Chapter 6: The Heart is a Lonely Prison (pt. 3)

Previously in the Tale of Jarthen, Bertronius was comforted by his comrades, Lem and Nel, while Jarthen bore witness to some embarrassing tomfoolery on the part of Helkint, which nearly resulted in a serious diplomatic incident.
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Nelhoepher and Lem's sympathy, combined with a hearty, if none-too-appetizing bowl of mush proved to be a remedy to the effects of Bertronius' frightful dream. As he half-listened to his two companions chatter amiably about the inferiority of army issue mush, and when they would get their first real spy assignment, Bert knew that the muddled symbolism of his nightmare was the subconscious part of his mind, forcibly reminding him of his real purpose in having joined the army.

He couldn't believe how distracted he had been -- he should have made considerably more progress by now in locating his enemy! But how could he find the dastardly Ractor -- if he was stationed at the Fethilian Front, then surely Bertronius would have seen or heard word of that singular character. The lad wracked his brains in search of an answer as to how he could find his nemesis. He felt the positive influence of the mush beginning to fade as he was faced with the daunting prospect of where Ractor could be.

Just as these thoughts were beginning to darken Bertronius' brow, he was interrupted by an irritated yell issuing forth from Lem's mouth, along with a mouthful of mush, sullying the front of his tunic, "oi! What was that for, ye lout ye? How are ye jus' a goin' ta jab a body right in ta belly when he's got a mouthful o'mush?"

Nelhoepher, for his part, giggled with glee at what he considered to be a delightful prank at Lem's expense. He grinned at Bertronius mischievously, as he said, "I jus' thought it would jus' put our dear Bert here in better spirits is all."

Bertronius couldn't help smiling at the antics of his droll comrades: in the time since he had joined the imperial army, Lem and Nel had ensured that his spirits never dipped, despite the monotonous drudgery of spy training and army life in general. They had proven themselves to be loyal, if occasionally dull-witted friends, and he knew very well that, in many ways, they had played a major role in helping him cope with the loss of Jarthen.

Though he had not anticipated it when he had enlisted at the West Fethil garrison -- it seemed so long ago -- Bertronius realized that he had really come to enjoy life as a spy. He had demonstrated a clear aptitude for this particular occupation, which further enhanced his satisfaction with his new role. The training, excepting Clemhand's famously turgid lectures on the history and theory of spying, had been enjoyable, and drew upon the quick lad's natural skills. Nevertheless, it wouldn't matter how great a spy he became, if he failed to avenge poor Jarthen's cruel end.

Again, Bertronius was pulled back from his thoughts, this time by Lem knocking Nel off the bench they were sitting on, and, with dexterity beyond what one would expect from a slightly pudgy lad of fifteen, he simultaneously grabbed a bowl of mush, pouring it over his prone friend's golden locks. Nelhoepher, wiping the pasty confection away from his face, broke into a his full, good-natured laugh, while Lem and Bertronius were shook by spasms of mirth at the ridiculous image of their counterpart.

The laughter drove away the doubt and guilt he felt over not having made more progress toward achieving his mission against Ractor. With his spirits now thoroughly revived by his friends revelry and good humor, Bertronius found that he was now able to perceive the rough outlines of a cunning plan in his mind.

****
As the procession drew nearer, Jarthen felt his comrades grow still with the fear that grew ever more palpable as the great queen drew nearer to their cage. It was as if the air had suddenly chilled around him, and Jarthen found himself ironically wishing that the bars of his cage were not so flimsy. Svava’s procession elicited a noticeable reaction from the blue elves as well: their interest piqued, the still-grumbling elves at the cage immediately grew still, while the remainder of the town's population appeared to have come out to witness the spectacle. Jarthen and his compatriots, unnerved by the sea of blue faces peering at them from every side, were soon clumped together in the center of their enclosure. Everyone, that is, except for Jellihondor who had remained leaning on the wall of the cage meticulously cleaning his pipe watching the Queen’s procession. Even as her citizens drew nearer to him, the old red elf held fast.

