Isolde stood by herself, surveying the ruined Brotherhood camp. The Brotherhood’s guardsmen mingled with the soldiers of the Order of Light who had come to her rescue on the slopes above. Cullers and Teagan were gone and suddenly Isolde felt awfully alone. So much was expected of her. It had felt good to have the guidance of an experienced warrior and through him she had unlocked much more of the power that flowed in her. But now Cullers’ wisdom was out of reach. Poor, sleeping Teagan would be the focus of his efforts until the spell cast upon his beloved daughter could be broken. And what of Sir Hagen, who had been so kind and supportive when they first met? Isolde hadn’t seen him since his clandestine meeting with the elf, nor had he been on the slopes today. A knight whose face she did not know had commanded the men in Sir Hagen’s place. So where was he? Fighting the forces of darkness, or conspiring with their allies?
“You, soldier!” she called to a passing guard. He had the Order’s battle flag thrown over one shoulder.
“You wear Gelderrin’s ring,” said the guard, stopping and bowing slightly in greeting, “How can I be of service to you, chosen one?”
“Sir Hagen,” said Isolde, “Has he resigned his command? I did not see him on the field of battle.”
The guardsman shook his head sadly.
“You did not,” he answered, “Sir Hagen still holds office, miss, but he is far from his old self.”
“How do you mean?” asked Isolde, “Is he unwell?”
“Not unwell,” said the guard, “But out of sorts. Sir Hagen spends little time on the Order’s business. He comes and goes at all hours and refuses to share where he’s been.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone and he leaned in towards Isolde as he continued, “He’s been seen consorting with…” the guard’s face curled into a sneer, “… elves,” he snarled, “More than once.”
“What does it add up to?” asked Isolde, “To your my mind, I mean.”
“Well,” said the guard, “There are some who reckon he’s under a spell and that he’s off doing the Dark Lord’s bidding. Me? I don’t know. It seems to me if Hagen was working for the enemy he’d have had plenty of chances to burn us all in our beds by now. No. I reckon it’s something else. Something he doesn’t want the men to know about.” The guardsman straightened up and spoke a little louder now that he’d done gossiping. “I’ve served under Sir Hagen long enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.”, he declared, “If I thought he was up to no good, I’d say so.”
Isolde thanked the guard and sent him on his way, just as her mercenaries - together as usual, with Park and Roline leading the way - marched up to her, carrying a couple of sacks of looted gold.
“You’d be surprised what elves take into battle,” Park explained, seeing Isolde’s eyes on the bulging sacks.
“All manner of pretty things,” grinned Roline.
“A fair wage for a perilous engagement,” said Carason, drily.
“And enough to fund a feast on our return to Dawnshire. Mistress Isolde, will you join us?” added Scher.
Isolde stared at the faces of her mercenary accomplices. They were a rough bunch, for sure; greedy for gold and seemingly untroubled by the wider consequences of the war for which she had recruited them. But as she looked from one to the next, there was true warmth and friendship in their eyes. Even the icy priest Carason was nodding his consent.
“Alright,” said Isolde, “In fact… It would be my honour.”
Cullers was gone and Sir Hagen, for now at least, was lost in his own secrets. But Isolde was not alone.
*
The portal carried the gang back to Dawnshire where they retired to their lodgings to wash and rest after the day’s action. A few hours later they were together again, seated around a rough oak table by the broad stone fireplace of the Stuck Pig tavern.
“Did we have to come here?” asked Isolde, scanning the dimly lit room for potential troublemakers.
“Relax,” said Park, knocking back a flagon of dark ale, “We like it here. They owner knows us.”
“I’m surprised he even let us in after what happened last time,” said Isolde.
“He’s done a good job of patching the place up, mind you,” said Park, noting a new set of stools and a patch of fresh plaster on the wall.
As the others murmured in agreement, the landlord arrived, carrying a large platter of roast pork which he laid on the table with a flourish.
“No charge tonight, gentlemen… ladies…”, he beamed, “There’s still plenty of gold left from your generous reparations to pay for tonight’s revelry.”
He turned smartly and walked briskly back to the bar, whistling. Isolde stared at Park, open-mouthed.
“You paid for the damage?” she asked, incredulously.
“Oh yes, we always do,” said Park.
