Analindë (The Chronicles of Lóresse) (41 page)

“Please,” the strong voice asked.

She opened her eyes, met the expressionless eyes of the commander, and nodded. She looked over at the artist and his sheaf of papers. They would want sketches. Pictures to identify the Traitors. They would compare them to Erulissé’s to make sure their stories matched. How to make it go quicker?

She eyed the paper. It was beautiful, thick, and crisp. The artist sat up straighter and readied his pencil.

“The leader Dûrion, what shape are his eyes?” Dûrion’s face flashed to her mind, and the sly grin he’d given her in the street mocked her. It was the expression that had promised that her death would be neither quick nor painless. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest and her breath hitched. Muscles began to knot themselves up her back. Painful. They cramped so quickly and violently it burned. A savage headache welled up and began to throb. Sweat beaded on her forehead, then trickled slowly down one cheek. The blanket was pushed back from around her and cool hands, palms and fingers pressed around the sides of her face.

Peace. Calm. Safety. She was safe. A hushed voice sang through her mind, leaving cool stillness in its wake. It softened the edges of her panic and subdued her heaving emotions. Her breathing smoothed out and sword roughened fingers touched her wrist again. Her eyes focused and sought out the Sword Sworn. His face was still blank, but the stars in his eyes twitched and brief notes of a song hinted at being heard.

“I am sorry but we must have a second witness. If there was another way we would let you rest.”

Analindë looked away from the soothing stillness of the Sword Sworn to the agitated artist on her right. She snatched a piece of paper out of his pile and closed her eyes before anyone could protest. She spun a tendril of Energy out and sent it racing along the surface of the paper, burning—no, scorching—wherever it touched. Dûrion. Her breath caught and she forced herself to breathe. Lines fanned out across the page, forming his likeness.

She tossed the paper onto a table and snatched another page. Thorontur. The flash of Energy was quicker this time. Eyes formed, nose, mouth, arched ears, long hair. The robes of a Southern Forest mage.

She plucked up another piece of paper and then grabbed the entire stack. Mapar’s obsequiousness. Energy flared across the page. Veralcar’s sneering face. Flash. Narion’s condescending expression, as if he was the oldest and should lead, but lacked the strength and power to do so.

She formed pictures of the Traitors sitting, the canopied atrium surrounding them, Thorontur sticking his finger in her tea, Mapar pouring drinks. Dûrion’s scowl. Veralcar’s outrage. Durians fingers latched onto her forearm. Lothorian and his companions narrowed eyes as they stood in the street. The cloying web that poisoned, the Sword Sworn surrounding Erulissé. Dûrion’s face as he realized he would die right there in the street if he didn’t let go. The Traitors fading away into the crowded street. A dark dead-end alleyway. A hand reaching out to knock on a secret door. Strong calloused fingers touched her wrist and she froze.

Papers lay scattered around her; the artist crouched low, gathering them up. The images were clear, shaded expertly and precisely. She’d given them more than they needed or asked for; at least she was finished. She
was
finished, wasn’t she? Analindë sought out the Commander’s eyes.

“Thank you.” He patted her on the hand and stood up. He gestured to the artist, who immediately darted out of the room. He ran lightly; his shoes sounded quietly against the stone as he retreated. The Commander turned and left the room.

A couple Sword Sworn remained. Laerwen. Lothorian, was he still here? She looked around. There he was. His friends were gone. He looked, silent. The stars in his eyes turned very slowly, so slow that she couldn’t make out what he thought.

Someone squeezed her hand. She turned her head. Erulissé. When had she taken the artist’s place?

“We can leave now if you’re ready.”

Analindë nodded, but her legs didn’t move.

Cool hands touched her forehead.

She was fine, really. She was tired, that was all. She looked up at Lothorian. He’d taken the Commander’s place in front of her and was crouched down at eye level. There was something she wanted to tell him, but couldn’t think.

Erulissé’s panicked face flashed through her mind from when she’d screeched out the welcome to come and admire her new sword. No. That wasn’t it.

She opened her mouth, “Thank you.” Yes. Her eyes flew back up to meet his. Her throat felt dry and she swallowed. “Thank you for stopping . . . and for noticing.”

