Lost in the Light

Author's note: This chapter is all plot and story.

*****

It wasn't yet dawn, but the soft glow of the approaching sunrise started to creep across the night sky. Silently her bare feet padded across the dew covered grass. They looked so peaceful sleeping together - this Zecairin man and his Elthairin woman huddle together under the willow tree. It was a sweet scene as their arms entwined one another and their bare flesh stank of sweat, sex, and cum. She paused a moment in case it was an act, but neither moved. She had found the others sleeping soundly down the hill with only one silver haired archer standing guard. These couldn't be her kin she had been sent to find, but this one, with his Elthairin mistress, was obviously their leader. Even naked, she could tell by his appearance and posture that he was a leader. It was the arrogance - he slept so peacefully. But the presence of an Elthairin woman confused her. A slave?

Silently she leaned down until strands of blue hair fell from the hood she hid behind and pressed her forehead to the Elthairin's. Elves slept hard after sex, it was simply their nature, and based on the pungent smell they wouldn't notice her intrusion. Gently she sent out the presence of her mind and touched the Elthairin girl's as she slept. She saw the memories of the past few days - and slowly her body began to change. Her skin color lightened, her body shrank, her hips and bust increased until she looked exactly like Lysia.

Transformation magic was a difficult skill to master. Making oneself look exactly like someone else took a genius level stroke of artistry as the magic itself couldn't tell how a person should look, it merely obeyed the commands of its channeler. The Mischievous had earned her name with this skill, and how she used it. She could have risen high in the hierarchy of Zecair, but power never interested her like amusement at the expense of others did. But that was long ago.

This Lysia walked down the hill towards camp. Her blue robes quickly transforming into black combat leathers. Rollis looked up at the sound of her approach. He gave her a curious stare, and a slight nod of silent greeting. Lysia ignored him, but sat down beside him none the less. In front of them, three pairs of couples huddle together for warmth around the embers of a dying fire. Rollis watched her oddly, and didn't say a word.

"I had a nightmare." she said softly. "About tomorrow... er today." Rollis nodded in understanding and patted her shoulder in reassurance. The Mischievous had glimpsed enough of Lysia's conscience to know the girl's immediate thoughts and concerns. "What's my role supposed to be again?"

"Not sure," Rollis replied honestly. "Tam skipped that part last night. But if we're meant to cause confusion and let the Elths do the heavy hitting, then that's your job too."

"Works for me," she said sleepily and stood to leave. They're working with the Elthairins? She thought to herself amazed. The Father knew the Elthairins were camped nearby to strike, and if these were the Zecairins he meant her to turn on them, he was in for a stark surprise. Yet there was something odd about this bunch. They were too... plain. She gave them one more cursory glance and then realized it - they were Discarded! Practically useless! These were not the Zecairins the Father wanted. She coughed out a barely contained laugh.

Lysia strode back up the hill and hid the smirk she couldn't help show. These fools have sided with the Elthairins? They must be desperate. As amusing as this alliance was, it would not last after today. They were fodder being used by the Elthairins, nothing more.

Lysia didn't return to the willow tree. Instead, once she was out of sight of the main camp she turned and...

"Who are you?" A woman demanded. Lysia looked over her shoulder and saw a Zecairin woman accosting her - another Discarded. "You forgot the love bites, Shapeshifter." The woman said smugly and taped the side of her own neck. The Mischievous let her form shift back to her natural one. She could feel the heat from the fireball floating in the air behind her. This Discarded knew a little magic. With her transformation complete she pulled her hood back and revealed her face.

"You're the one working with the humans!" Corella said, startled. The surprise and worry in her voice was obvious. The Mischievous seized that opportunity. She flipped forward, kicked the hand channeling the fireball, sending it streaking off into the sky to dissipate. She landed in a crouched position, spun on her heels, and swept the legs out from under her would-be assailant. The woman landed on her back with a thud, the breath escaping her lungs, and suddenly went surprisingly limp. The Mischievous stood, and saw crimson start to pool behind the woman's head, a rock in the ground had ended the fight.

