SWNOVELS Chapter The Baron's Daughter
“So tell me again,” said the criminal in the cell adjacent to Trik’s, “how did you come about your stay?” The criminal was grasping the rusty iron bars between the two dungeon cells with his frail hands. A tattered tunic and torn pants hung loose on his withered frame.
In the stone corridor outside of Trik’s cell a candle flame flickered against the stone wall. The light of the flame dimly lit the elf’s gaunt face as he leaned against the mossy stone wall of his cell and spoke. “The Baron objected to my association with his daughter,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” said the criminal, and he smiled wide enough to expose all six of his remaining teeth. “You tell me that the Baron grew mad over her fondness for you,” he said. “You claim he jailed you for this reason. All this because you are common, you say?”
“Because I am an elf,” said Trik, “hardly common.”
“In these parts, an elf is beneath a commoner,” said the criminal.
“In this sewer of humanity,” said Trik, glaring at the bars of his cell, “the Baron is nothing more than a rat.”
“Patience, my friend,” said the criminal, with a wry smile. “If the Baron’s daughter is truly in love with you, then I am sure she will see to your release.”
Trik’s eyes narrowed on the candle flame flickering on the wall of the stone corridor. He had watched it for countless hours each day, noted how every few days the wax slowly melted to the base of a brass sconce and was replaced by a guard.
There was a dull thumping sound that came from the stone corridor, followed by the clank of a metal bolt sliding and a heavy wooden door retracting. Then there came the sound of heavy footsteps against the worn stones of the floor as two of the Baron’s guards marched down the corridor. The criminal slinked into the shadows of his cell as the guards halted before Trik’s cell. One of the guards was tall and thin with a mustache, and the other was fat and short with a pockmarked face. “You there,” said the fat guard. “Are you the elf?”
Trik slowly approached the guard from the other side of the bars. “I am Trikodemos,” he said, “Prince of Elves.” His eyes dropped to the floor at the guard’s feet. “And you must be the bedpan cleaner.”
“Step back from the door, prisoner,” said the guard.
Trik glared at the guard as he stepped back from the barred door. The guard produced a key from a leather satchel and placed it in the cell lock. As he turned the key, the cell lock clicked and the door swung free. “Come here,” said the guard, pointing a plump finger at Trik.
As Trik got near to him, the guard slapped rusty iron shackles on his wrists. Trik looked down at the shackles. “They’re a little tight,” he said.
“This way,” said the tall guard, prodding Trik in the shoulder with a club. His voice was high-pitched and nasally for a man of his stature.
The guards led Trik out of the cell and into the stone corridor. There they stopped in the light of the candle. “Why do you release me?” asked Trik.
The fat guard grinned. “You’re to be hanged,” he said, and he cupped his throat with his right hand.
From the criminal’s cell came the faint trickle of mocking laughter.
“This way,” said the fat guard to Trik. “The Baron will see you first.”
“The Baron,” growled Trik, “curse his name.”
The heavy club of the tall guard struck Trik from behind. Trik winced and stumbled forward.
“You will respect the Honorable Baron and his name,” said the fat guard with a toothy grin.
The guards led Trik down the stone corridor, in the dim light of the flickering candles. Each candle was placed four cells apart, and thus they passed ten such candles, and forty such cells.
*
The Baron was a short bald man in a large purple coat, which was intended to conceal his girth, but succeeded only in drawing more attention to it. He had bushy gray eyebrows and deep-set brown eyes. When Trik was brought before him, he was pacing about on a dais in a wide marble room supported by high stone pillars. In the vast window behind the Baron the sun peered just above the rim of the green wheat fields in the east. The Baron, or rather the good Baron of Banesh, as his subjects called him, governed the lands northwest of the Stormdrake Mountains, a vale of wheat and little rivers.
“Your highness,” said the fat guard, “we have brought the prisoner.”
The Baron halted. “Wait outside,” said the Baron to the guard.
