"Where Elvies smile at us" – Getta
The Sun rose, and its light forced Den's eyes open. He sat up—the cart was moving gently down a wide road: The Road, Veamunae. Ahead of them, sunlight glinting off its many faces and dwarfing the tallest trees, stood the towering heights of Pretipaxae.
The city was as a mountainous statue, or perhaps a giant crystal in raw form. The walls around it were high enough; no less than ten meters above The Road they rose ahead, imposing. But higher still were several—at least five—towering spires of stone, like obelisks, jutting each some few hundreds of meters into the sky from the city's center. Each appeared to be constructed (or perhaps carved) from a different sort of stone: one tannish, layered sandstone, one granite-hewn, and the central one, emblazoned with a golden sun near to its point, was made of white marble, smoothed to mirror-sheen.
"The Elf-City!" cried Den.
Dregal and Phemelius were in the front; Phem looked back. "Indeed, Denbas. The stronghold now called Pretipaxae, where peace once was shared. Come up here for a little while. Dreg needs some rest."
Den scrabbled over Jaskell's sleeping body, and as he went, saw Fia also curled up sleeping on the other side of the Box. His dreams from the previous night came rushing back, and something of them lingered, held as truth. How would she look in a pure white wedding gown, with hair long-grown and adorned with jewels? He found the prospect strange now, beholding her current attire, and indeed remembering the way she carried herself. Still, it could be, that she was some secret half-daughter of Lords, or Dukes or Counts or Princes, or even Kings. Wouldn't that be something?
Then he got the distinct impression that Fia would not like him staring at her and imagining her in dresses, and anyway he was lingering too long. He hurried up to join the Prince, and Dreg went back to curl up in his sleeping-spot. Phemelius had the reins, and they were clopping along in a wide line of people (humans and many Elves!) approaching the city gates. "Hey Den," Phem said. "Have you ever driven a horse-cart before?"
"Um, no. I suppose not." Den's family had never been able to afford such a thing.
"Yes you have." Phem's eyes sparkled. "Last night, you pulled a very sharp turn, and drove this cart away from deadly peril."
"Oh," Den said, and he smiled meekly. "Yeah… and then I hit a rut down there, and flipped us over. Hardly the noblest display of horsemanship."
"It was a treacherous bit of terrain, and quite the tense environment for learning in," said Phem. "And still you did well for us. For The Mission. Wanna give it another go, here where it's easier?"
"Okay," said Den. "I'll try."
He was handed the reins, and Phem pointed forwards, saying: "See it's not so hard. They mostly drive themselves; a horse knows its purpose. If you wish to slow, you pull them back—see, try it, whooaaa, gently now." Den tugged the horses gently back, and their pace slowed to an ambling crawl.
He heard a man's voice mutter far behind: "What's the holdup!?"
"And then," said Phem, "when you wanna speed up a bit, you give 'em a little flick, again, gentle, on the haunch there. Don't have to be too gentle, horse-haunches are tough stuff, get your point across, but… there, you've got it!"
Den whipped the reins down on the horses, and they sped to match the pace of a barrel-stuffed wagon ahead. The Prince was right: compared to dodging trees and arrows on a nasty downhill, this was nothing. He settled in to driving. As they got closer to the gates, stops became more frequent, and Den's ability to cleanly stop the horses improved also.
They reached the gates and fully stopped, for they were required to; an Elven gate-guard with a Sungold spear shouted up to them: "State your business in Pretipax!"
At this Prince Phem stood, lifted his Ax up from the cart behind, and took his black hood (which he'd been wearing for nearly the entire Mission up to this point) down off his head, and projected his voice high over the Road's hubbub: "My name is Phemelius, son of Moliesvar, Duke of Orevictorum. I seek an audience with my cousin the King of Ætsolai; but that aside, no Elf nor any human-born may hinder my entry into the lands of my birth."
Den felt the heat of a thousand eyes upon their cart, especially on the Prince. The High Elf stood much like a statue: chin high, brow steady, Ket-Blaskar stood at his side, chest proudly out. Even despite the drab peasant-fare he wore, and the muddy, splintered old cart he rode in (and with a bunch of humans), none that day could doubt the Elven Hero they saw standing before them. There were many gasps, and some cheers. Then murmuring: "I heard he was in Newandrale, it's true!" "The Lost Prince is returned!" "Where has he been for all these years?"
A few more guards came out from the gates, just to hold their heads and look up in shocked awe. "Prince Phemelius!" one said. "Yes, my apologies, right this way m'Lord!" The Elf-guards hurried out of the way, Phem sat down and sighed very quietly, and Denbas Sorman himself drove their cart forwards, beaming. As bad as 'this is real' had been in Signestad, here it was the greatest ecstasy he had ever felt. He bore The Lost Prince home.
Down the city streets they went, and drew many more eyes, and murmurs from the citizens. There were many other humans living in Pretipaxae, and Den could even see many Elf-humans also. This was only sensible, on the line between the lands of humankind and Elves, that they would mingle here, allied. The dangers of the Mission are well and truly over, Den thought. Now we reap our glories earned, and soon Fia and the Prince will be wed. Here, among their people.
"My Prince," Den said, turning to Phemelius. "We've done it! I'm… a bit ashamed to see how we are treated here. There's much more reverence than my own kin gave you and your entourage. And these are Elves, who have a right to pride."
"Ugh," Phem said, head in hands, "I could use a little hostility, a little quiet. Better a stranger than a Prince."
"Hah," said Den. "Well, that I can understand. All these people looking at us; it's almost worse than hostility sometimes, to be the center of attention. Still, we should be relieved, right? They welcome us, and soon we'll be in Orevictorum, where there'll be time for all the quiet you desire."
"Not before Ætsolai," Phem said. He didn't seem happy to say so.
"Oh yes, of—my Prince," Den ventured, "what of us humans? Of course your men adore you, and Fia fits in here, but we are, well, a failed soldier and a thief. And Dreg," Den leaned to whisper: "He's a heretic. I've been meaning to ask you about this, m'Lord, I know he's a decent enough fellow, and he says you don't mind it, but other Elves may not be so gen—"
"It's fine," said Phem. "But yes, keep that quiet. And what, you human peoples?" He smiled. "We are your Protectors, are we not? What have you to fear of High Elves?"
"Oh no, it's not," Den stammered. "Uhh… it's not that I fear of unfair treatment—this is a blessed place, after all, and Ætsolai more so—but might we be a stain on your reputation? I mean, we're just regular people, and these are matters of Elven Princes and Kings now."
"It is often said that us Greater Folk look kindly upon you regular people," Phem answered. "That should brighten your spirits. I've tried to treat you fairly, and never seen any of you as 'stains'. Why expect any different from my kinsfolk?"
They hit a misplaced cobble, and the bump shook Fia awake. Her head shot up behind Den. "—hh—mduhhh…Wha? Pretipax?" she mumbled, blinking and jerking her head back and forth.