But there was sound coming up the hill. Someone had seen the fireball. The Mischievous grabbed the woman's head, touched her forehead to hers connecting their minds, and stole as many memories as she could in the woman's last moments. Then she ran.

*****

The Father awoke. He was drenched in sweat and his breathing was panicked and raspy. Slowly he rose. His underclothes were soaked, his thin blanket was soaked, and even the small cylindrical cushion he used as a pillow was soaked. Shaking, gnarled hands touched his temples uncertainly as he tried to make sense of the night's visions. He had died so many times in them. With each new vision the scene played out differently, but the players were all the same - the Elf Queen, the Wolf, the Red Dragon, the Lion, the Changeling, the Changeling's Shadow, the Sorcerer, and a few dozen elves of both races. The Monastery had become a war zone in many of the scenarios that played out in his dream. But not all of them.

"Mother," he called out in frustration. His voice was so dry it cracked and he coughed himself into a fit. "Mother! Why do you betray me?!" he cursed. There was no response.

With a grunt, he rose. He changed his clothes into his brown priest robes, and left his private room. The dawn air was cool and damp and gave him a chill down his spine. Acolytes were already up and bustling as they lit morning fires in the common rooms. The Chapel was his first destination, and when an acolyte noticed his unusual change of routine, he hustled ahead, opened the door, and set to work lighting the chapel's fireplace. When The Father finally entered, the man was still trying fan life into the dried grass between the logs.

"Leave me!" the Father boomed and the acolyte fled for his life. The Father held onto the railings and pews to support himself along his journey to the altar. He felt the chains of his long years of life dragging him behind. His breath was heavy, the chill air had sapped what strength his night visions hadn't taken from him in the short walk to this building. He practically collapsed onto his knees before the altar - the hidden entrance to the catacombs.

It took him a moment of staring at its simplistic stone craftsmanship before he put his hands together in prayer and set to calming his breath and heart. If today was to be his death, he would spend his last moments reconciling his conscience with the universe.

****

Mid morning sun rose above tree tops. The Mischievous stood calmly in an open clearing with her blue hood pulled over her head. Her early morning discovery was a surprise, but they were not the ones The Father wanted. They were the Discarded, located too close to the Monastery and not in the region he had shown her. The stolen memories of Corella were a jumbled mess and practically useless. In the woman's last moments her only thoughts were of her daughter and her late husband, nothing useful. The Mischievous hadn't even learned why they were there helping the Elthairins. It didn't matter now. Her true kin were near, and she would rally them to their cause.

A lizard rider approached cautiously before her. Then she felt another presence behind her.

A man appeared out of thin air right next to her. He was slim, carried himself with a glorious purpose and a debonair air, as if he held the authority of a matron. His clothing was plain and a muted gray color. His long black hair ended in the middle of his back and flowed down unbraided. Its pristine condition gave her an instant disdain for his him. His magical camouflage was superior however - she hadn't detected him at all. That ability was proof of his status as a Shadowraith.

"Our good friends have sent a messenger after all this time," he chuckled as he paced around her looking her up and down. "and such a pretty one." His words were lies, she could see his disgust in his red glaring eyes. She knew she only had moments before he attacked if she did not immediately appease him. Shadowraiths were not sociable, but were notoriously murderous.

"Elthairins are attacking the source. They have enough numbers to stand a chance." She said. The Shadowraith drew a long, thin, short sword.

"When?" He said casually, disinterested.

"They are at our walls." She said.

"Thank you," He smiled. Then he thrust his sword into her gut - but found himself on his face in the dirt instead. It had happened too fast for him or his mounted comrade to register. She had turned at the last second letting it slice cleanly through the robe. Her training had showed her his movements before he made them. They also showed what he would do next. She brought her hands up and caught the reverse momentum slice that would reflexively have taken off her head had she doubled over from the pain of the attack. But she had avoided it instead. Then, twisting her whole body around the blow, she used his own movement to throw him over her shoulder and into the dirty painfully.

She buried his own blade into his leg before he could rise.

"Don't take too long," The Mischievous said and quickly retreated. No one followed after her.

