Chapter Four

  Echoes of Mandate and Memory

  Among the eldest trees, oaths take root and vows are not so easily forgotten. The forest itself remembers — and in that remembrance lies both sanctuary and sentence.

  — Calvandrel, “The Inked Seer”

  Part One

  Of Declaration and Vow

  It is easier to delve into the darkest reaches of the earth than to plumb the depths of our souls. For as we recognize those fragments of memory, history, and deepest fear, we can no longer avoid the truths that stare back at us in stony silence.

  — Theon Bode, Collected Works of a Court Philosopher, 184 I.C.

  The clear, life-giving waters of Lake Silverfinn stretched as far as the eye could see. Nestled at the heart of the Avonmoran Peninsula, the lake was a marvel of untouched beauty.

  To the north, it was ringed by sweeping forests of towering crystal-mist oaks, their silvered branches glinting softly in the breeze. To the south, however, lay vast marshy glades, too wet and unstable for the colossal deciduous trees to take root.

  In these southern wetlands grew the famed Cobaltean toadstools, enormous fungi that shimmered with an otherworldly blue. Their strange hue came from feeding on the lake’s mineral-rich waters. In their youth, they ranged in size from a child’s fist to the height of a grown elf. But after just two decades, many could rival the girth of ancient trees.

  Some areas within the marsh were strictly off-limits, protected by elven decree. These were the preserves, sacred sites where the Cobaltean mushrooms could be witnessed in their full, unspoiled splendor.

  There, beneath the shade of fungi twice the width of oaks and rising even taller, ancient fungal groves thrived undisturbed, guarding the entrances to a broad network of unified caves.

  In one of the great cavernous hollows near Lake Silverfinn, two bedraggled elves suddenly burst from the usually placid waters—spluttering, gasping, half-drowned.

  Aehyl and Portean barely had the strength to drag themselves onto the muddy shore before collapsing into unconsciousness, their sleep wracked with dreams of watery doom and the clicking jaws of chitinous horrors.

  They awoke hours later, scraped, bloodied, but otherwise unharmed.

  The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and the thick, soupy air inside the cavern was growing cool. A fire sounded exquisite.

  Portean set off in search of driftwood. It was difficult to find branches dry enough to burn, but eventually he returned with a modest bundle. Soon, a small fire crackled before them, its warmth and light a welcome balm against the memories that still clung like leeches to their skin.

  Aehyl wasn’t sure what she felt anymore.

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to rage, to cast destructive spells until the earth itself trembled beneath her feet. They had taken something sacred, stolen her people’s most adored shrine.

  And now, even if she hunted them down and reduced them to ash, what would it change?

  The Mother Tree was gone.

  No vengeance could return her. The irony was bitter: even if she found her enemies and annihilated them, the tree would live on only in memory. In song. In mourning. She would become legend, verses and poems etched into elven lore. Revered, yes. But incorporeal. Intangible.

  Just a spirit now.

  The spirit of a distressed and grieving people.

  Aehyl glanced at Portean, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She wasn’t ready.

  Judging by the vacant look in his eyes, neither was he.

  They sat together in silence, drawn close by shared sorrow.

  Huddled near the fire, they watched the flames dance, yellow and orange tongues flickering upward, as if the light might somehow burn their anguish away.

  With a sudden start, Aehyl remembered the artifact given to her by the dying wood nymph.

  It felt absurd, shameful even, that she had forgotten. But their harrowing escape had left no room for reflection.

  Her hands trembled as she pulled the fist-sized crystal from her belt pouch.

  It was unlike anything she had ever seen.

  Sharply chiseled and teardrop-shaped, the relic caught the firelight in strange, refracted glimmers. The sigil on her breast began to simmer.

  She recognized it instantly.

  "The mark of Aric," Portean whispered, his voice low and reverent.

  What Aehyl held was the Maker’s own blood.

  The crystal’s deep crimson surface glowed faintly, a soft and eerie scarlet light pulsing beneath its translucent skin.

  “We must get this to the Circle,” Aehyl said, the words more instinct than reason. “Perhaps they’ll know what to do.”

  “It wasn’t given to the Circle,” Portean replied gently, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  “You are its caretaker now, Aehyl. I would caution you against straying from the wishes of the Mother Tree.”

  He nodded to the relic. “Put it away, for now.”

  “Think on it after some rest. Neither of us is in any state to make decisions.”

  He gave her a tired but steady smile and held her gaze, his eyes filled with a quiet, grounding concern.

