What passed for morning arrives and the band packs up to leave. Alkara’s hand twitches with impatience as she walks the winding tunnels. She jerks and starts at every hint of movement or echo of noise. Vilsper had declared it would be the last of the twists but Alkara’s not sure she believes him.
With leaden steps she follows Uncle Iro. His confidence in Vilsper encourages Alkara a little but the path continues with no end in sight. Last night’s potion blurs her vision, now that it’s worn off. Her limbs feel heavy. Her head throbs. And in spite of her attempts to ration her water skin, it’s nearly empty.
She desperately hopes Vilsper had also been right about them not running into anything this close to the surface. Because she won’t be much use in a fight if they do.
Ahead the Afanen gates await their arrival. At some point, Tharan takes the lead to ensure their safety when they get there. The path back toward Three Rivers lay far behind. One that stretches further through dangerous territory. The Wastes. More Depths tunnels. But Alkara’s thoughts return to it time and again. She’d rather protect the children in the Wastes than deal with the elves.
Chiron trails from a short distance, back to his happy self. Whatever mending Tharan performed hadn’t changed Chiron in any noticeable way. No, Alkara suspects Tharan’s help was somehow exactly what Chiron had needed.
Guess Doë actually does listen to him. Or at least answers his prayers.
Dre took care of the rest, catching Chiron up. Alkara only sort of manages to suppress a shudder.
That’s got to be weird to wake up from.
Alkara frowns, then cocks her head. Is that…? It almost sounds like a violin being played. Just one note. But it wavers and warbles, like the player doesn’t know how to sustain it properly.
The more Alkara concentrates on the sound the more she realizes that it’s definitely not a violin. And whatever the warbling is it seems to buzz through the tunnels. It pulls and pushes at her ears, adding nausea to the list of things making her feel shitty.
Is that what it sounds like if someone rubs a bell? Alkara stops and tilts her head toward the sound. And Is it getting louder?
Tharan strides further down the tunnel, “Peculiar.” He kneels at some object and inspects it. The warbling continues while he checks whatever it is. Tharan returns to the group with a small frown. “The runes are intact. It may be that the enchantment is degrading some other way. I will summon an Ëleontur to review it.”
Uncle Iro sidles up to Tharan, “Something wrong?” He gestures for the children to stay back.
Alkara and Dre shepherd the children a few paces back. Once Chiron is visible, Alkara moves back within earshot of Tharan.
Tharan peers up and down the tunnel. His eyes are narrowed but a smile builds into the expression. He crinkles his nose, “No, not wrong. I crafted these bells to serve as a warning. They sound when aberrants are near.” Tharan squints into the darkness. “But there are no aberrants here. If there were a klaxon would likely deafen us. This is simply odd. And may indicate that a new round of research is required.” He shrugs, “I would likely have replaced them soon anyway. Let us proceed.”
Iroshi nods. He beckons the Walkers forward with one hand but keeps his focus forward.
Alkara guides the children, and the warble grows louder with each step the group makes. Some of the children smash their hands against their ears. Their pace quickens after they pass the bell. Its warble dissolves into the darkness behind them. Alkara sighs, rolling the tension out of her shoulders.
An excited bell chimes through the tunnel. Its ring clashes against the walls and bounds past them. Alkara jumps. Muddles shouts and clanging follow soon after.
Tharan nods, and murmurs, “Good. They were paying attention.” With a brief gesture he beckons them forward and continues on.
The shouting clarifies into elvish commands. Light pokes out from around the next turn. Metal clangs. A rich sweetness steeps the air as they round the bend. Alkara gasps at the sight of the gates.
Stacked cut stones block the passage, held together by some unseen force. Walls jut from either side of the cavern to meet the blocks. Bands of dark metal squeeze the masonried walls. Light floods the area, giving the grey metal a strange luster, as though a fern-green struggles to escape the metal’s grey.
And that isn’t the only metal visible.
Glints of steel peek out through arrow slits. Kite shields poke above the walls battlement. Metal even girds the hoarding. Doësin elves watch from atop the battlements, looking for some signal to pass their judgment.
Tharan continues forward. The group pauses before following, until a clear shout from the wall commands they halt.