Phem looked back and grinned. "Yes. This is the Central City. We've a few minutes to an Inn. Are you ready to join us, or would you prefer a bit more sleep?"
She laid back down and continued to mutter incoherently. "Mmm-hmm," Phem hummed proudly. Yep. Definitely 'together'.
"Is—" Den started to ask, and then both men saw a cluster of guards fast approaching.
Phemelius stood sternly. "What is the meaning of this?" he shouted to the men. He had his Ax in hand.
The captain of these Elves shouted back: "Marshall Solchenore humbly requests your audience. Well… it's not really a request. We apologize for the hassle, m'Lord, we have no quarrel with you. However, the contents of your cart concern the Marshall and Lord Dogalshnue most pressingly."
Den stopped their cart before the men, and Phemelius hopped down to meet them, Ax still in hand. "My Quest requires the utmost secrecy, gentlemen, and the greatest haste. I cannot be so waylaid."
"We're told one of your… circaur is injured, Sir. It will need rest if going with you, and would benefit from a safe place here if not. And Sir…" Den tried not to look like he was listening, but strained his ears, and from the Elf he heard the whisper: "…the Lord fears for your safety. The Circauriem could send spies. We will not part Oliostesmai from you." The man saluted Phemelius, fist to chest.
"Alright," the Prince said. "Lead on. I will take your promise as the Lord's own, and expect lodging, hospitality and supplies as payment for the delay."
"Of course, m'Lord." Phem hopped back up onto the cart's front seat, and Den flicked the reins to get them following their Elven escorts.
"Sir," he whispered. "What does that word mean? 'Sir-core'?"
"Circaur," corrected Phem. "Yes, you'll be needing to learn the Western tongue, and there's a good start: the word refers to Humans. The direct translation is 'one with rounded ears,' although that is perhaps over-generous; there is an unfriendly connotation to the term."
"Unfriendly connotation?" Den asked. "Like, it's an insult?"
"Mmm." Phem looked down at the lustrous, rippled face of his Greatax. "Implicit is the idea that there is something wrong with rounded ear-tips. That such a shape is 'an other thing,' a deviation from what is normal. That's how it's used, anyway."
"Oh, huh," said Den.
The cart rolled up to near the foot of that first titanic marble obelisk; from so close a distance it was clear that these stone spires made up the city's central keep, or perhaps its palace. They did not enter the stone doors of this structure, though; there was a very large (yet, here dwarfed) building, with thatched walls and a great square-slanted roof, off to the left just outside: thick with guards, a barracks. Into the surrounding yard they were led, and heavy gates closed behind them. Den looked to the Prince, and the mighty Elf looked nervous as he ever had. They entered a covered barn within the stables, and here were brought to a halt. Humans in brown stable-garb rushed to their horses, with brushes and feedbags and buckets of water. Then came several Elven guards, led by a proud officer with a white cloak and gold pauldrons. He had a Sungold saber of his own at his hip; it looked to be identical to Fia's.
"M'Lord," said the officer. "We'll need to be unloading now, and no time to discuss. Rouse your soldiers and come treat with us."
Phemelius stood. "What is your name, Captain?"
"Captain Eyaphallo," replied the Elf. "Please, Sir, join—"
"Captain Eyaphallo." The Prince's words took on a noble air. "I was told that your Marshall ordered the search of my vehicle personally. I will not surrender it to any other."
"Sir, we only wish to—"
"Captain, there is either disgrace or luck in the assembly of my company; that I am not escorted by a retinue, and indeed an army as befits my station, due to the covert nature of my Quest. I have not yet decided what you make of matters, however, I might be tempted to assume another sees a fruitful opportunity in my weakened state, should they break their word and hurry me along. Such a measure of my strength would be… unwisely weighed."
Captain Eyaphallo set his jaw. "Alright, Sir. Marshall Solchenore is on his way." He stood at attention, and all his guards followed.
Getta sat up now, rubbed his eyes and bellowed a yawn. "...whoa. Where's we?"
Phemelius crouched and extended a flat, placating hand towards the Thief. "Pretipaxae. Easy now, Getta. Lay low for a while. Bigs are on us."
Getta sunk lower, looked around furtively. "Elf-Bigs," he whispered to himself.
The Marshall of Pretipaxae came, accompanied by even more guards, many of them officers. He was an older Elf, with face hard-wrinkled and squarer than most of his kin, eyes low and searching. A bit heavyset also, but no less towering than someone like Phemelius. He had that familiar air of command; stoic and proud.
"Duke Phemelius," he shouted evenly. "Step down, and let us bring you and your possessions into the safety of the Petrachryst."
"This is not my destination," Phem shouted back, stood tall. "OcciditenesVokkro."
"The safety of our lands is my priority, and noble pride be damned!" the Marshall said, still shouting. "Step down, submit your cart and soldiers to my inspection. You'll have your way, soon as we can give it."
He's a blunt Elf, Den thought. But he's responsible for all of Pretipaxae, and so the security of the Elven Kingdom in its entirety. He's just doing his job.
Phemelius did, at last, step down from his cart, but not before nudging Den and whispering: "Rouse the others." Ket-Blaskar slung over his shoulder, he jaunted over to Solchenore, and said: "Very well. I will have words with your Lord over this treatment. I may appear disheveled, to a lapdog of this backwater, but I am still a noble son of greater Elves."
Den scrambled back and shoved Getta, Fia, and at last Dregal. Jaskell he saw no reason to wake; he still looked rough, so he'd need to be carried. And indeed a stretcher came towards them, borne between two Elves. Getta had, of course, already been awake, and whispered to Den: "We in trouble?" Fia batted Den's hand away, half-awake.
Dreg shot up like an arrow, fists raised, and then seeing so many High Elves around them, sat back down and remembered himself. He thumbed at Fia and said: "Hasn't been sleepin' enough, this one. Now it's all caught up t'er." He gave her shoulder a much harder shove than Den would've dared.
Fia rolled over onto her back, pulled her pink scarf up over her face, and from beneath it groaned: "I'm up…" and muttered curses Den didn't recognize.
Guards and healer-Elves reached the back of their cart, and from within, Phem's group of humans helped them load Jaskell out. An Elf woman said to Dreg: "The hospital here in the barracks is best. It's just out back; you can't miss the signage: 'HOSPITAL,' written in human. What's his name?"
"Jaskell," Dreg said. "Ashrubar Jaskell. My Lord Commander Phemelius will be wantin' to visit him shortly."
"Very well. He will be the only human there today, so your master shouldn't have trouble finding him, nor you, his servants. We'll have him escorted to your quarters when he's fixed." She led the stretcher-bearers off, and they were gentle enough with Jaskell's ailing body.
Ten guards came now to the cart, unarmed and attended by the same Captain from before. "Step down, humans!" Eyaphallo barked, but they did not. Den stood up anxiously and looked to the others.
Dregal shot a glare at the Elf-captain, and then shouted to Phem: "Commander! They're after the Box!"
