Morning light bathed the interior of his apartments in a soft golden glow, wood grains vibrant under their limelight. In the midst of a particular sunbeam, Ulric watched dust particles drift in Brownian adventures through the air, and considered the effect of his gift. Things were definitely perking up. Geyrt was thrilled with her new toy and, he had a feeling, with the prospect of putting it to use on someone.

  Ulric could imagine that some kind of ritual celebrating the fact that it had drunk the blood of her little brother's enemies was in her near future. Those circumstances no doubt played a role in her enjoyment of the instrument, which she still hadn't put down. Just as Ulric was starting to question whether she'd be sleeping with the damned thing in her hands, she slung the bow over her shoulder to hang naturally. He figured he ought to give her a heads up about the arrow situation, he'd learned a painful lesson about what that draw strength would do to shafts carved too thin of lesser material.

  "I had to make the arrows custom for it, so feel free to use the quiver I have laying over there with the rest of my gear. Steelwood arrows were the only thing that would hold up, it was ruining the normal ones from the impulse of the shot. We can get you some new arrows made up whenever you want though, that's all my homemade stuff from the glade." Ulric told his Shadow, offering her the complete set.

  The normally staid, if not actively irritated, woman damn near skipped to the stacked equipment and, in short order, had his quiver looped around her own belt, before taking out arrows and giving each a thorough once over. A professional eye tracked like a laser down their lengths as she held them out, checking for deviations from true. Bronze-flecked emeralds examined their feathers, alongside the handspan glassresin heads, one by one, any deficiency intolerable, as three of the twenty were set aside, having failed to pass muster.

  Ulric felt like his thesis was being reviewed, or a submission to his old bosses for getting approval on a metal chalcogenide doping trial. He had taken great pride in his work, once upon a time, too much, probably. Most of that was gone but he had not lost his attention to detail, his passion to Do The Thing Correctly. That had proven to be a marvelously necessary survival instinct. Doing things wrongly led unerringly to unnecessary pain, with a side of tribulation. Amongst his mantras to stay sane in the glade, the chief-most of these went thusly: Varda punished mistakes.

  He directed his grey eyed gaze from the products of his labor in the glade to the Elf that would pass judgment on them to offer an observation regarding her ability to use the gifted equipment.

  "You're about my height, and our arms look to be pretty well the same length, so I don't think you'll have any problems with shooting. In any case, you know how to adjust things so it'll work out." He finished, amused at this unexpected enthusiasm from the Huntress.

  In another minute the arrows had passed muster. Now the bow was unholstered smoothly, one of the glassresin tipped broadheads was nocked, and a small "mmph" of effort accompanied her draw. The length was just about right, the arrowhead resting just in front of her knuckles on the hand holding the bowstave.

  Slowly, Geyrt relaxed and quivered the arrow before reshouldering the bow. She looked like the cat that got the canary, all satisfaction. At last, his Shadow rendered her judgment, "Your fletchings leave something to be desired Ulric, but they are not bad for your lack of practice.”

  For some reason that felt good and the once bush hermit breathed easier. Workmanship that satisfied this most exacting of the feyfolk boded well for his other crafts. Besides which, Geyrt might almost be happy, no small win that.

  “The feathers are not brushing the stave on release and this glue, whatever it is, will hold, even if its odor is rank. The shafts are acceptably true, however, and the strange amber stone heads, not what I am used to, are affixed without great flaw. The arrows will be serviceable.” Decreed the grandmaster archer, and Ulric had passed his doctoral exam in arrow making.

  Good enough for the Elven princess who might also be an assassin. He repressed a grin at that and basked in the small victory of not being a shit fletcher. Ulric was glad to be praised for his workmanship, and more than a little surprised at the feeling. Nice to be appreciated he supposed. He wasn't one to take even his small wins for granted, hard-earned as they always were these days.

  Geyrt was thumbing the glass-resin speartip now, and used it to shave a thumbnail lightly, then a brush against her arm leather forearm guard, which lost a translucently thin segment that drifted slowly to the floor. She then revealed three centimeters of knife blade and ran the broadhead across it, producing a ringing *Schwing* sound as hard blade edge sang against hard glass-resin.

  A slight tilt of her head and his Shadow asked, curiosity piqued, while thumbing the razored edges of the glasslike substance incredulous at their sharpness “Especially those arrowheads, this substance you have used, what is it? I have never seen it's like."

  He answered her question as best he could.

  "The arrowheads are what I’ve come to call glass-resin. It is composed of the crystalline sap that once flowed from the roots of one of the giant elder trees on the Plateau of Ancients. My glade was made when one of them fell, which must have been a hell of a thing I might add, that tree paces off one point five kilometers from trunk to branches, if it was a meter. Anyhow, when it went, its roots pulled up a massive crater, creating my spring, and some broke off. This stuff sits in pools, like little ponds of amber.”

  “These are made of the sap of the Father trees, from the Sacred Grove?” Geyrt asked, eyes widening at that reveal.

  Ulric nodded, “Yeah, I suppose.” He agreed absently, more interested in the material property of the substance than its origin, “Odd stuff. It's unbelievable how hard it is. I can break it loose with a pick on account of it shatters along curving faults, kinda like flint, if I hit it real hard, and a hot fire softens the material to something like putty, where it can be readily molded. I pour cast those arrow heads after I built a little bitty charcoal furnace and a wood mold. They’re a sonofabitch to polish, but fantastically sharp. Use the stuff for my wood carving knives, bonding things. For some reason it’s got some flex when it’s in a really thin layer, that’s what the bowstave is coated with." Ulric rambled, passing on what he had discovered of glassresin as best he could.

  Suddenly, the breaking of his spearhead on the Forest Lord came to mind, as did the loss of several arrowheads when they passed through a target and hit a rock, burying too deep to extract without breaking off or shattering outright.

  "Those arrowheads are hard as hell, but brittle, so I wouldn't shoot at anything rocky or the head will probably shatter. Goes right through most woods and animals no problem though, they're beyond razor sharp." Ulric warned, as if the lady had not just done several sharpness tests.

  He’d donated some flesh on his forearm to one, once, doing a shave test that very neatly removed a piece of skin, epidermis and dermis both, surgically. He didn’t check them for sharpness after that with his own hide.

  The dusky Elf lass was responding oddly to this information. Where before she'd been most certainly pleased at the bow and its accouterments, especially knowing how they'd been put to use, oddly enough Geyrt was now looking at the gifted archery gear with something close to worship.

  "A bow with the bones of the Forest Lord and arrows tipped by the lifeblood of the Ancient’s great tree, handed to me by one of the Eternal Gaze’s starchildren?" She asked shakily, and then laughed, those rare sounds filling the room with their music.

  “It is like a story told to children, fancies to stir their imaginations.” Geyrt chuckled, disbelieving.

  "Well, this whole planet is something out of a fairy tale as far as I’m concerned, so I guess that’s par for the course." Ulric replied, not disagreeing with that assessment.

  “You were deep within the grove then, this glade you come from?” the once princess of the Deep Wood Elves asked, trying too hard to be casual about her curiosity.

  Ulric didn’t take this chance to tease her by withholding information, the plateau was a holy ground and people got upset when you messed with them about such things.

  Recalling the utter spectacle of waking on this world to seeing the colossi of the plateau he answered, “The whole plateau is covered with them, trees like pillars holding up the sky, kilometers high, and wide around as three of this tree holding up Ireilhos. The whole plateau rolls, like great waves frozen into hills. I think that’s from the dead ones that have been buried. Most plateaus are flat, but these turn the landscape into a series of long, straight, rounded ridges, some of them criss-crossing where trees ended up on top of each other over the, I dunno, eons. It's a weird place, the old forest up there. Feels like a little like a cathedral."

  Geyrt shook her head, braid lashing.

  "It is more than a temple, and less, Ulric. We do not worship the gods with our homage of the grove that lifts the Forest of the Forgotten to the sky." She said with hushed reverence, "It is difficult to describe the relationship between the Elves and the Plateau of Ancients, or the Father trees. Some call them the Souls of the First Elves, Glade Chief, and believe that all the Aes’r were born as fruit of these eldest trees. It is an old superstition, but no Aes’r does not feel a kinship with the Sacred Grove.”

  Geyrt narrowed her eyes at him, as if catching him in the act of doing something he knew he shouldn’t be.

  “What?!” Ulric demanded, feeling a little putout at being accused of something while standing in his own room.

  Muttered imprecations he couldn’t make out for being in Elvish escaped him, but Geyrt relaxed her stare and assumed a didactic posture, “Because of your proximity to the Orlethrem, especially the Iriel’en, my people who have guarded the Sacred Grove since before memory, I will tell you the tales of our beginnings. I am no Lorekeeper, so I will be brief, but you should attend, Glade Chief. Mistake me not, it is of utmost importance that you understand, at least in part, the relation between Elves and the plateau, these tales, this history, it shapes the Aes’r, all that we are is related to this tale. Your interactions with the Orlethrem could depend on your heeding to these words. This could mean your life, Ulric, your glade is a place where Otherkin are not welcomed by many of the Orlethrem." Geyrt said quietly, despite their privacy.

