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Maybe I’m not a failure.
The rocky shore tapers away until it meets the base of the cliff. The sheer stone wall rises so high that clouds swirl around its summit, and the only to scale it is a narrow, timeworn staircase that winds up the cliff face in steep angles and sharp turns. A treacherous hike, especially at night. But with my mind wrapped up in so many hopeful thoughts, the climb seems to pass in only a few moments, and I barely feel the effort. Even on the perilous steps, I find myself looking back, catching glimpses of the moonlight dancing over the crashing waves.
As I climb higher, the sea becomes a black expanse below me, a strange netherworld filled with the distant roar of waves. From up here, I can see the full curve of the shoreline, from the ruins of the lighthouse on the northern peninsula to the distant border of the southern forest. Far out to sea, I catch a glimpse of cold lights shining from the outlying islands. While Falamar and his soldiers have laid waste to the Atathari villages that used to dot the coastline, the merroc still have unconquered strongholds far out at sea, both above the surface and below. Closer, the bonfires of the elven sentries blaze along the shore of the mainland, a warning to the tuath that we never leave our fortress unguarded.
Everything about this place feels on edge, like a sky that might burst into a storm at any moment. But the wind off the sea and the sound of the night-flying ocean birds call to my soul in a way no other place can. A strain of Evya’s song, clear and piercing, echoes in my memory. I picture her standing in the moonlight, lithe and strong, with a hurricane in her eyes
She seems too good to be true. I breathe a silent prayer as I keep walking. I don’t question the vision the One Who Is has sent me, nor do I doubt my own desires.
Yet how will Falamar and his lords respond?
I reach the top of the cliff. The high turrets and ramparts of Kara Davonashi loom before me, their jagged outlines half lost in the shadows of the night. Thin lines of blue light flicker along the ground as I walk toward the gates—a host of runes carved into the stone of the plateau and nearly buried under fallen leaves. The ancient magical protections have kept the old elven stronghold safe for centuries, even from the Seamother.
All those years have not been kind to the place. My mind drifts back to when I first saw the fortress, four centuries ago, with its marble walls smooth and its pavements unbroken. Each time I step across the threshold of its magical protection, the sight conjures more memories than I want to recall.
Oraithian chasing me around the courtyard with a wooden sword, doing the duty of an older brother by letting me escape. Halora standing on the highest balcony with her arms outstretched, weaving four harmonies into a song so beautiful and impossible I thought the stones themselves would start weeping. My twin, Lauryel, hiding from us in the ever-blooming gardens but always betraying herself with giggles. And Casimir, our oldest brother, watching over us vigilantly as if he could stave off all the sorrows he foresaw. My siblings, taken by time and war and folly.
Now I alone cross the quiet courtyard, surrounded by ghosts and lost destinies. Broken paving stones crunch beneath my boots, casting discordant echoes around me. A solemn air lays about the fortress, as if the place is still trying to be the royal stronghold it was built to be, against all the wear of time and war.
Not unlike me, the last of the Dalzanas. The one who has never received a vision or been tasked with a great mission for the sake of destiny.
Until tonight.My steps lighten. I smile up at the old fortress, tucking the memories and their sorrow away for another day. Everything is shifting. I feel it in my heart and soul. Whatever destiny has set before me, I was born to face it. The thought spurs me onward with more hope than I’ve felt in years, and my concern over the lords’ reaction fades away.
The guards let me through the main gate and into the courtyard without a word, used to me coming and going at odd hours. The courtyard is a narrow corridor, open to the air and paved with pale gray stone, that follows the curve of the outer wall. It’s filled with the bustle of watchmen coming and going from patrols and the stomps and snorts of the horses and dragons hitched to the wall awaiting riders. A few of the soldiers hail me as I pass. I return their greetings hastily and head straight for the double doors that lead to the main hall.
Every head in the hall turns as I saunter through, from the grave-faced nobles to the young foot soldiers who are polishing swords and armor. This early in the night, the hall’s twelve hearths blaze with fires. Scores of families are biding the evening in a clamor of stories and songs. For most of them, this pastime is one of the few enjoyments they have at Kara Davonashi. Even in their laughter their faces are drawn with cares. The lords who rule the great elven families have plenty of excuses for why they took up arms against the tuath, but most of the people in this hall are merely trying to survive.
