The Devil's Deuce (The Barrier War) (26 page)

“What did you call me? And why did they let us in?”

Birch nearly leapt out of his armor when he heard Maran’s
silky, soft voice right beside his ear.

“He called you the
Asan’don’meshir’eln
.
Loosely translated, it means he who has crossed into death and returned to
life,” Maran said, his voice a barely audible murmur. “Even here your
reputation precedes you, I’m afraid. And they let us in because Hoil gave him a
pass phrase which only a select few could have possibly given to us. It is not
the same as when I lived here, but there are similarities. If anyone asks, you
were given the phrase by a paladin named
El’Shakir
in
Nocka, who was unable to come on this mission himself.”

Perhaps Maran might have said more, but then his voice
choked off with a noise that the other elves couldn’t help but notice. Birch
stifled a fake sneeze and tried to look apologetic, but none of the elves would
meet his gaze. Birch didn’t really blame them. Then he noticed that instead of
simply avoiding his eyes, they were actively searching every nuance of the
environment around them with practiced, piercing eyes. They split their
attention between this search and quick glances at a young elf who had just
appeared on a path near them. The elf had two others trailing behind him, each
wearing similar armor to the guards accompanying Birch and Hoil.

Birch knew his discernment of elven features was unpracticed
at best, and every elf he’d seen looked somewhat alike and universally alien,
but he would have sworn an oath on his faith that the young boy before him was
related to Maran. Their lips were similar, their facial structures close ─
allowing for the difference in age ─ but their eyes may well have been
mirror images to each other.

“Who is it?” Birch asked, sub vocalizing without opening his
mouth. There was a long silence until the young elf disappeared into another
door and their escort reduced its vigilance. Then Maran whispered into Birch’s
ear.

“That was my son.”

Let the thread stand for the skein.

- Elven Proverb

- 1 -

Birch resisted the impulse to stare at the spot where Maran
was standing.

“Your son?” he murmured beneath his breath.

“
Shhh
. Yes, my son, but raised to
believe my brother sired him. I’ll explain it all later,” Maran whispered.
“Keep walking and follow the guards.”

The small procession resumed, and they were soon inside the
palace proper. Birch stared hard at the walls, trying to decide what they were
made from; they looked like stone, but there were no seams, and something about
the fluidity and design hinted they were something different than the stone
walls crafted by Stone Weavers. The walls were so perfect, they could have been
alive.

“Excuse me,” Hoil said to the head of their escort, “but I
can’t quite decide what these walls are made from.” Birch held back a smile.

“It is a living stone, crafted through the combined skills
of the Weavers,” Siran answered in a clipped but respectful voice. “The ways of
making them have been lost to us over the centuries, and this palace is the
only remaining structure of such make in the world. It is fitting.”

After that, they walked in silence through the wide halls,
and Birch marveled at their surroundings. Lavish tapestries and works of art
were arranged with exquisite taste on almost every wall, but despite their
obviously expensive nature and their frequency, there was no sense of excessive
opulence or showing off. They were there because they
belonged
there,
and after a while Birch found that he looked past them as nothing more than a
natural part of the surroundings.

The floor was covered with a soft, red carpet that all but
muffled their footsteps. The fibers were densely packed, but short, and it was
immaculately clean, like everything else around them. The ceiling arched gently
overhead, and every few paces a globe hung from a thin, silver chain and glowed
with a soft radiance to illuminate the halls.

Eventually, they reached the throne room and were asked to
wait in the outer chamber to be announced. Hoil paced before the door, his
broad frame looking even more impressive compared to the two elven guards
posted on either side of the massive wooden door. Birch stood in a corner,
enjoying the openness of the room. He didn’t feel closed in at all, even though
there were no windows or doors leading outside.

“The king will see you now,” a soft voice said. Birch turned
and saw that another elf had entered the room unnoticed. He was thin, even
accounting for the natural slenderness of elves, and his aged skin looked drawn
and almost translucent. His eyebrows were raised slightly in the center of his
face, giving him a perpetually worried expression. Birch found himself pitying
the elf for being stuck with such a look.

“He has dismissed the court, so it is more private than
most
are granted,” the elderly elf continued, then sniffed. His tone of voice made
it quite clear that why such an honor was being given to a pair of humans was
beyond his reasoning. Birch no longer felt sorry for the elf’s unfortunate
appearance.

“Remember,” Hoil murmured, “let me do the talking.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Neither does he,” Maran breathed into Birch’s ear gently.
The elven thief had apparently regained his composure and dry sense of humor.
He’d been so silent, Birch had all but forgotten the invisible elf was still
with them.

The throne room was a natural extension of the rest of the
palace, and once more Birch found himself marveling at the sheer sense of
balance and
rightness
exuded by the building’s decorations. A dozen
pillars shaped like tree trunks were planted in a wide double-column leading
from the main door to the throne, and the upper branches of the false trees
melted seamlessly into the vaulted ceiling, which looked so much like the
canopy of a forest that Birch was surprised the whole structure didn’t shift
and rustle with unseen wind. The king sat in a throne that glowed so softly
Birch wasn’t sure at first whether it emitted light or if it was a trick of the
room and the distance between them. There was no definite shape to the throne,
but it flowed around the aged elf like a gentle, loving hand, adjusting
slightly with his every move.

The king sat up straight and his chair stiffened behind him
accordingly, but it was clear to Birch that it cost the aged elf a great deal
to maintain such a dignified appearance. The king’s face was lined with the
cares of ruling, but his lips were crisp with strength and a habit of resolve
that had etched itself into his very flesh. There was a definite tiredness
around the king’s eyes, as much from weariness as from simply having seen too
many years of life. But even there, Birch saw strength and a will so powerful
it was a wonder the king himself didn’t glow.