As the procession stopped their march, the ominous-sounding drums that accompanied the blue elvish court died down as well. Svava, resplendent in fine, richly embroidered robes, strode forward to speak with the intruders. From within the quivering, whimpering mass of young, scared red elves (all of whom were now in a similar frame of mind as Rethnaki), Jarthen watched as Jellihondor took a deep, low bow. Before righting himself and without looking at the blue elf queen, Jellihondor extended one graceful hand through the bars of the cage. Jarthen saw Svava pause for a moment before slipping her hand into Jellihondor’s. Gasps erupted from the Norsans on all sides when Jellihondor gently kissed the Queen’s hand – but Jarthen thought that Svava herself looked more bemused by the red elf’s brazen gesture than shocked by it.

Svava: dangerously beautiful...

As Jellihondor pulled himself back up, Svava gave him a warm smile, a smile that would have suggested to someone who didn’t know better that they were old friends. Jarthen observed that Svava, when smiling in such an unguarded manner, seemed like just another bright, sweet young elf maiden - not so unlike his friend Elcrona – and not at all like the fearsome, formidable ruler she was reputed to be. “ ‘Allo, Jellihondor,” said Svava in a slightly accented voice. Her rather diplomatic choice to use Common Tongue elicited still more gasps from the blue elves, who felt that the intruders should be dealt no advantages whatsoever. “Your reputation precedes ya. I heart ya vere trevelling t’rough these lands. It has been a long time since the Athenorkos have been seen here.”

Jellihondor was pleased that Svava had chosen to proceed in this manner: he did speak some Vinkenti, the dialect of the blue elves, but he was rusty with it. Though he suspected that Svava was trying to prove some point about the inferiority of red elvish magic, he was also pleased that her attempts to do so opened the door for him to more deftly charm her. Despite the apprehensive silence of everyone around him, blue elf, red elf and otherwise, Jellihondor relaxed and regarded Svava with the same affection and familiarity that he would afford a much-beloved niece. “Aye, ye know our kind are good fer nothin’ save chaffin’ wheat an’ singin’ daft songs! But ‘tis always good to be among family…even if we do be estranged, distant cousins.” Jellihondor had by now abandoned the formal gestures and adopted his typical languid postures. Once again, he was leaning against the cage and fiddling with his pipe. “Then again,” he continued with a broad grin, “our reception ‘twas…more lukewarm than we’d been a-hopin’ fer, Svava.”

At this, Svava’s compsure slipped slightly and Jarthen could see her analyzing the double meaning of Jellihonodor’s speech and trying to derive his true intentions from his outward demeanor. The red elf, however, was such a master of his magic that Svava quickly resumed the diplomatic dance she had willingly engaged them in. “Vell, t’ere vas a chance ya vould bring more company than ya did. I am curious – vhere are ya going vithout the rest of your army?”

Jellihondor smiled slyly at Svava while his battalion suddenly grew more alert. Around him, Jarthen heard the other elves whispering about whether old Jelli was going to give away the Rebel’s plans, and heard others respond that they themselves weren’t even sure what those plans were. “Sightseein’ tour o’ the best sites our race has ta offer…only this lot were interested in accompanyin’ me. Rest o’ ‘em ha’ no appreciation o’ the finer t’ings in life, ya’ know.”

“Is it Norsa that ya vish ta see? Or are ya heading elsevhere?” Svava asked, genuinely curious.

Jellihondor paused for a few long seconds. Jarthen looked to Rethnaki for an explanation of what was hapennging, but Rethnaki was watching Jellihondor closely with a slightly suspicious look and he could not catch his eye. “Well, Norsa certainly is a sight ta be seein’…but I confess, I did ha’ me heart set on takin’ me friends here ta see the Vinkenti Gate as well.” As soon as he mentioned the gate, blue and red elves alike began talking all at once. Jarthen could not glean much through the din of voices and languages, but it seemed to him as though the blue elves felt that the mere mention of the gate was an offense somehow: they were yelling ferociously in their strange tongue and making threatening gestures at Jellihondor.

