A Fray of Four Fiefs

A sequel to Ember of the Fallen Kingdom

Artwork by Winston Coady

Chapter One: Where Five Paths Meet

In many a corner could be found the King Alfon Alderstar of the Four Fiefs of Athemor: perhaps pondering wisely upon the seat of his throne, or orating a powerful speech from atop the Royal Rostrum of Cliffenheim; feasting in great halls laden with goblets of mead, conceivably, or gazing upon the four realms he had so nobly made one. Though, in the winter following this unification of the Kingdom of Athemor, the elf could be found only poring feverishly over heaps of old scrolls.

It was the eve during which Alfon would reveal his discoveries, though to only the most trusted souls he knew—and in the kingdom’s most protected, most abundant center of literature. First came his queen, Embla, through the doors of the Crestwood Royal Library—where it seemed even the books and scrolls bowed to her in honor of the library’s very namesake: Queen Embla Crestwood and her father, Fraxinus. These two nobles had been the first humans ever to shelter an elf in Cliffenheim—secretly—when Alfon Alderstar arrived in the city as a spy traveling between Cliffenheim and his elven homeland of Súnimanta. This was before he, along with the siblings Odin and Hilda Wrenstone—the library’s next visitors—had met by chance in the ancient shrine of Tamikúmu long ago and discovered the treachery of Cliffenheim’s former Berg dynasty.

And this eve, striding shoulder-to-shoulder through the library, Alfon’s two most devoted advisors now rushed merrily into their gracious lord’s embrace. Both Odin and Hilda, of course, were dying to know: “How are the little angels?”

“Such joys!” Embla cheered. “I can see already a royal future for the tots!”

“Mere inches from the throne!” the king chuckled. “Where are Little Alfon and Alfwyn now?”

“I sent my father to give them a bath.”

“Splendid. Then, we await one last visitor.”

Hardly had he spoken when through the doors came a tall, nobly-dressed young man smiling at them with a narrow mouth beneath sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to express more than he said. All four bowed at his arrival, and thus spoke Alfon: “Greetings, Lord Inwid Ofurling, son of Duke Vassal-lord Felsen, heir of Ofurburnin and the Duchy of Ostenfeud! Much have we all to discuss during this hour, though perhaps for Your Highness I may bear the most important message of all!”

There was intrigue in the eyes of Embla and the Wrenstones, though—as Alfon noticed—a puzzled expression as well. Clearing his throat, the king announced: “I suppose you three wish for an explanation as to why His Highness has graced us so with a visit!”

Artwork by Winston Coady

Chapter Two: A Five-Thousand-Coin Order

“Ever since the day when archaeologists began marching into the ancient halls of Tamikúmu,” Alfon explained, “Lord Inwid Ofurling has managed the temple’s excavation with precision that could open new doors for the future of the Four Fiefs.” The elf’s voice echoed across stonemasoned walls and between rows of book-laden shelves immeasurable in both height and vastness. “His noble leadership and frequent meetings with me have led to discoveries of ancient Kananti literature that may prove to be more influential than Jasifi’s Scroll itself.”

An awed silence fell over them all. There was a glint in the listeners’ eyes akin to the shimmer of a jewel.

“Jasifi’s Scroll,” Embla uttered under her breath. “The scroll that toppled a dynasty. Brought death to a tyrant, and peace to a kingdom. The scroll that named you king of Cliffenheim.”

Alfon smiled. “To unearth buried wisdom and elven prophecies… we could heal the enmity that remains in Athemor. We could expose this fiend they call the Rallier… this terrorist who led the raid on Eselenor that fateful night months ago. That night when the last lord of the Iselon dynasty was assassinated, and when…” His voice faltered. A tear could be seen sliding from the elf’s eye. “When they took my sister’s life as well.”

The story was known already to them all. Alfon’s nephew, Keloras, had washed up at dawn on the banks of the Athemor River near Cliffenheim. Embla, walking along the bank as if led by fate, had drawn him out of the water. Shivering, half-drowned, grief-stricken, nearly unconscious… all the young elf could utter was: “My mother’s gone.”

“No,” Embla had told him, “she’s still with you, Keloras, still a part of everything she passed on to you. And still there is no shortage of those who care deeply for you.”

