Chapter 13

Corson and Omily align themselves with the foresters to ward off an unwelcome threat. Love blooms further, and within it dwells further enchanted mystery.

Chapter 13

            They had assembled on the bank of the river that hugged the forest line. Its water flowed strongly, the cold streams of the southern mountains feeding it. On the other side of the river was an almost barren stretch of land that ended at the mouths of the caves. Some of them were small, too small for men to climb through. Many of them led to nowhere. But this one, the one they all stared it, led somewhere. No one on this side of the water had ventured down to see where this somewhere took them, but they knew it was a place able to support the existence of cave-dwelling savages.

            Corson and Omily had been in the forest realm for some time, but it took quite a while for them to actually see one of these men, a term they used loosely. The two adepts were hesitant to surge into battle against an enemy whose only crimes were those that the people of the forest told them they had committed. Their claims were sickening, and their stories convincing, but claims and stories they still were. Omily’s heart tried to convince Corson that it wasn’t wise to take on an enemy who hadn’t hurt or offended them. She was grateful for all that Queen Faquella and her people had provided, but wary of following them into battle.

            Corson relished in the idea. He was a fighter by trade. And while that was a trait he shared with Omily, they approached it differently. Corson saw himself as a hammer of justice, a man who could make evil men suffer without the dull process of court. These cave people were evil. They had lost their humanity, and fed on the humanity of others as predators would prey. Savages slaughtered men and women, gutted or stole livestock, pillaged or burned lands and homes and entire villages. Since Corson and Omily had arrived, these incidents grew in frequency. And while the forest people were skilled warriors, they had neither the numbers nor the tactics to overcome these unexpected attacks. But Corson was a tactician, a leader. He wanted to take on the challenge before he even knew the truth about the enemy.

            The couple had made the forest castle their home since arriving. Faquella had given them a room. It was small and modest, but cozy and safe, so they had little reason to complain. All the people of the forest were allies, from the southern edge by the mountains to the northern edge along Saltshore and Oilcoast. Yet it still remained perhaps the most dangerous region in the entire realm. There were places that were still rumored to have never been seen, and species of vicious creatures never discovered. It could rain for days and become a muddy lake or bake under the bright sun for so long it became a huge kiln. A man could spend years looking for this castle, and still never succeed. That could have been the worst part of their situation. They were so cut off from the outside world that they may have eventually forgotten that it existed.

            A change of heart came swiftly and decisively just a few days prior to this stakeout. Bells rang from each corner of the castle. Corson and Omily stepped out of their room to see the castle defenders scurrying to the doors and stairs that led to the tops of the walls. No one stopped the two of them, and so they scaled to the top as well. There was no synchronization to the attack. From the edges of the forest, on every side of the castle, came the cave savages. They hurled rocks and chucked spears before they got to the bottom of the walls. Corson and Omily watched one man knocked from the wall when a rock nailed him in the head. Once on the ground below, he was torn apart, quite literally. The cave savages stopped their attack to tear the man’s limbs off, to peel away the skin on his face, and hold all those pieces above their heads as trophies. All the while the men of the castle chucked their rock and rope boleadoras and shot their arrows with expert precision. The walls choked the few savages that made it far enough. Ivy grew thick on the walls, from bottom to top. Corson and Omily had heard rumors of an enchanted forest, but they hadn’t believed it until then. The ivy defended its castle just as much as the men. It tied limbs in place and then found the neck, and the savages let out horrible guttural cries until the life was fully strangled out of them and they fell to the ground.

            The attack was unprovoked. The brutality was unnecessary. And so Corson and Omily lay crouched in the bushes, a few hundred men from the castle and warriors from various forest villages or remote dwellings flanking them. They were all united and determined. Their discipline was impressive for a group that hadn’t the need to assemble in over a decade. It was near dawn when they approached the river under the cover of dark. Now, the sun was up and they were suffering through an indeterminable wait.