The reactions of Jellihondor’s party to this revelation were more varied, but most seemed to be grappling with disbelief that the gate was their true destination. Jarthen turned to Elcrona, who was sitting next to him and asked, “What’s with this gate? Is it evil or something?”

“No, lad, it’s just…this gate, I thought it didn’t exist! I thought magickal gates were jus’ old stories…but now Jelli says tha’s where we be goin’ an I dunna know what to t’ink!”

Jarthen was now possibly more confused than he had been before, but could not ask his friend for more information because the cacophony was dying down and Svava had once again started speaking. Her pretense of warmth and congeniality had waned somewhat as she said, “The gate? The gate is ours, Jellihondor, as ya vell know! Ya are honorable, but ya are Athenorkos nonetheless and the gate is not for ya to use.” The young Queen spoke this quietly, almost under her breath, as if she did not want her subjects to hear her talking so openly with an outsider.

Jellihondor, too, shed the forced ease that he had been speaking with. He stood at his full height, regarding Svava with a proud, intelligent gaze that suggested he regarded them as equals and that he demanded to be treated as such. “Svava, I know ye have yer ways, an’ I know how important ‘tis for ye to uphold them, but I am askin’ ye to let us through. Askin’ ye one leader o' elves ta another.” What Jellihondor had asked was so audacious – to ignore the fundamental rift between the two elvish cultures with little in the way of explanation – that the spectators on both sides were struck dumb.

Svava held his gaze for a long moment, her face impassive and expression impenetrable. When she finally spoke, her tone was noticeably colder and more distant. “No, Jellihondor, is it not possible to ask anyting of me, one leader to another. Unlike ya, I do not lead in isolation: I am a Queen, and my role is to uphold this city and this culture vith the vays ve have, regardless of my personal feelings on the matter. Ya cannot use the gate. I vill return tomorrow to discuss the terms of your release.” She turned then as if to leave.

Before anyone had a chance to react to Svava’s speech, Jellihondor spoke up, traces of the charm creeping back into his tone. “’Twas afraid ye’d say summat like that. Svava, if ye don’ mind, I do have one other question for ye.” Svava looked over her should and nodded, encouraging him to continue. “Right. Svava Taggar, I feel tha’ I ha’ been wrongly refused access to the Vinkenti Gate, a sacred spot to all our kind regardless o’ color. I therefore challenge ye to a formal duel - ” at this, the blue elves burst into laughter. The red elves, meanwhile, reacted in anger. Around him, Jarthen heard his friends accuse their mentor of being addled, short-sighted, arrogant, and other such untoward things that cannot be reprinted on these hallowed pages. Rethnaki, however, was the most livid: it took all of Glothnafar's prodigious strength to restrain the red elf as he screamed about the irresponsibility of endangering the lives when the best tactical maneuver he had was a duel – and one in which he would be a longshot, at that!

Jellihondor ignored all of these imprecations, continuing without missing a beat, “ – and ask only that ye allow me an’ mine safe passage through yer city an’ a guide to lead us to our destination if I win. Do ye accept?”

Svava turned fully around and fixed Jellihondor with a piercing, gaze. Clearly, she had not expected this, and she was intrigued by the unanticipated proposal: a small smirk appeared on her face as she weighed her options. “Ya know ya can not challenge me again if I refuse?”

“Aye,” replied Jellihondor.

“And that then, ya vould be left vith virtually no other options?”

“Aye.”

“Vell. How very bold of ya – or perhaps the Athenorkos are as daft as some say.” Svava paused, still regarding Jellihondor with a mix of condescension, bemusement, and respect. “I accept your challenge, Jellihondor of the Rebels! If I vin this duel, I shall set your battalion free – but ya yourself shall never again leave Norsa for as long as ya live!”

Despite the turmoil all around him – the blue elves and red elves had never calmed and were now throwing insults back and forth at each other while Glothnafar and Zartheim tried in vain to keep some semblance of peace – Jellihondor grinned broadly and gave a jaunty bow to Svava. Jarthen noticed that at some point an odd, purplish mist had rolled in and was now settling on the ground. It seemed strangely localized in the cage.