“A son you shall be to me,” Alfon had declared upon the eve of that day. “A third child of mine. And I shall be your father. The bond between us shall be far stronger than any mere uncle-nephew relationship.”

“Súnimanta was in ruins after that night,” Inwid murmured. “Leaderless, wary of men, famished… until you made that dying kingdom a fief, led from thence by none other than Lord Keloras. And it wasn’t long before all four lands became one. Cliffenheim, Súnimanta, the Northlands… and, finally, the Ostenfeud.”

“Why, Inwid,” Hilda Wrenstone inquired, “did Ofurburnin pass its territory so readily beneath Cliffenheim’s crown?”

A silence followed for the next moment. Then: “I never quite understood my father’s decision. Perhaps he feared a kingdom once held by man was stumbling too quickly into elven control, and wished to become one with the rule of Athemor. Or perhaps there’s more to it than he’s made plain.”

“Alfon,” spoke Odin Wrenstone, “what think you of these tidings I’ve heard tell, these news of the Súnimanti’s urge to reclaim their homeland?”

“A fine question,” the king replied, “and one that demands faster restoration of Tamikúmu. What will happen when an influx of elves is crammed into the forest of Kananta, where every footstep will leave a mark on the already fragile land?” Alfon cleared his throat. “I’ve made up my mind to grant five thousand golden coins towards the haste of the Ofurburnish excavation.”

The king’s gaze passed from the appalled Wrenstones and Embla to the beaming marquess. As Inwid rose from his seat, an uncontainable ecstasy seemed to twist his smile like a river’s bend. “My gracious lord, Your Majesty’s generosity will not be in vain.”

Alfon rose slowly to his feet, smiling at him. “Meeting dismissed!” His booming voice echoed across the chamber.

Chapter Three: A Knife in the Study

One week after Alfon’s grant, the jagged crest of Mount Wulfang stabbed like a blade into the sinking sun. At its flank, the winding streets of Cliffenheim echoed with the clip-clops of Inwid Ofurling’s steed—until the great beast halted before the gates of the castle.

Listening from atop a high balustrade of the palace, Odin and Hilda Wrenstone could discern the voice of their king amidst the eve’s silence. “...three hours’ time past sundown, and by the Crestwood Library’s hearth…” And all that they heard next was the distant cawing of ravens.

The feast was no less silent, save for the minstrel’s hushed lay marking Inwid’s arrival. Every so often, Hilda watched the marquess glance at her for an instant—as if whispering something with his eyes.

By the time every goblet sat empty of mead—and once the sun had departed at last—so too did the nobles take their leave for want of rest.

Three hours had passed since the sun’s passing. Three hours had Odin Wrenstone tossed and turned in restless sleep. And for three minutes had he laid roused in bed, deathly-still, unable to resist the urge to grope across the bedstand for his dagger… feeling naught but cold wood beneath his fingers.

“Hilda!” A series of knocks struck against his sister’s door. As soon as she appeared, Odin’s tidings burst forth. “My dagger’s missing. Though I believe I know where it is.”

The eyes of Alfon Alderstar and Inwid Ofurling glinted with the ginger glow of the hearth. “I must say,” the king rumbled, “I expected better, for so generous a grant. Five thousand golden coins, yet a decline in the influx of documents.”

His eyes followed Inwid’s tense hands as they reached into his pockets, hid there like a groundhog, peeked out, scuttled back down into his pockets…

“Aye, sire, aye… It was indeed a most luckless week for us, and I apologize. Perhaps, my lord… perhaps a greater sum of funds…”

“Nay.” Alfon’s voice was like a cold stone. “My grant was far greater than plenty. The demographers state that Ofurburnin’s head count has soared of late. Cliffenheim’s folk have flocked to your city. Ofurburnin’s might has all but dwindled—though I should hate to spurn its name during the Council of Eselenor next eve.” His teeth clenched. “Reveal your answer, Felsen’s son—and whatsoever you fiddle with in those pockets!”

Alfon’s heart thundered in his chest. He’d hearkened to the rumors, and seen it firsthand—how it could enslave a man, devour his wit, refuse to let his attention stray from the thing.

