we’ve been on the road, all the farms and towns bleeding into each other. Lukas is equally silent and deep in thought.
My fear has settled into an anxious unease. I look over at Lukas and wonder what he’s thinking. He’s brooding and remote, but I feel a kinship with his aura of gravity that makes me feel less alone.
Eventually we slow, and I make out one of the Ironwood outposts of our military. A cloaked soldier waves us through.
“The border,” Lukas informs me.
Three trade routes converge here, and we’re gradually stopped by the traffic, most of the horses pulling wagons heavily weighed down by goods.
Thunder crashes, and I strain to see through the rain. A long, ivory wagon passes close by. It’s surrounded by a large contingent of ivory-cloaked soldiers astride pale steeds. The soldiers have white hair, and their eyes are silver.
“Gold merchants,” Lukas says, noting my interest.
Amazement cuts through my lingering haze of fear. “Are they Elves?”
“You’ve never seen them?”
I shake my head and look back out. The Elves’ ethereal whiteness is pristine, as if the dirt and grime of this stormy day hasn’t touched them at all.
My eyes are drawn upward by the shifting winds.
I can just make out the western edge of the Verpacian Spine, an impassable mass of vertical rock that borders the country of Verpacia. The white-gray rock seems to reach right up to the heavens and disappears into the storm clouds as the rain batters the bleached stone. Multiple guard towers are carved into the cliffs, hewn from the rock itself. Cloaked archers in pale gray uniforms the color of the Spine climb about the towers like nimble mountain goats. They appear to be keeping a close eye on the convergence of traffic seeking entrance into Verpacia through this break in the Spine.
Our carriage door opens, and an archer pokes his head in. He has a bow slung over his shoulder and rain drips copiously off the edge of his hood. He looks like an Elf, his eyes gleaming silver, but his hair and skin are a silvery-gray only slightly darker than his eyes.
“Lieutenant Grey,” he says congenially, the words heavily accented. He glances over at me, and his smile is whisked right off his face. He blurts out something in what must be the Elfhollen language, his tone one of shock.
“Orin,” Lukas says carefully, as if trying to calm him, “this is Elloren Gardner.”
“She’s not back from the dead, then?” Orin breathes, his eyes locked tight on mine.
Lukas smiles. “Only in appearance.”
Then, to my surprise, they launch into a serious conversation in Elfhollen. Orin gestures sharply toward me several times, his expression deeply conflicted. I stiffen, rattled by Orin’s confrontational tone.
Lukas shoots him an incredulous look. “Do you honestly think I’d bring her here if she had any power?”
I glance sidelong at Lukas, surprised. He’s told me more than once that he suspects I have power. My heart thuds nervously, realizing that there’s danger here. And he’s protecting me.
Orin narrows his silver eyes at me one last time, shuts the door and waves us through.
I let out a breath of relief, then turn to Lukas in amazement. “You speak Elfhollen?” Even if he’s well versed in languages, it’s still a surprising choice.
Lukas smirks. “I have an odd talent for picking up the more obscure languages.” He eyes me appraisingly. “How much do you know about the Elfhollen?”
I consider for a moment. “They’re half-Elf, right? With Mountain Fae blood? I’ve read a little about them.”
“It’s a nice combination, really,” Lukas muses as he throws his arm along the back of his seat. “Deadly archers with perfect balance. It’s lucky for Verpacia that the Alfsigr hate mixed-breeds. The Alfsigr Elves were idiots to drive the Elfhollen from their land.” He flicks his finger in the direction of the sentry towers and the agile Elfhollen soldiers stationed in and around them. “They’re one of the only reasons Verpacia is able to keep control of the Pass. That, and the Vu Trin border wards.” Lukas bears his teeth. “And the Vu Trin sorceresses.”
I look over at Lukas, surprised by his matter-of-fact way of discussing half-Elves and sorceresses. And his friendly demeanor toward one of them. Most Gardnerians are as distrustful of half-Elves as the Alfsigr Elves are. It’s understandable—we were almost wiped out several times. Of course we want to keep our race pure and intact.
All around us, the Elfhollen soldiers brave the icy rain to search through wagons: looking under secured wax cloth, opening up barrels, questioning the drivers. Some of the soldiers are accompanied by heavily armed women garbed in black, their hair and eyes as dark as their uniforms. Their uniforms bear glowing blue rune-marks that are so beautiful, I can’t tear my eyes away,
“Are those Vu Trin soldiers?” I ask Lukas, transfixed by the sight of the lethal-looking women and their shimmering rune-marks.
Lukas nods, eyeing them with what looks like respect. “They’re a guest military force here. They control the western and eastern passes through the Spine. Their presence is part of the treaty agreement that formally ended the Realm War.”
“It’s strange to me,” I say, marveling at the curved swords the Vu Trin carry at their sides and the rows of silver throwing stars strapped across their chests. “Women as soldiers.”
Lukas seems amused by this. “The men of their race don’t have any magic. But the women more than make up for it, believe me.”
A tall Vu Trin motions sharply for a group of Kelts on horseback to halt, her face steel-hard. Her uniform’s arms are marked with lines of circular ward symbols that glow blue. A smaller Vu Trin woman, with only one glowing sleeve ward, searches the Kelts’ saddlebags.
“What are they looking for?” I wonder.
“Smugglers.”
“Of what?”
Lukas shrugs. “Weapons, spirits...pit dragons.”
Spirits don’t surprise me. Forbidden by our religion, they’re illegal in Gardneria. A number of passages in The Book of the Ancients touch on the evil of intoxication. But my eyes widen at the mention of dragons.
“Pit dragons?”
“They’re a particularly vicious type of dragon,” Lukas explains. “Used as weapons. And for sport.” He turns from the window to glance at me. “They’re pure dragon. They don’t shift.”
I’ve only seen dragons twice. Both times were in Halfix, the dragons high in the sky. They were black Gardnerian military dragons, used for transport and as powerful weapons. But I know there are other dragons rumored to be somewhere in the Eastern Realm. Wyverns who can breathe fire and shift to human form. And Wyrm shapeshifters who breathe lightning and can control the weather.
Our carriage hits a bump and jostles me from my thoughts. It’s all stop and go for quite a while, but soon the traffic lessens and we’re on our way.
After