She could tell by his reaction that he didn't care to save the monastery, nor did he fully comprehend what the source was or why it was important to him, he had no reason to assist them.

So she had to give them a reason to follow.

*****

Riyarra stepped through the gate with Brylen at her side. They wore the standard Leaf Knight leather uniform and kept their hands casually hidden under their cloaks. Two men in cloth vests, long baggy pants, and carrying a spear each closed the heavy doors behind them. Out of courtesy she pulled back her cloak over her shoulders. This revealed the slim Elthairin swords at her hips, but also showed her hands - and that they were casually folded before her demurely.

A fat man came to welcome them. Brylen took a step back, to give a polite distance, and to partake of his surroundings out of curiosity. Riyarra did not like the look of this man. He had an unnerving smile that bespoke a great intelligence, and a dangerous cunning. She discretely sized him up. He was too obese to be fighter, therefore if he was dangerous it came from his ability to command those around him.

"Welcome!" he practically bellowed. His voice had a high pitched, sycophant quality to it that grated on her ears. She had no reason to distrust this individual, but his demeanor was rubbing her completely the wrong way. She smiled, and stepped forward to greet him.

"I am Riyarra of Elthair," she said politely in a clear enough voice that those men that had gathered around could hear. The fat man stopped in his tracks, placed his hands together before him submissively and bowed before her. She did not let his actions break her stride as she neared. There was no reason for this gesture, they should not know who she was, so to maintain her innocent ruse she played it off as simple politeness. It would be foolish for them to reveal their hand and to show that they recognized her. This was the beginning of a dangerous game of out-bluffing the other.

"Welcome, your grace." The fat man said. "I, Silas, welcome the princess of Elthair to our humble home." She could feel Brylen tense up behind her without looking, she gave him a cold look over her shoulder to calm him. So much for facades of innocence.

"You know who I am?" She asked with a curious tilt of her head. Her hand, which was halfway extended in greeting, slowly recoiled to her side.

"Of course!" He said and slowly raised his head. "Being so close to Zecair and the neutral lands, we have had many visitors who have been looking for you. Their description was most thorough." He said with a warm smile. "I am so delighted to see you whole, and healthy. Please come in and partake of our hospitality." He stepped to the side, gestured for them to follow, and bowed his head.

Well played. Riyarra saluted him in her mind. This one would be trouble. He clearly would only reveal what he wanted her to know, and his lies would be masterfully crafted with half truths. Riyarra suddenly dreaded her actions. She hadn't the stomach for two-faced negotiations, and she feared Brylen would soon become a liability with his lack of temperament for such a dealing.

Silas led her to the larger building in the middle of the compound. It had the tallest roof, and it seemed to be the focal point which the other buildings were built around. A wooden causeway wrapped around its outer wall, providing a walkway for visitors coming from adjourning buildings. There were simple steps leading up to and from the courtyard. Silas's footfalls were heavy on the wooden planks, and he had difficulty taking these few steps up to the wooden breezeway. Riyarra fought hard to swallow her disdain for him.

Two large wooden doors were swung open from the inside by two men in blue robes - acolytes of some sort. Silas led the way into a large chamber filled with rows of wooden seats. Riyarra took a moment to appreciate its beauty. The carpentry was old, very old, but the joints were masterfully crafted to stand alone without need for mortar, brick, or additional support. Such architecture was alien to her compared to the thatched huts, and plastered walls of the human settlements she had visited in the past. Obviously this place was built by a people long gone from this land. An old man sat facing the altar in the far back of this grand room. He did not rise as they approached.

"Your Grace, may I present The Father," Silas said in an official capacity and took a respectful step backwards before graciously leaving the chapel. Riyarra almost thought he was in a hurry.

"Thank you for your courtesy Silas," Brylen said and bowed as the man passed. The fat human merely smiled, nodded instead of giving a short bow, and hurried out. The wooden doors closed behind him, and the three of them were now alone.

