Author’s Note: this story is dedicated to Colleen Thomas, whose works inspired my forays into erotic fiction. I never had the opportunity to work with her in person, so I hope that I can do her memory justice in this work.
“The Bladesinger is the sublime fusion of innate elven artistry and her deadly skill with the blade. She spurns the intricacies of sorcery, politics and religion and lives to perfect the union between herself and her weapon. She is the unblinkingly vigilant protectress of her people and her art is much feared by the foes of the Quessir [elves]. She is noble, gallant and chivalrous, so that even the coyest elven maiden wishes fervently to press a freshly plucked orchid against her breast in exchange for a soul-burning kiss…”
- Travelogues of the Elven Ways
Imej
Scented water dripped down the garden wall. Thin rivulets glistened in the late-afternoon sun, flushing the mossy white stone with a rich, orange glow. A cool breeze drew in from the mountains across the gilded spires of the Grey Elven city of Imej. Light and air combined in the skies, casting a radiant mantle over the tall, fluted towers which dominated the skyline. All, but the subtle rushing of water, was silent.
The garden sat upon a veranda that overlooked mighty, ice-bound peaks whose rocky forms occasionally jutted like a dragon's spines - hard, black granite thrust from the shimmering blue ice. Imej, however, remained pleasantly cool. The city had been a controlled environment for aeons, a refuge for the studious, artistic race of Grey Elves who, over the course of countless generations, had erected an architectural marvel wrought from gold, rock and the greatest magicks ever woven. So now, even in the icebound Season of the Mother's Sleep, nothing but the pleasantly bracing chill of cool mountain air swept across the pristine gardens and narrow waterways of Imej.
Yssinel lay pensively on her divan, an ancient tome with silver bindings held aloft before her, levitated with a simple enchantment. Concentration had not come easily to her in her family's library, so she had relocated to the garden, hoping to catch the last rays of natural sunlight. She found she studied much better surrounded by nature. Yet the rows of perpetually blooming, multi-chrome flowers which sprouted freely, unheeding any design, at the base of slender ornamental trees brought no comfort.
So she snapped the book shut with a wordless mental command and set it down on the cherry-wood table by the divan. Yssinel had studied to become an Enchantress because she had no intention of becoming a manuscript illuminator like her mother. At times, she could not help but regret that choice. Even if her studies at the Tower of Enchantment had impressed all of her tutors, she still sometimes despaired at the sheer volume of magical knowledge that was still out there, waiting to be learnt. Now, little more than a year after completing her studies, the anxiety of a vast, mysterious and endlessly fascinating world still beckoned.
Modesty aside, though, Yssinel knew she looked every bit the part. Even by the notoriously exacting standards of Grey Elven aesthetics, few even compared to her in beauty. A flawless, elfin frame with smooth, pearly skin was complemented by the most graceful, subtly curved femininity. Her breasts were small, but sublimely formed and taut, like a tyaelh tulip bud, her hips elegantly flared under the gossamer fabric of her thin, silvery robe. Yet it was her visage that was most striking: fine-boned, with elegant, turquoise-blue almond eyes, framed by magnificent gold and silver lashes. Long tresses of polished gold and shimmering, metallic silver cascaded down her shoulders and over the white and blue silk upholstery of the divan. As was Grey Elven custom, Yssinel's hair was arranged in a carefully-judged pattern of thin braids and free-falling locks. Such beauty was truly fitting for an Enchantress.
But, as with all magical disciplines, time and patience were required. As an elf, Yssinel had time in abundance. Patience was another matter entirely.
"Finished already?" a familiar voice called from the garden's vine-woven entrance.
"For today, yes." Yssinel replied. She composed herself a little on the divan, but decided not to turn around. A little coyness always did wonders in courtship. "Have you returned victorious?"
"Naturally. I won in three straight duels. I fear there may not be much competition left in Imej, so I thought of applying for the tourney of the festival of Corellon Larethian." Soft bootsteps approached Yssinel.
"Always leaping to the next challenge, my dear?" Yssinel purred, shifting slightly in the divan. She could smell the faintest trace of fine, elven steel amidst the rich, flowery perfume of the garden. Her pulse quickened slightly. All of a sudden, the silk beneath her felt deliciously sensual under her bare feet, as did fabric of the robe that pooled between her thighs. "Come, greet me, Tahllea."
Yssinel felt a slender, but strong hand on her shoulder and soft, light pink lips pressing against hers. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of crushed silk, subtle perfume and metal. She suppressed an involuntary shudder, before opening her eyes once more to see her suitor smiling, sitting on the side of the divan by her side.
"My gallant heroine." Yssinel breathed softly. There was no other way to describe Tahllea. She was tall for an elf, with a wiry, athletic build which set her aside from the soft, almost waifish physique of a Grey Elven woman. But Tahllea was a High Elf, orphaned as a child and raised in Imej, she had always refused to fully submit to Grey Elven notions of propriety. So she had become a blademistress in a society where only low-born women ever took up the sword or bow.
But it was Tahllea's originality that made her so charismatic. She had a fiery, handsome countenance, with pale, noble features and vivid eyes the colour of burnished gold. Tahllea's latest provocation was styling her shoulder-length black hair in curls and ringlets, in defiance of elven styles and in imitation of a famous human anti-heroine she had once read about in an illustrated epic from off-world. Yet there was not a single woman or girl in Imej, no matter how traditionalist, who did not swoon at the sight of Tahllea striding haughtily through Imej's orderly, cobbled streets in her high-necked fencer's shirt and form-fitting brown doeskin breeches. That afternoon, Tahllea wore her snow-white shirt open, so that the shifting of the cool mountain breeze revealed the rounded curves of small, but perfectly proportioned breasts.
"Is something on your mind, Shannaeliia?" Tahllea inquired, lovingly running her long, dextrous fingers through Yssinel's silky hair.
Yssinel smiled to herself. Tahllea had always preferred calling her by her child-name. It indicated that they had grown up together and, amongst Grey Elven women, there was no greater term of endearment. The only problem was that Yssinel had never liked the name she had been given as a child: Shannaeliia was simply a diminutive of the Grey Elven word for 'electrum', a reference to her hair.
