The Last King's Last Will E-Book

Anita Wolf

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 480

Beschreibung

It has been decades since the last human king of Goidelia died without naming a successor, as his will has disappeared. Now, the unsuspecting Matanie, of all people, is revealed as the heiress, attracting the interest of various factions with nefarious purposes. Together with her elven friends, she sets out find the will in order to destroy it. But soon it becomes unclear, where everyone's loyalties lie... Both fantasy fans and fantasy haters will look forward to the witty allusions and dry humour in this second volume of the Witch Hunters series.

Leseprobe

Anita Wolf lives in Berlin with her two cats. She began writing her first book because she didn’t have the patience to draw it as a comic.

If he got caught, he'd be as good as dead. They'd hang him, or let him rot in a dungeon, or simply kill him on the spot.

That was all he could think of as he hurried down the dark corridors of the castle.

He felt the potentially fatal prize under his shirt. The paper rustled quietly as he quickened his step. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he was the right person for this perilous task. After all, he was only a humble servant, and still felt duty-bound to his king. He knew that what he was doing was treason. But those people’s arguments had been persuasive. What the king had done was wrong, and the land shouldn’t have to suffer from his tyranny even further after his death. He rounded a corner and stopped in his tracks.

By one of the windows looking out on the overcast, rainy sky, there stood several knights.

The strongly-built men all wore the heavy velvet doublet bearing their master’s coat-of-arms; though they had had to leave their swords inside the building. During his final days, His Majesty king Gael of Goidelia had become so paranoid that he no longer even trusted his own knights.

Gael’s trust in his servant, on the other hand, was intact, and now he was repaying that trust with shameful betrayal. His bad conscience stirred once more, and he considered giving the knights a wide berth, seeing as he tended to avoid them at the best of times, even when he wasn’t hiding the most valuable document in the kingdom under his jerkin. But time was short, and this way was the quickest. He ducked his head and tried to scurry past the men as inconspicuously as possible.

As he tried to walk past a broad, dark-haired knight, the man reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey, you.”

He remained impassive and answered politely: “Yes, my lord?”

The big man nodded in the direction the servant had just come from. “Has the old man still not popped his clogs?”

The blonde knight next to him made a disapproving noise.

“Goodness me, Aberdeen, try to be a little sensitive, will you?”

Aberdeen turned towards him. “Come off it. You’re as fed up with him as the rest of us.”

The other knights rumbled in agreement.

The blonde one pointed at the servant, whose shoulder Aberdeen was still holding. “Even so, don’t take it out on the valet. Judging by the hurry he’s in, he must be on some important business. Don’t hold him up and get him into trouble just because you’re bored.”

The servant didn't comment on that, but spoke to Aberdeen: “As for your question, my lord, His Majesty is still with us, although I fear it won't be long now until he passes away.”

A murmur of relief went through the assembled knights.

“’Bout bloody time,” growled Aberdeen. He let go of the servant and said with exaggerated politeness: “I won’t take up any more of your time, then. Wouldn’t want Mazacan here” – he shot a glance at his blonde colleague – “to start crying, on account of his compassionate elvish nature.”

A couple of knights snickered; Mazacan just shot Aberdeen a weary look. The servant gave a curt bow, turned on his heels, raced down the hall, and vanished.

“He really is in a hurry,” Mazacan observed.

“Maybe it’s a call of nature,” rumbled Aberdeen. “After all, the old man hardly ever lets his servants out of his room, to make sure he doesn’t die alone.”

“Do you have to be quite so cynical?” said Mazacan dully.

His colleague shrugged. “You’re such a softie. Look like a Northman, act like an elf, fancy that.”

“A form of mimicry, I would say,” said a quiet voice behind them.

It was Fairbanks, the knights’ captain. Mazacan didn’t know how long the captain had been standing there; his superior officer had a talent for stealth.

“Sir,” Aberdeen mumbled.

He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know what mimicry was. Mazacan did, and grinned sheepishly.

The captain addressed his men. “I don’t think I need to ask you what you are all waiting for. But let me remind you that you are the king’s knights. Which means your behaviour ought to be exemplary. I urge you to face whatever comes with poise and dignity.” Which meant something like: If one of you cheers when Gael dies, I’ll come down on him like a ton of bricks.

The knights nodded, and there were a few grunts of agreement. Nobody wanted to make any promises.

Fairbanks gave them a sweeping look and walked off, with poise and dignity, of course.

“He’s one to talk,” Aberdeen grumbled when his captain had gone. “He shits decency and pukes honour.” He scratched his dark stubble and cracked his neck. “The old man’s been hanging on for a long time. But there’ll come a point when even his damned malice won’t keep him alive anymore.”

“Uh-huh,” said Mazacan noncommittally. He’d seen quite a bit of evil in his life, and as far as he was concerned, Gael only made it to the upper second league. “What are they going to do about the succession, anyway? Gael never managed to beget an heir – not that that’s a bad thing.”

“They’ll sort that out with his will. I think they’ve already done that once, with Isadora the Prim, I think it was. The monarch appoints a successor in their will, and woe betide those who don’t abide by it.”

“That’s stupid. Why should they? The monarch is dead, it’s not like they can make you do anything anymore.”

Aberdeen gave a derisive snort. “You’re really not a Goidelian, are you.”

“Neither are you,” Mazacan remarked. “You only came over from Caldon ten years ago!”

The foreigner, unmasked, ignored his comment. “Over here, you’ve got to be careful about stuff like that. The dead will harass you from the beyond, as a ghost or through a banshee, and they’ll bring misfortune on you and on the land and…”

Mazacan startled at the mention of banshees, and thought of how much trouble he’d had with one of those. When he paid attention again, Aberdeen was nearing the end of his disquisition about vengeance, curses and honour.

“…that’s why no one here would dare ignore the king’s will, regardless of what it says. Why, how do the Northmen go about it? Have a drinking contest, and the last one standing gets the crown?”

“Ahaha, you old folkophobe. Since when are you so loyal to the king? As far as I recall, the last High King of Two Isles was overthrown in your homeland, wasn’t he?”

Aberdeen scowled at him. “First of all, that was ages ago…”

“Fifteen years!”

