Authors: Licia Troisi
“Of course!” Nihal shouted suddenly. She turned back to Sennar. “She must be behind them.”
“What?” he shouted back.
“I said, the house must be behind the falls! There’s no other explanation!”
“You’re not suggesting we just—” Sennar had time only to spit out half of his sentence before Nihal spurred her dragon and sent them barreling head-on toward the water. Oarf seemed to be enjoying himself, and Nihal, too, howled with joy. Sennar’s, however, was a cry of terror.
For an instant, it seemed as if all the water in the world were crashing over them. Soon, though, they found themselves in an enormous, cave-like structure carved into the mountainside. Oarf propelled himself into its depths before landing on the flat surface of a rock.
Nihal and Sennar, drenched to the bone and their hearts racing, dismounted and observed their surroundings, squinting in the cave’s darkness. They were in the belly of the mountain, the wall of falling water so distant that even its thunderous rumble was muffled.
Sennar was the first to see it. “How in the name of the gods did she manage to build it?” he murmured, pointing to a small wooden hut, barnacled to a rocky overhang several feet above their heads. “And how are we supposed to get there?”
“There’s always a way. …” Nihal replied. “And I don’t want to hear any whining.”
Nihal walked over to Oarf and whispered something in his ear. The dragon reared back on his hind legs, stretching as tall as he could. Nihal climbed up his back, then his neck. When she reached the creature’s head, to Sennar’s amazement, she gave a little push and leaped up onto the rock.
“You see?” she said, with a satisfied smile.
“Congratulations. But if you think for even a second that I’m going to do the same …”
“No need,” Nihal said. “You just close your eyes and have faith.”
Sennar obeyed with a sigh. At which point Oarf bent his neck and closed his teeth gently around Sennar’s tunic, lifting him up in the air.
“Whoa there!”
“Don’t open your eyes,” Nihal shouted, relishing the moment. “It’s better that way. Trust me.”
When the dragon let him down, Sennar shot Nihal a vexed glance, but she had already turned to examine the hut.
It was dark inside. Long before their eyes could adjust, their noses led the way. The hut was overflowing with smells: herbs, smoke, mold, decomposing paper. The mix of scents flooded Nihal, leaving her with a strange feeling of unpleasantness. Gradually, their vision improved. What they saw was a single room, crammed full of objects. The walls were lined with book-laden shelves, all of the same, moldy color. There were small, poorly bound books as well as enormous tomes, their edges reinforced with rusting metallic plates. A few of the shelves had broken, their contents scattered onto the floor, the piles of books still splayed out the way they’d fallen, their spines to the ceiling and their pages fanned open. The ground was all but carpeted with dusty sheets of parchment that were covered with obscure drawings. Here and there, alternating among the books, were vases containing the most diverse objects: dried grass, dust, smoke of every color, small, deformed animals, or else parts of them. From the ceiling hung bouquets of dead, rotting flowers, polluting the hovel’s air.
Sennar looked down to study the sheets of parchment, while Nihal went on with her determined search for the house’s owner.
“Sheireen … finally, you are here. Sheireen.”
The echo of a voice like a moan came from far back in the hut, behind a tattered, amaranth curtain.
Despite the goose bumps running up her arms and legs, Nihal pulled the curtain back. Sunk there in a leather chair, behind a table drowning in heaps of papers, was a female dwarf.
Something about the figure seated before her made Nihal quiver with repugnance. Even for a dwarf she was tiny, shriveled up like a withered flower, her face carved with deep wrinkles. Beneath her heavy eyelids, her eyes seemed to lack a gaze altogether. Two off-white, expressionless circles took the place of irises. Her face was framed with yellowing grey hair that fell to her feet and snaked along the ground. And yet, her features were marked with a painful delicacy. It was clear she must have once been beautiful, before time had taken its merciless toll.
How many years weighed on her bones? At least a hundred, or so it seemed, though according to Soana she shouldn’t have been older than seventy.
“Give me your hand, Sheireen,” Reis muttered, extending her own shriveled hand toward Nihal.
But Nihal just stood there, staring, dumbstruck, until she felt something grab her wrist and pull her downward.