  "The Ancients, a people we refer in more formal recitations to as Those Who Came Before, were the first people of Varda. The very first civilization, the oldest known folk to do more than scratch and fight amongst the beasts. Even the Svartalfin, the deep dwarves, have never excavated relics of greater age than Those Who Came Before. It is generally agreed, by all folk, that these first people colonized the entire world; spread their works over land, under sea, and deep beneath the earth. Relics like the Ancient's Gate remain scattered across the landscape, many of them working, though we know not what they all do. Only the Sepul’kra, the self-sustaining enclaves designed to protect all that lies within, are outright hostile." She recited, very much like a school marm speaking to a child she thought a little slow.

  Or a priest speaking to an unrepentant heathen.

  "In any case, the Elves consider themselves descendants of the Ancients, consider most peoples their descendants, in fact. Nothing is known for certain about the breaking of Those Who Came Before. Not how, or why, or even with any certainty when their doom came. What is known is that when the great civilization fell to darkness, its people shattered into isolated tribes. Eons passed, the tribes migrated, some across the seas, some to dwell by the ash and heat of the volcanoes, others the wide, wide plains, and, as the Aes’r, the forests. These folk, long separated from each other, changed to become the Beastkin, the Humans, the Elves, the Ogrand, and the Dwarves. Or, by their proper names, the Jormun, the Valin, the Aes'r, Onic’ci, and the Svartalfir. The Beastkin, Ogrand, and Humans are called children of the earth, those who colonized the surface of the land and seas. The Elves and Dwarves are called the children of the heavens, those who were not content with the surface and ranged above, to the trees, or below, into the depths. This relates to the plateau in which you lived and the Forest Lord." Geyrt taught, enmeshed in the story of her world, her people, and the Otherkin.

  Ulric was rapt, besides the stories Brighteyes had told him, this was the first he'd heard of the history of his neighbors and it was striking several parallels to mythologies spread by his own people on Earth.

  Geyrt looked distant for a few moments, lips quirked as if uncertain how to proceed. She stood, arms crossed, one hand lifted with a single finger tapping full lips thoughtfully, the very picture of a mysterious fae presence before finding her way to continue the tale.

  “Once, we Aes'r are believed to have lived and originated on the plateau, the grove grown by the Ancients in their last days when they knew their end was at hand. Instead of building citadels, altars, relics, or Sepul’kra to conserve, or preserve, as it may be, their heritage, this tribe of Those Who Came Before chose to grow a forest, a tribute to life and the living to come. The trees were created to be greater than any others, infused with mana to reach deep into bones of Varda drawing on the leylines for strength, that they might send their crowns soaring to the sky, and to live beyond the span of any mortal creatures. We Elves were the children of the gardeners, the grove tenders. In addition to the Elves, there was a race of Greater beasts, guardians of the grove to protect the tenders in their work, to drive away hostile beasts or dangers. These were the forebears of the Forest Lord. The Greater beasts never left the plateau and never raised harm against their wards. As time passed, the tenders died out or migrated away. As they did, both of these lineages drifted away from their parent stock. We don't know how long it took but, eventually, the Elves came down from the Plateau, to what is now called Iriel, the Deep Wood. The Plateau itself was left whole, as a sacred land. Never were the Father trees to be felled by axe or fire, never was the land to be despoiled, not while the Elves live to keep it. Of the race of guardians, they grew scarce, grew reclusive, perhaps under the influence of the denseness of Varda’s Field, perhaps because their blood line never forgave the Elves for abandoning their tending of the plateau. All died. We do not know why. We do know the Forest Lord was the last of them, a corrupted remnant of those creatures, so much lesser that it had devolved to savagery. All that remained to the creature was the instinct to destroy anything that encroached on its territory. And this it did, for thousands of years." Geyrt spoke softly, the tale clearly holding a dear place to her.

  Geyrt looked at Ulric seriously, the weight of her eyes impressing him with her next statement.

  "The beast you slayed was a shadow of its former glory, the last whisper of Greater beasts unrivaled. The Forest Lord, in its prime of life, according to all tales we have of it, was untouchable by blade or magic. That you were able to slay it probably means it was near death of its own age, unable to utilize the vast part of its strength. I do not say this to denigrate you Ulric, you have done a thing of untold heroism, to put down that ancient terror. However, if ever you meet a Greater beast such as that again, do not try to fight it. Run. Run as well as you are able Glade Chief. If it chooses not to hunt you, you might live." She said grimly.

  He wasn't about to contest her advice.

  The old monster had moved faster than anything that size ever should, and now he was learning it wasn't the barest fraction of what it could offer. Fuck, Ulric remarked to himself, there was nothing down in the forest, no sign of prey before he'd killed it that he'd seen in those early days. Was the Forest Lord he'd faced on the verge of starvation? His nightmares concerning the creature were about to get worse. Thankfully, the images of a maw bearing ivory fangs, a roar like a goddamn Tyrranosaur, flashing claws, and the inevitable rending of his miserable bones were dispelled by Geyrt's voice.

  "This is then, the abbreviated history of the Elves. The plateau on which you came into being is sacred to the Aes’r, to all of Orlethrem, but even more so to the Iriel'en. Not for the presence of the gods but for the gesture of a dying people to create a monument of life for the land, to the world they would not be able to cherish any longer. It is an Elvish thing, the heart of Elvish things, to do such. It is our duty, and our joy, to protect this parting gift."

  She must have read the concern on his face, that he'd been blithely squatting on Elf Jerusalem.

  "Worry not that any would begrudge you your existence there," the sylvan princess assuaged, "That you were born into this world in that place is a thing in your favor among us. The Eternal Gaze does not often tread in mortal affairs and it would not have done so in that place without purpose. It also does not mean little that the All-Knowledge granted you lordship of the territory guarded by the Forest Lord. In this, you are bonded to the mission of the Aes'r, to protect that place from harm. Tend it well." Geyrt commanded, the longest, most impassioned speech he'd had of her.

  It struck Ulric as a poignant thing this story of the Elves and their grove. A new light was cast on their commitment to becoming part of the forest, to join themselves with the trees.

  "Sonofabitch." Ulric muttered, no wonder the Deep Woods Elves were so hardcore.

  They not only considered themselves the children of a race of gardeners but also the guardians of their forebears' work. Which explained their near-fanatical warrior culture and insular attitudes alongside a remarkable openness with one another. Outsiders would not share their reverence for the hallowed arbors of the Plateau of Ancients and so they sought to reject those who could only gaze on the plateau and its primordial race’s garden with impure intent. Heavy stuff.

  That also colored the relationship he had with the Aes'r the Elven folk. He was responsible for the welfare of a part of the land they held sacred and he had gotten there, in part, because he had killed the last descendant of the guardian creatures for that land. He was then, in more ways than one, the new guardian of that place. At least to their sensibilities. It was fortunate then that they took the view that the new custodian of the place was to be trained up to competence rather than killed and replaced with one of their own people.

  He probably had Bald'rt to thank directly for that decision. It would have been nothing for them to slay him and keep their grove free from potential harm. Wait a fucking second.

  "Sonofabitch." the reborn Engineer mouthed again.

  They had definitely considered killing him. One hundred percent, sure as the sky is blue and the grass is green, and Gigabears shit in the woods: Bald'rt Iriel had deliberated on his murder as a Valin intruder on land held sacrosanct, and had declined to pursue that course of action. Maybe he wouldn't dig that pit trap full of shit slathered punji sticks for the old Elf King after all.

  Geyrt's story gave him a newfound perspective on his lessons with Gother, Idra, and the Wives of Bald'rt. He wasn't just receiving the fruits of a bargain, he was being given a probationary tutelage on wardship of their holy land. Good thing he'd been taking it fairly seriously. A dim view would the Elves of Orlethrem have taken of someone being lax in their preparation for a role so dear in their hearts. Most especially the Deep Wood tribe.

  If the Orlethrem Elves considered themselves gardeners and caretakers of the land, undoubtedly, of all the clans he'd heard tale of from Brighteyes in their talks, it was the Iriel'en that considered themselves the last line of defense, the sharpest blade that guarded their ancestral grounds. This further drove home the political implication that they had named the Iriel Chief as head of their collective, to lead the direction of the people as a whole. The Elves had, essentially, declared themselves to be on a war footing even before the recent events pushed them into overt action. Whoever thought they had stolen a march on Orlethrem was about to find out the depth of their miscalculation.

  When Bald'rt slipped his leash, it was going to get ugly.

  Glad that he didn't have to put his hands into that particular pot Ulric determined that he would approach the subsequent training with a less cavalier attitude. Even Gother's, damn the dry desert of a bag of bones to an eternity of moldy books.

  A good few minutes had passed by since Ulric had returned from his morning bath, between gifting Geyrt her new besty and receiving in turn a powerful historical antecedent of the Elves.

  Ulric found the weighty implications of this tale incredibly intertwined into his own circumstances. It couldn't be an accident. None of it. The place and time of his reforging, the increasingly aggressive actions of the nearby territories, the internal hardening of the Elf political structures for a potential war. Even Ulric's desperate slaying of the Forest Lord, all of it had the feel of something preordained. Destiny. For a godless heathen of increasingly free spirit, Ulric resented the feeling that he'd been made into some kind of instrument of fate. But maybe that’s what THEY wanted him to think.

  Okay, that's too much paranoia just dial it back a touch, Ulric told himself.