"There is always something on my mind, my dear." Yssinel said, shifting her head to let a few strands of hair fall back to reveal her delicately pointed ear. She very much enjoyed being a teasing flirt. "Enchantresses and sorceresses, by definition, are always thinking."
"And Bladesingers don't?" Tahllea probed, feigning offence.
"Will you ever lay that sensitivity of yours aside? You chose to dedicate yourself to the art of the blade, just as I have to the arcane - there is no shame in that." Yssinel spoke that phrase for what seemed like the thousandth time.
"My adoptive father always wanted me to attend an Academy of magic, but his bonded lover was more understanding. He encouraged me to be the gardener of my own soul. I remain torn, because I do not want to disappoint either of the two men who raised me." Tahllea continued to caress Yssinel's hair, but her gaze was lost in the distance, fixed on the mighty peaks which sprung before her like giants clad in icy platemail.
"I know." Yssinel nodded apologetically. "But this is a rather strange time. It has been some days now that I can't concentrate on my research."
"Aerylle?" Tahllea ventured, swiftly returning her gaze to Yssinel.
"Yes."
"Time hurries on and I, too, have missed her terribly. I would love to see her again, then the old group would once more be complete." Tahllea said wistfully.
"She always mentioned how much she missed Imej in her letters, but now that she has found a bonded lover, I suspect that even if she does come back, it will not be permanent."
"Do you often think about her?" Tahllea pressed, trailing her fingers down the flimsy fabric of Yssinel's robe until she reached that magical juncture where the fabric split apart, revealing the pristine whiteness of the Enchantress' thigh.
"Often, yes." Yssinel admitted. "But we wrote to each other regularly...and copiously. She seemed very happy to hear that you had finally decided to court me. She almost sounded relieved."
"Was I that transparent?" Tahllea sighed.
"By Grey Elven standards, yes. But I certainly cannot blame you." Yssinel did not so much consider herself arrogant as aware of her talents. "Anyway, it appears that Aerylle's broken new ground, yet again. Her bonded lover is a tiefling."
"You told me." Tahllea nodded pensively. She still could not quite grasp what a tiefling - the product of the union between a mortal and a demon - could look like. "I suppose I'm somewhat curious myself, but I take it that curiosity isn't the only thing on your mind."
"Jealousy is a vice, my dear." Yssinel chided, even as she felt a spark of electricity shoot up her spine as Tahllea's expert finger tips traced a long, sinuous line down her leg.
"You and I both know this is a delicate moment." the Bladesinger retorted, more sharply than she had wanted. But elven courtesy could not hide the fact that she still had deep insecurities about her courtship of Yssinel. Their relationship had been hovering in the nuanced gap between close friendship and romance, but that, as far as most Grey Elves were concerned, was perfectly normal and even desirable. There was no use in rushing the reasons of the heart.
"Your fears are unfounded." Yssinel whispered reassuringly. "Aerylle has already found her love. To be sure, I have always wished to make love to her, but as a friend and not as a bonded lover."
That eased Tahllea's nerves. But she was left with the lingering doubt of being a second choice. The very fact that Aerylle had once refused Yssinel's advances was suspicious: only those who wished for a deeper, long-term relationship turned down noncommittal sensuality between friends.
"Now, enough of that," Yssinel said, sitting up in the divan and breaking Tahllea's brooding silence. "How about a drink and some tidbits before dinner?" The Enchantress smiled alluringly. Her eyes were hypnotic, drawing Tahllea into a world of gloriously understated sensuousness.
"I thought you'd never ask." Tahllea joked, teasingly running her fingers down Yssinel's ankle, lightly tickling just enough to make the Enchantress squirm. "Ceremonial duelling always works up an appetite."
"Hmm...?" Yssinel smiled, this time suggestively, trailing her delicate foot, adorned only with a single platinum anklet shaped like a garland of roses, up the pristine fabric of Tahllea's fencing shirt. "Your appetite for what exactly?"
"Always the brazen one, hmm?" Tahllea said, swiftly suppressing the knot of passion forming in her throat. Yssinel's movements had caused the Enchantress' robe to slip to one side and slide down her thighs. Tahllea felt her sex tighten and her blood quicken at the thought of the plump, silky mound nestled between those perfect thighs.
"If you wanted a frumpy lover, you could always have chosen a Diviner...but court an Enchantress and, my dear Kyrithi, you know exactly what you get." Tahllea's child-name was, appropriately enough, almost martial. Kyrithi was simply an affectionate form for the mythical sword of Corellon Larethian - the creator god of the elves.
"And not once have I regretted it." Tahllea breathed reverently. "Now, if you would excuse me, I'm hardly presentable. I should wash and change before dinner."
"As you wish, my treasure." Yssinel said, a little disappointed. There was something in the smell of steel and leather on Tahllea's skin after her duels that turned the blood pulsing in her veins to fire.
"Or...I could stay here by my beloved's side." Tahllea ventured, sensing Yssinel's desire.
"Excellent idea. A sorceress always feels naked without a gallant warrior to defend her." Yssinel measured each word to ensure that Tahllea understood exactly what she had in mind for the evening's entertainment. "Mjrina!" the Enchantress called, mentally commanding a silvery bell by the garden's entrance to chime melodiously with her summons.
In an instant, a slender Wood Elf, clad only in a simple green shift padded to Yssinel's side, her moss-green hair streaked with oak-brown highlights clinging like tendrils of verdant vegetation to her soft, innocently beautiful features. She was little more than a girl, yet moved with languid grace, her thighs and belly firm from years spent running in the forest. But that was most appropriate, for she exuded a rich, sylvan vitality: her skin was a lustrous woodland tan, her eyes green like the forest, her breasts firm, yet larger and more rounded than those of a Grey Elf. "You called, Mistress." Mjrina whispered, her eyes respectfully lowered to the garden's dewy floor as she curtsied her greeting.
"Be so kind as to fetch us a bottle of spiced wine and some crystallised fruit." Yssinel ordered, her voice musical and airy.
"With pleasure, Mistress," Mjrina replied softly, with the lilting tones of her Wood Elven accent that reminded Yssinel of a silver wind-chime. "I take it that Milady Tahllea will be staying the night. I shall prepare a bath and the bed for two."
