Pirate and King, chapter seventeen

17

As with most of his decisions, this one was made on the instant that urgency’s spur pierced tender flesh. The exiled prince had stepped away from their newly crowned empress, announcing,

“Good luck with the realm. I’m leaving.”

…and Valerian had thought: Me, too, with my wife, my child and Sawyer. It was not a full spell. There was no sigil drawn and he’d spoken nothing aloud, but it worked, attaching all those he’d named to Alexion’s flickering gate.

The prince had intended to put some distance between himself and the city of Karellon. Only, magic was fading and Chaos beginning to spread. Alexion’s transport spell moved them all right, but not where he’d planned to go. Instead of sending his group to the Snowmont Crossroads, it plunked them down in a heavily wooded valley. Quite a beautiful place, and seemingly uninhabited; bowl-shaped, with a circle of sky overhead and a tangled ley-line, below.

The elves formed a circle, facing outward, weapons in hand and ready for anything. Their sense of place had to adjust, though the mortals and half-elves seemed perfectly well. Alfea cried aloud, launching herself at that patch of round sky, leaving Bean with Valerian. She’d reclaimed her spear, which trailed flame like a comet.

Val pulled a sweet from one of his faerie pockets (which were harder to get to, now). Then, offering the candy to his infant daughter, he turned to the cursing exile. Alexion spotted his great-grandson moments later, reacting with less delight than one might have hoped.

“You, again!” grumbled the darker-haired elf. “What kind of idiot turns down a chance at the throne?”

Valerian shifted the oozing baby, keeping a smile from his face with real trouble.

“I don’t know, Sir… but if I ever meet one, I’ll ask him,” said the northerner, whose pale blond hair was now caught in a small, gummy fist. Bean liked to chew.

Alexion muttered something caustic and physically unlikely, then stalked off to check on Flora, Zibeg and the rest of “his people”. Valerian watched him go, next turning a full circle to get a feel for their surroundings.

The valley really did look like a huge bowl, furred inside with a mixed wood of oak, beech and pine. There were some fruit trees, as well, but only the wild sort with hard, knobby pears and shy nymphs. These leaned halfway out of their trunks to examine the newcomers, ducking away when observed.

Three waterfalls cascaded from cardinal points on the valley’s rim, hitting the ground in a rumble of mist and sparkling lace to form rivers. The transported people stood near the valley’s center, by a pool formed at the confluence of those three noisy streams. A powerful ley-line pulsed and seethed almost directly below them, bursting with manna that felt raw and untapped. Below that there was only a void, for the entire valley seemed to be soaring high in the air.

Val sensed a diffuse presence, something greater than animals, nymphs or sentient trees. There and gone again, over and over. Birds screeched alarm cries, while animals scooted off into their burrows. There were also plenty of wind sprites. They had to land somewhere, he supposed, shielding Bean from their pinches and tweaks. The temperature was pleasant, the air a bit thin, but Valerian detected no other people. No native elves, mortals or monsters. Yet, there was something…

Vernax and Sawyer had vaulted into the sky, by that point. The dragon and griffin whirled and spiraled, weaving a streak of shining gold scales and russet feathers against the blue sky. Valerian watched them, getting occasional pictures from Sawyer’s fierce, hot mind.

Magical transportation was unsettling. It took him a long few moments to adapt and attach to his new location, by which time Alfea returned. His beautiful wife dropped gracefully out of the sky. Her wings shrank as she came nearer. Val extended a hand to guide her down. Alfea accepted the offer. Panting lightly, seeming refreshed by her brush with the sky, Fee nestled into the crook of his arm. She smelled good. Better yet, she was smiling.

“This is a floating island,” said Alfea, putting her spear away in a magical pocket. Taking the baby, she spotted that half-eaten sweet. “Van! Not so much sugar, or she’ll grow fat!”

“Well, she was starting to fuss,” he excused himself, kissing first wife and then daughter. “I can’t feed her.”

Alfea shrugged, all purple hair and sparkling, mischievous blue eyes.

“There are spells…” she began, but Val stepped away, crossing both arms on his (barren and happy to keep it that way) armored chest.

“No, thank you. I know my skills, and running with sap isn’t one of them. I chose male for a reason, Fee.”

Alfea rolled her eyes.

“Lazy,” she chided. “There are lakes on the island’s rim, with beasts and fish. If one of your skills is providing food, you might go have a look, Van.” She wasn’t at all upset about leaving Karellon. Did not even ask why he’d chosen to go.

Val needed time to think and recover, as Alfea certainly knew. The young elf kissed her upturned face: forehead, mouth and then the tip of her nose.

“Bean needs a brother,” he suggested, slyly.

Alfea shoved him with her shoulder, but not very hard.

“Lazy and single-minded,” she teased, not exactly rejecting him.

Well, Valerian could fly, too. He did it without wings, using the island’s tightly knotted ley-line to push against, shaping a simple and powerful spell. It was less trouble to work magic up here than it had been in Karellon, from which chaos was spreading like fire. Even this far away, he could feel it.

