Anya's Decision

Anya dangled her sealed credentials before the guard’s crooked nose, “I am Anya et Albion; here to escort an elf in your custody back to Albion to trial. A man in a gray cloak.”

“What for?” The guard grunted, scratching and picking at his scraggly unshaven cheek, brow furrowing with incomprehension.

“Guild business,” She sighed, filling that exhalation with as much exasperation as she could muster, playing the part of arrogant guild mage.

They stood, staring at each other for an uncomfortable time before someone else approached. An elderly man with cropped white hair and sweeping crimson robes slid beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder— another mage and a veiled threat, “I’m sorry, madam, it’s hard to find good help these days,” He sighed holding out his hand for Anya’s letter of affiliation.

Anya handed over the letter eagerly, ignoring the mage’s hand, knowing he could use any enchantment he liked to manipulate her. She breathed deep, trying to detect the scent of preparation, but the dank-musty smell of the cellblock assaulted her nose.

“We do not get many from the guild hall at Abion,” He paused, scrutinizing her letter, “Madam Anya et Albion, how long do you plan on staying in Valena? Unfortunately, we cannot fulfill your request until you depart.”

“We are not pausing in Valena; my orders are to return it to Albion as soon as possible for trial.” She cringed as she dehumanized the elf but needed them to believe this role.

“Splendid, is there a bounty?” The mage’s eyes sparkled in the muted torchlight.

“I believe so; after the trial and sentencing,” Anya replied, “I am not authorized to say more.”

His head bobbled rapidly, “It gave our guards quite the run-around, blasting magic everywhere. I’m surprised they sent you alone, no offense, but are you equipped to handle it if it escapes?”

“Of course,” She did her best to sound offended, “If it escapes, I will hunt it down and dispense every justice granted to me by the grand council.” The implied violence seemed to please the mage.

Anya followed the mage and guard to the cellblock; a single elf sat cross-legged on the floor wrapped in a stone-gray cloak, his hood settled low on his brow, casting his face in deep shadow. The only accommodations were a moldering pile of straw and a pool of murky water. Anya had seen animals kept in cleaner conditions. Regret welled in Anya’s chest as the mage muttered arcane words; the iron gate swung open with a click. It was time for the performance.

“Come,” Anya barked at the elf, “be quick about it.”

The elf did not comply; clenching her teeth, she reached inside her component pouch and coated her fingers in one of her preparations, named compliance. Then, she pointed at the elf, who jumped to his feet and snapped to attention. Then, gesturing with a come-hither motion, he stepped forward, struggling. But Anya’s will was more decisive. Stopping beside them, Anya tugged down his hood, uncovering his angular face, moss-colored eyes, and silver-streaked dark hair. He had a long jagged scar from his hairline to his jaw.

Stubborn, isn’t it?” The mage chuckled, “You may have your work cut out for you, Madam Anya.”

“No,” Anya simpered, “What is stubbornness in an elf but an opportunity to break its will? How much do I owe you for the iron cuffs around his wrist?” She inquired, “I don’t need it casting magic.”

The mage chuckled, parting with the iron cuffs for a gold coin for each cuff. Anya was grateful it was no more; she could not afford more until she returned home and received her stipend from the guild. Finally, the mage commanded two guards to escort them outside the city.

“What is your name?” Anya questioned as soon as they were out of earshot in near-perfect elvish.

He did not immediately answer her; he barely kept up with her, though she had severed the compulsion. Anya observed his guarded body language and lagging pace. Anya would not stop him if he decided to run, but she at least wanted to remove the iron cuffs. He would better survive remaining at her side, but she would not blame him for how she acted while retrieving him. Thinking about her act made Anya nauseous.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, she gingerly sat him down on a stump, taking the iron key from her belt and unlatching the cuffs. Tossing them into a nearby bush, she watched as he sized her up, barely moving.

“Now, will you tell me your name?” She questioned in elvish.

“What does it matter?” He replied.

Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the ground in front of him, “My name is Anya; I have elvish friends who saw you fleeing. They headed to Lolandil, is that where you were going too?”

He considered what she said for a moment; Anya filled the silence by rummaging through her pack and turning her back to him—pulling out two healthy portions of rations. Anya was not hungry, but he needed to eat, and she feared he would not partake if she did not as well. To her relief, he did eat, but he set the two strips of dried meat on a rock near her. Unfortunately, she forgot that some elves did not eat meat.

“I’m sorry,” She muttered, storing the bits of dried meat back in her pack.

“It’s fine.” He muttered, nibbling on a handful of dry biscuits. Anya passed him the water jug, drinking from it first. He eagerly swallowed the water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I have no plan on keeping you here or taking you to Albion unless that is where you want to go.” She blurted out, feeling better to have it in the open.

“Why?”