  You know what? Hell with it, let the chips fall. Today was a festival day. War and god games were all problems in potentia, they didn't exist yet, and so Ulric was going to put all that bullshit over here on a shelf in his brain and forget about it until he needed to do something about it specifically. For now, it's party time.

  "Thank you for the story Geyrt, I am grateful for it. It helps me understand you strange people a little better, no, a lot better, and puts a great many things into better context." Ulric said with gratitude.

  "It's all a little too much gravitas though, isn't today supposed to be some kind of festival?" He asked, turning matters to Bald'rt's previous invitation.

  His Shadow perked up at the mention of the festival and she lost some of her grim attitudes, resuming her normally merely slightly sour intensity.

  "This is so Ulric. Today is the celebration of the year's bounty and the hope for next year's prosperity. Lord Bald'rt already invited you, yes? Then we may attend the festivities in the great hall at your leisure." Geyrt informed him.

  Ulric was curious now, about exactly what awaited him in the hall. A playful impulse though wanted to be surprised. Why ruin a perfectly novel experience with too much information? This was part of the transition in Ulric's attitudes since he awakened, the love of the unknown, a call to adventure. He was still subject to finicky, meticulous habits, and tunnel vision, that was in his bones. It didn't mean, however, that he had to have the maniacal control of events that characterized his old life's descent into hermitage.

  "You know what? That sounds good, let's go hang out with your folks Geyrt." He said happily.

  For some reason that made his Shadow's ears twitch. Probably thinking about what fresh hell Bald'rt would happily put either or both of them through. That was part of the fun as well, Ulric supposed.

  "If you wish Glade Chief." Geyrt acceded.

  Ulric "after you'd" the door and followed the odd elf beauty into the hall and through the splendor that was Irielhos. Elves were everywhere, especially considering the day before, traffic having picked up substantially since Ulric's journey back from the baths.

  So odd to be surrounded by such a narrow selection of the composition of Iriel. Warriors, armed always, mostly drilling in their troops. Craftsmen, weaving, hammering, forging, calling to apprentices in a flurry of honed skill practicing their trades. What might have been select merchants overseeing wagons loaded to the gills with equipment, food, and raw materials runners in hand carts or pulled by a pair of yoked Elves to speed delivery, pumping goods of untold variety like a dispersed system of miniature hearts to deliver nutrition to the beast that was an Elf war machine. Beyond those were what Ulric hazarded a guess to be highborn, mostly by the fanciful dress they wore in contrast to other far more practical selections of attire. These he mostly ignored, because he couldn’t directly see what their function was. But besides those, it was just Duties hurriedly tending to the city.

  That was about it.

  If you weren't an active part of the war effort, you were hidden away in those secretive refuges he'd been told of and about which he knew nothing more. For reasons he completely understood the Deep Wood folk played that one close to the chest.

  Ulric briefly wondered how long they could remain sequestered in such places, it was almost like siege conditions. Supplies were always the main concern under that kind of scenario. It would not have surprised Ulric at all that the Elves were long planners and those hidden sanctuaries could last years. Maybe decades, they had different views on time.

  Contrary to the serious attitudes and stillness of the previous day there was a simmering energy in the air. Latent excitement pulsed through the movements, gestures, and tones of the passersby. A good many made gestures of acknowledgment towards Ulric as he walked towards the great hall on the apex of Irielhos. He returned those with a wave and an Elvish "Hallo" or "Good morning".

  Putting in the time to learn, even incompletely, Elf language was entirely worth the effort. For one thing, it built in a certain amount of comfort in this bizarre setting. Ulric enjoyed having the ability to parse out most of what went on around him. A few times, in the Before, he'd traveled to different countries, completely absent even rudimentary knowledge of the local gibberish, excepting, of course, his maternal grandmother's homeland, and the feeling was a nebulous tension at being caught unawares.

  With no small pride, Ulric congratulated himself on how quickly he'd gained proficiency in the sylvan tongue. Maybe Brighteyes was just that good at teaching, but he’d been a dedicated student in the limited time available.

  Speaking of the little dude, Ulric was looking forward to seeing how he'd been doing in the few days since returning home. Funny that. Ulric had never been one for company but he'd rather quickly gotten used to having the even-keeled lad around.

  It would seem he'd traded one Iriel for another now. Geyrt was, by her own tacit admission, the less pleasant company, if a far more interesting visual spectacle. He did have to admit a fondness for watching her stroll through the citadel, a hunting cat's grace in her steps and an avalanche's concern for who might be in the way. Ulric was carried along in her wake almost as if by instinct. The roll of her hips beneath her overcoat and sturdy pants didn't hurt.

  Even tornados could be beautiful Ulric told himself, but from a distance.

  In due time they arrived upon the twelfth and final story of Irielhos, Citadel of Iriel.

  Once more, they journeyed deep into the palace.

  Within the great hall of this level, through doors carved in metallic artistry, sat upon a throne the Elven [Lord of the Deep Wood] Bald'rt Iriel, in finery of gilded brown over-robe cut sleeveless to show the sharp definition of arms and shoulders of the Elf King in his prime. Beneath was a military dress vest, buttoned with brass, rare use of metals, green slashes offsetting blacks and golden browns in an impressive fashion, to go with similarly militaristic pants and high black leather boots polished to mirror finish. To his left on the dais, in smaller but no less majestic placement, sat the three wives of Bald'rt in marital order: Vedyr Iriel, the Heartwood Spear; Shor Iriel, the Crimson Sphinx; and Bathe Iriel, the Golden Beast.

  All wore their Sunday best, robes of shimmering material Ulric hadn't seen before in colors suiting the specific tastes and features of each. Dresses in styles unique to each woman, perhaps unique to her own former tribe, adorned the women in splendor. Vedyr in earthy browns, brilliant greens, and slashes of red and black, the gown cut modestly in the front but sleeveless and open in the back to reveal her impressive physique, matching her husband. Shor in silver and red, hints of orange and yellow as if to show the heat of flame rippled down a full sleeved gown with an outright scandalous portal cut to show most of the tops of her most impressive bosoms. Bathe wore an elegant white trimmed gold affair, high necked gown with a short overcoat, and with a complex embroidery of green vines that flowered golden blooms like orchids, the dress was cut thin to hug her slim form. The half coat, with puffy sleeves terminated at the elbow to leave her pale forearms uncovered, forearms that looked as if they had been used to squeeze rocks for water.

  Bald'rt, the too-beautiful Elf Lord in like company with his Ladies were at the center of the room. Few managed to avoid at least glancing in that direction, despite having to have been at least a little used to the presences of the Iriel’en Crown. As he was led to the place where one addressed their betters, Ulric had to admit, on looking upon them, they actually were his betters in nearly every category: age, wisdom, combat prowess, social grace, and sheer physical beauty. It wasn't just by lineage or heritage that they occupied their place in the room, the royals of Iriel would dominate any locale Ulric could imagine.

  Ulric, in his plain, if comfortable, loaned black silks, was vastly underdressed. Maybe he should have worn the armor, after all, he mused. Geyrt, still attired as if going hunting, was only slightly less conspicuous compared to her parents and eyes were drawn to follow as the two entered.

  Despite a presentation that put to shame any tale he’d ever read about Oberon and Titania of the far realms, Ulric kept a smooth face. If the other ruling factions of the Elven, no, of all the races of Varda, were as puissant as the Iriel'en Ulric could imagine there being a nuclear peace in the lands. No leader who cared for the lives of their people would risk war and unleashing powers such as Bald'rt loose on them. Ulric hadn't seen the Elf in action, hadn't but heard the vaguest of suggestions, but, call it a sixth sense, a survival instinct. He could feel it in his bones that beneath the calm decorum, the good humored jesting, there slept a volcanic berserker. With any amount of luck to his name, Ulric would never live to see the [Lord of the Deep Wood] in a rage.

  Don’t think about that, he warned himself.

  He couldn’t afford to look too intimidated here. Besides, the show of dignity up there didn’t match any number of outrageous memories Ulric had from just a day or two ago of Bald’rt’s antics and the exasperation of his mates. So it was, the display didn't hold his attention for too long, especially because he'd just spotted Brighteyes sitting at the grand table below on the right-hand side that he had taken during their last meeting.

  Ulric found himself waving by instinct, although he at least had enough propriety not to yell "What's good little guy?!" as his heart compelled.

  The young elf looked to be in good shape. He was dressed in a formal suit that reminded Ulric of Bald'rt's own get-up but with a color theme more akin to his matron's ensemble. Whites and browns, some greens and golds here and there on sleeves and cuffs. Brighteyes had gotten a trim since last Ulric had seen him, the lanky golden hair and long bangs were now shorn close to his head in a tidy affair that reminded Ulric of some of the more fashionable kids who worked with him, the ones who went "clubbing" and had success fishing for a good time. For a brief moment, Ulric tried to imagine what would happen if a grown Brighteyes walked into a nightclub.

  It would be as if a less womanly Bieber hit the place. He'd start a fucking riot.

  Suppressing a chuckle, if not a grin, Ulric followed along behind Geyrt, unable to resist cataloguing the sheer strangeness of the forms in the rom.