Val lifted himself high in the air, watching and sensing as the ground dropped away. There was a tense moment of slippage, but his ley-line connection remained firm, and there was a fair amount of high-altitude manna. Next, he conjured his bow and a quiver of fishing arrows, meaning to bring back a meal. Rising out of the valley, Val found that he’d interpreted matters correctly. They were on a huge, bowl-shaped island, so high up that the ocean below looked like crinkled blue leather, and the coast was no more than a vaguely discolored line. Alexion had moved them, all right. Just in the wrong direction, his spell seeking abundant manna and safety, rather than accurate placement.

Hunh.

Valerian shifted his attention to the island’s broad, stony rim, which was many miles wide. A scattered forest of trees grew there, hardy and twisted by gales. Five lakes sparkled like eyes, three of them spilling over into the wooded valley, two sluicing out to the void. It was a very beautiful sight.

The wind caught at him as he stared, causing Valerian’s pale blond hair and red cloak to flutter and whip. Wind sprites popped out of the air, making faces and flashing their misty buttocks, but he paid them small heed. Reacting would only encourage their nonsense, and Val was eager to bow-fish. As for Vernax and Sawyer, the monsters were dots, pursuing something that looked like a very large flying shark. ‘To each his own,’ thought Valerian, content to hunt what the island provided.

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Choosing a promising lake, the elf shifted his spell from flight to descent. Something… a flash from one of his other selves… brought him a recollection of reversing thrust with briefly fired ‘rockets’. Val pushed the image away. He was flying, and not in some giant, clunky machine.

The young elf-lord touched down by the inner shore of a long, curving lake, his boot soles slipping a bit on the loose, slimy pebbles. His perspective shifted to ridgeline or clifftop, though he knew that wasn’t where he had landed. Glancing around, Val saw scrubby, wind-flattened pines, startled conies and small, furry martens. Rock-reebles, too, which ported away whenever he looked at them. They never went far, and always downwind, so he might have fired a shot at the place a reeble would reappear… had he fancied stringy, strong-tasting rodent flesh. He did not. (Besides, he’d had a reeble as pet, long ago. For the sake of Sir Mouse, Val never preyed on its kin.) Instead,

“I greet you in the name of Sir Mouse, whose fame is undiminished,” said Valerian, bowing slightly. “And I ask that you wish me good hunting, small brothers.”

He gave himself a moment to adapt to gravity’s pull, and the dizzying sense of all that space between the island’s jagged underside and the ocean far, far below. Took some getting used to.

Once his equilibrium returned, Val stalked the lakeshore; bow in hand, arrow nocked and ready to fly. There were plenty of long, dark shadows and plants in the water. The elf glimpsed pulsing gills, flashing scales and lazily flicking tails. The fish here were used to predation, it seemed, most likely from griffins and wyverns.

He was going to have to work for his supper, but that wasn’t what troubled Val most. From the corner of his eye, the elf saw row upon row of wind sprites, seated stadium fashion, watching his doings and munching on freshly popped insects.

Hmmm…

Not a coincidence, surely. It seemed that the mischievous spirits expected a show, staring him. No doubt titled: The fool about to make Something terribly angry. Right.

Val put his bow away in its faerie pocket, earning many thumbs-down and hisses. Ignoring the disappointed audience, he looked all around, then bowed deeply, saying,

“I am Valerian… who would prefer to be Tarandahl rather than Valinor…I am a son of Keldaran, the Prince Attendant. I present myself as a newcomer to this place, and I do not wish to give offense.” (More hisses and rude gestures from the assembled wind sprites, some of which flung their popped bugs at him.) “I plan to hunt and fish here,” Val continued, diverting the missiles with a gesture. “Is there aught that prevents me from doing so? Any curses or traps laid up for those who take game?”

The elf wasn’t sure what to expect, but he was very surprised when all at once fish, rocks, trees, small animals, water and mist came crashing together to form a composite giant. Then, rattling and trickling, raining sand, the construct leaned down to peer at Valerian.

“I am Island,” it said, in a voice of landslide and torrent. “I am all that is here. Your blood and titles mean nothing. I would know your intentions, fleshling-that-speaks.”

Next, the ground on which Valerian stood formed itself into a huge, mighty hand, lifting him up to face Island, directly. That was alarming, but at least it didn’t take hold of him, remaining a flat, open palm. Sir Mouse might have felt something similar to Valerian’s tension, now.

He rode the hand lightly, being an elf. Found himself gazing into a pair of caverns that pulsed with luminous mushrooms and worms. Below that, a ragged gash of a mouth gaped amid the roots, fish and shale-bits forming its face.

Valerian bowed once again. Island wasn’t a god. Just the local spirit, but it was always healthier to be polite. Certainly, all of the wind sprites had vanished. Clearing his throat, he said,

“I greet you, Island, and my purpose is only to feed myself and the others, below, taking no more than would a wyvern or griffin. We intend to leave as soon as we’ve built up some manna and gotten our bearings.” Which was probably true.

