nëlla was still.

Do you want a snack? I asked as I took the basket from the other blanket.

Shouldn’t we save it for later? We just got out here.

But I’m hungry now, I replied, taking the apples and sandwiches from their fabric sleeves.

Oh, you’ll be fine, she returned. Put it back. We’ve only got that and we’re going to be out here for at least another hour.

But I didn’t have breakfast! I retorted.

You’ll be fine. She settled the matter with her tone. I gave it up.

But I couldn’t completely let it go. I’ll see if I can find some mushrooms.

At this time of year?

Well, the frost couldn’t have killed them all!

Diana Firathor, that’s silly! They’re almost out of season, anyway! Come on… let’s just sit and talk. We’re always interrupted by things at home.

I came back and slumped on the ground, bowing over the shells to examine a couple. This was the only time Venus wouldn’t be able to annoy me about my posture.

Ana, what are you thinking about? Nëlla asked as she situated the clam shell I had found on the reed mat to dry with the rest. She always seemed to have an extra pair of eyes and ears that understood when something disturbing dwelt in my mind.

I had that weird dream again, I said passively.

The one with my mother?

Yes, I replied, subdued. The castle tower… the screaming… the stars… Even your mother and King Jalledon! It was all too real to be anything different than… I struggled to say it, but the words wouldn’t come out. It sounded too irrational. Nëlla would never understand it. I stood up and strode over to the stream and began to skip stones in my frustration.

"How do you know it was my mother?" Nëlla asked. I could hear the doubt.

Nëlla, who else in Moabite history had fiery red, curly hair with straight, black ends? What other king do you know who had brown eyes that turned black?

"But in your dream, he didn’t act like the king we all know."

He could’ve changed!

Nëlla unobtrusively twiddled a longer shell between her fingers. You still didn’t get a good look at the other woman’s face?

No. I pushed away Nëlla’s curious behavior with a shrug.

Well, did you notice anything else this time? Were they talking again?

Yes. But I only caught snippets of the conversation. Everything was too muddled.

Nëlla’s curiosity pursued me. Did you catch any specific words?

Okay, Nëlla. What is going on? You’ve never been this interested in my dreams.

It’s just a question, she replied more calmly.

I sighed. ’Baby’ and ‘kill’ were all the words I could make out.

Her eyes got wide as she stared at the shells. That’s not very encouraging.

This time, it was a sigh of exasperation. Thank you.

And it very well could be just another dream, Nëlla returned, soothingly. You said yourself that these particular dreams only happen every once in a while.

’Once every so often,’ I believe, were my exact words, I replied, somewhat vexed that Nëlla wasn’t taking this as seriously as I would like.

Besides, people always have recurring dreams! Nëlla continued after a short pause. Did I tell you the one I had about the Tree Sprite and the spoon?

Twice, I said quickly, before Nëlla had a chance to recount the droll tale for a third time.

I’ve had that same dream at least three times a year since I was twelve, Nëlla replied. And does that mean I will one day be pushed into a pit of snakes by a Tree Sprite and eat my way out with only a spoon? Absolutely not. Nëlla began flipping the shells over so the concave curves could dry in the sun. It only means that we are peculiar people with peculiar minds…

’And just because we imagine all sorts of things about ourselves and our situations does not mean they will ever come true,’ I recited before Nëlla could go on. ’So we might as well take what we’ve been given.’

Nëlla gave a suppressed smile. Playing fairies is included in that list of ridiculous things.

Then why did you always agree to it? I asked, exasperated.

Because if it wasn’t that, then we would be—quote-unquote— ‘going to the ball’ or ‘running away’ or pretending we were hunters tracking our prey!

I couldn’t help but laugh. You liked playing fairies! Admit it!

The only thing I found enjoyable about that game was the fact that we could be productive while playing.

By making those wreaths for our heads? You call that productive? I asked with another laugh.

Those wreaths were beautiful! Nëlla replied. I actually still have one…

I think I lost all of mine to Dewvah’s funeral pyre for his rat, I said, somewhat spitefully.

I think mine is in the attic, Nëlla continued, undaunted by what I had said. When I move into my own home, I’ll put it on the front door.

Are you hungry now? I asked, reaching for the knap-sack.

You’re acting like you have to be back home in an hour, Ana! The Cirredanthas are taking care of your father. He’ll be fine.