Through her veiled eyes, Reis examined the young girl’s face, running her fingers along her cheekbones. “Yes, it’s really you, young Sheireen.”
“My name isn’t Sheireen,” said Nihal. “I’m Nihal of the Tower of Salazar.”
The old woman nodded, smiling. “Of course, of course, Nihal … But your true name is Sheireen, the Consecrated, the last of the half-elves, the one hope of the world.”
Out of instinct, Nihal turned and searched for Sennar. The sorcerer stepped forward, silent.
Reis snapped her head in his direction. “Who is the young man with you?” She seemed troubled by his presence.
“My name is Sennar, I am—”
“Oh, Sennar … Councilor of the Land of the Wind, student of my beloved Soana,” the old woman chanted, turning her gaze immediately back to Nihal.
“Soana said you wanted to see me,” Nihal murmured.
“For so long I’ve awaited your arrival, Sheireen, but I knew one day you’d come to me. It could not have been otherwise,” said the old woman, her voice rasping.
A chill ran up Nihal’s spine. What did she mean by those words?
“Sit down, half-elf,” said Reis. “I have much to reveal to you.”
Nihal took a seat on a wooden stool and Sennar stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder.
With great difficulty, the old woman stood and dragged herself toward a shelf. From it, she pulled down a small brazier and placed it in the center of the table. After filling it with a handful of herbs, she recited a brief spell.
A small fire ignited at the base of the brazier and gave off a thick stream of smoke, which Reis seemed to be controlling with her hands. Distorted images began to emerge from the spirals, clearer and more detailed with every second. Nihal narrowed her eyes. There before her a miniature village was taking form. Wooden houses, for the most part, people coming and going, children playing in the street, women shopping at a market in the main square—a village like any other. A village of half-elves.
The image enchanted Nihal. She’d never seen other half-elves before, and now there they were, moving, talking, living. She turned her attention to a young girl with long blue hair and violet eyes. She seemed cheerful, full of life.
“Your mother was born in the Land of Days,” Reis began. “Those were difficult times, then, but it was all the same to your mother. When her people were forced to flee in order to escape persecution by the Tyrant, she left without looking back. She already had with her all she could ever want, her family and her love.”
A second half-elf drew near to the girl and smiled. He was just a boy, hardly bigger than she was.
My mother. My father.
“Your parents married as soon as they reached the Land of the Sea, with the blessing of the village leader and the stars aligned in their favor,” the old woman went on.
The peaceful solace of the images was ruptured when a horde of Fammin burst in. The smoke rising from the brazier darkened and night seemed to have fallen in the village.
“But disaster was close at their heels. As the Tyrant’s accursed creatures brought death and destruction upon the refugees, your mother hid and prayed. She prayed for the life of her young husband, and for her own fragile life. That day, she swore that if they were to both survive, she’d consecrate her first born to Shevrar, the god of Fire and War.”
The smoke dissolved and Nihal stretched her hand through the empty air as if to grab it. She didn’t want her mother’s face to fade.
Reis added another handful of herbs to the brazier and the image of a family emerged from the flames: the girl, the young man, and between them, a baby girl.
“Shevrar took mercy on them and spared them both. Shortly after, your mother became pregnant, and your father insisted they move to a smaller, safer village. So they departed, refugees once again, but in each other’s company. A girl was born unto them. They gave her the name Sheireen, the Consecrated, and decided her life would be dedicated thereafter to the sword and battle, to honor the name of Shevrar and avenge the dead of her Land. The god accepted their offer. Sheireen would be his devotee and no harm would come to her.”
Suddenly, the smoke came alive with images of war. Nihal recognized them. They were the images she saw in her nightmares. She watched the massacre, the blood, listened to the cries of despair. When the village went silent at last, scattered with corpses, Nihal averted her eyes. She was trembling.
“That’s enough.” Sennar’s voice resounded. The sorcerer pressed close to Nihal’s side and took her by the hands. “Let’s get out of here.”
Nihal shook her head. “Everything’s fine, Sennar. Let her speak.”
“It was Shevrar who saved you, Sheireen,” Reis continued. “Of all the half-elves, you were the only one he chose to save. You alone were chosen to avenge your people.”