Inwid’s every muscle froze. He stood before the king, motionless, staring into his eyes with an impenetrable expression. When the marquess’s hand emerged, Alfon realized his misjudgement—and was blinded by a flash of steel in the glow of the hearth and the moon.

Chapter Four: A Shard by the Fire

Alfon’s throat trembled before the dagger’s flashing point. The elf stared with disbelief into Inwid’s bloodshot eyes, pressing his back desperately against a corner where the wall met the end of a slender shelf. Many books shifted behind his weight like reeds yielding to the wind, and some tumbled from the shelf as stones drop from great summits. The hall echoed with thuds of fallen leather and crinkles of pages creasing on the floor behind… followed by close footfalls, the shing of an unsheathed blade, and the sudden scrape of steel across wood.

As cleanly as an arrow flies from the bowstring, Hilda Wrenstone’s sword shot through a gap in the shelf with a flash off the dagger in Inwid’s hands. Alfon gasped with awe, watching it slide to a halt an inch beneath Inwid’s throat.

“Drop my knife, thieving traitor!” Odin bellowed, leaping from behind the shelf and hurling his strong arms around the marquess’s ribcage.

Inwid Ofurling stood thus for several moments: motionless, clasped in Odin’s arms, barred by Hilda’s sword, already feeling his once-resolved arm faltering under the weight of defeat.

“Inwid…” Alfon’s voice, quivering like a harpstring, started as a plea—a call to an old friend—but ended as a demand. “Lower the blade. And tell me the truth, or else…”

Two words seemed to hide in his tone, words he feared even to fathom. Interrogation. Torture.

The marquess obeyed Alfon’s first order. Slowly, he withdrew the dagger from Alfon’s throat and stared at the weapon as if it held the fate of the world itself.

Neither Hilda nor Odin beheld what came next. All they caught sight of was a swift, inward thrust of the blade. All their ears witnessed was a sudden pierce, a cry of pain, and the deathly thud of a body striking the floor.

Hilda rushed to their sides. There, sprawled powerlessly across the floor, lay Inwid Ofurling, son of Felsen, heir of the Ostenfeud. Amidst the dimness, half of a knife could be seen glinting in his chest.

Alfon dropped to his knees beside Inwid’s body, clutching the marquess’s shoulders. “Why, Inwid, why… oh, my dear boy, for what?”

Inwid’s eyes rose weakly to meet Hilda’s. A tear slid down his cheek. “You… Hilda…” His voice was a rasp. “You w-would… have been my duchess…”

Inwid’s head lolled back. It struck the floor like a fallen pillar.

The next few minutes hung heavily with a grim silence. None knew what to say. When the firewood seemed to shift in its iron rack and ignite new flames, feeding the hearth’s light brighter once more, the king’s eyes caught sight of something resting beneath the fallen marquess’s waist—something none of the three dared touch. It shimmered softly, with a blood-red hue and a crystalline sparkle—so very minuscule in size, yes, but fraught with an evil Alfon had known and feared his entire life.

Chapter Five: The Schism is Born

“Several hours ago, in the dead of night,” announced Queen Embla, “an assassination attempt was made on King Alfon Alderstar.”

Thousands of gasping Cliffenheimians were gathered beneath the tower, faces pale as ivory and softly illumined in the dawn’s light.

“I was not present to witness the tragedy… And perchance that is why only I can tell it comfortably.” The queen glanced solemnly at her husband and the Wrenstones. “Odin Wrenstone’s dagger Lord Inwid Ofurling did steal, and with it confronted our king after their meeting in the library. In suspicion the Wrenstones burst in to seize him, and the traitor—fearful of interrogation—grasped his final chance for control.” Embla cleared her throat. “Inwid Ofurling ended himself with the very dagger he had held to our king’s throat.”

Gasps surged no longer over the crowd. There was silence now—grim, dark, and yet hollow with an unsurprised sense of confirmation.

Odin and Hilda stood shoulder-to-shoulder, armored, grasping their weapons. “My blade,” Odin whispered, “will be forever stained with his blood. Great was my dread on hearing those creeping footfalls in my room. No greater curse could befall me. Lo! would that any other knife had he chosen, any other path had he taken.”