“Fine, not so long ago then, and secondly, there was the headquarters of the damn Witch Hunters, and thirdly, not only was the High King a total failure, he was also a Kelld!

Of course we weren’t going to put up with him, just like the Goidelians never accepted him. So we’re alike in this! A people of brave…”

Mazacan tuned out and let Aberdeen drone on. Fifteen years. It seemed like another life. None of his colleagues knew that he used to be one of the thirteen elite Witch Hunters. Only fifteen years – so much had happened since.

The old High King overthrown, which spelled an end to persecutions against Dark Folk; and since the world had changed to dramatically and everything was going so wonderfully well, a new age was declared. Start again from scratch, and all will be fine. Mazacan had trouble dealing with it. When people asked him his date of birth, he now had to say: 28 years before the New Age, otherwise people wouldn’t get it. In any case, most people acted like nothing had existed before Year Nought; no one wanted to talk about the Witch Hunters, nasty business, that stuff with the Dark Folk, lovely weather we’re having today. They had no idea that the other twelve elite Witch Hunters were still alive, cursed and banished, all over Two Isles…

“Are you listening at all?” Aberdeen snapped him out of his thoughts.

Mazacan considered lying, but couldn’t think of a good fib.

“Sorry. I was lost in thought.”

“Worrying about your missus again, were you?” Aberdeen asked almost sympathetically.

Mazacan wished he hadn’t been reminded. “Er – yes.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll sort itself out.”

“Hm.”

Mazacan wasn’t listening anymore. Aberdeen knew Kenzie distantly; the way people might know their colleagues’ girlfriends. But he had no idea she had been in the Resistance, and that she had helped bring down the Witch Hunters, way back in the year 5 BNA, as one would say nowadays.

Something was wrong with her. She’d been so downcast recently. Of course, Dunmore’s death last year had affected her a great deal. Mazacan too had been upset. But there was more to it than that. He couldn’t shake off the impression that she was hiding something. He would talk to her.

Today. If he’d learned anything, it was that bottling up problems only made things worse.

“The king!” someone shouted down the corridor.

The knights turned their heads. The Lord Chamberlain was approaching in a dramatic hurry. He stopped in front of the assembled men, and when he was certain he had their full attention, he gestured theatrically and wailed: “The king!

The king is dead!”

He briefly basked in the attention of his captive audience, then bustled on, to make sure the rest of the castle could also enjoy the dubious spectacle of his counterfeit grief.

“Right,” said Aberdeen, and stretched. “Now I can finally go and get something to eat.”

The group disbanded and scattered along various corridors.

Mazacan and Aberdeen were heading for the courtyard, to catch a breath of fresh air, when someone called to them.

Fairbanks came striding up. He looked concerned.

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to forgo your break. We have a problem. It’s about the will of our late king.”

“You can’t read his handwriting?” quipped Aberdeen.

The captain shot him a look that was half angry, half embarrassed. “I don’t know. It’s been stolen.”

Mazacan and Aberdeen exchanged a glance.

“Oh,” said Aberdeen.

“Yes,” mumbled Fairbanks. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t go around shouting it from the rooftops – and don’t tell the chamberlain, or else the whole country will have heard by tomorrow.” He sighed. “Did you notice anything? Open windows? Suspicious characters? Anyone been acting strange?”

Mazacan was struck by a sudden insight. “The servant! The one who was in such a hurry!”

Aberdeen nodded. “True. He was acting a bit peculiar.”

“What servant?” asked the captain, pricking up his ears.

Aberdeen and Mazacan looked at each other helplessly.

“Er… well… which one was it?”

“You’re asking me? They all look the same to me!”

Fairbanks sighed again. “That’s not exactly helpful. Listen, we’ve got to find that will, at all costs. Start looking, discreetly at first, until I work out how to announce it publicly.” He nodded to them and hurried off.

Aberdeen was stunned. “Crivens, what a godawful mess.

Who would go around nicking the king’s will?”

“Presumably someone who doesn’t like the king’s chosen successor.”

“Yes but – if there is no official heir, we can’t go and pick just anyone! Then there won’t be a new king!”

Mazacan could think of worse things; in any case, he found the way this place was run pretty ludicrous. But Aberdeen seemed really dismayed, so he bit his tongue and tried to look on the bright side.

“Come on. The thief can’t have gone far. We’re going to find that will.”

But they didn’t. Not for sixty years.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“This? It’s laundry, aunt Truud.” Matanie knew at once that her answer wouldn’t do.

Truud gave a derisive snort and propped her hands on her ample hips. “You call that clean?” She fastidiously picked a bit of wet laundry from the heavy basket that her niece was struggling to carry. “There! I can still see stains! Look! Look at that!”

Indeed, the white apron still showed a few pale, brownish stains.

“I’m sorry, aunt, but blood is so hard to get rid of…”

“The other butchers have clean aprons! They seem to manage to get rid of the stains somehow! How do you think that is?”

Matanie thought about it in earnest. “Er – they send them to a laundry?”

“I’ll not have any cheek from you!” railed Truud. “You wash that again, and properly this time! You’ve been nothing but trouble for us!”

“Yes, aunt Truud.”

The pedantic aunt bestowed upon her one of her notorious What-have-we-done-to-deserve-you looks, then bustled out.

Her knees wobbling, Matanie hauled the washing basket back into the yard where the washtub stood. She dropped the basket on the ground and shook out her hands, in which the heavy basket’s handles had left sore red marks. She threw the rejected apron back into the washtub and attacked it with a scrubbing brush. Fair enough, her uncle was the wealthiest butcher in town, and as such he of course needed to look immaculately clean, even if he’d just been up to his elbows in cow innards. But then why didn’t he have his clothes laundered by professionals, instead of a niece who didn’t have a clue about such things?

A little voice inside Matanie’s head suggested that her uncle and aunt might actually rather relish exploiting her free domestic labour for all it was worth.

But she always suppressed such thoughts. One shouldn’t think that sort of thing of other people. After all, they had taken her in and raised her after her parents had died. And she really ought to have scrubbed harder. She felt guilty.

Matanie wasn’t stupid, but she was kind. She was one of those people who might get shamelessly exploited, and would blame herself for it, if she blamed anyone at all. Her guiding principle was: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Her parents had lived by that motto.

