Of Mandate and Departure

  It is said that elves are a ponderous race. They deliberate for days, sometimes weeks, even months, over simple matters. What need is there to be hasty when one measures years in millennium. And yet, I have seen the elves of Crystal-Mist move with surprising alacrity when necessary.

  — King Dustin Mathorin of Venetia, Observations of the Elven People

  The Oakspace opened, allowing Aehyl and Portean to reenter the Council chamber.

  As before, the four elders sat in their places at the heart of the great hollow, silent and inscrutable.

  The sacred chamber appeared much the same as it had the night before. Handsome-grained walls in warm, earthen tones curved inward, wrapping them in a womb of living wood. Yet it was brighter now, as if the tree itself responded to the rhythm of day and night. The air was cool, but not cold.

  Neither Aehyl nor Portean looked as if they had slept. Dark shadows clung beneath Portean’s eyes nearly as heavily as her own. He winked good-naturedly, offering silent encouragement to his “sister” as they moved to take their seats.

  The elders waited for them to settle before speaking, wasting no time in resuming the business of the previous night.

  “I trust you are feeling refreshed, young ones,” Kreadus began, his voice low and deliberate. “First, we would have you know that even now, a scouting party is making its way to the redwood hollow you described. The battle site will be thoroughly examined, and, with luck, the alien cadaver recovered.”

  He paused, his eyes flicking—almost imperceptibly—toward Grimus. “It is a shame you could not find a way to bring it back alive.”

  “But under the circumstances,” Grimus interjected swiftly, “we agree you did what you had to do to survive.” His tone was reassuring, yet tightly controlled.

  From the stiffness in his voice, Aehyl sensed that not all within the Circle believed they had made the right choice.

  And from the speed with which he changed the subject, it was clear they were not being invited to justify themselves.

  “Yes,” Kreadus rasped, irritation bleeding into his tone. “As Grimus says. We believe you did what you had to, if not a bit in excess.”

  Trajo spoke next, his lilting cadence like a gurgling spring brook. “From sunset to sunrise, we have deliberated the reason for this aberration’s appearance in Crystal-Mist. Though we arrived at many possible conclusions, we would now hear yours. After all, it was you who dealt with the intruder first-hand.”

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  It had always comforted Aehyl to hear Trajo’s melodious voice. The familiarity of it softened her nerves. She stole a glance at Portean, who offered a small nod and motioned for her to take the floor.

  She was the druid here, not him.

  Though Portean worked with the Council, executing city ordinances and protecting the Avonmora, he was no politician. He had never been fully comfortable among the Circle members. Especially not Kreadus, who viewed the ranger as reckless and too brash for the sanctity of druidic order.

  “I do not know how this… thing came to Crystal-Mist,” Aehyl began, fidgeting nervously with her hands. “Nor how it remained here so long without our knowledge. I have no clue as to its origins.”

  She hesitated, then lifted her gaze to meet the Council’s eyes.

  “But I am certain it wasn’t alone.” Her voice steadied. “It was a scout, and where one scout appears, another is close behind. These things…” she paused, trembling slightly as fragments of her nightmare resurfaced, “they are linked to the death of the Mother Tree.”

  “There is truth to her words,” Grimus said flatly, daring the others to challenge her logic. “It cannot be a coincidence.”

  As he held Aehyl’s gaze, he saw it: she was still wrestling with something left unsaid.

  “Speak, Aehyl. The floor is still yours.”

  She sighed, loud and ungraceful, suddenly feeling like a child. How could she, in good conscience, withhold anything, no matter how irrational, if it might help the Circle?

  So she told them. Haltingly, but completely, she recounted the nightmare. Her tone dropped to a whisper by the end.

  “They may not all be coming to Crystal-Mist,” she finished. “But they are out there. If they’re not already elsewhere, they will be.”

  Silence followed.

  She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, the pulse thudding through the tips of her elegantly arched ears. She had expected laughter. Dismissal. Maybe even a chiding rebuke.

  But not the reaction she got.

  The Council communicated in utter silence, speaking mind to mind in the ancient druidic manner.

  Nearly an hour passed before Kreadus finally stirred. When he spoke, it was in his usual confident tone.

  “We have pondered your words and revisited your experiences in the grotto of the Mother Tree.”

  He stood, his presence severe. “Our most sacred shrine lies defiled, and our forest is plagued by the Chimera disease. Though we are reticent to draw conclusions without proof, the Circle is aware of a growing unrest, division among our people.”

  Kryost’s blind gaze narrowed. “We must investigate the desecration of the Mother Tree… and the murder of her keepers. It pains me to say it, but it is only logical to assume these crimes may have been committed by Avonmora agents.”

  The old elf seemed to shrink with the weight of the admission, exhaling slowly. “These investigations will take time, time I fear we no longer have. And they will require great delicacy.”

  He paused, then met their eyes. “Thus, the Council believes it prudent to send the two of you with Grimus to the Obsidian Empire. You are to travel to the human capital, Jerrico, and convince our neighbors of the danger that now encroaches.”

  “The Nymph of the Mother Tree gave you a task,” Kryost continued, his voice suddenly firm. “This Council will see it done.”

  Aehyl and Portean exchanged stunned glances, both reacting as if they had been struck.

  “Do not look so surprised,” Kreadus said, arching a brow.

  “She sent you to the human realm, to warn them. And warn them we must. If she believed this coming conflict would consume us all, then we must trust her wisdom.”

  He stepped back, folding his hands behind him.

  “Besides,” he added, “we have reason to believe the Emperor of the Obsidian Empire may know the whereabouts of the only living soul who still remembers the location of Akatar’s ancient lair.”

  At the mention of this contact, Kreadus’s expression darkened. His back straightened, and something cold flickered across his features—disgust, perhaps, or buried resentment. He did not trust them.

  “Go now. Rest. Gather your strength,” he said sharply. “Until Grimus calls upon you, be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”