Tanis froze, hoping he wouldn't have to defend the human against the elves whom Scowarr had helped save. The silence stretched longer as Scowarr's smile faded and the elves continued to exchange dumbfounded glances. One old elf chortled, then drew in his breath sharply and looked sideways at his colleagues. "A human!" he muttered wonderingly.
Another elf, streaked with dirt and sweat, let loose with a chuckle. "I'll be a slig!" he commented, then reached over and clapped Scowarr on the back. Another elven mouth stretched into a smile and opened into guffaws.
As laughter spread from elf to elf, Tanis relaxed and slipped out the door. As he slipped into the street, he overheard talk of raising a monument to honor Scowarr's heroics… if Ankatavaka survived, of course.
The light from more than five hundred torches bathed the seacoast village in a flickering orange glow as Tanis searched the streets for clues that might lead him to Brandella or deliver him to his father.
"Do you know a woman named Brandella?" he asked many a scurrying elf.
"Yes," replied everyone he questioned.
"Where can I find her?" he immediately countered.
They all answered, "With Kishpa, of course."
"And where is he?"
None knew.
No one had seen the mage since late afternoon. The wizard apparently had vanished. Teams of elves had been sent out to search for him. Without his magic, the villagers couldn't hope to hold the human army at bay.
Tanis tried another way of finding Kishpa's lover. He remembered Clotnik had said Brandella was a weaver. "Where does Brandella work at her loom?" he asked a rotund elven smith.
"Works and lives in the same place, m'boy," said the smith as he sharpened one of countless swords and knives that had been left with him overnight. "Y'know, my wife is rather fond of the shawls Brandella makes; wears them all the time. Costs me a fortune. But it's worth it. Keeps the wife happy, y'know."
'That's important," agreed Tanis, trying to remain patient. Perhaps ordinary chitchat helped the smith remain calm, maintaining the illusion that life as usual was still possible. "But can you tell me where she lives?" Tanis pressed.
'Try the second floor over that way," the smith said", using a worn hammer to point down the cobbled street. "See that overhang?"
Tanis nodded.
'That's her place. My wife…"
Tanis thanked the smith, ran directly to the overhang, and looked up at dark windows. He hurried through the doorway and took the stairs three at a time.
Knocking loudly on the door at the top of the stairs, he stood and waited, wondering what Brandella would look like, how she would act.
To his dismay, no one answered the door.
Tanis glanced down the stairway. When he saw no one lurking in the shadows, he put his shoulder to the door. It got away from him and swung open with a crash. Tanis grimaced.
Lighting a candle he found near the doorway, Tanis scanned the large room. A loom stood in one corner with baskets of bright red, yellow, and purple yarn beside it. Near the back was an unmade bed, the scent from the sheets aromatic and exotic, and there, too, were several baskets of yarn. Then he saw what he should have seen from the very beginning: All four walls were covered with a huge mural; even the ceiling was part of the enveloping painting.
Despite the meager light from the single candle, the images were bright and lively. Tanis couldn't figure out where the mural began or where it ended, and the more he peered at it, the less it mattered. The pictures told a story that needed no beginning, middle, or end. There were scenes of Kishpa, his physique perfect, his face flawless, his inner essence shining through his blue eyes with regal purity. It wasn't the mage's magic that shone, but the painter's art.
There were also scenes of children playing games. One of the children-a girl with black, unruly curls-always seemed to have her back turned to the viewer. Exquisitely dressed elven dancers leaped to music one could almost hear. Here, too, was an older girl, her hair flowing in thick, black curls down her back; her face also was hidden. There were scenes of merry festivals, viewed, it was clear, from the terrace overhang off to Tanis's right.
All of the scenes, wherever he looked, were joyous and happy, save one. On the ceiling, over her bed, Tanis noticed the woman with dark curls, her face obscured this time by the shoulder of a man, running toward a light that seemed to be a great distance away. The man was sweeping her into his arms, carrying her forward, and her body seemed to say, "I will go with you to the very source of light itself."
Trying to make out more detail of the woman's face, Tanis held the candle up close to the ceiling. The painter had hidden her features well. As he pulled the candle away, he saw something. The candle came loose from its holder and fell into a basket of yarn that sat on the floor near the bed. He quickly grabbed the candle and snuffed out the beginnings of a fire, only to find a piece of paper, now slightly burned, in the basket.
He steadied the candle back in its holder, held the note up to the flame, and read: Dearest of my Heart,
Please do as I beg you, and think only of your safety. A home is just a place to live; it isn't worth risking your life to save. I know what you're thinking: I'm a hypocrite because I'm staying behind to fight. I stay because it is my duty; my ancestors would be shamed if I left the children of their friends when my magic was needed most. I do not stay out of pride or desire. My only desire is to be with you. I keep you in my heart, in my mind, every moment of every day. Please, your life is too short as a human to risk it here. Go to Qualinesti. Our people know you, and you will be safe among them despite your race. Save yourself so that I may love you later. I will find you there when the battle is over. Go to the fisherman called Reehsha. He has promised me that he will ferry you to a ship in the harbor that sails for Qualinesti. You can trust him to save you a place on his boat. Don't delay. Do this for me, and know that I love you always. Yours Ever Faithful, Kishpa
"Reehsha," whispered Tanis.
He was about to rush out the door and make his way to the harbor when he remembered that there had been something about the picture over the bed that had startled him, making him drop the candle. He hurriedly raised the flame for a quick look-and saw that the man carrying the girl with the black curly hair toward the light… was he!
Or was it?
The features of the man on the ceiling seemed too perfect, too handsome, too majestic. No, he decided. There was just a passing resemblance in the face, but nothing more. Nothing more at all.
11
A cry in the night
"Reehsha? yes, everyone knows old Reehsha," said a sinewy elf who was patching his small skiff at the edge of the water. "Keeps to himself a lot these days. Didn't even help ferry the women and children to the ship," he added, gesturing out to the open sea.
Although he hadn't asked the question, Tanis now knew that Brandella had not done as Kishpa had begged; she had not left for Qualinesti.
"It could be the old man is smarter than most," the elf went on. "It was probably a good thing he didn't take his boat out there. I'm kind of sorry I did, myself."
Tanis was taken aback. "What about the women and children?" he asked. 'They had to be taken out of the village, didn't they?"
"Sure," agreed the fisherman, his face a map of wrinkles, "but the waves were something treacherous, and there were too many boats out there. Half kept banging into the other half. That's how I got this hole in my bow. We lost four women and six children to drowning; they'd have been safer in the village, taking their chances with the humans than with those rough seas. Yes, Reehsha is a wise old man."