“In order to expedite the process,” continued Svava, “I vill choose my judge now. Drasha Must, a High Priestess, will serve as my judge!” An elegant, older blue elf stepped forward and nodded her assent.

“movin’ righ’ along, are we, then?” responded Jellihondor jovially. “Glothnafar the centaur will be me judge! I mean, if it be alrigh’ with ye, o’ course, Glothie…” Glothnafar strode forward to accept his role, his powerful hooves disrupting the ebb and flow of the odd purple mist.

“But, is this centaur qualified?” asked the elvish priestess. “Surley, he is mundayne!”

Svava laid a hand on her arm and with a stern voice replied, “Unless there is another centaur by this name, ya stand before Glothnafar the Seer! How do ya not know him? He is said to enter the River of Time with ease, and knows much about magick though he cannot use it! He may be more qualified than ya are, Drasha. Now all ve need is an impartial judge…”

Before Jarthen could fully digest all that had been suddenly revealed about Glothnafar’s many talents, or the fact that the imposing centaur was apparently blushing, he heard a loud crack behind him. After recoving from the startle, he noticed that the airy purple mist had vanished as suddenly as it appeared.

An unexpected voice, odd and cracked-sounding, spoke up suddenly from where the mist had vanished. “I owe no allegiance to either party. I will be the third judge!”

****
Immediately after completing his meal with Nelhoepher and Lem, Bertronius excused himself, claiming that he needed to clear up some paperwork as a reason to head over to the clerical tent on the far side of the army's camp. He made his way quickly to the large tent, where several bookish looking men were seated at desks, busy poring over great stacks of paper, scribbling away with quills in small, neat handwriting. Though all of these men performed the same function, Bertronius was interested in speaking to one of them in particular: Phinneas Flumpert.

He spotted the gawky, bespectacled clerk in the far corner of the tent at a desk that was awash with any number of ledgers, papers, and quills. Flumpert glanced up as he noticed the lad's approach, squinting nearsightedly, but quickly recognizing Bertronius. "Ah, you're the lad who spoke to the Queen of the Sprites, aren't you? Bertronius Worthis, isn't it? I never forget a name," he said in the manner of a man who has little need patience for trivial small talk. "What can I do for you?"

Phinneas Flumpert: expert magicologist...

"Well," Bertronius spoke, choosing his words carefully, "I wanted to talk to you because, well, you're an expert magicologist, aren't you?"

Flumpert puffed himself up importantly, but he answered in an unassuming manner all the same, "some people have called me that, I suppose, yes."

"Well, you see, I wanted to talk to you because -- this is probably going to sound weird -- I wanted to talk to you because I think I'm magical," Bertronius said sheepishly.

Flumpert stared at the boy, and sniffed a little, but inquired in an interested manner, "what makes you think that you're magical, lad?"

"Well sir," Bertronius had been careful to construct the case for his magical ability and was prepared with his first premise, "I do have this flaming-red hair, and, as we both know, it is commonly held that folks with red hair have a certain propensity for magic."

"I'm afraid that that is not sufficient evidence of a human having magical abilities. Indeed, my research on the subject, which is quite extensive," Flumpert said, taking on the aspect of a proud professor lecturing an over-eager pupil, "has shown that the idea of red hair being a predictor of magical abilities is actually an old wives' tale dating back to the early history of cultural interchange and superstition between the Athenorkos elves and Fethilians. Now if you examine what little historical record remains from that time..."

"Additionally," Bertronius interrupted, preventing the scholar from indulging in what surely would have been an extensive digression into the academic literature on the early history of Elothninian expansion, "my great-grandmother was Drinella the elf, so I do have some magical blood coursing through my veins."

Flumpert stared down his nose at the boy, with a slightly condescending if bemused expression, "well, I'm sorry to say that I hardly think an ancestor that far back in your lineage could grant you sufficient genetic material for to enable the expression of magical powers in you. If that's all, I must be getting back to my paper work, which, as you can see, is quite staggering at the moment..."

