The Troll hesitated, then took a deep breath and stepped carefully onto the old timbers of the dock. The wood groaned and screeched in protest, but the noise was drowned out by the thundering of iron boots on oak. The Dwarven sailors pushed back up the gangplank as one, watching their passengers warily from beneath iron helms.

Poldo ignored them. “It will be nice to be back on the mainland again. Better food, more to do, much easier to conduct business. I hope to find a sprite from Mrs. Hrurk waiting when we arrive in Chrate.”

Thane paused near the gangplank and looked out over the water. A bitter wind blew from the north, carrying droplets of seawater that felt like needles of ice. The Wood Gnomes hanging from the Troll’s shaggy coat huddled closer together for warmth. “Did she take that job with... with the Orc company?” he asked absently.

“Warg Incorporated,” said Poldo, bracing himself against the gust. “I should hope she will, and I’ve encouraged her to do so. Possible news of her career is just another reason to look forward to the letter. Why, imagine where she could go after landing a job with Asherzu Guz’Varda! One could easily see business travel bringing her to Chrate or Monchester. We might even be able to meet her there, if her schedule allows. It would be good to see her again.” Despite the bitter cold, Poldo found himself smiling at the thought. Unfortunately, the Wood Gnomes also saw him smiling, and several of them were giving him impertinent grins. Poldo cleared his throat and brushed the ice crystals from his mustache with a deep scowl.

Fortunately, the Troll didn’t seem to notice. The Troll didn’t seem aware of anything, for that matter.

“Thane?” asked Poldo.

There was no response. The Troll stared to the east. He wasn’t searching for something, or scanning the horizon, or even staring blankly as his thoughts wandered. Thane watched a point across the waters with the determined focus of an opera enthusiast with bad balcony seats. Poldo followed his gaze out across the gray water and saw nothing but a dull mist.

“Thane?” the Gnome repeated.

“Uh… right. Yes.” Thane shook his head. “What were we discussing?”

The Wood Gnomes started to chitter something, but Poldo cut them off with a raised voice. “I was merely pointing out that we might have a chance to see Mrs. Hrurk if the fates align.”

“Ah. Good.” Thane wore a smile that never reached his eyes. “It would be nice to meet her.”

Poldo nodded. “And perhaps there is someone else we could try to meet.”

The Troll flinched, prompting some squeaks of alarm from the Wood Gnomes in his fur. His hand rose up to his face as his gaze drifted back to the east. “I… I doubt it,” he said.

“Thane, I am sure that if your Elf met you under different circumstances, she wouldn’t have… uh…” The Gnome struggled to find gentle words for a violent act.

“Put an arrow in my eye?” said Thane.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” muttered Poldo.

“Oh, it was quite sharp.”

“She might not have shot you under different circumstances,” the Scribkin said firmly. “You told me she first saw you with a dead man in your hands, and no way to know that the corpse was her would-be assassin. How would she react to anyone after such a first impression?”

“I didn’t think it was a first impression.” The Troll shook his head. “I just… I thought that we had been connected, somehow. That even if she hadn’t seen me, she knew me. I was wrong.”

He loosed a sigh that sounded like a rockslide in a gravel pit. “And since she didn’t know me, what was I doing? What was I to her? A monster lurking at the edge of the darkness? A beast to be slain or evaded? And all that time, I thought… Well, I was a fool. A deluded fool.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.” Poldo patted the Troll on his furry tree trunk of an arm.

“Not everyone perpetuates mistakes for a year. Not everyone chases their folly across Arth,” Thane said. “Not everyone still aches to make things different. But I can’t… and I couldn’t face her now.”

Poldo nodded. “Perhaps it is best to move on after all then.”

“I think so. And I am trying.” Thane looked out to the east once more, staring beyond the ship bobbing determinedly on the water. “But it’s not easy to forget her, or to let go of whatever I thought we had. Sometimes it feels like it’s still there, somehow.”

“That sounds difficult,” said Poldo.

“I will be fine.” Thane shook his head and started for the gangplank of the ship. As one, the Dwarven sailors backed away from the approaching Troll, and the ship tilted away from the dock as the crew pressed against the far rail. Poldo was about to shout at the lot of them, but Thane silenced him with a look. “I will be fine,” the Troll reiterated, stepping onto the deck and righting the ship. “I just hope she’s happy, wherever she is.”

Chapter 7

Kaitha’s face was a mask of misery, and tears were beginning to well in her eyes. She willed her facial muscles to flex deeper, to drag the corners of her mouth down so far they hurt. Her face already ached to the point where her eyes were watering.

Yes, she decided as she stared at herself in her bathroom mirror. She could frown.

It struck her that such a scowl might not be considered natural. Was it a sincere frown? Did it matter?

She glanced down at her sink. It was a freestanding fixture sculpted from Elven porcelain, with an elegant swoop that widened at the top. It reminded her of a swan gargling whenever she ran its silver tap. There was a small shelf set just above the sink on thin silver wires, and on the shelf a pamphlet lay propped against a clay mug so that she could read it. Near the top of the paper, a woodcut of a somber-looking Elf sat next to a headline that read:

That Which Is Not Immortal Is Still Important.

A Helpful Guide to Managing Dark Thoughts.