Right… I thought silently. He’ll be fine…

"He will be fine, Ana," she said. It was the first sentence of irrationality that had ever been uttered by her lips.

He couldn’t go out in the fields, today, Nëlla. And when I brought him back from Ellendale, he was weak and sweating- and all he did was ride in the cart!

He’s not as young as he used to be.

I know! I snapped back, then softened. I know.

You think it had something to do with your mother’s death?

"I know it had everything to do with Mother’s death. He depended on her, but more than that, she was a piece of him. I can’t blame him for wasting away with only half a heart."

I wouldn’t say that, sensible Nëlla replied. The grief has simply taken its toll.

I realized who exactly I was talking to. Both Nëlla’s parents died within weeks of one another. Her mother died of who knows what, and her father died of sorrow over her body, which had every appearance of being alive except that of a beating heart. Her skin was even warm before we put her in the ground. Nëlla’s brother had already left to live with his wife in Ellendale; but after the death of their parents, their younger two siblings left the island, and we had not heard from them since. She lost money quickly, not being able to keep up the farm on her own. She had to sell her home to some man who was never there to live in a hovel on the other side of the valley. She of all people knew the sense of loss. She lost everything. I would not have blamed her if she had moved to Ellendale to live with Dewvah and his wife at the inn they owned, but she chose to stay with me and look after Father. She chose to stay… with me.

Nëlla reached into our knap-sack and withdrew a ripe apple with an irresistible luster. She held it out to me, but I had suddenly lost my appetite. You know, I’ll never forget that time when you convinced me to climb that ridiculously tall tree over there. She pointed with a long slender finger away across the river to the wood on the other side. After I had made it all the way to the top, you told me to wave at the clouds because you wanted to see if they would wave back. Nëlla’s voice portrayed how silly a thought it was. When I let go of the branch, the one I was holding onto broke.

Yes, yes, I burst forth, rushing through my words, and you fell almost twenty feet, knocking about in the branches all the way down. You broke your arm, both wrists, and one of your ankles. You didn’t speak to me for a total of three months. It was all my fault, and I should never try to convince anyone to do such a foolish thing again. What’s your point?

The point? Nëlla asked, still patient. That tree had been there for who knows how long. At least longer than both of us have been alive, put together. Nëlla spoke clearly and concisely. Things and people become old, Ana. What we have always known and depended on will one day give way from under us. But if we’re concerned about our footing and not so much with the clouds in the sky, we may be able to catch ourselves.

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Shells dangled and twirled from the tweed vines upon which they were strung. The soft tan streaked with violet allured me to its beauty as I softly blew on them to make them spin faster. I liked pretty things. And although the marketplace of Ellendale was the farthest thing from pretty, it enticed me. After I was allowed to go, the entire city fascinated me.

The dusty roads had little structure. Unlike some cities with straight, regimented streets and square blocks, Ellendale flowed. Broad, paved roads that promenaded through the gates wound between the magnificent towers. The roads broke off into dusty streets that grew entangled in the web of smaller paths and trails that weaved in and out among the villas, inns, and courtyards. It was a lovely labyrinth with flowers and ivy overgrowing the cobblestone avenues.

This island was home to little exotic exposure, and its meager variety was carefully concealed in its own modesty. Merchants sold both carp and seal. I could purchase silk and cotton if I wanted. Basil and cinnamon were common ingredients in most foods. Clouds cluttered the sky just as they would anywhere. And anyone could grow a beautiful lotus flower or Venus trap in the good, fresh, island soil. Although I saw beauty and variety, I could even imagine a more colorful world than what I saw before me.

The people of Ellendale were nothing extraordinary with a lack of variation. They were your normal human beings with arms and legs and up between them, coming in all sizes. But you would not see any elves, mostly because of the royal decree, but not even an Aminöan or foreigner from any of the other Moabite provinces. Our little island was simply too removed. Anyone stepping foot onto our shores that had strange eyes or different skin color were sure to draw attention to themselves. For the sake of business, most of the residents could speak a couple dialects of Aminöan and a Meldacian as well as our own native Moabite. However, few Ellendale residents had actually ventured beyond the shores of our little island, and few cared to. It was a more common sight to see a comfortable, fat gentleman smoking his pipe in a rocking chair upon his front porch than a spry, agitated fellow with a cape thrown hastily over his shoulders and a walking stick gripped tightly in his hands.