“Your majesty, Birch de’Valderat of the Prismatic Order and
Hoil de’Valderat accompanying,” a herald proclaimed loudly in elven (or so
Maran whispered in translation). The herald continued in thickly accented
human, “His majesty,
El’Vareille
El’Eleisha
,
king of
elvenkind
and lord of the living wood.”

Aside from the king and the invisible Maran, once the herald
left there were only four other elves in the room. The captain of the
Elan’Vital who had escorted them stood off to one side near an older elf who
wore violet, gold-trimmed robes. Maran’s son stood calmly at the king’s right
side, and a middle-aged elf stood at the king’s left. This elf was armed with
one of the twin-bladed
halvens
Birch had seen
outside, and was by far the most muscular elf Birch had ever seen. He was only
a few inches shorter than Birch, and had twice the chest size of any other elf.
His eyes looked dull, and Birch wondered if any intelligent thought went on
behind their vapid gaze.

Deep bows and head nods were exchanged.

“The violet-robed man is
Decein
,”
Maran whispered as Birch straightened, his voice softer than a spring breeze.
Birch detected more than a trace of disdain in their unseen escort’s voice. “He
leads the
Diet’Si
, the parliamentary body.”

“Welcome, both of you,” the king said, his voice firm
despite his appearance. He spoke in elven, however, and Birch was forced to
wait for Hoil to translate for him. “Please, approach. El’Siran tells me you
have some matter of grave importance to discuss with me.”

“If you please, your majesty,” Hoil answered in elven. “My
brother speaks no elven, but he has entrusted me to state our warning and
translate for him.”

Vareille
nodded. Maran provided a
running, whispered translation so Birch knew exactly what his brother was
saying. Birch was an experienced
Dividha
player, and he knew how to keep his face from revealing hidden knowledge. No
one in the room could tell he knew every word his brother was saying.

“Some few months ago, the Prismatic Order noticed a
fluctuation in the Merging and discovered that a group of powerful demons had somehow
managed to cross into our world,” Hoil said. “It was The Three, if your majesty
is familiar with demon lore, and they have already begun to cause havoc in the
mortal world.”

The elves in the room stared first at Hoil, then at Birch
with shock, then uneasiness and finally fear.

“You are certain?” Maran’s son asked. “No, forgive me. Of
course you are certain, else you would not be standing here.”

The king nodded approvingly.

“Gentlemen, my apologies. May I present my grandson,
El’Rill
,”
Vareille
said with
unmistakable pride, but with considerable pain hidden underneath. “Now, what is
your involvement with these demons?”

Hoil made a show of translating everything the king or his
grandson said into the human tongue for his brother. When Birch nodded, Hoil
continued.

“My brother is part of a
jintaal
assigned to hunt The
Three and destroy them,” Hoil said in answer to the king. “He has already
succeeded in destroying one of the demons and now seeks the remaining pair.”

“He seeks here?” the king asked. “You have reason to believe
one of these demons is on this island? In this city?”

Hoil opened his mouth to answer, but was stopped short by
Maran’s son.

“My father,” Rill said softly. “You think this demon may
have had something to do with his death.”

Vareille
glanced at him surprise
and approval, then looked back at the human pair shrewdly. While Hoil
translated for Birch, he put a slight emphasis on the elf’s use of the word
father
,
subtly reminding his brother that Rill believed he was the son of Maran’s sibling.

“We heard about your father’s untimely death, highness, and
yes, we feel there is a distinct possibility that a demonic presence could be
involved,” Hoil answered at Birch’s prompting. “The Three seem bent on
fomenting chaos and disorder in our world, which we suspect may precede an
offensive of some sort from Hell.” Quickly he described the fall of the dwarven
capital Den-Furral as Birch had described it to him. The elves had apparently
heard of the mountain city’s demise, but not all of the details Hoil provided.
“At a time when we would most need stability and support from all the mortal
nations of the world, they seek to sow discord and confusion to minimize the
resistance, at least at first. Once they’ve gained a foothold here, it may be
too late to stop them.

“This is mostly conjecture, you understand,” Hoil qualified
at Birch’s prompting when the translation was caught up, “but there are
disturbing indications and possibilities too dangerous to ignore.”

“I must agree with you,” the king replied. He looked
piercingly at the two humans. Some of the tiredness seemed to have gone from
his body. “How can you know for sure if a demon was involved in my son’s
death?”

Hoil conferred briefly with Birch before replying.

“Perhaps if someone could relate to us the exact
circumstances of his death and everything known or suspected thus far, that
would provide a starting place for our investigation,” he said.

“I will tell them myself, grandfather,” Rill offered, bowing
to the king before he turned back to the two humans. “If you will both dine
with me this evening.”

The elven prince had enough poise and presence that what
otherwise would have been a question was instead a polite command without being
demanding or objectionable.

“It would be our honor, your highness,” Hoil answered,
bowing. “And now, if you please, your majesty, I was asked by a friend of mine
to tell you a story, a
fabolen
.”
[20]

“Indeed?”
Vareille
asked
curiously. “It has been years since someone stood in this hall to tell a
fabolen
, and never in my life has a human done so.” He
gestured his permission.

“Yes, your majesty. Ahem,” Hoil said, clearing his throat.
Hoil felt silly, but apparently this sort of thing was not unheard of in the
elven court. Maran had indicated it was an ancient tradition that had mostly
died out centuries ago, but it was still honored in most houses, including the
palace. Hoil was just glad the elven court had been dismissed. “Many years ago,
there was a nobleman of
Talla
who was well-loved and
respected, particularly by his family. He was proud of his sons, especially the
eldest, who excelled in the family dealings and showed immense promise in one
day filling his father’s role. Then one day some of the nobleman’s associates
discovered that the eldest son had been dabbling with fey matters, and the son
was shamed and banished.”