The Exile of Elindel Read online

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  This edition published in 2017 by Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA)

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  The persons, places, and events of this novel are works of fiction. Any coincidence with individuals past or present, is merely that, coincidence.

  © Carol Browne, 2017

  © Donna Marie West, editor, 2017

  © Loraine Van Tonder, Ryn Katryn Designs, cover design, 2017

  © Lori Michelle, The Author’s Alley, interior formatting, 2017

  For Harry

  CHAPTER ONE

  Britain—500 CE

  It was hard to talk to trees. They were deep and dark within themselves and spent most of their time asleep. Elgiva touched the rough bark with her fingers, lightly at first. Her desire to act reverently was great, but her need for comfort was stronger. Pressing her body against the tree, she wrapped her arms around it.

  “Forest-Lord, I need your help!” she begged in a quavering voice. “My name’s Elgiva. My people are . . . my people were the Eldrakin. I need your guidance . . . please . . . if you could . . . if you would . . . ”

  She couldn’t continue, and for a time, her slender frame was racked with sobbing, while the oak leaves danced above her head, their shadows capering on the grass, carefree as summer butterflies.

  “Your arms are warm, little elf, but they need to be much longer if you wish to embrace me.”

  Elgiva sniffed back her tears and listened, but the tree’s voice could be felt, rather than heard. It flowed like dark waters under the earth.

  “You’ve seen many things in your life,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her ragged sleeve. “Would you be willing to give advice to an elf who has lost all hope of home?”

  “I would,” he replied, “for the elves are my friends. I am Derryth, and I do not forget those who pay me respect. I recall those others . . . it seems but yesterday. Druids, they called themselves. Now they are gone. All gone forever. All of them slain.”

  Elgiva tried to be patient. Time had no meaning for Derryth, and he would never understand the need for haste that governed the lives of shorter-lived creatures.

  “Yes, all slain,” he went on sadly. “Then came others from across the grey sea. Bricks and stones and wars. They were always building, but I cared nothing for their works. And now, these Saxons . . . tree-slayers. I feel the anguish of the forests.”

  “Yes, the wilthkin. They’re cruel and selfish.”

  “But elves . . . I like. Speak, child.”

  “I need your guidance, Derryth. I was a servant in Elindel, but I’ve been sent into exile . . . for treason. I’m banished from all Elvendom and must fend for myself, but I don’t know how. Where will I live? How will I survive the winter? The food I brought with me from home is gone. All I have is this amulet.” She held it up for him to see, and for a moment felt extremely foolish, but then she remembered that Derryth had senses beyond mere vision. “It was given to me by a wardain . . . Lord Bellic. He was my friend, my teacher.”

  “I know of him,” said Derryth.

  “You do?” Elgiva was astonished.

  “Do not be surprised. He travels far and he speaks with the trees. His heart is good. Speak further, child.”

  “The amulet has the power to protect, and it gives off warmth if the giver is within three leagues of it,” said Elgiva, “so I think, I hope, he intends us to meet again.”

  “How is the amulet used?”

  Elgiva thought back to the day she left Elindel. Briar, the wild cat, had carried the gift to her in his mouth and given her Lord Bellic’s message.

  “I must speak its name, and it will work whatever spell I wish,” she said. “But if I use it for sport or gain or any evil purpose, it will rebound on me. Apart from this gift and my servant’s rags, I have nothing else in all the world.”

  “You have the world,” said Derryth softly.

  Elgiva didn’t understand. She peered up into his branches and tried to conceal her disappointment. Derryth seemed to be falling asleep; she could sense him drifting away. Her impatience made her protest far more shrill than she intended, and it startled birds in the neighbouring trees.

  “Derryth, I’ve been wrongly accused. I only ever did my duty, and they sent me away from home . . . forever. Derryth! Are you listening?”

  She felt a tremor run up the trunk, as though the great tree were chuckling.

  “The Eldrakin . . . how they sparkle,” he said. “Be calm. I feel your innocence . . . but little elf, there is blood on your head.”

  Elgiva pressed her forehead against his trunk and fought to hold in her tears.

  “But still,” he went on, “I am happy to help you. I do this in honour of Faine, your First-Father, the founder of Elvendom. It was his love for the trees and beasts that gave us this boon of speech. Let us not squander it.”

  “Then tell me, Derryth, what must I do?”

  Derryth drifted again. Elgiva sighed with impatience and ran her fingers through her hair. Finally, he spoke.

  “You must change,” he stated simply.

  “Change?”

  “The amulet. Tell it to change you. You may not walk abroad as an elf,” he said. “The wilthkin will not shelter you . . . kill you, most surely, I think. Your own kind have renounced you. You have no skills to survive alone, and winter will be hard this year.”

  The breeze rustled harshly through Derryth’s leaves, as if to add weight to his words, and a shiver skittered down Elgiva’s spine.

  “If you appeared to be . . . what you are not . . . help would be given willingly,” Derryth went on. “Then safety. Until Lord Bellic comes to your aid.”

  “You think he will?” she asked.

  “He is a wardain, child. He will not abandon his friends.”