            A threesome of savages emerged from the large mouth as late morning slowly crept over the region. A lean, tar-skinned man, Oontaro of Faquella’s Tigeriders, stood up at Omily’s side and notched an arrow in his bow. He pulled back and steadied himself. Just a few seconds later the savage in the center was on the ground, an arrow through his throat and blood spewing out of his mouth. The remaining savages looked in the foresters’ direction. Corson rose to his feet first, and Omily next, while at the same time all the men along their entire line also rose. Out of the forest they stepped. They stood aligned on the edge of the river. The two living savages looked shocked and angered. They turned together and ran back into the cave.

            “Are you sure this is the wisest method?” Omily asked Corson.

            “Soon they will be assembling just beyond our sight, in the darkness they so cherish,” Corson whispered. “And then they will spring forth. Their numbers matter not.”

            “Not with the lord of light and the lady of water on our side,” Oontaro said.

            “We are neither of those things,” Omily told him.

            “You will be, after today,” he replied. “To us.”

            Omily only smiled cordially. She knew that, compared to the people of Lightwater, these were a simpler folk. Most of them had never met an adept, and some doubted their existence. Wood and mud sheltered most of them and they never spent more than a day outside the forest. Now they believed. Corson and Omily had made them believers, and soon the two of them would be saviors. Little did any of these men know that Omily and Corson were far from the strongest adepts in the realm. Corson may have thought so about himself. Omily was much more realistic. Doubt crept on her face from time to time as they waited.

            “Omily,” Corson said, rubbing her arm. “You can do this.”

            “I am no Rophelius. Or father.”

            “You have it in you. You always have. And now you can prove it, to yourself, most importantly. Just keep your focus.”

            She only nodded.

            A war cry, passionately echoed, escaped the mouth of the cave. And then they came, in a wave much fiercer than any forester had expected. The enemy poured from the caves with the same carelessness seen in their attack on the castle. Faster savages leapt over other ones, and they trampled the slowest ones. Arrows shot forward immediately. Many hit their targets while others missed. The manner in which these savages moved was hardly human. They leapt more than they ran. Some even rushed across the land on all fours, their teeth bared and their eyes pure evil. When the fastest ones came within range, men of the forest released their boleadoras. The weapon was simple, fist-sized rocks tied to ropes, and harder to shoot accurately. But it succeeded in knocking out many savages or at least taking out their legs. Some had started crossing the river, arms and legs kicking wildly to stay above the water, by the time Omily had finally managed to conjure it.

            In the past she had been able to concentrate more easily. Her enemy had always been the same. But these barbarians were different, their fierceness unmatched. She kept getting lost in their eyes, even if an entire field or river separated them. Focus was hard to find, but she finally grasped it. Urgency was the true motive. Omily did not want to die, not here, not against such an unworthy and unorganized foe. And she couldn’t let the forest people suffer any longer.

            “OM!” Corson shouted beside her, crudely shooting an arrow.

            In the few moments it took her to think those thoughts, to hear Corson’s voice, she started moving the river. She lifted it and shot it forth. Her position directly in front of the mouth of the cave was intentional. The men fighting by her side were too occupied to see it. The savages were too brutally determined. But Omily saw it, and Corson too, and he watched her with awe as she redirected the river. It wasn’t long until the riverbed to the north was just a muddy crevice in the earth. Some fish and stones lie squiggling or still, their lives of little consequence to the men on either side.  They were shouting and shooting and heaving and hurling. Some had blades out in hand-to-hand combat with savages whose speed brought them before the river penetrated the mouth of the cave.

            The savages who escaped the cave then were of little consequence. The expert marksmen of the forest soon killed those who were able to find a footing in the torrent. Water swept many savages away, back into the caves, water filling their lungs as their bodies struggled to recover. Within the caves there was sure to be more of the same. However many savages were ready to charge out and challenge them, they were all drowned or dying now. Those that tried to retreat would surely be caught. No man could outrun a river. It didn’t matter how deep the caves went or how many times they split. The water would find every corner, and drown every savage.