Phemelius had been conversing with the Marshall, and started over to his people; Marshall Solchenore stopped him with a heavy hand on the Prince's shoulder. "Ho, now," said the Marshall. "You and your soldiers can follow us. Sorry to say, boy, but none of you look to be in any state to carry the thing, much less fight us for the right. My man told you that you wouldn't be parted from it, and that's a promise I intend to keep. Just want to have a look, make sure you've got what rumors say you've got. A private look, and quickly."
Phem nodded bitterly. "Let 'em up, Dreg. We'll all be going with it. Where's Fia?"
Dreg shrugged and kicked Fia; her boot shot up from the cart-bed and kicked him back more swiftly in the butt. He stifled a yelp. Then Fia climbed to her feet, head hung low, eyes blinking lazily. Den heard whispers about 'semaltaim' from the guards around.
The five hopped out of the cart, and watched six of the guards hoist the Wall-Burner's box somewhat easily up and out. They bore it towards the Marshall, and he waved to Phem's companions, saying: "This way, everyone. Come along with your Princeling." He, his guards, and Phem started their march towards a side-door into the barracks, then came Den and Dreg, Fia (shambling) and Getta, then the Box and all the others.
In the underground hallways of Pretipaxae's barracks, Den heard the Marshall ahead whispering to Phem: "Sorry, kid. Gonna have to be just me and you in there. That's my own people not allowed in, you see, and circauriem inefra."
Phemelius nodded back, muttering: "She's an Elf."
"Vykis," said Solchenore, and both High Elves chuckled.
At a large doorway, two guards that had been flanking the Prince and Marshall stopped, turned, and stood facing Den and the others. "No entry," one said.
Phemelius turned back also, from behind these Elves, and projected out: "Yes, I'm sorry soldiers, but the Marshall and I must have a moment alone. Won't be long, and then we'll have a welcome feast, courtesy of our gracious host." He smiled at the Marshall, and Dreg saluted them both.
The humans and Fia were parted by the guard-captain behind them, and the Box passed between and into the room beyond. Then a set of heavy doors were slammed shut. Captain Eyaphallo barked: "This way!" and pointed down a side corridor. They were all shoved along.
"What about—" Dreg started.
"You'll still be close enough to your Duke," Eyaphallo barked back. "Now MOVE!" A guard prodded Getta forwards with the butt of his spear; the little man stumbled on his injured leg, but kept moving.
They were led to a little cell of a room, one without much comfort. There the five sat quietly, and waited.
***
The doors of this interrogation room slammed shut, and Phem was left alone with Marshall Solchenore and Oliostesmai. Merkas, he thought. Hopefully they're brought far enough away. The face should defy their sight. They said it would. Breathe, Phem, she'll be alright. We're fine. Another set of doors opened, and in came four Sunmages in their gold-trimmed white priestly robes. They were silent, haughty, obtuse as always. Phem kept a blank, and somewhat smug expression on his face.
"Haukaste Oliostesmai?" asked one Sunmage. This one held a crook-like golden scepter in one hand, with which he pointed at the Box.
"Sica," said Phemelius.
The mage shoved the butt of his scepter under the lid of the crate, and wrenching tore it free. Phemelius, Solchenore, and all the mages marveled at the golden weapon within.
The Wall-Burner was a thick, tapering cylinder of Sungold; about a meter wide and hemispheric at its closed butt-end, gaping open and some thirty centimeters thinner at the other. Protrusions shaped like tongues of flame adorned its outer surface, ridged swirls and curving etches much alike to those that protruded from the face of Ket-Blaskar. Its tube-walls were no more than three centimeters thick, and inside the weapon was hollow and smooth, save spiraling grooves that ran parallel to one another and deep into its recesses. That's all there is to say of the appearance of the Wall-Burner, except to reiterate that it was cast entirely of Sungold, end to end, and that parallel golden handles ran nearly the full length of both sides, so that Elves might hold it aloft.
The one scepter-bearing Sunmage put a hand on the base of the weapon; the slightest glow of flame emanated out from it, and rippled along its golden surface. He smiled. "Sica," the Sunmage said, and with two fingers he traced four intersecting lines through the air before Phemelius, like an eight-pointed star or asterisk. "Grast dombeyus, Phemelius Dukisybilfar Moliesvar. Lukys Emolelae tem dirigue." Phem bowed, and all the Sunmages bowed back. Silently the mages left.
Marshall Solchenore returned the lid to the top of the box, and with one strike of his steel-clad fist hammered it back into place. "Alright," he said. "We're up to the Petrachryst now, and I suppose you'll be wanting this thing with you. With good reason, I might add. We heard about your little scrum with treasoning roundiesout east, and Pretipaxae will be happy to see you go, if you get my meaning."
"That danger I abated," Phem said haughtily. "And threats to this dirty little bastion are below my concern. I am to have my way, as you promised. Return my soldiers to me at once. Have your men bear this Crate and follow me; only with your Lord will I discuss the date of my departure."
***
Den and the others were led back down the same hallway, and into the same room as before, which now lay open. Seeing Phem there still alive and armed, they followed the Marshall, the carried Box and he through another corridor, one which went down and grew colder.
"Tunnels," said Solchenore to the Prince. "Best way to keep prying eyes off cherished guests." Den had heard times when those last two words were said with ironic intent, and this was one of them.
He turned to Dregal and smiled to speak on this, but the Captain shushed him swiftly. "Mmmf, Den, not 'til we're in our quarters…" he muttered.
The escorted party started up a stairwell, then another and another. Past a certain point, the walls changed from musty old cobbles to smooth marble, and the corridors themselves seemed brighter, cleaner, more finely furnished.
In but a few minutes they turned from a wide hallway into a set of gilded oaken doors. Here there was a high hall, with windows of colored glass, exquisite curtains, candelabras and chandeliers, an angular hearth which extended from the marble walls themselves, as though a part of them, and a wide banquet table. A wondrous feast was ready for them, with servants rushing to add dishes and pitchers of ale, and at the head of this table, clad in a green noble's garb, white trimmed, with a platinum sun-pendant on a chain around his neck, stood a tall, thin older Elf. This man spread his arms magnanimously, and to them all (but especially Phemelius) he spoke, in the human tongue, heavily accented: "Ah, Heroes! I Dogalshnue bring Phemelius first welcome to Pretipaxae. Sit, eat! Yabint circuiye manducaint—voyess grastimnu, miamikus. Welcome!" He was all smiles.
"Thank you, Lord Dogalshnue, miamikus," said Phemelius. "I will be leaving Pretipax tomorrow night, or the soonest time ere my soldier Jaskell is healed." A chair was dragged out for him, at the head of the table beside the Lord. Both Elven nobles sat, and all Phem's people followed suit. There were lovely Elven maidens at the table also, noble ladies of the Lord Dogalshnue's court. Den tried politely not to stare.