  Elgiva wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t wish to call Derryth’s regard for the wardain—the royal elves—into question, so she made no comment. “So what must I change myself into?”

  “You must become a Saxon.”

  Elgiva’s mouth fell open at this suggestion, and she pulled away from the trunk. Perhaps she had chosen the wrong tree. His great age had clearly addled his sense of reason.

  Another tremor ran through his trunk and his leaves seemed to crackle with laughter. “These hewers of trees are hateful, yes, but they overrun the land, little elf. Everywhere. Like ants. You have travelled east into their domain. The Saxons are masters here. Will you elude them forever? Who will help you, if they do not? Do elves not need companionship, too? I have no love for the race of men . . . wilthkin, as you name them . . . and the Saxons I like least of all, but they are most hospitable and always look after their own. Shelter will not be refused you if you are one of them.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. She had to admit his suggestion wasn’t as foolish as she first thought.

  “The Saxons . . . you will learn from them, for everything is a lesson, child. They will teach you how to survive. Then, after winter, travel
on. Spring will be early. Warm.”

  “You think so, Derryth?”

  “I know it. I know many things . . . unknown to you . . . Ah . . . ”

  Elgiva frowned, waiting for him to continue. She feared he might be drifting off again.

  “Derryth! Did you have more to say?”

  “Ah . . . little elf, yes,” he murmured, at length. “This amulet. Tell me . . . how long will the spell endure?”

  She shrugged. “Until I undo it, I dare say.”

  “Let us hope so, my child. Good. So, you have had my advice. Rest here awhile, for you need time . . . to decide if you will take it . . . or not.”

  She sensed the ancient oak tree had said his piece and he would say no more. His consciousness was sliding into sleep, so she sat down in the hollow between two of his thick, knurled roots and leaned her back against the stout trunk. It was true. Surely it had to be true. Bellic would one day seek her out. Throughout her sixteen years of life, he had always been her teacher and friend, and he was a good elf with a generous heart; he wouldn’t abandon her to her fate. But if for some reason he didn’t come, she would have to find some cave or wood, far away from elves or men. The thought of such solitude appalled her. She pushed it aside. All she needed to focus on now was surviving the coming winter.

  It was decided, then.

  The amulet of lapis lazuli hung on a leather thong around her neck. She clasped it firmly in her hand. She didn’t know how to use magic but supposed a formal tone was best. Self-consciously, she cleared her throat.

  “Siriol, hear me and work my will. In the name of the one who gifted you to me, do as I bid you. Help me walk unremarked upon into the world of the wilthkin. Change me into a Saxon maid with yellow hair and eyes of blue. Do as I command you, until I bid you otherwise, and . . . Siriol, I, er . . . so be it.”

  Elgiva waited for several moments, holding her breath, but nothing unusual happened.

  Stillness stole over the grass and she relaxed, her body sinking as though it wanted to merge with the tree bole behind her. Her morning’s walk had exhausted her, and she was tired. Birds now sounded as though they were singing a long way off.

  She yawned, but she didn’t want to fall asleep. She needed to know the spell would work.

  But still her hair lay, black and gleaming, over her shoulders. She reached up slowly and touched a pointed ear. Nothing had happened.

  Behind her, the tree was now deeply asleep, and perhaps his advice had been as unreal as the magic he had told her to call upon.

  Magic.

  It was hard to believe in such a thing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Shouts erupted from a nearby wood and sent the birds screeching and chiding into the summer sky.

  Elgiva was startled. The cries were those of wilthkin. There was a harshness in the pitch of their voices, and the underwood cracked loudly beneath their heavy tread. No elf would cause such a disturbance.

  She thrust herself upright, clawed strands of hair from her eyes, and her fear-sharpened hearing caught the swish of arrows among the trees. So the wilthkin were hunting.

  These men were on foot; she couldn’t hear any horses. If need be, she could easily outrun them.

  She brushed the dirt and leaves from her clothes and prepared to continue her journey, but almost at once, she faltered as the cries abruptly changed, becoming peals of laughter, and Elgiva glanced back at the wood. The sounds were inviting, and curiosity moved her to seek out their source. She had never before seen a wilthkin. No harm, surely, in taking a quick peek at them? She touched the oak tree, seeking advice, but Derryth slumbered still, so Elgiva set off to investigate. Perhaps she ought to be afraid, but she was strangely calm. She crossed the meadow and stopped at the marge of the wood.

  After a moment, she stepped between the trees. Her sandals sank into the leaf-littered ground as she crouched among the shadows and peered through the foliage, compelled to seek out these wilthkin. A tall elm creaked above her and for a moment, she steadied herself against its sturdy trunk.

  In the still, green silence ahead of her, an arrow whispered through the air, and Elgiva stiffened and held her breath. The wilthkin were nearer than she had thought. She strained her ears to catch their words.

  “Missed again, Elric! Perhaps we should ask them to stand still for you.” The voice trailed off into guffaws of laughter.

  “Ha,” cried a second voice. “Taunt me, would you, Deor, when you’ve hit nothing all day yourself?”

  “You’re forgetting something, Master Elric,” said a third man. “Your cousin has pierced the heart of a hawthorn and caught an old robin’s nest.”