  Shaking himself lightly Ulric shed the thoughts, this was not a day to entertain negativity, even if it should probably be considered later in a sort of worst-case scenario analysis. Instead, Ulric turned his inspection to the rest of the room. Besides the main event up at the central dais, there were many side tables arranged, each of them full of a wide assortment of Elven presences. Most had the same slender athleticism and dark coloration that Ulric was learning was typical of the native Iriel'en. Scattering in and amongst them was the lighter pale skin and blond hair that typified the highlands tribes, of whom Bathe and her son Brighteyes were more typical. These were more akin to the prototypical Elves of Tolkien's depictions.

  Scattered more infrequently were the bronzed-skinned auburns, dirty blonds, and silvers of various other tribal ancestries with which Ulric was less specifically able to place. Brighteyes had spoken of the tribes and their features but only the once had he gone into detail and Ulric had been pondering the journey ahead too intently to recall those lessons with any specificity. Suffice it to say that the full spectrum of Orlethrem was in attendance, to more or less degree. Some of these people had to be travelers, no way those little clusters of non-Iriel'en had been around the entire time. Probably they'd arrived yesterday, while most locals were holding vigils.

  Around the periphery of the room stood the Royal Guardsmen, their lead man Idra up near the dais giving the royals his personal attention. Most of the guards he did not know by name but all he recognized them from his training day. Ulric was looking forward to the next time he got to attend lessons with them, he had gotten notably better with his light practice routines and was eager to see how many thousand flaws Idra'se would find in his posture despite the improvement.

  Despite the seriousness of their duty, the circulating soldiers seemed to be enjoying the festivity as much as anybody else, pockets of off-duty members visiting various cookpots and tables of refreshments. Notably, they were only drinking some dark beverage, a bitter beer by the smell of it, and not the Elven spirits that had put Ulric through the wringer earlier. Chatting warriors, huddles of animated hands indicating fervent conversations, and even some laughter from the pockets, things were relaxed today.

  None but the guardsmen carried weapons, in the sense that they weren't going around with spears or the like, Ulric noticed. However, everybody was packing. Every single man or woman among them carried a large belt-sheathed dagger. Some single-edged drop points, like woodsman's knives, some double-sided stilettos, and more styles of hilt and handle than there were flavors of gum.

  It seemed that the personal knife of an Elf was just that: individual and unique to the bearer. Ulric briefly entertained himself with the thought of the guards checking IDs at the door by asking the visitor to show them their knives. What was consistent amongst the blade shapes, sizes, edges, and whatnot was that none was less than twenty centimeters in length and most were closer to thirty or forty. Just a nice, subtle reminder that Varda was a dangerous place and the Aes'r were well prepared for it. Brighteyes had, forgiving the pun, gone bananas on a bunch of Heckler monkeys with one such knife and the results had been both impressively gory and entirely intentional.

  Ulric would have to keep in mind that if he managed to piss off an Elf, they were probably skilled hands with a dagger. Best to down them before they got a chance to use it, if it came to that.

  Just as each knife was different so too was each wardrobe. Those that were of the man at arms class of Orlethrem wore finery of subdued and functional nature, but had lost little of their edge, eyes scanning by habit, they gave off an air of readiness alongside the jocular party atmosphere. Those that had to be some sort of noble or ruling class wore far more flamboyant garb, lace at the cuffs of their coats, feathers in hats, that sort of thing. Hundreds of variations of color, of cut, of style were paraded around the hall, each with far less practicality than was on display from the professional fighting folk.

  Ulric still had little idea what functions they served those not having been discussed at any length by either Brighteyes or his sister; maybe aristocratic overseers of trade or Barons managing stead-holts.

  Slight variations in dress, embroidered symbols on shoulders, sleeves, and chests indicated a caste or class system. Ulric wasn't quite sure how things got divvied up around in Orlethrem. Feudal societies tended to operate in a pretty linear fashion. All appearance said that there was a chain of command starting from the ruling family and then delegated positions of increasingly granular sub-authority over particular regions, though he'd neglected to ask Brighteyes during their talks about what to expect from his visit.

  Brighteyes had seemed to think it wouldn't matter. Apparently being [Lord of the Ancient Glade] put him somewhere high above and outside whatever sociopolitical pissing contests were held between peers in Elf land.

  In all, the great hall fairly bustled with Elvishness, in all its foreignness. For a former engineer turned reclusive sorcerer, Ulric was utterly out of his element. All this flickered in the back of his thoughts as he followed Geyrt through the boisterous feast hall.

  Ulric's Shadow had just now come a rest and he, tagging along mindlessly while he rubbernecked, had stopped alongside her. Last time, it had been only he, the guards, and the royal folk who really needed no guarding, now he thought on it. A slight bout of nerves took over, as he was reminded that he was standing before the fae court and the entire hall was full of its movers and shakers.

  Any errors in judgment or social fuck ups would be on full display amongst the most important folk in the entire Elf confederacy, burned into the long memories of these people, to bite him in the ass for, oh, a few hundred years or so.

  Oh goody, moaned Ulric internally, holding to his composure like a man to grass roots while he hung from a cliff’s edge.

  Geyrt kicked things off with an introduction, delivered smoothly enough that Ulric had to wonder if she'd been practicing. Ulric didn't know what kind of obeisance was appropriate so he simply stood straight, stayed quiet, and let his Shadow handle the social donkeywork. It seemed correct, or, at least, no one commented.

  "Bald'rt Iriel [Lord of the Deep Wood] I present Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade] to receive your blessing and to join the Festival of Fallen Leaves in your hall."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  She followed that statement with a deep bow with some sort of ritualistic hand gestures that reminded Ulric of someone handing someone else their belt knife. It seemed appropriate enough for the Elf in Charge he nodded his acceptance and addressed Ulric, voice carrying without effort through the hall that had gone suddenly quiet.

  "Welcome again Ulric Glade Chief to my hall. It has not been long since your arrival and I am sure you've many concerns weighing your mind. Know that today is a day for celebration of the boons of this past year and for the gifts of life yet to come in the next. As a friend of Iriel and patron of my son in his time of need, I bid you join us, and know no worry. Hardships and struggles will find no hold on our countenance this day. Come, sit at the great table, and share with us your company."

  At this surprisingly straightforward and earnest welcome, minus any of the barbed observations Ulric was becoming accustomed to when dealing with Bald'rt, Ulric was left somewhat awkwardly speechless. The warmth of this greeting had not gone un noticed by the bystanders, their gazes, ranging from merely inquisitive to openly calculating made his skin crawl. The Elf in charge seemed to know it too, his normal roguish grin was in place, and he winked so casually Ulric wouldn't be surprised if any but he noticed.

  That the greeting had been made in Human was also a courtesy to make unambiguous for the entire Hall the sincerity of the gesture. The Iriel'en Lord made a gesture towards an empty chair next to Brighteyes indicating Ulric should make himself comfortable while being stared at would make that impossible. The reforged man knew for certain that this too was another jest, a very subtle one, and not necessarily reserved only for himself.

  If Ulric Einar had a gun to his head, he’d have sworn that, not so many minutes ago, some visiting person in this hall that didn’t bear the good will of Bald’rt had been welcomed with a small fraction of the graciousness that he himself had just received, and that that person or persons was currently sitting on a burned ass.

  At the edges, he could feel the slightest twinge of panic now, he was fucking this up, he could feel it. He'd never been good with being in the center stage and this was as centered as stages got. Geyrt saved him from the burning gazes pouring in by speaking some appropriate phrase of thanks and well wishes in Elvish that Ulric missed, and took his sleeve to lead him to his seat. The crowd's attention turned back to itself, mostly, and Ulric couldn't suppress a deep sigh of relief at being released from their focus.

  He looked up to meet his Shadow's eyes and thanked her profusely.

  "Thanks, Geyrt, you saved my ass from the fire that time. I didn't expect stage fright to strike so hard from a little greeting. Yikes. You wanna sit or something?" Ulric blabbered.

  A slight widening of eyes betrayed her surprise, but she recovered quickly, refusing his offer with unusual deference.

  "I must refuse, though I thank you for the offer, Glade Chief. I am here as your Shadow and it is my responsibility to see to your protection even in this place and on this day. It is enough for me to be here enjoying the ambiance of the festival."

  She chewed her lip briefly and shot a glance to Brighteyes who was looking at the both of them for the proper time to begin conversing. Something had gone on between the two of them, Geyrt was definitely cagey around her brother, and he appeared almost smug when he glanced at her. Odd. It was a brief thing, these shared glances and it only took a moment for the Elf girl to resume her begging off.

  "I cannot neglect my duty after you released me yesterday, especially not here amongst the Greater and Lesser Houses. My status amongst them is no longer what it was and I would not bring shame to my own House by pretending otherwise. Do as my father suggested Ulric, leave your worries for the future in the future and enjoy this day." Geyrt told him gently.

  Ulric couldn't help but stare at her, this was the most accommodating she'd been since they'd met. Something had definitely gone on yesterday. He'd have put wagers on it that Brighteyes had something to do with it. Maybe her Mothers as well, Bald'rt had not seemed overly inclined to be too harsh on his "little Shadow Panther". Just as he was going to ask her if she was sick or to blink twice if she was being forced to be nice, Brighteyes saw the moment he'd been waiting for and jumped in.