            The turquoise waterstone in Omily’s hand glowed on and on for some time. She stood uninterrupted, and even Corson had little to do after an hour’s half passed. Only a few arrows had to leave their quivers, and they were only to ensure that struggling savages didn’t get more than a few feet from the mouth of the cave. Omily released the redirected river and let it return to its bed. An eerie silence took over as the cave swallowed the rest of the water. No savages emerged. It was likely that even if some had survived, they would have no reason. Their numbers were much fewer now, perhaps eliminated altogether, and their caves inundated. The one-sided battle was over.

            The celebration lasted long into the night. Within the walls of the castle all of the warriors and servants of Queen Faquella sang and ate and reveled in merriment. They drank barrels of sapwine and ale and danced without caution. The party spilled outside the walls, and in the field between stone and forest they started fires and sat around them. Stories of the battle were told and retold, some exaggerated to make Omily much more of a hero than she truly was.

            Savages only took three lives that day. Medicine men cared for a handful of warriors, but their outlooks were good. The three men killed were memorialized, buried deep within the earth, their sacrifices made into eternal memories for all those in attendance. Queen Faquella threw the first handful of dirt into the grave, singing the requiem of death in the ancient tongue of the forest tribes. Corson and Omily threw the last handfuls before the grave servants filled it in entirely. It was a depressing affair, but nothing up to that point had made them feel so much like people of the forest. They fought with these men, and they died by their sides, just like their fellow adepts had in Lightwater. It was a strange thing, feeling more attached to something through death.

             Corson had brought his lover a few woodsteins of sapwine. It was a thicker drink, a consistency almost like honey, with a bitter earthiness that warmed you as it coursed through your body. Corson sipped out of obligation and respect, knowing it was one of the prides of the forest, but not particularly enjoying the flavor or the effects. Omily loved it, however, and the joy it brought her was enough to keep it flowing. It was early in the night when her cheeks began to flush. Each time she grabbed Corson’s hand it was warmer than the time before. Every time she laughed or smiled it was more genuine and natural than the last. They were huddled by a fire with a group of bare-chested warriors, recounting the day’s events and past battles, when Corson spotted Enkeevo.

            He was still a boy in the foresters’ eyes. But Corson saw a man. He was capable and lithe. The adepts had come to know Enkeevo quite well. When the older forest men told him that he couldn’t take part in the battle, he was broken on the inside. His three older brothers were part of it, one of whom was still under the watchful eyes of a medicine man. For all the hurt that it brought, Enkeevo didn’t show it to anyone. But Corson could see it for what it was, for he was there once, a boy younger than most of his peers but eager to shape the world. And so Corson put Enkeevo to another task, one dear to his heart. Upon returning to his home to look after his mother, Enkeevo would help her in gathering the things she’d need to make the ring.

            “Enkeevo,” Corson said as he approached him from behind.

            He turned, the woodstein in his hand nearly overflowing. Only half his face was visible as the light from the fire only barely reached this area. “Corson, my friend.”

            “How do you fare?”

            “The days have been quiet,” he said sullenly. “I trust the battle went well.”

            “As you can see,” Corson said, and the two looked at the dancing and gaiety all around. “Have you found all your brothers yet? They did well.”

            “I visited with Millawi first. He is tired, but in good spirits,” Enkeevo said with a long sip of his sapwine. “Cire and Arresi I hoped to find out here. This is where I figured they’d be most… comfortable.”

            “I have not seen them,” Corson told him.

            “Omily is looking quite comfortable herself,” he commented, looking at the woman swaying to the sound of an enchanting forest song.

            “She enjoys it here,” Corson nodded. “Especially the sapwine. She feels like she…  belongs.”

            “Do you?” Enkeevo inquired.

            Corson looked at his friend, and then he smiled. “Yes.”

            “Because nothing will bind you to this realm quite like this,” Enkeevo said, sticking his free hand into his waist pouch and pulling out a ring. “Mama used the turquoise you gave me.”

            “Enkeevo…” Corson said breathlessly, admiring it.

