Postmarked 5 June 2370 [3 years pre-recollection]

  To: Syrdin X. Bedrock Tavern, Rockfall.

  From: Public Library System at Fellington

  Your inquiry for the “top Magic Engineer (Artificer)” has rendered several results. The most cited: Fennorin Willowbirth, PhD. The most famous: Framtuc Dirfoot, PhD. The most prolific: both Framtuc Dirfoot, PhD and Fennorin Willowbirth, PhD. The most requested: Enzexius The Enchanter. The Leading Theorists: Tudious Spacklebottom, PhD and Fennorin Willowbrith, PhD. The wealthiest: Glasymwoc Golfinga.

  By Category:

  Machines: both Belirbick Blakkands and Habbner Frewup; Materials: Umniru Kravon; Tools [Objects]: Fennorin Willowbirth, PhD; Weapons: Uzor the Unworthy.

  By Class:

  Arcane Enchantment: Enzexius The Enchanter; Fae enchantment: Fennorin Willowbirth, PhD; Hellish Enchantment: Umniru Kavron; Holy Enchantment: Erudite Obus Dirgewood.

  Of those listed, the following have no recorded death date, and are therefore considered contemporary: Belirbick Blakkands, Erudite Obus Dirgewood, Enzexius The Enchanter, Habbner Frewup, Glasymwoc Golfinga, and Fennorin Willowbirth, PhD.

  We thank you for your inquiry and kindly request you provide feedback on our services. Please fill and send the attached survey.

  [The survey was still attached.]

  -A Letter To Syrdin of the Onyx Brooch. U.E .2370

  Fenn only watched as his betrothed stormed out of the morboran’s thicket-like nest while the drakeman Mell assumed was his best friend chased after her on his behalf. The leaves hadn’t yet stilled behind them when Fenn hung his head dejectedly, moping. Mell’s teeth ground together. Her frustration hadn't been expended yet. She marched up to Fenn and swung a flat hand wide against the back of his skull.

  “Eek!” His fingers found the place she’d struck as he spun to face her.

  “‘Your arrows?’ Fenn! Seriously?” Mell pointed after Gale. “That’s all you have to say?” “Of all the insensitive things! Just–! Not, you know, apologizing? Trying to mend things?!”

  “Ow!” He rubbed the back of his head ”That smarts, Mell.”

  I should hope so! “Oh, and how do you think they feel? Didn’t you care to intervene?”

  Fenn’s shoulders closed into him at her reprimand. “I tried to explain to Gale. But I can’t do anything more than you can.”

  Mell scoffed, hands finding her hips. “Poppycock!” It was always the smart ones who were the most dense.

  He eyed her from under a cowering brow.

  “Fenn, that girl loves you. And you just… gods! I knew I should have made you write to her! That night in your cabin when you ignored her letters, I thought of saying something. Then I thought, ‘Fenn knows what’s best in his own country.’ But nooo!” Mell huffed, breathless from her tirade. This boy was exhausting. It didn’t matter if he was quadruple her age, he was still just a dense, stupid boy in matters of the heart.

  “Fenn, I understand you’ve never had romantic intentions–probably ever–but can’t you at least consider what it’s like for her? Even before we got separated, she barely slept at night, always tossing and rolling. I can’t tell you the number of times she’s asked me if I’m sure Syrdin won’t hurt you, or if I think her father is ok, if he’ll ever forgive her for disappearing! If I have any guesses how we’ll ever make it back to… to Etnfrandia, Fenn! Deep down, she’s scared. Scared and confused! And she just wants to go home! With you of all people!”

  “I-I,” he stuttered, shock widening his expression. He’d had no idea. Gale had literally said the same thing in different words hours before, and he’d not understood at all. Mell couldn’t believe it.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t understand what Fenn had seen. Gale had sung her way through their marches and nudged her way into every conversation. But that was not his only oversight. “And ‘monster.’ Really? I know Syrdin is difficult with Gale, but Gale does not help. She walked in here with enough prejudice to fill a nation. ‘Humans don’t live long enough to remember.’ This is never going to get better unless you say something to her. Gods Fenn, it makes me sick!” She shuttered. It felt disgusting to know that after all these days of her bright smiles, Gale had thought so little of Mell and her race.

  Fenn flinched deeper and deeper into himself, his hands closing on his opposite arms. “I’m sorry, Mell, I just… I’m not so good with words as you are. I tried, but she isn’t listening and I–I don’t know how to make her!”

  Her frustration only grew. “Oh my gods. Grow a pair!”

  “What?” Confusion wrinkled his guilted wince.

  “Grow some balls, man!”