"You see, Kyrithi," Yssinel remarked, languidly trailing her legs around Tahllea's narrow waist, letting her robe pool in a cascade of gossamer pleats over the sides of the couch. "Mjrina here is making excellent progress as my handmaiden. Alert, efficient and discreet. I could ask for little more."
"Mistress..." Mjrina breathed, as demurely as possible. Yssinel was, on balance, a kind, tolerant and even loving mistress who treated her more like a friend than a servant, but it was always best to be respectful to a fault. It was considered bad form for a Wood Elf to speak to a Grey Elf without first having been spoken to.
"Yes, Mjrina?" the Enchantress replied, half-distracted by Tahllea's maddeningly swift hand riding under the fabric of her robe to press against the smooth, pale skin beneath.
"Is it your desire that I attend to you and Milady Tahllea this evening?"
"Good question," Yssinel sighed, shivering in anticipation as Tahllea's fingers crept up her thigh. The Bladesinger's touch was electric, trailing like a live current under Yssinel's robe, before coming to rest maliciously on the taut, alabaster curves of her bottom. "What does Milady Tahllea say?"
"Well..." Tahllea purred, her heartbeat quickening. She felt heat and moisture temptingly close to her fingers. She leaned forward on the divan and kissed the delicate point of Yssinel's ear. The Enchantress shuddered at the sudden surge of desire in her loins. "Last week you had to study and this week, I was engaged in the duelling tournament; perhaps this evening we could have some time to ourselves."
"So, Mjrina," Yssinel said, her breathing quickening with every passing moment. "You may retire early tonight, but make sure the bedroom is in adequate condition to receive Milady Tahllea and notify the cook that breakfast tomorrow should be for two."
Mjrina nodded, curtsied and left as soundlessly as she had come.
***
Temple of the Order of the Radiant Path
The corridor seemed endless. From the beginning to the end, it was stony, cold, unyielding - hewn from dry, grey rock. A single window let in suffused light, but that was all. As far as Sigrid was concerned, there could as well have been no light at all. Nothing in her life had ever worked out especially well. The day she had been born, her father had taken one look at her otherworldly features and renounced her on the spot. Her mother had made her live with that stigma for twelve years of her life until finally unloading her onto the tender mercies of the Order of the Radiant Path of the Vigilant Maiden. There, she was to train to become a paladin of a mighty warrior-Goddess. At least that had been the plan. Sigrid, however, had never taken too well to military discipline or, indeed, to life in the company of others.
So she found herself: swept under the carpet by her mother, despised by her room-mates and constantly, despite her best judgement, in trouble with senior priestesses and paladins. Not that it was her fault. Naturally, in Sigrid's mind, it was all a matter of jealousy. The other novices were jealous of her beauty, of her talent and of her celestial heritage - for Sigrid was no ordinary mortal. She was an aasimar and angelic blood flowed in her veins, though, in truth, that did little to help her when she was being pounded into the dust of the fencing yard by a stronger novice's wooden practice sword.
"Sigrid!" a thundering growl rolled out from the room in front of her. "Come in." That last invitation was softer, with a dangerous, sadistic edge to it.
Sigrid swallowed and clenched her fists. She took a deep breath and inhaled the musty, mineral air of the corridor. Her palms were damp with sweat. She wiped them on the side of her white and blue tunic and mentally bade her knees to stop shaking.
"Sigrid!"
"Yes, Reverend Sister." Sigrid murmured apologetically, throwing all caution to the wind and sliding the door open.
Vice-Commander Isobel was imposing, more so than usual. A head taller than most men, her physique was lean and powerful. Her short-cropped hair was the colour of blood and she always insisted on wearing her shimmering breastplate indoors, giving her the appearance of some terrible, martial goddess. Isobel's room was predictably spartan: with nothing but a simple writing desk, washbasin and bed to furnish it.
Sigrid trembled, eyes downcast, in the doorway, fearful of taking even another step into what she knew was going to be certain - and painful - punishment.
"Enter, girl, and shut the door!" Isobel snapped. She had every intention of settling the matter as quickly as possible. She had to deal with a new shipment of arrows for the armoury, an activity that required much pedantry and paperwork. The prospect of an afternoon wasted on itemising the inventory had rendered Isobel's disposition even more truculent than usual.
"Yes, Reverend Sister." Sigrid whispered weakly. She took a wary step in, shut the door and knelt before the Vice-Commander, carefully scrutinising the cracks in the floor's stonework to take her mind off the terror she felt welling inside her.
"So explain, girl, why exactly I have to waste my time dealing with yet more disciplinary matters?" Isobel thundered, striding over to Sigrid.
"I..." Sigrid began, before deciding to take another deep breath to still the nervous throbbing of her heart. "I...may have...uhm, used some inappropriate language in addressing a superior, Reverend Sister." Her fencing instructor, Syf, had deserved it. There were only so many repetitions of the words 'useless weakling' she could take.
"Really?" Isobel said contemptuously. "And what might you have said?"
Sigrid gritted her teeth in desperation. "I...uhm, perhaps...Reverend Sister, I don't think I'd like to repeat it."
"No matter." Isobel said, suddenly seizing hold of Sigrid's hair and forcing the novice to look her in the eye. "You are a third year novice, correct? Well, to my knowledge, in those three years you have been responsible for impudence, neglect of duties and petty theft on a truly epic scale. Now, I may be slightly old-fashioned, Sigrid, but you have shown yourself to be the opposite of everything that is required of a paladin." Isobel's steely, blue-eyed gaze seared itself into Sigrid's fearful soul.
"Reverend Sister..." Sigrid whimpered desperately, not even daring to resist the iron-hard grip of Isobel's hand on her hair.
"What?"
"I'm trying to be a good novice and do honour to the Blessed Maiden, but..."
"But you don't exactly have the undying loyalty of your fellow novices to count on. I know." Isobel released her grip and allowed Sigrid to compose herself. The girl had backbone. Few third year novices did anything but grovel apologies in her presence. At least Sigrid had managed to string together a coherent sentence. But Sigrid was a striking character, not least because of her appearance. Athletic and possessed with elfin grace, Sigrid was clearly not quite human. Her moonlight-pale skin, violet eyes and delicate, fae-like features set her aside from the tall, blonde Ortho human girls who made up the bulk of the Order's intake of novices. Isobel remembered that when Sigrid had first come to the Order, she had done her utmost to keep her short, naturally dark indigo hair in such a way that her pointed ears did not betray her ancestry.