Maybe that was why they had died so soon.

“Hello Mattie. Still washing?”

She looked up. Danior was standing by the fence. Matanie threw the apron back into the suds. “Washing again, rather.

I didn’t quite get the stains out.”

Danior nodded. “The sad thing is, it’s only going to get dirty again. Is it really worth it? I mean, the new stains are just going to cover the old ones. And those are working-clothes, really.”

Matanie shrugged. “It’s just the way they are. You mustn’t hold it against them.”

“Perhaps you should. You’ve also got rights, you know.”

She smiled. Danior had known her parents. He alone was still in touch with Matanie; everyone else had avoided her since her parents died.

It wouldn’t do to have dealings with people like that. After all, they had been Testamenteers, like her grandparents. She didn’t like the term. But that was what people called those who had been hiding king Gael’s will for the past sixty years, and conspired to prevent a new king from being crowned.

Rumour imputed all sorts of other strange machinations to them, from saving the world to world domination, depending on who you spoke to. Her family had always been loyal to the king, and served in high office. And then one of them went and fell in love with a Testamenteer woman and secretly went over to them – as they only discovered after his death. But now everyone knew about it, and Matanie reminded them daily of their family’s disgrace.

Danior didn’t care about that sort of thing. Perhaps because he was an elf. They thought in different ways than humans.

His mother was Tiana, queen of the wood elves. He didn’t care much. He wasn’t the heir apparent, as he had older siblings; but why someone like him should go around among ordinary people, and especially why he hung out with someone like her, that was something Matanie couldn’t fathom.

Danior cocked his head curiously and studied her with his brown eyes. “What happened to your fingertips? Why are they shrivelled up like that?”

She looked at her hands, surprised. “What? Oh, that. It’s because of the water, you know. It happens to humans when they leave their hands in the water for too long. It happens with toes, too.”

Danior was impressed. “Astonishing. Does it serve a purpose?”

“I – I have no idea. It’s just something that happens.”

“Astonishing,” the elf said again.

He had a keen interest in human culture, which was why he spent so much time among humans. His own people viewed that as some kind of eccentric hobby, as if he went around cataloguing beetles.

Aunt Truud came out of the house. “Why are you standing there chatting? See that you… oh, Prince Danior.” Her tone became unctuous, as it always did when she spoke to important people. “Out exploring again? I hope our niece hasn’t been holding you up in the course of your duties!”

“Not in the least. But perhaps I am holding her up.”

“Oh, not at all, this old batch of laundry can wait. Carry on with whatever you were doing, you’ve all the time in the world.”

“Good,” said Danior curtly.

Truud perceived that she was de trop. She gave another obsequious grin, bobbed a bowlegged curtsy, and withdrew.

Danior, assuming the aunt was still eavesdropping, spoke quietly: “Mattie, if you ever feel like you can’t stand it any…

well, if you ever feel like getting away from here – you’re welcome to stay with us anytime. Even long-term.”

Matanie blushed slightly. “I – that’s terribly nice of you, Danior; really. But I can't just up and leave, not after everything aunt Truud and uncle Oswic have done for me…”

Danior nodded reasonably; he knew that it was pointless to argue. It would never occur to Matanie that her relatives didn’t exactly deserve such consideration.

“If you ever change your mind – let me know. Or just come along. Go to the edge of the forest, you’re bound to run into one of us, they’ll show you the way. You needn’t be afraid of my people, they won’t harm you.”

Matanie smiled bashfully. “I know.”

“Good. I’m staying with my family now, until around tomorrow night. So in case there’s an emergency…”

“What kind of emergency?” Matanie asked anxiously.

“What do you think is going to happen?”

The elf tried to minimize what he had just said, and self-consciously tucked a strand of red hair behind his pointed ear. “Oh, no, nothing. I was just saying. Take care, Mattie.”

He gave her a little wave and walked away down the street.

He had that feeling again, like there was trouble brewing inside the house. The last time he’d felt like that was shortly before Mattie’s parents had died. He’d rather she didn’t find out about that. Or about how guilty he felt for not doing anything about it at the time.

It was almost sundown when Matanie got home. After Danior had said goodbye, Truud had abruptly sent her into town to get a very specific cheese that was nowhere to be had. Matanie had to try four different shops until she eventually found some. What with having to run through half the town and back, the errand had taken her several hours.

The little voice inside her head suspected that Truud had merely wanted to get rid of her for a while, but Matanie smothered that thought at once.

As she approached the house, she heard voices coming from an illuminated ground-floor window. She recognized Truud and Oswic, but there was also another voice that she didn’t know. She quietly crept closer to the window; evidently this was a visitor, and she didn’t want to intrude. Best find out who it was first. Matanie crouched beneath the half-opened window and pricked up her ears.

“…of course we don’t mind,” Truud was saying. With her aunt simpering like that, this must be a fairly important guest.

“Well, erm,” the stranger rumbled in a deep voice. “It wasn’t easy, tracking her down – after all this time. And after her parents’ sudden…”

“A frightful business, it was,” Oswic opined. “After that shocking event, of course, we tried to shelter the lass from the world. So that she might make a full recovery in our care.”

“Hm,” went the stranger. He didn’t seem to believe them, nor indeed to like them much. “And where is she now?”

“Oh, I sent her off on an errand, so that we might talk undisturbed,” said Truud “But she ought to be back any time now – they do like to dawdle at that age, don’t they, my lord?”

Good gracious, an actual lord. He didn’t really sound like one, or at least not like Matanie would have imagined a lord to sound like. Apparently they were talking about her. But why?

“She is eighteen?”

“Indeed, my lord; turned eighteen last month.”

Not that her relatives had taken any interest in the fact that it was her birthday, at the time.

“And she is Davis’ only child? The sole surviving Erskine?”

Oswic was Davis’ brother, but Truud’s clan was wealthy and influential, so he had taken her clan-name when he had married her.

“Yes, my lord,” answered Oswic. Perhaps he was beginning to suspect that there might be some profit in this, and that he ought to have kept his name.

“Might I ask, my lord – what exactly is it that you want with Matanie?” asked Truud.

“I wish to talk to her,” the visitor answered, in a tone meant to convey that his business was for Matanie’s ears alone.