The hall is cozy, even with the sorrow that lingers from today’s battle. The vast room was once a venue for grand royal functions, but as we have no occasion for holding feasts or entertaining foreign dignitaries these days, we’ve repurposed it for humbler gatherings. Six large fireplaces stand along each side of the room, surrounded by a motley array of tables, benches, and cushions. Moonlight glows through small stained glass panels along the top of the walls, and the vaulted ceiling lends the room an echo of long-lost elegance.
Each elven house was allotted their own wing of the fortress when they first arrived here as refugees, but with so many people living here and our access to resources cut off by the tuath, there isn’t enough wood or water to supply every room sufficiently. Many elves spend their evenings in the main hall, where we at least have the comfort of each other’s company.
Most of those belonging to noble houses pointedly ignore me as I pass, reluctant to share the company of a Dalzana. Those elves stand aloof around the largest of the hearths, wearing long, elegant robes and speaking in the archaic Selistarin tongue as if they are still in one of the splendid courts of old. I rarely attempt to join them, though I’m technically higher in station than they are. The nobles still harbor too much resentment toward my house—some because of the atrocities my brother Oraithian committed, and others because Oraithian’s actions led to the downfall of the other highborn families.
The vassal families are less interested in holding grudges. To them, I’m just another refugee looking for a way to survive. As I pass one of the hearths, a few soldiers wearing the white-and-gold livery of Sovarthian House offer me a place near the fire and a meager plate of dry bread and venison jerky. Any other night I would accept the offer, but I don’t want to wait any longer to speak to Falamar. There will be time for food and conversation later. I give the soldiers a friendly smile and keep going down the length of the hall until I reach the large spiral staircase at the far end.
King Falamar is tucked away in his strategy room in the tower closest to the ocean, pouring over maps and charts while his ever-present frown creases deeper and deeper. The king is seldom seen anywhere else. I take the steps two at a time, pausing only an instant to knock before I fling open the door to the strategy room.
Falamar shoots me a scowl when he sees me in the doorway. I feel a twinge of concern as I take in the sight of him. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days, with his white robes disheveled and his long, dark green hair coming loose from its intricate braids. His circlet, a band woven from filaments of gold into knotwork, adorns his brow in a regal contrast to the rest of his appearance. He usually keeps his chambers painstakingly organized, but today his desk is strewn with crumpled maps and ink-blotched papers. Books and scrolls are piled haphazardly on the shelves that line the far wall, and more swords than one elf could wield in a lifetime lean precariously against every wall.
I glance around quickly, making sure none of the nobles are in the room. A sigh of relief escapes. Only the king is here. Falamar can be harsh when he’s posturing before his nobles and advisors, but when alone it’s easier to get through his stately veneer. I only hope the news I bring will grant the hope he desperately needs.
I shut the door behind me, then lean against it and fold my arms, unable to hold back a grin. “You owe me a bottle of rosyn wine.”
Falamar’s brown eyes widen as he glances at me. He straightens to his full height—as tall as I am, though lanky with traces of lingering youth. He doesn’t smile. Instead, I see the familiar, haunted expression that speaks of knowing too much sorrow in his scant century of life.
He rarely speaks of his past, but I’ve gleaned pieces of his story over time. He was the youngest son of the royal Sovarthian House, which once ruled a vast territory to the south. He never expected to bear the weight of the kingship, but when his family was slaughtered in a bitter feud with the forest-dwelling tuath of that land, he was the only one who remained to take the crown. He was barely of age at the time. In the years since, his life has been an endless string of hardships as he led his people into perilous exile and finally to the shelter of Kara Davonashi, only to become embroiled in war once again.
I know the pain of such loss all too well. That is why I try to think well of Falamar even when his anger and folly get the best of him. I can only pray he will seize the chance of peace I’ve come to give him. I send up a silent prayer that he will be in a favorable mood tonight.
While these thoughts swirl in my mind, Falamar’s gaze bores into me. At last he turns his focus back to the papers on his desk, shaking his head. “You don’t mean you actually found this woman from your vision?”
“I did. I have.” The words come out breathless, and my smile widens. “She answered my song.” I pause. “And she’s the Seamother’s daughter.”
“What?” Falamar’s head snaps up. “You’re not serious. You’ve been singing to their princess all this time?”
“Yes, and it was worth the wait.” I don’t even try to hide the note of triumph in my voice. “This could be the chance we need. I think I can convince her to negotiate with us.”
The king doesn’t return my smile. Instead, his eyes flash, and he grips the edge of his desk. “Are you sure she was the one from your vision? You might have been mistaken.”
