Elfsorrow

'Hey!'

Ilkar looked over at Hirad. The barbarian was standing with his arms outstretched and palms up, his long dark hair dripping with the rain that still fell with no sign of letting up.

'Sorry, Hirad.'

'When you've quite finished nattering in elvish, I wondered if there was any danger of you letting us in on the big secret. Are they going to run us through or let us dry out a little?'

'Well, I had to haggle,' said Ilkar, wandering back up to Hirad and patting his soaking wet cheek. 'They were concerned that you were too ugly to be allowed into such a beautiful setting. There are children here after all.'

Denser laughed aloud, hugging Erienne to him. She too could not suppress a smile. The comment had been worth it just for that. Hirad swung round to the Xeteskian.

'You haven't heard what they said about you and that miserable mould you call a beard,' he said to Denser.

'At least it doesn't frighten children.'

'Only because they don't understand,' said Hirad. 'Scares the shit out of me that you think it's attractive.'

'Let's get in out of the rain, shall we?' said The Unknown. 'I don't know about you but I'm getting a little tired of this particular shower.'

Ilkar nodded. Once again, a couple of sentences from the big man and they all fell into line.

'Follow me. And don't make a mess. This is my house you're about to see.'

He took Ren's hand and led the way into the village, uncertain of what they were about to face and with the sceptical eyes of the people upon them. There was so much more to be done than he'd hoped. He sighed. It had seemed so simple. Just show up, get trained mages and gather a friendly support network. He should have known. When The Raven were involved, somehow things were never simple.

Chapter 20

'Why won't you let Denser and Erienne help you?' Ilkar was fast losing his patience.

He'd seen The Raven to his house – it had been almost exactly the same as when he'd last seen it – and had sought out Kild'aar very soon after, suddenly anxious to be anywhere else than in his past. But his enquiries into how many villagers were actually sick were met with vague estimates and his offers of help with a blank refusal. The house they were headed for was no more than fifty yards across the village but this was the third time he'd asked.

'Because you must understand first,' said Kild'aar.

'I understand already,' he replied. 'People in my village are dying and you won't let two brilliant mages try and save them because of your intractable distrust of every non-elf. I don't remember it being this way when I left.'

'Ilkar, you have been away a very long time. And you've been with strangers for all that time. You are the one who has changed, not us. Even your skin is light. And now we're seeing good reasons why we've been ever suspicious.'

'But you need help.'

'It can wait,' snapped Kild'aar. 'Gyal's tears, Ilkar, you come wandering back into our village a hundred years after you left it and you expect us to accept you with open arms? And your Balaian friends? Maybe over there people are quick to trust. Here, as you well know, trusting the wrong people has led to so much harm.'

Ilkar had to concede the point though he would never admit it to her. They had never seen eye to eye. Truth was, Ilkar hadn't seen eye to eye with anyone. Except his brother. And even that bond was gone now. Buried under a hundred years of separation.

'What happened to my parents?' he asked.

Kild'aar stopped briefly. 'They died of old age, not knowing whether their son was alive or dead. Whether he had made a success of his talent or whether he had perished in the Mana Bowl or in some petty conflict of the Balaians. Perhaps the question should be, what happened to you?'

'It's a long story,' said Ilkar.

'And one we don't have time for at the moment,' said Kild'aar, setting off again across the soaking village. The rain was beginning to ease at last, blue cracks in the heavy grey sky.

'What is it you want me to see?' Ilkar struggled to keep up with the sudden pace, slipping on the muddy ground, unused to the texture underfoot, his reactions dulled by his absence. Kild'aar, of course, looked as if she were walking on flat dry rock.

She led him to a house on the southern periphery of the village. On the porch sat an elf dressed in jet black with a face painted in black and white halves. At his feet a panther lay, licking its paws.

'What the hell is going on?' demanded Ilkar. 'What are they doing here?'

'Waiting for answers,' replied Kild'aar.

'Fine,' said Ilkar. 'So what's inside?'

'You'll see.'

'Gods, but you're frustrating, Kild'aar.'

'Any particular God? Or just that amorphous deity Balaians always invoke?'

'Now I'm remembering why I didn't come back sooner.'

Kild'aar pushed open the door. 'I'd hate to disappoint your memories, Ilkar. Room to the left.'

She waited while he went in. The room was lit by heavily scented candles set on the floor and on low tables. Otherwise it was bare but for a high-legged bed in its centre on which lay a shrouded figure. Ilkar turned, frowning, but was ushered on. He walked to the head of the bed, the sweet scents filling his head, and pulled back the shroud.

On the bed lay an elf of about his age, though it was hard to tell in truth. His face was wrinkled as if the moisture had been leached from it, a trail of blood ran from his nose and another from the corner of his mouth. There was no relaxation in death, as if the pain that had gripped him as he lost his fight for life had endured beyond. Ilkar knew him.

'There was nothing we could do,' said Kild'aar as Ilkar replaced the shroud. 'He was all but dead when he was brought in. Nothing we did, magical or herbal, did anything at all bar relieving his pain a little. Everyone here knows the agony in which he died and they know our helplessness. All that lie sick know their fate unless we can find a way to save them. That's why we're so scared. Who's next?'

'Then let Erienne help,' urged Ilkar. 'She is the best healer mage I've ever met. She's saved my life before now. Let her examine him, find out what she can. Please, Kild'aar, trust me on this.'

Kild'aar shrugged. 'We'll see. Come.' She led Ilkar to the room next door. It was similarly bare though the shutters had been opened to let in natural light. On a table under the window sat a bowl of water draped with cloths. A single bed was pushed against a wall and on it an elf lay on his stomach, head to one side. A sheet covered him to his waist and his back was largely swathed in bandages, heaviest on his left shoulder.

'Oh dear Gods,' said Ilkar, rushing to the bedside and kneeling down to stroke the hair away from his face. It felt hot. 'Not him too.'

'No,' said Kild'aar. 'His fever was caused by an infected wound and it's broken now. He'll live. For now at least.'

Relief flooded Ilkar and he exhaled heavily, his breath playing over the prone elf's face.

'Rebraal,' he whispered. 'Can you hear me?'

The elf's eyes flickered open, narrowed against the light and steadied. He frowned.

'Are you real?' he asked, voice no more than a croak.

'Yes, I am. What happened to you?'

'You're not real. I'm still fevered. You're a shade.' He seemed to be talking to himself, his words barely distinct.

'No. The fever's broken. Kild'aar says you're recovering. It really is me, kneeling in front of you.' Ilkar smiled.

Rebraal's face darkened. 'Shade or real, let me tell you this. You're too late. A century too late. Where were you when the strangers came and took Aryndeneth? Where were you when I was shot? We needed you. You promised to return. It was your destiny as it is mine. Get out of here. I don't know you.'