"Motu ed-fenixtuir, at nundaka itheskuss lokerres?" Dogalshnue asked him, merrily. "Salatram, sekurruai daponn!"
From a seated position, Phem set Ket-Blaskar leaning against the table by its corner, so that it stood between himself and Dreg, and opposite the Lord Dogalshnue. Den resolved to study the High-Elvish language more seriously—and the proper manners for such a place as this. He felt lost. So far, sitting quietly seemed to serve well enough; it was what Dreg and all the others were doing. Or appearing to; Den caught sight of Getta sneaking roast nuts from a platter into the side of his mouth.
Dogalshnue noticed this also, and laughed once more. "Sica—yes! Eat! Hungry humans, eat!" He applauded and gestured emphatically, and the others looked to Phem. The Prince beckoned to one of the attendant servants, and many came to fill the plates of the Cherished Guests. Phemelius ate, then so did the rest. The food was excellent; rich and flavorful and varied. Den had never tasted its like.
"At kuiatok semaltaim?" Dogalshnue muttered to Phemelius, who was nibbling a sugary loaf of bread. "Asnillia Orianetam, hiakapullia?
Phem smiled pleasantly, but it was Fia who spoke next, probably an answer to this question, shot from the table's further end: "Nomnenia myree en oriantem nescutruire." Den saw Phemelius eye her, very briefly.
"Kah!" exclaimed the Elf-Lord. "Varm sætysu! Ekkya dukys vasterui!" He pointed at Phem, and then leaned over the table to address Fia. "Kodd inomas tebusti, molier insolenae vuolri insolnim?"
"Fia," she replied. "At ofiskuem huaemiak iaddukys insolnu kuva Luriach okkanto."
Lord Dogalshnue sat considering these words, and then he burst out laughing heartily, and grabbed Phemelius' shoulder to shake it. Phem had been shrinking into his chair, but once tousled by the laughing Elf-Lord, he smiled along ironically, and gave Fia a roll of his eyes. "Fia!" shouted the Pretipaxan Lord. "Skath Fianorra, irx faebistus!" She nodded, then returned her attention to eating; her eyes and head still drooping in half-sleep. The Lord smiled at her, and darted his eyes slyly her way for the Prince.
At this time Den gave up trying to understand the conversation; he was very hungry. As he devoured fine tender meats, and breads and veg and tangy sauces, and quaffed no small portion of beer, he barely registered the mutterings between the two noble High Elves who sat at the table's head. Even Captain Dregal was but a peasant here, compared to them, and he was also head-down gobbling with no apparent regard for talk. Seen not heard, like all good young soldiers, Den thought. The food revived him, all the better for the starving perils of their past few weeks.
Stomachs all were filled, and Lord Dogalshnue dismissed himself and all his dinner-guests, pleasant as ever: "Go, friends! No more eating here today. One welcome... eh—enough. Later, eat in rooms. Tomorrow, eat goodbye! Lokkerreno plenumom, kah!" He and Phemelius shared a more formal farewell in their own native tongue, and then an Elf-human servant led the Elf Prince and all his companions away.
Den turned to Dreg again, expectantly, and again the captain shook his head. He pressed a finger to his lips.
From behind, Getta shouted: "Great eats! Bigs not so bad when yer a Hero!" Dreg turned to him and, presumably, gave the same shushing finger.
The group reached an open door. "This will be your quarters, m'Lord," said the servant. "See to it that your… soldiers behave well. Your crate will be here momentarily." She left them.
Phem and the others ventured in: it was a luxurious guest suite, with many long lying-couches, a wide, short table laden with treats, a long low window that spanned the length of the common room's wall at head height, and no less than three doors branching out from the side walls.
Fia groaned: "Finally," and made for one of the doors. Just inside it she stopped, stared, and said: "Oh, of course. Outhouses on the inside." To the next door she went, and raised her hands in celebration. "This is my room," she said back to the others. Getta settled onto a couch, and ate yet more from the treat table.
Den looked over her shoulder and into the room beyond: it held a very large and soft looking bed, with its own little cloth roof and curtains, as well as couches and chairs and fancy golden candlesticks. Then he looked back at the third room, the only other that was not, apparently, an 'indoor outhouse'. Dreg opened that door and shrugged, saying: "Fine by me." Inside there were many smaller bunks, wooden trunks and less elegant—but still functional—candles.
Phem strode over to Fia's room and prodded her on the shoulder. "Actually, it's meant to be my room. The other's for my bodyguards and servants, which I suppose includes my Bard. Off with you, then, semaltaim." He waved towards the other room, grinning.
Annoyed, she wagged her finger back at him. "Nuh uh. Today I'm a molier insolenae vuolri insolnim. And this, of course: The Home, is a molier's domain. You're on the couch tonight, Dukys Insolnu!" She slammed the door in Phemelius' face.
"…What—I'm sorry, Sir, but is she alright?" Den asked.
Phem laughed; there was pleasant calm in his voice: "Tired, is all. A bit cranky. Now's a good a time as any to catch up on sleep."
"Amen to that," said Dreg, and he settled down on a couch by Getta. "I'll take what I can get." He laid his head back on his hands and shut his eyes.
Then Dregal shot up again, for there was a heavy knock on their door.
"Inetras!" Phemelius shouted, and the door opened. Luckily it was wide enough for: the Box, which six strong guards now carried in. They laid it on an open spot of floor by the entrance, saluted the Prince, and left.
Dreg settled back down onto the couch, and in a tired way asked: "We sure it's still in there?"
Phemelius strode over to the Box, put five fingertips on its lid, cocked his head and at length said: "Yes. Have some faith in my kinsfolk, Dreg."
Dregal shook his head. "It's some part we've gotta—uh, I mean…"
Den looked back at him curiously. To Phem, he said: "Sir, what are we meant to do now? Am I correct that Lord Dogalshnue said we'd be delivered dinner to our room?"
"Yes, yes, and a feast tomorrow before we leave," Phemelius said. "The sooner the better. This place is as strong to Enemy armies as it is vulnerable to spies from the Human lands. In a way, the attitude of my own kin here advantages us. Dreg, you and I will go visit Jaskell tonight, after we've eaten. Everyone else had best stay in here as much as possible."
"Pardon, what do you mean, Sir?" Den asked. "About your kin's 'attitude'?"
Phemelius scratched his chin. "We do have time to burn, don't we? I suppose I had best start teaching you the Western Tongue then, Denbas, so you might make of their words what you will. Getta, you might want to hear this also." He and Den sat down around the table. Dreg opened his eyes, grunted, and sat up also. The four men conversed.
Den learned much of the prior conversations: when they'd been whispering together, the Marshall had implied to Phem that his own Elven guardsmen couldn't be trusted, and then added 'circauriem inefra,' which the Prince translated as 'and humans less so,' and then reconsidered, adding: "His meaning was closer to: 'and humans lesser still'." Den couldn't see a difference. Phem continued that, at his mention of Fia as an Elf (and therefore exception), the Marshall said 'vykis,' which means 'hardly'.