“Your highness,” said the guard. “This man is a criminal.”
“Leave me,” said the Baron, shooting a piercing glance at the guard. “Do it.”
The fat guard turned to his comrade and nodded. They departed together, marching through the doorway, and out into the common hallway.
“Do you know why I’ve summoned you?” asked the Baron.
Trik grinned. “Did you miss my company?” he asked.
“No title?” asked the Baron. “Your Highness? Your Majesty? Your Honor?”
“I don’t abide by titles,” said Trik.
The Baron walked down to Trik, stopping a few paces from him. “You have a problem with authority,” said the Baron. “I knew it when I first laid eyes on you.”
“I have a problem with fools,” said Trik, his eyes narrowing on the Baron.
The Baron stood at the height of Trik’s shoulders, even on his toes. “You are lucky that I do not have you gutted where you stand,” he said. “If things were any other way, I would see to it.”
“Has the good Baron had a change of heart?” asked Trik.
“A change of circumstances,” said the Baron.
Trik grinned unsympathetically. “Do tell,” he said.
“My daughter Tabitha,” said the Baron, “who I prize above all possessions in this world, has vanished.”
Trik’s eyes widened, and the grin faded from his lips. “Vanished,” he said.
“My knights have searched long,” said the Baron, “but they have not found her. That is I why I have summoned you.” The Baron stepped very close to Trik. “Although it pains me to say it, I need your help.”
Trik’s expression hardened, and he raised his shackled wrists. “But, My Lord, you have condemned me to death,” he said, “or have you forgotten so soon?”
The Baron folded his hands over his protruding belly. “I’m going to make a deal with you,” he said. His eyes narrowed on the elf. “If you can bring her back before any harm comes to her, then I will pardon your crime. You will be set free.”
Trik smiled. “How can I refuse such an offer,” he said. “But I’m afraid I don’t know where she is.”
The Baron turned around, and walked back onto the dais under the window. There was a table beneath the window with a scroll lying on it. “I believe she has been kidnapped,” said the Baron. “Her servants found this letter in her room the morning she disappeared.” He took the scroll from the table and walked down to Trik with it in his hand.
“What does it say?” asked Trik.
The Baron unwound the parchment and read it out loud. “’Baron, we have taken your daughter Tabitha prisoner. If you wish to see her alive again, then you will deliver to us the sum of five hundred gold pieces.’” The Baron flipped over the parchment, and revealed a crude map that had been inked on the back of it.
Trik’s eyes narrowed on the map. “That is the abandoned palace in the Old Forest,” said Trik.
“I thought you might know,” said the Baron. He returned to the table, placing the scroll upon it. He pulled out a drawer from under the table and took from it a single black key. “I believe she is in danger,” he said. He walked down to Trik. “You will be provided with an escort, one of my best knights.”
“Whatever I do, I will do for Tabitha,” said Trik. “Not for you.”
The Baron nodded. “If you survive this quest and succeed,” he said, “you will be pardoned. If not, then your sentence will be concluded.”
Trik stood firmly and held up his shackled wrists. “So be it,” he said.
“Then we agree,” said the Baron. He placed the key in the lock of the shackles and turned it. The shackles snapped open and fell to the marble floor at their feet.
Trik glanced at his sore wrists. The shackles had worn red rings into his pale flesh.
“Now go,” said the Baron. “My best knight waits for you outside my castle. He will join you in this mission. But do not forget that your freedom and your life are bound to this task.”
*
The two guards from the dungeon escorted Trik out of the castle and onto the drawbridge. A gray knight sitting on a saddled horse rode onto the drawbridge. He wore gray mail, gray gauntlets, black boots, and a gray full metal helm. His horse was a black charger with black leather straps and stirrups.
The fat guard threw a bag on the wooden planks of the drawbridge at Trik’s feet. “I’d rather you be hanged,” said the guard. “But perhaps we’ll see that yet.”
