A Promise of Fire

14th of Vinatman, 1652 Age of Enlightenment

As the winter winds blew across the countryside–through snow-covered trees and white tipped hills–a lone horse drawn coach strolled down the frigid highway outside the holy city. Decorated with gold-plated lattice over a body of green oak wood, the elegant vehicle rode in luxury: extravagant silken cushion and pillows as well as warm blankets assured that its passengers would ride comfortably no matter the distance.

At the helm of the coach, steering its four large Singardian draughts, was the young Corporal Taram Greybram, an Elven man in his early forties with dark violet skin, hazy gray eyes, and a think black moustache. He wore the thick green and maroon woolen coat of Singard’s most elite crownsguard as well as a pair of thick leather gloves and riding boots. Adorned on his left shoulder was a golden epaulette and a single golden tassel denoting his rank. Laying on the bench at his side was a master-crafted musket adorned with a silver-dusted bayonet, and on his hip was strapped a Singardian falchion.

The passengers of such a luxurious trip were three Galdic Maidens of the Lionbrand Temple. Liza Valen, the Maiden Superior, was just under ninety years old with long shimmering silver hair she’d tied into a braid which draped over her shoulder, and dark, emerald eyes. Though older than even the oldest human, Liza still retained a youthful spirit and beauty.

Sister Magda Mosvand was second to Liza in both age and experience; she had long, curly black hair that she’d often kept tied up into a tight bun. The third was Sister Claire Siér, the newest maiden to join their temple’s conclave, only being with them for a little over a year, who wore a dainty, youthful smile and had long pale-blonde hair that draped down her back.

Each of the women wore the traditional Maiden’s gown: a dark green woolen tunic adorned with gold-yellow trim around the sleeves and neckline, a white cloth apron tied around their waists and a coif atop their heads, a thin gold-laced shawl draped around their shoulders, and a pair of plain black slippers. In addition to their gowns, each maiden wore thick wool coats to fight off the cold. To announce her as Maiden Superior, Liza had a decorative owl head and laurel wreath embroidered in golden thread above her left breast: the holy symbol of Sindelle the Elf-Mother.

As Sisters Magda and Claire giddily giggled with one another–chatting on and on like young schoolgirls–Liza sat silently, reading one of her many books. The one that had currently caught her attention was that of Raylion Skypiercer, the first of Tridia’s legendary Warrior-Priests; a man believed to soar across the heavens and fight an army of over a thousand men alone with just his spear. As Liza read, she felt her eyes strain, something she hadn’t had to worry about ten years ago, but age did that to a person, even an elf.

As she rummaged around her satchel for her readiang glasses, the carriage came to an abrupt stop.

“Mother’s blessings, what’s this,” asked Sister Magda. “Certainly, we aren’t at a stage station already?”

“No, we are certainly not,” said Liza. She closed her book and called outside, “Corporal Greybram, is everything alright?” Nothing. Liza leaned a bit closer to the window. “Corporal, is everything alright?”

“Stay inside, sisters!” There was an urgency in his voice, one not often heard by that of the crownsguard. It made Liza shiver: her stomach churned, and her hands trembled. The corporal called back, “There’s a carriage ran off the road. I suspect foul play.”

Sister Claire gasped. “F-Foul play? Could that mean…?”

“It could mean many things, sister, don’t get excited,” said Liza sternly. She pulled aside the curtain and looked out across the snowy countryside. Just off the road was a ransacked merchant’s carriage: wheels had their spokes knocked out and windows had been shattered. Sprawled across the ground were three bodies: two humans and an elf. Their blood painted the snow. “Mother’s blessings! What’s happened?”

Sister Magda peered out the window, and upon seeing the carnage, shrieked in horror and quickly recoiled back inside Sister Claire couldn’t stomach taking a look if it made both her seniors react in such a way.

Liza opened the coach door to step outside and saw Corporal Greybram hop down from his driver’s seat, his musket at the ready.

“Madame, I ask that you stay inside. It could be dangerous, and I dare not risk your life.”

