Oranges waves of fire spread across the inside of his eyes and the only thought he had was of his mother. He was locked inside a traveling trunk, screaming, trying to get it out. He kicked and punched and rocked it back and forth. But the trunk’s lock was crafted from Flatland iron. It would take more than a child’s will to break.

Outside, there was the clanging of swords, cries of pain, cries for mercy, boys and men both weeping for themselves before their inevitable deaths. He understood everything around him was to burn to the ground, as the conquered knew to expect. It was his mother that he thought of as he began to bob up and down inside his box. It was her he left his heart with--or had she took it from him, when she made him go?

Orange waves of fire across the inside of his eyes.

Merek awoke. He gasped for breath, wiped at his forehead. It was slick with sweat. And why wouldn’t it be? It was the same dream he’d had for years. The same nightmare, really, that always ended the same way--escaping his burning village in the back of a radish cart, locked inside a smelly old trunk.

He sat up. The trees around him whispered and grit scraped across Highland stone. No other sounds came to him. That was good. It meant the riders--Lord Gern Jorbert and his men--hadn’t seen him as he darted behind a rock. It also meant that the Highland tribes weren’t hunting him; or at least, that he couldn’t tell if they were out amongst the brush or not. There was, he believed, some peace in not knowing for sure either way.

Jorbert had outfitted him with enough provisions for the journey, and that was good. It was a few days walk from the Godscliff to the Flatland. There wasn’t much to do between now and his arrival at the Inn except walk and wonder what was in the satchel.

Whatever it was, it was round. Hard. Solid--when he knocked a knuckle against it, it hurt, and made a low, clump sound. He had no idea what it was. But it was better than carrying a whore’s head around.

God, but that business had been unpleasant. He’d never killed a woman before. Or at least, not on purpose. That was foul. And what had it all been for? He’d seen Master Jorbert toss the whore’s head off the Godscliff in front of his father. It was deception. But why? He didn’t know, though the gut feeling he had about it said that his guts would one day meet a bad end, along with the rest of his body, should he try to meddle about.

He got up. The Highland’s sloped brutally for a time, making him feel like his ankles might snap off, but then leveled out as you drew closer to the Flatland. From there, it wasn’t too far from the Inn and the Gregor character. He’d hand the satchel over, maybe stay at the Inn a night. He would have coin enough. Then...maybe he would buy himself a piece of land, like Jorbert said. Farm. No more killing. Wouldn’t that be nice.

The air was ice drawn across his skin. He tightened his cloak, pressed on. An hour later, as he rounded a bend, whistling an old tune from his homeland, he came upon a stream flowing near a small hoverstone. Only, as often was the case, the stream flowed in the opposite direction. It traveled up the slope and rose from the ground, curving over the stone and running out of his sight. He smiled. The Hoverland could be a counterintuitive place.

He walked over and stuck his face into the sparkling water. It was colder than the air, but not by much--the water was, after all, flowing up from the Flatland. Down there, it was a good deal warmer than the water that melted from Highland Ice and flowed downhill.

Merek washed his face, washed what whore’s blood he’d been spackled with off his skin, removed a cloth from his pocket and tried as best he could to clean his leather tunic. He planned to stay at the Inn, not the Inn’s Stable, which is exactly where the proprietor would send him to sleep, if he showed up as bloody as this. And if he wanted to get a Lady of the Inn for the night, forget it, they never had much trust for a man who--

“Here you are.”

Startled, he threw his cloth in the air, spun, fumbled for his sword’s hilt. He looked around for the person that voice belonged to, but saw no one.

The voice asked, “Do you need help?”

He called out: “Hello?”

Still no one was there.

“Hello,” the voice said. “I didn’t mean to scare you, if that’s what I’ve done. It’s just that you looked lost.”

“Not lost--I’m exactly where I mean to be.” He slipped his sword from its sheath. The metal sung as it slipped out. “And exactly where are you...?”

“Look up.”

He did so.

There was a woman standing on the hoverstone, looking down at him. She had deep blue eyes, bluer than any Highland stone, and her face was fair and well-boned. Her hair was blonde, shimmering under sunlight. She was dressed in flowing white and blue robes. There was some kind of pendant at her neck. And most remarkable out of the vision of her, was the point at the end of both of her ears.

“I...” Merek cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you standing there.” He sounded lame, even to himself. And why should he say he’s sorry, exactly? It was her that snuck up on him. Still, he said, “I didn’t see you.”

“No one ever does.”

“But I see you now.”

“So you do.”

He slapped his sword back into its scabbard. “I could have sworn you weren’t there a moment ago.”

“The moment’s passed.” She smiled, her teeth brilliantly white. “And here I am.”

Birds chirped off in the distance, filling the silence between them. But his mind was way ahead of the birds when it came to filling silences. He thought, she might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. It was true. And yet, there was something different about her--aside from the ears. Something un-womanly. Something--

“Who are you?”

She shrugged a shoulder.

“Alright. I assume you’ve been following me; I was on the Godscliff a day ago,” he said slowly. “Did you know that?”

“I did.”