  “By Grim, you saucy rogue!” the first voice retorted. “I’ll have your eyes for gaming pieces!”

  “In that case, my lord, they’d see you lose.”

  A gasp of pretended fury was followed by the sounds of a scuffle, while the owner of the second voice—whom Elgiva presumed to be Elric—complained at the lack of discipline.

  “Come on. Let’s find a wild boar,” urged Elric. “We can take its head back as a trophy.”

  His companions agreed and followed him deeper into the wood, while Elgiva shook her head. What coarse and clumsy creatures. Were they as ugly as their voices? She wanted to find out, so she followed quietly in their wake, letting their noise be her guide.

  At one point, her path was blocked by a fallen tree. As she clambered over the toppled giant, a mantle of silence fell over the wood; the hunters were lying in wait.

  A sudden whooping noise to her left made her heart jump into her throat. The men were nearby, far too near. She crouched in the shadows and waited.

  “By Frigg! You got him. Our luck has changed!”

  She recognised Elric’s voice.

  The owner of the third voice sounded weary and bored. “It’s just a young hare, Master Elric. He strayed from the meadow, little knowing he’d end up as sport for a slave.”

  Elgiva’s lips curled into a smile. This man’s appearance was a mystery to her, but she could almost picture the long-suffering look he would give his master.

  “Even so, Godwin, that was well done,” said Elric.

  “Well,” said Godwin, “I thought I’d show my betters how it’s done. After all, you can’t eat an old robin’s nest, no matter how it’s cooked.”

  “Does this bastard never cease?” Deor demanded. “Who said you could hunt, anyway? A serf bearing arms indeed. Let me remind you, Godwin, you’re supposed to carry our gear, be our beater, and shut your noise.”

  “If I did that, my lord, I’d make a very poor beater.”

  “By the blood of the gods!”

  In her hiding place, Elgiva grinned. As far as quick wits were concerned, the serf had the upper hand. As a servant herself, she took pleasure in it. Tucking her long hair behind her ears, she crept a little closer.

  “Deor, listen!” Elric hissed. “I think I heard a large animal over there in those bushes, if your noise hasn’t driven all the game away.”

  Silence settled once more on the wood, and Elgiva edged closer, until she finally spotted the hunters, crouched and unmoving among the shadows.

  Her elven senses, so in tune with the natural world and all of its creatures, told her the beast they sought was some yards behind them, grouting among the ferns. This was something these wilthkin with their limited sensibilities couldn’t know. She could almost picture the boar and share in its consciousness as it began to scent the air. Its rough flanks shuddered with loathing. A muscular male with gleaming tusks, its mind held a bitter memory: a memory of men and arrows and pain.

  Suddenly, it burst from the underwood, aiming itself at the men.

  Before she realised what she was doing, Elgiva cried out. “Lord Elric, behind you!”

  At this, the hunters sprang to their feet. The man she assumed to be Elric spun round to avoid the boar that hurtled madly towards him. His companions fumbled to nock their arrows, but the beast had gone, smashing its way back through the
bushes, as startled by the warning shout as those it had sought to surprise.

  “By Frigg,” cried Godwin, “that was close!”

  “You all right, cousin Elric?” asked Deor.

  Elric glared at his companions. “Who called my name?” he demanded.

  The other men shrugged.

  “Who called?” he shouted, scanning the trees and bushes ahead of him.

  From her place crouched among the woodland plants, she watched him draw an arrow from the quiver at his back and raise his tall, curved bow. Nocking the arrow, he drew the bow string taut.

  “Who are you, girl? Where do you hide? Come out and show yourself.”

  Panic raced through Elgiva’s veins. What mad impulse had caused her to shout a warning? Why had she cheated the boar of his quarry?

  Looking down the shaft of the arrow, she saw the sharp tip, the sleek, black feathers, and felt the tension of the bow and the hunter’s sinews. Elric was young and determined. He looked like a man who would stand there all day, if need be, and he had heard a female voice. Perhaps he had more sport in mind, of one sort or another, but he might be in for a shock. Perhaps she could sneak quietly away . . .

  “Show yourself and be rewarded, or hide and be hunted!” declared Elric grandly. “You have nothing to fear, if you mean no ill!”

  Elgiva’s heart thumped in her breast, but there was nothing for it; shakily, she got to her feet. Momentarily startled, Elric lowered his bow.

  “Approach,” he commanded.

  Reluctantly, Elgiva edged forwards, stopping within a few yards of the men.

  Oh, Faine, they’ll kill me.

  Elric looked her up and down, his eyes an icy blue. He was a Saxon, and she guessed about the same age as herself, but he was tall and well-muscled for his age. He had the manner of a lord sure of his authority.

  Her silence seemed to unnerve him. He turned to his cousin, the blond hair brushing his shoulders as he did so. “What are we to make of this, Deor?”

  Deor’s lip curled as he considered her. He, too, was tall and young, but the paunch that overhung his belt suggested a softer life than that of his companions. Twin garnet brooches flashed on his breast, and his scabbard gleamed with amber studs. He was altogether too well-dressed for hunting.