“Trouble tends to follows my brother around,” drawled Roline, “Well, all of us, really. We don’t like to see the burden of costs fall upon innocent bystanders.”
“It’s one of our things,” said Park, “Our rules, I mean. You break it, you pay for it. Only fair.”
“I’m impressed,” said Isolde. And she was. She would never have expected a mercenary to part with treasure willingly. Her team - and Park and Roline in particular - confounded her expectations at every turn.
Dish after dish was brought from the kitchen to the table by the smiling landlord. The comrades shovelled in huge helpings of roast meat, pies and roast potatoes, as well as jug after jug of foaming beer. With their bellies full and their heads lightened by drinking, Park, Scher and an unusually smiley Carason wandered off to find a minstrel. In a dark corner of the room, they struck gold - not one minstrel, but a whole troupe of travelling musicians - and soon the tavern was filled with the sounds of mandolin, fiddle and harp, as well as Park’s horribly slurred singing.
Isolde and Roline stayed at the table, picking at a platter of fruit and discussing the day’s adventure. Isolde’s mood had darkened and Roline was not slow to notice the change in her employer’s expression.
“There’s something on your mind,” she said to Isolde, “I cannot promise that my opinion will be helpful, but if you care to share it, I will listen.”
Isolde sighed and looked at Roline. Despite her beauty and her glamorous taste in clothes, Roline was more reserved than her brother. She had not offered the hand of friendship quite so directly until now. Isolde decided to accept it.
“The path chosen for me is not an easy one,” she began, “The chosen have a duty to fight on the side of good. I accept that. But sometimes, it isn’t easy to decide what ‘good’ means.”
“It’s the company you keep,” Roline said, winking, “Rogues and mercenaries, the lot of them.”
Isolde let out a laugh, but the smile faded quickly from her face.
“I do not doubt that our cause is just,” she continued, “The Dark Lord must be stopped, of course. But there are more players in this game than good and evil. I have seen things, Roline, that make me doubt the intentions and allegiances and my most trusted allies.”
Roline gazed at Isolde with concern. She seemed to be making her mind up about something. Then she stood up and held out her hand.
“Come with me,” she said.
*
Roline led Isolde through the tavern towards the bar. She whispered something to the landlord, who beckoned them towards a doorway, covered with thick drapes. Behind it was a small, private room; a place where secretive customers could drink and converse away from prying eyes. Isolde and Roline sat down and the landlord placed yet another jug of ale on the table between them. Isolde grimaced and pushed it away.
“I’ve had enough,” she said.
Roline nodded and the landlord, looking somewhat dejected, picked up the jug again and retreated, pulling the curtain to behind himself.
“Well?” asked Isolde, “What’s this about? Why all the secrecy?”
Roline leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and knotting her fingers together. She addressed Isolde in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, and the expression on her face made it quite clear that her words were not in jest.
“My skills with a blade are well known,” she began, “But I have other gifts. Ones that I do not advertise so freely.”
“Gifts?” Isolde asked, confused.
“The power of sight beyond sight,” Roline continued, “Sometimes I see the future. Sometimes the past. What has been. What may be. What shall be… If you wish, I will turn my gift to your dilemma.”
Isolde’s eyes widened in surprise. She had, of course, encountered magic before. Indeed, she had experience the thrill of her own power, channeled through Gelderrin’s and focussed by the training Cullers had given her. But Roline was not one of the chosen, nor was she a mage. The power of second sight was rare indeed, and much prized in the courts of kings. Isolde understood why Roline would keep quiet about her gift, even if she didn’t understand how she came to possess it.
“How?” she asked, thinking aloud.
“The short story? Park and I rescued a witch from bandits. She passed the power to me in thanks.”
“And the long story?” asked Isolde.
“Pretty much the same as the short story,” said Roline, “Only with a month of lying in bed, plagued by visions and with my head pounding so badly that I thought my brain was about to burst into flames at any second.”
“Great gift,” said Isolde.
“It has its advantages too,” said Roline, “Would you like to see?”
Isolde thought about the mysteries surrounding Sir Hagen’s strange behaviour. She wanted so badly to be able to trust the holy knight. Perhaps Roline could help. After her promise to Hagen in Luxis, even raising her doubts about him felt like a betrayal of his trust. And yet, however unlikely it sounded, if Hagen was mixed up in some dark plot, surely she had a duty to uncover it.
