Upon the Sands

By Jeremy Forsyth

Of the Elvin Realms, the Moon rises highest while the Sands diminish through infighting. The Sun remains undying, burning bright but the Stars dream of outshining all.

As the Fairleaf brothers depart the Realm, both of them fear for the other, for upon the sands, enemies gather as they do across the sea, and back home, the Dead Gods stir, unrest grows in the lands, and far away, Darkness prepares His return.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Forsyth
• Release date: May 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005724474

Jeremy Forsyth

Jeremy Forsyth is the author of The Sun, Moon, Sand, and Star series, which include The Evening Tide, The Broken Rose, The Missing, The Raven Heiress, and The Little Fairleaf.To get his books cheaper than you would on Amazon, simply visit www.jeremyforsyth.co.za now!But if you want the books but don't want to spend, check out Jeremy Forsyth's current promotions and giveaways:The Sun, Moon, Sand, and Star Giveaway:https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/1126895-the-sun-moon-sand-and-star-series-giveawayOtherwise, you can find him on social media:Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/Jeremy-Forsyth-103933844788832Instagram:https://www.instagram.com/jays_andrew/?hl=en

Book preview

Prologue: The Warden

The dark and dense forest housed a grey, ominous mist, which emitted a curious smell of perverted bark into the air, tainting it with the odour of old magic, making the hairs on the Thronemaster’s arms stand tall as fear coiled up his spine.

Echoing beneath the boughs was a faint growl, low and threatening, like a stalking beast. The sound came from all directions – distant, yet close, and while the woods creaked, the winds whispering hauntingly, sweat beads formed on top of the Thronemaster’s pointed ears. There beneath the depraved-looking leaves, he went cautiously on his own.

His name was Alanis Malgan Wingflow, and he was the Thronemaster of Aminiouse Glare, heir to the Black Throne. His was a family of prestige and legacy that had ruled the Sand Elves for centuries, and while he bore the mantle of Thronemaster, he carried too, the mantle of Warden of the Trees – these trees, the trees which had for over a century been the confines of the land’s most nefarious and hideously crafty sorcerers; the fabled Urathin Elves.

The Urathins were the reason Alanis intruded upon the woods; the sorcerers being his family’s keep, his family’s last resort at winning the War. Since his family’s dethronement at the Fall of Malgan, Alanis’s father had suffered defeat at every battle, so it was no wonder they ventured north to Desert Falls and beyond, to this forest called Moon Leaf.

The Desert Gate was where Alanis’s father waited while his son fetched Moon Leaf’s sinister occupants. But while Alanis’s father hoped that the Urathins could win the War for them, it was Alanis’s apprehension that their hunger for vengeance upon the Wingflow Tree would outweigh the long-awaited promise of freedom. We put them here, after all…

In front of the Thronemaster were dark pools breaking off into narrow, menacing-looking brooks, slithering beneath the tall, gnarling trees that bent over the black water in distorted shapes as if their dangling vines thirsted. And though the wind moaned around him, everything seemed to be still; no branch swayed, nor did any leaf seem to rustle.

Alanis swallowed.

He kept moving forward, gripping the hilt of the greatblade, Steadfast, which was slung across his back, ready to be drawn against any hint of adversity, any evidence of a threat. He glanced over his shoulder and sensed, not for the first time, that someone was following him, the feeling being apparent ever since leaving his frightened warriors at the southern edge of the forest. It felt as though hundreds of eyes steadily burned into the back of his head.

As Thronemaster, Alanis was his father’s heir; though he was not the last of his father’s sons, he was the son upon whom his father laid all his hopes. And so, with mustering courage, Alanis strengthened his diminishing resolve, whispering,

They cannot hurt me. They will not. They will not harm the blood of the Lost Oblian. They will not do me harm.

The ground rose steeply before Alanis as he advanced. Leaves blanketed the floor, as sick and infested-looking as the leaves that dressed the trees, and which just now, blotted out the sun. Alanis, peering above, noticed that morning waned outside the forest and he wished for an opening above the canopies, one that was large enough for the sun to grant light to this dreary place and, perhaps, flush out the residents from their dark and unseen hiding places.

The Thronemaster’s grip upon the hilt of Steadfast tightened. Come out, wretches, he whispered. Come out.

After he had walked undisturbed for some time, a strangeness came into view. The morning mist had long since dissipated as the sun rose beyond the treetops. Yet, a fog was moving casually now across the forest floor from deep within, passing long and ghostly fingers over him, and from it, Alanis came to realise vague scenes being depicted.

To his surprise, Alanis saw himself leaning over the banks of a broad and twisting river, and he watched as he poured out something that looked like milk into the vigorous current. His eyes narrowed even as the scene slithered away. He looked forward, saw elves building the framework of a tall structure in an open field, their garb modest and stained, their brows glistening from a day’s hard labour. Then came an elf staring wistfully into the distance, his arms folded, his face appearing troubled. Like the scenes before it, it soon passed the Thronemaster to make way for others.

There came a battle in the sands when the world was dark. Alanis saw this in the mist, saw his father’s friend, Gandis Goldenwind, the Higher of High Song, die at the hands of the most imposing warrior Alanis had ever seen. Alanis could tell by the warrior’s shining eyes that he was one of those cursed Moon Elves, the traditional enemy of Alanis’s people.

Alanis saw an elvess of small stature surrounded by a pitiful company. Like the one who had killed Gandis, they all had shining eyes. These elves walked towards a simple tower with a simple curtain wall, and Alanis recognised it as the desert outpost of Rasdeal. When the elvess turned to look back over her shoulder, Alanis was struck by her beauty.

From the next scene, there came an elvess who whipped another’s skin off his back, the elf kneeling before her, his hands chained up above his head, wincing at every lash while tears glistened in his bloodshot eyes. By the elvess’s gleaming and golden skin, Alanis knew her to be one of the putrid Star Elves of Descending Star, for no other elf of the Elvin Realms wore such ridiculous wigs nor painted their faces in such an unappealing and unsettling fashion.

Another Star Elf appeared in the fog. This one intrigued Alanis for he wore a crown, was armoured in golden mail over white leather, and when he walked into a bare room, Alanis saw an elvess trembling before him. The Star Elf removed the clothes of the elvess and, before long, put violent hands on her, forced her onto the floor, and leaned down in such a way that did not leave Alanis dubious as to what would happen next when the fog slithered away.

Reaching an embankment, Alanis then glimpsed an elvess hooded and cloaked within the serpentine loops of the fog. Beneath her cloak she was clad in thin silver mail that caught the light of the sun, and a bow was slung across her back. But what surprised him more so than her unconventional garb was that she wept bitterly near a stream.