Liza puffed out her chest and said, “I’m sorry, young man, but it is my duty as a Maiden of the Galdic Temple to see to—”

“Your duty will mean nothing if you are dead!” Liza stopped. She could hear the tremble in his voice. There was something about this scene that unnerved even an elite crownsguard such as him. The corporal composed himself and said, “I apologize, madame, but please, let me make sure it is safe first. Then you may do whatever it is you must.”

Liza nodded, and Corporal Greybram slowly crept his way up to the carriage. Around his eyes, she could see small smoke-like wisps of yellow light: Aether, that which binds body and soul. All crownsguard were adepts; those who trained in the Aethereal Artes to cast and manipulate their Aether, granting them extraordinary abilities. The yellow Aether around Greybram’s eyes was the color of Divination: that which allowed him to see which couldn’t be seen; to sense that which could go undetected to any common mortal.

As Greybram scanned the area, he came to a sudden stop and stared at the carriage. Nervously, Liza cupped her hands in front of her chest and uttered a quiet prayer: “Elf-Mother, please bless our travels. Watch over us and keep us safe.”

She continued to watch and pray as the young corporal surveyed the area. His patrol was slow and precise, and after nearly six minutes, he was finished. He trudged up through the snow towards Liza, his face calm and emotionless. “All is clear, madame. Do what you must. I’ll keep watch.”

Liza thanked him and made her way towards the lifeless bodies in the bloody snow. Though her coat kept her warm from the winter’s chill, her thin slippers did very little to keep out the snow. Her teeth chattered, and her fingers and toes were already growing numb, but it was her duty to help put these people to rest.

The first man she approached was the elf; it felt only right. His foggy green eyes stared blankly toward the sky. He wore a wrinkled blue coat and gray breeches, and on his hip was a sword scabbard and a pistol holster: a hired guard, Liza presumed.

A deep gash was slit across his throat. Liza closed the man’s eyes and gently rested his hands over his chest. Then, she conducted her Resting:

“May Sindelle the Elf-Mother, take your hand as you walk the final path; may the family welcome you home with open arms. May you finally be at Rest.”

As she spoke her prayer, Liza felt the man’s lingering pain and anguish leave his body and enter hers: the pain of someone taken with a life full of dreams, and a family waiting for him at home. She let out a pained gasp as small tears dripped down her cheeks. After taking a moment to compose herself, Liza made her way to the next body, one of the two humans. They too had been murdered in such a brutal way.

It was not officially the duty of a Galdic Maiden to perform Restings for non-elves, but Liza did not believe in the Elven supremacy of her peers. All mortals under the sun, were worthy of being sent off to their final resting place. For non-elves, she’d modified the prayer ever so slightly:

“May Velhien, Mother of Moonlight, take your hand as you walk this final path; may your loved ones greet you when you reach the Hall of Stars in the Cradle of the Moon. May you finally be at Rest.”

Again, an agonizing sorrow rushed from the man and into her. She nearly buckled in pain, her coif falling from her head, and her silver hair draping over her face. The tears continued to flow, freezing to her cheeks. Only one more.

Her breathing grew harsh as she made her way to the final man and offered one final prayer. With it, her chest felt like was about to burst. She clutched her chest and panted heavily as she recited the prayer again.

Gasping painfully, she stood to her feet and tied her coif back to her head. She took one last deep breath before turning from the carriage; however, something kept her from walking away, and she looked back. She thought she saw…

“Madame, are you ready,” called Greybram.

“Madame! Please,” cried Sister Magda, “there is nothing more we can do for them!”

Liza ignored them. She could feel it: there was still someone inside the carriage. Though it pained her to think of conducting another Resting, it was her duty to help their souls pass on to the next world.

As she opened the wrecked carriage door and pulled aside the ragged, bloody curtain, Liza saw a woman inside. She had dark red hair and wore an elegant blue dress; there was a hole in her stomach–most likely from a sword or bayonet–and a gunshot wound in her head.

Liza pulled away.