Truud didn’t – or wouldn’t – take the hint. “What about?”

The stranger sighed quietly. “It is confidential. Pertaining to her childhood – and her parents.”

Matanie froze. She recalled that, shortly before his death, her father had taken her aside and impressed upon her that someone might one day come asking about her. And whoever that might be, she wasn’t to tell them anything, especially about her parents; she was to run away. He would explain it all when she was older. But instead he had died.

All the more strongly had Matanie committed her father’s words to memory. Whoever was sitting inside, her parents would have thought him dangerous; they would not have wanted her to talk to him. But what was she going to do? As soon as she went in, she would have no other choice but to face him. And if she were to hide until he’d gone? Then he was bound to come back, to say nothing of the trouble she’d get in with Truud.

“She’ll be back any moment now,” said her aunt. She sounded peevish again.

Matanie chewed on her fingernails. She couldn’t go in there, she mustn’t talk to the stranger. He mustn’t find her. She had to disappear.

She thought of Danior. What was it he’d said? She was welcome anytime. To the edge of the woods, and then she was bound to run into someone. Matanie fished around inside her pocket. She still had a little change, that would have to do for now. Yet she hesitated; she couldn’t just…

“Maybe we should go and look for her?” Oswic suggested.

“Oh, come on,” said Truud. “It’s not like anything happened to her. She’s just dawdling again, the lazy…” She remembered her guest. “…the dear girl!”

For the first time, Matanie felt something like resentment against her aunt, and didn’t try to repress it. Still crouching, she hurried away from the window and out of the gate, where she stopped and looked around her. Then she hurried on; but not before leaving the cheese on the garden wall.

After all, she had bought it with Truud’s money.

Matanie hid in an old shed until morning, trying to get some sleep in spite of the sizeable spider population. She was glad to leave the shack at first light. Her plan was as follows: get to the edge of the woods. She didn’t currently want to think beyond that point. Even that first step would be far from easy. She’d have to walk through town, preferably unnoticed, so that no one might recognize her or even send her home.

Of course, she got lost trying to cut through the little alleys.

Matanie couldn’t even tell which way the forest was anymore. She desperately tried to get her bearings, became distracted for a moment, and promptly ran into somebody.

“Oh – I’m so sorry,” she stammered, rubbing her nose.

“Uhuh,” said the unexpected obstacle dryly.

“No, really, I…” Matanie looked up.

She started when she saw who stood before her. He had pointed ears and grey skin. His black hair was shot through with dark green strands, cropped short at the back, and long and shaggy at the front, like a porcupine. No respectable young man had such a haircut. Besides, he wore several silver rings in each ear; and his black and green, sleeveless leather jerkin revealed arms tattooed with black swirls and lines.

Aunt Truud would probably have called him a “filthy layabout” or suchlike – even if he hadn’t been a dark elf.

He shot her an exasperated look, and Matanie saw that his eyes were dark green, like the stone on her mother’s engagement ring that she had so loved to look at. She blushed.

“Have you got a problem, or is that just the way you gawp at everyone?” he barked.

All right, he really wasn’t very polite. But maybe he was just having a bad day.

“Of course I don’t, sorry,” said Matanie placatingly. “But could you please help me? I’m afraid I got lost. Could you tell me which way the forest lies?” A thought occurred to her. She held out her hand. “My name’s Matanie.”

She’d had it drummed into her always to be friendly, always to introduce herself politely, regardless of whether or not it was such a good idea for certain people to know her name.

“Great,” was all the dark elf said, and wanted to walk past her. But then he suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned back towards her. “You’re Matanie?”

“Are we acquainted?” she asked him, surprised.

“No.” He sounded offended, as if her question had been an insult. “But… someone’s been asking about you. Someone’s looking for you.”

“That’s what I feared…” she muttered darkly. “What did he look like? What does he want from me?”

“Eh?”

“I mean the man who’s looking for me.”

The elf merely shrugged and grimaced cluelessly. Some help.

“Hey, Murdoch!” someone bellowed behind them.

As the dark elf turned his head, Matanie decided that this was his name. She also spun around. In the mouth of the narrow alley stood two large fellows that would have sent aunt Truud into fits of hysterics.

One of them cockily set his fists on his hips. “Long time no see, Greyie. What you doing here? Looking for trouble?”

The other one looked at Matanie in confusion. “Who’s the bird?”

The first man swelled with outrage. “Don’t tell me you’ve got the nerve to mess around with our chicks!”

Murdoch looked somehow weary. He turned away and made to leave.

“Aww, scared of us, are you, Ashface?” the ruffian jeered.

Murdoch froze. He turned around slowly. “What did you just call me?”

Matanie was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She didn’t quite understand what was going on here.

“Oh – what was it I called him?” the first man asked his associate.

“Ashface, was it?” the other chipped in.

“Yeah, that’s right, Ashface! And that’s still too good a name for a lousy, dirty dark elf like you!”

“How could you say something like that?” rang a clear voice.

It was Matanie’s.

“Cor, she can talk!” said the second ruffian, astonished.

Evidently his lady-friends seldom did.

“What kind of people are you, having a go at someone just because he’s from another folk?” Murdoch stared at her as if she was raving mad, but Matanie didn’t even notice. “If your mothers knew you were doing that, they’d be ashamed!”

“Mummy?” the second man asked anxiously. “Don’t go telling her anything, will you?”

“She won’t,” the first man growled. “She won’t be telling anyone anything ever again!”

He took a step towards her. Before she could react, Murdoch leapt forward; next thing she knew, the folkophobe was sent spinning through the air. Matanie didn’t see how the smaller, slimmer elf had done it. The thug landed heavily in a nearby dungheap and groaned.

Murdoch turned to look at his sidekick.

“Mummy!” he squeaked, and fled.

“Come one,” said Murdoch, dragging Matanie with him.

He didn’t stop until they were a couple of streets further away.

“Why did we have to leave?” Matanie asked, panting. “They were the ones who attacked us!”

“Do you really think anyone cares? They’ll just take one look at me, and that will be that.”

“But why?”

“Why?” Murdoch was bewildered. “Because I’m a dark elf!”

“All the more reason to believe you!”