She thought momentarily, “The story I told the guard and mage to get you out of prison was just that, a story.” Then, she sighed, “I am a mage from the guild in Albion, but you are not a wanted man.”

He grunted, “I’m Virion,” He replied, “I was going to Lolandil.”

“I want to help you like. It’s the least I can do after springing you from prison without your belongings. I do not know what they would do if you were captured again.” She explained, using the remaining daylight to pull out her spellbook, pen, ink, and a spare slip of paper.

Beginning to write, she penned a letter to the guild master of Albion, her adopted mother, Eloise. First, she explained everything that had happened since she neared Valena, the siblings she had helped smuggle into Lolandil, and her current situation with Virion. Then, slipping the paper into the cover of her spellbook, she dusted it with something from her component pouch. The letter would be in Eloise’s spellbook the next time she opened her tome.

Much to her surprise, a letter returned almost instantly to Anya’s tome. There was a hastily scribbled note:

If the monsters are close to Valena, it will not be long before they reach the city. Take care. Please, only travel into Albion with the utmost necessity. Humans are as unwelcome there as elves and faeries in Valena.

Reading the last sentence twice, Anya looked up at Virion reclining against a nearby tree; his hood pulled low over his face. She saved his life but could not rely on his favor and life debt to keep her safe if she followed him into Lolandil. At the moment, Anya could not think of a reason for her to venture into the magical lands. But, something she read lingered at the back of her mind that elves and other faerie-type creatures hated being in debt to anyone. Did this count? Laying down, Anya closed her eyes. Both needed rest if they meant to arrive unscathed at the gates of Lolandil.

Virion prodded Anya awake before dawn. Darkness shuddered around their vision. Sitting up, she strained her ears to listen. There was a faint noise, and she could barely hear it over the pulse of her heart in her throat—a buzz, distant from them but still too close for comfort. Anya widened her eyes in recognition, a haghould; her wild eyes roved the trees looking for a sign of milky eyes or mottled skin while groping for her spellbook.

Twisting a ring on her middle finger, a signet of the guild, she had an obligation to the greater good of Thyrame, didn’t she? Virion stood just out of her sight, fidgeting in discomfort. Closing her eyes, she prayed before grabbing Viron and leading him away. Again, she had an obligation to see Virion to safety.

They made it to the edge of the forest as day broke. Reasoning to herself that she could always return and destroy the haghould later. Though it would terrorize the surrounding people, the guild had sent out messages on how to detour and kill them.

“What was it?” Virion finally asked.

“A haghould,” She replied, frowning, “A monstrous aberration that has become too common lately. I have fought many of them before.”

“Dangerous.” It was not a question, “Do you have weapons?”

“Yes,” She said, patting her component pouch, “But you probably mean something more martial.”

“A sword or knife,” He agreed.

Anya rummaged through her bag. The best she could do was the ornate knife she kept for rituals. Handing it to Virion, he snorted, almost smiling.

“Is there something wrong with my knife?”

“It’s tiny,”

“It is all I’ve got.” She replied, “Hope we don’t have to use it. Can you not do magic?”

Darkness crossed Virion’s face, “No,” he stated, not explaining, and Anya knew better than to inquire further. But the silence between them was comfortable, despite Virion’s mood.

Traveling a few days toward the Lolandil gate, taking extra care and giving Valena a wide berth, they also avoided the forest paths. Wishing they had kept the iron cuffs for disguise purposes. Instead, they kept Virion’s hood up. He stood a foot taller than Anya, but at least he was not immediately recognizable as an elf. It gave her a while to ponder what the mage who captured Virion had said, that he had been full of potent magic. Her heart sank. Had Virion drained the last dregs of his connection to magic when he tried to escape? She hoped not; it was sad, a being of magic forever severed from the source.

Nearing the gate of Lolandil, it was day and heavily guarded by the Valena militia. No amount of mage guild affiliation could grant them passage or save them from whatever fate the militia designed if they caught them. Shaking her head, she did not like their odds. Virion turned to her, putting his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eye.

“Do not put yourself in danger for me.”

Anya had to keep herself from chuckling; she was confident those were the most words he had ever spoken to her in one sentence. But, he raised a good point that tickled her inclination toward self-preservation. Yet, she chose to ignore both him and it.

“I will get you across that gate; I am unsure if I will cross with you into Lolandil, but if I can help you get past the gate, I will.”

He shook his head at her stubbornness, “I’m not worth protecting.”

“I believe you are,” She shrugged, not hearing his arguments. Instead, she pulled out her spellbook and flipped through the pages humming to herself. She had one in mind, a spell that had saved her life many times. Unfortunately, though, she doubted her ability to cast it twice.