  “I don’t understand how men’s privates are related to–”

  “It’s a bad figure of speech, alright? Just… be braver. Confront your problems! The problems of your team that you assembled and you lead. She loves you, so stop holding her at arm's length. Krid is–purposeful or not–about to coup you out of your own squad–or whatever he thinks we are. And I’d be right behind him if I thought I had an ounce of heroics in me. But you're the one we’re all here for.” Mells arms were growing tired from her own gesticulating, her patience just as exhausted.

  All at once, realization washed over Fenn’s face. It was as though it had never occurred to him that he should be the leader of their troup. That he was responsible for more than just bringing them to the Fae, as he’d so nicely apologized for upon their reunion. That this wasn’t just about survival. It was about leadership. Setting a course, mitigating risks, reigning in the arguments; these were his job. His eyes watered and his shoulders slumped. “Can’t you do it?”

  She almost felt a little bad. Now that she'd hit him with the sledger, it was time to rebuild. She reached up and put her hands on his shoulders. “I’ve already been trying. You saw what my attempt did now, Fenn. Everyone scattered. I can point out the obvious, give a comforting word or two, but I can’t bring these people together. They don’t know me like they know you. I know you. You are the friend who can do it. You see the best in people–things they don’t see in themselves, and you draw it out. You’ve done it for me, Fenn.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. He stared away into nothing, sullen. His gaze flicked to her with a silent question: do you really believe I can do this?

  She encouraged him with a soft smile instead of an additional head slap like she wanted. She could think of a thousand times when he’d saved her from her own emotional constipation. An obtuse, “I’m confused, are you avoiding something?” here and an, “I might be able to help you with that,” there. Through her relationships, her learning, and her growth, he’d been there for her. “Brandon and I wouldn’t even be exchanging mail if it weren’t for you. I wouldn’t know Faerish. I wouldn’t have braved any adventures. Ever. But here I am. And it’s… I’ll never forget it even into the afterlife.” She willed the words to have an effect with a smile.

  “But I’m useless at everything.”

  There it was. The core belief no words had ever chased from him. Someone, somewhere, had told him so, and he had believed it. No matter how many top wizards sought to consult double doctorate Fennorin Willowbrith for his expertise in enchantments, no matter how many Magic Engineers tracked him down for help with their latest inventions, no matter if he was referenced in every book on magic for the last century, he still believed himself useless. She wanted to shake him until the doubt fell out. She settled for a tighter shoulder-squeeze. “You haven’t been useless a day in your life.”

  “I am.”

  She never could chase it out of him. “Try anyway.”

  The apple of his throat bobbed. “It won’t work. Not if I’m the one trying. I’m… weaker than I should be.”

  “Fenn, the only thing weak about you is your confidence.” She looked him up and down, taking in the sheer skinniness of his gangling form. “And maybe your arms. But you must step up. Like our lives depend on it–they probably do.”

  His jaw tensed and he averted his gaze. “I can’t. It can’t all depend on me. I’ll only get us killed.”

  “Sure you can! You’ve opened a sealed Door to the Fae that’s been missing for millenia, shot panthrae, identified a Watcher before seeing one, fought a–whatever in the realms that thing was–and given me the adventure of a lifetime! I think you can stand to demand a thing or two from us. We need you to.” Come on! Please believe me!

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  He dropped his head so that the top of his forehead landed on the soft of her shoulder. “I’ve already messed up. I… I didn’t stop Gale from coming. I haven’t gotten the truth from Syrdin. I fell for the Morboran.”

  Gazing at the pile of colorful feathers on the ground, she patted his back in the most motherly gesture she could muster–which wasn’t her strength. Abandoning a young family for an acolyte’s career hadn’t left her maternally qualified. “But you haven’t failed yet, Fenn. No one is dead, so you can still fix it. And only you can..” It was wrong to sit down and let life happen when one could take part in shaping it. Especially someone so brilliant.

  “How?” he choked out. “It’s too much.”

  She pressed her lips together. He was truly determined not to be helped. That didn’t mean she would quit. “Then let’s start with one thing at a time.”

  One thing. Fenn clenched his teeth as worries raged in an unending storm inside him: Gale’s displacement from her home at his hands; the hostile Watcher between them and the Door; the matter of locating a temple left unconsidered for days; the rogue mercenary with veiled motives tagging along; zhe and Gale picking ancient fights. There were too many, and yet more came: danger, magic, questions. How could he solve them all? Or even choose which one was most important?

  And he was tired, so tired. He’d hardly slept since the storm.

  “Come on, give me one problem, any one, and we can work together on it.”

