The Pale Lord

There stands a primeval place, a dark wilderness of evergreens, wherein one gifted with true seeing might find an old portal hidden by ancient magic. The crumbling stone of its high arch testifies to its venerable age; the wrought iron of its gate, once splendid, now hangs ajar in rust and disrepair. It is overwhelmed by the hardy local undergrowth, as well as a peculiar hardy vine which, in full bloom, displays a unique, midnight-blue flower.

         The path beyond was laid long ago, flagstones of granite following a winding route through the whispering wood. It too has succumbed to the patient march of time, although a more astute observer can still mark where the path turns or where the gleaming stone shows through its heavy cloak of earth and greenery.

         Follow this path to the end and one will find the house of Isloniu, the domain of the Pale Lord, a stronghold built upon a hill to overshadow even the mighty old firs that had seen the ages of myth and creation. Its grey stone was carved from the mountains not half a mile distant and its tattered flags still display their seal, depicting a hand gripping a scepter surrounded by scattered, drifting leaves. Highest above all, though, is the great emblem of Aeomanric, the sword-in-the-circle unmarred by sun or storm.

         One of the last elven families to dwindle, the Isloniu family traced their origins back to the eras of dominance by fey and elemental creatures. Their progenitor Alsain, born of a fey mother and a human father, was among the first of his kind.

         He received an equal measure of love and adoration from the wild god, Uraya, though he was not swayed to arrogance by it. Seeing his kin turn their gazes inward and their hearts become self-obsessed, he instead swore allegiance to the blind god of justice, the Grey Knight Aeomanric. He took the name Isloniu, which meant blade-leaves in the tongue of elementals- or Buvali- and gave his word that all his sons and daughters would live in the service of the gods, not their own pleasure.

         Ten thousand years the elves cultivated their nation, a loose conglomerate of city-states, offering to the world a lifestyle in which all things became art. Their downfall, ultimately, was sickness. Ferocious lovers though they were, an elvish woman might hope for two or three children at most, and that counted as great fortune; such low fertility could not cope with the Fever which ravaged all of the world called Calanin. In time men recovered. The elves could not.

         But a Pale Lord must always hold the throne of Iko, the great castle at the end of the hidden path; so said Alsain upon its completion, when he wrought the crown of silver to signify his family's ascension to nobility. These words were written into history by the hands of a just angel, one of the scribes of Aeomanric's law.

         He is Mazidur Isloniu, son of Imran and Calean Isloniu, the last of his line- and perhaps the last of his kind.



---



         “Never does he move, not for anything,” proclaimed Seran, who sat at a table near enough to the bar to hear the locals' whispered conversation. As usual it concerned the lord of Iko, the abandoned fortress at the heart of Fenswood. He knew little of it and its fabled keeper, but it seemed like an excellent place to ply his treasure-delving trade. So he leaned back, the picture of ease and confidence, one eyebrow arched most conspiratorially as he gossiped what he knew of the legend. “He sits still as stone and waits for the return of his love, that he might find his loneliness assuaged.”

         “Rubbish,” snorted a young man seated nearby; by the look of his strong frame and the gear piled beside him, he was an off-duty guard of Gavel Fen. That town was famous for its stonemasonry, and besides that boasted the unusually successful Black Gosling, the establishment in which Seran found himself that evening. “He is a soulless warlock; feyborn, it is known. He keeps no company. Never will.”

         Silence followed as the young guard drank deep of his mug. The local swill, Seran noted, was better than expected: a crisp cider. It did get old after a while, though.

         A bottle of Cassie's finest would do me right, he thought wistfully; the meaderies of Vilat, the city of his home, were considered some of the best in all of Cautha, a continent of considerable size. Still, that's there and not here.

         “I hear differently, sir,” he replied smoothly, folding his hands over his midriff. His long, slim fingers were decorated sparsely with plain gold bands complementing the chestnut-brown shade of his skin. “I hear he is a scion, a wielder of great power. He loved a woman of his kind, but she left him fifty years ago to search out a cure for the Grey Fever which scoured the world. And he could not go with her, as he was bound to keep Iko.”

