Chapter 46: Oh God

  And when he saw her there, among his flowers and forests, he loved her.

  And their song together was as the songs of the great poets,

  And their music the music of the composers of old,

  Whose names are forgotten to history,

  But whose melodies are impressed upon the minds of babes

  Until the end of time.

  Song of Dara and Rogha

  The god, Dara, twisted to lend Gale a hand down from his back. She clasped it and slid to the ground, staring into his face. That he was handsome would have been an understatement. Skin rich in red tones melted into a glistening auburn coat on his horse-like body that shone like polished wood. The hair of his head was thick and fair against his skin, highly decorated in braids and beads with his tail groomed to match. His face sported high, wide cheeks and a short, smooth brow. But his eyes–they were as emeralds set in bronze.

  She could only stare.

  “Gale!” Fenn scrambled across the clearing toward her. Suddenly, his thinness and bright skin were out of place.

  She turned back to the muscled god. “You are generous and beautiful, sir.” It was as good a thanks as she could muster without uttering the faerie ‘thank you’ that would indebt her to him.

  “Gale,” Fenn’s hand on her shoulder felt foreign and awkward. “Are you alright?”

  “Fine.”

  Fenn bobbed to her Lord. “You’ve done a beautiful kindness, sir! Could you please–would you tell us where we could find shelter, or perhaps whether anyone would be willing to lend food, or what, erm–perhaps I should ask who you are, first.” Fenn cut himself off, realizing he’d let his curiosity run his mouth again.

  She almost laughed at how he inquired to a god himself where he might find only shelter. But a feeling washed over her: a warning check that she should not give her Lord a name. She should not mention it.

  So she did not. She was, after all, at his service. She had always been.

  He laughed a deep laugh that resonated within her. “If you do not know, then you need not. But, my dear, who are you?” He set his emerald eyes on her.

  “Galendria Silverstem, Fyr-Ceann of Etnfrandia at your service.” She curtsied. “Though it occurs to me that the nations of our–of the neighboring realm will mean little to you.”

  He chuckled. “Indeed, my dear. Very little at all.” He moved his wide-set gaze to Mell, who was hauling herself to her feet, groaning. “Healer and mage, you’ve done a fine job keeping your companions alive. None of our people could have done better, nor any of Cyalmara’s. Never regret that your spell could not command a dryad. He is of ancient stock, and few can match him.”

  “Your… people?” Galendria gasped. “Are there many like you?”

  “More than a few,” he answered, “but less than perhaps you are imagining. Would you care to meet them?”

  Thoughts of villages full of centaurs, of glades busy with tussling children trotting around, filled her mind. “Very much!”

  “Gale,” Fenn whispered, full of warning.

  She glanced at him. His hand closed on her upper arm as though he would pull her away from her Lord. It was silly to worry that this god would harm them. He was kind, gentle, and entirely magnificent. Can’t you see who he is?

  “Why should we meet your kind when you haven’t even told us who you are?” Syrdin stood next to Krid behind the centaur, zheir arms crossed.

  Gale tensed with loathing for that Dark One.

  The Centaur cantered over to zhem. He circled around, scrutinizing as he leaned over Syrdin’s short form. Zhe backed away, zheir stance prepared for action. “Well, you are an odd one. You are not from the same nation as the others, are you? No, you hide what you are, who you are, and what–or rather whom–you carry. Interesting.”

  Gale envied what he knew just by looking. It had taken her ages just to learn that Syrdin was an elf.

  “No more than you do,” zhe hissed.

  His laugh rumbled like distant thunder, making Gale’s heart pound. “You may call me Staiil. As you’ve already witnessed, I command this land and its occupants. There is little more to know than that. And so, now that you know, who are you?”

  “That’s Syrdin.” Gale laced her tone with ire. “And zhe is insufferable, but unfortunately useful to my friends.”

  “Indeed,” he said again. “And the creature of the Trueplane, the drake?”

  “Kridarnn, a warrior, as intelligent as any of us. And the Healer is Mellark, a cleric of Cyalmara, which you already know. And this is Fennorin, my…” for the first time since their arrangement, she found herself hesitant to admit their relationship. What has gotten into me? “...betrothed,” she finished softly.

  The centaur nodded, then gazed at Fenn. He double took. “Great powers of Chaos! They’ve finally mixed.”

  “What?” Gale asked. She peered at Fenn, who straightened in surprise, looked down at himself, and then gaped at the centaur in unabashed confusion. Fenn was not a half-elf. His ears were full length, and Gale knew he wasn’t adopted. One glance between him and his parents left no doubts. She couldn’t imagine what her Lord was talking about.

  Her god straightened. “I have many questions to ask you, and you of me. Let us find accommodations that are more comfortable. Would you all come and dine with me?”

  “Where?” Syrdin spat.

  “My home, naturally.”

