Page 23 of The Pastel Prince

“Humans near the Verboten?” I asked in surprise.

“A tiny band, yes, but good-hearted. My mother’s family still resides there,” he explained as I handed my cup back to him. “Several are quite skilled healers for non-magicks users. The trip would take three days at a good speed. Perhaps we can continue to push healing spells and draughts into Eldar to get him somewhat stable for the journey.”

“My supply is dwindling but I will gladly give him what I have left,” I said and got a nod from my companions. “Let’s return to the village then and see what we can find.”

Beirach and I left Eldar under the watchful eye of Tezen to return to my childhood home. A shudder ran over me as we entered the outskirts of my village. Nothing had changed. The people stood where they had yesterday. I did my best not to dwell on my fellow forest elves, for I had to stay focused. My parents’ home was a large one as they had so many boys to shelter and because Father was the wilder warden. It was a longhouse, made of logs hauled from the bogs, then covered with pitch. The tarred waters of the bogs soaked into the fallen trees, fortifying them as they dried until they were sturdy as stone. The walls were coated with shingles crafted from fibrous roots that we grew in large, moist gardens. They tasted like paper I recalled from my childhood, but when dried and mixed with sand from the river bed then fired, they became much like the lumber boards the humans were so fond of. The roof was thickly coated with baled summer grasses.

The front door stood ajar. The hinges creaked when we pushed it wider.

The interior was dark, the rising sun unable to chase off the shadows yet. I felt my way inside, knowing the layout well, and found my way to the wide hearth.

“Tell me about your family. Your mother is…washuman?” I asked, leading the way from the living area filled with largestuffed mats, tables, and quilts Mother had helped weave with the other women in camp.

“She was, and my father elven. They met during a summer festival where the humans and elves traded. Father said when he looked into her gray eyes, he knew his heart was hers,” he answered, following behind me as we made our way past the open kitchen. There were pots on the woodstove still. My throat tightened. “They had many happy years together. My mother passed when she was well over a hundred ten, claiming my father’s elvish love and cooking got her to that advanced age.”

“Loveismiraculous,” I whispered, chancing a glance over my shoulder. His bright blue eyes met mine.

“It surely is,” he replied as we reverently stepped into my mother’s library. Much like my mother, the room was tidy, the walls covered with shelves stacked with scrolls and tomes. Hundreds of tomes and rolled papers shoved into every nook on the long table she would read at. The candles on the desk sat cold, the wax having flowed to the rich redwood desktop then cooled in soft white puddles. “I suspected she may have vast knowledge at hand, but this…”

“It is overwhelming to be sure, but my mother is particular. The books will be sorted by age and magicks discusses, the scrolls will be the same.” I turned to look at him. “What is it we are seeking?”

“Druidic gems seem the best place to begin,” he replied and followed me to the southern wall. The window stood open, dampness from the night dew gathered on the several clay vases holding vibrant stems of hollyhock. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to stop the groan of agony. I’d picked so many of those brightly colored spikes for her as a child, for they were always her favorite blooms. “Kenton, if this is too upsetting—”

“No. I can do this. I must do this.”

He nodded, just once, and then we began sorting and sifting through my mother’s vast collection. Time ticked by. Time that we could not afford to waste. I was growing agitated. Beirach closed a book, sighed, and placed it on a growing stack of tomes that we’d gone through.

“Perhaps we are not searching for the correct thing,” he offered and stretched his arms over his head, the sound of popping in his back making me wince.

“What else is there to look under?” I sat on a blue woven rug, scrolls and leaflets and notes scattered around me, vexed, tired, and growing disillusioned.

“I have a vague recollection of a myth that my wife would relay to our son before bed. It was a lovely tale about a magical fountain locked behind a mystical door deep in the foothills of the Witherhorn Mountains. It was the most holy of places for the goddess and to keep it such, she crafted a door sealed with the gems that she then passed out to her children to guard. There was a song that went with it. She would sing it to Maverus but the lyrics escape me. My wife was the bard of the family. Song lyrics do not linger long in my head.”

“I know that story,” I said, sitting up straighter, the childhood tale popping into my thoughts. “My grandmother Mikka used to tell it to us. It starred an elven boy, the son of a wilder warden, with dark green skin and hair white as spring willow blossoms. I think she told it to keep us children in the village, to frighten us into not wandering past the sentries.”

“A fitting reason if ever there were one.” He dropped down to crouch beside me, his amber hair glowing in a wide beam of sunlight. “The song had the same storyline as your bedtime tale. The lad got dreadfully lost. Crying and cold, hunger gnawing at him, his skin torn from thorns, he called out to Danubia to help him, and our goddess could not resist the boy’s plea.”

“Yes! She led him to a magical fountain where he could drink from the well of the earth’s core to heal him of all his ills.”

“That’s right,” Beirach said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his thick hair tumbling over his brow. “The prince—or wilder’s son if you prefer—had been taken to a door between two great oaks alone on the rocky crags of the Witherhorn. The doorframe required gems to be placed inside certain slots to open, but since Danubia herself crafted the doorway, she allowed him passage with a wave of her hand. Inside was a white stone fountain with water that tasted of pure light. One sip would cleanse the soul, give the drinker clarity and vision, and wipe away any past evils.”

“And so the child drank it and he was cured, his family summoned by the goddess, and his adventure used as a warning to rambunctious boys who liked to sneak off.” I thumbed a few braids from my face. “I have no idea what attraction spring water from an underwater well would be for a necromancer, though. He would not be seeking something to cure him of all evil. If your son is the man we seek, he would loathe the well and all it stood for, if it even exists.”

“Perhaps there’s more to the mythos than we know?” he enquired with a shrug.

“Perhaps,” I agreed with a sigh. “So we should be looking for tales for children then?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Or books that speak of lost wells.”

So, our search shifted. The day crept on, the sun nearly at its apex when Beirach, nearly buried behind stacks of old books, shouted out.

“Ah! I think I have something,” he called, and I got to my feet, my back cracking loudly, and made my way to where he sat with his broad back resting on the side of my mother’s desk. “Come sit. Look at this passage.

I twisted this way and that before taking a seat at his side. He passed the thick book over. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded on the two pages that lay open. I studied the odd drawings on the lefthand page. A twisted sort of being stood before a wellspring, the waters flowing up and then toward him. The tall, thin being seemed to be part man and part skeleton. The scribblings alongside the inkwork were tangled lines that I could not decipher.

“What book is this?” I asked, the energy of the tome making my skin crawl.

“There was no name on the spine, but I suspect it’s a dark tome. The energy it exudes is unsettling, yes?” He looked at me. I nodded briskly.

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