Alanis pressed on, considering all that he had seen. He thought of the endearing elvess at the Rasdeal outpost of Desert Falls, then Higher Gandis dying in the sands, and the Star Elves with their golden skin and shoulder-cropped wigs. But when coming to the edge of the ridge, he realised once more that all sound had suddenly stopped, vanquishing all thought from his mind that would distract him from the sudden sense of fear and alarm now assailing his senses.

The narrow earth widened before him into an open glade, beckoning him forward with golden rays of sunlight streaming down from where the canopy of leaves finally cracked open, making it look a magnificent and beautiful place, but no less the perfect setting for a dangerous trap. Here the Thronemaster waited at length; here he continued to watch the landscape before him, his eyes scanning to and fro while his heart beat anxiously beneath his chest. His throat went dry but he remained determined to keep his resolve, to meet, without fear, those imprisoned here.

He listened for any sound out of the ordinary when suddenly, a fluttering of wings caused him to swirl around, to draw Steadfast. He cursed his fear after realising that nothing was amiss, and remained grateful none of his warriors had seen how quickly he had startled. He turned around, considered the open glade, and whispered to himself,

I am a Thronemaster, heir to the Black Throne, future ruler of the Sand Elves. I will not be afraid. The Urathins will not harm me.

Alanis took a step forward but advanced no further; in the distance, on the other side of the tranquil glade, he saw that a tall, dark figure was watching him, making Alanis instantly pale, causing his heart to jump leaps inside his chest.

He waited. He watched—but nothing happened.

The figure was still.

Perhaps the shadows were playing tricks? Alanis wondered.

Then, very slowly, the figure took a step, its eyes gleaming like a predator, fixed upon the intruder. Alanis kept watching it, mentally preparing for a fierce encounter, one he would not forget should he live to tell it; the Urathins were powerful sorcerers, elves of legend, inspiring terrible fear. But Alanis reminded himself that, despite the reputation which made the Urathins figures of nightmares, the Lost Oblian had defeated them, had bound them here with his power. If they wanted to be free, they would need a Wingflow, they would need a Warden of the Trees.

At last! Alanis cried, ignoring how odd it was to have the silence of the forest disturbed. My keep presents itself!

The figure did not respond, but kept moving amid the shadows, its breathing raspy and loud, even from this distance. It took calculated steps forward, manoeuvring its way around the beams of sunlight, advancing into the open glade. While Alanis continued watching, he shivered, told himself it was the morning chill that had long since passed.

Now the figure stopped a few feet in front of him, and Alanis had to tilt his neck to look into the Urathin’s soulless eyes. He was astonished over how tall the creature was, more towering than anyone had any right to be, taller than the Moon Elf giant who had killed Higher Gandis in the fog vision.

Your Warden calls for an audience, Alanis declared.

The creature made a gruff sound and took a step closer. Its legs were bent, its arms, hands, and fingers cruelly long. It dressed in ragged dark-green cloth that looked tattered and dirty, and the sight of its disfigured form caused a wave of nausea to wash over Alanis, kept him labouring to remain firm in his stance.

Where are your brothers? Alanis asked curtly, hoping to mask his fear with contempt.

The creature did not respond immediately, but instead it leaned forward, its face disturbing as it came into the light, reeking of corruption. It possessed a leering smile that stretched towards absurdly long and pointed ears, its eyes small and beady, dark and amused, but Alanis recognised that deep and malicious anger brewed behind its gaze. Curtaining its long and bony face came threads of thin black hair that fell past its bold, and broad shoulders.

Everywhere, it replied.

Its voice was nothing like Alanis had ever imagined when growing up with tales told of the Urathins. It was low yet screeching, like two voices speaking as one, and it reverberated through the air, piercing the Thronemaster’s bones.

In a flash, the Urathin grabbed Alanis by the throat and jerked him up into the air, leaving his feet dangling above the ground. Alanis dropped his weapon as the creature gripped him tighter, bringing his face right up to its own, its breath fouler than the air.

Alanis tried to recall a spell that could save him. But as the air became choked from his lungs, his mind went blank.

The Keepers of Knowledge

Darkness occupied the spiralling stairway, opposed by the few lit torches hung against the walls. Resonating higher and higher towards the top, the heavy steps of the sentinel echoed, and while following behind the sentinel, Absiden Singwaters considered their progress. He shivered from the crispness in the air, and all while trying to forget the dream.

It was a horrible dream, he thought, despite himself, suddenly caught up in the remembrance of it. No, no. Absiden shook the memory away, causing the sentinel, who’d come to a sudden stop, to glance back over his shoulder, the light from his torch now illuminating Absiden’s forlorn expression. To him, the sentinel asked,

Is all fair and well, Arch Mindfinder?

All is fair and well, Vandile, Absiden answered, gruffly.

The two elves continued up the stairs and when they reached the top, Absiden emitted a sigh of relief, his eyes keeping to the sentinel as the warrior led him left towards the Arch Chamber. Once inside the Chamber, Absiden felt the concentrated pressure of the tower leave him and he made for the table inside the sumptuous room.

Absiden felt dismayed, though not surprised, to find the table bare, and without taking his eyes off the table, he asked the sentinel,

What time does Ralune get in?

Ralune was an elvess serving in the Greathouse of the City of Olden, where Absiden led the mindfinders of the Order of Nallara and where the Lady of Olden governed the city. Ralune was responsible for maintaining the Arch Chamber’s cleanliness, ensuring it was well stocked with fresh food and drink. Just now, Absiden desired the latter, his mouth parched.

Later, Arch Mindfinder, the sentinel replied, solemnly. The House still sleeps; the sun’s reign is still in anticipation.

Absiden considered the sentinel’s words. The House sleeps, the city sleeps, the Realm sleeps – yet I remain restless, fretful.

That will be all, Vandile, he told the sentinel, adding, you can return to your chambers if you wish.

It will please me to wait outside, Arch Mindfinder.

The door of the Chamber closed with a soft thump, and Absiden thought with a twinge of guilt, the dream has robbed us both from sleep, faithful Vandile.

Absiden turned to look at the glass doors on his left, those leading to the outside balcony. He crossed the Chamber, passed the map of Alepion protruding from the centre floor, and opened the doors, where he was met by the alluring smell of jasmine and the pleasant calm of the night. The outside air was brisk, causing Absiden to wrap his burgundy robe tightly around himself, his breath fogging before his face as he surveyed the city.

How different the City of Olden would look come the reign of the sun! He thought.