  Seeing she wanted to argue, Portean continued. “We were instructed to find the lair of Akatar…that is what I shall focus upon, and what I believe is vital we bring before the circle of elders.”

  With a final glance at the relic, Aehyl heeded Portean’s advice, placing the relic reverently back in her belt pouch.

  And so with hearts heavy from sorrow the two rested fitfully.

  The following morning, Aehyl stood about a quarter mile from the cave, gazing out across the serene waters of Lake Silverfinn.

  She had awoken to the grotesque sensation of something moving in her hair.

  Unsure whether the feeling was real or some lingering horror from her nightmares, she made the long journey from sleep to full awareness in an instant.

  With a startled cry, she bolted upright, frantically raking her thin fingers through her tangled locks. Her horror only deepened when she pulled a fist-sized beetle from the matted strands.

  She almost shattered the hideous thing against the stony cave floor, until reason stopped her.

  The creatures were dead… but who knew what the future held? Necessity whispered that the dying insect should be brought to the Circle of Elders. Perhaps then, it could be studied, its threat understood and countered more effectively.

  After locking the feeble, hissing thing inside an emptied herb jar, Aehyl turned to find the surface of the cavern pool strewn with floating carapaces. Some were badly charred, their husks beyond recognition. Others remained strangely intact, preserved by the same underwater tide that had carried her and Portean to safety.

  The only reason they had survived was because of her wishwater charm, and the ancient dryad’s final blessing.

  Maintaining the spell over the course of their grueling journey would have been impossible otherwise.

  Each time she’d felt ready to surrender herself to the cold current and sink into the comforting dark, Aehyl felt a pulse from within, the dryad’s final gift urging her onward.

  Examining the murky-colored beetle again, Aehyl reasoned it must have crawled into her hair just before Portean had pushed her into the river. Her wishwater spell had protected it from drowning, just as it had protected them.

  With a shudder, she dropped the herb jar back into her small pack. Her gaze drifted to the pool. The sight of so many dead insects, their broken bodies floating in clusters, left her stomach uneasy.

  A brisk morning walk might help clear her thoughts.

  She didn’t disturb Portean. His wisdom and battle prowess would soon be needed, of that she had no doubt. Best to let him rest while she did some soul-searching.

  Later, overlooking the endless waters of Lake Silverfinn, Aehyl’s hot anger and raw grief gave way to a colder, more indescribable sorrow.

  Her sharp elven eyes could pierce the farthest reaches of the forest, but here… Silverfinn stretched far beyond even her vision. It was an almost endless expanse of crystalline water—still, silent, sacred.

  To the north, the lake extended more than a hundred miles. It was one of the largest freshwater bodies in all of Alissia, teeming with life: otter, beaver, gamefowl, reptiles, amphibians, and a dazzling array of fish.

  Fed by countless forest tributaries, the Silverfinn was more than just a lake, it was revered. Aehyl never disputed its sanctity. In fact, every time she bathed in or drank from its waters, she felt an odd, invigorating sense of awe.

  The lake’s name came from the small freshwater dolphins that inhabited it, creatures called Silverfinns.

  Little was known about them. As far as Aehyl knew, they had never been captured, studied, or even touched by her people.

  A myth, older even than the Thousand Year War, claimed the peaceful beings were all that remained of a once-mighty race of naturalists. These forest-dwellers had lived along the shores of the lake in the sacred presence of Faune. So enamored were they with her forests that they begged to be transformed, made into creatures more befitting her affection.

  Faune, loving them in return and wishing never to see them leave their ancestral home, granted their plea. She remade them, shaping them into gentle guardians of the water’s edge, bound to the lake for eternity.

  Grimus had often warned, with a knowing glint in his eye: “Those who approach Silverfinn with evil in their hearts will be judged. The Silverfinns are watching.”

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  Peering now into the crystalline waters, Aehyl caught sight of her reflection, and winced. She was a mess.

  Without a second thought, she stripped off her clothes and waded in. The lake’s touch was cold, almost biting. Needle-pricks danced across her skin as the grime of battle and cave-filth washed away. Yet beneath the sting was elation—Silverfinn’s blessing, surging through her in a wave of clarity and calm.

  As the cool chill of the unnaturally clear water embraced her, Aehyl was reminded of a story her mother once told, years ago, when they had buried her father together.

  Philia had said she knew Aehyl would be special long before she ever grew into herself.

  When Aehyl was just a child, her mother and father had come to Lake Silverfinn seeking rest and solace along its tranquil shores.