Trik picked up the bag and carried it as he walked up to the gray knight. He halted in the shadow of the knight on his black charger. “You must be the Baron’s best knight,” said Trik.
The gray knight spoke. “The Baron has returned your belongings,” he said. His voice was deep and low. His two dark eyes looked out from a horizontal slit in his helm.
Trik opened the bag and took from it his leather belt with his scabbard and his elven rapier. He put on his belt over his trousers. Then he slid his long elven blade into its scabbard. Finally, he donned his hooded gray cloak. He looked up at the knight. “I had a horse as well,” he said.
The knight whistled to someone from afar, a stable boy riding a brown stock horse. A moment later, the stable boy arrived with the horse. The horse was clean, newly shod, and had been well cared for. The stable boy climbed down from the horse onto the drawbridge.
Trik stepped up to the light stock horse and whispered something into its ear. Then he slid his left hand over its flank and in one fluid motion, mounted it. He took the reins in his hands and glanced at the knight. “I’m ready,” he said.
The knight rode up to Trik on his dark stallion. Its heavy iron shoes clapped on the planks of the castle drawbridge. “It is my duty to my lord and my realm that you live,” he said. “Because I am honorable, I shall uphold that oath. But do not forget that you are a condemned criminal.”
“Wrongly condemned,” said Trik.
“Wrongly or rightly,” said the knight. “It matters not to me.” As he said those words, he raised a cruel black mace in his right hand. “I will do my lord’s bidding, should it come to that.”
“My word is my word,” said Trik, staring at the mace.
The gray knight lowered his cruel mace. He took the reins of his charger and turned the horse about. The horse trotted onto the stone trail near the castle, leaving Trik at the drawbridge.
Trik looked out over the rolling green hills and the tiny cottages and farmhouses that dotted the lands that sloped down from the castle. The fresh scents of summer, of flowers, of rivers, of grass, of freedom, permeated the air. He breathed it in. It was a cool summer morning, and the dew was still wet on the green hills. He shook the reins of his horse and rode after the gray knight.
*
They took the main road, which snaked among the rolling hills of Banesh from the castle of the Baron, past the fields of Ibin, over the Lorne Lake by ferry, to the eaves of the Old Forest. There they paused on a hilltop, looking down at the vast expanse of the forest and the blue peaks of the Stormdrake Mountains beyond it. The main road did not pass through the Old Forest, but instead skirted it to the east and converged with the Imperial Road heading north.
The gray knight produced a map from his saddlebag. “This is a copy of a map left by the kidnappers,” he said to Trik. “It shows a path through the woods.”
“I know,” said Trik. He rode down the hill to the Old Forest and halted in the shade of the birch trees at the edge of the woods.
The knight joined Trik at the birch trees. “There was once a road through the forest,” said the knight, “but it has been lost for many years.”
“Not to me,” said Trik. He continued along the edge of the forest, riding at a trot. The knight did not follow him. After several hundred feet, the hooves of Trik’s horse clapped against worn stones. “Here,” shouted Trik.
The old road was mostly overgrown, but here and there some worn stone still remained. It cut midway between two low hills and disappeared in no less than a hundred feet from the Old Forest.
The knight rode his charger to Trik, joining him between the two low hills. “I see nothing here,” he said.
“Look again,” said Trik, pointing into the Old Forest. “See how the branches part there.” Indeed there was a path that led between the trees in the Old Forest, but it was much untended and very overgrown.
“We shall not get through this on horseback,” said the knight.
“We shall go further than you think,” said Trik.
The knight turned to him. “You speak as if you have been here before,” he said.
“Not so long ago,” said Trik, “before the darkness descended, and the demons awoke.”
“Demons,” said the knight.
“Yes,” said Trik. He rode forward into the tangled woods on the old stone path, and the knight followed him at a distance.