"There is one more thing," Bertronius said becoming a little annoyed with Flumpert's skepticism -- he maintained his cool, though, as he explained, "when I was in the Erkenheld, for my entry exam for the spy corps, I was the only one who ever found the magical forest paths of the Sprite Queen. She told me, while I was there that creatures like me were always welcome in the forest -- as long as I can find the paths, I'm allowed to use them. She said I belonged there. It seems to me, that that's got to be indicative of something."

Flumpert contemplated the red-haired lad before him for a moment -- it was fairly rare, in his experience to come across humans with magical abilities, and he had been disappointed on several occasions when he thought that he had found a magical human, but who was, in fact, simply mundayne. Bertronius could see the gears of his indisputably powerful mind toiling away, analyzing him and the evidence he had presented, until, in an explosion of interest that momentarily drew the attention of his fellow clerks, he expostulated, "my goodness I think you might actually have something, Worthis! There's no way we can no for sure -- without cracking open your head and taking a gander at your brain -- I would wager that you wouldn't want me to go to such great lengths -- but, when taken together, these factors are indicative of some sort of latent magical ability!"

"You know," Bertronius said Bertronius speaking in the voice that he naturally fell into when he wanted to acquire a piece of private information from an adult, "I'd really like to hear more about your research -- it sounds really fascinating, and maybe it could help me figure out if there's anything else that would demonstrate my magical abilities."

Flumpert, who was clearly flattered to finally have someone show an interest in his life's work, absolutely gushed in response, "Well of course! There's so much to tell though, I hardly know where to begin..."

"Maybe it would be best if you told me about how you got your start in this field?" Bertronius suggested: he had the sense that he had successfully charmed the excited scholar, and that acquiring the information he sought would now just be a matter of time and delicacy.

"Of course! You're a very clever lad, you know? I got my start in Perejin, where as I'm sure you know there exists a large, and diverse population of magical beings who are not uncommonly found even in the Fethilian towns in the area. As a child I had the great fortune of encountering a gnome by the name of Homellthimp. At the time, I had wandered away from my home and become lost in the Erkenheld, which, as you know, is a confusing place at the best of times. Given my youth and diminutive stature Homellthimp was kind enough to invite me into his home for a cup of tea: this is where I got my first taste of magic! Before he guided me out of the forest..."

Bertronius interrupted him at this point, "I would imagine that you must miss Perejin a great deal -- your family and friends must all still be there, right?"

"Well yes," Flumpert replied somewhat mournfully. "Indeed, my family remains there, and though my studies have taken me far and wide across the empire and beyond, it is not too often that I have the funds or liberty to return there. I do maintain as active a correspondence with my family as my somewhat hectic workload permits," he said gesturing sadly to the vast amount of paperwork littering his desk.

"I understand completely," Bertronius said sympathetically. He then consciously released an anguished sigh before continuing in a doleful tone, "I miss my family a great deal -- I do write to them of course. When I got here, I was really hoping that a dear friend of my family, Larthon Ractor, would be here on the front. He's a member of the Imperial Army, who, last I heard, was stationed here, but when I got here he was nowhere to be found. I would absolutely love to write him a letter, but I have no idea where he is now..." Bertronius trailed off sadly.

Flumpert could not help feeling a deep sympathy for the suddenly pitiful boy before him. He remembered well how difficult it was for him to have left his family at a similarly young age for schooling in Neerhemhind. Indeed, he almost felt a tear welling up to his bespectacled eyes, when a brilliant thought came to him, "you know," Flumpert said brightening, "if he was stationed here -- what did you say his name was? -- I could tell you where he was sent next: now, there's no guarantee that he's still there," he cautioned, "but it's a start at least!"

"His name," Bertronius replied, a smile beginning to spread across his face, "is Larthon Ractor."

"Let's see here, Ractor, Ractor, Ractor....ah, here it is!" Flumpert muttered as he shuffled through some disordered stacks of paper, running his fingers down long columns of names and numbers. "He was last sent to Susselfen."