The Highfather and his Council are not hereditary positions, as in the lands of men. Though most often a former Ceann of War, like our first Highfather Lathlaeril Goldencrown, a king can be appointed from any Ceann position. So far, there has yet to rise one who was the Ceann of Tradition–an odd exception, especially considering that the position has always been held by the same family. The other Ceannships have changed hands most generations.

  Fennorin Willowbirth

  An Etfrandian’s Explanation of The Everglow Nation

  Explorer’s Magazine

  UE 2343

  Olfeiros stood at the door of an outcropping in the seaward valley. A chill breeze blew across the side of the mountain, sending shivers down his back. On the horizon, a rainstorm threatened an assault, a final rally of winter before spring. He clenched his fists and raised one to the deep shadows of the door. He lowered it again, leaving it untouched.

  This is the last resort. Thunder rumbled behind him. I must face this.

  He rapped the door with three sharp knocks. There was a silence, then the door creaked open to reveal the figure so dreaded to see that he, a Ceann, should hesitate at her doorstep. An aged she-elf glared at him with too-wide eyes which had sunken immovably into place after a millennia of existence. Their sinking and the two permanent lines of disapproval that pulled her lips into a scowl were the only marks of age that marred her otherwise immaculate beauty. Her bright silver hair–that of a pure Moon Elf–was braided into an old-fashioned loop behind her head, exposing her sharp and clear features and two deep, dark indigo eyes.

  The lines of her scowl deepened when she saw him. “Olfeiros. You look foolish, wearing your ceremonial garb out on the mountainside.” She held the door open only a crack, for he was not welcome inside.

  He withheld his exasperation. “I came straight from the Center.”

  “Does every day require the robes now?”

  “We have a Council Meeting this evening.”

  “So you wore them all day?” She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You look like a preening peacock. You’ll lose everyone’s respect.”

  “I didn’t come to talk about my wardrobe.”

  “No. You have a different failure you need an old she-elf’s advice on, clearly, or you wouldn’t come.”

  He clenched his jaw. Listening to her speak was like stabbing his ears repeatedly with the seamstress’ needles. Not from any particular quality of her voice, which was more akin to the song of a reed whipping through the air; rather it was the pain it brought him.

  “Fennorin disappeared again.”

  “Who?”

  Olfeiros refrained from huffing. “Your great-grandson.”

  “The chick-brained offspring of that headless hen you married?”

  Anger stirred in him. Sanwryn was beautiful, talented, and had been well-positioned in the House of Learning at the time. And she had refused to marry him permanently. She’d barely stayed past their daughter’s fiftieth birthday–far from the girl’s coming-of-age. “It was an advantageous Matroniage and you know it.”

  “The name Goldencrown lost its prowess generations before you. No, you were distracted by some pretty feathers when you should have married a Moon Elf.”

  “They blended the tribes a generation before you.”

  “My father’s only mistake.” The elder Willowbirth bared her pristine, straight teeth in a grimace. “Some of us were simply better suited to certain positions than others.”

  They were retracing old arguments. “I didn’t come here to speak about mistakes.”

  “Only to whine about your failed son. I should have known this family would fail when your father let the ancient Willow die.” she stared wistfully outward toward the sea as it churned in the coming storm. In that distant stare, he could see traces of the withdrawal that overcame the elderly in the decades before their deaths. He wished she would hurry and face hers. He roiled under her abuses.

  “Mho-Mattan! That tree was over a thousand years old! It would have died no matter who cared for it. You were the one who left it to the work of a child, your son!” Rage boiled over as he let a fist pound the doorframe. “You can’t blame others for your own failings!”

  A thin hand streaked out of the door, and then he was yanked painfully down by the loose hair of his temples so that he was eye to eye with his grandmother. “You speak of yourself.” She spat in his face and let go, swinging the door to close it.

  He stuck his toe in the way, narrowly avoiding having his nose clipped. It slammed with a throbbing thump. It would leave a bruise.