It was almost unsettling and sad, for, at that moment, Absiden felt very much alone, and loneliness brought up thoughts of his son and eldest child – Rhallor.

Absiden missed him terribly, and the memory of his son lifted his gaze from the city, beyond its high walls and towards the far west where his son dwelt. Absiden wondered what Rhallor would do today, knowing that whatever it was, it would be done with excellence – his son having always been diligent towards his trade and his gifts.

One of Alepion’s greatest servants you remain, my son, Absiden whispered, a sad smile forming across his lips.

• • •

When the sun finally peered over the horizon, colours of pink and orange were smeared across the sky. Beyond the city, the light revealed vast plains and soft meadows, and of course, the Sky Road – a broad highway that led north towards the eternal Sunbare Glades, swerving west towards the Flower Pass, which opened to the city of Higher Heart.

Absiden watched the sun’s light touch the rooftops of the city's citizenry homes, turning Olden's cobbled streets from pale grey to orange, inspiring a swelling optimism inside of him that, for a moment, put his mind at ease – until the door inside suddenly opened. Absiden turned to see who had disrupted the silence, was relieved when he found Ralune.

An early start today, Arch Mindfinder, the elvess observed, cheerfully.

Indeed – fair morning, my lady.

Ralune noted his demeanour. Nightmares keep you up, Arch Mindfinder?

Yes.

Heart withers, I hate nightmares.

Water, please, Ralune.

On its way, Arch Mindfinder.

Ralune’s sing-song voice earned Absiden’s envy: unwillingly recalling the dream he had suffered last night.

He had seen a forest smothered by a black, moving shadow. But what disturbed Absiden was that the shadow had been alive, undeniably conscious, had possessed eyes that shone bright like moonlight, like the First Sign of Adonai.

Absiden shook his head. A disturbing thought, he murmured, shutting his eyes, beseeching Adonai the Whispering God.

I need peace. I need to rest.

Absiden looked up when Ralune returned with his glass of water. A fair morning, indeed, she noted, after handing Absiden his glass. Just look at that view! Far below, the gate barring the entrance to the Greathouse opened with shrieks from the protesting hinges. Syghters returning, commented Ralune, stating the obvious, referring to a group of elvess warriors who specialised in archery, scouting, and navigation and who belonged to the Order of Arranda. Absiden watched as two of these syghters entered the property, their grey hoods hiding soft features.

Coming from Sky Road, I'd wager, said Ralune, turning her head towards Absiden, adding somberly, there are always syghters on the roads these days… the good ones and the bad. She gestured below the balcony and asked, Do you think those syghters found any of the bad ones?

Absiden shrugged as he brought the cup of water to his lips. We will find out this morning when the other Arch Mindfinders do arrive.

Ralune seemed satisfied. Well, I hope the Arch Mindfinders do hurry. Things are getting worse out there.

The elvess eventually backed away from the railing, turned to continue her service inside, leaving Absiden alone with his thoughts, with the memory of last night’s dream.

What does it all mean? He mused. He shook his head and decided that the dream of the shadow meant nothing.

Nothing! Just an overactive imagination.

And yet… Absiden didn’t have much of an imagination. That was an attribute his united-one and daughter held – not him.

Angered, Absiden tried focusing his thoughts on his daughter. But the dream continued to bother him, had him turn to stalk back inside, where Ralune was wiping down one of the cabinets, seemingly unperturbed by Absiden’s presence.

The Arch Chamber was spacious, containing bookshelves, plants, and a handsome rug recently brought in from the Singing Isles. On the walls, portraits of Absiden’s predecessors hung all around him, contrasted by two great mirrors hanging next to each other directly in front of him. Absiden walked further inside, sat down on the cushion at the head of the Alepion map.

The map stood three feet off the floor, moulded to portray a detailed overlook of the Moon Elf Realm – Alepion. Absiden traced the length of Sky Road all the way north to the river Silverway, following the river's northern fork which stretched towards the city of Inomen. His gaze then moved across to the Auless River and then beyond to Flingwood Forest, until they dropped and rested on the city of Moonguard.

Moonguard – the seat of the Primes, he whispered, eyes narrowing.

Rhallor served there.

One of the most gifted and influential mindfinders, Absiden’s son had become the central intelligence of the Realm’s ruling government, the Primes, and though Absiden felt proud of his son, he wanted Rhallor where he belonged: here in the City of Olden, away from the inherent politics that came with Rhallor’s current position.

The Primes of Moonguard were elves elected to govern the country according to the Anda Document that had given them the authority to do so. But when they were not doing that, they competed with the Throne of Lowvilla.

Admittedly, the rivalries between the Primes and the Throne had calmed since Tarranice Flaramoon became Elder: the reason being that Tarranice was one of the Blademasters, the Whispering God’s chosen representatives, and so someone who carried significant influence among the people, someone the Primes did well not to provoke.

Absiden shifted on his cushion just as the door of the Arch Chamber opened for Arch Mindfinder, Alantus Tassamoon – a graceful and voluptuous elvess with long golden locks. She was tall, had warm, inviting blue eyes that contained within them the capacity to rob most elves of intelligent speech. But behind that alluring gaze, beneath the charm, there was a shrewdness, a fierceness, and not to mention an alarming tendency for ruthlessness.

Alantus approached the map, smiling. Fair morning, Absiden, she greeted. All fair and well with you?

Fair morning Alantus; indeed, it is. Take a seat.

The golden elvess seated herself on Absiden’s left and Ralune greeted her, placing a bowl of grapes on her side table. Besides himself, Alantus was, in Absiden’s opinion, the most powerful mindfinder in the city, perhaps in the Realm, and she’d come to serve the Order of Nallara after having once served the Throne, giving up her high position in the palace to begin at the bottom of the Order. It wasn’t long, however, until Alantus found herself at the top again. But still, Absiden had been curious as to her reasons for leaving the palace in the first place, and though he had never asked the elvess, he had heard the rumours.

Did you sleep fair and well? the elvess asked him, after biting into a grape.

Dreadfully, Absiden answered honestly. Ralune!

Yes, Arch Mindfinder?

Do we have any pomegranate this morning?

Of course, Arch Mindfinder.

Would you bring me some?

What kept the peace from your sleep? Alantus asked him.

Nightmares, he replied impatiently.

Ralune reappeared with a jug of pomegranate juice as requested and proceeded to fill Absiden’s cup.

Tell me about your meeting with Paetarn yesterday. Thank you, Ralune.

Alantus reached for another grape. Paetarn still plans on leaving at his intended time.

Has his mother discussed the risks with him?