  The inner winds assailed him with more concerns, more dilemmas, more fears that made him want to curl up in the nook of a tree and stay there. The next region might have another hostile watcher. There may not be temples left. And he had no clues as to why his father, his ancestors–why the House of Tradition–had suppressed Elven history in the first place.

  He took a deep breath. For Mell, he could focus. Any one. It didn’t have to be the most important. He pinched his eyes shut, trying to block out the storm. He shook his head. “What if I can’t make them work together?”

  “Gale and Syrdin? You’ve barely tried.”

  Mell thought he picked the wrong question. Of course he had, but she’d said any. “But what if?”

  “You’ve got to advocate for each one to the other, Fenn. Or set boundaries to keep them apart if that doesn’t work. Sound reasonable?”

  That sounded impossible. They couldn’t treat each other with common courtesy, so why would they respect boundaries? He nodded into her shoulder anyway. It was what she wanted him to do.

  “What’s next?”

  When the wind of worries picked up in his mind again, he shrugged. He’d only pick another problem she didn’t like.

  “Then help me with mine. Why are you susceptible to Fae charms?”

  That jabbed him where it hurt; where he was weakest of all. He forced the stinging in his eyes to stay there, not drip down in tears, just as he’d done many times for his father as a child. “Probably for the same reason I can’t cast Fae charms,” he answered bitterly.

  “And why’s that?”

  Something raged inside of him, that thought that never left him. And now, cornered by Mell’s words, he said it. Fully and loudly, he said it. “Because there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Bless you, Fenn, but there is not!” Mell’s voice resonated into him through her shoulder.

  He had to appreciate how hard she tried to encourage him. He picked up his head and squeezed her upper arms in his hands. “I just can’t access Fae magic. I can identify it when I enchant myself with that suprasight spell, but I can’t use it.”

  Mell nodded slowly. “Do you know why that is?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “And why Gale can?”

  He sighed heavily. “She is a Wood Elf, and she has the fae soul to act as a conduit–or catalyst. Whichever you prefer to call it, she has it and I don’t.” That she was a Wood Elf conflicted with what he knew of Etnfrandia, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d found something in his home country that wasn’t supposed to be there. Certainly, the Door shouldn’t have been. Besides, she’d implied her true ethnicity when clarifying which nation he’d meant by “hers.”

  “So… can other Etnfrandians wield fae magic? The rest of you who aren’t somehow Wood Elves?”

  He cocked his head, contemplating for the first time that he might not be the only one who couldn’t. It didn’t last long. “My father can.” He shivered at the memory of the man’s magical touch, cold as iron, stealing things from his mind or forcing his actions. “And historically, even the half-elf child of a previous abdicator could, so I think they should be able to by heritage.” I should, but I’m broken.

  “Could it be a curse?”

  It was a good thought. There were very few ways that innate magic could be thwarted, and that was one. Fenn didn’t doubt that his father would curse him, if no one else would. Yet he’d had himself checked by every clergy he could find. He shook his head. “I’ve explored that path before.”

  “And you never managed to attune to a physical catalyst like mine. I recall that attempt. Let’s forget theory for now. What can be done about it? Practically. For our journey.”

  He applied himself to that one question and quickly found a few implications. “Clearly, I can’t be the one on watch with Krid. I can’t be allowed to wander off alone. And I can’t be trusted if a more sentient Fae comes along.”

  Mell blinked. “That’s important information to know. When we get back, you need to tell the others about this.” She sucked her cheek for a moment in thought. “What about which watch pairs? Which make the most sense? Krid can’t be the one giving orders all the time.”

  He rubbed his nose with his sleeve and dedicated himself to the question. Whatever Mell was doing, it was helping. “Well,” he considered. Syrdin probably shouldn’t be alone. “With current tensions in mind?”

  Mell nodded.

  “Syrdin and I together, Gale and Krid, and then you on your own.”

  Mell hesitated. “We could try that.”

  “You disagree?”

  “I… my instinct is to put Syrdin on zheir own and myself with Krid, but you’re probably right. ”

  “You and Krid? But you keep critiquing him.”

  “He and I aren’t about to blow our tops and storm off from each other. While you and Gale desperately need to talk. It. Out.”

  Remembering her, Fenn sighed and reached for one of the arrows Gale had abandoned. It was stuck in the eye of a morboran chick. When he yanked it, the eye ripped out with it. Bile filled the back of his throat and the world twisted in his sight.

  He waited for that to pass. “What about Syrdin?”

  “Syrdin?”

  “Zhe wouldn’t hurt Gale, would zhe? Not really?”

  “I… I don’t believe so.”

