“In a time before light, when the heavens had yet to be hung, there was Luth. It crackled in the nothingness, a void of potential. It was not darkness, nor light, but pregnant with both. At the birth, Order and Chaos were washed from the womb. They were followed by their celestial sisters, Good, Evil, and Truth. These were not gods, nor creators, but energies. Each burst forth in explosive zeal, and in their wake formed a realm.”

  -The Faerie Beginning

  “Dear man, you are the guests of honor.” Syrdin scowled as this so-called Staiil answered Fenn’s doubt with an overly magnanimous grin. It was as if he thought he owned the world, and it was purest generosity that drove him to share this party with them.

  Another of Syrdin’s least favorite type of personality.

  “Us? Really?” the she-elf of the same entitled type danced on her toes. “Oh! Lovely of you! How marvelous! A fae party!”

  Syrdin grimaced. Fae parties were supposed to be dangerous to outsiders. Intoxicants beyond any known to mankind were paired with no sense of time, urgency, or self. Yeah… marvelous.

  “Why, of course! It’s only right to celebrate. Elves have not visited this Wood in three millenia.” That god-like centaur invited them to sit at a huge table set with platters of fruit and cheeses, and Syrdin’s four companions wasted no time obeying. Mell dug eagerly into a plate of a golden cheese and steamed fruit, followed a moment later by Krid.

  “You aren’t even going to check it for spells?” Syrdin hissed.

  “Fair point,” Mell replied. She performed a swift gesture. “It’s clean.”

  Syrdin climbed on to a wide stool, sitting on zheir knees in a posture zhe hadn’t used in years uncounted. The centaur knelt at the head of the table, his too-jovial smile shining on them.

  “We came to my table for food and talk. Food, you now have, so let us talk. You are the guests. You shall ask one question first, then I shall ask mine, and so on from there. Please, ask when you are ready.”

  Fenn cleared his throat. “Do you have… could you tell us where we could find news of the gods… including their whereabouts and recent actions. Perha—and perhaps a temple that would have such news?”

  As hesitant as the question was, Syrdin had to acknowledge that he’d at least corrected to an open-ended one.

  “To news of the gods, I can give some answer myself. Though do keep in mind that it is my role to remain apart, concerning myself with the wellbeing of the creatures of this realm.”

  While zhe listened, Syrdin picked at zheir food without eating, stashing some into zheir bag for later examination.

  “Remain apart? Is that something all of Dara’s servants do? Even the Wood Elves?” Gale leaned forward over the table, a bitten-into fruit forgotten in her hand when there was knowledge of her people to consume.

  “Yes, all of the loyal Woodlanders are called to do the same, especially the elves. And, regarding whereabouts, I’m afraid I only know where Cyalmara–who you call Lorthen–is, and you have been traveling directly away from him. The Highfather, however, has been missing. The rest rove, seeking him.”

  “Missing?” Fenn parroted.

  Missing? Ath-togail stirred from where she’d hidden herself.

  “Indeed, for about a half-turn, now. If I recall, that’s eight of the humans’ weeks.”

  So, Daughter of Sabaed, what do you seek? Staiil’s deep voice spoke in zheir mind, even while he talked aloud.

  Syrdin stilled. This was a familiar feeling; the mind-voice of a god.Yes, this centaur was Dara, and he was probing zhem. I search for the Highfather, and for aid, zhe answered.

  Even while his mind spoke to zheirs, his physical voice carried on. “What I can do is direct you in the way of a temple. I believe you could learn something of interest there.” Not you, Dark One. Why would I call you Sabaed’s daughter? No, the one with you, he mind-spoke.

  Syrdin’s bristled at the title. Dark One. Zhe was no such. Within, Ath-togail winced. What do you want? Syrdin thought to him.

  That’s what I’m asking her.

  “You okay, Syrdin? You look like you’ve swallowed something rotten.” Mell roused zhem from the inner dialogue.

  Zhe shrugged. “Food’s not to my taste.”

  “Then you should try the drinks.” Mell smiled over her goblet, wiggling brows over mirthful eyes.

  “Don’t drink that!” Syrdin tried to snatch the wooden chalice, but Mell leaned back from across the table, frowning.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it makes fools of humans, worse than liquor.”

  “Really? It doesn’t taste like alcohol.” She swirled her cup, studying the liquid with interest.

  “Of course not! It’s fae! Even elves get drunk from that!”

