The Conquest of Mytheyr

“Touching story. My poor girl. I would have stayed…”

“Get out of my dreams.” she hissed at Semele.

“No, I don’t think I will. Try all you may, but I always get what I deserve… my queen.”

Morgan sat up and shook her head. It was not comfortable sleeping on a horse, especially bareback, and she almost tumbled off. She knew what Semele was doing, as she had done the same thing to one of her enemies. The dreams keep the mind from rest, weaken the victim’s concentration, and, in turn, their ability to perform magic goes out the window.

“Karma’s a bitch.” she groaned, looking around to see where they were.

The way she figured it, the caravan would reach the pass they were to take through the mountains by noon, and they’d be at the town by tomorrow. Then she’d have to search the desert. She didn’t have much to go on, just white hair and dark purple eyes. So, in other words, thirty percent of all Dark Elves.

“You’d think that the trees would tell me more.” she muttered, partly to herself and partly to Caspian, “But they’re… quiet. Too quiet. Not quite like what happened before, when their voices were dying, but… more like they’re too afraid to sing.” Caspian snorted, shaking his mane. “I don’t expect you to be helpful,” Morgan told him, “I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Yeh alright, lass?” a voice interrupted her. A male Dark Elf on a brown horse rode up next to her. It was the same man who had invited her to join his caravan two days ago.

“I’m alright,” Morgan answered, “just tired.”

“I’ll say you are. Could ‘ear yer troubled mind all last night. Not that I tried to, mind you. Not that I’d have to try very hard, if I were.”

“I understand. Some elves just hear other’s minds more easily, and some minds are just loud. I’m sorry; I completely forgot your name.” Morgan told him.

“That’s cause I never gave it.” the he said wryly, “Yer gonna be up to something, soon as we step into town, I reckon. Do ya want my advice, miss?”

Morgan sighed, peering ahead. It was going to be a long road ahead.

“Sure. It couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ve been ferrying people across Mytheyr for a hundred years. Not long in the grand scope, but I’ve learned a few things. Word of mouth is the easiest way to get the news, but not the most reliable. And word of mouth is, the pretender on the throne killed the King’s family. Do I believe it? Aye. There’s few other ways he could be calling hisself king. And word of mouth is, a conspiracy is forming, one who wants to march on the castle and kill the pretender. Do I believe that? Aye. You hurt something someone loves; they’re liable to hurt back. I may consider joining it, meself. And… word of mouth is that the smaller villages are being swallowed up, disappearing in the night, like theys were never there. Do I believe that? Maybe. What I know is this ein’t no dark time for Mytheyr. We thrive in the dark. Neh, Mytheyr is in for a black age, and soon, it won’t be jus talk, an’ people will be dying. That’s why yer here, lass, ain’t it? Keep yer friends close at hand to ya. And you’ll find the people here to be ready allies. They’re angry, ya see. It mightn’t seem so yet, but yeh wait. Soon people will start taking action, and when they do, it’ll get bloody.”

“I am afraid you’re right. There’s a saying among us Dragonkin; human’s machines of war pale when they see the face of infuriated elves.” Morgan sighed.

“Aye,” the caravan leader laughed, spurring his horse and riding to the front of the line.

By the end of the day, they were a good way into the desert. When they had stopped for the night, Morgan sat in the sand, a good way away from the others. The pulled up her left sleeve, and unwound the threads of magic that created her glamour. Her skin returned from gray to its usual paleness, and a long, straight scar appeared on her left forearm. Morgan rubbed the scar gently. It had been a while since she did this outside of Irideth.

Pushing away her thoughts of home, Morgan closed her eyes and allowed her spirit to slip from her body. With a gossamer thread keeping her anchored to herself, she sank through the earth.

It was quiet here. It shouldn’t be. She could see the living threads of magic moving, dancing. She could hear whispers. But it wasn’t supposed to whisper. It was supposed to sing. Morgan tried singing to them, calling the elements’ names. Only one answered.

They were scared. Semele had been creating strands of black magic, pure, unaltered evil, and the strands had been killing and warping their voices. The magic wouldn’t sing, for fear of calling attention to it. Semele meant to kill the magic, and to replace it with his own.

Morgan heard the Wind tell her this. She blessed the faithful Wind, who had and would always stay close, just in case it was needed.

“But the Hero… who is he? How will I find him?”

The Wind told Morgan that he was different. She would feel it, and she would know. She just had to keep her senses open.

Morgan opened her eyes, returning to her body. Her senses were all on high alert, like they always were when she went to sing with the magic. It’s really quite hard to explain… she felt the ambient magic, pressing down on her skin. She felt the fear. Morgan knew that the magic of Mytheyr wouldn’t be afraid unless its people were. She remembered what the caravan leader had told her.

“So much fear.” Morgan muttered to herself, getting up and dusting the sand of her clothes. “It’ll boil over.” She rewove the glamour, and went to go find a semi-comfortable place to sleep.