I knew most of the town fairly well in no time by observation. Father would heckle with some of the merchants for hours, it seemed. So I took my station where he knew he could find me: a little corner table at the Nija Café. From there, I could see the bread-maker doing his best to sell off his more expensive (and not nearly as worth it) goods. The people all around me were simple and plain, a bit too plain at times, but good. The lady who brought me my tea at the Nija always remembered my name, and there was a particular young fisherman who liked to walk by my table several times a day to look at me as I sipped my tea. I pretended not to notice him and, when he did glance my way, pretended to be preoccupied by an interesting cloud in the sky.

My favorite feature of the city was the shops. On my first trip into Ellendale, Father bought me a glass rose. I still had it at home on my nightstand. It cast looped rainbows all over my floor in the mornings. The glass shop my father bought it from was splattered with those same rainbow colors all over the walls during the day. I loved to drag my fingers over them as I walked past so that the whole room spun with colors.

Diana…. Diana…. Diana! I felt a feeble pinch on my shoulder. I shook the fancies from my head and glanced up at my father. It’s time to go, honey.

My father was not the very image of a protector as most fathers are. I was born to my parents late in life because it was difficult for my mother to have children, which was also the reason I was an only child. But they loved and nurtured me as tenderly as anyone could for as long as they could. Father’s joyous eyes had dimmed and the numerous worry lines about them were increasing daily. Even smiles came less frequently. He used a cane wherever he went and shook with even that. I tried taking him by the other hand and helping him gently along, but his will was still young.

I sighed, not wanting to leave my sweet view. I took up my things and followed my father back to the cart to which Anjelicia, my white horse, was hitched. I helped Father to sit up on the front edge of the wagon. Although this was a road he had taken thousands of times, it had grown too far a road for him to travel on foot. Once he was carefully seated on the cushion I had set on the seat for him, I took Anjelicia’s bridle and led her through the streets. They were dustier than normal because of the increased crowds of the noonday.

We passed the seafood market, the dairy store, the dry goods stand, a little shop of trinkets, and the store of instruments. We wobbled over the cobblestones of back alleys to miss the crowds. I knew how to navigate in this city. I ducked to miss the hems of garments that hung on a line, strewn from one window to another across our way. I glanced back at Father, who was panting as he stooped his head even lower to miss the clothes barricading our way. I did my best to push the clothes to the side for him. As we emerged into the light of the high sun, the smell of baked pork drifted toward us. I pressed on through the crowd, muttering as I went, "Pardon me- excuse me- I’m so sorry- please forgive me" and the like. But most people, at sight of my full-sized horse and cart, backed out of my way immediately.

We finally emerged into clear air as we passed beneath the great gates and onto the empty path out of the city. The path curved down and around the vast mountains separating Ellendale from Yetar Valley, the best place in all of Geriona. I suppose I was a bit biased. The thousands of acres that comprised Yetar Valley became the playground of my youth with plenty of unknown glades and coves to fill a lifetime of adventure. Nëlla and I spent our childhood exploring the valley. But at the end of every day, I had to be close enough to home to hear Mother call me in for dinner.

The journey home was a long one. First, we pressed onward through the thick trees that stuck out before us. At other times, we journeyed upon the precipice of the path, leaning as close to the side of the mountain around which we were hiking. I tugged hard on Anjelicia’s bridle to give her the motivation to climb the next hill. Sweat from my forehead drizzled down my temples, but it was worth it as I saw my father, struggling to breathe as the cart shook back and forth.

Father… I pulled Anjelicia to a halt. Are you going to be alright?

Keep going, Diana, he said. We want to get home before dinner tomorrow night.

We can afford the delay, I said as I stopped without waiting for his approval.

Diana! We must keep moving! he feebly protested.

And you must drink some water. I took the water sack from behind him.

I don’t need water, he replied, stubbornly.

And I’m the son of a cow. Drink. I held the opening to his lips as he drank. His hands shook as he groped to hold it. Let me hold it. You just drink. I had to try to keep my tone gentle. I pulled away so that he could breathe. His look was one of embarrassment. Feel better?

Thank you, dear, he admitted softly.

When are you going to learn that I know what I’m talking about? I asked, putting my hands on my hips good-humoredly.