Tharan ignores the order. A deep clanging resonance surges from him. It engulfs the troupe and, seemingly, those on the wall. Torches flicker as though in some unseen wind. A hush muffles the elvish that had been on the gates.
Gooseflesh glides down Alkara’s neck. That bell… does it mean they’ll be safe? Her lips part and she waits with bated breath.
Who is he…?
Tharan calls out above the bell chime, “Tá an Cloigín tagtha.” The elvish words hold a strangeness to them, as though formal or an older version. Something about a bell.
A return call in elvish, “Hail, Keeper of Doë’s Bell!”
Thank Urdima. Normal elvish.
Tharan nods in mid-stride but doesn’t break his pace. Uncle Iro waits, he glances back to the group and gives a curt nod. They hadn’t been told they could move. With so many arrows pointed in their direction any one nervous elf could prove disastrous. A score of crossbows or more look down from the wall. Probably a dozen more on each side. Alkara shuffles from one foot to the other.
After Tharan puts ten paces between them he stops and turns back. “Come, you will be safe.” Without waiting for acknowledgement he strides toward the massive stone blocks.
Tentative steps follow. Alkara walks in front of the children, ensuring if some hero decided they were a threat, at least the children could be saved.
But no bolt comes. Not a sizzle of magic. Not even a glare. Normally the elvish demeanor displays inscrutability. But as Alkara scans the faces on the wall, smiles and wide eyes meet her eyes. Bolts and crossbows alike disappear from the arrow slits.
At twenty paces from the gate it shifts. A block in the lower corner slides backward without noise. Not even the gentle grind of stone on stone. Once clear of the wall it slides sideways. A gaggle of Doësin elves gawk from behind the wall. Stares, grins, and even outstretched hands meet the Walkers and children.
No, not us.
Alkara shakes her head. All eyes focus on Tharan as though the rest of them were invisible. One elf holds a hand to their own chest. Transfixed, they ogle Tharan as though he had just rescued them.
We could probably start a fire and they wouldn’t notice.
One soldier steps forward. Her cape swishes behind her. Unlike the others, a sword rests in its scabbard on her belt. She’d removed her helmet and a thin scar mars her otherwise unblemished face. She bows in front of Tharan and holds the position.
Tharan bows in return, though not to half the same extent. He touches the woman’s shoulder and she rises from the pose.
Good. At least he doesn’t lord his position over everyone.
She scrutinizes Tharan with a watchful gaze. Every minor motion. The way he greets the soldiers. His expressions are somehow… expressionless. He behaves like someone else. Or maybe it’s just a side of him Alkara hasn’t seen.
The muscles around her eyes tighten. Metallic tang fills her mouth. Why put on the holier-than-thou act? It smacks of the bearing of nobles who think they’re better than everyone else.
Alkara scrunches her mouth sideways. He hadn’t treated Dorië or Leä as though they were inferior. He’d never even treated Alkara that way. And he isn’t treating the soldiers that way either. Tharan speaks to them as equals. Some he commends. So why put on the act?
Tharan turns back to the troupe. “These people needs clothes,” His voice easily carries above the din of praise from the soldiers, “A warm meal, and beds. See that it is done.”
The officer’s expression stays passive, but she bows. The woman turns and barks orders to some of Tharan’s fanatics. Their faces threaten to slide off with how quickly they fall. The soldiers nod and move toward the Walkers and children.
They escort the weary travelers past the gates and into a low-ceilinged barracks attached to the walls. Three long rows of beds run the length of the room. Each presents an ordered, clean mattress and sheets. The soldiers point out a few beds and leave to fetch water. A small washroom abuts the barracks, and the Walkers wipe away the grime of travel.
Alkara hates the idea of sleeping here. But as soon as she sits on a cot her body calls for the bed. Her muscles twitch. The aftereffects of Dre’s potion linger. It would be a mistake to take another, even if it meant not sleeping.
These people.
Alkara glances around. Tharan is missing. Her heart shrinks a little, though she shouldn’t be surprised. He’s back with his people. And a celebrity.
Probably off with the adoring masses. Getting showered in sweets and a too-soft bed.
She shakes her head.
What an awful way to live.
The two soldiers at the barracks door watch Uncle Iro with boggled eyes. Alkara motions with her hand until they look her way. She locks eyes with one and, with calm and slow movement, shakes her head with a death glare. The soldiers backstep, “We’ll keep watch from outside.”