  Ever curious, Aehyl had dashed into the waters without hesitation. Her mother laughed, recalling how confidently she declared herself a strong swimmer even at that age.

  But something beneath the surface had caught the girl’s attention. Drawn by innocent wonder, and without a thought for danger, Aehyl dove deep. Too deep.

  Philia's voice cracked when she told the story. Her tears had flowed freely as she recalled watching her daughter drown.

  But then, a miracle.

  One moment, a gleaming silver dolphin, easily the length of a kayak, emerged from the water, the child held gently in its beaked mouth.

  The next, a radiant woman with platinum hair burst from the foam, bearing the limp form of the drowned girl in her arms.

  She was naked, luminous, impossibly beautiful.

  Kneeling, the woman placed Aehyl back into Philia’s trembling hands. Then, smiling sadly, she wiped the tears from the mother's cheek and touched one long, glimmering finger to the girl’s lips.

  Her voice, light and musical as a gurgling spring, rang out in a language Philia could not comprehend, but she felt its power, understood the song's intent: this was magic.

  Then, as her hand pulsed with the light of a newborn star, the woman vanished, gone as quickly as she had come, leaving only ripples behind.

  Her drowning, miraculously reversed, ended with a great gasp, water sprayed from Aehyl’s mouth, and she began to breathe again. Rhythmic. Steady. Alive.

  Within a few days, she looked as if nothing had happened at all.

  But one evening, still young and curious, she turned to her mother and asked with innocent puzzlement, “Why didn’t you bring me before the Council of Elders?”

  Philia hesitated, her gaze distant.

  “We were afraid, Aehyl,” she said quietly. “We feared they might deem us unfit… that they would place you with another family.”

  That was the practice, when it seemed a household might be too young, too reckless, too irresponsible to raise a child touched by the arcane or divine.

  It was common knowledge around Vistadora that Philia was a bit eccentric.

  Losing her husband had left her fragile, untethered in ways Aehyl still struggled to understand.

  Whether her story was real or imagined, Aehyl preferred not to dwell on it.

  Whatever had happened in the waters that day, one truth remained: she was still alive, and she intended to use that fact to bring justice to those who had destroyed the Mother Tree.

  By the time Aehyl stepped away from the banks of Lake Silverfinn, the sun had climbed high into the sky.

  The mark on her chest, ever since the night of its searing birth, had been a source of constant pain and unease. But now, strangely, it was quiet.

  As she pulled on her newly dried clothes, she wondered, Maybe the water really does have healing properties.

  She reached instinctively for the relic at her belt, and froze.

  A sudden, chilling realization struck her.

  The mark on her chest was the Tear of Aric, an ancient, sacred sigil belonging to a god her people had long since cast aside.

  What if it wasn’t a blessing?

  What if it was a punishment?

  Her throat tightened.

  What if I’m the cause of all this?

  Banishing the horrifying thought, Aehyl collected herself.

  There was no time for self-pity, not now. She needed to check on Portean, and the Council had to be told the grim truth of the Mother Tree’s fate.

  As she made her way back to the cave, her thoughts drifted again to her mother, and to the great lake from which Philia had once claimed she was born anew.

  Undoubtedly, Philia would want to see her the moment she stepped foot in the city.

  The thought made Aehyl smile faintly, but it brought another name to mind, one no less entwined with her heart.

  Draefus.

  Her ward would practically burst if she didn’t return soon.

  Shortly after her forty-eighth summer, Aehyl was exploring the southern coast beyond the Crystal-Mist when she was caught in a furious storm.

  She wandered for hours in the wind and rain before spotting a shallow cave in the distance.

  Soaked and exhausted, she crawled into the cramped grotto without thinking to check it first. She promptly fell asleep.

  The next morning, she awoke feeling inexplicably warm and comfortable.

  Turning groggily, Aehyl was startled to find a small cave bear nestled against her back, snoring contentedly.

  She tried to slip out without waking it, only to realize, to her dismay, that the cub was sprawled across her pack. Without it, the journey home would be long, and miserable.

  Carefully, she tried to pull the bag free, but the bear stirred, gave a pitiful mewl, and began following her.

  No matter how many times she tried to shoo him away, the little beast would not be deterred.

  She never found out what happened to his mother, perhaps she had died, or perhaps she had abandoned him as the runt of the litter.

  But from that day on, the cub never left her side.

  Now, though he was a massive, lumbering cave bear, Draefus still believed himself a tiny cub.

  And Aehyl, much to her own astonishment, remained his beloved surrogate mother.