Apparently, yet Paetarn is content with the sentinel escort that his mother has arranged.

A fool then, thought Absiden.

Paetarn was the son of Salandel Redwind – Lady of Olden – and he had recently accepted the rare opportunity to shadow that degenerate Highborn who ruled The Breath of Evening – an island off the southern coast of Alepion. Yet, given the situation with the Unknown Daughters, those 'bad' syghters Ralune had referenced earlier, the danger in leaving the city was substantial. Consequently, Absiden had requested a blademaster escort from the Throne, but he had yet to receive a response, making Absiden grow restless.

Let us hope it is his confidence in our warriors rather than his impatience.

He is young, Absiden, said Alantus.

Grace for the young, for they are fools, Absiden recited irritably.

Perhaps we should find a way to detain him until the Throne sends its answer?

It was your charm and beauty that I had hoped would detain him, Absiden thought to himself, aware of how Alantus’s physical appeal affected those she interacted with; it had been his pleasure to use it where Paetarn Redwind was concerned.

The Chamber door opened once more to present another of the city’s Arch Mindfinders. His name was Tyane Sunpoint, and he was a lean, dark-haired elf whose pale eyes cut like a blade, making him a compelling sight, a somewhat intimidating one amid the younger generation of mindfinders, or so Absiden had been told. Just like how he used Alantus’s physical charm where it suited him, Absiden also took advantage of the fear that Tyane was able to inspire.

Alantus smiled at Tyane and extended her greetings, but Absiden waited for the elf to address him first, after which he gladly offered the Arch Mindfinder some of Ralune’s delicious refreshments.

Water, replied Tyane, in a quiet and academic tone, seating himself on his cushion opposite Absiden, leaving a vacant cushion to Absiden’s right, a sad reminder of his son’s regrettable absence.

Absiden pushed aside his sorrow, set his focus decidedly on the meeting at hand, and directed his gaze to the map.

What news from the Realm? He made a glance to his left. Alantus?

The elvess looked at the map. Sunken ships in the Evening Sea, she began. From the word at Darstare, it appears to have been a giant sea serpent that attacked from the ocean’s depths. My mindfinder did not linger long enough to discover anything more, though did say that a couple of the islanders have vowed to hunt and kill the creature.

I have a report of a similar nature, said Tyane, formally. It would seem that a ship from the Storm Fleet caught fire. It did not sink and is still intact, but word is that the fire was caused by a youngling. From what my mindfinder gathered, it appears a group of children snuck on-board and were at play.

Absiden nodded. What else?

Tyane cleared his throat. The hunt for the Unknown Daughters continues. Syghters are active on the Pale Road, intent upon finding their fallen sisters, his hand pointing out the area on the map, and Higher Varanten Whiteflower has sent sentinels to aid the syghters scouring Sky Road. Up north, the Higher of Inomen increases the guard on Long Road.

Have any of these outlaw Unknown Daughters been found? asked Absiden.

None, yet, responded Tyane.

Alantus added, Last night my mindfinders reported syghters stirring on Steel Road. They tell me that they saw a fellowship of them head towards the city of Evennal. They report that the syghters broke off into groups to scour the hills before joining up again at the city gate. We might find that today they have picked up on something new.

Let us hope, said Absiden, weary of the issue.

The Unknown Daughters were renegade syghters once belonging to the Order of Arranda. When Higher Arranda’s united-one, Mune Lightbreath, was murdered at the hands of a syghter named Sharlanta Longshine, those who supported Sharlanta fled with her from Arranda’s wrath, becoming the Unknown Daughters, dealing now in thievery and abduction.

Hoping for better news, Absiden made his inquiry over the growing problem at Proloss River. To that, Alantus narrowed her vision on the map once more.

Another elf has fallen sick. The river continues to bear some vileness which has yet to be carried out to sea.

Another sick? That troubled Absiden. What of the Lowvilla volunteers who offered to investigate this problem? Absiden asked.

They have yet to leave the capital, informed Alantus. Some say it is because of the Sand Elves spotted near the base of the river – at Desert Gate.

And what do you think? Tyane asked her.

I, for one, have doubts that Lowvilla would withdraw out of fear, admitted Alantus, not looking at Tyane but rather at Absiden, who nodded his agreement.

Directing his attention back to Tyane, Absiden said, "Today’s headline will read: Lowvilla Scared? With the subheading: Does High Temple Leader Rhuce Longwind cower away from service to the Realm? That should be incentive enough to get things moving." And by the looks of his fellow Arch Mindfinders, it seemed that they too agreed.

It will be done, Absiden, said Tyane.

Absiden looked down at the map. What else? Has the Throne found time to respond to my request for a blademaster? Can one be spared as Paetarn Redwind’s escort to The Breath of Evening?

Tyane shook his head slowly. No word, Arch Mindfinder.

Disappointed, Absiden asked, Anything else?

Alantus stirred in her seat. The Seasoning within Flingwood Forest was concluded last night. The young warriors were spotted returning to the City of Lumondear after dusk. We expect they will make their way back to Lowvilla this very morning.

And what of the Blademaster who oversaw them?

The Burning? asked Tyane, glancing at Alantus.

Yes, replied Absiden growing impatient. What of him?

The blademaster was seen returning to Lumondear with the new sentinels, Alantus informed them, adding, as was his bladewatcher, who, after calling my mindfinders imposing spies, aimed an arrow at one of the birds my mindfinder controlled.

Let them slander, Tyane remarked, seemingly unfazed. The Realm needs our services.

Absiden turned for his cup. What else?

Alantus looked at Tyane, hesitating. We appear to be done, she said.

Absiden frowned. Done? What of the Old Way?

Of the country's most threatening organisations, the Old Way was the most dangerous and enduring, the cult having dated back since the Great Split during the First Moon – when the First Elder declared Adonai the Whispering God the one true God of the Moon Elves. It was these curs that Absiden wished to be cleansed from the lands, and he thought, rather the Unknown Daughters than worshippers of the Dead Gods.

No news, said Tyane, plucking a grape from his bowl.

Then we truly are done, said Absiden, feeling slightly relieved that the Old Way have been quiet of late. But getting back to the Unknown Daughters, the Primes of Moonguard do command us to get involved in the hunt.

Good, stated Tyane.

Indeed. Tyane, seeing as you appear eager, you will join your mindfinders this morning, while Alantus will join hers in the afternoon. I will join the search come the evening.

And what of the Sand Elves camped near the river? asked Tyane. The river that our Lowvilla volunteers do wish to examine? Who will keep a watch on them if we do not?