When you learn that I know what I’m talking about, too, he replied with a smile.

I chuckled at him and shook my head. Are you ready to keep going?

He breathed hard.

No, you’re not, I decided quickly, then leaned against the edge of the cart beside him.

Now, I can keep going. It’ll be no trouble to me!

Father, Anjelicia and I aren’t moving a step before you regain your breath. Anjelicia whinnied and nodded in concurrence.

Do we still have the cornmeal in the back? Father asked as he continued to struggle for air.

I leaned over and glanced at the cargo, recounting all that he had worked so hard all day to procure. It’s there, Father.

And the sugar! Do we have-

"Father, I have helped you with this for the past four years. I know what I’m doing."

You have been an exceptional help to your infirm father, he replied.

I didn’t mean that, I returned.

I know, he said, smiling. I just like to vex you every once in a while. He smiled, so it was worth it.

Father’s breathing returned to normal, so I decided to press on. Let’s get home.

He sighed determinedly. I’m ready.

We had to stop to set up camp. Father, of course, slept in the bed I provided for him in the back of the cart. I draped a make-shift tent between two trees to provide some shelter for myself. The next morning and afternoon we continued to travel hard, stopping only to rest for Father’s sake. I was fine. But we longed to be home by dinner time.

My home, Callatin Cottage, was, perhaps, more glorious in its earlier days. It was a grand house with stone walls and a cobblestone walkway with a flowery trellis at the entrance. The windows were wide and tall, letting in as much sunlight as possible. The rose vine on the east wall grew up and up, almost covering the windows with the abundant leaves. Callatin Cottage was nestled against the trees in the center of the valley. You could see it from the little path that came up over the mountains and into the valley… or at least, I could. No one would believe me when I told them I could.

As the sun was saying its last goodbye over the peaks, I led Anjelicia up over the last hill, and we stood on the brink of the valley. It spanned before us like an ocean, filled with waving trees and rolling rivers. Even now, I could see my house in the center of the valley. I could see every detail. The trellis, whose flowers had long since died, the garden, no longer blooming, and the chimney with welcoming billows. Nëlla was waiting for us to return.

Dalveton! You look pale! Nëlla gasped as I practically carried him to the front door.

It was too much, I whispered to her.

I heard that! Father butted in. Just help me to the couch and I will be fine until dinner.

Alright, Father. Do you need another pillow?

No, I’ll be fine. Thank you, dear.

Dalveton, I saw the prettiest bird at the kitchen sill, this morning! I wish you could have been here to see it! It was absolutely beautiful!

You should sketch it for me, next time, Father replied, resting his head on the back of the couch.

Nëlla guffawed. "It was hardly there long enough for me to see it. I don’t think I would be able to draw it from that lack of imagery I was able to catch."

Oh, you can do it, Father replied. Take the pen and paper from the shelf over there and sketch it for me. I would love to see it. And Diana! Tell me the next part of that story you’ve been inventing for us the past few nights. It’s a marvelous tale.

But Father, dinner is almost ready.

Never mind dinner. We can heat it up in the skillet later. I want to hear the next part of your story.

We passed the evening, as most evenings we passed, in such a manner. Nëlla sketched furiously at the pad of paper while I knitted away. Father remained rested in his little corner of the couch. The light disappeared, so Nëlla started a fire in the fireplace before us while I continued my story about the boy that knew every language of Geriona and hardly even noticed his own ability. I told it spur the moment with absolutely no preparation, yet some of it turned quite interestingly. But before long, Father’s hunger out-grew his weariness. The meal was gratefully consumed, and Nëlla retired to bed early, deciding to stay with us that night instead of going home, which often occurred. I continued to knit in the firelight while Father held Nëlla’s drawing of the beautiful bird before the fire so as to be able to see it better.

You draw beautifully as well, Diana, when you put your mind to it, he mused softly.

You should take it up with Fabii. Besides, I’m done with school. I put down my knitting and leaned over to the other side of the couch. All I want to do now is take care of you.

Liar, he said with a smirk, glancing up at me.

I gasped that he would think it. You doubt my sincerity?

Father’s gaze lightened more. I don’t doubt your sincerity, my dear. I just know you too well to know that such a valley is too small for your heart. Eventually, you are going to out-grow it.