Den gasped. "An insult," he said. "And my Prince, you laughed along with it!"
"Mmm," said Phem. "And not just because she'd be inflamed if she heard me doing so."
"If," Dreg said, and he grinned.
"Matters of nobility may seem glorious from without, Den, but for us nobles it's but a headache," said Phem. "We must play things close to the chest, and at times obscure the truth, if it means one's plans perform with best chances of success. The Mission is worth any falsehood, including play-amusement at jokes like that."
I guess there's truth to it, too, Den thought. She's not fully an Elf. To me she might seem noble, but to one of purer blood, even a Marshall, she would seem a much lower sort. Again he was awed at the magnanimity of the Prince, and what his 'involvement' with Fia said about him. He was far more generous with humans, and even Elf-humans, than he needed to be. How could that annoy her?
Phemelius told more of their feast conversation with the Lord of Pretipax: that the man joked about the Prince's haste to leave, asked of Fia's background, and was surprised that she, so strange, apparently East-born, was fluent in their tongue. When the Lord cracked that Phem was also strange, and implied the two 'together,' Fia had said 'Ofiskuem huaemiak iaddukys insolnu kuva Luriach okkanto'—'My service to the strange Duke (meaning Phem) sets with the Moon.' Den furrowed his brow at this, and then, still confused and a tad ashamed to ask, he ventured: "...does that mean she's, uh, a 'Lady of The Night'?"
Phemelius smirked faintly at this, and there was a fey twinkle in his eye. "The phrase could hold many meanings. But yes, that's certainly how Lord Dogalshnue took it. He quite enjoyed her joke."
"She was just tired," Dreg added. "Uh, cranky, like Phem said. And don't you go blamin' her for getting' mad at that—" He lowered his voice. "...at that rot-smiler, with 'is 'jokes'. I wouldn't like to be an Elf-human in his presence, that's for sure."
"Yet, you're a human here, Dreg. You did well." Phemelius flicked his eyes between the two soldiers.
"…is that what that word means, Sir?" Den asked. "Semaltaim—Elf-human?"
Phem wobbled his head side to side, and bit his tongue. "Not exactly. Yes, that's a meaning you could take, but there's an insulting connotation here as well; the word most closely means 'Half-High,' implying, of course, that she's half High-Elven, but also that she's… low. Meaning… Less Than One Should Be."
"Oh," said Den. "This is all very complicated, Sir. I know you care for the particularities of words—"
"Oh, that's for sure," added Dreg.
"—yes, but it's a lot to take in. I can hardly grasp what Elven words mean on their face, and then there's all this other murk you say is 'implied by tone and context'. And I'm not saying you're wrong, Sir, I have some ear for irony… only that it's… a lot, you see."
"A lot need not be too much," Phemelius said. "But Dreg is right: we all need rest. I'd suffer an afternoon nap, or at least a chance to mull things over in the quiet of my own mind. There's much to do in my homeland, and our time here is only just begun."
Getta was already snoring. Den took a bite of mutton from off the table and leaned back to do the same, as did the other two. The afternoon passed their sleeping bodies over.
***
Den awoke to another knock at the door; the Sun was low outside, and from this room, with its window to the East, could see only the dim oranges of sunfall spreading across the land; the room itself was darkening. Dregal stood at attention by the door and welcomed dinner-laden servants inside. Getta sat by Den, excited for another meal.
Phemelius was splayed out on a couch, one knee bent up and the other leg hanging off the side, snoring loudly. He looked sort of silly to Den, and the young human realized that he'd never seen the Prince asleep. There'd been many days (and even some nights) where he had slept, but always in that tent of his, or curled up in its cloth in the cart-bed. Now, where once there had been a dour expression, his mouth hung open, his tongue hung out of it, a line of drool hung from it. The nostrils of his thin little nose looked about as wide as they could ever be, and his hair flopped messily over his forehead. But… it's not like anyone can always be stern and keen… not even an Elf! The sight was odd, though; almost unsettling.
In many waves did servants rush in and out, in and out, until every inch of table and counter in the room was filled with platters, bowls and tankards. At this time Fia emerged from her bedroom, looking a bit more chipper. Her clothes were freshly cleaned. "Hey… oh, here we go. I was getting hungry." She noticed Phem splayed snoring. "Hah! Oh, who's the sleepyhead now, dour-boy? Dreg, pass me one of those fikuem…"
Dreg shook his head anxiously, and then when Fia crossed her arms, Den looked between them, found the wrinkly little thumb-sized fruit she'd been pointing at, and lobbed one over to her. Dregal rolled his eyes and turned away.
Fia caught the fruit, and immediately flicked it skyward. It arced gently under the high ceiling, then came down—Den winced, realizing what he'd done—and landed perfectly into Phemelius' gaping mouth. The Prince sputtered, coughed the fruit up onto the floor, and coughed some more, eyes wide and red-rimmed. He looked around the room; Fia looked away and pointed at Den, with a grin not-well hidden.
Phem rasped one more cough out, cleared his throat, and said: "Fia…" Dreg handed him a cup of water.
"I'm sorry, Sir! I didn't know that she would—"
Phem silenced Den with a raised hand and gulped down some water, smacked his tongue. He eyed Fia one more time, then looked down towards the table, and smirking said: "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to kill me…"
"Hah!" said Fia. She vaulted the couch and sat atop its back next to Phem, feet resting by his legs. "And how would you stop me?"
"Oh, I don't know," Phem replied, still smiling. "Suppose my loyal soldiers might do that for me…" His eyes swept all the others.
Den hurried to respond: "Of course, Sir, but she was just being silly! Fia, how can you joke about such things…" He looked back at Dregal, whose eyes were down; the man looked genuinely upset. He either somehow didn't get the joke, or didn't see the humor. On that we can agree, Den thought. But she wouldn't actually kill him, right? He decided this was some sort of in-joke between… 'together's.
"Two-way split on the loot, Smiley?" Getta asked, between mouthfuls of meat-and-onion pie.
She grinned at him. "Now there's a deal. It'll take two of us littlefolk to bring down this dour tower-man, and you can have the full share if you let me stick 'im first!"
"Yaah!" cried Getta joyously. "Watch out Prince Tower, we'll have that Orry-torum coin!"
Everyone set upon the food, and there was feasting and much mirth, between Getta and Fia at least. Den shook his head and looked to the Prince, who seemed amused by this; totally at ease. However, Den caught him glancing to Den's right, and did the same: Dregal was still quiet, somber, focused on eating and nothing much beyond whatever troubled him internally. Throughout all the meal, the Captain did not speak.
"Alright," said Phem, when the food was finished. He slapped both knees and stood. "Dreg, let's go."
Dreg stood slowly, and Fia jumped up. "Oh, are you going to see Ash?" she asked.
"…No, Fia." Phem's face was hard. "You're good here."