The task will be given to Rhallor and his mindfinders in Moonguard.

Tyane and Alantus seemed satisfied with that and, after concluding their meeting by going over the final details of their responsibilities, the two Arch Mindfinders left Absiden alone to pursue some of his letters.

• • •

Absiden was seated at his desk at the farthest end of the room. He looked up after noticing Vandile enter. All fair and well, Vandile? he asked.

Vandile, clad in the silver armour of a sentinel, had draped over his shoulders a snow-white cloak. Falling from those shoulders was a white surcoat that dropped to his armoured knees.

Around Vandile’s waist was a thick black belt that matched the black hilt of the longblade stretching upwards at his side. Covering the warrior’s head was his sentinel helm, which took the likeness of a hood concealing his long and sandy blond hair.

All fair and well, Absiden, replied the sentinel. I hear you are joining the hunt for the Unknown Daughters this evening?

Yes. Absiden gestured towards the peaches Ralune had placed on the side of his desk. Care for some fruit?

The Brothers Fairleaf

Eldrian Fairleaf emerged from the portal and came upon a pavement of white serpentine cracks and an infestation of weeds. He was standing inside a white courtyard, and when he looked up, he saw the Portal Guards peering down from the above floor. He took in a deep lungful of air, and sighed.

Home.

When his Bladewatcher appeared behind him from out of the portal, Eldrian turned his neck slightly and remarked mildly, Took you long enough. He turned back around and fixed his eyes on the black gate standing as the courtyard’s only exit.

Fear to be left alone, Blademaster? mocked the impertinent Bladewatcher, his name being Ulumious Clearsong.

But Eldrian ignored him and proceeded towards the gate, the gate opening to them both almost immediately by the guard who was stationed there amid the shadows. After ascending a flight of broad, twisting steps, they arrived at the above floor and were greeted by one of the Portal Guards.

Welcome home, Blademaster.

We heard the news that the Elder has returned from Norrhan?

Yes, Blademaster.

Eldrian let out a weary breath almost unconsciously; he was dismayed to have his hopes dashed, for instead of having to endure the passive aggression of the Lady of the Moon, Salune Flaramoon, when delivering his report, something Eldrian was able to take in his stride, he would now need to contend with the cool disdain of her united-one, Elder Tarranice Lowvilla Flaramoon, the least of Eldrian’s preferred personalities living here at court.

Eldrian moved past the guard, made his way through the circling corridor that bent around the courtyard, when suddenly,

Blademaster!

Eldrian turned around and found the Portal Guard running up to him so as to say in a discreet and telling voice,

The Elder has been in a dark mood since Norrhan, he warned, the darkest I have seen him.

From the guard’s tone, Eldrian was inclined to believe him. He regarded Ulumious and said, Stay here, adding, I will meet with the Elder alone.

As you wish, his Bladewatcher replied, in a voice that to Eldrian’s trained ears sounded very much like relief.

Eldrian faced the Throne Room, pushed the doors open, and made his way through a large hall that, even while empty, invoked a sense of authority and eminence, contributed to by the grandiosity of its interior, which pronounced itself drastically from floors made of marble, balconies made of glittering stone.

Then came the hall’s presiding facet, its most distinguishable feature: on an island of seven steps, the Golden Throne stood exalted and, at present, vacant. While Eldrian’s eyes remained locked on the throne’s golden sheen, two thoughts occurred to him, the first coming from an acute awareness of the hall’s silence. To disturb the silence seemed almost defiling as if the silence itself was a preserver of sorts for something unseen, something holy. The second thought came as an assault upon him rather than from his keen discernment over the room’s majesty; he didn’t belong here. When at last Eldrian passed through a back door behind the throne, and after entering a narrow corridor, he felt lighter.

• • •

The corridor walls bore a series of portraits of those who had once ruled the Realm: Elders and Ladies of the Moon, their eyes following him as he progressed to the end. But of the past rulers: the revolutionary Rareshades, the illustrious Lightmarshes, and renowned Skysingers, it was the portrait of a Flaramoon that got him to stop and consider it.

The late elder, Tarran Gathe Flaramoon, was poised in red. He held at his side the Veilnar-forged longblade, Flame, and the artist did well in giving Tarran lucid resemblance to his son, Elder Tarranice, Alepion’s current sovereign. And yet, in contrast, Tarran had been a leaner figure, and, in Eldrian’s opinion, in possession of less belligerence.

Suddenly the door at the end of the corridor opened, and when Eldrian turned his head, he discovered the petite Wanda Purestorm, an old and wise elvess of roughly seven hundred years. But what she lacked in youth and height, Wanda made up for in resolve and wit, and she was in possession of a surpassing intellect and resourcefulness that all who she had served had come to rely on. As Left Hand of the Elder, Wanda also remained one of Alepion’s most influential elvesses and in addition to all that, was one of Eldrian’s favourites here at court.

Blademaster!

My lady, said Eldrian, warmly.

Wanda took Eldrian’s hands into her own and looked up at him with eyes that immediately began to shimmer.

Blessed be Adonai; He has brought you home.

It seems I am not the only one who has been brought home, gesturing towards the room Wanda had just now appeared from.

Indeed, she answered solemnly. It is a foul business living among Strangers, dear Eldrian.

Wanda’s change in tone sparked Eldrian’s intrigue, for since the Humans of Norrhan had entered an alliance with the Throne of Alepion, the derogatory term, ‘Stranger,’ had not been used to describe them for years. Eldrian wondered what had changed.

But let us not bother about Humans, the elvess dismissed, her nurturing manner failing to induce Eldrian away from his curiousness. Let me rather leave you to carry on as you were. Welcome home.

• • •

The Right Hand of the Elder – Filian Summerfell – received Eldrian, and one look at him and the disparities between him and his Left-Hand equivalent pronounced themselves considerably, causing Eldrian strain while attempting to resist the impulse to drawback in shock. Though Filian was much younger than Wanda, presently it would have been difficult to say so.

The Right Hand of the Elder appeared most put out; his usual steadfast gaze bereft of hesitation and doubt had now yielded to a colourless, weary visage. That there were bags beneath the elf’s eyes suggested sleepless nights, and that whatever happened in the Human Lands of Norrhan, the stress of it had followed Elder Tarranice home.

Eldrian stopped in the centre of the room, and he concentrated on Alepion’s Elder seated behind his desk. His full name was Tarranice Lowvilla Flaramoon, and he looked as all warrior rulers should: broad-shouldered and tall, with long golden hair. He had a golden beard cut to a sharp point with the ends speckled in black. He wore his Chain of Honour and a long jerkin with black patterns, which was fastened with elaborate black buttons and worn over a white shirt. The ring on his right index finger was a simple golden band: the physical evidence of his union with the Lady of the Moon, Salune Flaramoon.