Alkara nods and waits for their departure. Once they’re out of sight, all the rigidity in her body falls away. Her eyelids droop once and she shakes herself awake. The next thing she knows, she’s laying on the cot. She blinks away the darkness a few times before her eyes stay closed.
Sleep, a hot meal, and relative safety refresh Alkara more than she’d expected. The others perk up as well. They find small bundles of clothes on the beds near theirs. The long, tight-fitting style of these elves would ill fit Grecians. Instead they find loose tabards to cover their torn, burnt, singed, and otherwise worn tunics and breeches.
Outside, Tharan awaits them with a complement of armored and armed, dour elves. One particularly imposing elvish woman stands at the forefront of the group. The sheen of her breastplate dazzles the eyes when light flickers off it. And though Alkara doesn’t recognize the one at the front, she does recognize some of the others with the escort. Their plate shines less brightly, but still with impressive display.
“We will travel with the paladins to Afanen proper.” Tharan stands tall and upright, with shoulders pulled back. The rags and scraps of cloth are gone. Now he wears a long, rich, dark blue tunic and dark breeches. Nothing like what had been given the Waste Walkers. His escort must have brought a change of clothes.
More walking. The troupe follows with a small rearguard of ordinary elves. A forest of elves fill in the space between Alkara and Tharan.
Most of the trek to Afanen is spent in silence. A brief delay waits for them at a set of wooden gates, though these pale in comparison to the first. The guards there open them up and bright light streams into the tunnels. The children gasp at the sunlight. Tears build up in Alkara’s eyes as she blinks at the light.
Soon, Guen. Soon.
Crisp air engulfs them as they exit. Sighs echo through the group as they emerge from the mine. Greens and browns feel more vibrant. Verdant aromas drift in from the surrounding wood. Birdsong pierces Alkara’s ears. Compared to the Depths, every sensation seems heightened.
Alkara welcomes the change. All is well on Urda. Except for the pang in her chest. She takes one deep breath to savor the smells and warmth of the above ground world.
They readjust to the sights and sounds of Urda. The paladins lay out a small picnic. Nuts and fruits, crackers and cheese, as well as some meats. The food disappears down the mouths of children and adult alike. Alkara sneaks looks at Tharan between bites. He kneels but keeps his torso upright, not touching anything.
She lifts a cold cut to her mouth when Tharan rises and beckons for her to join him. She shoves the cut of meat into her mouth, but begrudgingly sets down the apple that she was going to eat next. One look at his damnably neutral expression fills Alkara with a strong aversion to joining him. But she drags her feet to follow him anyway.
Tharan leads her away from the others a dozen paces, though not away from the paladins, who mirror their path at a short distance. He looks into her eyes, but there’s nothing in his gaze that tells her… well, anything. It’s like she’s staring at a construct.
Even his tone is neutral. “I understand that you had planned an immediate departure, but would you not stay a few more days? My home can accommodate many guests.”
Alkara finds some relief that his voice doesn’t have that sickly sweet quality some Doësin prefer. But where is the elf who had smiled and laughed with such delight, both the night before and the night she’d told him all those stories? Where is the elf that had shown himself so firmly passionate about getting Guen back as soon as possible? This new elf had replaced him and masquerades as the true Tharan. Nothing more than a player with a mask.
“We need to get back to Three Rivers.” Uncle Iro’s voice creeps into the conversation unannounced.
Alkara jumps a little. And by the sound of alarm and metal scraping metal it surprised the paladins as well. Tharan swipes his hand upward and the paladins halt.
Iroshi crouches near a tree behind Alkara. He regards the pair of them with a keen gaze. “I need to follow our new leads as soon as I can. Though,” he smirks, “I suppose Alkara might want to stick around and wait for word on the herbs we need. What do you say, Alkara?”
Alkara recoils and scrunches her face. Her stomach churns at the thought. She shakes her head, “Are you kidding? I’m coming home! Why would I want to stay? Tharan said he’d send the herbs himself.” She huffs at the end of her sentence.
At first, Tharan watches with no reaction. But he blinks too many times. She narrows her eyes. Did he just tighten his jaw? Or maybe press his lips together?