“I’m sorry,” Hilda whispered. “You two suffered… much friction. That knave was smitten with me, you know—and I’ll warrant he saw you as more than just a threat. But oh, let us hope that so bitter a feud spreads not any further!” She gazed into the distance—over the plains and the eastern forest, where dawn rose now over the towers of Ofurburnin.

“Such we hoped,” Odin growled, “on this very rostrum, months ago. Remember what we thought we’d escaped? And how old Berg fell? How the thing slew him? That plummet, those fluttering robes… the fire that swallowed him. We thought both were gone.” Odin laughed grimly.

“Don’t be gloomy, Odin.” Alfon shot a glance at him. “We’ll shatter that trinket. And whatever bit of Berg’s spirit still festers within. But we blessed well won’t let the word spread.”

The king strode toward the balustrade, raising his voice. “There is reason, my people, to believe that Inwid Ofurling was indeed the Rallier. Since the birth of my reign, he and his followers have sought tirelessly to stain our kingdom with elven blood. But we’re not to trust Ofurburnin any longer. This night, I shall speak with the lords of Súnimanta. Together, we’ll decide on how the elves will return to their homeland in the forests of the Ostenfeud. Queen Embla will scour the city of Ofurburnin for secrets, and Duke Felsen will be questioned.”

Alfon raised his sword to the sky. “Let not this rift seize our kingdom!” The crowd burst into cheering—thunderous yet edged with fragility, as if wondering what would come if one plan went awry.

Chapter Six: The Economist’s Truth

“The name of Athemor grasped glory,

Among its days of newfound bliss:

Untouched by strife or battles gory,

‘Til peace did Felsen’s realm dismiss.

Misused were funds the king had poured

Into the plan of his beliefs;

A traitor’s blade came near our lord, 

And roused the Fray of Fourfold Fiefs.”

The minstrel’s song ended almost as soon as Queen Embla could spot the city.

There it was: Ofurburnin. Capital of the Ostenfeud. A major center of mankind’s rule over the elven forest of Kananta. And, of late, a threat to Athemor’s unity.

Embla glanced back. Several paces behind her steed, one horse-drawn cart bore a lump shrouded in translucent fabrics. It was like staring through silk, or a spider-web, or a layer of mist. Beneath was the body of Inwid Ofurling: pale, lifeless, but deep in rest—as if conscious of his return home.

Odin and Hilda Wrenstone flanked the queen on both sides, grasping their swords as they crossed a bridge over the Athemor River. Like Cliffenheim, Ofurburnin was built into a mountainside within the encasement of a great rampart. Its stony streets wound up the slope like a serpent, and its towers loomed above all else.

The Wrenstones shuddered. Both had been the first ever to discover mankind’s theft of elven architecture, which embraced the intertwinement of trees with stone. Ofurburnin’s rampart, however, stood bare of greenery—like a woodland robbed of trees. As the expedition passed through gloomy streets thronged with staring commoners, the faint whiff of smoke reached their nostrils.

“I want Inwid’s body taken forthwith to the Ducal Palace,” Embla announced, gesturing to the crown of the city. “I shall speak with the duke myself. Odin, Hilda—you two will handle the task of questioning Count Feoman, Ofurburnin’s chief economist.” Embla pointed to a structure. “That is where he awaits you.”

Count Feoman of Ofurburnin was sharp in all manners: keen of mind, piercing in speech, angular of facial features, and dressed in robes of striking colors. He spoke under his breath, as if afraid to answer the Wrenstones’ question. “The funds which King Alfon so generously granted us, those five-thousand goldings which His Majesty placed in Ofurburnin’s hand… Well, it pains me to say that not one coin went in the direction King Alfon had desired.”

The Wrenstones stared at him, speechless.

Feoman smiled. “What I tell you now, Odin and Hilda Wrenstone, could cost me my wealth, my counthood, my name as economist, even my life.” His eyes seemed to hold a kind of sorrow. “But a man’s faith is in his kingdom. Mine lies in the unity of Athemor, not in the traitor who dwells at the Ducal Palace.” The count gave a dry chuckle. “I am unsure of how exactly Felsen made use of the funds—but I know, with all the certainty in my heart, that none was spent on excavation efforts.”

