The most fundamental aspect of Elven magic is in the Fae Soul. This intangible factor is what allows the elf to cast spells, more specifically those spells which align with their respective god. The most common term is a conduit, but that is, at best, an incomplete metaphor. It is more accurate to call the soul a reservoir, an intangible location within a fae where energies belonging to a specific god can flow through, collecting as they pass. For example, all Wood Elves possess a natural reservoir of Dara’s magic, granting abilities in the Druidic or Bardic disciplines. As the user casts, the metaphorical flood gates are opened as energy leaves to produce the spell’s effect. Over time and with frequent practice, the dam walls grow higher, increasing the mage’s capacity.

  Spacklebottom and Willowbirth’s “Theory of Elven Magic”

  ? 2339 Assandial University Publishing House

  Zhe… died? Syrdin’s words poured through Fenn like icewater as the two bolted through the Yellow Wood.

  “Died?!” He glanced to where zhe ran beside him, reconsidering zheir mottled skin tone. He had wondered a few times why it varied so much compared to other Night Elves. Now he knew for certain: scarring. Burns, he thought, healed by the magic of a god. Zhe probably meant it very literally.

  “Yup.” The terseness of Syrdin’s reply made it final.

  It was not final, and he had no intention of letting it be. Yet, at that moment, Dara’s low-lying tables returned to view. Steady signs of progress toward a party were evident: there were at least half a dozen more of the heavy, wooden furnishings scattered around, a clearing had formed between some of the trees, and in that glade a handful of fauns and nymphs tuned their instruments. The clothes decorating them were exactly that: decorative. Mostly sheer vests, beaded scarves, or other accessories. Considering the chill in the air, it seemed inappropriate.

  Fenn’s thoughts turned again to his friends. Leaves protested under his heels as he sped through the maze of tables to reach the only one occupied. The first to notice them was Gale. She perked up from where she had been lounging against “Staiil’s” thick bicep, her cheeks an alarming shade of red. “Fenn! You’re back!” She grinned under glittery eyes.

  Look after her. If Syrdin had warned him, then it had to be truly unsafe. “Gale, you’re flushed. Are you alright?”

  “Fennie!” Mell raised a half-consumed goblet to him with a relaxed smile. “You found Syd! Now we can really learn something!”

  Fenn gawked. Mell might have had a glass of wine after hours in the library, but to see her so easily jovial came as a surprise.

  “Flushed?” Gale pushed on her cheeks and stared at her fingers as if the color would rub off. She grinned at him again. “Staiil said we’d wait for you to come back, and to help ourselves.” She reached for her goblet, swirled it, and then frowned at the apparent nothing left in there.

  It was all wrong: the quiet conversation, the contented smiles, and the large table with the magnanimous host at the head. A musician’s repeated plucking of a string gnawed at the peace.

  “I see you brought the Night Elf back with you.” Staiil gazed evenly at Syrdin.

  Zhe took the prompt and bowed a proper half-bow, somehow making the gesture suave despite zheir previous refusals to use it. “I beg your forgiveness, lord. I have offended the manners of your court.” The words were formal and apparently satisfactory.

  “Apology accepted. Sit,” Staiil ordered through a frown. He did not look at zhem again. “I answered your question, Fennorin of Etnfrandia. Shall we continue with my turn?”

  Fenn nodded, fumbling onto his stool across from Gale at the god’s left elbow. It was hard to imagine, now that he knew Staiil–Dara–to be a god, that there could be a question a god would want to ask him.

  “Your betrothed,” he rested a hand on top of Gale’s shoulder as he spoke. The gesture reminded Fenn of how a human might touch the neck of a horse or the head of a dog–as something that one owned. He is her god. But Syrdin had warned him. “She says you enchant objects, but not people. What kind of enchantments?” Staiil finished.

  Fenn blinked. No one but other specialists in the field ever asked him about the details of his work. He wondered if he should answer at all–if it could possibly be harmful, but he perceived no danger. “Arcane–or world magic of many kinds. Recently I’ve done a lot of work in gravitation and momentum. Mainly because of some inventions called arcane engines and gravitational rail.”

  “Demonstrate.”

  That was easy enough. Fenn plucked up a cloth napkin, balled it up, and tossed it in the air. Just as he had with his arrows against the flobotymus, he gave it direction, writing the runic instruction with a temporary pulse of energy. It went fluttering away at high speed until it impacted on a trunk and fell to the ground.

  The god leaned forward with a brow raised. “And for this arcane magic, I sense you need no fae soul, no well or path.”