This wasn’t a robbery; this was a slaughter! These poor people were killed without mercy!

Liza took a deep breath, and sorrowfully repeated the ritual with the woman: closing her eyes, crossing her hands, and offering a final prayer.

An immeasurable pain wracked Liza’s body. Burning through her chest like a hot iron, Liza felt the woman’s final anguish. As she spoke the final verse, Liza collapsed out of the carriage and into the snow. Her stomach churned, and the pain made her think she would vomit. Back at the carriage, Liza could hear the cries of Sisters Magda and Claire, and the swift footsteps of Corporal Greybram rushing to her side.

Lying in the snow, Liza thought about the woman’s pain: the loss of her child, never to see them again; never to hold or comfort then, never to see them grow old and have children of their own. For more than sixty years Liza had been a Galdic Maiden, and for more than forty she’d been offering prayers of Resting. She thought she’d gotten used to the pain and its aftermath; she’d felt the pain of lovers who never got to say goodbye, children yearning for their parents, soldiers pining for home, yet nothing compared to that of a mother losing her child. Perhaps it came from experience, she thought. For the first time since her very first Resting, Liza cried.

As Corporal Greybram helped her to her feet, Liza whispered one last apology to those who’d been taken. She dried her tears and looked up to her carriage where the other sisters were waiting. They looked ragged, thought Liza, as if it had been them who’d conducted to resting.

“Thank you, corporal,” she said. “I can take it from here.”

“Are you sure, madame?”

“Yes, I—”

Liza heard something. It was faint, hardly noticeable at first, but then she heard it again. A sniffle? A cough? Liza wiped her nose, but no, it wasn’t her. Then the sniffle grew into a whimper, and Liza realized it was coming from the carriage.

No! It’s coming from under the carriage! Someone is still alive!

Quickly, Liza pushed away from the corporal and knelt beside the carriage. She peaked below its broken hull to see a tiny human boy, no more than five years of age, with dark red hair, shivering in a little ball in his snow-soaked clothes.

“Mother’s blessings,” she gasped. She reached out with her hand and said, “It’s alright little one. I’m here to help.” The boy didn’t speak. With the way his teeth chattered, Liza would be surprised if he could. “My name is Liza Valen. Are you hurt?” Again, the boy said nothing.

“Madame, are you alright,” asked Corporal Greybram. Liza shushed him and waved him aside.

Laying deeper in the snow and crawling beneath the wreckage, Liza tried to reach the little boy. “Please, what’s your name?”

The boy shivered painfully, but he looked at Liza’s extended hand and slowly reached for it. As his cold little fingers touched hers, Liza could feel all the last hopeful memories of the woman in the carriage: she was this boy’s mother, and his name…

“Emecar, right?” The boy’s eyes lit up in surprise. He nodded. “That’s a very nice name; a strong name. Do you know what it means?” He shook his head. “It means, ‘promise.’ Will you come with me, Emecar? I can’t leave you here in this terrible cold now, can I?”

Liza helped the little boy weakly crawl from under the carriage. How long had he been under there, she thought. A couple hours? A day or wo? It didn’t matter. Liza smiled with relief as tears began again to stream down her cheeks. In her last moments, that woman–his mother–pleaded for this: for her son to be saved where she could not.

Emecar looked back at the carriage. “M-Mama?”

His little words made Liza’s heart split in two. She picked him up and held him close to her. “No, Emecar, I’m sorry. Your mother is gone.”

Emecar looked up at her, and though there were no tears, she saw the pain and hopelessness in his eyes. She pulled him close, and felt his cold clothes soak her maiden’s gown. The boy pressed his face into her arms and sobbed.

What could Liza possibly say? Maybe she needn’t say anything. Maybe what the boy needed now was just to cry–to let out his grief and sorrow–and for someone to be there when he needed them. She wrapped him in her coat and carried him back to her carriage.

Sisters Magda and Claire rushed to her, panic and surprise in their voices, though Liza wasn’t paying much attention to what they said. There was something eating at her; a sensation itching at the back of her head that she needed to satisfy.