Nihal saw herself as a newborn, crying beside the blood-stained body of her mother. Then she noticed two women walking among the corpses: a beautiful dwarf and a young woman with dark hair.
“In those days, I was a councilor, just like your friend, Sennar. We were on a diplomatic mission in the Land of the Sea when Soana and I decided to visit what remained of the half-elf community. We found you there—a newborn girl, alive among dozens of mangled bodies, the only remaining survivor of an entire people. You were a sign, Sheireen.” Reis paused for a moment and the smoke began to agitate, forming strange, colored vortexes. “Once I returned to the Council, I began to investigate your past and your future. At first, the cards revealed only vague hints, impressions, the blurred outline of a story I couldn’t quite unravel. Then, at last, this image glowed before me.”
A circular medallion appeared, its contours clearly outlined amidst the smoke. Gleaming at its center, with an opalescent stone for an iris, was a wide, elongated eye. It was surrounded by eight identical niches. They were empty, though each seemed to have housed a stone at one time. An intricate design wound itself around the edges of the medallion.
“I didn’t know what it was. I spent days and days consulting texts, but the talisman remained a mystery. Gradually it vanished from my thoughts.” Reis ran her weathered fingers across her face. “Three years later, when the remorse was too much to bear, I abandoned the Council. It was then that I decided to seek again the meaning of that medallion. And so of your destiny.”
“What are you talking about?” Sennar asked. “Remorse over what?”
“That’s not important right now. There’s more you must know.” Reis stood and rifled through a drawer. When she sat down again, she held an amulet in her hand. The gem at its center gleamed dimly in the dark hut. “Many centuries ago, this world was populated only by elves, perfect creatures, graced by the gods. The purity of their existence was stained by the arrival of men and dwarves, invaders of the Overworld. The elves began to rapidly decrease in number. Many left the Overworld, while others interbred with the new races. Soon the only remnant of their blood ran through the veins of half-elves, like you, Sheireen. These creatures lived in harmony with the very forces that give life to our world, and their only form of magic was their proximity to nature’s spirits. This medallion, which you have been linked to by destiny, is the key to that magic.”
Reis offered the amulet to Nihal, who took and examined it.
“In each of the Eight Lands is a sanctuary dedicated to one of the Eight Spirits of nature: Water, Light, Sea, Time, Fire, Earth, Darkness, Air. And finally, the Great Land, the Mother, which encompasses them all. In each sanctuary, a stone is kept. In the past, whoever so desired would enter the sanctuary and appeal to the spirits for power. If the seeker’s heart was sincere, the stone activated and the power was granted. Once his or her desire was realized, the stone returned to the sanctuary. In this way, the elves entreated favors from the spirits. But the stones are charged with an even greater power. When an imminent and uncontrollable danger threatens, it becomes possible to call upon all of the spirits at once. In order to do so, one must gather all eight stones and place them in the talisman, travel to the Great Land, and pray to the Mother to protect her children—at which point, the natural spirits will awaken and answer to the call of the amulet’s possessor. Only once did the elves make use of the amulet, when a conqueror from the Great Desert attempted to destroy their world. However, since the time of their extinction, the sanctuaries have been forgotten, for only the elves could pass through their sacred doorways.” Reis stopped speaking and stared deep into Nihal’s astounded eyes, riveting the half-elf with her impenetrable gaze. “Only the elves, or those who possess their blood.”
“Are you saying that …” Nihal began.
“Yes, Sheireen. Only you are capable of calling upon the aid of the spirits. The Tyrant rules with sorcery. With sorcery he created the Fammin, with sorcery he constructed his Rock, with sorcery he enslaves his subjects. But you can disrupt his rule. Gather all the stones—the natural spirits will be evoked, the Tyrant’s magic will vanish.”
“Centuries have passed, Reis,” Sennar cut in. “The stones could be stolen or lost, the sanctuaries destroyed …”
The old woman turned her gaze to the boy. “Were you not listening, Councilor? Only those with elfish blood can touch the stones, anyone else will meet their death. And the destruction of a sanctuary means nothing—it’s the ground on which it’s built that is sacred, not the structure itself.”
Nihal shook her head. “But I don’t have the blood of a full elf.”