“My problem concerns Sir Hagen, the commander of the Order of Light,” she said, resolving to take Roline into her confidences.
“Aye,” said Roline, nodding, “The town has been full of talk about Hagen. His men say he has become guarded and secretive. They say he is neglecting his duties.”
“I need to know why,” said Isolde firmly, “My life and many others are entrusted to Sir Hagen’s judgement. Though I pray it is not so, I must know if his loyalties have been compromised.”
Roline clapped her hands together, softly.
“Very well,” she said, “Have you an object of Sir Hagen’s or something he has held, at least?”
Isolde slipped the blue-stoned ring from her finger; the ring given to her by Sir Hagen at their first meeting.
“Is there nothing else?’ asked Roline, “Gelderrin’s ring has power of its own that might cloud my vision. I don’t want to wade through a thousand years of history before I come to this business with Hagen.”
“Nothing,” said Isolde, shaking her head, “The ring is all I have.”
“Then it will have to do,” sighed Roline. She took the ring between her fingers and examined it closely. Then she closed her fist around it and laid her hand on the table.
“Place your hand on mine and close your eyes,” she told Isolde as she closed her own, “You must concentrate on Sir Hagen. Picture him as closely as you can. Remember his voice…”
Isolde shut her eyes tight and concentrated. She pictured the knight in his gleaming armour, just as he had looked when he appeared through the portal to snatch her away from the dragon’s den. She thought about his voice; his words of encouragement and faith. Slowly, in her mind’s eye, a scene started to appear. It was cloudy and unclear at first, but as she strained to make sense of the images floating before her, the fog cleared and a forest came into view. Not a forest like any she knew, though. This one had fine, intricately carved staircases leading up and around the broad trunks of giant trees to platforms and walkways and rooms built high in the canopy. There were elves everywhere, as well as a few men; merchants mostly, with one or two less respectable types talking in low tones among the giant, twisting roots.
And then, without warning, she felt herself pulled physically into the scene before her. Isolde had no sense that she had travelled anywhere; not like the rush and pull of the portals. She didn’t feel part of the scene at all. It was as if she were invisible. No. It was them, not her. The people in the forest were like shadows; not quite solid. She could move among them but when she reached out a hand to touch the bottle green robes of a passing elf, her fingers slipped through the rich velvet cloth as if it was pipe smoke. The sounds that reached her ears were odd, too; as though Isolde had her head under water. It was not difficult to understand what was being said, but even the conversation of her nearest neighbours seemed more muffled and distant than it should. She was straining to make out the whispered words of one of the less honourable looking humans present when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Sir Hagen.
He was a little younger, perhaps; his face less worn by worry. The urge to call out to her friend flared up in Isolde, but she swallowed the cry before it left her mouth. Most likely, she reasoned, Sir Hagen would not hear her. This strange, detached dream world that Roline had conjured was a vision of the past, and nothing she could say or do would alter events which had already unfolded. Still, as she fell in step beside the holy knight, Isolde could not shake the feeling that she might be discovered if Hagen were to glance in her direction. Side by side, but separated by time, they mounted a staircase that spiralled upwards to the fine, gilded gates of a grand dwelling in the treetops. A pair of elven guards flanked the gates. Sir Hagen nodded to them as he approached and they snapped to attention as though he was their own commander, parting their crossed spears to let him pass. Isolde could have passed straight through the insubstantial gate like a ghost, but she couldn’t help slipping through stealthily, after Sir Hagen, as if the guards might spot her at any moment.
They came to a wide wooden platform where nobles and courtiers stood in small groups while servants fussed around them offering drinks and fruit. The elves bowed politely and offered their greetings to Sir Hagen as he passed them by without pausing to return their words. At the centre of the platform, where the wooden floorboards met the tree trunk, two more guards guarded the door of a private chamber, its polished walls set with windows of coloured glass that shone like jewels. Without hesitation, the guards stood aside for the holy knight as he approached. He knocked three times on the door of the chamber to announce his presence, then turned the handle and stepped inside, pulling the door to behind him. Isolde, scampering in behind him, flinched as the phantom door hit her square in the face with all the force of a shadow.