Alkara blinks a few times herself.
No, just his normal composed self.
What in the Depths?
Iroshi shrugs, “Just a suggestion.” He looks past Alkara to Tharan. “I came to thank you for your hospitality. You’ve shown yourself to be one of the better Doësin I’ve met.”
Alkara expects the paladins to bristle, but mostly it’s a simple nod or glance to the side. One frowns.
Tharan breaks his demeanor with a small smile, “It was my honor to have met you. Do not hesitate to call on me.”
Iroshi nods and salutes the paladins, somehow combining the Grecian and Doësin styles. He departs. At least it seems he does. The paladins eye the area Iroshi had been in and glance about the area.
“Alkara?” Tharan whispers.
She turns back to him. The paladins can’t have heard Tharan. Despite his otherwise neutral expression, concentration burns in his eyes. Alkara nods.
Tharan leans forward, “May I speak with you privately?”
Alkara furrows her brow and looks around. Privacy is doubtful with his guards so close. Whispering might be the best option. “I guess. But we do need to get going. It’s already past midday.”
Tharan nods, “Yes. I…” He pauses and clears his throat. “I understand. I…”
There it is again.
That look in his eyes like he can’t decide on what to do or say.
Tharan closes his mouth. Finally breaking eye-contact he looks down.
Alkara crosses her arms. He had done plenty of listening to her last night. The least she can do is hear him out now.
If he ever figures out what he wants to say.
Tharan purses his lips. He takes a deep breath but doesn’t say anything. His eyelid muscles twitch as though he’s mentally ticking off ideas. Or counting. Tharan looks at Alkara once more, his eyes soft, tone low, “Please send the list of reagents and herbs needed for Guenwhyvar.” He nods, as though agreeing with his own statement. “Delaying her return, or missing the opportunity would be… dissatisfactory.”
Alkara waits. Is there more? This isn’t exactly sensitive information. She doesn’t trust the paladins, but still.
In spite of her confusion, tears prick her eyes and she swallows. Finally, she nods. Guess that’s it.
Tharan smiles but his eyes droop. He offers a small bow and turns back toward the guards. But something in the expression triggers Alkara’s memory.
“Hey, wait.” Alkara pinches her brow together, “What about that uh, other thing? You know, the one you said you were sad about ending the night you gave me the bow.” She holds herself still, pulling her thoughts away from Tharan’s withholding. “Did it uh… end, I guess?” She shrugs with the question, “Or did you do something about it?”
Tharan tilts his head and his eyes widen for a moment. He smiles again, but still it doesn’t touch his eyes. It’s as though the two expressions war against each other, fighting for dominance. He speaks in a low voice, dropping it lower than his previous whisper, “I did something about it.”
Gooseflesh ripples across Alkara’s skin at the comment. Tension drops away and she smiles. “Oh good!” She gestures for Tharan to continue. “And?”
Tharan drops his gaze to the red maple leaves covering the forest floor, “And the final movement has yet to be composed.”
Alkara wonders at Tharan’s small expressions. Are they genuine? Is that the true Tharan underneath the mask? She furrows her brow, “Well is it anything we can help you with? It’s the least we can do after… well everything you’ve done.”
Tharan stiffens ever so slightly. “I appreciate the offer, but…” He presses his lips together, then rolls his shoulders and stands straight once more, “It would be indecorous.”
Alkara arcs an eyebrow, “Indecorous?” She shakes her head and blows out a puff of air from her nose. “Okay… well, uh… let us know then?”
“But of course.” Tharan bows once more. He returns to his paladins and they gather closer to him as the group departs. A few moments pass before they disappear in the trees.
Alkara exhales. Her chest tightens and she clenches her jaw. She rubs the back of her neck while returning to the others. She finds herself shaking her head and restrains herself.
What on Urda was that?
Alkara resolves to enjoy the forest and Urda’s vibrant life up above the Depths. She breathes deep and holds the scents of the forest in her mind. Light curtains the pathway ahead as it streams through the multicolored leaves above.
The sound of children laughing hits her as she draws closer. Uncle Iro engages them in some stick tossing game in the clearing. They had demolished the picnic and packed everything up.
When they turn at Alkara’s approach she puts on a big smile and nods. “Let’s go home.”