            It was as delicate and perfectly shaped as Omily. Yet it was unyielding, strong and dense. Bogwood hugged traditional oak in place. The former was an ancient relative of white oak, a wood preserved in bogs far to the south. It was a tricky and dangerous place to venture, but it produced some of the rarest and most desirable woods in the entire realm. The wood itself would have been beautiful. But Enkeevo’s skilled mother managed to incorporate the turquoise, as well. It wasn’t quite centered, just a bit under, but it was embedded through the entire circumference. Its bright brilliance cut through the moody beauty of the wood. It shone, even in the shadows, and Corson spun it in his fingers countless times. It was seamless and perfect, and he couldn’t remove his eyes from it.

            “It has been years since mama crafted a ring, and even longer since she made one of such magnificence,” Enkeevo said. “Of all the rings I’ve seen her create, this one took my breath away most. When will you ask her, Corson?”

            “At the right time,” he said. “But soon.”

            A single bell stroke rang over the area. All the singing and dancing stopped.

            “An announcement,” Enkeevo said.

            “Adept Corson Xull and Adept Omily Constance,” a booming voice shouted from atop the castle wall. “Queen Faquella requests your presence in the main hall. All are welcome.”

            Corson turned to find Omily. She was already walking towards him. He was quick to slide the ring into his pocket and then smoothly transition to offering Omily more sapwine. The three of them, with full woodsteins and gleeful curiosity, walked towards the gate, the ivy spreading as the growing group approached.

            The main hall wasn’t quite crowded, but it was surely more occupied than either of them had ever seen it. Almost every man or woman who was outside the castle walls had filtered inside. Queen Faquella stood on a pulpit placed at the front of the room. The dress she wore exposed one shoulder, her midriff, one arm and an entire leg. What little fabric covered her body was a silky tan with green stitching of ivy and flowers with emerald inlays at their center. Her hair was pulled up above her head, wrapped into a beehive with pebbles of jade and emerald dispersed throughout. The small gold crown she wore just above her forehead held the largest jewel of all, an emerald cut into the shape of an ivy leaf.

            “We celebrate justifiably,” she stated. “Our victory was swift and decisive. And while we mourn the loss of our three brothers, and even pray the earth treats the eradicated savages kindly, it is perhaps most necessary to recognize the true cause of our success and offer what humble thanks we can.”

            At that, a rousing hoorah echoed through the hall, and Enkeevo found a spot between Corson and Omily’s shoulders, putting an arm over either of them and smiling brightly. The two adepts simply stood in their spots at the bottom of the pulpit, looking around at the appreciative foresters and then at each other.

            “Please, ascend,” Faquella told them, and so they started rising up the steps. “You rise here as you do in our hearts and minds. You rise here as you lifted our spirits and hope. And here, at this high point, your successes will remain, forever ingrained in the memories of the forest realm and its people. I honor you, Adepts Xull and Constance, with eternal belonging and protection under our canopy. From Lightwater to the caves, from mountains to shores, you are one of us, and so Mother Earth loves you so.”

            The group below them cheered and chanted their names, and then fell to silence as a female servant ascended the steps and stopped before them. She fell to one knee and held a golden bowl filled with dark brown dirt above her head with both hands. Queen Faquella stuck two fingers into the dirt, pressing them around as a pestle in a mortar. First, she rubbed a cross onto Omily’s forehead, and then did the same to Corson. Its symbolism meant as much to them as it did to the men and woman who had seen it in practice their entire life. Omily had tears in her eyes. Corson reached out to grab her hands and squeeze them.

            “Let it be known,” Faquella boomed in a voice few knew she possessed, “that Corson Xull and Omily Constance are one with the forest, its people, its creatures. The tallest tree and the smallest shrub, the highest soaring eagle and the slowest moving slug, shall watch and guide and protect you as they would all of us. You will never know struggle again, the same gift you have blessed upon us.”

            The cheers rose again, and Faquella descended the stairs behind her servant and turned to admire the adepts just as all the warriors and servants and workmen and craftswomen were. She bowed, and all the people in the hall followed suit. Corson and Omily bowed back, a bit overwhelmed and wholly ignorant of this process. The lovers’ eyes met when they finally turned to again face each other.