  Olfeiros knew Fennorin was his own failure. And Kitaryn, his daughter, married to some Cultivator in the valley. And also Sanwryn. Mild and thoughtful, she had been too kind-hearted, too soft with the children. Elves in his position weren’t afforded things like love and kindness. Too much was at stake. He knew that now more than ever.

  “I think he’s gone to the Faeworld,” he told the miserable old witch.

  She scoffed. “Fennorin?”

  Olfeiros hung his head, teeth gritted. “Yes.”

  “You’re serious?” The door swung open, framing her anger where she hunched in it, one hand on the doorframe, the other on the door. She wore a malignant glare on her face. “How?” she growled.

  He raised his head to squint at her with a cool gaze. “I suspect the Door.”

  An ancient fire roared up from the coals in her eyes as she hackled at the mention of it. “Did you tell him where it was? How to open it?” She hissed.

  He repressed a boyish instinct to shrink from her, instead towering higher. “No! How could I? You never told my father, much less me.”

  She squinted at him. “Then how do you know?”

  “He and some others disappeared into the forest right next to Urivalur’s troops. They escaped into a conjured darkness, and when it vanished, so had they. The only thing unusual in the area is a ring of mushrooms,” he said. “Blue ones.”

  Her eyes went wide. She slammed the door in his face, then reappeared moments later in a cloak, a walking stick in her hand. She limped past in a hurry, heading toward the spot where the Everguard had last seen Fenn before he and his accomplices had disappeared.

  He hadn't mentioned which forest. She knew.

  It was as I thought.

  He strode after her, his robes billowing behind him, catching the breeze of the oncoming storm. It was too late to snuff out this storm. Now, he would have to ride it: sail on its winds and stay atop it. He clenched his fists and chased after the generations of Willowbirths before him, easily keeping pace with her. His actions in the next weeks would determine if he would be the greatest or worst Ceann of Tradition, the worst Willowbirth, in the history of Etnfrandia. He would be the best. His former-matron, his mho-mattan, and even the Highfather–they would all witness what a bit of his Willow-weaving could do.

  Dez stood in the forest where his brother had disappeared, just a few paces away from Captain Gesria Stoneward–the very woman from whom he’d escaped. They had strict orders to place at least two guards in the area, and to keep their eyes sharp, with no further explanation.

  The Captain was alert nearby, eyes roving the forest. Despite her stoic demeanor, something about her was unsettled. Perhaps it was the subtle shifting of her weight or the hungry look in her eyes. She was as displeased with these events as he was, if for different reasons.

  He must have apologized on Fenn’s behalf at least five times for harming her. She insisted very little harm had been done. Indeed, Dysren judged Fenn to be about as dangerous as a fawn as it first stands, and about as awkward and gangling, too. It was the insult of him having taken her by surprise, and having escaped from under her foot. Gesria was a clever she-elf, and Dysren judged escaping her would be as easy as a mouse escaping the gaze of a hungry hawk.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “It seems wrong, doesn’t it? The way they just disappeared,” he offered. It was not professional to engage in conversation like this, but Dysren had always been able to get away with things like that. Everyone chalked it up to friendliness, and it was, usually. Besides, Gesria couldn’t punish him; he was squad Captain of a separate unit altogether. They were both stationed here on personal request.

  “You should focus on staying alert,” she said coolly.

  “But it is why you requested this detail, isn’t it? It’s the same for me.” He offered his most affable smile.

  “Save your smiles for your matron and focus.”

  Dysren sighed and, after taking an intent scan, watched a squirrel disappear into a hidden knot in a tree. “For the record, I don’t think it’s your fault. I think there’s magic involved.” No matter the type or where else Fenn had lived in the last hundred years, in Etnfrandia, wielding magic was forbidden.

  She glanced at him sideways. “What do you know? Speak.”

  “I’m afraid I must focus on staring into an empty forest,” he said, letting one eye twinkle in her direction.