The Elder looked up from his desk, and cast Eldrian a telling expression, one that made it clear that neither of them was enthusiastic about sharing a reception with the other.

Eldrian bowed, my Elder.

Your service to Alepion?

Successful. The new sentinels show incredible promise.

I trust you have your written report, then?

Eldrian had been carrying the report since arriving in the palace, and without further delay, he handed it to Filian.

I addressed it to the Lady of the Moon, had expected that it would be she who would receive it.

The Elder of Alepion took a moment to consider him before he said very suddenly, That will be all… Blademaster.

Wasting no more of his time, Eldrian bowed his head and turned for the door. On the other side, he let out a heavy sigh, looked up at the portrait of Tarran, and with bitterness, said,

Would that you had received me instead.

• • •

Eldrian found his Bladewatcher leaning against the stone railing that surrounded the white courtyard of the Portals of Blydran. The elf straightened when noticing that his Blademaster had returned, and he shot Eldrian with a mocking smile.

Back already?

Eldrian ignored him, crossed the encircling corridors briskly, passed through the door on the other side, and entered the Garden Foyer. Without stopping, Eldrian commanded Ulumious to find his brother.

He could be anywhere, his Bladewatcher complained.

Eldrian ignored him once more, went instead to the centre of the Foyer, where he observed the outside garden through glass doors. He saw a pathway of pebbles dividing the garden in two, leading past a fountain, continuing towards a large tree that stood at the garden’s edge. Beyond, Eldrian could glimpse the iridescent waters of the Tentacle Sea. It was that sea that had recently brought the Elder of Alepion home, and all the others who had gone to the Human Lands of Norrhan – including Eldrian’s brother, Trone.

A few elvesses entered the Foyer from the garden, bringing the alluring smell of nature’s aromas with them. Eldrian acknowledged them with a nod but nothing else, desiring to indulge in his contemplations. When the door through which his Bladewatcher had left finally opened, Eldrian expected to see his brother. Instead, he saw an elvess walking towards him as if entering the den of a predator – an elvess Eldrian had not thought to see at that moment.

Eldrian turned his head slowly, his eyes widening slightly while his mind groped for an opening line, an appropriate greeting. The elvess came before him with head bowed, clutching a silver jug to her breast as if it were a shield.

Blademaster, her voice was soft and delicate, as delicate as her slender frame.

Sylanta? asked Eldrian – his voice hushed in an unbelieving whisper. It is good to see you… you look… blessed.

Sylanta Moonfell indeed looked blessed. Her long, thick, auburn hair shone, her yellow eyes vivid and perceptive. They were adorned as always by dark lashes that had a remarkable swoop, making her an endearing sight.

When did you arrive? he asked her.

I passed through the Portals of Blydran a week ago.

Will you be staying permanently?

Eldrian wasn’t sure what answer he preferred, considering how the palace was uncomfortable enough without the added resentment. But in the same breath, it was Eldrian’s deepest wish to achieve a genuine reconciliation with the elvess.

It seems so, yes.

Eldrian smiled. The Wonder has always been your place. Yours, before it was mine.

Seeming to have grown extremely uncomfortable from that statement, Sylanta replied softer now, almost under her breath,

Not always.

A brief interval of silence ensued before Eldrian found something to say. Have you seen the Elder since his return from Norrhan?

The elvess shook her head. The Elder has yet to request my presence; it seems that much requires his attention since returning home.

Eldrian frowned. And Salune? he asked.

The Lady of the Moon has been very welcoming. She received me at the Portal of Blydran when I arrived.

Eldrian was glad of that, at least. He made a mental note to ask his brother what could make Tarranice so preoccupied that he could not see Sylanta. Before Eldrian could respond, the door behind the elvess opened once again.

Be blessed, Blademaster, Sylanta said, before she quickly darted off towards the garden.

Eldrian wistfully watched her disappear behind the fountain, feeling unsettled, disappointed with their reunion. Frustrated, he looked from her to the elf walking towards him, the door in the background held open by Ulumious.

Purposeful strides, upright posture, fixed expression – Eldrian’s brother was just as he had left him. Trone Fairleaf had light brown hair falling in tumbles down his shoulders, his equally light brown beard reaching below his sternum, sunlight sending the oils to glisten. His leather boots were knee-high, his breeches black, his shirt a rich brown colour, long-sleeved and fastened tightly around his wrists, leaving a thin collar buttoned at his neck.

Brother, Trone called, his voice moderate, yet no less pleased. The two of them embraced. I take it your time in Flingwood Forest went well? I did hear that Salune issued the last stage of the Seasoning to be held beneath its trees.

Since the Elder’s leave from Alepion, outlaw activity within had proliferated. The Lady of the Moon felt it necessary to have a Blademaster within the vicinity.

And what fruit did that decision bear?

Two whole months of peace.

Trone nodded slowly, And what of the new sentinels?

Promising. Some need experience while others need another Seasoning.

Amused, Trone asked, Have you given your report to the Elder?

I have. Admittedly, I was not expecting to. Your stay among the Humans appears to have been cut short.

You miss very little, Brother.

Trone’s voice was grave. He indicated towards the garden, gestured for Eldrian to lead the way.

I see you have already met with Sylanta.

At the mention of the elvess’s name, Eldrian quickly scanned the garden, was thankful when he saw no sign of the elvess.

Yes. She found me in the Foyer while I waited for you. She has yet to forgive, he added grimly.

Perhaps that is why she has finally returned to Lowvilla? Perhaps she does seek to face her grief and finally be free of it?

I would have assumed that time had dealt with it already. Near a century has passed since last she was here in the palace.

You’ve heard what the smallfolk say.

The grief of an elvess is the Whispering God’s only toil.

The two of them came to the edge of the garden, and looked down upon Gladen Forest and the preceding beach that gave way to Sunlight Bay.

Tell me true, Brother, what happened in Norrhan?

Trone sighed. The Heiko.

Eldrian frowned, looked at him. The emperor’s heir?

The emperor’s disgrace.

I take it the son does not follow the father?

It seems that he does. Trone regarded Eldrian. His people love him.

Then why speak of the Heiko as if he were a Stranger?

Because he is a Stranger. Trone faced the sea again. The Heiko brought great dishonour to our people; to Tarranice… to Alanda.

A shadow crossed Eldrian’s expression. What happened? Ideas already spilling into his mind, imagined scenarios he wasn’t sure he wished to hear tell come out his brother’s mouth.