            He wasn’t sure exactly what to do next. Custom in this region was much different than custom in Lightwater. Still, almost every heart understood love. And so he held her hand with one of his, and used the other to dip into his pocket. From it he pulled the ring, and the cheers that still rang through the room soon fell to silence. He kept his eyes swimming in hers, and realized they almost matched the turquoise that ran through the ring. For years he had gotten lost in them. Now he found himself, and he smiled while taking a deep breath.

            “Omily,” he declared. “I took you from our home… from your family… from the lives we knew and the people we grew up with. There was no way to know where our path would take us, not as we slept on the dirt and had only each other. Now, we’ve found what I think is a new home, here, with these people who live as people should. Love grows in this forest just as love grows in our hearts. And mine is set to burst. With this ring, I set to make you mine, and make myself yours. I wish to wed you, Omily Constance.”

            Her hand was shaking.

            “I hope that’s not fear,” Corson said under his breath.

            “I haven’t been scared since you first held me,” Omily whispered.

            She admired the ring that Corson held.

            “Of course I will wed you,” Omily announced, and she held her hand out for Corson to dress. The ring slid on effortlessly. Once it was on Corson wrapped an arm over Omily’s waist and towed her in for a long kiss that prompted another outburst from the crowd. The excitement around them pulled them apart from one another, but their faces were full of joy. Omily wiped tears off her cheeks. They stepped back down to the floor, to stand before the queen again. Enkeevo joined them.

            “May I tell them now, queen?” he asked.

            “It is a day full of celebrations, both expected and not,” she said. “It is only fitting.”

            Enkeevo turned to them, looking at Omily, and then Corson. “Upon today’s success at the caves, a group of men I’ve assembled will begin constructing your own private cottage. It will not be far from the castle, but it will still be remote.”

            “You’re…” Omily started, “building us a house?”

            “With the blessings of our queen, our people, and our forest.”

            “That’s outstanding,” she said. “I’m not sure how I can thank you.” And so she embraced him, as she would a brother.

            “Enkeevo’s mother also crafted your ring,” Corson said. “We are infinitely indebted.”

            “Perhaps you could visit her,” Enkeevo suggested. “She so wanted to be here, but is still quite weak to travel so far. It would excite her to see the joy her ring brought.”

            “You could travel with Millawi,” Queen Faquella suggested, “once he is recovered.”

            “We must,” Omily said, looking at Corson for his approval.

            “Of course,” Corson said. “We’d be honored to meet her.”

            “She is as ancient and storied as the tallest tree,” Faquella said, offering a quick bow. “I must mingle now.”

            “Cire!” Enkeevo shouted, spotting his two other brothers, sprinting off to greet them. “Arresi!”

            Omily and Corson were left alone, save the occasional thanks or congratulations from passers-by. They stood and danced and kissed and embraced, intertwined through body, mind, heart and soul.

            Millawi was shorter but thicker than Enkeevo, with a build more like a trunk than a branch. Enkeevo told them he was quiet, dull. And while he spent most of his walking hours in mulled silence, he was also full of questions about Omily and Corson’s beginnings and traditions from Lightwater. He was fascinated, really, and spoke of the traditions of the forest as if they were outdated.

            “You chose one another?” he asked, shocked.

            “Yes,” Corson said, wrapping his fingers through Omily’s.

            “It must be thrilling,” Millawi said. “To love as love was meant to be.”

            “Our love was not easy. We had to run away, because some believed it was unnatural.”

            “Love in the forest is much the same. They say it is rooted, and cannot be changed or moved, much like a tree growing from the ground. Its destiny is set from the beginning.”

            “There are places, beyond the forest and even Lightwater, that are much the same,” Omily told him. “In the Whisperwinds women are sent from their homes at a young age, never to return.”

            “It is different here,” Millawi said. “In our thirtieth year, a man is sent to a woman’s village on the Bloodmoon. He visits on each Bloodmoon, red after red, the same woman, until he plants a child in her. Many men succeed on the first visit. Others never do. Once the woman is pregnant, the man returns to the woman, and weds her, and they spend the rest of their lives together.”