"We don't exactly get along." Sigrid ventured, gaining a little confidence. Still, she did not dare raise her eyes to meet Isobel's gaze.
"Listen, girl," Isobel snapped, extending a long, accusing finger in Sigrid's direction. "Your sisters-at-arms will be your life, whether you like them or not. Even before you can consider being Consecrated as a paladin, you will have to learn to work with others. Now it occurs to me that an arrogant little slattern like you doubtless thinks she is the most talented and most sought after novice in the Order. I can tell you now that you are neither. Humility is a virtue and the Blessed Maiden demands it of all Her novices. I don't care if you are an aasimar - that you have celestial blood. Nothing in this Order is won by birthright, which is why we only accept the most talented girls as novices, not the wealthiest or the highest-born."
"I know that what I am makes me closer to the Blessed Maiden." Sigrid hissed, before she could stop herself.
Isobel's slap caught her unprepared. The sheer strength of the blow sent Sigrid sprawling on the floor. She tasted metal in her mouth and felt something hot and viscous pour from her nose onto her lips. There was no pain, for the left side of her face was numb.
"What you are," Isobel said matter-of-factly as Sigrid scrambled back to her knees, angrily blinking back her tears. "Is Fate. The Goddess is indifferent as to your form. Her only concern is your substance." The Vice-Commander paused and saw something in Sigrid: there was strength in that angry, defiant gaze. Her features were still soft, like a girl, but there was something akin to a lambent fearie fire in those violet eyes that told Isobel that Sigrid might just be worth her time of day. "I'm told you are inept in fencing practice. Explain yourself." the Vice-Commander probed.
"Longswords and broadswords are cumbersome." Sigrid replied flatly, hastily wiping the back of her hand over her nose and mouth. Live, coppery blood trickled down her wrist.
"But, I am also told that you are the best forward in Schalssucht." The contradiction intrigued Isobel. Schalssucht was an Ortho field game which required excellent coordination with the playing-stick to manoeuvre the ball into the net. Since it was considered ideal preparatory training for fencing, the best players were normally the best fighters.
"Yes, it's the only time I'm popular with my room-mates." Sigrid quipped wryly.
"Something tells me," Isobel said pensively as she turned and strode over to her desk. "That you don't need brute strength to power your way through the opposing team's defence in Schalssucht. Something tells me you know exactly where the defenders will be without having to look up from your stick..." With that, Isobel seized a dense, heavy black rubber ball from the top drawer in her desk and cast it, as hard as he could, in Sigrid's direction.
The ball bounced once, hard, against the floor and skidded towards the ceiling. Sigrid's hand was there to catch it in mid-flight. The girl was still kneeling, her eyes fixed to the ground, but with the ball triumphantly in her slender, and rapidly reddening, hand. "Did you know where it was?" Isobel inquired, nodding in grudging approval.
"Yes." Sigrid whispered. "I heard it and I felt the air stir around it."
"Very well. So now listen to my proposition. On your feet!" Sigrid complied, unsteadily, still clutching the ball in her stinging hand. The pain was sharp, but it felt like victory.
"A number of conservative colleagues of mine," Isobel continued, "have been searching for a reason to dismiss you from the Order. Nevertheless, I shall provide you with an opportunity to redeem yourself and show your worth. The conditions are simple: you will take such weapons and equipment as you see fit from the armoury and take the first portal out of this city and into another Plane of existence. When you feel ready to report back, you will return and bear witness to what you have done, so that I may judge whether or not you are worthy to remain in the Order."
"But..." Sigrid began nervously. The offer was appealing, but sounded fiendishly difficult. A planar portal could bring her to any dimension of existence, even a blasted hellscape, populated only by demons. Granted, paladins were infused by the power of their divinity to push back the hordes of evil, but Sigrid was hardly the fully-formed heroine she often dreamed of becoming.
"It will be dangerous, though I shall select a world for you that is not too inhospitable. To order a novice into a dangerous situation would be irresponsible, so I shall give you this choice: go out and prove yourself or remain here at the Order. I have chosen to give you this opportunity because I feel that you have much untapped talent. Since we at the Order have been incapable of coaxing this talent out of you, the only solution is to put you in such a situation where your talent, like the fire of your soul, will shine with its own light."
Sigrid felt fire rushing in her veins. It was not fear, but something more visceral still. If she stayed, she knew that one or two more infractions would be more than enough of a pretext for her expulsion. In the end, there was no other choice but to seek out her destiny, rather than languish in the Order.
"I'll go." Sigrid declared.
"A wise choice. You leave this evening." Isobel concluded curtly. Perhaps others would judge her as cruel for forcing such an ordeal on Sigrid, but Isobel was convinced that it was high time for the girl to become a woman and a paladin. The hardest metal was, after all, forged by fire.
"Yes, Reverend Sister." The die had been cast.
***
A brave new world
Sigrid stumbled through thick vegetation, leaves covered with dew, ferns still musty with the smell of damp earth. The instant she had stepped through the shimmering gate from the Temple of the Radiant Path into unseen lands, she knew that she went out to face herself. She told herself that she would have to master all her weaknesses to prosper and return triumphant to Isobel. The very fact that the quest was open-ended, however, filled Sigrid's soul with nagging doubt. What could it be that Isobel wanted her to learn, to become?
Whatever the new world was, it seemed profoundly strange. Sigrid had grown up amidst cobblestones and smoke-darkened bricks in a vast, sprawling city, yet this world was awash with life. Vast trees with gnarled trunks extended into the distance, their branches so high that Sigrid felt as though she were walking under the arms of giants. The undergrowth was rich, laden with moss and thick shrubs bearing alien blossoms and strange fruit. A stream of water hummed in the distance.
In that moment, making her way cautiously over the slippery forest floor, Sigrid felt grateful that she had not chosen to bring armour. She preferred ease of movement, so she had ventured forth with only her only her tunic, rapier and dagger. Her main concern was to reach some form of civilisation - anywhere she could find supplies and, perhaps, employment while she mulled over what to do next.