  Galendria’s heart leapt for joy. She had the presence of mind to turn to Fenn. “Please, I’d love to see it.” She needn’t have asked. His eyes shone with ravenous curiosity.

  “It’s probably safer than here,” Fenn agreed. “I hesitate to linger where the dryads harbor resentment toward us.”

  “I apologize. He is easily offended. He should not bother you anymore.”

  “Does everything in the forest obey you?” Fenn asked. “You are this land’s watcher, aren’t you?”

  “I indeed watch over these lands. And yes, they all answer to me, even the dryads and stags. But gather your things and let us be on our way. Our talk need not happen here.”

  “I hate to be a bother, but is it far?” Mell asked. She leaned heavily on her staff, sweat crusting on her brow. Gale wondered what could cause such fatigue. “I don’t believe I can make a long trek.”

  “I see. It need not be. Stay near me and I will shorten the walk.”

  The five collected their abandoned packs and gathered around him. Staiil turned out a hand to Gale. “Would you accompany me?” he asked her. She accepted the gesture, putting her hand in his. He then placed it on the inside of his other forearm. “This is how one walks with a centaur,” he explained. Then he put that hand of his against his horse-chest, letting it rest so her arm was comfortably raised. “Knowledge I suspect would not be known to you.”

  “No,” she felt her face heat with shame, “but it’s gracious of you to understand my inexperience.”

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  “You cannot be at fault for what your people have forgotten before your time.”

  As they walked, the forest opened before them, trees shifting to clear a path. Gale basked in his presence, in the warmth around him, the glory shone intangibly when she looked long at his face. Staiil. It was a name of his; one of many. Dara was only another. “Why do you hide who you are?” She whispered to him.

  “I hide nothing. It is only what they already do not believe.”

  Gale pondered this. How could someone not believe in the very thing they seek?

  He smiled, as though amused by her thought. “Your betrothed,”he began.

  Gale felt her cheeks flush at the mention of Fenn. There was a strong draw, a powerful connection to this centaur. It seemed somewhat inappropriate in light of her pending contract with Fenn.

  “... does he also have access to his magic?”

  She jolted. Also. As though he knew of hers. But of course he did. It was his. “Our magic is different from one another. Mine is… connected to this world, but mainly to me. Fenn… he enchants things, I think, but I’ve never seen him affect the living with much except raw elements. But how do you know of my magic?”

  “Surely you have felt it.”

  “The connection we share. It’s not like Ferngal, though she sensed it also. It’s a connection to you directly, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed.” His face creased into a smile, warming the word.

  With the excitement of this discovery came some relief. She wasn’t betraying Fenn at all. It was a magical connection she felt, not an emotional one.

  “What do you know of Fenn’s enchantments?” he asked.

  She didn’t really want to talk about Fenn with her Patron God walking beside her, but she felt she should answer. “I haven't studied his kind of magic. I understand he is very knowledgeable about man’s type of magic. For example, he has some spell for seeing magic on things, but not like the spell I use to sense it.”

  “Intriguing. I always wondered what would happen if they interbred.”

  “Interbred?” This was the second time he’d referenced that in relation to Fenn. Yet all Etnfrandians were pure elves. “I really don’t understand what you–”

  “The tribes, dear. Just how much have you all forgotten?”

  The tribes. Wood Elves. Night Elves. There had been others, too. Fenn had mentioned them. They had been born of the various gods. A Sun tribe. A Moon tribe. She couldn’t recall the rest, or how many. “I… don’t know.” But Fenn does, she realized. He had known about this. The day they’d stolen the artifacts, he’d said so. “Our history, our people are from there,” he’d claimed about the Faeworld. And she’d denied it. Her cheeks scorched with shame. Fenn had been right all along. “I think Fenn would be a better person to ask. Until recently, I hadn’t known there was anything to forget.”

  Her Lord patted her hand. “It’s alright, dear one. I will ask him.”

  She looked away.

  “Why the shame?”

  “I feel I haven’t known a thing about who I am until now.”

  “Yet you are pure of blood and magic. You practice, and you cannot do that without knowing.”

  “But the Etnfrandians… we don’t even speak of our gods. We’ve banned magic.”

  “Did all of the tribes become part of this, ‘Etnfrandia?’”

  “The Wood Elves didn’t. They aren’t enemies of Etnfrandia, but they aren’t allies either. And the Night Elves live far away beneath some mountains, warring with the neighboring Dwarves.”

  “Ah. But then some Wood Elves have joined this coalition of tribes, or are you not from the same nation as your Fenn?”

  My Fenn? She glanced back to where he helped Mell along, holding a conference in excited whispers. Hardly. “Only one. Adopted.”

  “I see. And the other nations, do they practice magic?”

  “I think so. You would have to ask–”

  “Fenn.” He frowned, thoughtful.

  Gale sighed and stared into the forest, only to realize it moved in a blur around them, faded as in a mist. She tried to blink it away, but it was no illusion. They were walking at unimaginable speed without the sensation of it. “The forest!”