  After a time of adjustment, the elves of Vistadora grew accustomed to Draefus’s mischievous ways.

  Though none of them would admit it openly, many had grown rather attached to the spoiled wretch of a bear.

  Aehyl was certainly fond of the lumbering ox, but she and Portean had needed to slip away quietly from Vistadora to track down the reptilian scout they eventually killed.

  After a lengthy scolding, Draefus had stayed behind, reluctantly.

  Aehyl had no doubt he pouted the entire time she was gone, likely driving her poor mother mad with his constant need for attention.

  She was equally certain that when she returned, the thickheaded beast wouldn’t let her out of his sight for at least a week.

  Returning to the cave, Aehyl found that Portean had also used the morning to bathe and reassemble his shattered nerves.

  He had even gone to the trouble of catching breakfast while in the water.

  The handsome elf was now tending a small skillet over a crackling fire, roasting a fish alongside several clams.

  “Feeling rested?” he asked, one brow raised. “Food first. We’ll talk about our next move on the road back to Vistadora.”

  “That might be the best idea I’ve heard in a long time,” Aehyl replied with a tired smile.

  She was ravenous.

  But as they ate, an awkward silence settled between them.

  Strange, really—after everything they had just endured, everything they had shared—some unspoken instinct still kept them shielding their rawest thoughts from each other.

  Aehyl wondered if she was trying to protect Portean, reassuring him that she was strong enough to carry the weight of… whatever this was.

  Or was she only protecting herself, shutting out the one person who might truly understand what she'd endured these past weeks?

  The sigil on her chest stirred, pulsing hot.

  She moved a hand to it without thinking, feeling suddenly, profoundly alone.

  Even Portean couldn’t grasp everything she’d seen.

  Would he think her mad if he knew?

  Noticing her change in posture, Portean quietly packed his things.

  By Faune, he wished he had his bow.

  Aehyl pulled her hand from the angry scar beneath her tunic and forced a smile. “Come,” she said, too brightly, as they finished their meal.

  “The Council awaits.”

  “Is it still bothering you? The sigil, I mean,” Portean finally asked.

  He scanned the forest ahead, unease coiling in his gut. His hands hovered near his blades.

  They had left the cave in haste after breakfast, pressing across the vast marshland that separated them from Vistadora. The underground current had carried them an astounding distance from the Great Oak’s copse in what felt like mere moments.

  His bow, quiver, and half his gear were still stashed in a small nook beside the troll’s pool, a quarter-day’s march from the Mother Tree.

  Retrieving them now would mean days of backtracking through treacherous forest and sodden quagmire, territory that, in Portean’s eyes, had grown increasingly hostile.

  He was no stranger to a blade, but he remembered too well the glinting talons and lethal grace of the creature they had slain.

  If more of its kind were prowling these woods… and they were caught without his bow...

  He wasn’t sure they’d live to tell their tale.

  “What do you think the Mother Tree meant,” Aehyl asked quietly, her tone distant, “when she said we must find the other three to confront this Emaciated One?”

  She had dodged his question, but the good-hearted ranger pretended not to notice the shift.

  Truthfully, Portean had brooded over that very question. But so much of what the wood-nymph had said still confounded him, he hadn’t dared speak it aloud.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, carefully. He avoided the real question tucked neatly inside her innocent change of subject.

  “You do know what I’m asking, Portean,” Aehyl said, more firmly now. “She spoke of four destined to save our people. And by telling us to find the other three…”

  She trailed off, the implication hanging heavily between them.

  “One was already among us.”

  “You heard her,” Aehyl murmured, the weight of it pulling at her voice. “She called me one of the Blessed.”

  “We can’t be sure what that meant,” Portean said after a long silence. “It could mean anything.”

  With a sigh, Aehyl slid her small pack from her shoulder and slumped to the damp ground. The marsh was finally giving way to firmer earth as they pressed westward, and she would not miss the treacherous, sodden terrain behind them.

  “I’m going to say something, Portean,” she said, leveling her gaze at him. “And I don’t want questions, not yet.”

  She held his eyes until he gave a stiff, reluctant nod.

  “How can it be a coincidence,” Aehyl began, her voice low and taut, “that just before we stumble across the desecration of our most sacred living shrine, I’m marked with a strange, burning sigil?

  “One that gave me the power to hold a wishwater spell in an underground current for over half a night, when just a week ago, it was physically impossible for me to sustain that spell for even an hour?”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Aehyl,” Portean replied gently.