“Ah.” He licked his lips. “I wondered. So, you watched what happened, then?” She nodded. “Saw the litter go over the edge?” She nodded again. “And the satchel. And now you’re asking me if I need help. Do I look like I need some?”

“We all need help, Merek Valian--”

“How do you know my name?”

“--and you need help now, more than ever.”

He glanced down at the satchel. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Men always say that, even when they know exactly the thing they pretend not to know.” She clasped her hands together. “I know you what you carry with you.”

“How?”

She walked forward gracefully, stepped off the edge of the hoverstone. She floated along with the water down to where he stood. It was a revelation. Something to inspire awe. “I know what you carry with you because your Master carried it, too.”

“You know Master Jorbert?”

“I know of him.”

He groaned. “You’re only going to speak in riddles, aren’t you?”

“What is all life but a riddle to unwind in our mind’s eye, Merek Valian.” She moved closer. “And what am I, if not in your mind’s eye.”

“I hate a woman who speaks in riddles.” He shifted from one foot to another. “Miss, I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, some scribe, maybe, educated in a castle dungeon or wherever those miserable bastards get their balls cut off before serving their Lords, but I am not of their order. I’m a hired sword. If you want to speak to me, you’ll have to do it plain. And if you speak in riddles, I’ll start making you pay for my time.”

“Very well,” she said.

“Good, now. Who are you?”

“I am Demaria, of the East Shore elves, tasked with watching--”

“An elf?”

She hesitated. “That’s right.”

He waved her away, said, “Piss off,” and started walking down the path, smiling to himself. After a few moments, he heard her feet crunch across gravel and rock, following behind him. He wondered if she’d ever had someone speak to her like that before. Probably not. She seemed so...regal.

“If I’ve said something to offend you, I--”

“Come on, Miss...?”

“I told you, Demaria.”

“Demaria, right. Listen, you know and I both know elves aren’t real. Everyone knows that, even the children whose wetnurse makes up fabulous tales about them. The elves, who valiantly fought to protect thier hoverstones from the first men. The elves, who met their end in pools of blood. The elves, who will come through your window at night if you’ve been misbehaved and slip your tongue out your mouth. Just stories.”

“I assure you, I am very real.”

“I’m sure you are.” He stopped, looked over his shoulder. “You’re real, just not really an elf.”

“And what of my ears?”

He laughed, kept walking. “What of them? I saw a man with four front teeth once. Another time, a woman with three breasts. And another, a midget who claimed he was a Dwarf. He’d grown his beard down to his knees and carried an axe, and yet the only cave he’d ever mined was the bedchambers of a local whore. Or so he told us, and often. You’re no elf, Miss Demaria. Maybe you just had your ears bobbed off as a babe, or even worse: maybe you were just born that way.”

“I don’t require your belief in me.” She tilted her nose into the air. “I know what I am.”

“Funny,” Merek said. “The dwarf said that very same thing.” He sighed. “But if you know what I carry, keep it to yourself. I have no interest in getting tangled up in other people’s affairs.”

“Aren’t you already? Just by taking possession of--”

“Ah! I don’t want to know. Remember?”

“...by running your Master’s errand.”

Merek cringed. “He’s not my Master, but no, I’m not involved. I’ll drop it off and be done with it.” He winked at Demaria. “And then you can stalk after this Gregor fellow, the next person who will have the satchel.”

“Stalking?” She sounded taken aback. “I don’t stalk. I am fulfilling my task.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s an important task.”

“Don’t care.”

“It’s commanded of me by the Eastshore--”

“Elves, yeah, I got it. Tell me, what did they command you to do? To steal the satchel?”

“Elves don’t steal.”

“Elves don’t steal.”

“You’re stealing my time right now.” He licked his lips. “What do you mean to do? Stab me in the back and strip me of my bags.”

“As far as your time, you would have walked this way anyway, with me or not...and as far as stabbing you, stealing from you, I tell you again: elves don’t steal.”

“...I notice you didn’t say you wouldn’t knife me.”

She shrugged.

He shook his head. “You’re a clever one, I’ll give you that--good trait for a thief to have. But you’ll not get this from me. I mean to see it to its end.”

“And what then?”

No idea. “I’m sure I’ll think of something. I’m getting money enough to buy peace.”

“Assuming your Master is actually going to pay you and that you don’t end up, as you say, knifed. I hope Gregor’s an honorable man.” There was a long silence. It had occurred to Merek that there might be trouble awaiting him at the Inn. Would Jorbert want to tie up loose ends? He’d seen such a thing before. The girl went on: “You know, what you have in your bag is more valuable than any amount of riches you can imagine...”

“I have a wild imagination.”

“...and is more dangerous than any threat you’ve ever known.”

He thought of his mother. Thought of the trunk. Thought of the smell of charring wood as the wagon trundled away. “I’ve known many a threat, miss.”

“Perhaps,” she said smoothly. “But have you ever in your life come face to face with a dragon?”

“A dragon?” Merek laughed long and hard. “Does this sack look big enough to fit a dragon? You’ve taken leave of your senses. I’m not sure I can walk next to someone as crazy as that.” He chuckled. “Dragons...out of your mind, you are.”

Demaria smiled primly. “We’ll see.”