He just gaped at her for a while. “Hang on – all that rubbish about other folk – you actually meant that, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.”

“Please spare me that happy-clappy-let’s-all-be-friends act.”

“It’s not an act. I really meant it!”

Murdoch shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Right.”

“Yes. And thank you for helping me.”

He stared at her as if she’d just accused him of sleeping in a rabbit onesie. “I didn’t!”

“Oh yes, you did. Very much so.” She blushed and looked down.

Murdoch stood there, trying to work out if Matanie was pulling his leg, or if she was simply unhinged. As far as he could tell, she was the more austere type of human, not the kind to wear little pink ribbons. Her golden hair flowed down to her waist, and would have looked quite impressive, if only it had been aware of the fact. Her dark eyes looked calm and not the least bit crazy. Apparently she was one of those eccentric do-gooders who went around encouraging random strangers to hug each other to overcome hate.

Great. Did it really have to be one of those people? He would have liked nothing better than to leave her there; after all she had company aplenty with her soppy ideals. But he had only come into town to track her down.

He sighed. “Whatever. Come with me.”

“Where to?”

“You wanted to reach the forest, didn’t you? You’ll never find the way on your own.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

Murdoch shoved his hands into his pockets and loped on.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Awfully kind.”

“Well, here we are.” Murdoch stopped. The forest was right before them.

Matanie also halted, and gave her escort a bashful smile.

“Thank you. I don't want to take up any more of your time.” She made to go.

Murdoch took a hasty step forward. “Hey – wait!”

The girl turned to look at the dark elf.

He cast around for a good explanation as to why he had stopped her, and twiddled the black leather straps he wore on his wrists. “Erm – er – why… why did you want to come here, anyway?”

He might have asked her that on the way, instead of keeping silent while she desperately tried to make conversation.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with someone,” Matanie explained.

“Here? Who with? Someone who promised you chocolate and you’re not supposed to tell your parents about?”

She knitted her brows. “I’d be pretty stupid to do something like that.”

Murdoch shrugged, but said nothing.

Matanie chose to ignore the implied insult, and said: “I’m meeting a friend of mine. He lives around here.”

In the forest…? said Murdoch’s expression.

“He’s a wood elf. His name is Danior,” Matanie added.

“You know Danior?” Murdoch asked, surprised.

“You know him too?”

Murdoch snorted. “Since I was little. Before his weird obsession with humans, Dan used to hang around with dark elves.”

“Could you… do you think you could tell me how to get to where he lives?”

The dark elf shot her a grumpy look. “Why, do you want to hide out at his place?”

“Well, actually…yes…”

“Terrible idea. Whatever trouble you’re in, bringing the wood elves’ royal family into it, getting Danior involved – that could have serious consequences on the relations between elves and humans.”

Matanie was devastated. “Oh dear… I really hadn’t thought of it that way… but where am I supposed to go?”

“Well…” Murdoch began.

He started suddenly and looked up, as if he had heard something. Without a word, he pushed Matanie behind a nearby tree. A few moments later, a tall figure, whom they could only see from behind, stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the wood. Matanie was afraid at first – but then she recognized that red ponytail.

“Danior!” she called, and took a few steps forward.

The elf turned around in surprise. He had a bag slung over his shoulder; evidently he had just come from his parents’ and was making his way home.

“Mattie! What are you doing here?” He noticed her escort, who was leaning sullenly against a tree. “Murdoch? You?

Haven’t seen you in years.”

“Three,” the dark elf rumbled.

It seemed like Danior knew him really well, as he just took Murdoch’s monosyllabic growl in his stride, and turned back to Matanie. “What happened?”

She told him. Murdoch didn’t budge the whole time; only when Matanie recounted how he had thrown the ruffian into a dungheap did he look away and stare intently at nothing.

Danior’s face had turned very serious. “And you have no idea who this strange lord might be?”

“No, I don’t. Danior…” Matanie hesitated. “Seeing as he wanted to talk about my parents – do you think it had anything to do with the… will?”

She glanced uncertainly at the dark elf, but Danior made a reassuring gesture.

“You can talk about this in front of Murdoch. He’s no Royalist spy.”

The exculpated dark elf snorted at this defence of his good character, but said nothing.

Matanie, at a loss, ran a hand through her hair. “Father was the Custodian. He was the only one who knew where Gael’s will is hidden. But – my parents made sure I knew nothing about this. If this lord is a Royalist who wants to restore the monarchy, I won’t be much use to him. I don't have a clue about any of this!”

“Are you sure?” Murdoch grumbled. It sounded like a reproach. She turned to him. He peeled himself away from the tree and crossed his arms on his chest. “You were still pretty young when they died, weren’t you?”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

He snorted again. “You told me your whole life story on the way here, remember?”

Matanie stared at her feet. Maybe she really had been talking too much; but the silence had been so uncomfortable. She hadn’t thought that he might actually be listening.

“What do you mean?” Danior chipped in.

“It’s quite simple. Perhaps she heard something as a child, something she’s forgotten. And perhaps that chap knows it, and thinks it must still be inside her head somewhere. That’s what he’s after.”

Matanie involuntarily touched her temple. “But… how could he make me remember?”

Murdoch studied the landscape, and played with an oval pendant that he wore on a short leather thong around his neck.

“I don’t know how he’d go about it,” he snapped. “But I know how I would do it. I know someone who could help jog your memory.” “Really?”

Danior looked unimpressed. “Murdoch, you and your dodgy contacts. Who are you thinking about? Synn? I doubt he’d be able to do something like that. Alps can only control dreams, not memories.”

“Alps?” Matanie asked fearfully.

Murdoch ignored her and planted himself squarely in front of Danior. “Oh please, Dan! What’s the matter with you? Been hanging around with humans for too long, have you? Have you swallowed all those filthy lies wholesale, the stuff they say about the Dark Folk? Are you scared of alps now? Well, I’m not. I stick with my kind.”

Danior sighed. He didn't sound angry so much as weary, as if he had heard that sort of speech many times before.

“You’re of the Light Folk, Murdoch.”

The dark elf blinked, baffled, as if he hadn't actually grasped what he had just said. He irritably rubbed the short hairs on his nape. “Well, you see, this is what happens when you’re constantly told that you’re Dark Folk, just because humans are stupid and can’t tell family trees apart! Any time now, I’ll be officially classified as a demon!”