  Fenn pushed away the cup he’d been fidgeting with, leaving it wisely unsipped.

  Mell took another gulp, defiant. “After what we’ve been through, that makes it better. No sourness. Twice the relief.” She winked, but her next sip was small. She didn’t intend to drink too much too fast.

  Syrdin rubbed a gloved hand to zheir forehead. The goddess seeks the same as I do, zhe finally replied.

  And have you found a god? An aid?

  Just you, of no help. Syrdin stared pointedly at Dara. And the artificer, more willing. Zhe hoped so, anyway. The centaur chuckled out loud. “Yes, I do understand your people prefer something killed to eat. I’ll forgive you this offense once, little elf, but that preference won’t be accommodated here. However, we do have an array of savory breads which you may find palatable.”

  With a flick of his finger, several sprites flew down bearing another tray of various loaves and dips.

  I don’t get how you’ve hidden yourself from my companions. Zhe glared. It’s obvious.

  I could say the same to you, he replied.

  They know more than you’d guess. Fenn did, anyway.

  Indeed.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Then I’m not the only one who’s guessed.

  They are not looking for me, Dark One. They seek one who will answer. But what business has a daughter of Sabaed with one who should have been her Father? Does she plead on her mother’s behalf?

  This, zhe would not answer. Syrdin tried to think of other things. Daughter of Sabaed. He’d said that phrase again. Curse Sabaed, that worm-eating, blood-crusted, warmongering goddess. Memories belonging to Syrrah, a daughter Sabaed’s High Priestess, formed again in Syrdin’s mind: sacrificial ceremonies, the smell of burning flesh, the final cries of babes accompanied by the wails of their parents. They’d received no mercy. Not even pity.

  You show me yourself. I ask about her. Show her to me.

  The memories slipped from zheir control. Zhe recalled the pain of a naganata in zheir gut, the rage of bright flames, and the darkness of death.

  Show me!

  A near-eternal fall through a pit, stones crashing and breaking around her. Then cold, like metal made liquid without heat. Submerged. No air in death. Rising from a silvery pool, shimmering as it mirrored the fallen stones. There, at the rim, a goddess, half-elven, her skin ashen in the pale light and hair dark in fluttering curls. She met Syrrah with red eyes, painted by the sight of too much blood.

  There you are.

  Syrdin stood from the table. “Stop it!” zhe spat.

  Dara had been mid-sentence, speaking of some location of a minor temple. Everyone at the table turned to zhem.

  With no explanation, zhe turned and fled. This place–for the others it was a welcome relief. But this was a refuge of risks, every person there liable to become hostile. So zhe ran, feet falling without a sound in the enchanted sabatons. The crash of stones echoed behind every silent step, the wind rushing in zheir ears. Zhe dodged between trees as the pain of the naganata seared zhem again and again, as the silver pool chilled her skin.

  Why are you running? Ath-togail.

  Pain. A blinding flame replaced the pool of water. Then bloodlust in the eyes of a former-ally as he raised his axe, ignoring zheir breathless pleas, “I tried. She knew. We can–”

  Tried? He barely touched your mind, much less mine.

  She pulled a dagger and threw it at the dwarf’s shoulder. Not to kill, just to–his arm fell limp, dropping his axe. He roared, spraying blood and spittle. She dashed away, dashed out, out of the stone-floored temple.

  Syrrah’s feet tripped on some loose rocks. Her body jolted, tumbling to the ground. She panted, tearing at the wound in zheir gut where the naganata had pinned her to the altar. There was no blood. It was hard, knotted, scarred.

  Syrdin blinked, gasping. Slowly, the blackness on the edges of zheir vision cleared. It had been roots, not stones that had tripped zhem. The rest visions. Dreams. Memories. A face in a tree chuckled mischievously as it lowered its offending roots.

  Why did you leave his table? Dara knows more than he lets on.

  “They never believe. Never trust. Death, that’s all anyone wants for us. Death. Like mother gave them.” Syrdin’s muscles trembled. The face of the dwarf, the hatred there, would not leave zhem. “Even the allies we make will never trust us.”

  Dara is averse to war and death, child. And he has information. I don’t need you to make him our ally, only learn what he knows.

  “Syrdin?” Fenn’s voice called from among the trees.

  Zhe sat up and tried to still zheir quivering hands. Then you are willing to let him know who you are? What we seek?

  I call it a fair trade.