         Another brief pause. Then-

         “Rubbish,” muttered the guard, who then turned his full attention upon his drink.

         “What was her name, sir?”

         The lovely, piquant voice came from a young woman at the bar. She wore the sparse sueded-leather armor of the Tir Anuel trade patrol, dyed black with subtle gold accents, and a heavy brown cloak. A cased longbow and quiver leaned against her stool, as well as a short, curved sword and targe. Her pale lips were spread in a curious smile which well suited her fair skin, flecked with pale freckles upon her cheeks. The smile reached her deep blue eyes, a fine match for the dark hair which was tied back into a practical- yet endearing- tail.

         These crucial details Seran noted as he prepared his reply.

         “Alexis,” he said at length, eyes unfocused and staring into nothing as though he were recalling a distant memory. “Beautiful and deadly and kind, a lady known both for her skill at arms and her divine endowments- of healing arts, that is.

         “Once they journeyed together, seeking fortune and glory, spreading the word and the justice of Aeomanric wherever the wind took them. But in time the Pale Lord, whose name was never known, was called back to Fenswood, to the cold halls of Iko, to receive its lordship from his dying mother. There he languishes, lost to the world, awaiting her return to restore purpose and joy to his life, for he may not abandon his ancient duty to the castle.”

         “And has anyone made the journey there, then returned to tell of him?” Her reply was instant, but Seran kept pace.

         “No, unfortunately; no veritable word of him has come to us since. This is why I aim to assemble an expedition into Fenswood to seek the hidden path-”

         “I will be joining you,” she interjected smoothly, and this time Seran could not keep from blinking.

         “Ah- well, I see you wear the uniform of the patrolmen-”

         “I have ample time to myself, presently.” She tilted her head, studying his face intently. “Fear not. And if you doubt my worth to such a journey, which shall surely involve many days surviving and pathfinding in deep wilderness, I shall be glad to demonstrate my skill to you.”

         He stopped his reflexive excuse upon reflection that, indeed, a legitimate survivalist would come in useful. He possessed the map which showed the way to the hidden gate, but it would still be three days of hard traveling, and having a hunter and skilled outdoorsman- woman- could only make the trip more comfortable. His instinctive regard to the frailty of the fairer sex was thus overshadowed, though he could not but suspect her usefulness with the weapons she wore.

         “No need, miss. The Patrol does not allow incompetents to wear its emblem and colors.” He gestured to the seat across from himself. “Join me, then, if you are indeed serious. Two ciders, if you please, keep.”

         The slight man behind the bar nodded and began filling two mugs as she sat, laying her equipment upon the table beside her. “Indeed I am. Just the thing to fill my idle time- and here I thought my leave would be lost entirely to drink!”

         She laughed, and Seran could not keep himself from joining in- she was genuinely mirthful, not to mention friendly and more than a little comely.

         Then she extended a gloved hand, looking him in the eye. “I am Renley, of Holt. You are?”

         “Seran, of Westwatch.”

         “A fishmonger's son, then?” She grinned as she said so, then gratefully accepted the mugs passed to them. “What brings you to the heartland?”

         “The marked lack of fish.” His dry tone elicited another chuckle from Renley. “That and the urge to, I suppose, explore. See the world I live in. Make a few heaping stacks of coin, if possible.”

         “Hear, hear.” They tapped their mugs and drank deep, and the evening thus progressed.



         The next morning they found themselves in a humbly appointed, though quite comfortable, second floor room. Through the punishing hammer blows originating from within his own skull Seran noted that he had been gentlemanly: he lay beneath a heap of blankets whilst Renley occupied the large fur-strewn bed.

         His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden wave of nausea, and he forced himself to sit still and fight it down. The previous night's festivities had cost him no less than four silver marks, and he refused to waste the money simply because his stomach felt upset. So he remained for some ten minutes, cycling through periods of nausea and light-headedness. At some point he registered that Renley occupied the large fur-strewn bed, and could not help but blanch.

