Blackness gave way to blue. Wavy streams of sparkling light drew nearer. In his head deep resonant sounds embraced him and without effort passed through him. His heart beat pulsed in his head sounding like tides pushed into a narrow sea cave. He kicked his feet and with one last effort propelled himself into the light.

Hemmer broke through the surface. Sound resumed its natural place outside his head. At the edge of the pond, his son, Ian, splashed in the water, throwing glittering handfuls into the air. Hemmer growled playfully and aped a giant creature stomping toward the shore. His tawny-haired son squealed and yelled, “Run! It’s a Monster!” Ian scurried to the grass-bordered beach, grabbed a thin stick, and turned to face the monster. Hemmer stepped slowly up to the beach, blowing a mouthful of water toward the boy.

“Ian, bring your monster over here lets eat while Kip is sleeping”. Hemmer scooped up his oldest son and carried him to the reed mat where Kenna was sitting with Sorah and Kip. Kip was swaddled in a blanket content to lie in the sun. Barely able to walk, Kip had fallen asleep near the woven basket with the day’s meal stashed in it. Sorah stood and ran toward her father. She grabbed his leg. With Ian under one arm and Sorah clinging to his leg, Hemmer walked with an awkward gate until he allowed himself to carefully collapse onto the mat.

“Dietrich, would you grab the knives from the basket?” Hemmer was not accustomed to being called by his first name. Kenna was one of the few people who used it to address him. He traced the outline of her face with his eyes. She was still talking to him, but his mind had drifted. He was capturing every detail of her, drinking in her beauty. Her eyes had always captivated him. The play of blue and grey was haunting, almost predatory. Her delicate nose moved slightly as she spoke. He watched her freckled skin mold to enhance her expressions. She was more than he deserved.

Kenna shifted her gaze from the basket to him. When their eyes locked he was jolted from his daydream. His blood raced in recognition of her attention. “Found something at the market that I think you’ll like.” Her voice was thick with emotion. He knew she was trying to control her emotions. This was a farewell and she was doing her best to make it a happy occasion.

Kenna produced a casaba melon from the basket. The fruit signaled Kenna’s acknowledgment that he would be returning to duty soon. The yellow skin of the melon was almost white under the noon sun. He had only been home three months and it was time to leave again.

The casaba melon had been a treat he had brought home from his campaign to the north nearly eight years ago. This tradition started before the trade routes opened up and merchants could supply the fruit at any stand in the market. Now. He and the Scouts would be joining the King on his journey north.

Kenna smiled, took the knife from him and cut a wedge of the melon. He could see how her chin trembled and her eyes glistened with moisture. Her poorly concealed emotions made him ache. She had been a true companion. They were not without their disagreements. But her purity of spirit made him a better man.

Saliva pooled behind his teeth as he prepared to bite into the wedge of melon. The juice flooded his mouth. The flavor was mild, watery, with a hint of sweetness that begged another bite. Hemmer had enjoyed these melons many times in the past. The firm fruit dissolved on his tongue. “You always could pick a good one.” He said, closing his eyes and enjoying the sun on his face. He could hear Kenna’s lips part in a smile.

Hemmer felt a burning sensation in his chest, like hot ash against his skin.

His arm jerked in response to the pain, covering it and firmly rubbing with his hand as if he could erase the knife wound. He squinted hard against the pain and the red light faded to black.

Moments after he awoke from the flash of pain, he freed his spirit to keep from appearing to wake. From the shadow realm of spirits he could see the elf was alone. It was dark except for the small fire in a pit behind her. The flames were small and did not extend above the rim of the pit. By the fire pit was his rifle. The terrain was different; she had moved him from where he had fallen. Who was she hiding from, wasn’t this her land? This could ruin the plan.

In this spirit realm her aura was white, but near her head it glowed red. Hate. He had seen it before. Her disdain for him was evident. She was showing restraint, though aiding him against her will. It was their custom and she was at least following that. He would have to wait for daylight to verify that she was moving in the proper direction. The morning sun would tell the way.