  “In battle, I’ve seen rangers who could barely lift their blades rally from the brink of death, fighting for hours longer when it mattered. You’re a survivor. And survivors sometimes do extraordinary things.”

  His words sounded rational enough. But even he knew the argument was weak.

  “You know this is different,” Aehyl snapped, fierceness rising in her voice.

  “I doubt even your father—master that he is—could have held a wishwater spell that long”

  “The dryad,” Portean said quickly, grasping for the obvious. “She touched you. Her power must’ve done something, made all this possible.”

  Aehyl’s eyes narrowed. “And what about the faunefire I summoned back in the cave, before we met her?”

  Portean faltered.

  “What of it,” he replied at last, dejected. “We were surrounded, Aehyl. Adrenaline took hold of you, and you produced a flame worthy of an honorable death... in the face of an intractable foe.”

  “Do not patronize me, Portean Ana’diere.”

  Her voice was sharp, cutting. “You know enough about the arcane arts to understand what you saw. That flame I conjured, it wasn’t faunefire. Not mine. Not anyone’s. It burned hotter, cut deeper, and blazed brighter than any wizard’s candle at full volume.”

  Portean blinked, the memory flaring back like a second sun. His mouth went dry. He hadn’t allowed himself to truly think about it until now.

  It hadn’t just been powerful, it had been unnatural.

  The kind of power his father had whispered of in cautionary tones. The kind of power buried in forbidden scrolls, sealed away behind wards and warnings. Power not born, but summoned.

  “…Mendathou,” he murmured, barely aware the word had slipped from his lips.

  “I saw an angel, Portean.”

  Her voice broke, soft and raw.

  He turned, startled. Aehyl’s small frame was trembling, her eyes glassy with grief and confusion. She looked lost, as if the words themselves had torn something loose.

  “What?” he asked, stunned. The sudden turn in her confession left him breathless, unable to follow the thread of what she was unraveling..

  “The night you were knocked unconscious,” she began softly. “The night of the great storm.”

  She hesitated, then rushed forward with the words before fear could stop her. “An angel… or something like one, appeared to me. It was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She couldn’t look at him. Her voice trembled as she pressed on, needing to speak, needing to unburden.

  “I know it sounds insane, but one moment, we were caught in the mother of all storms, and the next…” She swallowed hard. “The next moment wasn’t a moment at all. It was eternity.”

  She shook as the memories overwhelmed her, sobs catching in her throat.

  “You collapsed at my feet. I remember that. But then… something moved in the storm. I don’t remember what it looked like, I can’t. But I can still feel it.”

  Her fingers clutched at the wet fabric of her tunic, as if trying to anchor herself.

  “Its beauty was…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It was everything and nothing. And its power…” she shuddered, “its power was terrifying. And gentle.”

  She swallowed hard, her eyes locked on Portean’s face, waiting for him to slap her, to shout, to shake her by the shoulders.

  She wanted him to. She needed him to tell her she was wrong, that none of it was possible.

  But he said nothing.

  So she went on.

  “When it touched me… I knew what it was.”

  Her voice was barely audible now, a hush of memory and certainty.

  “I felt its timeless hand sink through my skin, into my bones, its energy branding me with this mark.” Her fist struck her chest, hard, over the angry sigil.

  “The Tear of Aric.”

  She gasped as if the name itself had weight.

  “It said I was chosen.”

  Aehyl’s eyes were wide, not with wonder, but with terror. Her breath caught, her mind spinning as the truth bloomed sharp and clear.

  “I am one of the Four,” she whispered.

  “This sigil, it means I’ve been claimed by Aric. I’m a soldier of the Creator.”

  Her voice broke.

  “It’s a brand that hasn’t been seen in these lands for thousands of years.”

  Crouching beside her, Portean wrapped an arm around Aehyl’s trembling shoulders.

  He had seen the mark before, in the faded pages of ancient books, back when his father had bothered to teach him such things. He never would have remembered such an obscure sigil on his own.

  The Avonmora had never worshiped Aric. That had been the reason for their exile so long ago.

  But now, hearing Aehyl speak, seeing the conviction in her eyes, he knew it was true.

  “What weight the gods place on their children,” he whispered. “Oh, what a terrible weight you must bear.”

  Gently, he drew her into his arms, and together they wept.

  “I vow to protect you, Aehyl E’dwoare,” he murmured into her hair. “May my bow and my blades keep you safe. May my companionship make your burden more bearable. And if it must be so… may my blood be shed that you may live, and carry out what only you were chosen to do.”

  They knelt there for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  In silence, they grieved yet another unbearable revelation.