The slowly moving stars in his eyes stopped, he nodded.

“It was my pleasure. Should the need arise again and I or my brothers are at hand, it would please us greatly to give aid.” He reached out a hand and touched her wrist. His fingers were strong but softer than the Commander’s. His touch felt reassuring.

A whisper of cool air brushed against her skin when his hand moved away. Erulissé squeezed her other hand and the cool voice asked. “Can you walk?” Her eyes sought out the voice. Laerwen.

Yes. Of course I can walk.
She thought. Analindë looked down at her knees and then to the table where her sketches had lain for a few moments. Yes, she could walk. But in a moment.

Strong arms picked her up, not Lothorian’s. Someone else draped her arms around his neck. This Sword Sworn felt still and quiet. Coiled and ready for action. The stitching around his collar identified him as Sword Sworn, third rank. Lothorian moved to take a doorway she hadn’t noticed, with Erulissé close on his heels. Cool fingers touched her wrist briefly. The man carrying her moved to follow her friend. She could walk on her own. . . . She really ought to tell them.

She rested her head on his shoulder instead.

Cool hands and a musical chatter tucked her into bed. She stared at the patterns in the canopy above her bed, studying them until the tower was quiet. Many hours later she drifted asleep after letting the familiar wards and shields protecting the tower lull her.

The Twenty-Fourth Chapter

I
t had taken Analindë an
entire week to work up enough courage to venture out of Master Therin’s tower. Now she was just mad. Spitting mad. What right did others have to terrorize her? What right did they have to ruin her life, foist her away from the peaceable life she’d led? None. She was going to take it back and fight. It was her right to choose what kind of life she lived. And she was going to choose normal; well, her version of normal anyway. But first she was angry.

Analindë thumbed through the basic potions book on her lap. Soothing upset stomachs, colds, calming drinks, draughts for moods: bravery, courage, and even fear. These were not things that could stop that jabbing, acidy thing from coming at her again. Nor would they help her if she had to stand and fight something worse, like that cloying, paralyzing web. At present all she was capable of doing was shielding and running. Good thing she was in fairly good shape; she’d be able to run. She frowned. She’d be able to run if she didn’t freeze in place—like an idiot—and allow herself to be caught.

Her eyes strayed to the windows for the tenth time in as many minutes. Her run-in with the Traitors had shaken her and she still hadn’t regained her equilibrium. Surrendering to the inevitable, she closed the potions book and re-shelved it.

She paused for a moment, knowing that she should probably go and start researching Humans for Pedar, to see if she could find out what made her Humans so much stronger than the others . . . but no. Today was not the day for that. The subject would just make her more angry.

She ignored the murmuring books as she strode past the shelves and racks. She’d been able to hear the murmurs ever since she’d visited the ancient, hidden corridor of rooms. Some of them were louder than others, calling out. “Over here, read me next.” She chose to ignore the ill-mannered books and headed outside to walk the gardens. Right now she needed to move.

It was still the dead of winter at Mirëdell; the fountains were empty, the leaves had fallen from their branches, the only color came from evergreens and the cobalt blue path she trod. A row of pennants snapped in the wind; she huddled deeper into her cloak. Small stones crunched under her feet as she walked. Some lucky apprentice had spent an entire afternoon clearing the paths of snow after yesterday’s storm. She’d watched him toil from her warm and comfortable perch in the library.

The gardens in the center of the school were extensive and mazelike. Analindë stalked the paths at random, not noticing the brisk wind that worked its way up her skirts, nor the biting coldness that settled into her fingers and toes.

After she’d decided to stop cowering in the tower and the healers had proclaimed her well again, life had fallen back into a predictable pattern, as if the ordeals of the past several weeks had not happened. But they had happened, and life was never going to be the same again.

Analindë remained living in Master Therin’s tower, and the mournful ache she kept hidden away deep inside her constantly sought its way free. She did not want to mourn, and so she kept pushing it all away.