Her attention to the vials his employer had provided him was disturbing. Did she know what their intended use was?

His employer, Lord Merrick Sudland, was a dangerous man. The contract would surely put Hemmer at risk, whether he succeeded or failed. He suspected men like Merrick Sudland thought a great deal of themselves and tended to underestimate the simple-minded. In their contract negotiations, Hemmer played himself as a man of little conscious or education. It was a gamble with a man like Sudland; if the gamble failed, Sudland would have the upper hand. Giving that much to one in his position never ended well. Sudland appeared not to notice his ruse, or else Hemmer had underestimated Sudland’s ability to bluff as well. Keeping the scheming mind of Lord Sudland at rest, in regards to him, was paramount.

The elf buried the dying fire and took up a position next to a fallen tree. She turned her attentions inward, quietly dropping into a meditative sleep.

Hemmer watched the jungle’s posture change as it entered its nocturnal cycle. The sounds of thousands of living things in their struggle for life gave him pause.

It was in this moment of contemplation, riding the thin string of his spirit, that Hemmer was reunited with an old companion. One whom he had not given counsel since his death: fear.

Before now, the only others that he had seen in the realm of spirits were the departing souls of fallen soldiers. They had never paid him any notice. Here, in the ether with him, was a manifestation of teeth and claws swirling in a black cloud. Hemmer’s spirit felt fragile and exposed.

Willing himself back into his body, Hemmer found he could not return. The chaos closed in on him. Swirling and gnashing at him from all angles, he could feel the power and size of the spirit. It was overwhelming. He had never known pain in spirit form. An ache, like losing a cherished lover, gripped him. The pain grew and magnified. All his senses were being assaulted. There was no place to retreat. He was enveloped, stinging, frantic, helpless, and alone.

His spirit was shrinking on itself; he was feeding the wild spirit. In his mind, he saw the thoughts of the spirit. It hungered with a hunger as desperate as his need to escape. His memories were leaking into the beast. The images were streaming out in a vortex. As darkness closed in his wife’s memory surfaced and started into the vortex, Hemmer resisted, you will NOT take that from me.

The memory of his wife flooded his spirit. His focus returned. He pushed back against the pain “Kenna!”? A voice he had never heard before came screaming from somewhere outside the darkness. He felt his stomach muscles tense. Then he saw a single opening in the pain, like the center of a rose blossom it opened for him.

He opened his eyes to see the elf staring back at him in the darkness. A breeze pricked at the beads of sweat on is face. All around him the jungle was awake, Kenna’s name still clinging to the breeze. His throat was raw from screaming. He squinted and saw the elf frozen a few paces away, mouth agape. He blinked his eyes to clear his vision. When he opened them again she was on top of him, her weight forcing him from his sitting position to his back again. She clasped her hand over his mouth, pressing with such force that he tightened his jaw to keep his teeth from cutting through his lips. He could feel her heart racing. He could feel his own pushing against the healing plug in his chest.

“If you make another sound I will end you, lowlander.” The seriousness of her strained whisper cut past the pain. He relaxed his muscles as a gesture of compliance. It was another minute before she removed her hand from his mouth and wiped it on the ground.

She inched backwards with her other hand resting on the pommel of her blade and her foot on the rifle. A few minutes passed and she resumed her meditative position near the fallen tree. Hemmer watched her, studying her posture. Her eyes were still slightly open. Was she watching him? He was exhausted. The effort to stay conscious was too much. The night bird took flight.

The night had traded its colors for the day. Hemmer awoke, his hand reaching for the wound in his chest. It was tender and moist even though his vest. Lifting his head to see the camp, she was still there. Crouched like a monkey, his rifle in her hand like a spear, she was examining the weapon. Without its loading rod it was useless. With all their high bread self-importance the Fey had no understanding of firearms. Even on the battlefield they had no answer for it. He and his Scouts had made them pay for their cloistered ways. The King was a man of vision. Hemmer had benefited by being among the first to train in the new weapon at the academy. Rising to the rank of Captain had earned him recognition directly from the King. Years of campaigning against the elves robbed the people of their King and Hemmer of his career.