- Perhaps there is no 'next' - Sigrid thought - suppose I just disappeared, and never returned -. The idea was tempting. She had no real desire to return to the jeers and humiliation of life at the Order. It was as though all the other novices reserved their cruellest quips for Sigrid, so that she had no option but to lash out in turn. But such had been her lot in life - even if she had never gone to the Order, her odious stepsister would have been more than willing to supply the abuse.
Stumbling into a clearing, Sigrid could hear the water rush closer. She could almost hear each individual droplet hammer against rocks hewn so smooth they could have been mirrors. Light filtered through the canopy of the mighty trees, flooding the forest floor with a bluish tint. Dawn had come but recently. Sigrid followed her sensitive ears to the singing water. She did not know how long she had been trekking since passing through the gate, but she already felt a heavy weariness in her limbs. The terrain was difficult and a drink of water would do her good.
A flock of birds, whose silhouettes Sigrid had to squint to see in the rapidly brightening sunlight, flapped frantically through the forest canopy, breaking the silence. Sigrid pressed on, her boots crunching wetly into a forest floor studded with pine needles and damp earth. By the time she reached the stream, the sun had fully risen - a great disk of deep, golden light filling the cloudless sky with an ethereal gleam. This was no sky Sigrid had ever seen, yet the air and the land seemed strangely familiar, as if they echoed something that had always been in her subconscious.
As she drew closer to the riverbank, Sigrid saw that the forest sloped downwards. The crystalline water, so pure and cold with misty spray that it seemed to shimmer like a jewel in the light of the dawn, flowed downwards. Sigrid imagined that she was on the slope of a hill, perhaps even a mountain, and resolved to proceed to the valleys below. Civilisation always flourished at the convergence between valleys and rivers.
In that moment, though, all Sigrid could think of was immersing herself in that cold, mountain current. So she gingerly approached the stony bank, slipped out of her boots and dipped her feet into the icy water. The sensation of relief on her tired skin was immediate and divine. Slipping closer to the stream, Sigrid rinsed her face and lay back, sprawled on the bank, gazing at the sky, absentmindedly kicking her bare feet in the water. If only she had been less hungry, she could have revelled in the soothing sensation of cold, clear droplets drying on her face.
Her dreams of food - in her mind she saw something sweet and unctuous, like a warm saffron syrup pie - were suddenly interrupted by a presence on the opposite side of the riverbank. Sigrid sat up and saw a slender, figure peering at her from a rocky outcropping. It was almost certainly an elf - a young maiden, clad in a loose, green travelling gown that reached down to her knees and with an exquisitely woven wicker basket by her side. Such hair Sigrid had never seen on an elf: forest green, flowing down the maiden's shoulders, framing a smiling, curious face and soft, rounded breasts.
Sigrid took a silent breath and drew in the mineral-scented moisture of the river's spray. The elven maiden was a vision of rare beauty - her smile so radiant that it took the young novice's breath away. Sigrid rose, very slowly, to her feet. She was careful not to startle the girl with sudden movements. Freezing water rushed around her knees, but she did not care to move. Her eyes were riveted on that curious smile, on those emerald-green, almond eyes.
The elven maiden drew closer, her hips swaying ever so subtly with each step. Although she only wore a pair of flimsy sandals, her movements were expert, as if she were gliding over the terrain. Sigrid felt dry tension forming in her throat. A tingling spark of trepidation and excitement coursed up her spine.
When the elf finally reached the riverbank, she paused, clutching the wide-brimmed basket in her arms. In it, Sigrid saw dozens of ruby-red blossoms. Pausing, the elven maiden nodded timidly in greeting. Sigrid was just about to take yet another step forward when she noted a slight rustling in the leaves in a shrub behind the elf. Something was amiss.
As inconspicuously as she could, Sigrid raised a hand, motioning the elven girl to lower herself. There was something behind her, Sigrid was certain of it. The smell and sensation of the air had changed. With a perplexed look on her face, the elf whispered something in her own language. Before she realised she could not understand Elven, Sigrid had replied in a fierce whisper.
The elven maiden paused, staring curiously at the stranger, before proceeding to very slowly lower herself into a crouching position. Sigrid saw the shrub move again. It was now or never. She leapt back and dashed for the rapier she had left on her side of the river. As soon as her sudden motion had been detected, something powerful and monstrous broke through the ground from the behind the shrub. Earth, stones and vegetation erupted in all directions.
Sigrid swiftly drew her rapier, its steely blade shimmering in the early morning sun. The smell of steel filled her nostrils as she lunged forward, traversing the river in five long steps and pouncing to the elven girl's side. As the dust cleared, Sigrid could make out the form of a vast and bloated insect, the size of a horse with wickedly curved mandibles and a verdigris-coloured carapace.
A single crushing pincer thrust forward in Sigrid's direction. It was all too easy, the insect was too predictable as the aasimar ducked out of the way and lunged forward. She instinctively knew the creature's technique after observing it for but a few moments, so that when it hissed and lunged with its steel-sharp mandibles, Sigrid banked left to avoid the attack and thrust her rapier to counterattack, catching the beast at the juncture between two of its carapace plates.
The creature gave a low, guttural hiss and thrashed its massive body to one side, yellow ichor dripping from its wound. Sigrid had already moved on, flanking around the insect, before lunging again, striking her surprised foe once more at the base of its mandibles. More foul-smelling ichor ensued, flooding the moss beneath. The insect's spindly legs flailed wildly as it desperately sought to extricate itself from the agonising edge of Sigrid's blade.
As it felt the cold steel finally slip from its viscera, the great insect reared up and sought its vengeance. In a long, arching lunge, it thrust down towards Sigrid, only to find its mandibles clutching thick rock and soil where the aasimar had been. Sigrid effortlessly dodged the attack, and back-pedalled to one side, before striking out once more, this time thrusting the humming steel of her rapier deep into the gargantuan insect's beaded, composite eye. More ichor burst forth, followed by spasmodic trembling. Then, the insect finally lay motionless, its wounds still trickling out bile-stinking fluid.
Sigrid withdrew her rapier from the insect's carcass. Her heart pulsed in her chest, her mind felt faint, as if the last few instants had been a distant dream. It was the first time she had killed anything remotely dangerous in her life and it had come so naturally. Her rapier's pommel had felt so right in her hand, as if it had belonged there.