  Chills prickled at Fenn’s shoulders. Dara had somehow sensed his lack of a reservoir without having been told.

  Gale sighed and leaned her head on her lord’s arm again, her eyelids drooping. That was the reaction Fenn was accustomed to. Not the part where Gale was affectionate with a near-stranger–her lord, he had to remind himself–but the disinterest.

  “I formed a rune from pure energy to act as the conduit on the object, rather than channeling through myself. But written runes last longer, as on this.” He set out his hand-crossbow for the god to inspect. “But I–it’s as Gale told you; I can’t enchant the living. Their own energies prevent the runes from taking hold.” Fenn prayed that this would not come back to haunt him, though he couldn’t see how. He needed to answer if he wanted to ask.

  “Ah, how clever.” Staiil traced a finger over the runes on the crossbow’s stalk. “Though I can’t say I understand how it works. Runes are foreign to me. Still, that satisfies my curiosity about this. You may ask your next question.”

  Mell thrummed her fingers on the table, raising her brows at Fenn meaningfully. She wanted to know more about Cyalmara, and how they might gain an audience with him.

  Fenn leapt in another direction, reaching for the question that had haunted him from boyhood. “What happened that sealed away the Chaos realm from the True one?”

  “She did warn me that you knew more.” He petted Gale’s head, and she turned a shade redder. “I stay out of those affairs, but you already know the answer. There was war against Sabaed and her Night Elves. Those living in the realm of men had been driven back to the mountains. Thus, all among the tribes were called to battle, and most died. Then the Doors were sealed off with the fae gods–minus Sabaed–all inside.”

  Fenn squinted, analyzing Dara’s answer for any new information. There was the implication that Sabaed’s seclusion was the reason, but… no, Dara had evaded a clear answer on purpose. In his periphery, a sprite refilled Gale’s goblet with an orange liquid.

  Fenn puffed in frustration. The Doors were sealed by whom? That was the question he should’ve asked. He needed to be more specific if he wanted Dara to answer. “Yes, I know that much. A war. A seal on the Doors. I’ve seen the seal. But how? Why? That is what I ask.”

  “Then you are asking additional questions.” Dara’s thumb lingered on Gale’s hairline, still resting on her head. A plaything. Syrdin’s assessment was authenticated by the possessiveness in his touch. Something inside Fenn shuttered at it, and another roiled. Yes, Gale had a connection to Dara, but that did not mean the god owned her. That he could touch her like that when she was clearly not herself.

  As though he could sense Fenn’s thoughts, Dara smirked but released Gale. “So, Fennorin of Etnfrandia, just what happened to thwart your soul? For surely you would learn your natural magic if only you knew how.” There was a promise between his words, a tease that he knew much more about Fenn’s condition than even Fenn did. It was as though Fenn needed only to ask this god, and all the secrets of his inner power could be revealed: freed from whatever bound them. That wasn’t what he’d come to ask, but…

  Excitement and desperation clawed at his intentions. Scholarship, information, the truth, wouldn’t those be easier to acquire if I knew myself? He had tried in vain to uncover what fae magic he possessed, systematically eliminating the gods until they’d all been gone. That had left him with a lack: a hole in his person where the innate conduit, the faerie soul, should be. From his father’s line, he should’ve had access to Dervalia’s magic–things like memory modification or truth-binding. At minimum, charms, like all elves. But he had nothing–not even an awareness of the magic around him–magic he knew must be pulsing in the forest even now. His head hung.

  “I wish I knew. The most I can tell you is that there is Moon elf in my father’s line.. But of my mother… she could be anything but Wood or Night elf. In fact, she could be a mix of everything else.”

  “And her magic has not indicated her tribe, or you would know,” Dara mused.

  Her magic. That was laughable. When Fenn thought of his mother, he thought of a woman hiding on the other side of a doorpost, waiting for permission to console her child—permission that would never come. She was like a speck of dust wafting in a ray of moonlight. Each spin on a draft had only delayed the inevitable fall to the floor. Fortunately, the winds of time had swept her away, safely out of doors. She was happy with the Deepsuns.

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  “I don’t know.” Fenn confessed, spinning his full goblet. It mocked him with a honey-sweet smell. “For reasons well beyond my grasp, magic is outlawed. But my father, Ceann Willowbirth, has a license to use it. His is Moon.” It came in disorganized flashes. Moments of forced obedience, lost spans of time; these were things Fenn had recognized as supernatural as a boy. Even now, recalling such things brought a sting of dejection. It required a hatred beyond disappointment to make a father do such things to his own son.