  "It is fine, Ulric Glade Chief. Besides, the Festival is Eldest Sister Geyrt's most troublesome time of year. Every time she attends, she must beat like a Sap Weasel some over-proud son of this Seafaring Lord or that lesser holding’s third son who tries to court her. It is almost tradition now to keep healers on hand to put their faces back together." Said the young Elf grinning broadly.

  Whatever subdued attitude was present fled from the heat of his Shadow's righteous wrath.

  She drew up and said wiltingly of her would be suiters, such venom dripping freely from her fangs that, were any nearby to overhear, they would be finding somewhere else to spend their evening, "If they were not so soft, boorish, and weak, they would not need such healing. Nor would they if they did not come on like rutting Plated Stone Boar. I have not dedicated a century of myself to learning the Hunter's craft that I might welp some pampered bastard's pups."

  Seeing his Shadow return to her normal thorny demeanor, combined with Brighteyes obvious merriment, put Ulric at ease. He actually found himself smiling, assisted by the imagined uproar of an ill-informed man having wisdom pounded into him by this Taipan.

  It must be a whole pile of ignorant foolishness that would push themselves uninvited into her attention, if they had even the slightest inkling of her reputation. The pair of them reminisced about a half dozen such interactions, Brighteyes readily egging his sister on for her ease in being goaded to attempted manslaughter.

  The but recently familiar with this marvelous beauty of a Taipan was not surprised to learn that no less than three of these ill-conceived attempts at rough courting had left the Festival feet first. When he asked how often it was that Aes'r parties led to funerals he was jovially notified by a laughing Brighteyes that the rate had diminished since his sister had stopped attending, but that it was still a regular occurrence, especially once grudges long nursed had a little alcoholic erosion of the usual civility.

  The Iriel'en, in particular, the young prince revealed, were finicky about their status in public. Brighteyes explained the duality of Aes’r Iriel’en again, reviewing something he'd told Ulric back in the glade. Privately, they would joke, mock, harass, and generally make light of one another. But in front of the rest? One's position was earned, and his or her dignity inviolate, an attack on that was not tolerated.

  "We are proud people Ulric, and with good cause, if I may be frank about it. Long does a young Elf spend challenging themselves in the wilds and against one another to find betterment. When another, before the eyes of all, calls into question the veracity of your name and your standing, they do so knowing they infringe on decades of struggle. Among the Houses especially, no scion of Orlethrem would permit another to attempt to diminish them. It is a mark of cowardice, a confirmation that status was unearned, and a challenge will follow, plotted naturally by one that finds a rival weakened."

  The platinum blond Prince shook his head ruefully, "Mother says that Father had to aggressively cull rivals when first he rose to the Throne freshly vacated from Grandfather’s rule, due to grievous injury. Each presented challenge, or slight, before the court to diminish his power, to claim that power for their own. Enough times, and a Lord may be deposed, if he is considered too weak to hold his title."

  Geyrt interjected, "Soon enough, the overambitious learned their place, it hasn't happened in a century that Father Bald'rt has been forced to lay challenge or been slighted in public. My Mother also fielded efforts to supplant her as a candidate for marrying into Father Bald'rt's line, those who wished to make their own bids for Queenship. She put those down ruthlessly. Mostly now it is a foreigner who does not guard his tongue or one of the scum from Prosper finding my parent's memories long regarding the crimes against our kin."

  Ulric, burning with curiosity had to ask now if the same held true for Brighteyes' own dam, "Does Lady Bathe also have to deal with this sort of fatal jockeying for position?"

  The youth grinned boyishly, and made the cheeky hand sign for "nope". Geyrt explained for her younger sibling.

  "Mother Bathe was once the oldest of the ruling three ministers for the highlands tribes, the Melondi. She is older than Father Bald'rt by nearly eighty Cycles, and was a fixture of Orlethrem leadership before he ascended to his role." She said solemnly, before continuing on with a statement that made pure sense to Ulric.

  "The High Lady Bathe joined herself to Father Bald'rt to sire a line of indelible quality and to unite our tribes politically. In doing so, Iriel thus obtained compelling leverage amongst the Orlethrem. Iriel's vast, rich forests, Aktinia's productive shores and maritime sea routes, and Melond's control of the only passes through the Heaven's Reach Mountains were consolidated. Prior to this, she reigned amongst the Highlands tribes unquestioned. Not for an age would any have the stomach to gain the ire of the Golden Beast."

  "Super." Ulric remarked, a little higher pitched than he'd have preferred.

  For a moment, Ulric chewed that over, before he addressed the bountifully blessed second wife, who followed his technomagic discoveries with alarming rapidity, proving herself a maven of the esoteric.

  “So, what about Lady Shor?” the captivated man asked, relishing these tales of fae goings on.

  Brighteyes chuckled, then looked around, as if about to share a secret most sensitive, “Mother Shor made known her desire to wed Father since her come of age, but only after she earned her own dowry amongst her people. This she did, within fifty years, crushing her rivals in trade, while outmaneuvering Prosper’s merchant fleets. The proposal she penned and sent a week later. Then she publicly reduced to cinders a headmaster of the Aktinian Arcanum, who was jealous of her fast rise amongst the mages of the Seafarer tribe and made public light of her proposed union, as well as claimed she had stolen her achievements. Father accepted her hand immediately when he discovered this.”

  Head shaking, Ulric excused himself with a request for food and an offer to grab Brighteyes some as well. Mulling over what he learned, the Reforged took that chance to hit up some grub, some kind of smoked cutlets that fairly well dissolved as soon as they hit the tongue. And what the fuck was in that sauce? Honey? Amazing.

  Revelations of the casual violence of Aes'r politics were somewhat disturbing but he put them out of mind with ease. He wasn't an Elf and he wasn't part of their social structures, and that was that. Just some fucking guy wondering around lost on an alien planet, that's all. If he kept his head down, he’d be just fine.

  Returning to his seat Ulric offered the plate of finger foods for sharing with the kid and was pleased when Geyrt also partook. Delicately, she plucked a spicily seasoned pheasant of some kind, eating the meat off the bones with her only her hands, before wiping the grease off on a handkerchief. He was going to imply that she might want to chew, but a passing Duty with a bandoleer of wood mugs and a hip born keg from which to vender them stopped by. Practiced ease flipped mugs from their bandoleer loops with the casual flair and spin of a master bartender, poured from the keg tap to foamed perfection, and passed to the once princess. His observations he bit back when his Shadow washed a glass of beer in a single long pull like an old swabby. My kind of people, he thought, before he echoed her action. The hoppy, rich, beer settled nicely on his stomach. Divine. They were refilled, both offering heartfelt thanks to the graciously accepting Duty who continued their patrol.

  "Ulric," interjected the gayly smiling Prince, "I have heard that you are adapting well to my people's customs. I am glad, I knew you that you would not be long in adjusting to our ways. Of a mind with the Deep Woods are you. Tell me, how does training with the Royal Guards go? I have always wanted to join, but I am not yet old enough. Soon though." Bubbled Brighteyes.

  The human man entertained the boy Elf, narrating the fascinating philosophies of their Dance and the exacting demands of the scarred Idra'se. Geyrt kept her eyes peeled on the surroundings with vigilance, only broken to occasionally glance warmly at the rapt enthusiasm of her brother, that was slightly concerning, but surely there was nothing about which to worry. While he chatted with his little buddy like times of old, the party was gaining steam. Ulric, in a fit of carelessness, wondered if he'd see any of these potentially lethal jousts amongst the Elves and could have kicked himself in a few moments.

  As if summoned, one of the more poshly dressed Elves in attendance approached the table at which Ulric sat. He was of middling height, for an Elf, and of pale skin, so not an Iriel'en by descent. A too pretty face, slightly upturned nose, and narrow light yellow-green eyes were framed by dark brown hair that seemed to have been sculpted into an arrangement resembling modern art, with a thin tail of hair left to wave free to his waist. It was the kind of thing that would do little but catch on branches or get in the way out in the wilds or a fight and a sure sign, coupled with the attire, that the graceful man in front of him was no warrior of his people. Still, it wasn't like Ulric was going to judge a guy for wanting to pretty up, so he extended his best foot.

  "Heya, how's it going?" He said with an easy smile and a friendly tone.

  He'd missed Brighteyes' scowl as he'd turned to see who was approaching, or he'd have had some warning.

  "It seems the Lord of Iriel has begun collecting pets. Heir Lumyt'seit, I hear we have you to thank for the tremendous loss of trade income this season. Blockades and raiding have done Orlethrem no favors, so I hope your kin are ready to make good on their duties next season. It would be a shame if a new Crown had to be appointed to retrieve the situation from your Father's warmongering." Said the Elf in the most condescending tone Ulric had ever heard.

  Ulric's smile had disappeared as soon as the ponce started talking and he was now looking at Brighteyes with incredulity.

  Who the fuck does this prick think he is?

  "Brighteyes, who the fuck does this prick think he is?" Ulric asked aloud.

  Brighteyes turned his glare from the now clearly unwanted company and said to Ulric with deliberately phrased contempt

  "It is no one of consequence, Ulric Glade Chief.” Brighteyes said dismissively, “Just another one of the castings of a Great House of the Zellussin. One of those who thinks the deeds of their fathers should be as of their own, and supposes to hold the moons for being born to a name."