The Island rumbled consideringly, all over itself. Trees shuddered and swayed. Lakes sloshed and rippled. Waterfalls stuttered, then spumed, as birds shot screeching away from the woods. They circled like smoke, but Valerian’s focus was mainly on Island.

“Few fleshlings have come here. None of them spoke to me. They slew trees and beasts in great numbers.”

Val shook his head. He would have readied a spell, but that tangled lump of a ley-line was suddenly blocked.

“We will not do that, Great One,” he promised. “We were diverted here accidentally, perhaps because magic is failing.”

“I have felt it,” rumbled the spirit, narrowing huge, hollow eyes. “If the magic goes entirely, I will crash to the sea and there will be no more Island.”

Valerian thought up a comforting lie, but he didn’t insult the vast construct by saying it. Instead, reluctantly, the elf nodded.

“That is probably so, Island. The gods are no more, and manna retreats like a tide,” Val admitted (though Firelord and She-of-the-Flowers hadn’t vanished completely.)

“Hmmm…”

The great, swarming giant lifted Valerian higher, then wafted… not breath, but something else. Something akin to its own diffuse life-force and manna. Like a glowing cloud, the substance sank into Val, healing and strengthening him.

“Fleshling-that-speaks, you may hunt and fish here, but only enough to quiet the day’s hunger. You may not stockpile food, or damage a living tree, and you will leave here by morning. After that, you will restore the world’s manna.”

Valerian opened his mouth and then shut it again. The wind sprites were hugging their sides, rolling in midair and laughing. Drek. The young elf nodded again.

“Your terms are more than reasonable, Island. I agree to them all, though that last demand may take some time.”

“Until the turn of the year,” replied Island, sounding like distant thunder or Fate’s busy loom. “When ice storms commence and the lakes freeze over, I will expect a full restoration of manna, or you, in repayment.”

And probably not to clear land for a cozy tavern, either. How… and more importantly why… did he keep getting himself into these situations? Valerian grunted assent.

“Understood,” he responded, meeting those cavernous eyes with his grey ones. “But the others have nothing to do with this. I ask that they be allowed to go their way in peace, free of compulsion or curses, Great One.”

“So long as they take no more than they need, and harm no living tree,” clattered Island, dispersing once more in a torrent of cascading chunks.

The hand tilted, lowering as it broke apart. Valerian dropped back onto that vast stone ridge, by the shore of a wildly sloshing lake. Roots whipped like worms’ ends, digging back into the ground. Small animals scurried, and terrified fish splashed away into the water.

Moments later, Alfea was there, armed and ready to rescue her husband. In full Quetzali form, she landed on the rim beside the young elf. Bean reached for him, so he took her from Alfea, murmuring sing-song endearments. But,

“Van, what has happened?” asked Fee, taking hold of his unencumbered right arm. “The ground shook, and we heard a great voice. Lord Alexion is too drained for another transport spell, and his lady is tapped out, as well. At least, for the next few candle-marks.”

Vernax came streaking back in from the west, jetting flame as it spiraled down to locate the prince. Sawyer peeled away from the golden dragon, circled once and then back-flapped down to the ridge beside Val and Alfea.

Valerian dealt with his mate, baby and griffin in that order. He got checked over for wounds, slobbered on and preened, all while explaining,

“This is Island. It’s sentient, and we’re not to take more food than we need for the day, nor set axe to live wood.”

“You spoke with it?” Alfea guessed, trying to push through her life-mate’s well shielded thoughts.

“We conversed,” he admitted, distracting his wife with caresses, and Sawyer with sparkling lights. “I’ll do some fishing up here, if you’ll tell the others how to avoid Island’s wrath. People have been here before…”

“Yes,” said Alfea, shuddering slightly. “We found the remains of their ship. But Van… all is well? You are unharmed?”

He decided to leave out any mention of his promise and its deadline. Why burden Fee with his troubles?

“All is well,” he assured her, keeping his expression carefree and confident. “So long as Alexion’s people abide by the strictures.”

Alfea nodded, putting her spear away and bunching her feathery coils for launch. Her wings, which had shrunk down to mere splinters of stained-glass light, expanded completely.

“I will tell them,” she said. “As I am sure that you would tell me, if there was anything else.”

Only her upper half was person-formed, in this shape. Alfea’s lower body was that of a long, colorfully feathered serpent. He levitated a bit to kiss her and hand back the baby.

“You’d be the first to know,” he said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “So, um… how?” he asked, looking her over with interest. Alfea reddened and laughed, successfully diverted.

“I’ll explain it all later,” teased his wife, not displeased by Valerian’s backrub and nuzzling.

Then the Quetzali princess slipped free of his grasp. Her muscular tail bunched and uncoiled, firing Alfea high in the air, where her unfolded wings caught the wind. She was glorious, he thought, watching the lovely female glide off in a flash of rainbow feathers and lavender hair.

…and he was most likely doomed. Trapped yet again. With nothing better to do, Valerian circled the lake, making one useless plan after another. Bow-fishing just enough for one day.