The Traitors hadn’t been caught, but had escaped. The guard had found their living quarters, but the Traitors had made a hasty withdrawal. Whispers followed her wherever she went. Some people pitied her while others toadied up to her in awe of her brush with death; this was not normal. The routine of student life moved on, taking her with it; this, on the other hand, was normal.

Yet Analindë didn’t want to simply move on with the flow of life. She also didn’t want to react in fear to the anxious thoughts that assailed her. She wanted to chart her own course, decide her own fate, stand strong, and not be tossed around like the flag she watched dancing on the wind in front of her. She wanted a modicum of control.

She turned away from the snapping flag and strode down a different path. Blue stones crunched beneath her feet.

She’d lost control the day she’d gone shopping with Erulissé. Never again. It would never happen again. She would not allow fear to rule her. She’d even go willingly to study with Sword Master Karethielle. That would definitely harden her up. Perhaps she’d even become Sword Sworn. The wind threw her hood back but she didn’t care. Let the cold seep into her. She’d survive. She turned her thoughts away from the idea of becoming Sword Sworn to more unpleasant thoughts, finally facing the questions that had assailed her since arriving at Mirëdell. She took a deep breath of the frigid air, bracing herself.

Would she return home next spring or would she stay at the school through the summer? Would she ever call Lindënolwë home again?
Did
she ever want to call Lindënolwë home again?

The proper ceremonies for those who pass on to the Stars had not been observed for her family. She wondered if others noticed its absence, and if so, why they said nothing.

A particularly fierce gust of wind blew her sideways, plucking wildly at her hair. She pulled her hood back in place and resolutely stalked down the path once more.

As Analindë paced, her thoughts softened ever so slightly. Yes, she would return home at least once more. She’d go in the spring and perform the ancient ceremonies her ancestors reserved for their dead. The decision as to whether she would stay or not could wait for later.

Decision made, she turned to the next question weighing on her mind. What path of study should she take at school? Could she do more? Try harder, learn faster? Most important of the bunch, which direction should she take? She didn’t want to scurry from class to class the way she had last year, learning lots of things, but making great strides in none. She wanted to find purpose in the things she studied. And be able to act.

She looked up as she walked. A Sword Sworn was approaching her; she turned down a side path in order to avoid him, then resumed staring at the blue stones beneath her feet as she paced.

She was good with shields. They were important in defense. But potions to calm a worried heart, she didn’t think so. She wanted to learn the offensive weaves like Andulmaion learned. The Humans and elven Traitors remained a threat and were after her. She wanted to help. More importantly, she wanted to be able to defend herself. If they went to war . . . those skills will be needed most. She thought of the blue fires Andulmaion created in the great hearth when he thought no one was watching. Her shields could keep an enemy from hacking her into pieces, but his fire could melt weapons and incinerate attackers.

Analindë stopped next to a pool of water that hadn’t been drained and stared into its black depths, lost in thought. The carefree young woman she’d been so long ago was gone. A somber serious adult now remained. She’d forgotten how to laugh, find beauty in life, and play. On the surface she smiled, but deep within her where peace had briefly touched, everything was yet dark and hollow. Numb from the brutal way her family had been taken from her.

For all intents and purposes, she was dead inside.

She felt like the barren garden she paced, stark branches reaching up to the cold gray sky. She wondered if she’d ever completely heal or be able to feel again. Would leaves bud at winter’s end? Would she feel the warm embrace of the coming summer?

She eventually shied away from the dark chasm of nothingness within her, tiredly brushed its frayed edges together, smoothed a layer of forgetfulness over the top, then boxed it up and pushed it away to deal with later.

The wind sent ripples along the surface of the water. She drew her cloak closer, but remained still and watchful. The inky black depths of the pool drew her, as the flame of a candle when deep in thought.

Reflections winked against the inky black surface of the pool, reminding her of something she could not place which had haunted her dreams. She shivered as another icy gust blew around her.

Winking lights within blackness. It drew her in. Insistent and pulling. . . . Winking lights within blackness.

Blackness.

The void.

That was one more thing to her advantage.

She knew the void.