"Fine," she said. Commander and Captain left together. The sun was nearly set. Fia crouched on one of the couches in a huff.
"Um, Fia…" said Den, and she looked up at him curiously. "The way Dreg told it, sounded like you're better than he is with a sword, and that's high praise. While we're, uh, trapped in here, think you could teach me some moves?"
"No." She spun around, hastened to her bedroom, and shut the door behind her.
"We ain't trapped, Sourman," Getta said. He picked at his remaining teeth with a shard of duck bone. "Les'go get some Elvie-shines."
Den sighed. "No, Getta. Phemelius wouldn't want us 'getting' into trouble. I suppose we should just get ready for bed."
***
A short, stocky human and a tall, lean Elf trod across the yard of Pretipaxae's central barracks.
"Commander, I…"
"It's alright, Dreg. We all face challenges."
"I'm committed, sir, 's all I mean. Ain't gotta worry about my vishin' stupidity, I just… I don't have to like everything about the Mission."
"Yes. I would make no requirements as to your emotions, nor anyone's."
Dreg led them around to the hospital. Inside, a human healer, a man, brought them to a large room on the ground floor. There, in the only occupied bed of many, Jaskell sat up, awake and looking much better. His chest was still bandaged, but the bandaging was fully white. The healer saw fit to leave them alone.
"Commander!" Jaskell said, and he saluted. "Phem, I'm sorry about—"
"Nonsense, Jaskell," said Phem. "You prevented my injury, for whatever that's worth. You deserve gratitude more than anything."
The two drew closer, and Jaskell whispered: "Sir, I know you didn't want to kill any of us humans. I thought your First might be, uh… him… but now I've spoiled things. You two knife-ears could've gotten by with—" He coughed, and both his comrades looked at him anxiously. "—gh-huhh… without me."
Dregal put a tender hand on Jaskell's shoulder. "That's one way none of us can 'get by'. We're all glad you're feelin' better, kid."
Jaskell laid his head back and smiled. "Sheesh, yeah, these western healers sure are something. Why didn't you bring one a' these along, Phem, or—"
"It's a tight ship we must keep."
Jaskell laid his head down. "Yeah, I know. Maybe it could've used some tightening, or still… shit, we're still in business right? Nobody's fucked things up? Mages checked the Wall-Burner, like you said? Has anyone—"
"Hell, kid, you think we'd walk in here all pleasant-like if someone saw?" Dreg scoffed. "Gonna be interestin' when Den finds out… our little loose end. Gotta say I agree with Jaskell, Phem… though there's 'The Order the Officer Shouts From Behind,' heh, comin' from me…"
"You may be right, but you're both being dishonest. I saw you cry for him, Jaskell. Trust that the first light of Potential Realized is what stayed my hand, and not some… sentimentality."
"Foolish sentimentality," Dreg said bitterly. "Yer right, Phem, and I suppose we've got no choice but to trust yer judgment. This rosehead here has bark worse'n'is bite; at least as soft 's his old Captain 'e is, 'neath it all." Jaskell rolled his eyes at Dreg, but smiled.
Phemelius glared, fey. "Sentimentality is never foolish. Only choices might be."
***
Den drew the curtains shut in their little servant's bunking-room. Getta lay stomach down, shoulders up on one of the beds, turning over a golden Sun coin in his hand. Den sat down on a bed opposite him.
"You shouldn't joke like that, Getta," he said. "'Killing the Prince.' It isn't right!"
"Denbas… are you stupey? F'yer gonna stick a guy, y'don't tell 'im yer gonna do it, or prank 'bout it, y'just do it. I like Princey." He flipped his coin up into the air, and it landed on Den's bed. "Back in people-land I'd stick a guy for Sun like that, but now I ain't need it. Princey, and Smiley and Sour-cap, and all the secret-sods are good to Getta."
"Exactly: Prince Phemelius is a royal Elf, and now we're in his homeland. Whatever loose words we exchanged out East… here he must be respected."
"Oh, The Mission!" Getta smiled deviously. "Yeah, you right. Mission's 'bout lyin'. Princey bein' a good getta too, showin' it to 'em Bigs!" He punched the air with glee. "Hyeh! 'I'm not a friendly Princey! I'm Big and proud and proper, like all you brighties!' Helps that he's really dour…"
"Lying!?" Den stood. "He is a great High Elf—why do you keep saying these things? We must stay… wary, until we get to Ætsolai—who knows what smiling face might be an infiltrator from the East—but Phemelius has earned his pride, for all he's been through."
"You ain't get Bigs," Getta said. "Sods always love 'em. 'For King and Country!' 'For King and Country!' Maybe Getta ditch The Mission, while gettin's good. Ain't no Big play friendly f'long."
Den did understand implications: these words contained a clear attack on Prince Phemelius' character. He was about to lay into The Thief, when the Prince himself returned, Dreg at his side.
Anxiously, Den ran to the door to meet them, and to Phem said: "Sir, I need to speak to you for a moment. Privately." Phem and Dreg shrugged at each other, and the Elf took Den out into the hall.
"It's Getta," said Den. "He's gone too far this time. He said… he said you were just 'pretending' to be good. He called you a liar!"
Phemelius looked down at the back of his pale Elven hands, his fingernails. "I'm a nobleman, Den. We're all liars, for worse or worser."
"You—whatever games you have to play for The Mission, how can you stand the… the insubordination? And it's worse than that… he said—he said he was thinking of abandoning us! Abandoning you, despite all he's been given!"
"Huh. Why's that?"
"You don't care?" Den was nearly shouting now. "You should know why! He's a treacherous thief, a criminal! He only—he—he only cares about money!"
"Nah. He only cares about surviving, and there's a difference. Sure, you need money to survive here, but that's all taken care of. No cause for him to do anything desperate. He has enough, and so he's satisfied. Even if he left, I wouldn't fault him… though I don't think he will. If he called me a liar, he's as clever as I thought, but if he said he didn't trust me… well, I think that might've been a joke. He was messing with you, or trying to—"
"A joke!?" Den shouted, and then he took a heavy breath. "Sir, we're in the Golden Lands now. I don't really think he's all that dangerous, but… do you really want someone like him around, with us so close to restoring your glory?"
"...What, 'cause he's a human?"
"Now that's a joke!" Den cried, and he frowned anxiously. "Sir, how can you… I'm nothing like him, nor is Dreg, nor even Jaskell!"
Phem sighed and looked at Sorman plaintively. "I do not mean to insult you, Den. If anything, the comparison is flattery. I do think he shares good qualities with Dreg, and Jaskell also; and Fia, as is clear. You're all fine people in my view; in no way tarnished by being born different than I. Could anyone say otherwise?"
"Well of course not!" Den cried. "It's the damnable D—Night Elves that have brought our tarnishing. I heard the words of Lord Benail, saw how all my people, from the gutters to the very top, lost their light after—"
Den found himself stepping back, frightened by a new hardness in the Prince's gaze. The Elf spat, whip-tongued: "You know, Den, I was beginning to think you'd learned a thing or two. It refreshes me to see that I am still often wrong." He reached for the door to their room.