         Calmly he sorted through his memories of the night. There was a mirror by the bedside, dirty but serviceable. Looking himself in his own dark eyes, searching his aquiline features, examining his finery now in some disarray, he found little evidence of any intimacy. Of course, he chided himself, she had given no indication of interest. Although, he recalled, they had gotten along famously. And after eight drinks, anyone's judgment could fail.

         He fought to keep from looking directly at her even as she stirred and, he thought, purred- then she rose directly, clad to his relief in a loose twill tunic. Her face was flushed with sleep, her eyes half-open; she betrayed no hint of discomfort or even any evidence that she had imbibed most prodigiously not ten hours ago.

         “Morning, Seran,” she murmured, promptly falling back into the swath of blankets. He could not blame her, feeling the chill of autumn's morning settle over him. She did not seem perturbed in the slightest by his presence. A pent-up breath escaped him in a quiet sigh and he closed his eyes, distracting himself from the rolling waves of sick sensation with further review of his memories.

         Try as they might they could not recruit a third member for their trek. He might have ascribed it to their inebriation had Renley herself not explained to him the locals' aversion to the place.

         “'Tis bad luck to seek the path, see.” Her voice came through in starts as she leaned over her mug, staring deep into his drowsy eyes. “Made by fae, belongs to fae, nothin' but trouble for mortals.” That was perhaps their last coherent exchange before, he remembered now, he paid for a room- an extra two marks!- and they had stumbled up together without so much as a second thought.

         “Good morning, Renley.” He worked the words through a sore jaw and dry lips, and it took him just a few moments to form the sentence properly. “Pleasant dreams?”

         “Mm.”

         And the morning thus progressed.



         Renley's horse was a handsome beast, grey of coat and black of mane, strong and clad in barding consisting largely of boiled leather and thin mail to protect its flanks. Her cased bow hung from the left and her quiver from the right flank, while she kept her targe and curved sword belted securely. Seran's own dueling sword looked minimal beside the impressive arsenal, but he harbored a notion of superior skill at arms; much of his idle time back home had been spent fencing. That or writing poetry, chasing women, trying to find ways of making easy money. Such a life of luxury, supported by the wealth of his father, he had never thought to abandon until the day he awoke and found himself bored with the whole arrangement.

         So he stole three large sacks of gold from his father, not to mention the sword from the Lucet family's treasury, and struck out on his own.

         Renley's ease and confidence of movement, especially around her various weapons and impressive mount, bespoke a rather different upbringing. Less than civil, perhaps, for a young lady to have been introduced to a world of violence and toil, but she hardly seemed to mind.

         “Are you absolutely sure?” His strength having returned to him he managed to speak without wanting to heave, though it was by no means a pleasant experience.

         “Quite,” she responded somewhat flatly, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Many a week I have whiled away here, and Gavel Fen's opinion of the whole legend is quite clear: keep distant. Only misfortune can come of seeking it, so they shall not.”

         “So why are you joining me?”

         “I am no local.” She smiled- rather sunnily, he noted. “I have wanted to venture out ever since I heard the tale, but it is... inadvisable to take on a wilderness the size of Fenswood alone, if it can be avoided.”

         He nodded his agreement, informed by a few years' making his way overland. Woodland travel was perhaps less perilous than a frozen mountain crossing or a trek through lifeless desert, but it presented its own issues: bold wildlife, predators with no previous contact with a thinking species, could very easily take advantage of a novice outdoorsman sleeping alone. Not to mention the less savory unnatural elements sometimes encountered in the deep forest. Fae were not malicious or cruel by nature, but they would not stop to consider if their pranks or play might harm or kill a fragile mortal.

         “Fortuitous that we met, then, I suppose.” He watched her slide up into the saddle in one graceful, effortless motion. “Could you...?”

