The room was warm and comfortable. He had hundreds of volumes of different-sized and colored texts along the walls. He had a half dozen different types of reading chairs as well as a large cloth chair behind a wide desk that seemed to grow out of the floor. The glowing orbs moved, and I could see that they positioned themselves around me to provide an even illumination.

  With the invitation made, I walked over to two chairs facing each other beside one of the glowing orbs and placed my backpack behind the smaller and lesser of the two. I wanted to make sure I respected his station.

  Free to move about, I strode over to the bookcase behind his desk. It would be where I would keep my favorite and most interesting volumes.

  And it did not take me long to find several that were interesting to me. In fact, there were dozens, as I browsed his shelves, that I would enjoy reading. He had texts written in at least half a dozen languages, with Elven serving as the most prevalent.

  There were texts on geography, botany, history, philosophy, and medicine. It was a collection of masterpieces held by someone who had lived for centuries. For the first time, I envied the long life of elves, if for no other reason than the ability to broaden my mind and to experience so much beauty and wonder.

  Of course, elves rarely traveled. Their knowledge generally came to them. A few, especially the young, got wanderlust and roamed the world, but not many stayed away for very long.

  I came across one text that he had authored on trees. It was very old but in excellent condition. I pulled it down without the need to blow off dust, as would probably be the case in a mage library or even in the older stacks of my father’s library. Dad was meticulous, but dust did tend to settle without magical means to keep it away.

  I walked over and sat in the chair I had chosen and began reading. The glow orb slowly moved so that it gently illuminated the pages more clearly for me. It was in ancient elven with a handwriting that was so precise it could have been scripted by a master sage. Without realizing it, I had reached the end of the introductory chapter some forty pages later before I looked up to see if Rothilion had returned.

  Instead, I found a very old-looking elf sitting in a chair near the doorway, watching me intensely.

  I stood and set the book down on the chair. “I apologize, I got enthralled in the text and lost track of time. Please forgive my rudeness.”

  He tilted his head and asked me in ancient elven, “What are the three main arbors as recognized by elven masters?”

  I answered automatically in ancient Elven, my years as a student responding to a master’s question not easily forgotten in less than a week. “The hardwoods exemplified by oaks, the softwoods exemplified by maples, and the mystic woods exemplified by the Tamarack, master. But the author speculates that such an ancient classification is flawed and is better served through permanent and impermanent foliage as a prime marker since classifications in their own terms more closely follow this design.”

  “And what do you think the author suggests by the unusual phrase, ‘classifications in their own terms?’”

  I looked at the book and then back to the elderly elf who had an air of a professor about him. I took my best shot, knowing that my father always expected my best intellectual effort, even when knowledge was lacking. “It is indicated that this is the premise of the volume and many chapters would build a case yet unstated at the end of the introduction, but I hypothesize that the author suggests that trees themselves have self identity, of a kind, and that knowledge of them led to the conclusion that they see themselves according to what humans would refer to as coniferous and deciduous. And if this is true, it seems the height of arrogance to claim a typology about them that they, themselves, deny.”

  His expression of surprise had me stammer out, “I meant no disrespect. All I had time to read was the introduction. I could be entirely off base.” I feared I may have just insulted a very important scholar, given his manner and knowledge. And an elf that looked this old had to be several thousand years old.

  He walked over and picked up the book and stared at it for a long moment before handing it back to me. “Take it as a gift. I wrote this over two hundred years ago and tried, without success, to make the point you raised to my learned colleagues for decades. You came to the conclusion after reading the first forty pages in less than half an hour. Amazing.”

  He motioned me to sit back down.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “I am Yandril, young elfkin. I am a great uncle to Rothilion. He sends along his apologies, but rushed off to the bidding of the king. He asked that I look in on you and see to your needs while he is away. I apologize that you got stuck with an old elf when so many more interesting other options were available.”

  I laughed. He may have the presence of a professor, but of the kindly yet demanding sort. “I could not be more honored. Of all the texts to choose, I picked one that I could talk directly to its author. I’d say that was fortunate indeed.”

  He bowed his head. “You are being kind. What do you think of the writing?” He asked.

  “I will answer that in two ways. First, the script was elegant and neat; my own thoughts as I read it were that the writing was done by the hands of a master sage.”

  His eyebrows raised. “Why, thank you.”

  “My father is the Royal Librarian in Keelwell, and I was raised among the great thinkers and writers of the ages. He instructed me quite specifically about such things. And while I never mastered the elegant script of the languages I read, I can thank my father for what passes as at least acceptable calligraphy. Your words are artfully drawn, and as to the other way, I would answer your question; the words flowed like thoughts on paper. There were no common presumptions or intentional use of unnecessarily elaborate and complex words. I believe that one accustomed to the language would be able to read this at even young ages, which opens the world to them that would otherwise be closed behind decades of specialized study.”