            “Who arranges all this?”

            “Servants of the queen,” Millawi said. “They track the birth of every child, and can spend years finding a mate with the closest birth date. My thirtieth is on the next Bloodmoon.”

            “Where will you go?”

            “I won’t know until they come for me. This path here,” Millawi indicated, “will lead to home. Only another hour or so.”

            They stepped away from the main path onto a smaller one with thinner footing and thicker shrubbery. Corson and Omily might have missed it if Millawi hadn’t been leading them. The only way to walk on this path was single-file. Omily walked between the two men, thankful she wasn’t born a girl of the forest or Whisperwinds. And then, for a moment, she felt despair. Was she a coward? The girls of Whisperwinds lived out their fate because it was tradition. The men of the forest were sent off to dispense their seed because that is what their queen enforced. It could have been the oldest tradition in the realm. While Millawi seemed disappointed with it, especially having just heard their story, she knew he would do what was expected of him. He was the oldest of four sons, and had been able to spend thirty years with his mother and brothers. He worked the forest, defended it, and served selflessly. Soon he would begin the next part of his life, perhaps the last half. He would do it because of tradition.

            The traditions of Lightwater weren’t terribly strict. A man could love as he wished, and a woman could do as she pleased with her flower. All her father refused to accept was the eternal love and procreation between an adept of the water and an adept of the light. It was rare that the two elementals did more than fight or eat aside one another. Omily and Corson were the exception. It infuriated Quento. He could do little more than refuse to sanction their marriage. And so he loved his daughter, and he respected Corson as an adept, but he did nothing else. The fury he must have felt upon their disappearance was something Omily tried not to think about. But deep in the forest, on this small path, she thought about it. She wondered if there was anyone out looking for them under the command of Lord Constance. It was a fear she lived with daily, but she never shared it with Corson.

            Day was nearing its end when they reached the clearing that held Millawi’s home. It was quiet, and the surrounding trees cast an array of shadows over the area. They had spent a night sleeping on the forest floor, and had no desire to spend another. Corson had seen this old home before. Millawi grew up in it. To Omily it was entirely new. She marveled over the solid construction, despite its obvious age. The charm won her over when Millawi led them inside. The furs of various animals, blacks and browns and grays, lay across the floor and cushioned her steps. Furniture dotted the room in an unorganized fashion. Chairs and benches surrounded tables and furnaces here and there. Still the room managed to draw attention to the large hearth on a near wall. The old woman sitting in front of it was as dark as her sons and wrinkly all over with pockmarks here and there. Her eyes were sunken with heavy bags of skin beneath them. Her mouth quivered, and her hands might have too if they didn’t keep a steady grip on the crooked cane of oak she held between her legs.

            “Mama,” Millawi said, and the old woman turned to acknowledge him. She saw the guests, and smiled. “This is�"”

            “Corson and Omily, of course,” she cut him off. Her voice was stronger than the rest of her. Her mind still seemed sharp, too. “The saviors of our forest. Thankfully the savages never reached this far west, but the stories of their horrors certainly did.”

            Millawi walked to the hearth, and indicated the bench on which he wanted Corson and Omily to sit. They were both partially hanging off of either end. Millawi took a seat across from his mother, who sat closest to the fire. She glowed on one side, was shadowed on the other.

            “My name is Iverial,” she told them. “The ring fits you well, Omily?”

            “Perfectly,” she said, smiling. “It is a miracle, for never having met me before.”

            “I need not measure when a ring or any piece of jewelry is set to destiny. The wood bends and shapes itself. I am its tool, not the opposite.”

            “Mama still believes the entire forest is enchanted,” Millawi said. “But the words Faquella or our mystics say are only words these days.”

            “I tried my best to raise my boys to understand the forest,” Iverial said. “But boys are thicker than girls, as I’m sure you know, dear Omily. The forest’s magic is much more subtle. But life courses through the sap of the trees just as much as the blood of the people.”