Matanie perceived that, beneath his anger, he was embarrassed, and also unhappy. She thought it best not to inquire any further, and to leave the young men’s conversation at that for now.

“If there is a way for me to remember, then I want to try it,” she said resolutely.

Danior turned to her. “Mattie…”

“No, listen. We need to find this will before they do.”

“Oh yes?” snapped Murdoch. “What for?”

“To destroy it.”

The dark elf stared at her open-mouthed. “Destroy it?”

“It’s a pity that the Testamenteers didn’t already do it long ago. But if anyone finds the will, perhaps they'll want to make a forgery, or maybe they’re a descendant of the designated heir, in any case they’ll want power. And it’s best if people who want power don’t get it.” She saw that Murdoch was still gaping at her; she felt self-conscious, and blushed.

Danior nodded slowly. “I think you’re right.” He sighed.

“All right. I’m going to help you, Mattie. Murdoch, do you know where Synn is at the moment?”

Murdoch stared grimly at his shoes. “You seem to think it’s going to be this jolly exciting adventure. You’ll change your mind when the Testamenteers or the Royalists nail you to a tree.” He gave a disdainful snort. “I’ll take you there, otherwise you’re bound to mess it up,” he grumbled, already walking.

Danior smiled and leaned over towards Matanie. “That’s his way of asking if he can come along, because he worries about us.”

“Who’s Synn?” Matanie asked as she trotted along beside Danior.

For a while now, Murdoch had been striding some way ahead of them, as if he was embarrassed to be seen with them.

“The prince of the alps. His sister is the future queen.”

“And how come Murdoch knows him?”

Danior sighed quietly. “Murdoch’s mother and uncle used to be friends with Synn.”

“Used to be? Did they fall out?”

“No. They died.”

“Oh. What about Murdoch’s father?”

“He died too,” Murdoch called a few yards ahead. “My family is one big danse macabre and none of your damned business!”

Matanie was surprised; Danior indicated his pointed ears.

“Dark elves have even better hearing than high elves or wood elves.”

His collocutor was once again extremely embarrassed. “You should have told me.”

“Careful, Dan,” said Murdoch, without turning back. “Or her capillaries ’ll burst.”

Danior observed with fascination how Matanie’s cheeks turned even redder. “I find it amazing, the way humans can pump blood into their faces. And so quickly, too! It reminds me of the displays certain types of lizard perform to assert dominance.”

“Anyway, how do you know I’m blushing?” Matanie asked Murdoch.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You smell different.”

She was appalled. “Are you saying I stink?”

The dark elf was about to reply, but Danior was quicker.

“No, Mattie, of course not. It’s just that dark elves have a very fine sense of smell, almost like orcs.” He shot Murdoch a look. “Almost. And there’s no need to boast about that.”

Murdoch turned away from them again, and gratified Danior with a brief gesture.

“What does that mean?” Matanie asked.

The elf answered evasively: “Nothing a civilised person need worry about.”

“Oh.” She pondered in silence for a moment. “Is it true that alps… that they can get inside people’s dreams?”

Danior nodded. “Yes, that’s true. Alps have the gift of telepathy. They are not as skilled as their relatives, mares or shadow alps; but they are the only ones among alp-kind who can influence other people’s dreams. They can’t do it to each other, but as far as I know it works very well with humans.” “I wonder why,” said Murdoch scornfully.

Danior was thrilled to have an opportunity to share his knowledge. “There were even cases where the dreams were so realistic that the dreamer died of a heart attack.”

“I see.” Matanie was feeling a little queasy. “And… I’ve heard… well, sometimes…” She pulled Danior’s sleeve and whispered in his ear.

“Oh yes, of course, that sometimes happens!” the elf answered so loudly that Matanie jumped. “Getting into someone’s dreams, that’s mental alping. What you mean is called bodily alping. There’s no bedroom an alp can’t get into, provided he can get his head in. If the head fits, the whole alp gets through – quite astonishing, really. The victim usually wakes up, more or less, but alps can perform a kind of hypnosis, makes them appear irresistible, spontaneous seduction if you like, and… what’s the matter?”

Matanie had gone red as a beet and was twiddling her fingers wildly.

Murdoch turned around. “She’s mortified, you idiot. Who knows if she’s even been told about the birds and the bees yet?”

“Oh, yes, of course, I forgot, sorry.” Danior clapped her on the shoulder. Matanie just wished the ground would swallow her up. “All right, let’s skip that bit. So if the alp’s victim is female and happens to become pregnant, she will bear the child much sooner than is usual in humans, after about four months. Then the alp shows up again and takes the child away. Most ladies are quite happy with this arrangement.”

“Why is that?” Matanie asked.

“Well, it’s not like they intended to get pregnant, perhaps a child doesn’t really fit into the life they’d planned and…”

“No. I mean, why does the father take it away?” she explained.

“Ah. Alps have a low birth rate. Not very fertile, you see.

But they have very dominant heredity, and so when they breed with humans, all of the alpish traits and none of the human traits are passed on to the offspring – at least as far as the first generation of hybrids is concerned. That way the characteristics of the overall population aren't watered down, as long as first-generation hybrids breed with pure-blooded alps.”

“I’m sorry?” Matanie had lost the thread.

Murdoch stopped. “They do it because otherwise they might die out.”

“Oh, right.” She seemed unsure. “So they don’t do it… for fun?”

“Fun?” Murdoch flared up. “For fun? You want to know why they do it? Because back in the Bygone Age, humans decimated them to such an extent that their population balance collapsed! As long as there weren’t any humans, alps didn’t need to go around alping! It was even a capital offence. But because you gormless humans went and slaughtered so many of them, they now have to go around doing something they loathe, and with the very people who got them into this mess in the first place! Do you really think that’s fun for them? Would you find it fun to have to go to bed with an ogre?”

Murdoch had become quite loud. Matanie had listened to him quietly, but she couldn’t meet his eye. Even now, she didn’t look up.

“No. Of course not. I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me, I didn’t know. I’m glad I know now, so I can act differently around alps than I otherwise might have done.”