*
The old road upon which they traveled was only less overgrown than the forest encroaching upon it. Little light descended through the dense canopy above them, leaving the forest in a grim sort of twilight. They had not traveled long into the forest when a strange hum began to rise from the darkness about them.
“Elf,” said the gray knight, pulling on his reins to halt his black charger.
Trik rode up to the knight on his horse.
“I hear song,” said the knight. “Do you not hear it?”
Trik looked into the woods. There was a clearing before them bathed in marmalade light from the sun passing through the branches and leaves. “The song of nightmares,” he said.
The knight raised his visor with his index finger. Beneath it, his venerable eyes shined through the darkness, soft and clear, and narrowed on a patch of shadows in the clearing. “Look there,” he said. “Something or someone watches us.”
Trik turned to the dark patch in the woods. For a moment there was nothing, and then a scratching sound—then a flash of light in the darkness.
A young woman emerged from the darkness of the woods, stepping softly on the leaves beneath the high oak trees. She was tall and fair and clothed only in shadows. Yet her eyes were dark, darker even than the shadows. She beckoned to them with an outstretched hand and began to sing a song both lovely and somber. And when her song was done, she spoke with a fair voice. “Come hither,” she said. “Come to me.”
The knight’s eyes widened at her. He slapped the reins of his horse and rode away from the light and into the darkness of the shadows.
“No, don’t,” shouted Trik. “It’s a trap.”
The knight halted in the shadowy clearing. The fair and tall maiden beckoned to him with both hands. He hopped down from his stallion, his heavy boots landing hard on the ground. “She has chosen me,” he said, stepping toward her. “Do not be jealous.”
Trik’s elf eyes narrowed on the maiden. “We see your true form, old demon,” he said. “Begone, or face my wrath.” Trik drew his sword, and the edge of the blade caught the light in the forest. He tapped the flanks of his horse and rode toward her.
Suddenly, she turned to Trik and shrieked, and for a moment her form became that of a dark fleshless demon with glowing red eyes and long sharp teeth. She shrieked again, a most terrible sound. Then she bolted into the darkness and disappeared into the shadows among the trees.
The knight was dazed for a moment, staring into the woods after the old demon. “That one was very powerful,” said Trik.
The knight did not look at Trik. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was a fool.”
“It is not easy to resist the charm of a forest nymph,” said Trik, “not even for an elf.”
The knight grasped the reins of his horse. “Let us leave this place,” said the knight, mounting his charger.
As the knight returned to the road, Trik’s eyes narrowed on the shadows among the trees. There, not far from the road, shined two fierce red eyes, unblinking and watchful.
*
After riding for some time, they came to a grove of towering red oaks. The light that passed through the branches of the canopy was brighter there, revealing a shallow river that cut across the old road.
“Do you hear that?” asked Trik, pressing his hand against his pointed ear.
“I hear water falling in the distance,” said the gray knight.
“The Falls of Ibin are near,” said Trik.
The knight took the map from his saddlebag. “Not according to the map,” said the knight.
“I am the map,” said Trik. He hopped down onto the worn road, landing softly on a patch of grass. He took the reins of his horse and led it to the low-hanging branches of a red oak. There he tied the reins around a strong branch.
“What are you doing?” asked the knight. “We must go on.” He pointed at the road that wound into the darkness past the river.
“That way,” said Trik, “leads to despair, and nothing else.”
“You are certain?” said the knight.
“Yes,” said Trik, walking down to the river bank.
The knight looked again at the road winding into the darkness. He crushed the map in his right hand, and cursed before returning it to his saddlebag. He stepped down from his horse and his boots sank into the soft ground near the river. As Trik’s horse nibbled on the clovers growing near the river, the knight tied his charger under a red oak.
Trik was already walking along the river, his boots stepping softly on the grass, when the knight joined him. “You had better be right about this,” he said.
“I am always right,” said Trik, marching along the river bank.
“You are hasty and brash,” said the knight.