Inside the chamber, the light that spilled through the jewelled windows painted a rainbow of colours over the walls and floor. A young elf girl - or rather, a woman; older than Isolde but with the delicate, slightly childlike face and small frame of the elves - was seated at a desk, reading. She dropped her book and ran to Sir Hagen as he entered, throwing her arms around his waist and embracing him. Sir Hagen peeled her away from his body and held her at arms length. He pressed his hand against her pale cheek and stared into her blue eyes as an expression of unqualified joy spread across his handsome features. Then he pulled her to him again and they kissed passionately. Isolde turned her head away, blushing. Had she invoked Roline’s magic for this? To spy on a lovers’ tryst?
“You came!” said the young elf woman. Isolde gazed at the beautiful silk robes she wore. They were fine indeed, even by elven standards. On her head sat an exquisite silver coronet decorated with diamonds and golden filigree leaves. Isolde thought the girl’s family must be very rich, or very noble. Or both.
“Of course, my love,” said Sir Hagen, “I am still welcome in your father’s kingdom, am I not?”
Isolde gasped as she realised that Sir Hagen’s lover was none other than the Elf Princess Lera herself; the only daughter of the Hakan the Elder Elf, ruler of the Fey - one of the the two tribes who, with their Silvan rivals, made up all the elves of Midgard.
Lera sighed and began to pace worriedly around the room.
“My father is angry,” she said, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder as she turned to look at Sir Hagen.
“He has never approved of our love,” Sir Hagen muttered, “I had hoped to prove myself worthy…”
“He is not a bad man,” Lera interjected, “But he has changed. I fear some foreign influence upon his heart.”
“The Dark Lord’s power is growing in every land,” said Sir Hagen. “Perhaps it has reached your father’s kingdom at last.”
“My father in thrall to the Dark Lord? No! I will not hear it. Hagen, he is a father, set in his ways and stubborn, for sure. But do you really suspect the Dark Lord’s influence in our little drama? Your work has made you overly wary.”
Sir Hagen smiled and let out a small laugh. “You’re right, of course,” he chuckled, “Forgive me, my love. I live in a world of danger and double dealing.”
“I will speak to him again myself,” said Lera, “Father will come round to you, my darling.”
“He must,” said Sir Hagen, taking her in his arms again, “I would die for you, Lera.”
The vision in Isolde’s eyes grew suddenly bright. The fierce white light obscured everything and made her shield her eyes, but it only lasted for a moment. When it receded, the scene before her was different. A throne room. Empty but for two figures. Sir Hagen was there, and with him, standing before the empty throne with a look of pure fury on his face, was an elf who, Isolde reasoned from his regal attire, could only be Lera’s father, Hakan.
“You! You are to blame for this! How I wish that my daughter had never set eyes on you!”
“Sire,” Sir Hagen protested, “By my holy oath, I have no part in Lera’s vanishing.”
“Do you think you would still breathe if I thought you had spirited her away, Hagen?” hissed the Elder Elf, “But you are the bridge between my peaceful kingdom and the war torn world of mankind. You are the fool who brought the Dark Lord’s eyes and ears into my forest.”
“Noble Hakan, we do not know that the Dark Lord has taken Lera,” said Hagen, but Isolde could see in his eyes that he was wracked with worry.
“Three days she has been gone!” Hakan spat, “No sight nor sound of my daughter. Vanished! We must assume kidnapped! Well, Hagen, by my oath, holy or not, I’ll make you suffer if any harm has come to her.”
“I had nothing to do with this!” Sir Hagen declared firmly, “I love your daughter and I shall ensure her safe return.”
“See that you do,” said the Elder Elf, flopping into his throne, deflated, “Now, get out.”
There was another flash of blinding white light and, just as quickly as it has started, the vision was over. Isolde was back in the curtained room behind the bar of The Stuck Pig, with Roline sitting opposite her, hold her hands across the table. They stared at each other in silence and blinked.
The curtain at the door was shoved back suddenly and both girls jumped as Park stuck his head through the opening.
“What are you two up to in here, then?” he drawled, drunkenly, “Game of cards, is it? Deal me in.”
“Not cards, no” said Isolde, thinking about what she had seen, “Something with much higher stakes than that.”
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