But I won’t out-grow you, I said, staring lovingly upon him.

He laughed heartily. Yes, but I will out-grow you!

That’s not possible, I said with a smile, taking one of his hands in mine. I won’t let you.

He gave me the picture, then settled into the couch.

Don’t you want to go to your bed, Father?

I’m too weary to move, he said drowsily as he slumbered off to sleep. I set the picture on the lamp stand, then took out another blanket. I set it over his frail body and tucked it in all the way around, just like he used to when I was little. Putting out the fire, I decided to go to bed myself, enjoying his peaceful demeanor and wishing it for myself.

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The giggling and gurgling of the river chanted it’s happy tune to Nëlla and me as we made our way up to a small ridge over the stream. We let down our skirts and laid out the pebbles and ideal skipping rocks we had harbored in them out on the rough, stony surface.

Let’s save the skippers for down below, Nëlla said, beginning to divide them. We won’t be able to skip them from this high up.

I silently split up the flat stones from the round ones.

Did you have the dream again? Nëlla asked, her keen sense knocking.

No, I said, faintly smiling.

Do you miss your mother? she asked, her own pain showing only slightly through the dim green eyes that penetrated my conscience.

I always will, I replied. But that’s not what’s bothering me.

I’m listening, Nëlla said patiently.

Nëlla, we’ve talked for so long about having adventures! When do you suppose we’ll be able to set off like Mandolyn and Andrea did? Do you think we’ll ever be able to get out of here?

Even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t do it just to have an adventure, Nëlla said, realistically.

Well, then, why would you?

Oh, Diana, Nëlla replied, somewhat bewildered. Even Mandolyn Jaimyns and my mother had a noble purpose! Think! They were saving lives by merely informing the king of the elves of his danger! They fought to save a nation!

I leaned against a nearby tree. It sounds awfully boring to me.

Nëlla choked with surprise. And what do you think would be more exciting?

For one thing, it would have been more sensational if they had waited until the last minute to tell the king of his danger. There would have been more suspense and excitement! Secondly, fighting to save a nation is not exactly what I consider exciting… Dull, maybe, would be the word… A job that would better befit a man or a warrior.

Just because you’re a woman does not entitle you to be lazy, Diana, Nëlla poked insensitively.

I’m not lazy! I retorted, greatly offended. I just find the idea of attending balls and facing the dangers of political bandits and beaux more attractive than a bloody battle. Just think! To have the ability to command a single mission and have it obeyed instantly! What excitement!

What nonsense! Nëlla exclaimed, not at all sounding like she believed a word I said.

It’s thrilling!

It sounds more like a game to me, Nëlla replied, turning very serious.

You’re so damp!

And you’re making it all out to be a joke! Nëlla returned harshly. It’s not, Ana. They are real people. With real lives. And real families.

The direction of the conversation disturbed me. Let’s go ahead and throw a couple pebbles in, I said, changing the flow. I like the way they sound from this high up.

Chapter 2

Memories and Revelations

Crunching hay and the musty, rotting walls filled my senses as I lay in the loft of our barn, staring at the ceiling. A long blade of grass stuck out of my mouth as I slowly chewed the hard, sweet end. I slowly caressed the sharp point at the top of one of my ears as I lay there. Those moments of peace where I could hear no voice but my own thrilled me to my very core. It was only me, the wind, and my pure white horse and friend, Anjelicia, standing below the loft. I especially appreciated the silence and her presence today.

After extended time with Nëlla, meditations upon her mother’s history were unavoidable. I delved deeply into all forms of historical literature surrounding the war on the continent across the Verxix Straight, hopeful that I would be able to glean more information to stir my imagination as to who Mrs. Leshvar really was over there compared to the rest of Geriona. I knew she had greatly aided Queen Ogdäl in the war; she used to tell me stories as we knitted together. Each one involved a new and exciting twist. Mother told me she was simply embellishing the truth, but I couldn’t help but dream that the wars and battles through which she endured were true and real… Or at least, I couldn’t help hoping they were…

The war on the continent was fairly non-existent. It had been a desperate skirmish to exterminate all elves resident in Moab, formerly an all-human territory, but died down in recent days to smoking out the little hamlets still loyal to the elves. I had learned about the major events in my Elvish and Human Relations studies throughout my education. I tried asking Father about more specifics, but he simply shrugged the question to the side as he always had. Therefore, I took to pondering by myself in my secret hideaway.