  “Speak.” She repeated.

  “Gesria, do you think Fenn is a traitor, as Ceann Willowbirth claims?”

  She eyed him, measuring his question. “I believe he betrays the wishes of his father, at the very least, and therefore the House of Tradition. That makes him traitorous enough.”

  “But just what is the House of Tradition? I mean, truly?” Dysren put an airiness into his question, pretending it was light-hearted and meaningless. He didn’t truly expect her to believe that.

  “They direct culture, ensuring we do not deviate from the path our ancestors intended.”

  He considered her words. The path they intended. There was no doubt Fenn deviated from that path. The question was whether that inherently made him a threat.

  “That path, we know it prohibits magic. What do–” he cut off as a distant shuffling of underbrush alerted them to the presence of others. They both stiffened, waiting for the newcomers to show themselves.

  Two silver heads appeared from among the budding trees, one over the flowing silver-and-indigo robes of the Ceann of Tradition, and the other twisted into old-fashioned braids over a dress equally old, so old that it tied at the shoulder and side as a wrap instead of being sewn up. It was none other than the House of Tradition itself, or two Masters of it.

  “Ceann, Cayth-Ceann.” He and Gesria greeted them in unison as they bowed low.

  Old Saebyn moved her severe expression in a curt nod and Ceann Willowbirth dismissed their bow with a flick of his hand. “Report.”

  “You are the first notable movement today,” Gesria said snappily.

  He nodded. That was the answer he had expected. “Mho-Mattan?”

  The elder Willowbirth circled the bare ground like a starved wolf scenting rabbits. Age had nearly weathered her to the leanness of one. “Aha,” she snapped up straight in front of a strange ring of mushrooms. It was only large enough for an elf to stand in the center and not crush them, if he desired to.

  She took a few steps back, pulling out an odd little tool. It was stone, cylindrical, and fit comfortably in one of her hands. She held it over one eye. The other end was jagged and glassy.

  Dysren squinted. Has the grumpy old lady finally gone senile?

  She hissed between her teeth. “It’s open,” she growled. “Your chick-brained, frost-bitten, Moons-forsake-him son actually opened it.” She shoved the tool into Ceann Willowbirth’s hand, shuffling with her walking stick toward Gesria. “Who witnessed them going?”

  “Me, madam, and my squad.”

  “What did you see? Report!”

  While the she-elves spoke, Ceann Willowbirth held the thing up to his eye. Dysren had never seen him so disgruntled, like a bird with his feathers ruffled the wrong way.

  “Seeing would be a generous statement, Cayth-Ceann,” Gesria answered, “because there was a deep darkness that appeared to be magical in nature, and we couldn’t see what happened, only a flash of light, and then our quarry had disappeared.”

  Dysren suppressed his excitement, feigning distant interest. This was the reason he had volunteered for this station. Information. He could tell Cea–well, Mister Silverstem.

  Ceann Willowbirth sighed and lowered the stone object from his eye, turning to Gesria. “I need a squad for an excursion, a group of individuals who know the importance of discretion and aren’t afraid of… unfamiliar circumstances. Bring me a team here tomorrow at dawn. Prepare supplies as you would for a scouting party taking a day’s journey, though I doubt we will take that long.”

  “You’re going in there?” the older Willowbirth spat, “Are you insane?”

  “If he is nearby, we can retrieve them all, brand him a traitor, and exile him before anyone is wise of this place. Or perhaps we can apply LoT 72.”

  She scoffed. “No one wise of it? Your scouting party, fool! Or will you ‘72 them as well?”

  Dysren made a mental note to research that “lot” 72 later.

  Ceann Willowbirth stopped. He stared straight at Gesria. “That is why I am trusting my best Captain to right her mistakes and put together a team who can show discretion and share only the information I’ve deemed appropriate. She will have one chance to redeem herself.”

  His gaze alighted on Dysren. He squinted. Dysren stood tall under his scrutiny.