"What—Sir, I… Prince Phemelius! Alright, Night Elves, see, I remembered! Why—how can you so calmly sleep beside a craven thief, and hate me? I only wish to—"
The Prince craned his neck sharply back. "Why, Den?" he hissed, eyes wild. "Why are you so excited to serve me, and this Mission?"
"B-because…" Tears welled in Den's eyes. "Because you're good! Fia said as much, and she clearly knows you better than I do! Please, just tell me what I'm doing wrong, I—"
Phem laid his forehead on the door frame. He sighed heavily. "The Lord and his men would recognize you, now. You'd have a decent reputation here, for all you've done for my Quest… you'd turn out okay. Better than you did in Inemestrel. Den," he said, looking up to meet the younger man's eyes. "Just go."
"What, then… you're not!? But no—I know you are! I know! Tell me, tell me you're secretly some monstrous, lying, wretched evil—lie to me! I know you're good, Phemelius!" He blubbered.
Phem had been walking away into the center room of their suite, but stopped; Dregal, sat on a couch inside, looked up at them grimly. Without looking back, the Prince muttered: "Why again, Den? How?"
"You—because you're an Elven Hero!" Den screeched.
Phem sighed again, and shook his low-hung head. "I'm just a man…" he said. He trudged rightwards into the bunk room, and shut the door behind himself.
"Dreg, what is he talking about!? 'I'm just a man'—I've had enough of this sickly humility! He does not deserve to think himself so low, you must see!"
Dreg's brow creased up. "Den… I—I know you believe 'e's wrong, and sure, sometimes Phem's hard on 'isself. But think about… well, ask how 'e might be right, what truth's in the notion, 'just a man'…"
Den sat down, clutched his head and tried this. 'Seeing Differently,' okay. He thought back to all he'd seen, and his attention caught to what he'd seen this afternoon: Phem lying, napping, snoring in a most embarrassing way. He'd seen many a soldier (and many humans in general) look so ridiculous, but never an Elf. Never an Elven Prince, graceful, pure-blooded—he sat up straight: "By Emol's grace… he's Elf-human! His mother, I've not heard word of her, he's secretly—"
"No, Den," said Dreg. "She was spoken of, the old Duke's latest wife. His last. She died before your birth, I reckon. But she was Elven, as native to Selegrae as Phemelius, or the King, or any of the western kin; and so is he. Exactly as wholly an Elf as you've always known."
Den shook his head. "What, then?"
"I dunno. Maybe it's… well, look, I'm 'just a man,' and you'd prob'ly say the same 'bout Denbas Sorman," Dregal said. He stood. "And maybe it's 'humility,' from him, for good or ill, but I wouldn't call it an insult. Or a 'negative connotation,' heh, none that I can see. Dreg Shennistane is all for 'Just A' men." He smiled warmly, and put a hand on Den's shoulder. "And not as pets, or some little innocents to pity. As folks… just folks, 'bout the same as me. G'night, kid." Dregal crept into the bunk room.
Den sat for a while longer, thinking. He didn't find any way to justify the Prince's over-humble statements, nor his simmering rage. Who could chafe at being called good?And justly so!
Defeated, he stood and went off to bed himself. As he did, Phemelius passed him, with not a glance in Den's direction, and laid down on one of the couches. Den collapsed on a bed, and took to fitful sleep.
***
The next day they were brought a breakfast, which was eaten in relative silence. They're avoiding me again, Den thought. And why? He'd only ever been good! Attentive, obedient, loyal… open to whatever nonsense they would tell! Oh, and here comes Getta. They all like him.
"Hey Sourman, you—"
"Not now, Getta," Den and Phemelius said at the same time. The Prince looked away. Getta sat back down on his couch, confused.
There was a knock at the door, and by Phemelius' permission entered two people: an Elven guardsman, and Ashrubar Jaskell. All but Den stood to warmly welcome their fresh-healed companion back; young Sorman was, as fate would have it, still sour; he picked at a crust of bread.
The guardsman smiled dutifully, and then announced: "Lord Dogalshnue requests you in the stables, Duke Phemelius. On the matter of your departure, and your vehicle."
"Dreg, Sorman, you're with me," Phem said, in that commanding tone he sometimes took. Dreg stood sharply, and Den did also, slowly. They went.
Their old and trusty Cart sat in the stables, empty for the first time Den had seen. All their things: old notched swords, stale bread and produce well and truly rotted, the tent-cloth, a few sacks of coin, and other various trinkets sat on a bench not far away. Captain Eyaphallo was there, with several guards and stablehands. The Elf Captain waved to Phem as he entered: "Ho, Duke Phemelius, sir!"
"Ho to you, soldier," Phem replied. "Are all my possessions in order?"
"No m'Lord, that's just the thing," said Eyaphallo. "This cart of yours… no doubt it has some sentimental value to you, but it is in poor condition, and no way for a noble Elf to travel, even were it new-made."
"And I suppose you'll be offering me some stuffy Pretipaxan carriage, and escorts to bugger me, is that it?"
"Well, um, yes Sir, the Lord demands it. We've but tried to be hospitable, sir, please accept my Lord's gifts to you. He offers out of self-interest, we can agree—he wishes to be The Gracious Host, Who Treated The Lost Prince Well. But frankly, m'Lord… you need it."
"I gave you no leave to speak frankly with me, low-born!" Phemelius started.
Before he could finish, Eyaphallo delivered a swift (but in truth, not so terribly forceful) kick to one of their cart's back wheels. This wheel cracked loose; the cart fell onto that corner, and then, in a cloud of splinter and dust, all three other wheels cracked off, and the cart (now but an open-faced wooden box with broken axles and a horse-anchor) crashed flat onto the dirt. For good measure, one of its walls fell flat also, revealing rusted nails now sheared axially in twain.
"…yes, well… where is my replacement vehicle!?" Phemelius cried. The Elf-Captain sighed and shook his head.
***
"…and I won't be needing any 'escorts'," Phem continued. "Here, in my family's own kingdom. My own lands are not far from here, and once I'm free of this big stony garbage-heap, I'll be free of treacherous circauriem as well, and back among fairer folk!" Eyaphallo just nodded agreeably; all this noble back-and-forth was above his station.
They were marching down the halls; the Captain of Pretipaxae's barracks deposited them back into their quarters, gave Phemelius a few more agreeable nods and 'Yes m'Lord, of course, very well m'Lord's, and hurried away. "My Lord will send men to escort—ah, invite you to the Parting Feast," he shouted back, still running so as not to hear an answer. Dreg shut the door, and Phemelius deflated onto a couch.
"What, then, they give us a new ride?" asked Jaskell. "My my, one can only admire these High Elves here. Fixin' us up real nice."