  “Syrdin!” Fenn padded up to zhem on light feet, then knelt beside zhem in the leaves. “Are you alright?”

  With another deep breath, the last dark pinpricks cleared, leaving the bright morning daylight glaring into Syrdin’s eyes. Zhe turned to Fenn. “He’s not who he says he is, Fenn. He’s Dara, the god.”

  Fenn’s hand fell on the nape of his neck for a scratch. Then it dragged around the side as he huffed. “Then it’s as I feared. He’s probably been withholding information on purpose.”

  “Probably?” That man needed to learn to speak in absolutes.

  “Definitely.” Fenn stared into the distance for a while, thinking. “Why did you run?” he asked at last.

  “I don’t enjoy having my thoughts probed.”

  “Ah. So he can penetrate the mind. I suspected he might.” Fenn worked at his chin with one hand, and then remembered something and reached into his belt-pouch. “By the way, I think this is yours.”

  What he held out glinted in the woodland’s golden glow. It was the dagger zhe’d thrown. Zhe hadn’t realized zhe had actually thrown it. “Yeah.” Zhe stuffed it into its hidden sheath in zheir saroul trousers.

  “What do you know about Dara?” Fenn asked.

  Syrdin smiled to zhemself. Fenn really was getting better at this. “He is a pacifist by nature, though it looks like he enjoys meddling. And generally causes trouble–he is still a Chaos god. He probably won’t hurt anyone–not really, but…”

  “He’s not trustworthy.”

  “Right.”

  Fenn nodded. He stood, then, and reached out a hand. “Then we shouldn’t leave the others alone.”

  Syrdin sent him a wilting glare, but he didn’t retract the gesture. Instead, he met zheir gaze squarely with eyes full of patience.

  Zhe snorted, using his arm as leverage to jump to zheir feet. “When are you ever going to learn to save your pity?”

  “Consideration is not the same thing as pity.”

  “It’s all weakness, Fenn. All the same to me.”

  He said nothing as he walked beside zhem at a steady pace. The acceptance in his quiet company disconcerted zhem more than any argument could have.

  “What should I ask Dara, when it’s my turn?” He asked at last.

  “Whatever you want to know.”

  “What would you ask?”

  “Whether the Highfather still wishes Sabaed dead.”

  “That’s an interesting one. But perhaps not my priority.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Can you believe they’re alive? All here, just as they were before?”

  “Fenn, I already knew that. Deep down, you did too, or you wouldn’t have come.”

  He hung his head and smiled to himself. “True.”

  “Fenn?”

  “Yes?” He looked zheir way again. He was no longer afraid, zhe realized. Not of zhem, at least.

  “We should walk faster before Mell and Krid get completely plastered.” And before they can tell Dara every scrap of information they have.

  He increased his pace with a nervous chuckle. “Just how long have you been using Allspeech as a first language? You have the casual tongue of a native speaker.”

  Zhe knee-checked him in play, making him stumble. “As if I’d admit that.”

  He grinned, if a bit uncomfortably. Zhe almost had him in zheir pocket. All zhe had to do was reinforce this idea… this friendship he imagined. The lie that zhe cared about him and his friends.

  Zhe scratched zheir neck as if unsure. “One last thing, Fenn, about Dara.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll want to watch out for Gale. All he does’ll feel natural to her–it’s woven into the fabric of who she is. What she is.” Syrdin stopped, looking away to the leaf-strewn ground. “That connection is a hard one to resist, but to him, she’s nothing but a plaything. A child’s toy. If you care about her at all, you’ll want to look after her.” Zhe glanced up to see his head cocked, his eyes large with worry.

  “Thanks for the warning.” He braced himself. “Do you truly think he’s the one who enchanted her in the first place?”

  Zhe shrugged, but then followed with, “Yeah. I mean, all the creatures here serve him. He said so, even the wisps. So maybe…” Syrdin smacked zheir forehead as Fenn gasped in realization. “He was going to lead us to the tree all along,” zhe groaned.

  “And make us indebted to him with his rescue, therefore taking us into his trust. And his debt.” Fenn finished the thought.

  Fenn broke into a run. Syrdin fell in step beside him. “Syrdin, how did you resist your connection to Sabaed?” he said between breaths.

  “I fought it ‘til it broke,” zhe answered.

  “How did it break?” The scrawny nitwit was already panting.

  It wasn’t a good time for work-arounds.

  “I died.”