Anya had witnessed the invisibility spell being cast once before by a man named Berol Strake, a half-elf that her adoptive mother spoke of relatively highly. A hero who had died saving as many people as he could in her hometown. Tears prickled her eyes from where they uncomfortably hid among a nettle bush. Pulling the components from her pouch, she prepared to mix darkness powder, scolding herself for not having some on hand.

Anya sat and mixed the various bits and powders in a mortar. She was stirring and grinding them together while they waited.

They planned to wait until the guard changed, turn invisible, and slip past the gate. There would be fewer guards at dusk. If they were lucky, they would sneak through the gate unnoticed. As Anya mixed, it unnerved her to think about how deep she would dive into her magic reserves to keep them unseen. Berol had done it, but Berol was half-elf. He had a finite but potent well of magic to draw from where Anya had a trickle. She was proficient, but only for a human. She would like to think her strength of will or moxie lent her high proficiency, but it was good to know one’s limits.

“Can you do this?” Virion questioned, watching the guard’s movements, trying to feel their movements for openings.

“I think so,” She frowned, tipping the powder into a jar labeled darkness powder, “Are you prepared to face the consequences if I can’t?”

His moss-colored eyes looked her over again, and his lips parted in a small smile, “Yes,”

“What has you smiling?” She questioned.

“I doubt a pretty girl will rescue me again.”

Anya blushed, brushing her long hair from her face where it had fallen from its pin. She had no retort to his compliment, “Did you find a way to get past the guards?”

Virion frowned, looking away from her to the guards as they moved in their rounds, “No change yet,”

Anya wished they had more time to observe the guard’s rounds and practice the spell. However, the sun would set soon; Anya kept her jar of darkness powder on hand and recited the spell under her breath. She had scant enough time for that than thinking about Virion’s complimenting her. Every time Anya thought about it, her cheeks tinged pink. No one had called her pretty before.

“Time,” Virion whispered, causing a chill to run up her back.

Anya popped the lid off her jar of dark powder, then sprinkled it over them, reciting the incantation. Anya shook her head as she repeated the spell, vexed that it had not worked the first time. Then, in the twilight, she felt Virion’s hand on hers.

“Calm, breathe, and recite again.” He encouraged her.

Anya closed her eyes, breathed in deep the night air, and recited the spell again, feeling something warm, like water, drawing from Virion’s hand to hers. Then, looking at him, confused, he smiled, giving her the last reserves of his magic to amplify the spell. Both of them disappeared, but Anya could still feel his hand in hers. He tugged her along.

They hastily made their way, ducking behind everything they could find to get close to the gate. Then, holding their breath, they squeezed past the guards, who passed uncomfortably close to their faces. She felt her arm brush one of their sleeves, but luckily he did not notice. Finally, they made it to the gate, but when they came to the closed and barred wooden doors, Virion did not stop. Anya put her free hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Did he mean to dash them into the door?

Anya had not noticed it before, but the wood glimmered in front of them as it gave way. They passed through the gate unharmed. Anya gasped in relief while Virion burst out in a fit of laughter, releasing her hand. When he let her go, Anya’s concentration broke, bringing them back into sight.

“Virion, stop laughing,” She grinned as he pulled her up into his arms and spun her around.

“Why shouldn’t I laugh?” He questioned, “We are free.”

“You are free, I suppose,” She said as he sat her back down, “I have to return to Albion,”

“Eventually,” He amended, “Rest here for now.”

“Where?”

“My home is near.”He winked, “You would be welcome.”

“I’m human,” Anya retorted, “I don’t think I am welcome here; my mother discouraged me from staying too long.”

“You’re my guest,”

She sighed, seeing in his eyes that he wanted to thank her for getting him home. Anya’s curiosity got the better of her as she peered around Lolandil. At first, nothing here looked different than on the human side of the gate, but the longer she looked, the stranger things seemed. The colors of the leaves and grass seemed greener. The sky was more azure than just light blue; she followed him down a deep-brown dirt road. Then, he flung his arm out to stop her.

“Trouble,” He stated, drawing the dagger from his belt, “Smoke ahead.”

Approaching, Anya and Virion saw a cart overturned and ablaze. Anya wrinkled her nose before covering her face with her sleeve; there was a rotten odor in the air, barely hidden by the smell of fire. Coughing, Virion walked forward; closing his eyes and hand, he extinguished the flame. He took a moment to consider the cart, discovering the smell from the few days old dead horses still hitched to the cart.

Anya noticed significant claw marks down the side of the cart and frowned; claws she had seen marring trees, that of a haghould. Were they here in Lolandil too?

“Look at this,” Virion said, beckoning Anya toward him.

Coming to his side, Anya locked eyes with the monster inside the cart, a half-charred haghould’s milky white eyes. Whoever had killed it knew what they were doing. Whistling, she appreciated their handiwork before she followed Virion. Tension filled Virion’s body language and put Anya on edge as well.

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