A soft glow filtered through the trees. Rolling his head to one side his eyes greeted the morning sun. Hemmer smiled to himself, east.

The two of them traveled north, she stopped on occasion to gather food. He cherished the breaks. Even though things were going according to his plan his injury made it difficult to move. He craved the spirit world where he could escape this pain, but he couldn’t travel when he departed his body. He would try to make better time.

She glowered at him while handing him rations of roots, nuts and small fruits. They continued their travels stopping occasionally. His temples were pounding and he could not catch his breath. Catching his foot on an exposed root caused him to fall. The impact pushed the air from his good lung. His head was swimming. He felt small hands grip him firmly. She was carrying him.

Eventually long shadows stretched across the meadow they were crossing. She released him. He felt the long cool grass pressing against his face. The heat of his fever quickly warmed them. Resting near vine covered stone blocks he observed that the blocks were part of some large ruins of what must be an old elven structure. Recognition hit him. This was the site of the siege of Loth Tenna. The Fey citadel was reduced to rubble and the occupants put to the sword. Hemmer had been here before. The campaign had been considered a success, but events had transpired here he was not proud of, nor cared to recall. The memories of it gave way to exhaustion. Sleep took him once more.

* * *

The Deputy Governor shuffled a stack of papers in his hands. Tapping them against the desk he set them aside. Placing the lid on his ink well, SanTera consoled himself that he had passed proper judgment over the criminal of the state. The criminal’s untimely death would be the result of his own actions. SanTera’s was only the last in a long line of choices that determined the fate of the condemned man.

Pushing back the chair, SanTera took care to unfold his sleeve on his writing arm. Fastening the button of his cuff he strode past the open window. A shaft of amber light scribed out a long arch on the floor. His shadow interrupting the shape; long robes appearing like folded wings on his shadow. Dust particles glowed like fire embers in the light fluttering in the wake of his movement.

SanTera was an observer. In his forty-six years he had managed to climb to his position due to his keen observation skills. He absently combed his beard with his hand as he considered the weight of his next appointment. He had set in motion a plan that would lead to his official coronation or undo him completely. He had considered all the options for years. Now was not the time for doubt a Regent could ill afford such distractions.

Stepping out the heavy oak door into the hallway, the guard outside snapped to attention. The scuff of the guards boot echoed in the stone hallway. As SanTera moved passed the guard he could smell tobacco and wine. It had likely been half a day since the guard had partaken, but SanTera’s nose was more attuned than most.

The palace was familiar to him. He had grown up here. Its hallways were wide with tall arching ceilings. The yellow stone walls were accented at intersections and archways with brown stone. Oil sconces illuminated the halls. The scented oil pervaded every corner of the palace. It was comforting to be in familiar surroundings.

Turning the corner to a wing of the palace he preferred not to visit. The Deputy Governor increased the length of his stride. Is fingers tingled with anticipation.

SanTera stopped in front of an unremarkable wooden door. He produced a slender key from his robe and placed it into the lock. Once inside he quickly locked the door behind him. The small room contained a single chair that faced a hole cut into the stone wall. Sitting in the chair he looked into the dark hole. Cupping his hands near his mouth and leaning forward he whispered into the hole. “The river has many forks,” SanTera said with anticipation in his voice. “As does the road” came a reply from the dark hole. Good, he is here. He thought to himself. The tingling returned as he continued his questions. “Did the package arrive safely?” “It did m-lord, but there was a complication. The seal was broken and the cave has been lost forever.” SanTera was pleased with the news. Ever since he became aware of the cave he feared what would happen if its location was leaked. Its destruction was good news. Magic represented a shift in balance. The Mages of old used magic to twist the fortunes of all.