  Mell coughed, forced, and sent Fenn a glare that was made triple by Syrdin and Krid. Immediately, he recognized his failing. He’d been rambling on with excess information to someone who was purposefully withholding. He needed to ask a better, more precise question. He needed to evade. What would be the swiftest way–swiftest and most achievable way for us to meet–no gain an audience with—converse with Cyalmara?

  “Willowbirth?” His surname fell with disgust from the god’s tongue.

  Fenn’s focus snapped up from the table's woodgrain. There was a silence at the table wherein the plucking of untuned strings fought dissonant against the gentle shush of the leaves. Somewhere, a faun laughed.

  “The Willows yet live, then?” Thinly veiled hatred tightened the centaur’s broad face.

  “It’s Fenn’s turn for a question,” Syrdin snapped.

  “What is it you know about my heritage–this magic–that makes you inquire about it?” He blurted it. He should’ve asked for Cyalmara’s exact location, or how to reach him. Or for more on what made Boidhan go missing. Why Dara hid his true identity. But his name, his family–it was the only one constant in the history of Etnfrandia, so prominent that even Dara knew it. It was the only Ceannship that never changed hands. The only family with stewardship over the truth. And Fenn didn’t have it.

  The centaur put a hand to his mouth, rubbing in thought, then lowered it to expose a fresh, silken smile. “Oh, nevermind that. It is an ancient and sad tale–nothing you need concern yourself with. As for your magic, how could an ordinary centaur know about a stranger he just met? You are unusual, that’s all. And I have a friend who collects information who will be keen to hear all about you, Willowbirth.”

  That was it. Dara was outright lying. The entire conversation was a trick. But of course. The faeworld. A Chaos god. There had been no other possible outcome, really. Fenn glanced over to see Syrdin’s scowl. Zhe shuttered, zheir gaze not leaving the god. Likely, zhe was having zheir own conversation. “There is nothing ordinary about you, Lord.” Fenn growled.

  “So you say. But, now it is my turn again, and I will turn to the substance of our talk, not this curiosity. How is it that you all came to this realm?” His voice wasn’t as dismissive as he tried to make it.

  “Through Ferngal’s Forest, naturally.” Fenn attempted a withholding answer.

  The centaur rolled his eyes. “This realm, lad. From the Trueplane to the Faeworld. Do not pretend to misunderstand me.”

  Unfair. Fenn tensed. Dara wasted their time on half-answers while Fenn wasn’t allowed to do likewise.

  Gale plucked up her head. “Don’t be silly, Fenn. You opened a magic Door, didn’t you? Mell said it was very difficult to do.”

  “What?” Syrdin and Dara said in tandem, both turning on Fenn–the first in wonder, the second in horror. Krid grumbled. Mell groaned.

  The sudden attention made Fenn’s tongue stick in his mouth. “Y-yes. I modified the seal to allow us entry.”

  “YOU?” Dara leaned forward on his elbows, nostrils flaring in anger. “You modified the seal? When?!”

  “Maybe two months ago?”

  “But two months in that realm is… around eight weeks! A half-turn!” It was incredible how quickly four legs could rise, and rise they did. Dara slapped his palms onto the table, towering over it. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

  Gale whimpered, instantly on the verge of tears.

  “I’m only trying to find out who separated the elves and fae, and why.” Fenn couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice. “I only want to help our people remember.”

  “You’ve upset–!” Dara stopped himself, taking a deep breath as he leaned back. “You, born of the Willow, have meddled in something much bigger than some archivists’ historical trove. And it will bring trouble like you’ve never known. Thanks to you, I have much business to attend to now, and none of it will wait. Enjoy the party. My assistants will show you where to refresh yourselves and will provide appropriate clothes. I imagine by time you are ready, the revelry will have begun, and the tables will be full. When you’ve had your fill of it, Redival here can show you where your tents have been raised.”

  A female faun curtsied at Dara’s shoulder, her brown curls tumbling over her shoulders. They covered more than her “shirt,” which was nothing but a narrow strip of fabric woven with bright beads. Hair grew up her stomach and over her naval in an upside-down V, so in many ways she was mostly covered, but in many typical ways she was not.

  Fenn looked away reflexively. He would have hated to be so exposed, but the faunness gave no indication of discomfort.. “This way to the springs, everyone,” she said with a rehearsed smile.

  “How lovely to meet you!” Gale rose and performed her own curtsy, surprisingly adept for one so flush-faced. “But, Dara?”

  Fenn jumped at how she called the god by name.