Phem spoke up: "Six-horse carriage, and two more stallions for Fia and I to ride out front. Hopefully Dogalshnue values his men over his reputation, and won't foist an escort on us, despite my refusal."
"Getta's a horser now," said Getta. "Can ride frontly with Miss Grinny."
"Sorry Getta," said Phem. "No can do. Here, they'll need to see us Elves out front."
"Oh, yah," Getta said, smiling. Den felt The Thief's shining eyes upon him. "F'the Lie."
Den sat out of the day's conversation; didn't join in on anything but nap time, after a small noontime sup was brought to the group. If they want to ignore me, I can very well ignore them also! he thought. Obsessively, he ran Phemelius' words over in his mind, and Dreg's. 'Just a man'. Of course he was a male High Elf, but he wasn't just a man. He was an Elven Prince, a Hero… a great man, and more still! There wasn't anything Dreg could say—or even Phem himself—to convince Den otherwise. He knew he could be wrong about some things, but this… this was firm; a strong foundation. Anyone could see Phemelius' noble qualities: mercy, and honor, and fairness and wisdom. Or… when Den couldn't find the righteousness in Phem's actions, the reasoning… that's my own fault… what am I missing?
In this cloud of deep consideration Den found himself walking, and the sun dipped lower in the afternoon sky, and they were at another feast in Pretipaxae's high hall. Lord Dogalshnue was there once again, saying to them: "Welcome, humans! Welcome, goodbye banquet!" He held out a signet ring on his hand, and Den found himself following the humans in their party to kiss it; Phem shook the Elf-Lord's hand, and to Fia the Lord but grinned and winked. Delicate platters were piled high once more but Den did not savor the feast; eating was but something his mouth could do to keep busy while he thought things through. When they departed, bowed and thanked Dogalshnue, he said back: "Goodbye, guests! Benadikaetes, fues Emoleleim!" And the Prince bode him farewell just as warmly.
Then Den stood before an elegant carriage, one atop wheels with curvèd spokes, with doors and curtained windows, a roof and six horses lashed afront. This vehicle had a large back section for cargo, and to it, city guards bore The Box once more, lashed it on and covered it with a cloth the same dark chestnut brown as the carriage's wooden paneling. The Elves took two horses ahead, with Corporal and common crook out front and Captain and Den himself inside. Then with saluting guards and cheering citizens to send them off, the party traveled West to the far gates of the city, left Pretipaxae and continued westwards up Veamunae, the Great Road.
Den came back to his senses, and wistfully considered the city they were leaving behind; considered also what Phemelius had said the night before. 'Just go, You'd turn out okay.' I could leave! Den insisted to himself. I could! And be done with all this confusion, all the harshness of these strange folk. He knew he couldn't. He was a part of The Mission. He fingered a frayed bit of rope around his wrist.
"...Dregal," he said, to the only other person inside their hansom. "I still don't get it. Any way I look at things, Phemelius is more than 'just a man'. I was so upset last night, and maybe stuck—maybe I still am. Why does he lower himself this way?"
"Lower? Huh…" Dreg scratched his furry chin. "He shies from thinkin' highly of 'imself, that's true. But 'just men,' what I was trying to say, Den: that's not so low a place. It's like… we choose what we are. That sounds to me a lot better than bein' stuck. I'm thankful for it; maybe it's a better thing, one Phem aspires to. Just ask Fia, she… well she's 'just a woman,' for all her excellent qualities."
Den looked up outside the front window of their carriage at the Elves. "I wonder what they're talking about, when we 'just humans' can't hear…"
***
Their horses were close enough together. Fia spoke at a low volume, even now as the cheering crowds were thinning: "…Y'think maybe you could've just agreed with him that you're good? I mean, I would… I'm good. Shit, I'm amazing."
Phem wasn't looking at the crowds, or Fia. His eyes were on the northwestern horizon. "It is not my judgment to make. I can only try, that everyone's lives might turn out better."
"Sure, sure. Hey, I was thinking. You know how dumb people think they're good, and that makes them bad, cause it's all they're worried about? Well, maybe you're so clever, you've just added another wrinkle: you think seeing yourself as 'bad' makes you good, but that actually just means you're bad too, another layer down!" She grinned at her own cleverness.
"I… huh." Phem blinked. "Maybe so. I certainly have much to make up for—"
"Mmm-hmm!"
"… if future acts can ever restitute past harms—"
"Mmm-hmm!"
Phemelius rolled his eyes. "…but… I like to think that if I'd been given the right conclusions from the outset, instead of all the nonsense, I'd still be doing the same things for about the same reasons."
"...sure, I guess. I mean, we do. Not like we have much choice."
"Hah," said Phem. "'There is No Choosing,' right? But that's the thing: the 'dumb people,' they're not dumb, they just…wait! Hmmm…"
"—What?" said Fia.
***
Dogalshnue Felaforthipon Kustiocciditentior, Lord of Pretipaxae, gazed out towards the West from a high window within the central spire of the Petrachryst—out to Veamunae, the Great Road. He sat on a cushioned wooden chair, simple but comfortable, with his upper lip resting on steepled fingers. There standing at his side was Solchenore, the Marshall of his city's guard. The Lord spoke in the native tongue of his people, the Elves of the West: "We welcome a delightful peculiarity into these lands, Marshall, do we not?"
"That one's always been strange," replied the Marshall. "But… everyone's glad to see him back. Must admit it warms the heart: a noble son returning to the West."
"Mmm," said Lord Dogalshnue. "Strange indeed. But that's the King's own cousin!" He turned back to face his Marshall. "And I was told the Wall-Burner was best left to the Round-Ears, so they might end The War by their own… hands.Those families are close, Orevictorum and Ætsolai. Very close indeed; I wish King Ambidon had informed me of this secret plan…"
Solchenore raised an eyebrow. "M'Lord. We are to give loyalty to the King, and… along separate channels. I'm not meant to look upon noble scheming kindly."
"Thank you, my friend, and I agree. That is why," Dogalshnue said, and he turned back to peer out the window. "…It is well that we showed allegiance to this young Duke, this fresh young champion who many now are energized to see return, and without any sign of an army, but with a powerful weapon. And that I've always been loyal to our King—that fact is beyond doubt. For of course, they are loyal to each other; if I were to suspect a splitting between them, that could be by their designs, to test me."
"Wouldn't be any good for Elves to fight Elves," said the Marshall. "Not for any of us. When they all go back East to end the War in glory, burn the Darks out once and for all, show the Roundies the way of things, that'll be a better day."
"Of course, of course," said the Lord. "That's why I wouldn't encourage it. Strife between royals, tcht! We've got better things to worry about. Still… it's interesting, isn't it? You sent that Sergeant and his men to trail them, correct?"
"I'm certain he's never met any of them, m'Lord. He might suspect us for spying, but won't identify the spies themselves."
The departing carriage was but a distant speck along the road. Dogalshnue smiled. "Good. I must do as any wise Elf would: collect wisdom, and wait to see how things play out. Interesting, indeed…"