  That observation by the youth wiped some of the smug off the guy's face for sure. It did not, unfortunately, send him on his way. The Elf studiously ignored Ulric entirely to continue whatever the hell he thought he was doing here.

  "I will hold a full third of the trade through Zelus in my hands you bark peeling pup, of what can you claim, but to be the only surviving son of a butcher holding power because he doesn't mind wading in blood? And I see that your Eldest Sister has now fallen so low as to become property. A good thing I did not tie myself to her, this would have been such a shame I would have had to release her or taint my house by association." Sneered the pompous Elf down his thin nose.

  Hey now! Where had this fucker found the cojones to come over here with this? They were over here minding their own business and everything.

  "You come all this way to brag about being too busy eating from a silver spoon to bother wiping your own ass, Cochise? How's about you take the hint that none here are impressed and fuck off?" Ulric said indignantly, unable to restrain himself.

  The lime-colored eyes lit with confusion, as if the puff had heard a pigeon start reciting Latin. A toss of the ridiculous tail of hair preceded the Elven merchant’s kid’s incredulous reproof.

  “You taught the animal our language? How gauche. Does your wilting House plan now to breed them as comfort pets for the hearth?” Mocked the, as yet nameless, noble’s son leaning forward to attempt to loom over the young Prince.

  The attendees of the Festival were starting to take notice of the happenings and attentions turned to what was shaping up to be the night’s entertainment. Many rumors had flown around recently, and the odd Human in company of two of the Lord Iriel’s children was central to a few of them. Earlier effusive greetings and seating arrangement made known the friendliness of the ruling house to the unusual guest. Whispered exchanges accompanied a slight increase in temperature in the great hall.

  Ulric noticed Bald’rt across the room in audience amongst the movers and shakers of his peoples and felt, more than saw, the Lord of Iriel’s attention, like a hawk’s shadow passing overhead. The oblivious Lordling noticed nothing beyond his gloating preen.

  From the dais the Dragons sat, and Ulric knew there was no chance they did not know what was occurring from its outset, yet they did not descend to defend their offspring when the pompous man strode over to begin his disparagement. They remained still, attentive, only deigning to observe. They were joined presently by their Lord, who traded brief words with them, his expression neutral but giving Ulric the impression of bad weather on the horizon, despite a faint smile starting to form. The circulating guards no doubt also had not missed events. Still, none had moved to intervene, none but one. A form similar in feature, though in more restrained, mature dress to their harasser broke off from hushed dialogues in alarm, to begin making its way through the crowd of Aes’r backs from all the way across the hall.

  Not satisfied that his work was done, laced cuffs swished as their antagonist made some hand gesture, fingers signing something unfamiliar to Ulric’s education thus far. By the way Brighteyes’ expression turned grim it was nothing complimentary, no surprises.

  The lifted chin of fine-featured face was turned in a condescending smile as he continued his campaign, addressing Ulric directly for the first time, “I would expect nothing less from a den of ill-bred cutthroats. Be proud, Animal, you are only barely understood, but this is still impressive. Most of your kind never live long enough to grasp the nuance of a proper tongue.”

  Meanwhile, following the diatribe and the threatening looming position directed towards her brother, Geyrt was positively vibrating. Her hand clenched bloodlessly onto her knife hilt and the other was drawing blood from her own palm, yet she didn’t strike. Brighteyes' namesake had widened with outrage and he rose from his seat, was clearly about to do something drastic.

  Ulric decided about that time that he was just about done listening to any more of this particular Elf's rudeness. He hadn’t crossed between worlds to take shit off some millionaire’s wet spot. At the same time, he was deeply confused. This hostility didn’t make sense. It was against everything that had been explained to him about Elven society, it ran counter to anything close to acceptable conduct he’d observed amongst the Iriel’en. He was convinced that only outright shock had held the pair of Iriel’en royals in place, up to now.

  What was this idiot angling for? A fight, obviously, but why? And with who? Surely not the kid, that was a good way to get dad to come on over, which probably wouldn’t turn out well. With Geyrt? That would be hilarious to watch, but no, there was no way. She’d eat this bastard without chewing. That she hadn’t already had something to do with the Shadow nonsense, it had to, she’d already have killed the rabidly self-assured little ass if not for some constraining factor. Which left only him. But why? And why hadn’t anybody stepped in yet? He was given no more time to consider it, his Shadow was recovering from her earlier stunned silence.

  “What Iriel does is no concern of yours. Already this has gone-“ Geyrt began.

  “Silence property.” The noble cut her off contemptuously, “The shade of a nothing of a barbarian has no right to speak before its betters. Such a waste, you might have been a jewel of your people if only you had ever been shorn of the thorns.”

  Geyrt went silent, the bad kind. She had straightened, uncoiling to stand behind her brother menacingly.

  The golden-haired lad was only a moment more delayed, objecting “Outside of Honor’s bounds are you now Scion of Morion.” In a hissed tone.

  Louder, the young Prince announced, “Sam’sav, you insult Iriel beneath its own roof, you insult one held under Iriel’s Guestright, and who is, by the sight of the Eternal Gaze, [Lord of the Ancient Glade]. There will be an accounting.”

  “By whom Prince Lumyt’seit? You? Or will you name your now worthless sister as champion? Perhaps one of the much-vaunted guards you keep? Perhaps it is that you have no already run out of friends to offer as sacrifices to your incompetence and can find none other.” The Zellusin Lordling struck out, pleased at the pained tightness in Brighteyes’ gaze at the reminder of the loss of his friend.

  Blood roared in Ulric’s ears and he found himself standing next to the Elven Fortunate Son, out of his chair and easily moved from outrage to just rage. Nobody fucked around with little buddy while he was around to do something about it. The sleeping hate forge in the back of his head kicked the bellows, started getting the coals hot.

  Ulric reared over top of the Elf, and kept the fucker in his sight as he looked over the silver woven bird’s nest in dark brown of a hairdo to make sure he wasn't about to do something Brighteyes might regret. That older Elf of similar form to the one before him approached from the corner of his eye, struggling through the dense press of onlooking bodies now.

  "Brighteyes, I am a guest under your roof and courtesy has value to me, if it doesn't to some others. Can you speak me any reason not to crack this asshole's head open and pour out all the stupid?" Ulric said, his Elvish suffering some for trying hard not to grit his teeth.

  Things were spiraling faster now. That whispering, niggling little voice of unreason that had become a worrying companion to Ulric's more familiar thought patterns was now a priest preaching blood and fire to the pulse of quickened heart-beat.

  At last, proximity forced the Elf to give him full attention and his conceit ratcheted up even higher before breaking off the knob.

  "You would have me believe this barbarian pauper in his borrowed rags is Lord of anything but mud? Absurd. This is clearly another game to grab for power, a ploy by backwards Treesleepers to lay claim to the Ancient’s legacy. Yet I find it fitting that the Valin be allowed to spend the last days of its short life rutting on top of its better's left overs." The Elf laughed, indicating with a ringed hand to his graceful Shadow while covering his mouth with the back of his other, uncalloused, hand.

  The priest in his mind found a convert.

  Ulric's mind cleared suddenly. All the anger and indignation crystallizing into an almost peaceful decision to murder this fucking Elf. Ulric's eyes snapped to Geyrt who was in the act of pulling her knife, her face twisted into fierce snarl. He reached over and gently lay his hand on hers shaking his head. There were probably rules and implications for a Shadow to murder someone publicly but, more importantly, she wasn't allowed to kill him because then Ulric wouldn't be able to. Just stood to reason, didn’t it? Ulric was all about straight lines right now, and the coaxing beckon of the furious instinct living in his mind was all pure, hard-edged geometry. No sir, if she got to cut that Elf’s throat Ulric wouldn’t be able to MDK him and that would have been a godsdamned shame.

  "Hold Geyrt.” He said calmly, voice distant to him, as if from across a wide river, “Don't worry, I'll take care of this one, you just sit back and relax. Enjoy the show."

  Geyrt glanced at him with surprise, breaking her murderous glare away from the corpse that hadn't figured out it was a corpse yet. Her features relaxed as she slammed her knife back into its sheathe and she gave him a nod.

  "Kill him then and have done. This one has crossed lines against you publicly and must not be allowed to live to do so again. He has offered insult against Iriel and will not be allowed to live." Geyrt clarified with fury still evident.

  "Brighteyes, will you witness for me?" Ulric asked without inflection.

  Brighteyes had mentioned doing some such way back when he and Geyrt were still having their spat. The Prince that was more than a child instantly drug a finger across his neck and spoke with quiet anger Ulric had never heard from the mellow kid.

  "It will be done Ulric. Call the bastard to the floor and end the drought beneath his feet. Just as Eldest Sister Geyrt did for the cur when he gave her cause fifteen years ago in this hall. This time, there will be no healer to put him back inside himself." So spoke the young lord of Iriel, heat palpable.

  "Did you catch that Deadman? The only trade you'll be doing is in two coins over your eyes. Meet me now and have an end to this game." Ulric told the corpse in the same bland tone.

  "You will not even ruffle my clothes you Human peasant. I call you liar and thief. You are no Lord and you have stolen all you have from the lands of my people to sell back to them. I will claim your life before all my kin, and our holy land will know proper Lordship. Worry not, I'll keep your lovely Shadow well while you rot." Brayed the corpse.