Chapter Seven: The Lord of the West

Eselenor was the mightiest of all elven cities: nestled in the northwest of the woodland, looming over the river-bend, and built upon a great web of interconnected bridges and tree-houses that seemed to bind the great forest together. Alfon’s steed passed at the break of noon over Eselenor’s main bridge, where soldiers bowed and minstrels sang over the strum of harps; and ere long he halted, for not far ahead stood the lord of Súnimanta.

“Keloras!” Alfon beamed, sliding from his saddle to embrace the elf. “Long has it been since our last meeting, my nephew! You have grown, clearly—and seized the title of Vassal-lord with such readiness!”

“Greetings, uncle, my king.” Keloras smiled. “Your arrival brings joy to all the land. All councillors wait eagerly to welcome His Majesty, King Alfon Alderstar, lord of the Four Fiefs of Athemor.”

The two elves found a quiet region of the forest in which to pass time together, for the Council of Eselenor was not to begin until evening. “I was relieved beyond measure,” Keloras mentioned, “to hear that you came through it, alive—that wicked assassination attempt.”

Alfon did not respond for several moments. Then: “An evil night, it was.” The king paused in his tracks, and his voice fell to a whisper. “The marquess was too young, too innocent—he should not have gone that way. I tell you, Keloras: It was Felsen, damned Felsen, that lazing, cowardly, serpent-tongued bastard of a duke! Embla will have many questions indeed to ask of him, and I don’t expect she’ll hide one answer during the council.”

A sorrowful look passed across Keloras’s face. “They say Inwid was the Rallier, yes? Well, then he was responsible for my mother’s death.” The elf gestured ahead to a small wooden bridge spanning the Athemor River. “That is where they took her life, on that night long ago—where many an arrow pierced her body, and where she sheltered me with her arms for the final time. That raid was fleeting, aye—too much so to spare me a moment’s time, that I could bid my mother farewell. I leapt into the river, and drifted down it half-drowned the whole night—and that was the end of it.”

“I’m sorry, Keloras.” Alfon sighed. “It was a terrible—”

“Never,” the elf interrupted, “will I forgive the race of men for that atrocity—nor even the elven lords who say that men can frolic into the lands our people have stewarded for centuries.”

“It is equally my burden to bear.” Alfon raised his voice. “I lost my sister that night, Keloras. My homeland was wounded. And my desperation to support the race of elves, to grant them everything they lost in Tamikúmu… Well, that is why I believed I needed Inwid. I should never have trusted him, Keloras, should never have been such a damned fool——”

“No,” Keloras growled. “You should never have put trust in the name of Ofurburnin. You endangered the race of elves, uncle, and all the people of Athemor with them!”

“Leastways it’s not a measly fief I govern!” Alfon snarled. “My responsibilities are far greater than yours, Keloras—responsibilities a young vassal-lord could never understand!”

All of a sudden, there came a voice from behind them. “Lord Keloras, more visitors wish to greet you.”

“I shall see you at the council, uncle.” There was a look of frustration in the vassal-lord’s face, even as he turned to follow the messenger.

Alfon remained there, in the quiet wood, for several minutes. Something had seized him, he knew, compelled him to argue with the young elf. His hand fell into his pocket, and he fingered it: the coldness, the crystalline smoothness. He wondered—with a terrible fear—if this shard would enslave him, as it did Inwid and the kings who ruled before Alfon Alderstar.

Chapter Eight: The Duke and the Queen

Through lavish halls strode Embla Crestwood, and past towering walls adorned with the brightest gold; vast frescoes swallowed the ceiling that stretched like an outspread arm, boasting grand images of the olden deeds and heroes of Ofurburnin, which men have forgotten today.

Wide grew the queen’s eyes. For at the very end of the hallway, looming over an archway before the throne room, was one great fresco that dwarfed all else: massive, terrible, but brilliant, and in the likeness of none other than Felsen Ofurling himself. The duke’s eyes gleamed with an indecipherable light, and flitting all across the painting were faint images of what appeared to be flames.

Grander yet was the chamber where sat the duke himself. The chandelier blazed, the gilded walls glimmered, the light gleamed upon guards’ armor. There, seated upon an elevated throne, was Duke Felsen Ofurling, clad all in flowing robes, grasping his golden scepter; larger was he than all others in the room, and the throne seemed to tremble beneath his massive weight.