The night of his father's funeral, the Heiko invited the Crowned Daughter of Alepion for a midnight stroll. Alanda accepted, revealing her folly. During their conversing, the Heiko, he… he kissed her – before the two were interrupted by myself and the Elder.

The two of you saw this? asked Eldrian incredulously.

Yes. The Heiko’s infatuation with Alanda became apparent within days of our arrival. Tarranice had her watched and her movements reported.

And Alanda?

Eldrian thought Tarranice was a fool to have brought his daughter to the shores of Norrhan, to dwell among such a vile people!

Trone looked concerned before saying, The Crowned Daughter of Alepion has hardened herself. She offers no comment, no excuse.

That surprised Eldrian, and his brother noticed as if he expected it to show on his face. Trone said now with indifference,

The love she bore you, Brother, could not have lasted forever, so long as you did continue to show your disinterest.

Eldrian looked out towards the sky, thinking; How could you be so foolish, Alanda? He was feeling the need to see her now.

And what of the Elder? Eldrian asked Trone, reminded of Tarranice’s demeanour towards him earlier, thinking: Does he blame me for this?

We left the Human capital the next morning; Tarranice in a blind fury. The Heiko threatened war if we denied him Alanda. Our Elder has been in a state of wrath ever since: neglecting all matters of state. But while Tarranice desires a severed alliance with the Humans, the Left and Right Hand of the Elder advise differently.

Eldrian flinched. I will not believe Wanda would stand in favour of a Human alliance, not after what has been done. Should we fear them, Brother? he asked Trone fiercely.

Trone looked at him, clearly uneasy. "None, including Wanda, want the alliance renewed. Yet much has happened while you were training the new sentinels…"

Such as?

"High Temple Leader, Rhuce Longwind, claims to have had another vision: a dream in which he says power left him. He said he saw a horizon blotted out by a line of warships. He claims he saw boulders falling from the sky, missiles sent from the palace’s machines. He says he saw death in the thousands, and a shoreline the colour of blood."

Eldrian’s eyes narrowed in thought. The High Temple Leader has been wrong about his prophecies before. But should he be right, Adonai the Whispering God protects us! We would do well not to fear the Humans.

Trone looked at him. It is not a matter of fear, Brother; none do fear while Adonai is for us. It is a matter of preventing a war, where many may die despite our inevitable victory. The Right and Left Hand of the Elder do advise that we have the alliance documents signed in order to avoid any form of conflict.

The Lady of Despair

Trone Fairleaf left his brother to brood in the garden, and when coming inside the Garden Foyer, he allowed himself one last glance at him through the glass doors that separated them. Eldrian stood at the garden’s brink clad handsomely in black and deep scarlet. His stature was strong, his countenance pensive, his stare cast down on Sunlight Bay. Just now, a passing breeze was caught in his dark hair.

Welcome home, Brother.

• • •

Trone found the steps that led into the encircling corridors where the Portal Guards roamed, and upon seeing him, one of those guards stepped forth without preamble, informing Trone that,

The Burning does look for you, Blademaster, referring to Eldrian’s most popular alias here in the capital city

I have met with him, Trone informed him, adding courteously, thank you, Sitane.

Trone reached the doors of the Throne Room and wondered over the likelihood of Elder Tarranice being alone in his office, doubting the probability. He opened the Throne doors.

Seeing Eldrian again and having to recite to him the misfortune that had foiled the political enterprise across the Tentacle Sea, Trone remained dubious over what some at court thought prudent in continuing an alliance with the Humans of Norrhan. He was instead inclined to share his brother’s opinion that from a Stranger such as the one who must by now rule the Norrhan Realm since his father's funeral, the Throne of Alepion would be better off without ties to the western parts of the Stranger World. It was what Trone wanted to discuss with Tarranice, was why he presently sought him out.

Trone passed through the back door of the hall located behind the throne, walked the length of a narrow corridor, and ignored the series of dead Great Servants, those ancient Elders and Ladies of the Moon who watched him pass within their golden frames along the wall. When he reached the end of the corridor, Trone knocked twice against the door. He heard soft voices emanating from the other side, justifying his earlier doubts over the Elder of Alepion’s preferable solitude.

Unsurprisingly, Filian Summerfell, the Right Hand of the Elder, was the one who ushered Trone inside, the elf announcing with his usual air of indifference,

Another Fairleaf graces us with their presence, my Elder.

Trone came inside and looked at Tarranice, the Elder poised in front of a window with hands held behind his back, appearing astutely considerate of the world outside. When the door closed behind Trone, Tarranice turned around, and not for the first time in Trone’s life was he struck by a familiar sense of pride: of the country’s current leaders, there was none more suited to sit on the Alepion throne than Elder Tarranice Lowvilla Flaramoon.

My Elder, said Trone, formally, bowing his head.

Tarranice came to his desk. Show him the letter, Filian.

The Right Hand of the Elder moved forward, handed Trone a rolled-up piece of parchment that displayed the burgundy colours of the Order of Nallara.

What do the mindfinders want now?

Trone unfolded the letter and after skimming through it, looked up at Tarranice sceptically, arching a brow.

Are you thinking of sending one of us to escort this Paetarn?

Are you volunteering yourself? asked Tarranice in turn, having by then gotten comfortable behind his desk.

Before Trone could offer a response, Filian, it seemed, felt that he needed to provide the current topic of discussion with some additional emphasis, and so he interjected quickly with,

If the Unknown Daughters get their hands on Lady Salandel’s son, they would have the City of Olden on its knees for however long they wished.

I understand that, Trone responded, still focused on the Elder. However, what are we actually considering here?

Tarranice leaned forward in his chair, gesturing to the seat positioned in front of Trone.

Come and be seated, he said. I am interested to hear what you would advise.

Filian walked up to Trone and handed him a glass of refreshment, and after a moment to consider what he would say, Trone began by stating pragmatically,

"Paetarn Redwind does need to be protected, that I would agree with, and granting Absiden’s request would also gain favour from the Order. Yet, ultimately, this issue belongs to the Primes of Moonguard, not the Throne."

Tarranice fell back in his chair, appearing satisfied. Indeed! The Third Sign of Adonai does belong here in the capital city of Lowvilla.

But there are five of you, my Elder, Filian pointed out, adding, granted, Tilidan is away on Plantion; but that still leaves Siphious and the Fairleaf brothers, not to mention yourself.

Trone turned in his seat. You would suggest sending Tarranice? implying with the manner of his tone that that would be folly if so.