  “You’re in Sanwryn’s family, are you not?”

  Dysren gave a deep nod, “Yes Ceann. By her marriage to Revelyr Deepsun.”

  “And what do you make of Fennorin Willowbirth?”

  The question took Dysren by surprise. He lowered his brow and forced his voice to darken. “He is a foolish lad, and most unusual. Now, also a traitor to us. He grieves his mother and thus the rest of us with her. I would have him brought to justice.” He clenched his jaw, hoping it appeared to be anger and not fear. Please let the lie work.

  Ceann Willowbirth’s lip curled into his sneer of a smile. “See, Mho-Mattan? Even his own mother’s son knows Fennorin is a talentless failure and a traitor to us. The people trust us. The trial of Silverstem ensured this.”

  Cayth-Ceann Willowbirth huffed and rapped her staff on the ground in anger. “Fail us and I swear I’ll haunt you until you die.”

  The statement seemed like it should be funny, but the delivery was, as one might say, dead serious. A chill accompanied the laugh Dysren suppressed.

  “Hmph” The Ceann turned. “You wouldn’t be able to rest in a grave until your predictions of my failure came true, anyway. Or is that not why you still live?”

  The two began to walk away, still bickering in tones one should reserve for desecrated art.

  As the last sounds of them faded, Dysren was relieved to find his intentions still veiled.

  “This reeks worse than washed-up fish.” Gesria’s blunt statement shocked him.

  He eyed her. “You question the Ceann?” His loyalties were with Belaer Silverstem, the side that valued intentions, but he did not expect Gesria to feel similarly.

  “I am just saying that there is clearly something strange going on. They saw something over that Faerie ring.”

  “Faerie ring? You mean the mushrooms?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Don’t you know what it’s called?”

  He stared at the mushrooms, blue, an unusual color, unnerved by a sudden thought. “Gesria, you don’t suppose that name means anything, do you?”

  Her eyes grew wide, and she set them on him. “An expeditionary team, a scouting party. Frosts, Dez, it makes sense.”

  He rubbed his face with a hand. For the first time, it occurred to him Fennorin may have run off into a realm beyond their own. A realm that wasn’t supposed to exist, one that was Wild. Fae. He may or may not be a danger to the nation, but he was a danger to himself. A fool. But not so short-sighted that he would intend to return here. Nothing legal resided in that place. He would break his mother’s heart. Again. Dysren settled his intentions. “Gesria, a team with discretion has to be one of yours.”

  She nodded. They both knew Dysren’s men lacked that kind of discipline. They were a bunch of friendly gossipers. Besides, Gesria’s squad worked directly for the House of Tradition under the Tenth Commander, while his was the usual type that worked for the House of Militant Arts. Anything they learned would also be reported to Ceann Cleartide, so they would never be allowed on this cover-up expedition.

  “But you want to go?” Gesria guessed.

  “Please. I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s my mother’s favorite son–her only birth son–and he’s endangered himself.”

  She sighed. “Dez, your matron is at term, your babe due any day. Now is not the time to get involved in secrets and dangerous missions.”

  “Please, Captain.” She wasn’t his Captain, but he acknowledged that she put duty first, over friendship. “Perhaps it will be helpful to have someone there who knows the lad.”

  Gesria scrutinized him, her eyes glistening with a sharp edge. “I thought you said Fennorin was a traitor. Now you worry for him?”

  A chill wind from a winter storm blew between them. “He is a traitor, Captain.” That much was true. Fenn had opened a path to a wild realm they were clearly not meant to access. “But if harm comes to him, or to any of us on his account, it will hurt the hearts of many an Etnfrandian, most of all Elftress Goldencrown, my mother.” And Elflord Silverstem, and myself. Likely Kitaryn, too, though she would never admit it.

  She nodded slowly. “I’ll consider it.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” he gave her a half-bow of gratitude, then stood attentively at his post. Soon, their relief would come. Then he would have much to tell the Silverstems.