  “Staiil, what spell does this?” Fenn called from behind.

  “One of my own,” Staiil replied without answering.

  Gale smiled. He was very clever.

  “Could you show us?” Mell asked.

  “I’m afraid I have no means of writing spells like the folk in your realm, nor need I speak or sign to cast.”

  At that, Fenn tripped over his overly long feet. “No runes–no semantics, nothing?” he asked, barely recovering his steps.

  “Don’t stop moving,” Staiil commanded him. “It will disrupt the magic and you will be left behind. We will be there in a moment. As for your question, I have no need for such aids.”

  As spoken, it was only a few dozen paces before the forest slowed to a normal pace and they emerged from the seeming mist. Sunshine shone warmly upon them, sparkling in swaying grasses and falling golden leaves. A tall table of carved wood stretched along the clearing with a number of unusual seats, cushions, and open places. Over it, tiny people with huge pointed ears chirped like birds as they hefted platters into place. Some plates were covered with round fruits, some with cheese. There were bowls, too, of foreign grains. Five empty plates were set at one end within easy reach of the platters.

  “Sprites?” Mell asked Fenn. “Am I seeing this right?”

  “Y-yes, I believe you are.” he said, his voice soft with awe.

  Movement from above caught Gale’s eye, and she gaped. There, the trees towered like the great pillars of a hall, their branches the trusses linking them. From them, a “shoth” swooped down through the air, twirled over the table, and shimmered into the shape of another tiny person. He wore a flowing coat and breeches, and no shirt. He spread berries on a salad tray. Another sprite, a woman in flowing cloth that only mostly covered her bosom, placed a carved wooden goblet before she fluttered away as a pure white shoth like a dove.

  Gale blushed. The muscular centaur-god had shown her enough skin for an age. Now his assistants were only half-clothed. More half-dressed persons sauntered from the woods carrying strange instruments. These were almost elf-height but with legs like curly-coated goats. They wore only vests of sheer, shimmering beads. Then more centaurs, not so large as Staiil, trotted from behind, hefting another table into the outdoor hall. Some of them wore scarves of beads, and only that.

  “Welcome, travelers, to my abode.” Staiil spread his arms for them to enter. “Please, find a seat. We will have refreshments and share much talk.”

  “We would be glad to have food and rest,” Fenn said, glancing around nervously. “But it appears you were preparing for a party. We wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “Intrude?” Staiil laughed his booming, glorious laugh. “Dear man, you are the guests of honor.”

  As she limped along the blurred forest, Mell watched Gale chatter with Staiil, studying her movements: the caress of her hand on his arm, the flutter of her lashes, and the enlarged dilation of her pupils. Whether caused by magic or by a more natural charm she wasn’t sure. She could by no means deny that the centaur was handsome and charismatic. She tried to probe for a bewitchment in the girl’s mind, but the distance made it too difficult. She doubted she’d get the chance to explore it through a ritual in the near future.

  Mell turned instead to other musings. It was a strange coincidence that Staiil was both a Watcher and a centaur. He very much resembled the god of the Wood, the Centaur Lord often depicted in Wood Elf liturgy.

  “Fenn, don’t you think that this ‘Staiil’ could actually be Dara?”

  “Why? Because he’s a centaur? Then he would introduce himself as such.”

  She considered it. She didn’t want to make the mistake of conflating him with Dara just because he was a centaur, but then Gale was acting so strangely. “What about Gale? Isn’t she a bit…” Mell faltered.

  “She’s downright infatuated,” Syrdin muttered. “Disgusting.”

  Krid snorted from where he marched in the rear, but said nothing.

  Mell shot a glare backward to Syrdin before returning to Fenn.

  A frown creased his face. “She’s not quite herself,” he agreed. “In some ways, like in the smiling and energy, she is, but I’ve seen her brush off too many men to think this is normal.”

  “What are the odds he is the source of the bewitchment?” Mell asked.

  “Definitely,” Syrdin growled.

  Fenn’s frown deepened. “I don’t like the odds, but we can’t say for certain.” He took a breath, averting his gaze from Gale to look at Mell. His eyes flicked down, noticing at last how she shuffled along. She’d drained her magic to the dregs trying cast healings, boons, and burns. Fenn took her arm, lifting her on the side that lacked the crutch of the staff. “What I do know is that we are about to learn a lot about the Fae. And there are many things I’d like to ask this centaur–be he Dara or only his vassal.”

  Mell nodded. “Make sure you ask about food. And Lorthen–I’d be dismissed from the clergy if we didn’t ask for his whereabouts.”

  “Of course!” Fenn nodded, eager. “Cyalmara Lorthen is an archivist by nature. We could learn anything in the realms from him. If he is near, which is unlikely, but if he is, we would be in great luck.”

  Mell pulled herself along with renewed energy. After all their wanderings, finally, they would receive some answers.