I laid in the hay, dragging my finger from the lobe of my ear all the way to the point, which was almost three inches, then over the point and down to my temple. My ears were the reason for my quandary. Apparently, Grandmother Lybna married an elf, who died soon after she gave birth to my mother. The genetic chances, as my parents called it, that I would have pointed ears were not slim, but it was a surprise, nonetheless. For this reason and this reason alone, I was not allowed to leave Yetar Valley until I was fifteen, when I had properly learned how to conceal the points of my ears beneath my curly locks. If anyone were to find out that I was one-fourth elf… even that could kill me.

But the danger enthralled me. What might I do, as one-fourth elf? Would I find I had some special power, later in life? Maybe the rebellion could use a leader. I never cared for King Jalledon. In fact, he often ticked me off. The man lacked all compassion! The year before, I had learned that he burned the fields of two hundred farmers who were rumored to be rebel supporters! The year before that, he raised taxes six times in order to support his weapons inventory. And not even two months before that, he spent every penny in the royal treasury trying to track down three men and a woman who were speaking against him! Yes… After short contemplation, I was decided. I strongly disliked the man. His wife, Queen Mandolyn Ogdäl, on the other hand, was my heroine of history, but she had been dead for almost twenty years. I would have liked to meet her.

Solitude is not always the best friend, a familiarly annoying voice spoke from beyond my peripheral vision. I sat up to see my blue Cirredantha no farther than three feet away. Her figure, no larger than my hand, perched upon the top of one of the ladder’s posts, her delicate butterfly wings batting behind her. Her glittering, light blue skin did not sooth out the unwelcome intrusion.

Sometimes, Minerva, I replied, allowing my annoyance to filter through my voice, solitude is necessary for contemplation. I stretched my long arms out in the hay, trying to forget she was there. But Minerva was too persistent for that. Her black hair flew behind her as she fluttered to land on my nose, staring her dark brown eyes into my dark blue.

And sometimes, she said, you may allow your thoughts to go places where they should not.

And how would you know what I am thinking about? I replied, the spite still spitting through my teeth.

I can give a wild guess, Minerva said, innocently gliding back to her ladder post.

And you would be wrong, I said, confidently.

Would I?

Absolutely.

Are you so sure?

Beyond a doubt.

Then if I were to say that puzzling over the war will not make it go away, you would be able to tell me that I am mistaken? Minerva pointedly asked.

Hesitation was unavoidable. I was not contemplating how to end it, I replied after a pause.

Rather, what Andrea Leshvar’s part in it was, Minerva said again.

A moment passed again. Well, what was it? I asked impatiently, sitting up on my elbow.

Minerva sat resolutely upon the top of the ladder, contemplating how to answer.

"Come on! I’m almost twenty! Surely such a history can’t be too gruesome for me!" I begged.

Minerva paused slightly before replying, I will speak to your father. For now, you can meet me and the others in your living room tonight. If I have persuaded him, we will tell you the story. Together.

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I crouched beside the fireplace, too nervous to actually sit anywhere. My four Cirredanthas took seats around the fire on either side of me. Artemis sat closely to the fire. Her scarlet hair, even more so than Nëlla’s, caught fire in the gleaming light of the true flame just behind her. As the conversation began, she rubbed at her emerald green dress, which matched her eyes and skin, trying to get out a dirt stain. Fabii, with her light mahogany tresses, stretched out her sore dancing legs before preparing to actually relax. Her lavender, silk gown matched the color of the body to which it clung. Venus, clothed in majestic pink from her gown to her skin, smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress and fixed her blonde hair to look simply stunning so that she may look presentable for the serious conversation about to occur. And Minerva, in all her solemn graces, sat nearest to me.

Fifty-seven years ago, in the year of 1350 of the Second Age, the Lien War began between men and elves that were, at the time, living in Moab together in peace, Minerva began quietly. I had heard it all several times, but I held on to her every word. Her life-long pursuit as my first Cirredantha was to cultivate wisdom in the workings of my mind. She never exaggerated or allowed me to spend my hours dreaming. She never left any room for sentiment or romance. Everything was fact. The Elves lived in the north and called their territory Wellaverin. The Men lived to the south in the territory they called Moab.

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