"Courtesy?" came the derisive sneer of the old man. His voice old and scratchy, and obviously in poor health. "'Courtesy', says He that-has-come-to-kill-us." The Father snorted. The hair on Riyarra's neck bristled. This old man, frail as he was, radiated a terrible aura of power and maliciousness. It wasn't a feeling she could say with accuracy, but only that she was suddenly overcome with an unexplainable fear of this man.

"We came to talk." Riyarra said plainly, with a hint of confusion. It was clear that these men knew more than should - a traitor had warned them? Or did they have some power?.

"You came to kill the Mother," The Father said darkly. The thought to reach for her weapons crossed her mind, but she recognized it as a reflex to the tension in the air, and instead folded her hands together as she approached the old man slowly. Brylen moved to approach, to keep her close, but she looked over her shoulder to him and shook her head against it.

"Teach me of a better path," She said as she came to sit beside the father, just as he was, with her knees tucked under her, and her hands folded in her lap. "Ultimately, my goal is peace. Peace for my people, for the Zecairins, and even yours if there is a way." The Father opened his eyes and sat up a little more straight. He considered her words for a long moment. If she had surprised him, he wasn't going to show it.

"I have seen this play out many thousands of ways," He said as events were indeed reminding him of glimpses of his visions. "Your path inevitably ends with the death of everyone you hold dear. I would console you, if my death did not precede theirs." he said snidely.

"Why do you defend this Mother so passionately?" Riyarra asked honestly.

"I don't," The Father admitted flatly. "There are more players at work than just us. Have you not considered that?" His angry, bitter tone of voice was starting to soften as they spoke, but still resided well within the realm of offense. Riyarra considered his words.

"If I offered you our protection?" she said trying to woo him over.

"Hmph! You would die before me." he snorted. But her attempt to find a solution softened his contempt some.

"If we struck first?"she said mimicking his hushed tone of voice. He had revealed a clue - he was in as much danger from whomever this Mother was.

"I have already prepared for that. If you strike first, you, Princess Riyarra will die first, then your troops hiding under the walls would follow, along with the curious Zeks that have snuck in. Last night I sent a messenger to summon Shadowraiths to deal with your troops in the woods. They die last of all." Riyarra tried her best not to panic. This was an ambush, and she had been trapped. She wanted to look over her shoulder to Brylen to try and send him some signal for the retreat tactic.

"If you try and escape now, you'll be captured and beheaded." He said with a hint of sadness. "Unfortunately, you and I are both destined to die today. Of all the thousands of paths this day would play out, I saw no good end for us."

She denied his words. Whoever this Father was, he could not possibly know the future. No, Mule... Liam had shown her that destiny was not written in stone. Whatever his foresight powers were, they may be accurate to some degree, but if they had gone through thousands of variations, then the future was not a set course. One just needed to find the right action to change it.

"Did you send Liam to free me?" she asked, gambling that everything he had said this far was true. The Father cackled sarcastically.

"I sent him to see you captured, raped, and tortured by Zeks." The Father replied. Riyarra steeled her heart as his words hit home.

"Why did he free me? Was that in your visions?"

The Father did not answer right away.

"No," he admitted. "My visions have always only involved my future. Liam was in them, however. He is locked in the sweat box if you want to see him before you die." he offered in consolation. Riyarra didn't take the bait. She merely looked at the alter as her mind frantically tried to find a solution out of this trap. "In my visions, he breaks free when they cut off your head and avenges your death upon his brothers. He is killed by Rasj the Red when your people attack. Eventually, all of your soldiers die, along with all of ours when the Shadowraiths come." Something about his vision unnerved her. It didn't seem to fit her expectations for the day, and certainly did not coincide with how their discussion was going. It seemed more of an attempt to intimidate her.

"You saw Zecairins killing Elthairins?" she asked carefully. She may have a secret yet.

"As well as Zecairins killing other Zecairins that seemed to have mysteriously wandered into the middle of a bloodbath."

"Are you telling me all this, in the hope that I can change it?" She asked with a shaky voice. Her worst fears were coming true, and what was more unnerving was how calmly he was telling her all of this. Everyone? Dead? No... She couldn't accept it.

"Why would I do that?" he snorted. "No, I tell you so that you can spend these last moments praying to your gods."