*
As they got near the falls, the roar of water drowned out their footsteps, and the trees gave way to a clearing and a high canyon wall. From a ledge above the canyon, water poured down from three grooves and thundered into the river basin below. The pool below the falls was so shallow and clear that colorful stones could be seen sparkling beneath the water.
The gray knight looked up at the falls. “You’ve led us to a dead end,” he shouted.
Trik said nothing as he stepped into the river and walked toward the falls. As he approached the thundering water, mist enveloped him.
“Where are you going?” shouted the knight, but his words were drowned out by the thundering water.
Trik stepped beneath the falls and emerged in a hollow behind the cascading water and mist. At the back of the sandstone hollow was the mouth of a cave. Trik stepped out of the waterfall and into the river. From there, he waved to the knight to follow. The knight did not move. Trik stepped once more beneath the falls and emerged in the hollow. He climbed the sloping sandstone to the cave’s entrance. The cave before him was dark and damp, but large enough to enter standing upright. He stepped inside.
After feeling his way through the dark for a while, Trik emerged from the cave’s exit in a well-lit grove. Towering before him stood an immense structure of white marble with a large central dome and four smaller domes. The marble had been intricately carved, but the base of the structure was overgrown with vines and moss and some of it was cracking. A garden with reflecting pools surrounded the structure, but had been long untended. The structure was surrounded by a moat, which was spanned by a narrow marble bridge. As Trik stepped upon the marble bridge, the knight marched out of the cave and up to Trik. “The Old Palace,” he said, his eyes widening beneath his visor.
“This way,” said Trik, stepping onto the bridge. The bridge was cracked in many places, but it withstood his weight as he crossed over it. At the far end of the bridge, he passed under a great marble arch, which was carpeted with wet moss.
The knight followed Trik closely with the handle of his mace clenched firmly in his right hand. “I’ve heard rumors of this place,” he said as he walked, “but I had thought it was a myth.”
“It’s quite real,” said Trik, looking up at the ornate dome of the marble structure.
As they approached the palace, they passed by a long reflecting pool overgrown with vines and weeds and filled with dark oily water. Beneath the water, ruined marble sculptures could be seen. They stopped at the main entrance to the palace, which was blocked by two heavy wooden doors.
Trik tried the doors, but they were shut fast. “Help me with this,” he said to the knight.
With the knight’s assistance, Trik pried open the palace doors, revealing a great hall with a grand staircase at its far end. Spider webs hung like tapestries from its vaulted marble ceiling, its winding staircase, and its arched windows. Great frescoes depicting fabulous scenes lined its darkened walls.
“Tabitha,” shouted Trik.
“Your highness,” said the knight, his voice echoing against the walls of the great hall.
They marched across the hall, past overturned tables and chairs. At the end of the hall, they climbed the grand marble staircase. It led to a balcony and another set of large wooden doors. A vast spider web stretched across the doors, and clinging to it was a spider as large as a man’s outstretched hand. Trik took his sword and stabbed it into the spider, pinning it against the door. As he withdrew the blade, the dead spider dropped to the floor.
“They don’t get any bigger than that,” said the knight, but even as he said this there was a hiss and the skittering of hairy legs on the marble floor.
Trik’s eyes widened and he looked over his shoulder. “Behind you,” shouted Trik, as a spider, half his height, sprang at the knight.
The knight spun about with his mace clenched firmly in his hand. The spider struck the knight with its front legs, knocking him off his feet, but the ball of the mace struck the giant spider’s head. As the weight of the spider’s barrel-shaped body pressed down upon the knight, Trik stabbed the spider’s abdomen with his sword. The knight struck a second deeper blow, cracking its black shell, and releasing a jet of black fluid that gushed onto the marble floor. The spider spread its fangs and hissed, but instead of striking again, it skittered down the staircase and into some dark hole in the masonry of the great hall.