  That would have properly riled him a few minutes ago. Not now, corpses made all kinds of noises after they were dead. This one just needed to be a little deader before he would stop was all.

  While all this went on Bald'rt and his wives merely sat their thrones in attendance on the Hall. There was no question they had heard everything, Vedyr mirrored her daughter’s expression, looked like a judge declaring a death sentence. Bathe's gaze burned coldly but she said nothing. Shor was her usual expressionless self but her hand gripped the wood hard enough to make sound, belying her neutrality. Oddly enough, Bald'rt simply smiled an amused smile, openly, as if a joke were about to be played. Ulric was going to make sure it was a practical one and much more funny "Uh Oh" than funny "Haha". He didn’t know why things had been allowed to reach this point and, now he didn’t care.

  Brighteyes raised his voice cutting clarion through the hall, his words bringing to a halt, like a spell of time, to the cheerful riot of the attending Elves.

  "A challenge is laid. Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade] has called Sam'sav Morion to the floor for his insults delivered towards person, host, retinue, and clan. Sam'sav Morion has accepted."

  All eyes raised around the room and the last of the attending Aes’r shuffled around to get a view of what was going on.

  Some of the Elves were grinning looking forwards to some entertainment at a thus far tame Festival. Some were frowning, uncertain about the aspersions cast or uncomfortable with the open displays of uncivility. Some were indifferent, as if this were simply a matter of course.

  Ulric noticed that most of the royal guard were exchanging hushed words with some of the fancy clothed guests, which was confusing until the little metallic coins used as a universal currency were counted out. Ah, placing their bets then. Ulric hoped they knew well enough to bet that dead people never won duels. The older Elf, so clearly related to the dead man, had reached the front of the pack too late to curtail the madness, his mouth screwed into a furious grimace.

  Ulric put the peanut gallery out of mind.

  "You are challenged Lordling Morion of Zellusin, in the way of Iriel. I, Heir Lumyt'seit of Iriel, will witness. What weapon choose you?" declared Brighteyes, leveling a gaze that matched his mother's and extending one hand in a formal gesture towards the corpse.

  "My knife will be good enough to carve life from this animal fraud." Shouted the corpse gratingly, his high voice shrill.

  Lordling Morion had a hand on his belt knife, the instrument as pompously useless as the rest of him with its ivory hilt too smooth for grip, fanciful curves of flowers carved with metal inlay on the blade that introduced weaknesses, and many briar shaped quills on the guard. Damn thing would get caught on anything. The Elf’s stance was comfortable enough, his movements carrying their characteristic smoothness, but there was sweat beading on his forehead and shifting in his feet that bespoke a lack of something.

  Sam’sav Morion’s eyes roamed the room looking to the crowd as if for support and he seemed to implore the Elf that bore his features upon sighting him. A coward then, Ulric concluded, used to having others to hold his dick for him. The slight shake of the older Elf’s head indicated that things were beyond his ability to intervene now. Good. Ulric really only wanted to kill one person today but his schedule was open.

  Brighteyes' other hand extended to Ulric before he announced "Ulric Glade Chief knives are chosen do you have one or would you borrow mine?"

  Ulric was getting bouncy, all the resistance he'd been putting up against the violent urges had been wearing. Really took it out of him trying to figure out where that shit was coming from. Now he was free to do as he wanted, no strings or worries. Impatiently he shook his head, sharply cord-tied hair whipping. Hands clenched and unclenched without conscious input and his grey eyes never left the corpse a few paces away. Just a few meters away. So close. Gods he was almost high with it. His thoughts flashed back to the long-ago charge of the Forest Lord its fury and malevolence unforgettable. Idly, he wondered how Sam’sav Morion would have handled it. Let us see, he decided.

  "No, thanks Brighteyes. I'm not even going to use magic. This is going to feel better if I do it with mine own two hands." Ulric told the lad reassuringly, almost giddy

  Brighteyes just nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  "Ulric Glade Chief has chosen empty hands without spellwork. I have witnessed. Let there be an end to grievances. Begin." As the words left his mouth Brighteyes raised his right hand to signal the start.

  Ulric had been rocking on his toes lightly, knees loose and almost instinctively in the Undan ready. When Brighteyes gave the signal, his legs surged. The corpse was trying to pull his ridiculous knife free when the frills on his waistcoat caught in the stupidly curling leaf-shaped prongs of the guard, tangling from panic when he saw Ulric charge. The idiot hadn't even cleared the knife from its sheath when Ulric hit the elf in the chest with his shoulder, and a satisfying folding in the body accompanied the sound of impact.

  Breath blasted from the corpse as it was launched to slam into the polished floor, sliding briefly as it rag-dolled. The poor dead Lordling coughed a groan and rolled desperately, scrambled to his feet, and, finally managed to pull that absurd dagger free of his own clothes. His form hunched over cracked ribs and breathed raggedly. Those narrow light green eyes widened when he saw that Ulric had not remained still.

  By the time the dead man had reached his feet, Ulric was already on top of him and seized the knife hand with all his might, crushing fingers against the hilt with his left hand. He felt bones breaking and ignored the agonized gasp of the corpse to grab the shoulder of that gripped hand with his right. Fingers dug into cloth and flesh and Ulric wrenched the arm out straight across his chest before ripping the wrist downwards. His knee rose to break the elbow cleanly. The crack of bone sounded an echo through the room that was so fucking satisfying. But the corpse was still moving and he needed it to stop with the screaming.

  The hand gripping the shoulder whipped back across the Elf's face knuckles deforming the refined features of the pretty Elf’s cheek and slamming the head to the side. He hadn't released the knife hand, was still grinding the bones playfully against the hilt and that was all that held the Lordling upright as his legs folded beneath him. The pain of body weight pulling against the broken arm must have been something else because the Elf screeched and vomited down Ulric’s front. Dead people shouldn't do that. Disgusting is what it was. Just like a corpse not to think of the mess it was leaving behind.

  Ulric shed the knife from the ruined hand sending it to slide across the floor under the one of the great tables of the Hall. He had to grab the corpse's hair to keep it from sliding to the floor and gripped the thing's collar with the other. It was an easy thing to lift it up to his eye level, feet dangling. Ulric allowed himself a brief grin that turned into a snarl as he swung the body to his left, building momentum and then counter rotated right, turning himself to bring the elf swinging over his back and shoulders to slam the screaming face as hard as he could into the floor. The weight of the body and of Ulric's full-strength throw shattered the neck and face and the corpse flopped and twitched a few moments before finally stilling, like a good corpse should.

  Ahh damn. That was nice. Nothing like it, as a matter of fact, Ulric thought, looking down at his victim. He began to come back to himself now, the deed done and the violent animal that had taken up space in his head happy with its challenger disposed of. If he weren't so elated he'd be a little concerned about that but, so far, he only really got all murdery with things that needed murdering.

  Let them come, all who wish to join this one, the voice whispered.

  Returning rationality threw cold water down his back, made loud counterpoint, interrupting the happy simplicity of his thoughts. Fine? He asked himself. His eyes took in the body cooling on the floor. A floor with a rather large pool of blood congealing from a skull that had been smashed open. I’m pretty fucking far from fine, he decided, feeling adrenaline like pure vibrating life leaching out of him to leave him empty of its glory.

  The ultraviolence was getting worse. That concerned him. Problem was, it didn’t scare him, and it should have. This wasn’t self-defense, or saving a kid, this was deliberate killing. Forget that he’d been instigated and his enemy had intended the same, whatever the hell was going on was changing Ulric’s instincts and mental patterns.

  Fuck man, is this what I am now? He asked the room quietly, ignoring the silence of the watching Elves. No answer was given.

  It was like somebody had taken his fight or flight response and casually snipped off that whole flight thing. The only use that serial killer in his skull had for flight was to circle around and get them from behind. Breathing lightly there in the middle of a crowd of Elves with a cruelly savaged body at his feet Ulric wondered again what the hell was wrong him. That Watcher must have done something, must have screwed up something in the rebuild. He'd never been the greatest fan of people but he'd never been capable of casual slaughter. Had never been capable of contemplating enjoying it.

  The crowd had hushed, staring at the sudden onset, and end, of the conflict. The older Elf dressed similarly to, and similar in face, before that had been smashed up anyhow, to the dead one was open mouthed in horror. As his mouth closed, Ulric noted a seething hate take over those features.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the part of him basking in the fact that the corpse was no longer offending him by moving. But the other part was clinically noting that this was a legal affair that wasn’t even out of the ordinary, instigated by that other party with the intent to murder him in front of this whole throne room. It took a few breaths to come to terms with things intellectually. Peace was never an option, not from the beginning. One of them had to die today, for some reason, and he was not merely a little glad it was the other guy.

  Brighteyes broke the spell.

  "It is done, Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade] has slain his antagonist. May the roots take his bones." Brighteyes voice held the intonation of a ritual statement in the first sentence and the condemnation of a Baptist in the second.

  Bald'rt's laughter erupted booming throughout the hall and the room came to life, Iriel'en cheers resounding. After a short drum beat of feet on the floor— applause?— the folk returned to their celebrations.