"What in the Goddess' name was that?" Sigrid whispered to herself.
"An ankheg...silly me, I should have recognised its trail."
Sigrid whipped around to meet that soft, musical voice that seemed to fuse perfectly with the singing of the river behind her. "You speak my language?" the novice said incredulously.
"Why is it so odd?" the elf replied. "You speak mine."
"Do I?" Sigrid paused and heard the sound of her own voice. It was strangely different - the images, thoughts and words she had formed in her head were the same, but when the time came to vocalise them, the sound was new, yet strangely familiar.
"And very well, too." the elf said, smiling demurely. "Many thanks, milady, an ankheg is always a dangerous foe. I'm in your debt."
"My pleasure." Sigrid replied with brash confidence. "It's a paladin's duty to come to the aid of those in need - no creature of evil is a match for my blade."
The elven maiden blushed and quickly averted her gaze as she felt Sigrid's admiring eyes on her. The attention of that dashing, mysterious stranger flattered her. "My name is Mjrina," the elf said with a quick curtsy. "If I may ask, what brings a gallant lady-knight such as yourself to these lands?"
"Oh..." Sigrid's mind scrambled for a plausible - and dignified - answer. "I am on a quest. I have no fixed abode, but wander the world seeking to right wrongs. A knight-errant, if you will, and my name is Sigrid."
"An honour, Lady Sigrid." Mjrina said, even if she could not help but wonder what exactly Sigrid was and where she had come from. "Apologies if I indisposed you with my recklessness, but I was here in the Vale of Serennessi to collect Flame Hibiscus blossoms for my Mistress."
"Your mistress?"
"Yes, she is an Enchantress and lives in the city of Imej, high in the mountains." Mjrina explained.
"Would you bring me to her?" Sigrid asked.
"Of course," Mjrina said with a light giggle. "I'm certain she would be happy to reward the fair warrior who rescued her handmaiden."
"Although it's my policy to act only from the goodness of my heart and the resolve of my faith," Sigrid said grandiloquently, desperately searching for the most formal terms to give her act more dramatic weight. "I would be honoured to meet your mistress."
"Very well, Lady Sigrid." Mjrina said, subtly shifting back a few locks of verdant green hair to reveal the barest hint of a pointed ear. "Please, follow me."
"Sigrid..." the novice said, forcing herself to overcome the sudden surge of fire in her chest."Just Sigrid will do." She rushed back across the river to slip her boots back on, before returning to Mjrina's side. Fate was finally being kind to her. After little more than a few hours on a brave new world, a sensuously beautiful elven maiden was already flirting with her. The irony, Sigrid was certain, would not have been lost on Isobel.
"If I may say so, Sigrid," Mjrina began amiably as she clasped her basket of flowers firmly in her arms and began to make her way back into the forest. "Your fencing style is most similar to that of the elven Bladesingers - for you fight with no armour and with a grace that a dancer would envy."
Sigrid swallowed. Mjrina's voice seemed to be in rhythm with the sway of her hips. The accursed elven maiden was not wearing any undergarments, so that whenever she moved, Sigrid could see the glorious curve of her woodland-tan bottom, firm and alluring under the material of her gown. Then, whenever Mjrina turned around, that sweetly innocent smile drawn across her wine-red lips, Sigrid found her gaze riveted on those wonderful, green eyes, vivid as gemstones and framed by long, elegant lashes. Lower still was the swell of Mjrina's breasts, the light brown nipples that so teasingly poked through the fabric of her gown, the exposed curves of those rounded globes as they swayed ever so gently with every step the Wood Elf took.
"Ah...Sigrid..." Mjrina whispered, interrupting the aasimar's silent contemplation.
"Oh, yes...yes," Sigrid replied, smiling nervously. "No, I'm not a Bladesinger, my style is my own and I'm still in the process of refining it, but, modesty aside, it's served me pretty well so far." That, Sigrid noted ruefully, along with her name, was probably the only honest thing she had said to Mjrina. Lies, however, were sometimes necessary. Sigrid knew the ways of the world: beautiful elven maidens never fell in love with third year novices on punishment detail.
"Whatever your style is, it was most impressive. Perhaps you could even measure up to Lady Tahllea. How I would adore such a duel," Mjrina mused dreamily, expertly sidestepping rocks and woody stumps while Sigrid stumbled through the undergrowth behind her. "I think my Mistress would love it, too. When I first came to Imej - I feared swords, for my people, the Wood Elves, never use metal. We consider it an offence to the Forest Mother. But Lady Tahllea showed me such artistry with the blade that I now see it like a painter's brush, constantly unfolding new worlds and new realms of beauty with each stroke." Privately, Mjrina hated herself for moronically repeating one of Yssinel's learned comments about the art of fencing, but it was as good a way as any to keep up conversation. That and Mjrina knew enough about the world to understand that swashbuckling swordswomen never fell in love with humble serving-girls.
"Yes...exactly." Sigrid said evasively. It was hard enough to keep up with Mjrina's pace, but the Wood Elven girl seemed to be one with the forest. She instinctively knew the path just by following it, so that they had made their ascent rapidly. Soon, the bubbling stream was but a distant memory and, in the distance, Sigrid began to see mighty gold and ivory spires of Imej tower above even the mighty trees.
The trail grew easier even as the mountain air became thinner, fresher and inebriating. Sigrid privately made a note to herself to find a library as soon as possible and cram in as much knowledge about Elven bladecraft and etiquette as possible before she seriously embarrassed herself. She was fortunate enough, by some unknown agency, to speak a version of Elven, so she counted quite heavily on being able to read it as well.
Yet, as the pair drew closer to the great, gold-inlaid hardwood gates of Imej, with its shimmering shield of magical energy that covered the great city in a protective dome, Sigrid could not help but think that things were beginning to look very interesting indeed.
***
Imej
What struck Sigrid most about Imej was its sheer verticality. The moment she stepped within the city gates, she was greeted by a great crowd of gleaming, slender towers that jutted elegantly into the sky - a shimmering grassland of marvellous architecture. Yet there was no brashness or bustle to the city, only quiet, well-tended shops selling their exquisite wares and small groups of merchants, commoners and nobles gliding gracefully over polished flagstones.