“Monstrous,” said the knight, as he got to his feet. The knight looked at the trail of black blood that led from him to the dark hole in the great hall. From it came a soft hissing sound.
“Help me,” said Trik, pressing against the wooden doors.
Together, they pried open the doors and revealed a long and poorly lit hallway covered with spider webs. Upon each web hung numerous forest creatures—squirrels, birds, and other pale creatures drained of blood.
“This is a foul sight,” said the gray knight.
“Watch your step,” said Trik, walking between the webs. As they crossed the hallway, some of the smaller spiders skittered between their feet. The knight crushed many beneath his boots as he made his way. At the far end of the hallway was another set of doors, but they hung loosely upon their hinges. Trik kicked them open, revealing the inner courtyard of the palace. A staircase led down into the courtyard, a place overgrown with trees and weeds. In the courtyard was a reflecting pool surrounded by many small trees, and among all of these things a great spider web had been spun.
“Good Gods,” said the knight.
“Look there,” said Trik, pointing at the web. Upon the great web, near the very center of it hung the body of the Baron’s daughter, a frail young woman, clothed in a frayed red gown. Her hair was dark and her skin was pale, but even in the dim light of the courtyard she was fair. “Tabitha,” he said.
“Your highness,” said the knight. He stepped down the stairs and lumbered across the courtyard in his heavy armor. Trik followed him down the marble stairs, past the reflecting pool, to the center of the web. The knight set his boot on the web, but the gray threads burst as he put his weight on them.
“Allow me,” said Trik. He climbed onto the web, ascending it like a ladder, until he was two stories above the courtyard. There the body of Tabitha was fastened to the web, her wrists and ankles bound by the spider’s sticky gray thread. “Tabitha,” he said, with his hand on her waist. “It’s me.”
The eyes of the young woman peeled open, and she spoke softly. “Trik,” she said, “you came.”
“Don’t worry,” said Trik. “I’ll get you out of here.” He took his sword and cut the bonds that fastened her ankles to the web. He did the same with the bonds about her wrists. Then he returned his sword to its scabbard. He pulled her free from the web and laid her over his shoulder.
“Hurry,” shouted the knight from below, as the elf descended the web with Tabitha clinging to him.
Trik halted in his descent. His eyes widened as he looked down at the courtyard. From a great hole in the courtyard came the hiss of a giant spider, as tall as the gray knight and with fangs longer than the blade of Trik’s sword. The giant spider rushed toward the web, knocking over the knight, even as the knight struck his mace against its monstrous body. So swift and rapid was the giant spider’s attack that before Trik could draw his sword, the spider’s great belly pressed against him, and its fangs punctured his cloak and pierced his flesh.
From the ground the knight flung his mace at the barrel-shaped body of the giant spider. The creature hissed as the mace pierced its black shell of a body, and hung there, even as the spider struck again at Trik. The elf cried out, but even as he did so, Tabitha raised herself free of the web and stumbled to the ground. There the knight helped her to her feet.
“Help him,” she said to the knight.
Trik was pressed against the web, and the spider’s poison was in him, such that his strength was already less than half of what it had been. Still he reached for his sword, and as the spider prepared once more to strike, Trik drove, with the last of his strength, the blade of his sword into the giant spider’s jaws. Then at last the spider hissed madly and fell from the web to the ground.
As the spider dragged its bleeding body across the courtyard, the gray knight regained his mace, and struck the monster with many blows. And with each strike, the creature hissed. But at last in the shadows under the courtyard wall it hissed no more, and drew its legs up to its body and was still.
But the spider’s poison coursed through Trik’s body, and as the gray knight reached out to take the elf’s hand, he fell unconscious.
*
Trik awoke from his stupor the next day. He was lying on a fine bed. His wounds had been cleaned and bandaged and he wore a nightgown. There was a fireplace in the room, but its kindling had burned to coals. A boy had come into the room to add fresh wood to the fireplace.
