The Lioness

Orange light chased shadows up the walls, and outside the windows night’s darkness fell. The common room seemed to grow smaller.

In Qualinost Gilthas would be sitting at supper now, perhaps with the Queen Mother. Their table would be set with silver plate and golden candlesticks. They would be drinking delicate wines from crystal goblets, a new one for each course. In time, Gilthas would excuse himself and go to his chambers. He would sit in his library reading some ancient tome. He would take pen in hand, a fresh sheet of creamy white parchment from the stack always ready. All the questions, fears, hopes and challenges of his strange shadowy reign would change into poetry, sere sonnets, dark and sometimes bloody-minded. Were this another time—only the day before!—Gil would busily compose his sonnets until Kerian came slipping through the darkened passes of the secret ways.

Kerian steeled herself against regret and a sudden cold thread of fear. She had made her choice. She had come to find Iydahar, and she would do that. She would deal with after, after.

The kind of busy silence that attends those happy at their dining settled upon the tavern until, with a quiet word, the father of the two little girls let his family know the meal was finished. His wife wiped small chins and cheeks and told her children quietly to fold their napkins before they left the table. The father lifted one child from her seat, the mother took the hand of the other. Chattering like little squirrels, the children followed their parents to the staircase then went scampering up. When the father called one word in command, his daughters instantly regained their sense of decorum.

Bueren leaned her elbow on the bar, her chin on her hand. “Well?”

Kerian took a breath, dropped her voice. “Bueren, yesterday on the eastern bridge of Qualinost the Knights piked the heads of thirteen elves. Four were Qualinesti.”

Bueren, herself Qualinesti, paled.

“The rest were Kagonesti. Like me. Word is they are outlaws, that they have been disrupting the roads and the free flow of wagons with supplies to the Knights and tribute to the dragon. Word is, more heads will foul the bridge if things don’t get quiet here on the roads.”

Bueren’s eyes sparked with fear. “Merciful gods.”

“Bueren, did you know—?”

Bueren Rose snorted. “Any one of the outlaws?” She wiped the bar with wide swipes. “Anyone doesn’t stop in here to eat, I don’t know them. Outlaws, I imagine, aren’t much for socializing with village folk. No, but I don’t hold with such... punishment.” She pressed her lips together, considered and then decided. “Have you heard about the strange stories hunters are telling? You’ve been on the road today. Maybe you’ve noticed... what’s happening in the forest.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Those two down at the end of the bar, they said they have felt something… not right in the forest. It’s a kind of—” She shook her head, at a loss for the right words.

“I know, Bueren. I’ve seen it or… felt it. No, it’s not like that. Thing is, when it happened, I didn’t see. I didn’t feel or hear.” She showed her friend the scraped and bruised flesh of her hands. “I fell—on hard rocks!—and never felt anything, yet look at my hands. While I was in the forest, Bueren, it was as if my senses were drained away. I couldn’t see clearly, or hear, or even smell anything. Whatever it was, it came and went, all of a sudden. It stopped.”

Almost she looked round at the dwarf Stanach to confirm her report.

“Bueren, I thought something had happened to me—that something dark had touched me in the forest. The more I think of it, though, the more I realize that something must be happening to the forest itself.”

Bueren nodded. “People around here have been saying that for some time now. They used to think the Knights were causing it—or at least that Lord Thagol was—but the Knights don’t know any more about it than we do or like it any better. Some people—” she lowered her eyes—“blame the Kagonesti.”

Out the corner of her eye, Kerian saw one of the elf hunters rise and put a coin on the bar.

“Bueren Rose,” he called, “I’ll see you next trip.”

Bueren called good night and wished the hunter luck. “Father’s got a sackful of walnuts for stuffing, so we’ll take all the grouse and pheasant you can bring us, Kaylt”

“Ay, well, it’s the season, so start shelling.” His glance fell on Kerian then slid away. “You take care while I’m gone, Rosie.”

Kaylt and his companion left, a cool breeze ghosting into the tavern before the door shut. Torches flared, the hounds rose to sniff the night, then sidled up to Stanach’s table where the dwarf put down plates for each. Tails wagging, they dropped muzzles to plate and lapped up gravy and hits of venison.