         She stared at him blankly for a few moments before, in a moment of realisation, extending a hand out to him and barely stifling a chuckle. With her help he eased himself into place, glaring the whole while. “I suppose where you come from the girls can ride right from the womb, then?”

         “Oh, no. Holt is a mountain stronghold; I learned to climb before I could walk.” Renley leaned in and stroked the horse's flank, urging her into an easy trot toward the town gate- and the path to Fenswood. “The Patrol taught me to ride, and that in short order. After all, 'tis easier to put an arrow in a slaver or bandit from horseback.” She flashed him a wolfish grin over her shoulder. “That way you can always keep up, see the looks on their faces before justice is done.”

         Seran kept a straight face, but with every passing hour his suspicions of her martial abilities waned. Justice indeed!



         They crossed into Fenswood late in the morning. Shafts of brilliant sunlight broke through its mighty canopy in a few places, illuminating a forest floor coated in a layer of fallen needles. Here and there large shrubs and boulders broke through, and they had many a hill to crest, but Seran knew- or hoped he knew- what they were looking for.

         “A coven-copse of pines, near a lake. Standing within them is said to give one the ability to see the pathway's gate, and the castle itself.” He had garnered this lore from his talks with locals of other nearby towns and villages. Details varied wildly, but a few elements were consistent: a ring of trees, a wrought-iron gate strewn with peculiar flowers, beyond which a winding path led up into a craggy hill. The flag depicting a sword-in-the-circle, symbol of the justice god Aeomanric, would be visible first, followed by a regal castle of grey and black stone.

         Renley shook her head. “Magery has always been beyond my ken. Now you tell me that fae can simply will away an entire portion of forest?”

         “Well, it does not so much go away as it vanishes from mortal perception,” Seran corrected, still scanning for the glint of sunlight off of water. “'Tis known as a glamer- a powerful illusion.”

         And hopefully that will be all which stands in our way, came the thought unbidden; from there he could not help but imagine what sort of resistance they might meet in Iko itself. Fae were known to traffick with all manner of creatures and possess vast arcane power, after all. If its lord were to take offense at their coming uninvited, it would make looting the place a great deal more difficult.

         Only then did it occur to him that Renley might not share his lust for wealth. After all, she had only joined him out of boredom. He had no notion of her moral or ethical boundaries and she was his only ride back to Gavel Fen. He could not very well hide large sacks of gold and jewels whilst clinging to her for dear life- he had never been much of a horseman- and if he returned empty-handed, the entire ordeal would be for naught.

         “So,” he ventured into the quiet of the forest, still searching for signs, “what do you hope to find, Renley? In the fortress, that is.”

         She didn't answer immediately. There was no perceptible change in her manner or bearing, but she seemed to consider the question deeply.

         “Not sure,” she said at length. “Maybe I just want to see the truth for myself, yeah? I think that is reason enough.”

         Not helpful. Seran flashed a sour expression, then shook the thought off. He would cross that particular bridge when he came to it.

         They searched for a day and a half before he found them: tall, wizened pines forming a ring around a bare patch of earth. Though they were shaggy with needles, none seemed to fall within the circle. Through the few gaps in their branches he caught sight of water, a shimmering reflection of the bright morning sun. At his urging Renley found a sloping path down from the low ridgeline they had been skirting.

         They drew up beside the circle and Seran dismounted.

         “Here we are, then,” he all but murmured, carefully approaching the trees. Gingerly he pressed a hand against the rough bark, confirming their existence and also the presence of something else; a thrumming in the air, an invisible energy coursing through the old conifer. “This is it. This must be it.”

         “Fine, fine,” said Renley as she briskly dismounted and stepped into the circle. For a moment she appeared confused, eyebrows creasing- and then shooting up just as her lips parted in a silent oh.

         “What do you see?” Seran demanded, stepping after her.

         It appeared in the span of an instant, or seemed to have always been there; teen feet tall and four horses wide, surely once splendid but now surrendered to disrepair.