Trik rose from the bed as the boy walked across the room to the fireplace. As the boy placed his staves upon the glowing coals, Trik called out to him. “You, boy, where am I?”
The boy faced Trik, his cheeks reddening. “You are in the Baron’s castle, of course,” he said.
Trik looked about the room. “Where is Tabitha?” he asked.
“My Lady Tabitha,” said the boy, “is in the waiting room.”
“Will you fetch her?” asked Trik with a clear but faint voice.
The boy nodded. He walked across the room to the exit. As he reached it, Trik called to him again. “Boy,” he said, “bring ale from the kitchen.”
The boy nodded again before disappearing into the hallway. Trik glanced at the bedroom window. It faced the inner courtyard of the castle. Trik got to his feet and looked about the room. His clothes were hanging from the fireplace mantle, and they were clean and dry. He shed his nightgown.
After Trik had clothed himself in his tunic and pants, he moved closer to the window. There was music playing in the courtyard, trumpets blowing and lutes strumming. There was a celebration being held in the courtyard, and there were many guests in attendance. He placed himself in the nook of the window and looked down at the courtyard.
There was the sound of shoes clapping against the floor. Then Tabitha, wearing one of her fairest blue gowns appeared in the room. Her hair was brushed, and her lips were painted red. “Trik,” she said, her eyes lighting up.
Trik turned to her. “Tabitha, my darling,” he said.
She rushed across the room to him and took a seat in the window nook beside him. “Trik, my love,” she said, “you’re awake.”
“You’re safe,” he said, smiling.
She kissed him on the cheeks. She kissed him on the lips. Then she looked at him. His eyes were open. “Trik, why won’t you kiss me back?” she asked.
He did not look at her. He looked at the crowd gathered below them in the courtyard.
“Speak,” she said, smiling. “Are you not happy to see me?”
Trik’s eyes narrowed. “Should I be?” he asked.
Tabitha frowned. “Why do you say such things?” she asked.
“You nearly died,” he said.
“I didn’t,” she said. “You saved me.”
“By luck alone,” he said.
“You’re angry,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
She leaned away from him. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Trik faced her. “You weren’t kidnapped,” he said. “It was your handwriting in the letter. You planned this all.”
Tabitha got to her feet. Her expression was coy. “I was clever,” she said. “My father would’ve hung you.”
“You were foolish,” said Trik, his expression hardening. “I warned you never to go to the forest alone.”
“I did it because I love you,” she said. Her face was beautiful in the firelight, but her eyes were dark and innocent.
“You don’t even know me,” said Trik. “I’m four hundred years your elder.”
“I don’t care,” said Tabitha. “I love you.”
“It’s my fault,” said Trik, lowering his head. “I showed you the way to the Old Palace. I put you in harms way. Now, it has come back to me.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, her lips pouting.
He looked up at her, and his eyes pierced hers. “It’s over,” he said.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t mean that. You’re angry.”
“Tabitha,” said Trik, “I’m sorry.” He turned back to the celebration. The crowd parted before the entourage of the Baron. The gray knight was with him, but his helmet was off. His hair and eyes were gray. He was old, much older than he seemed in his armor. The Baron placed a medal around his neck.
Trik turned to the look at Tabitha, but she was already gone, and in her place was the boy holding a bronze mug. There was a curious expression on his face.
“All I could find was sour ale,” said the boy.
“Bring it here,” said Trik.
The boy brought the mug of ale to the elf. Trik took a drought from the mug and savored it. He looked out of the window at the crowd below.
“You’re an elf,” said the boy.
“Yes,” said Trik.
“My father has told me of the elves,” said the boy. “He says you live across the sea in a land of forests.”
Trik nodded. “Once I did,” he said.
“I think it would be grand to be an elf,” said the boy. “To live forever and to go on adventures.”
Trik turned to the boy. There was a hard expression on his face, but in his eyes was the faintest hint of sadness. “It is better you are a boy,” he said.