            “Mama…” Millawi said. “Not now.”

            “If not now, when?” she sighed. “My days grow shorter. Perhaps these two will be more receptive to the powers of the forest.”

            “What powers, exactly?” Corson asked, intrigued. This wasn’t what he was expecting upon this visit, but he couldn’t help but want to learn more from this woman. “The ivy on the castle walls is a marvel, but what else is there?”

            “The forest sees further than you can imagine. Everything is connected… underneath. We can’t see it, or understand it, unless we let ourselves. Even I’m not connected. Not yet.”

            “Because trees are trees and people are people. There is no intertwining,” Millawi said. “Perhaps the castle that’s as old as most of the trees has something left inside its walls. But there is no magic in the forest.”

            “There is protection. Tell me, dear lovebirds, have you ever felt safer anywhere else?”

            “They come from The Tear,” Millawi said. “It is the safest place in the realm.”

            “I have never,” Omily answered Iverial.

            “Nor have I,” Corson admitted.

            “The forest only lets in those who are welcomed,” Iverial said. “Or I should say… it lets them find what they’re looking for.”

            “The savages, then…” Corson said. “How could they�"”

            “These savages live beneath the earth. If there’s anyone who can claim to be connected to the forest at its roots, it’s them. They are as much a part of this forest as we are. Only they are on the wrong side. They are stuck below it.”

            “Mama, can’t we talk about something else?” Millawi begged.

            “We found you, Corson and Omily, did we not?” Iverial ignored him. “From the light of this house that drew Corson in, to the condors that swooped in and stole Omily as she slept.”

            Corson shared a cursory glance of understanding with his love. “Where did the savages come from?”

            “The earth, of course,” Iverial chuckled.

            “Mama…” Millawi said.

            “They are the baser beginnings of the people we are today. From the ground came earth and fire, and from the sky came water and wind and light,” Iverial explained. “You look confused, you two. These savages are the forgotten descendants of King Erthanall, cast from the light of day by the surviving elements. And we, the people of the forest, are but a branch of those descendants.”

            “You think you descend from King Erthanall? The man who tried to enslave the entire realm by demolishing it under his stone fist?” Corson asked.

            “I don’t think, boy,” Iverial answered. “I know. King Erthanall was born of the forest and the earth, and this forest still possesses some of his powers. And he was no man.”

            “Mama, perhaps it is time for sleep,” Millawi suggested. “I will wake you for breakfast.”

            “No, son, you will listen,” she rebutted. “And you will feel. Do you feel it?”

            “Feel what?” Omily wondered.

            “In the heat,” Iverial whispered. “There is a foulness on it of late. It is a true shame that we cannot live without fire. Otherwise we could wholly eliminate ourselves from the sorcery it holds.”

            “What do you feel?”

            “The people of the forest are sun kissed. They dance in the rains and relish in the coolness of the wind. The people of the caves, our distant relatives… they have decided to reemerge. And with their reemergence comes the resurgence of the true evil that fire can exorcize. Savages and sorcery have reignited Deadflame and given new life to the far reaches of the west.”

            Millawi was starting to look concerned. “Mama, what are you�"”

            “The Greatmage has brought much ancient malevolence, long thought forgotten, back to life. Even through the fires we ourselves start and grow, he can reach those who are weak and let their guard down. The flame of the Greatmage burns bright, and it will spread, along with all the wildfire of the Blazelands. I feel it in the flames. I hear it underfoot.”

            The four sat in silence until Iverial rose to her feet, putting most of her weight on her cane. Millawi stood too, offering his assistance to his frail mother.

            “I’ll be quite all right laying myself into a bed,” she said. “I feel myself grow tired that quickly these days. Tomorrow we will talk of lighter things, of love and such.”

            With that, she hobbled off, her son right behind her despite the protests. Corson and Omily sat huddled together. They were both looking into the fire, trying to feel what Iverial perhaps felt. But they both failed. They turned and looked into each other’s eyes, catching the flames’ reflections within. Their lips met, and they felt the heat between them.