  Ice shot down Fenn’s spine into his limbs. He hadn’t expected that answer. “I thought you trusted zhem.”

  “I think I do, too. But to be honest, Fenn, I don’t know what zhe wants, exactly. Only that whatever it is, it has to do with the gods–or maybe the artifacts–and it requires you to be alive. Specifically you. Zhe was pretty upset with Krid for not protecting you.”

  Fenn blinked. He hadn’t noticed that. He put his mind to work while he tried to block out the gore he plucked arrows from. Five arrows and some bile-filled spit later, he had a mental list of information.

  Zhe is magically inclined, so zhe has a conduit soul connected to a god.

  Zhe likes to discuss the gods with Mell.

  Zhe was enslaved by the dwarves at some point.

  Zhe hates Gale. Why? Night Elves have no reason to hate wood elves, and Syrdin isn’t dense. Actually, does Syrdin know Gale is a Wood Elf? Zhe picks on Gale for being sheltered. Calls her princess, when Gale isn’t actually royalty. Her father is–was–Ceann, not Highfather. What is the difference between Gale and I? Gender, ignorance, prejudice. Is it that simple? Magic. Is that a threat to Syrdin?

  Zhe requires me to live. Also why? I’m not the one with natural fae magic–only arcane.

  Zhe dreams in the language of the Darkcaverns in religious terms. Zhe might have cultish trauma. Most Night Elves do, but I wouldn’t want to assume.

  Zhe once trained to protect zheir family and lost them. But possibly not to the dwarves, since they don’t generally use assassins, which zhe said hunted zheir family.

  Cultish trauma and a dead family seemed related. And cultish trauma and magic. Magic whilst being able to cross the barrier. Zhe had to have a patron or matron god of some kind. But not a hell-touched one, which eliminated every god of the Night Elves he knew of. “Do you think zhe is a fugitive from zheir tribe?”

  Mell shrugged. “I genuinely don’t know. I’m more of a character witness. Most evil, death-mongering assassins don’t help random travelers with their bags and babies.”

  Zhe has stronger nurture instincts than I do.

  Fenn didn’t see at first how that added to the list, but it was something. But it did add. It led to another easy conclusion: Zhe is unfriendly on purpose. That, or zhe had pretended to be caring around Mell in order to win trust. There were too many unknowns.

  With the arrows gathered, Fenn pushed aside the broad leaves that draped the thicket’s opening, holding them back for Mell. What does all this mean practically? He asked himself Mell’s prior question again. Again, there were too many unknowns, but even the unknowns led to a simple conclusion. “Hey Mell?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think we should consider asking Syrdin to leave.”

  “Really and truly?” Mell turned from her fern-strewn path.

  “Zhe… zhe won’t tell us what zhe is planning. Just because zhe doesn’t want me dead, doesn’t mean… well, it doesn't mean we can trust zhem.” If zhe needed something from him, the easiest way to motivate him would be to threaten his friends. Right now, zhe had easy access to almost everyone who mattered to him. Mell exited past him, and he followed. “If you talk and zhe’ll confide in you, then that’s fine, but right now I’m not comfortable with zhem. Not if zhe might actually hurt one of you.”

  “If you really think that’s for the best and you need to ask zhem to go, then I’ll…” Mell sighed heavily, “I’ll support you.”

  He was silent for a moment. Mell was willing to forgo her own judgment to defer to his. It made no sense. He’d made very few good decisions. “Thanks, but why?”

  “Zhe did just hold a knife up to Gale’s throat.”

  “I meant about believing in me, though that includes your acquiescing.”

  “Oh, then save your thanks. Just talk to Gale. And for the love of the gods explain the various Night Elves to her. And humans, too, when you get a chance.”

  He scratched above his ear. “How… how do I approach that. Any… advice?”

  Mell chuckled. “I’ve already seen you apologize. That’d be a good start. And Fenn, explaining used to be your day job. You’ll be fine. Just be honest with her. And get her to stop antagonizing Syrdin. Her racism is really getting to me.”

  He had done an adequate job apologizing after the storm–at Syrdin’s prompting. But bowing to Gale and begging for forgiveness felt wrong. His fists clenched against his stomach. He’d only ever let her believe what she had wanted to. He’d only tried to leave her to her happy, ignorant existence. If she wanted to project some hero onto him, that was her own mis-doing.

  “Fenn?” Mell prompted.

  He looked down. “I’ll try.”

  “Then that’s all the thanks I need. Watching you two dance around your feelings is exhausting.”

  Dance around our feelings. He scowled. At least he knew what Mell wanted. He could probably deliver. He would try. Still, as they walked, he worked on a singular question: What does Syrdin want?