  All around Ulric saw Elves resuming conversations and festivities, and the royal guards collected winnings. Smart bets then. Idra favored Ulric with a brief salute, fingers to head before returning his attention to his duties scanning the room. The Dragons of Iriel relaxed into their seats and resumed whatever conversations they'd been entertaining themselves with. A few disgruntled faces disappeared into the crowd, cursing.

  Ulric was wondering what to do with himself when Geyrt Iriel, of all people, slapped him on the back heartily, and said with the most warmth he'd had from her "It was a deed done to fullness Ulric. Any other like-minded jackals will think twice before stepping forward to have their necks shaken like the mongrels they are."

  The woman was all smiles now. Maybe he hadn't been out of line killing that asshole like that then. According to all evidence the Iriel'en considered it a job well done. Certainly, the Iriels themselves did, and, given that they were the closest he'd come to allies and friends so far in this world, he guessed that was good enough for him.

  Before he could do much other than give Geyrt a bemused thumb's up two Duties, the servants of the fortress city, approached. Behind them was the Elf that had many similar features, well similar before they'd been mashed into a pulp, to the recently departed moron. At a sharp gesture the Duties gathered up the body and departed at a double time. The no doubt kinfolk of that baboon didn't look particularly happy. The hate from before was hidden behind the eyes, glittering out at him behind those lime colored windows now.

  Fuuuuuck, Ulric breathed out slowly, when the rage engine started getting excited from its comedown.

  He really wasn’t in the mood for this, it was supposed to be a party! Fucking Elves and their batshit crazy nonsense! The room was full of people and that always put him on edge, and he had some serious anger management issues to look into without some other clown coming along to fuck up his chi. Ulric resisted an urge to say something sarcastic and goad the relative to get it over with.

  Enough, damn you! Ulric shouted himself down. Instead, he tried some level of diplomacy. He reminded himself that he wasn't here to make enemies and forcibly pushed down the aggression.

  "Greetings. What can I do for you?" Ulric tried.

  "I would not hear my tongue from your mouth, your accent grieves my ears. We may discourse in your own language, sour the air though it may." Gritted out the older version of the dearly departed.

  Ulric could only sigh briefly. It would seem that he was going to have to lower this family tree into the ground, one branch at a time. He was about to tell the Elf to eat his own guts and die, a particularly fun little blurb that Geyrt had tossed at him not so long ago, when Ulric heard Bald'rt's voice behind him.

  "It has been a long while, has it not Lord Sav'ris Morion? To what do I owe the pleasure of your gracing my Hall again after so long?" Greeted Lord Bald'rt with enough cheer to put a wise man on edge.

  Wisdom his kin had been lacking it would appear this Elf had in spades, the man new danger when he saw it. He guarded his expression, losing the open hostility. He clearly knew from what quarter he was most at risk as he only shot Ulric a glance or two, keeping his attention on the [Lord of the Deep Wood].

  "Ninety four cycles of the Twins, my Lord Iriel, it is a wonder how quickly does time ride the wind and events conspire to keep us busy. I see your Hall is graced by even more splendor now than then. No doubt thanks to your guiding hand." Said the Elf in precisely clipped accents.

  Ulric took note of the combination of reserved tone with outright kiss ass verbage. He could smell a game in the air, one related to the one that had led events to their deadly conclusion just now. There was Elf Fuckery about and it made his teeth itch.

  Was there any chance of leaning back to stay out of it? A quick glance at the older version of the dead guy said, definitively, Hell No. He still had Heckle's blood on his hands, literally, and Jeckle here was no doubt aware of it. Even so, Ulric had been publicly greeted like a friend of the family, and clearly held a position of favor in the Iriel'en court. Not that it had stopped the dearly departed from outlandishly convoluted suicide by Glade Chief.

  The cheers and raucous applause for a sound killing of kin had done nothing for the guy's attitude, but surely he wouldn't risk insulting the Lord of the land casually. Especially not when Bald'rt was so clearly happy about the outcome. That had to sting. No telling with Elves though, Vedyr had been pretty upfront about wanting to have her own daughter's head over the multiple infractions of Iriel'en custom. It had only been Bald'rt's effective removal of her into Ulric's custody that things had been smoothed over to, not quite satisfaction, but at least peace.

  Ulric had thought it before but these deep wood folk really just did not fuck around at all. They did everything in full gear.

  To Ulric's surprise Bald'rt took his distant cousin's hand in his and at least pretended to be kind. Or maybe it wasn't pretending, the wild Elf could be changeable and surprisingly poignant when he wanted. Just because he'd been glad about the duel's outcome didn't preclude a sadness for the loss.

  "It is a tragic thing to lose a son, Sav'ris. I would know, after all. A thing not to be wished on any of our kin. Please, come away and find some joy for the years to come. Your son fought as well as he may have and died against the bane of the Forest Lord, there are not a few heroes of Iriel that have fallen to such a creature. To expect your oldest to best the beast's slayer is beyond reason. Come. Let us drink spirits and find you a wench or three."

  As the Deep Wood Elf's voice soothed Ulric noted that anger in this apparent sire of the recently departed lordling smoldered to be replaced by sadness. When the Elf heard that the Forest Lord was dead though, there was a flicker of some other emotion. There and gone, ephemeral, and Ulric wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been looking out for another attempted knifing.

  That was the same expression Ulric had seen on a board member when he'd been about to cut a department and collect a bonus. Opportunity and naked greed.

  The older ponce let himself be led away without further incident though, and Ulric was relieved. Score another point for Bald'rt. Not that Ulric exactly had a problem with going two for two on the night but this really was supposed to be a festival and he'd come here to have fun. Shut up Brain Tiger he whispered to that niggling set of urges that suggested he'd already been having fun.

  Brighteyes got Ulric's attention by waving a plate of food he'd conjured from somewhere.

  "Let us eat Ulric, I had hoped to enjoy your company again." He said cheerily, as if he had not just refereed a death match.

  "I would have found you earlier, but Mother has refused to let me leave the chambers since we got here. I am not allowed to leave Irielhos again until I have completed my instruction in combat and spell casting." The boy groaned.

  Ulric forced a smile. This was more normal, a rambunctious scamp getting grounded for breaking curfew. That was supposed to happen. The breath of fresh air that was Brighteyes helped Ulric cool off. After a few minutes of catching up, Ulric didn’t have to force the smile, the kid’s enthusiasm and energy were too positive a vibe for him to stay down around.

  Picking some of the offered sliced meats off the plate Ulric put them between a bisected bun and bit down. Completely amazing. Juicy, fatty, chewy, and loaded with flavor. Groaning, Ulric asked what it was.

  "It is the Stone Plated Boar we killed Ulric! We are Hunters! The meat was still good and Father wanted to serve it while it remained fresh enough to be served without preservation. It is a good thing, only the best cuts are acceptable for Festival." Brighteyes said before rubbing his nose proudly.

  "Mother said it was a flawless kill to leave no taste of violent death, as happens when the beast dies from a mortal wound that is prolonged." The lad continued, bragging rightfully.

  Ulric had been there; the kid had shot the thing from better than fifty paces while it was moving between trees and dropped it. Even Geyrt was impressed and told her junior brother so. He basked in his sister's praise and Ulric was gladdened again that things had worked out as they had. Even with all the fucked-up nonsense that had come with this fortuitous encounter with wilderness Elves he'd been able to help a boy reunite with his favorite sister. Maybe he'd even be able to keep that sister alive instead of rushing off to die in a war. That'd be peaches too.

  Temporarily forgotten, Ulric sat back and listened to the two of them engage in light banter, a rare glimpse of his Shadow relaxed and happy with her kin, similarly content, while he drank and enjoyed the spread, leaving behind, temporarily, the events of the duel and its implications for his future. In the company of his only two companions in this world, Ulric found a measure of peace.

  One of the breaks in the otherwise pleasant Elven gallivanting was when the father of the boy who had been murdered in the forest during Brighteyes’ capture approached Ulric.

  The Elf, a handsome warrior in his apparent prime, introduced himself with somber humility. Brighteyes had gone tight around the eyes, his shared pain with the older man evident. He shook Ulric’s hand and promised a favor owed for bringing justice to his child’s murderers. Ulric took the man to the bar and the two strangers connected by unfortunate fate shared drinks and stories, the man spoke of his child and of the joy he had given him, and Ulric told him of his parents and departed sister, the two of them taking comfort in tales of loved ones.

  He was a character was that warrior, with a dry sense of humor to rival Ulric’s and the two of them spent several hours making casual rude observations about party goers and the various fops who roamed the Great Hall on this festival day. Many of the attendees had only this day arrived and would return to their homes on the morrow, contributing to the war effort only indirectly. So it was that they had the contempt of a distant cousin who would be in the thick of things taking vengeance for his dead child while they sat far from danger replacing their sword arms with coin. Ulric, now placed in the position of being himself a warrior, and wasn’t that just rich? Commiserated with the man and they kept one another company. When the man asked how training with Idra’se was proceeding, his ears twitched with suppressed laughter and distinct schadenfreude and remembered suffering when Ulric spoke of the obsessive, maniacal demand for perfection that was the instructor’s passion in life. The two of them were pleasantly drunk and parted with many back pats and promises of drinks shared in the future.

  So it was that the Festival of the Lost passed without further incident, at least none that Ulric would be made aware of, he ended up falling asleep on the table from a combination of good beer and food coma.