  The centaur grinned, sending a wink to Fenn. “Pardon me, little one, but I can’t tarry. Enjoy your first party in your rightful home.” He smoothed Gale’s hair and turned without another parting word.

  First. Home. Syrdin had told him to watch out for Gale, but this was her homeland. He thought of his cabin, not in Greenriver Valley, but in the rolling country outside Assandial–of the honeysuckle over the fences and how they would sway in the shadow of the summer leaves; the dance of yellow tendrils in Goldie’s tail and the nicker of Oakland’s greeting; of the packed shelves full of chotskies and artifacts, and more with books and scrolls. Home. Home of an archivist, he realized. Dara had known far too much.

  “But will he be back?” Gale’s voice warbled as she turned to Redival, unabashed by the other woman’s nakedness. “I hoped he would teach me more magic.”

  “I’m sure he will share words with you again. Come.” The fauness’ smile split her upper lip like a cat’s—or rather like a goat's. “You all must want to be refreshed before the party.”

  The party. Fenn surveyed the growing number of tables, stools, and benches before uttering a forlorn sigh. There was nothing he hated more than a crowded party. But, if he would be captive in a faerie party–he glanced between his companions and their varying states of sobriety and excitement–he couldn’t think of better company. And he had a host of questions for the natives. The determined glint in Mell’s eye revealed she felt the same.

  Hot water held Syrdin aloft, weightless. The stink of minerals couldn’t ruin the experience of tension-melting, stress-defeating, make-you-forget-your-mission relaxation.

  Except it didn’t make zhem forget. As zhe stared into the golden canopy, zhe relived zheir conversation with Dara. Or rather, the conversation between Ath-togail and Dara that had occurred inside zheir head.

  “Are you prepared to deal, Daughter of Sabaed?”

  “I offer an exchange of information.”

  “Shall we lay precise terms?”

  “I will update you on the habits and plans of Sabaed, and you will inform me of the entrances and status of the Underfae.”

  “I would prefer your habits and plans.”

  “Then you must supply me with access to Boidhan himself.”

  “Even if I wished to, I could not.”

  “Then I will only add to the bargain my name. Accept it as is, or deny. I will give no more.”

  All while Fenn fumbled through Dara’s interrogation of his abilities. Syrdin uttered a sigh. Skin that hadn’t felt air in weeks lost uncounted layers of dirt as zhe floated. Somewhere in the distance, nymphs laughed in tinkling sounds, mixing with Krid’s throatier one.

  Dara had accepted the deal of course. An information broker needed exactly that.

  Finally, the subject of the laughter lost his patience and yelled at the nymphs to return his clothes. Syrdin grinned. Poor Fenn.

  He would go through much worse before Syrdin was done with him. He was progressing nicely, though. His confidence grew steadily, as evidenced by the demands he made of the nymphs in the distance. “Drop that right now!”

  Krid laughed harder, roaring.

  Krid. He was going to be quite an obstacle to Syrdin’s purposes. If only I could gain his trust, too. Zhe curled and pushed zheir feet to the bottom of zheir pool—there were many, some more secluded than others. Ingratiating Krid would be difficult, but not impossible.

  The vulnerability angle zhe used on Fenn would never work on him. He wouldn’t believe it.

  Removing him would compromise Fenn.

  Religious appeal was not an option. The Brikhvarnni people mistrusted gods, instead entering into near-worship of this idea called Fate. But Krid had things he wanted–things he would sacrifice Fate for. The safety of his family and friends, for one.

  If Syrdin could guarantee it somehow… An oath of peace. A promise of protection. Proof of the power zhe had to back such a promise…

  But it would be risky.

  A promise of peace with his people and the dwarves if he would support zhem? He would never believe zhe had the authority.

  He would believe I do, Ath pointed out.

  True, but he wouldn’t trust you either.

  Syrdin reached for the fresh outfit left by a bathing attendant, sliding silken trousers over scarred flesh. Zhe would have to do it the human way. Somehow.

  Zhe held the shirt in zheir hands: stark white with red beading, a throat-collar, and a deep-cut V down the front that would expose zheir entire chest. Zhe scowled. It was like Dara taunted zhem on purpose. They don’t know you, he said without words. So be it. Zhe pulled on the shirt backwards. In zheir reflection in the pool, muscular shoulders rippled in the V. Satisfied, Syrdin curled zheir scowl into a smirk.

  That compliments you well, Ath noted.

  And I’m not even done yet. Sodden curls dripped water on the white fabric, leaving grey marks. Zhe whistled for an attendant. If zhe was going look good enough to earn some answers, there was work to be done.