Murdoch stared at her, then shot Danior a glance, as if to make sure he had heard that too.

The elf was smiling proudly. “Well, if all humans were like Matanie, they’d be the most popular of all folks.”

“Bah!” Murdoch spat. “Rubbish! I’m not falling for her act.

It’s all a sham. A human can’t behave like an elf!”

“Why not?” asked Matanie dully. “You’re an elf, and you’re behaving like a human.”

Danior turned to her in shock.

Murdoch did a double-take, then planted himself in front of her. “What did you just say?”

Somehow, she managed to look up. “You’ve formed an opinion of me although you don’t know me. You attribute certain character traits to me, just because I’m human. You see me as a human rather than as a person. You’re discriminating against me. Isn’t that what humans do?”

Murdoch’s face took on a strange expression. Somehow Matanie got the impression he was about to burst into tears.

He seemed so lonely and forlorn that she couldn’t help putting her hand on his arm. He had arms like steel ropes, but his skin was as soft as a baby’s; the combined effect made Matanie blush again. Murdoch couldn’t have looked more dismayed if she had grabbed him by the crotch. He swiftly pulled his arm away.

“Let go of me, do-gooder!” He turned on his heels and stalked off.

Matanie twiddled her fingers bashfully and mumbled: “It’s not an act, Danior, I swear.”

The elf gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I know, Mattie. But Murdoch has been through a lot, so whenever he encounters kindness he’s completely thrown. He can’t believe it’s for real.”

“Why, what happened to him?”

“I think he should be the one to tell you about that; not me.

Perhaps he will, one day, if you win his trust.”

Danior hesitated and looked at Murdoch, who was now a mere grey-black point in the distance. He had that feeling again.

Matanie looked around, baffled. It seemed to her that they had stopped randomly in the middle of the forest to wait for Synn. Even though Murdoch gruffly assured her he’d intended to meet him here anyway, Matanie thought this was a strange place to rendezvous. When she asked him why he’d arranged to meet the alp, the dark elf merely barked that it was none of her damned business.

She sighed. “If Synn is a prince of the alps, what’s he doing here?”

“Vacationing, I’d say,” answered Danior. “Synn is originally from the East Island. Murdoch too, as it happens; he’s from Caldon.”

“Murdoch is from Caldon? That explains a lot.”

Danior laughed quietly. Murdoch shot her an unamused look.

The inhabitants of Two-Isles were always making jokes about each other, and assigning labels. People from Caldon were said to be sullen and niggardly, Kellds were uptight and pernickety, Goidelians were uncouth drunkards, and as for the Lyddwyr – it was mostly sheep over there, anyhow.

These little jokes extended to other folks. Goidelian elves made fun of their Kelldic relatives and vice-versa. At least they didn't mean any harm by it; with humans, you could never be sure.

Murdoch snorted. “You humans. What would you do with yourselves if you ran out of people to exclude? You discriminate each other over appearance, gender, religion, or the place you come from. If you didn’t have all those other folks to get upset about, you’d be tearing each other apart all the time.”

Danior nodded knowledgeably. “Yes, I believe that is a natural mechanism to compensate for the speed of human reproduction. If they didn’t slaughter each other, they would spread unchecked and simply destroy themselves. It’s like with animals who eat their own young in case of overpopulation…” Danior faltered when he saw the look on Matanie’s face. He cleared his throat. “But really, Murdoch, it’s not like elvish folks don’t share that tendency.

We also harbour all sorts of prejudice, especially as regards orcs or dwarves, and that includes lame jokes.”

“Do you have jokes about humans?” Matanie wanted to know.

“Oh, yes.”

“Will you tell me one?” she inquired eagerly.

Danior wasn’t sure. “Well, Matanie, I don’t think…”

Murdoch cut in. “How can you tell if a human has been in the forest? All the trees are cut down and all the nymphs are pregnant.”

Matanie looked blank for a moment, then began to giggle.

“That’s a good one!”

The dark elf looked like he had expected a different reaction. “Aren’t you insulted?”

“No, why should I be?”

Murdoch ruffled the hair on his neck and said nothing.

Danior leaned towards Matanie. “But please – never ask a dwarf to tell a human joke. And especially not an orc!”

“But…”

“No orcs!”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“I was about to apologize for being late, but you didn’t look like you were bored,” said a dark, velvety voice behind them.

All three turned around.

Murdoch snorted and – unusually for him – gave a crooked grin. “You never tire of exploiting the fact that I can’t scent you, do you, Synn?”

“I didn’t want to ruin your punchline.”

Synn turned to Matanie and gave her a friendly smile. “It’s probably best if you don’t hear any alp jokes about humans, either; they’ve become rather extreme, lately.”

Matanie had never seen an alp before. Synn was even taller than Danior, but quite slender, as if they had taken an average-sized person and stretched them. He had very pointy ears, milk-white skin and straight, white hair that fell almost to his hips. The vertical pupils of his orange eyes narrowed to slits, like a cat’s, when he looked into the light.

Matanie thought that alps were extremely beautiful, in an unsettling sort of way, and she understood what Danior had meant by ‘hypnosis’. All she could manage was and awkward smile.

Synn turned to Danior. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Nothing good. You remember Gael’s will?”

“Of course.”

“Well, apparently there’s been some trouble.”

“Ah,” said the alp, and Matanie noticed that his canines were just a little too long to look harmless. “I see. As a matter of fact, I know more than you do.” He looked at Matanie. “So you are Davis’ daughter.”

Danior and Murdoch stared at her, baffled. Matanie was dumbfounded and stammered: “Yes – but… no… I – how – how do you know?”

“Synn is always extremely well-informed,” Murdoch rumbled.

“The more something is shrouded in secrecy, the sooner I hear about it. But let’s not stand around here. Come with me, and I’ll explain everything.”

He turned on his heels and walked off with Murdoch towards the undergrowth. Matanie noticed that Danior hesitated for a second before following them. She went up to him.

“You said that Synn was a dubious contact. Why?” she asked quietly.

The elf turned his head. “He just knows too much. I fear that, in order to gather that information, he has to move in dangerous circles.”

“You think we shouldn’t trust him?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. But in my experience, Synn’s information always brings a good deal of trouble. So be on your guard.”