She turned to Corporal Greybram and said, “Did you not sense this little boy while you were searching the wreckage?”

The man’s expression did not change. “I’m sorry, madame, but I assumed he was already dead.”

“And you would not tell me? Was this boy not deserving of a Resting if he was?”

“I’m truly sorry, madame, but I didn’t think you need to waste your time conducting Restings for humans,” he said coldly. “Anyway, we must be going. It could still be dangerous around these parts.”

Liza gritted her teeth. This man–this horrible, cruel man–was willing to let a child die alone in the cold because he was a human? She couldn’t believe it, yet at the same time she could. Those thoughts had been prevalent in their culture as far back as their nation’s founding. Elves and humans were not equals. Humans were inferior, and their blood had long since been removed from the most sacred Elven lineage.

With the boy in her arms, Liza made her way through the snow and up into the coach. Once inside, she realized just how cold she really was. Her fingers and toes had gone completely numb.

She doffed the boy’s snow-soaked coat, tossed it to the coach floor, and then pulled him close to her, wrapping him in a warm blanket.

As Sister Magda stepped into the coach, she asked, “Madame, what’s the little one’s name?”

“Emecar,” said Liza.

“And those people,” said Sister Claire, pointing back to the carriage. “Were they his…?” Liza gave the young woman a fierce and biting glare that told her not to speak of this anymore. Claire recoiled into her seat, anxiously looking down at the carriage floor.

Emecar made a small attempt to look out the window towards the wreckage as the carriage started moving, but Liza closed the curtains before he could.

“Emecar,” she said softly, “would you like to come home with us?”

“M-Mama,” he said. “Papa?”

Wiping the tears from his frozen cheeks, Liza said, “Velhien has them now. She’ll take good care of your mama and papa.” He looked up at her, his eyes pleading for her to be lying. In his eyes, Liza could see how desperately he wanted to wake from this nightmare. She shook her head, and the boy nuzzled his head into her lap.

Liza shook her head. She looked out the window, up at the bright afternoon sun, and whispered, “Azuhiel, Father of Sunshine, guide us home safely. Heal this boy of his ails. Warm him with the love of your light.” She turned her attention back to the little boy: “Emecar, you are very brave, and so very strong, you know?” He said nothing. She ran her fingers through his damp hair and asked, “Is this alright?”

He nodded.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

He shook his head.

“Do you have any family?”

He shrugged.

The pain from her Restings had finally began to subside, but as Emecar silently cried into her lap, Liza could still feel the lingering pain of his mother.

“I’ll be your mother now,” she said. “You’ll have a big family; would you like that? You’ll have me, as well as Sisters Magda and Claire here–they’ll be your aunts–and you’ll have so many brothers and sisters!”

Liza felt Emecar grip tightly to her skirt, and he looked up at her with his pleading eyes, now red and puffy. She smiled, wiping his nose with the sleeve of her gown before resting his head back on her lap.

“Would you like me to tell you a story,” she asked. He nodded. Liza looked over at the book she’d been reading–The Trials and Tribulations of Raylion Skypiercer–but tucked it aside.

No, I’ve a better story for you. One more befitting your name.

“Long, long ago, back in the Age of Dragons, when the mortals waged war on the gods, there was a man–a Dwarven hero from the far northern highlands of Masubai–named Adakar Azukor. You see, in those times of strife, when people were killed and their homes plundered, he did not fight the gods, but devoted himself to protecting others, and not just his own people–mind you–but all the people of Ark. He traveled the land, protecting those who needed it, healing those harmed in the chaos, and bringing forth justice to those who brought chaos there with them. He did this, not for glory, but because it was what he believed was right. One day, upon the Dragonstar–the very light of Azuhiel himself–he swore an oath: to protect the innocent, to heal the hurt, and to smite the wicked.”

As Liza told the story, Emecar’s cries slowly faded. He looked up at her, and in that moment, Liza saw hope in his eyes.

“They called him…”