Yet—as she looked closely—Embla saw that there were faint lines of sleeplessness beneath his eyes, which were pink and bloodshot, and under which traces of dried tears caught the light.

“More golden,” Embla announced, “is the gleam of your palace than last I saw it, Felsen Ofurling.”

The duke remained in his seat, smiling subtly. “Indeed.” His voice was like a tree whose bark has flaked and crumbled. “Ofurburnin’s days of glory have bloomed, my queen, like a great golden flower.”

“And what pollen has fueled this blooming, if I may ask?”

Felsen seemed at once to detect what message lay in Embla’s question. For a moment, he remained in silence.

“My realm could not have reached its greatness,” he sighed, “without the ingenuity of my dear boy.”

There was an aversion in his tone, Embla noticed—an evasiveness to mention the misuse of funds.

“You have my deepest condolences, Felsen. Inwid was an intelligent boy. I know not—and will never know—why he did such a thing.”

“Inwid was the most pure-hearted boy I knew.” Felsen paused. “And, like his father, he was a lad of ambition. Every evening when his steed came trotting wearily from Cliffenheim, my lady, there was an utterly drained look in his eyes. King Alfon and I—we went too hard on him, the poor boy. He was torn, Embla, torn between the two of us—and knew his life was unsalvageable. Clearly…” The duke heaved a deep breath. “Clearly, he did not relish taking orders from an elf.”

“And what of the funds?” Embla boomed, irked at his evasiveness.

“The funds,” Felsen claimed, “have greatly fueled excavation efforts in Tamikúmu.”

“Is that right? Then I wish next to visit the shrine, that I may judge the progress myself.”

“The temple,” Felsen replied, “is not at present available for those uninvolved in its excavation. Besides, you must depart soon—no? Ere you go, my lady...” He gestured to three fair young women standing in the right corner of the chamber. “Your nephew, the elf-vassal. He is unwed, aye? Well—in compensation for the incident—I offer him all three of my daughters’ hands as a gift to your family.”

“A generous gift,” Embla responded, “but I would rather not sully the name of House Alderstar with polygamy. I hate to narrow time, Felsen, but the hour grows late. I must be on my way. Farewell!”

Embla gave a nod of the head. Then, she turned and strode to the exit of the chamber. No response came from behind.

Chapter Nine: The Council of Eselenor, Part One

The time had come. All the lords and councillors whom Alfon had summoned to Eselenor now gathered in one great ring upon the westernmost hill, which glowed in the golden light of the sundown.

“Their eyes,” Embla muttered to the Wrenstones, “must be locked on one another’s faces.”

“Or,” Hilda Wrenstone offered, “perhaps gazing into the brilliant Sun as she dips into the West.”

“Nay.” Odin Wrenstone squinted at the crown of the hill. “Their eyes face the east. They watch us, they expect us—they await us.”

Ere long, the three steeds halted before the gates of the pavilion, beneath whose roof the council was gathered. One by one, they were transferred from their saddles to their seats near the king, and at once the Vassal-lord Keloras Alderstar rose.

“Lords of Athemor’s realms, leaders among men and elves alike, rulers and diplomats and warriors of our land—we gather this evening to debate how the West-elves of Súnimanta will respond to Ofurburnin’s treachery.”

Members of the council grew tense and pale, glancing uneasily at one another.

“Lord Keloras, my nephew.” Embla rose suddenly from her seat. “Let it be known to all that Ofurburnin’s faithlessness has gone beyond simply an assassination attempt. The duke claimed Tamikúmu was in good hands; he would not let me see it. The palace had been embellished; he did not explain by what means. And for you, Keloras…” Embla’s force faltered. She heaved a breath. “For you, he offered the hands of his three daughters.”

“I beg your pardon?” There was a growl in Keloras’s voice. “How dare he insult me with offerings of polygamy! I will not take Felsen’s witches, lest they speak deceit in my ears. I scarcely believe it!”

Odin rose from his seat. “Her Majesty speaks the truth. While our lady questioned the duke, Hilda and I spoke with an Ofurburnish economist by the name of Count Feoman. He answered our queries with honor, and to him we owe a great deal of our findings.”