Filian’s stern gaze became fixed upon his challenger, and he responded now with stout and unwavering conviction,

"I would. Tarranice is a Blademaster. Let the people hear how he personally saw to Paetarn’s protection, and he would single-handedly gain abounding favour from the smallfolk. It will be an act that will follow his legacy."

Trone turned back around in his chair and concentrated on Tarranice. Unless he does something the smallfolk disagree with, in which case this single act of service will be forgotten. Tarranice smiled at that. But what you’re forgetting, Filian, Trone continued, is that while the Elder remains a Blademaster, he will always have favour from the country’s smallfolk. Sending him to protect Paetarn is needless.

The Elder’s rank alone won’t sustain the people’s love forever if the people do feel as if he is not serving the Realm, Filian argued. If they begin to feel this, all it will take is one disagreement – as you say – and the people will be calling to abolish the Great Servants as they've done before, and we all know how the Primes of Moonguard would happily oblige them if given the opportunity. It is why this act in particular would sustain the Throne.

Trone, considering Filian’s words, said evenly, If we leave the request unanswered, then we risk offending the Order – who will show no restraint in tarnishing the Throne in the Headlines. And yet, considering the current situation with the Humans, it would be unwise to send the Elder, who needs to deal with the Human matter personally.

Would you go, then? asked Filian. Would you escort Paetarn Redwind to The Breath of Evening?

Trone never hesitated. I would, adding, if ordered to. He concentrated on Tarranice as if expecting the Elder’s next words to be just that – an order to act as escort to the Presumed Heir of Olden.

Instead, Tarranice said, No, I have other plans for you. The Elder turned his attention to Filian. Commission Siphious with this task, Filian. The Silent Blade still carries renown in the land and has not yet lost his edge. The Unknown Daughters would not dare abduct Paetarn if Siphious Brightstar was put in charge of his person.

Very good, my Elder, said Filian. I would act on that immediately unless you have other matters to discuss?

The Elder shook his head. No. Everything else concerns Trone. You have my leave to go.

• • •

After the Right Hand closed the door behind him, Tarranice got up to fill his glass, offering Trone a refill upon seeing him drain his.

You were never really considering taking on Absiden’s request yourself, were you? Trone asked him.

The Elder laughed. Of course not. There are more pressing matters than squabbling to remain in the good graces of the Order. And, as you said, that issue remains the Prime’s responsibility. The fact that I have allowed one of us to assist in the Paetarn matter, I trust would give rise to the Order’s gratitude.

And I am sure it will. Filian, however, is right. Absiden has given us an opportunity to increase Throne favour.

Tarranice handed Trone his glass and expressed amusement when he said, Absiden is not the only one doing so. He returned to his desk and tossed another piece of parchment at Trone before adding, High Temple Leader, Rhuce Longwind, has requested a Blademaster to accompany a group of volunteers he’s sending to Aminiouse Glare.

Trone frowned. He was aware of this foolish mission trip. He came forward in his chair and placed his glass on Tarranice’s desk. He unrolled the letter and hoped that a list of the participants would be forthcoming.

Honour and glory to the God of Whispers and His Great Servant; the Supreme Deacon of the Alepion Temple. To you, Elder Tarranice, I send my greetings.

It is my wish, my Elder, to remind you of this pressing issue regarding the Proloss River and the casualties it’s causing amid the noble elves of the Emention Glades.

The flock of my temple feel compelled to assist in cleansing Proloss by attending its source at Solack Lake. Given the recent reports of Sand Elf activity near the desired destination, their safety has become my utmost concern. It is my deepest and sincerest request that a Blademaster, the Third Sign of Adonai, lead a company of sentinel escorts to guarantee the safety of those who would dare risk treading upon the sands.

Sincerely,

RL

I have been aware of the issue with the river, Trone confessed, tossing the parchment back onto Tarranice’s desk. He retrieved his glass and felt suddenly uneasy.

Since the Order of Nallara reported Sand Elves encamped in the vast desert of Aminiouse Glare, that stretch of blazing earth that separated the Sand Elf realm from Alepion, Trone had been sure the mission to cure Proloss would be abandoned, had stopped worrying about Rhuce’s volunteers being sent out. But Rhuce’s resolve appeared staunch, damned fool. And yet, this request for a Blademaster would solve everything; if, of course, Tarranice cooperated. Looking at him now, however, Trone saw no sign of that happening and he decided to venture towards swaying the Elder in a direction that would suit him.

Will you send Eldrian? adding for incentive, he attends Rhuce’s temple; Rhuce is most likely expecting him to be allowed to join.

Tarranice responded dispassionately. I am certainly aware of that fact, Trone, as is my Left Hand who has also advised sending your brother, with vexing resolve, mind you. But, as I told the insistent Wanda Purestorm, I won’t be sending him, for there must always be a Blademaster in Lowvilla. With Siphious leaving the capital and Tilidan gone, it does leave only us two and the Burning. Though I am a blademaster– I am first a Great Servant, the Elder of Alepion.

Trone shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling like he was missing some hidden meaning in the Elder’s words.

I can’t see why sending Eldrian would leave Lowvilla without a Blademaster. Am I supposed to be going somewhere?

The silence that followed suggested that he certainly would be going somewhere. I am sending you back to Norrhan.

Words escaped Trone; it was not going back to the Human Lands that troubled him, but rather that Eldrian would not be allowed to join the expedition into the Sand Lands. Depending on who else was going, Trone needed his brother on that trip: otherwise, Adonai help us if things go wrong over there.

Do you not consent? asked the Elder, studying Trone intently.

I think an alliance with the Humans of Norrhan is not the way forward, my Elder Trone said honestly, adding, our Elvin alliances alone ensure that the Norrhans pose no threat to us. We would do well not to fear them, quoting his brother from earlier.

But Tarranice was not convinced, said now in response, "If they can threaten even one elf ploughing the fields, they pose a threat."

He stood up and left his desk with such abruptness that it became apparent the debate had come to an end with the decision already decided.

The Daughter of Alepion will act as my representative and envoy, Tarranice announced, seeking to refill his glass once more. And you will lead the voyage, will act as her primary shield. Her safety is of paramount importance.

"By Daughter of Alepion, I assume you do mean Mendis and not Alanda?"

Though beautiful in her own way, Mendis Raven Flaramoon would not fall for a Human’s charms the way Alanda, her older sister had, making Mendis a sound choice. But still, Trone wondered if sending any elvess to Norrhan was wise.

Of course, Tarranice confirmed, calmly, stalking back to his desk, seating himself again in his chair. "Alanda will never step foot in