As she followed Mjrina through winding alleys, each adorned by tasteful little gardens and silent, contemplative courtyards, Sigrid realised that all the elements of city life were present, yet never intrusively so. She saw what must have been restaurants, taverns, temples and clothing emporia and each seemed discreet, absorbed in a rhythm of life much slower than anything she had ever experienced before. It was only when they reached the upped part of the city, close to the thickest concentration of silver-spired towers surrounded by great, floating prisms of eldritch light, that Sigrid noticed a change in the inhabitants. The darker-skinned, green and brown haired elves like Mjrina no longer mingled freely with their paler cousins, but walked several steps behind enigmatic, silk-robed nobles, almost as if they were retainers in some ritual procession.
"If you please, Sigrid, I welcome you to my Mistress' tower." Mjrina intoned, pausing before an ornate hardwood door inlaid with fine golden filigree, shaped to resemble the flowing curves of the Elven cursive script.
Sigrid paused to find her bearings. The tower stood at the juncture between an alley and a small canal of rushing water, spanned by an arched marble bridge. By the canal's side, vegetation sprung from the tower's structure, hinting at a garden within the building, irrigated by fresh meltwater from high in the mountains. Mjrina raised her hand to the door and the locking mechanism obeyed her mental command, whirring quietly before disengaging and presenting Sigrid with a circular and magnificently appointed parlour.
Stepping into the building, Sigrid felt ungainly and out of the place. The silent peace of the domed hall was echoed by the spontaneously artistic arrangement of the furniture. There was no rigid pattern or order to anything, but there was no denying the genius of the hand that had arranged the hall: thin crystal vases, the finely-carved pinewood chairs and tripods, the shimmering water-bells which rang with the music of water drifting slowly over polished silver. Sigrid felt inelegant, out of place, her eyes dazzled by the silken tapestries that hung from the walls, depicting what appeared to be scenes from Elven mythology.
"Please, do sit down." Mjrina invited, motioning to a gold-silk upholstered armchair set by an oval-shaped bookshelf. "My Mistress will be with you shortly."
Sigrid moved carefully, as if she were afraid to injure the wonderfully polished stones upon which she walked. Mjrina, on the other hand, seemed to float soundlessly. The moment Sigrid sat down on the decadently plush armchair, Mjrina had disappeared up the stairs at the far end of the parlour. Sigrid could only look around in wonder that the perfect fusion of light, colour and sound that seemed to infuse the chamber with a sublime harmony.
Then came a tinkling of tiny, silver bells, followed by a subtle breeze of fresh jasmine. A form of ethereal beauty descended the stairs and, in that instant, Sigrid's eyes were entranced, drawn to that supremely radiant elven woman whose gold and silver hair fell over a dress of glimmering silks that reflected a mother-of-pearl spray of colours. Yssinel approached the stunned Sigrid, who, swiftly mastering her amazement and remembering her manners, sprang to her feet to greet her host.
"Milady Sigrid." Yssinel said, each syllable a melody. She proffered a snow-white hand, adorned by a platinum bracelet in the shape of a winding vine. "I am Yssinel of the House of Ceilanith. Your presence illuminates my home."
Sigrid reverently took Yssinel's hand in her own and, with a sweeping bow, pressed her lips against the incomparably soft, pale skin. A somewhat awkward silence followed as Sigrid searched for an appropriate response. Mjrina, who stood a few paces behind Yssinel, smiled in encouragement.
"Your hospitality honours me, Madam." Sigrid whispered, fearful with every word that her act may be betrayed.
Yssinel, however, had known straight away that something was not quite right. Mjrina was a lovely girl, but infuriatingly naive. Errant knights had not prowled the mountain slopes near Imej since mythical times and Sigrid was, quite evidently, like no elf Yssinel had ever seen. The indigo hair and violet eyes immediately suggested the features of the Star Elves of the far north, who lived in cities carved out of ice and crystal, but Sigrid' dress and accent did not match. "I understand," Yssinel began, graciously motioning for Sigrid to sit down once more, "that I have you to thank for rescuing my handmaiden from certain danger. We are both most grateful for your heroism and would bid you to stay for a meal so that we may show our gratitude."
"With pleasure!" Sigrid chimed, before she could contain her enthusiasm. She almost felt her belly rumble at the thought of a substantial meal. Yssinel betrayed no sign of anything but generous hospitality, even as her swift mind registered every one of Sigrid's movements and inflections.
"Mjrina, set the table for us. I'm certain Milady Sigrid and I have much to discuss." Yssinel ordered.
They ate on the veranda overlooking the garden. Mjrina had set out a table by a circle of sinuously-trimmed shrubs and laid out a meal of fresh alpine berries in jelly and exotic, multichrome salads of wild herbs and mountain blossom petals. Clear, spicy wine was poured from a glittering, cut-crystal carafe into fluted, tinted glass goblets while Sigrid was careful to follow Yssinel's lead. A lapse in table manners would have done her 'knight-errant' deception little good.
Yssinel, much to Sigrid's relief, turned out to be outwardly charming, erudite and very gracious. They exchanged pleasantries, even as Yssinel noted that Sigrid had failed to hand her rapier and dagger over to Mjrina before sitting down at the table. Then, the Enchantress was doubly disappointed by the lack of compliments filtering in her direction: all Sigrid could produce was a slightly clumsy expression of admiration. Not quite what Yssinel had expected, but even blunt instruments had their use.
"If you don't mind me asking," Yssinel said, reclining languidly into her armchair. "What sort of adventure would an expert warrior such as yourself seek in this rather staid corner of the world?"
"Nothing in particular." Sigrid replied cautiously. "I follow the stars, hoping that they will bring me to dark corners of the world where the justice of my blade is needed." She had always wanted to say that last part.
Yssinel pretended to be impressed. "What a pity, just when I thought I'd find an outstanding duellist, widely travelled, but perhaps willing to settle down in the service of a lady of standing."
Mjrina flinched. Surely Yssinel already had Tahllea. What was she playing at? "Mjrina." Yssinel said, never once shifting her observant gaze from Sigrid's.
"Yes, Mistress." the Wood Elf approached the table from her usual position behind Yssinel's armchair.