Matanie sighed, and fell in step with her pointy-eared companions. She could hardly believe that only yesterday she had been scrubbing a recalcitrant apron, as if stains really mattered.

Synn led them to his ‘holiday home’, as he put it – the place he escaped to when the strict protocol at court became too much for him. The life of alp princes was closely controlled.

Only since his sister, the heir to the throne, was born, did he enjoy a certain amount of freedom – which he used far beyond what the court approved of. His refuge was a large ground-level cave near a lake. On the left, near the entrance, a small waterfall cascaded down the rock. On the inner walls of the cave, abstract figures and patterns were painted, which showed that this place had already been popular with prehistoric cultures.

The sun was about to set. Matanie did as her companions did and sank to the floor, though rather less elegantly. She was exhausted.

On Danior’s request, she told Synn all that had happened.

As she was telling him how she had met Murdoch, he and the alp exchanged an unreadable look.

“I see,” said Synn when she had finished. “You’ve had a pretty awful day, especially considering you had to put up with this smellfungus here.”

Matanie smiled, Murdoch didn’t.

“Idiot,” he growled.

Danior spoke up. “So, Synn, why don’t you tell us everything we don't know.”

“Certainly not everything.” That earned him another dark look from Murdoch. “But I’ll gladly tell you what I know about the fate of this young lady here.”

For a moment Matanie had no idea whom he meant, until she realized he was talking about her.

The alp folded his long legs under him and turned serious.

“Your father, Davis, was the heir and the hope of one of the oldest clans in Goidelia, and one of the most loyal to the Crown. The Erskines used to be extremely influential, but the end of the monarchy also spelled the end of their power.

To make matters worse, your esteemed father also went and fell in love with the wrong woman, the one who became your esteemed mother, I mean, who was a Testamenteer and was able to win Davis to her cause. He became the Custodian, the only one among the Testamenteers who knew the whereabouts of Gael’s will. That much you already knew.”

Matanie nodded. “Why wasn’t the will destroyed?”

Synn shrugged. “People thought it would be unlucky.

Whatever makes them happy. But it also meant they had to play hide-and-seek for sixty years.”

Murdoch conveyed his opinion of human superstition with a disdainful snort and the quiet comment: “Imbeciles.”

Synn went on. “Unfortunately, Davis and your mother never got around to revealing the will’s location to anyone before their…” - he hesitated slightly – “…accident.”

Matanie stared at her boots, downcast. “And now for what you don't know. I can tell you who that lord was who came looking for you. He used to be one of Gael’s knights. The last one who still lives. His name is Mazacan.” Danior noticed how Murdoch’s pupils widened in his otherwise still face when he heard that name.

Matanie, on the other hand, knitted her brows. “How can that be? He sounded quite young.”

“Mazacan is half elvish. He’s long-lived. He must be nearly a hundred by now, but he doesn’t look it.”

“Oh,” was all she could think to say.

“Back when you were still a child, four or five years old, you saw where your father hid the map showing the will’s location. This is known because he joked with other Testamenteers that you had asked him why he didn’t simply throw away that manky old piece of paper. Somehow Mazacan heard of it. He wants to find the will, heaven knows why, and he knows that you can lead him to its hiding-place.”

Matanie emphatically shook her head. “But I can’t remember anything!”

“It’s still in there somewhere. You only need do find it.”

“How do you know all this?” Danior asked rather too sternly.

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Synn answered placidly.

Matanie was playing nervously with her hair. “I honestly can’t remember anything…”

“Can you help her remember?” Murdoch asked.

“Me? Wouldn’t know how. My telepathic skills wouldn’t be enough. You would have to ask Dargh.”

“Where is he?” It seemed like Murdoch had expected that answer.

“On his travels, as usual.”

“Who’s Dargh?”

“A shadow alp from Caldon,” said Danior.

“I thought shadow alps were extinct?”

“That’s precisely what Dargh is trying to find out on his travels.”

Synn made an obliging gesture. “He wanted to drop by, but it won't be for another few days. Where are you planning to stay until then?”

Danior thought about it. “If someone is looking for us, perhaps we’d better hide.”

The alp smiled. “I can think of a place. A convent. The votaresses of the goddess Dede, a very liberal cult. I know you’re looking askance at me, Danior, and wondering what I’ve got to do with nuns; but these ladies kindly took in alp refugees during the persecutions. They were especially kind to male ones.” He studied his hands innocently, as Danior shook his head in disapproval. “You can sleep here tonight; tomorrow I’ll take you there.”

Matanie lay in the dark with her eyes open; she couldn't sleep, although she was exhausted. She half sat up and looked around the dark cave. Some distance away, Danior was lying flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, as if he were dead. He was resting, but elves seldom go fully to sleep. If she had gently called his name, Danior would have been awake at once.

Near the entrance of the cave, she could make out Murdoch and Synn speaking so quietly that even Danior couldn’t have understood what they were saying. It didn’t seem like they were having a friendly chat, but rather a serious discussion.

Eventually Murdoch broke off, exasperated, stepped outside and vanished from her sight. The alp watched him go briefly, then came back inside without a sound and ghosted past Matanie towards the back of the cave, where he quietly busied himself with something. Then all was quiet.

“Can’t sleep?” Synn suddenly asked right next to her.

Matanie jumped, her heart nearly stopping.

The alp gave a quiet laugh. “Sorry. We alps are absolute sneaks.” He crouched down beside her bedroll. “Aren’t you tired?”

She sighed. “I’m dead tired, but I just can’t get to sleep.”

“Shall I help you?”

Matanie immediately sensed danger. “How?” she asked stiffly.

Synn’s voice was a little cool. “Certainly not by alping you.”

Matanie hoped desperately that he wouldn’t be able to see her blush in the dark. “I… I didn’t mean…that’s not what I…”

Synn sounded appeased. “It’s all right. In a way, I understand. But you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” He paused. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.” With his perfect night vision, he could see how utterly shocked she looked. “All right, that was mean.” She could hear that he was grinning.

Matanie cast around for words. “I – er – was wondering… er…”

“What do you want to know?”

“Er… did you… did you ever have to…” she mumbled almost inaudibly.

Synn gave a weary smile. “I am forbidden to. Royal blood.