She could help track the Humans in the void. Her anger rose within her again, fizzing. Humans, she almost growled. The Traitors kept hiding the Humans from the High Mages. She’d heard the Traitor Thorontur speak of it himself; never mind that there was a trio of scouts already tracking them. She could help too. She pivoted away from the fountain; this was a path she could forge. She’d hunt them with a single-mindedness they couldn’t comprehend. Prey becoming predator.

First she needed to find Master Therin. Best to inform him of her intentions. This time she wouldn’t quit talking until he actually listened to what she had to say. She could assist. She was an asset. She wanted to utilize her skills. Mostly, she wanted to feel like she had purpose in life once more. She wound her way back through the garden toward the tower and ran into Andulmaion as she entered the main building.

“Analindë, you look half-frozen. Where have you been?” He didn’t look very happy.

“I’ve been out.” She stopped him from rattling on about the cold by placing a hand on his sleeve. “I’ve found a way to help track the Humans. Do you know where Master Therin is?”

“The council chamber, they’re having some trouble coming up with a plan and have spent the past two days sequestered. What did you discover?”

“While the Humans were hunting me I found I could track them in the void. I think I can still do it. I could help the mages in their search, freeing them up to do other things.”

“Come, I’ll walk with you. We’ll see if we can slip a message in to him.” He ushered her into a warmer corridor, one she hadn’t been in for awhile. The sight of all the new doors and arches shouldn’t have continued to surprise her. Whatever had recognized her down in the old part of the school had told the rest of the building. Gone were the elegant halls and graceful lines.

Now every—previously blank—area held doors and arches. Most had glyphs placed next to them, some didn’t. Analindë had tried several on her way to classes and discovered that, interestingly enough, they all seemed to lead to the same place. It was as if elves throughout the centuries had not seen the other passageways and so built their own. Which probably is exactly what happened. Why waste time and Energy duplicating the same thing over again.

Repeatedly.

The passages were different, of course; some were light and airy while others, were cramped and dark. She’d begun to recognize the difference and chose accordingly.

“How’s your new spell coming along? We haven’t had a chance to visit lately.” She rubbed her hands together, attempting to warm them, as chills raced up and down her arms and back. She felt colder now that she’d entered the building.

“It’s coming along nicely,” his eyes lit with excitement. “I can manipulate it so that it eats small shields and objects. . . . Well, not the objects themselves, but the energies within them.” He reached out to tug playfully at her sleeve, but hesitated, letting his hand drop. “I haven’t practiced on larger things yet. I’m afraid it will eat all the Energy around it, including my own.” He shrugged and ran his fingers along the cuff of his sleeve.

“Even that might be okay. Against a foe we don’t understand, with all power gone, we would have equal footing. Physical strength against physical strength,” she said.

“That’s true, but I’d hoped that I could make the spell specific against one thing or another.”

When they reached the Hall of Banners, their footsteps echoed emptily against the bare stone walls and floors. At the closing of the Elven Wars, all of the remaining families had joined together to finish building Mirëdell, each contributing what they could as a sign of good will. Some contributed stone work, metal work, or plantings in the garden per their specialties. The scouts and warriors built up Mirëdell’s defenses, making them impenetrable, and each specialty that could be taught built classrooms where they could teach.

All worked together, united in the cause of peace. And all of the elven survivors formed a pact to work together evermore and never raise up arms against each other. Mirëdell was built in testament to that pact; the Hall of Banners stood as a reminder of promises made.

It was a grand hallway; tall pointed arches ribbed the walls and ceiling. Colored windows high up on the walls depicted battles long past and cast colors upon the floor below. Banners, set with an everlast spell, hung from every other arch, loudly proclaiming those who had sworn to protect the peace. Analindë searched for her family’s crest as they walked, but didn’t see it; she’d have to look for it later. Gildhorn’s and the traitors’ banners hung there as well.

As they neared the end of the hall, the Grand High Council chamber’s doors flung outward as mages spilled out of the room like ants in an uprooted nest. Loud voices filled the hall.

“What’s happened?” Andulmaion asked a page who had darted out of the room who was now hovering at the fringes.

“They’ve disappeared.” Fear shot through his eyes.

Analindë’s eyes narrowed; her anger stoked within her.

“Who?”