She assumed the man was intended to look sympathetic or caring, but he just seemed smug to her. With a snort, she looked down the page to a section entitled “ARE YOU ON THE DARK PATH? TAKE THIS QUIZ TO FIND OUT.”

The first question asked, predictably, if she could frown. It didn’t mention anything about being convincing or sincere. Besides, the frustration she felt at the old priest of Oppo was real enough.

Brother Mattias’ question still echoed in the dim and uncooperative corners of her consciousness. “And you’re keeping the dark thoughts in check?” He’d tried to sound encouraging, or conversational. He’d failed.

Kaitha’s grimace deepened at the memory. Manners held that it was a very personal question to ask an Elf if they were experiencing dark thoughts, yet Brother Mattias took it as a given that she was struggling and had jumped straight toward asking if she was still holding on. She didn’t look that bad, right? Yes, she’d cried a bit, but so had the Halfling who had just given up elixir. Kaitha had been without salve for over a year, and had practically rebuilt her career in that time. She was due a little leeway if a tear leaked out now and again.

Or had he seen something else?

The frown test had never seemed that convincing to Kaitha. It was based upon the well-known fact that Dark Elves constantly giggled or laughed, even when murdering people. Especially when murdering people. They may have been the most creatively vile of the forces of evil, but you couldn’t say Dark Elves didn’t enjoy their work. It was said that so long as an Elf could frown when asked about dark thoughts, they weren’t yet beyond redemption. Of course, this was said by Elves who needed a fast and easy way to demonstrate that they shouldn’t be hauled off to the gallows by an angry mob.

Prior to the Seventh Age, it was thought by many northerners that the term “Dark Elves” referred to the color of their skin, and that the malady of the Elven soul that drove them to evil was inexorably linked to the ebony complexion of the south’s Sun Elves. This misunderstanding was convenient for, and thus further popularized by, the Wood Elves, High Elves, and other Elven houses of the Freedlands whose skin ranged from tawny bronze to snowy pale. Yet, their deception was dependent on pervading ignorance, and that ignorance could not survive the increasing trade with the Empire and the Imperial cultural influences that the Sixth Age brought to the Freedlands. Once the rest of Mankind learned the uncomfortable truth that Elves of any heritage had the capacity to become Dark Elves, the houses of the Freedlands had needed to explain a lot about their nature in a short amount of time—often the exact amount of time it would take to light the pyre around their stakes.

Kaitha scowled again, but wasn’t sure how much the facial expression could really prove. It seemed unlikely that Dark Elves were unable to make a face for a moment. Perhaps they couldn’t sustain it for long without breaking into laughter?

She continued to grimace and snarl at herself for several minutes, then moved on to the next question. “Have you attended a temple ceremony or said an earnest prayer in the past month?”

Kaitha pursed her lips thoughtfully. How earnest were her prayers? She followed Tandos, of course, as did most Elves in martial professions, but she didn’t consider herself faithful to the god so much as open to occasional dalliances with him. Did invoking the god’s name when worried or before meals count as being earnest?

Dark Elves, it was well-known, were godless. Yet that had little to do with their religious observance. It was more unique that no god was observing them. Every temple taught that, in principle, a major or minor god from Arth’s extensive pantheon represented every person, whether or not that person worshipped a god in return. Atheists were watched over by Null, a minor deity whose adherents were known mostly for criticizing other temples and being first in line for weekend brunch. Shadowkin who forsook the traditions of their old gods often found themselves embraced by temples of Fulgen or Oppo. The Dark Elves remained uniquely unclaimed by any temple or cult. Once an Elf went down the dark path, they were well and truly forsaken.

Kaitha recalled speaking with Niln the Al’Matran on the road to the Myrewood, and how he had told her that she was touched by the All Mother. The thought brought some measure of comfort. Al’Matra was said to be mad, but the goddess would have to be a few disciples short of a clergy to choose Kaitha for anything, and you couldn’t say much better about most of the mortals that joined her temple. Still, as long as she and the queen of the gods had each other, she couldn’t be on the dark path.

Probably.

It occurred to Kaitha that if Al’Matra was her best hope, she needed to plan for contingencies. She looked at the mantra printed on the small pamphlet and read it aloud, though she was fairly certain she could recite it from memory by now.

“Just because it’s not immortal doesn’t mean it’s not important. Impermanence is not insignificance. That which is fleeting is still worth feeling. Our memories matter while we have them. I will not lose hope. I will⁠—”

A knock at the door to her apartment interrupted her whispered litany. Kaitha scowled, but stepped into the main room of her apartment. It was smaller than the suite she used to have, but it was still an elegant Elven studio on the Eighth Tier. The decorations and paint were done in swirling, floral forms. The bathroom was opposite her bed, which was separated from the rest of the apartment by a thin screen decorated with paintings of hawks and falcons on swooping branches. The rest of the room was a small kitchen and an emerald couch that looked through her balcony doors out over the city of Andarun. Opposite the bedroom was a sturdy oak door, and behind that was Laruna Trullon, grinning hopefully into the spyhole.

“Hey,” the mage said by way of greeting as the Elf opened the door. She started at the Elf’s appearance. “Hey, are you all right?”