“That is right,” Hilda added, “for he said with certainty that King Alfon’s funds were misused by Felsen. Judging by the mystery shrouding Tamikúmu and the embellishment of the Ducal Palace, it is clear that Felsen has not followed our king’s orders. He has directed the funds towards his own selfish purposes!”

Anger grew in Alfon’s eyes, and uneasy murmurings passed across the council. “I want everyone seated,” Keloras ordered, and the three speakers obeyed. “From what I have gathered, there exist no arguments for trusting the traitor that is Felsen. Do any objections remain?”

The council fell silent, and not a murmur lived on. All eyes stared at Keloras, restless, awaiting his following statement.

“Good.” The vassal-lord gave a weak smile. “We move now into the second topic of our council. Thus far, we have discussed the abysmal deeds of the Ofurburnish—how they have marred the eastern lands once stewarded by the elves.” Keloras paused. “No longer will we speak of the Ofurburnish. Now, we will speak of the elven people—how they will reclaim the forest of Kananta once and for all!”

Chapter Ten: The Council of Eselenor, Part Two

The Sun was dipping into the western seas like a stone sinking in water, casting a great shadow across the indigo sky. The gold of Eselenor’s foliage was waning into a gray hue, but Keloras’s face caught the last light of the evening.

“Centuries ago,” the elf announced, “The Kananti, an elven people, were banished from their forest in the east. The race of men seized everything they possessed, and all elves retreated to these western lands. For centuries, few elves dared venture back to their homeland—a place said to hold one of the Two Jewels within the heart of Tamikúmu.”

Alfon’s face grew pale. He felt a coldness seize him, and whispers taunted his mind: the shard in his pocket had been named. None but Odin and Hilda Wrenstone, he realized, knew it was in his possession.

“You all know the story,” Keloras continued. “Our king and the Wrenstones broke in— learning the truth about men, snatching the jewel, and in turn having it snatched from them—then rushed straight to Cliffenheim and exposed King Berg’s treachery like a chink in the wall.” 

How strange, Alfon thought to himself, that I found this jewel, and later thought it destroyed—only now to have it find me. Fate works in ominous ways.

“Yet still,” Keloras went on, “the forest of Kananta remains beyond the grasp of the elves. They have suffered what I call ‘waning’—a sense of longing for the east, felt even by those who have never seen Kananta’s light. Strength is fading, my people. The land is dying. If we return not to the place of our origin, if we let our people forget the magnificence of Tamikúmu… Felsen will defile the land before we can act.”

Alfon rose suddenly from his seat. His long golden hair caught the sundown. For a moment, only the two of them stood: uncle and nephew, king and vassal, leaders of the elves.

“Lord Keloras, my nephew.” Alfon gave a warm smile. “While I respect the viewpoint of your faction, I would deem immediate action unwise. Aye, Felsen may be wounding the land as we speak. But one cannot leap into a burning structure without first knowing what paths and obstacles lay within. We must remain in patience, I say, and attempt to reason with Felsen ere the elves put themselves at risk. I promise you: I will do everything in my power to settle matters with the duke.”

For a long moment, Keloras remained silent. Then, with his brow furrowing, he shot: “And did you prioritize, did you acknowledge any of our kind before absorbing Súnimanta into your kingdom?”

Whispers and murmurs traveled across the crowd.

“Keloras…” Alfon grew pale. “I wished not to conquer, but to support my people. The famines, Kel—”

“Perhaps we then are entitled to the equal right to conquest.” Keloras raised his fist. “My people, I ask you now: Stand you for the rights of the elves, or for the will to remain idle?”

“The rights of the elves!” Countless council members leapt to their feet, cheering and raising their fists. “We stand for the rights of the elves!”

“Very well.” Keloras gazed across the forest of Súnimanta. “The travelers will be mustered tomorrow. Send word to all corners of the land!”

Then the elf noticed that Alfon was smiling at him, smiling with pride and approval; and he saw that the queen and the Wrenstones were clapping their hands and nodding with admiration. Then he was filled suddenly with joy, and rising to a great stature, he cried: “Reborn anew will be the Elves of the East!”

Stay tuned next year for Part Two…