"Go down to the market and fetch some Arborean Elixir and don't forget to tell Daesnen that I'm still waiting for my order of pearls."
"At once, Mistress. I hope to see you later, Lady Sigrid." Mjrina curtsied and left. Yssinel was always gracious enough to give her a chore to perform when she wanted to discuss private matters.
"She has taken a liking for you." Yssinel noted wryly, taking a sip of her spiced wine. "I understand why, we are in sore need of heroines here in Imej. Life has become so tame, so quiet. We suffocate our boredom with art, poetry and magic, but, the truth is, there is no dynamism here, just aesthetics for its own sake."
Sigrid nodded and did her best to look like she had the slightest clue as to what Yssinel was talking about. "Uh...Miss...I mean, Milady," Sigrid corrected herself, "you said there was some service I could perform?"
"Of course, we are always in need of artists here, especially artists who carry the fire of passion and, from how Mjrina described your skill with the blade, I think that I would be in very capable hands if you became my personal guardswoman. But since such a modest post is no doubt unappealing to a fine blademistress such as yourself..."
"No!" Sigrid interjected hastily with a nervous smile. "What I mean is, I would be honoured to be at your service, Madam." In one stroke, Sigrid realised that she would solve all her problems: a few months protecting an elven noblewoman would be more than enough to convince Isobel of her worth.
"In which case, let us dispense with the formalities. Just Yssinel will do." the Enchantress said warmly. "I dabble in sorcery, though I also like to consider myself a patron of the arts. And as for you, my dear Sigrid, which order or school of fencing has the pleasure of your allegiance?" Yssinel knew full well that Sigrid's answer would almost certainly be a lie, but it would have sounded suspicious if she had not asked.
"The Order of the Radiant Path." Sigrid intoned dramatically.
"From offworld, then?" Yssinel noted.
"My travels brought me here," Sigrid boasted, pleased at the admiring expression on Yssinel's lovely features. "I am an aasimar, celestial blood flows through my veins, and so I'm constantly in search for a just and worthwhile cause for which to fight."
Privately, Yssinel had grown bored with Sigrid's clumsy bravado, but the girl had mettle and that, in the end, was what the Enchantress had been looking for. "An aasimar? No wonder your beauty is so captivating. Doubtless, you have eladrin blood. That is why your features are so fine, so gloriously elven."
Sigrid blushed fiercely and looked away. Yssinel had to do her utmost to restrain a quietly mocking laugh - a swashbuckling heroine indeed! "Your duties as my Kithela - my personal guardswoman - will require you not only to defend my person, but reflect my standing and reputation." Yssinel continued, "I shall commission an appropriate uniform and weapon for you..."
"But...I'm accustomed to my rapier." Sigrid protested, instinctively clasping the cool, metallic pommel of her weapon.
"If my intuition is correct - and, my lovely Sigrid, it almost always is - you will have much more to gain from a sword of elven make and, since you are to be my Kithela, you will have nothing short of the best. Now, come." the Enchantress invited, motioning for Sigrid to stand.
The aasimar complied and approached Yssinel's armchair. "Please, sit." Yssinel purred, her tone softly seductive, like fluid honey. Long, slender fingers caressed the surface of her armrest.
Sigrid gingerly lowered herself on the armrest. Yssinel's voice was hypnotic, as were her movements. Each glance from those turquoise-blue eyes, each movement of those pale fingers and the novice felt ever more pliant to the Enchantress' every whim.
Yssinel sat up in her chair, admiring Sigrid's form. She could see strength and athletic tension in the thin expanse of thigh between Sigrid's tunic and her boots. Yssinel's fingers glided across the white fabric of Sigrid's tunic, starting from her waist, up across her abdomen and over her biceps. The girl had the lithe, taut musculature of a Bladesinger. She would do very well indeed.
"I hope this isn't making you uncomfortable." Yssinel whispered, lovingly running her fingers through Sigrid's soft, indigo hair. - A nice, boyish cut - Yssinel thought - the bases are all in order, now all my darling Sigrid needs is a little polish. -
"No...it's just that I'm not used to..."
"Hush." Yssinel said, almost imperceptibly sweeping aside a few silky strands of hair to reveal Sigrid's pointed ear to her satisfied gaze. "It's only right that I treat you as a dear friend." Sigrid shuddered as she felt Yssinel's thumb graze the sensitive surface of her ear. "There is much that you must learn about Imej, but I can see that your bloodline ties you to this place. Maybe you'll learn faster than you ever imagined."
***
Welcome
"I'm so glad you decided to stay!" Mjrina said, masking her enthusiasm as best she could. She busied herself with the finishing touches to the small, but impeccably furnished guest room which was being prepared for Sigrid.
"Thanks." Sigrid muttered. Yssinel had given her a brief tour of the tower, before withdrawing mysteriously to her library and leaving Sigrid with a pot of tea and a tray of pastries by the garden. It was only as twilight crept across the clear, azure sky that Mjrina returned from the market and attended to Sigrid's needs: a light dinner followed by a bath in a marble and limestone chamber full of bubbling, scented water. Sigrid remembered the way Mjrina's gown had clung to her woodland tan skin, the way she made the sponge, slick with scented oils, glide over her weary muscles.
"Do you think you'll be cold tonight, Sigrid?" Mjrina inquired, deftly turning out the bed before ensuring that two enchanted lamps that projected a warm, reddish glow, were properly positioned to maximise the aesthetic effect of light and shadow.
"No...I mean, we're in the mountains. You tell me." She felt foolish. The blue satin nightgown Mjrina had brought her was sensual, yet awkwardly unfamiliar on her skin.
"I'll activate the heating stone for you, just in case." Mjrina ran a hand over a small, red glass sphere that lay on a stand by the bedside table. The sphere leapt into the air, floating suspended halfway between the ceiling and floor, emanating a dry, pleasant warmth. "All done. Is there any other way I can serve you?" Mjrina smiled warmly, her green eyes more vivid than ever in the warm lamplight.
"Thanks, you've been very kind, but I should really be fine from..."
"A massage, maybe?" Mjrina volunteered.
"Some other time, I'm pretty tired..."
"Freshly brewed herbal tea? I baked a new batch of blackberry tarts just for you..."