  He smiled. “Again, you identify one of the chief criticisms of my work as being overly simplistic, and yet you turn it into a compliment and one pleasing to these old ears to hear.”

  He leaned in to me. “For one whose mind is open, you might find a hidden spell in those words to speak at a deep level with trees. None of the scholars found it, or if they did, none ever admitted it to me.”

  “Thank you, Master Yandril. You have taken a text I found personally interesting and turned it into a mystery. That piques my professional interest as well.”

  “Yes, you are an enchanter, I see.”

  “Only a journeyman.” And I mirrored him and leaned in and whispered, “and only that since Spring Day morning.”

  He nodded slowly. “I shall consider keeping that between us, then. We elves don’t often take kindly to humans and the very young.”

  I shrugged. “I am used to being seen that way. And I don’t mind. But I have been asked to seek help for a city that is soon under siege, and I am not entirely sure I am up to the task.”

  I was surprised that I admitted this to him, a complete stranger. But there was something about him that was both comforting and reassuring.

  “Let’s go for a walk. You will certainly want to see some of the splendor of the city, and we can talk along the way. We should be safe, and our conversations should be private. Elves can be arrogant and unforgiving at times, but one thing we do very well is respect others’ privacy.”

  He groaned slightly as he stood, and I took his arm, which he allowed me to take. “As long as we walk slowly and stick to the trails, these old bones could use a little exercise.” He said with a smile.

  “I will defer to you as to where we go and how long we walk. I am anxious to see some of the city, but I am in no specific rush. Especially if our talk helps me figure out what to say to the king.”

  “Oh ho. You think you will gain an audience with him?” He asked as we walked out of the room.

  “You know, after spending a day with the King of the Dwarves in the Copper Mountains, I just assumed I would see our Elven King as well. Of course, my first meeting with the Dwarf King did not exactly go well at the start.”

  And I proceeded to tell him most of last week’s work, struggles, and adventures. I did not share dwarven secrets or those of the Duke and my team, but most of the rest was known to many in Keelwell and to the dwarves as well. And I was Elfkin as much as Dwarfkin, even if I had yet to feel much like an elf here.

  He was saddened about the death of the Bishop, whom he said he had met on several occasions, and that he was a great and spiritual man. He was unaware of the Deathlight, and we discussed it in relation to previous decades. He also disclosed that, along with goblins, other evil races were attacking the elves and their lands. This was troubling because in Keelwell, we had only been focusing on goblins and strategies to combat them. If all the evil races were a part of the invasion, including giants, and there is no reason to suspect they would not, it opens wide the types of strategies we needed to consider.

  Bella, please share with Isaac when you get a chance that all of the evil races are attacking the elves, and the substance of this conversation with Yandril, please.

  Her response was distant but clear. Yes Gwydion.

  We skipped around on topics, and I talked about my mother as well as my father. Yandril said that he had met my mother on one occasion, some years before I would have been born. She had worked in the area as part of a Druid and Ranger group seeking both undesirable monsters and hidden knowledge in ancient and early age temples and ruins.

  He shared some details about one of her adventures that led to her becoming an Elfkin. She had interacted with the elves on many occasions, but with this situation, there was a special service to the king and his Lodge. She became known in court and was rewarded. He mentioned that she even had a home here, somewhere, and if time permitted, I could certainly visit it and meet the elf family that serves as her caretakers.

  We spent a couple of hours walking together slowly around the paths that interconnected these mighty trees. We did not stray too far from my host’s home, and there was so much exotic plant and animal life to see that we often sat, watched, and talked quietly.

  I had asked where the Bank of the Realm had its branch, and he said it was deeper near the commerce section and not far from the Court. But that was further than he planned to walk on his own. He offered to get me a guide or directions, but I admitted my interest was more about ease of travel to and from here through a magical vault that I inherited than any special interest in banking.

  He understood and suggested that if time permitted, when Rothilion returned, a visit could easily be arranged.

  Yandril was an amazing interviewer. He was as much a storyteller as he was a scholar. He probed me deeply about some details, often academic or cultural in nature, and strayed away from discussions of warfare and offensive magic outside the basics he shared with me early on.

  When I asked him about that, he said, “Across my ample lifetime, I have seen and been part of more violence than I have any care to recall. All the Goblin Wars and the corruption of the Great Necromancer are but footnotes. I have walked in all nine realms, and at times, I am saddened beyond my ability to be consoled by memories of the lush life and vibrancy of the lands and people before corruption blighted them. Our elven people once lived in vast numbers across the realms, but are now relegated to cities in the woodlands, underwood, and underwater.”

  And so in deference to his feelings, I steered away from discussions that touched on battles, defense, and magic used in those ways.