The Gate (1 of 1)

[mother_herbivore]

4.5k word count, set after Falnight

Fairlark hoped that she had dreamt the knock at her door. Nothing good had ever come of a unexpected midnight knock, nothing good that could not wait until dawn. It was too late and too cold for things to be well.

The second knock came. Louder, more urgent. Fairlark had to answer it now.

Reluctantly she left the warmth of her bed and her husband, wrapped her dressing gown around herself, and lit a candle with a gentle touch to its wick as she went to the door. There was a third knock before she reached it. Through the stained glass at the top, she saw Falnight, alone, without his furs or hood.

Fairlark opened the door and asked him, “What are you doing?”

“I did something wrong,” he said.

Now Fairlark truly wished she had dreamt the knocking.

She ushered him inside before she asked any more questions, put him in the kitchen chair closest to the stove. He was wearing his winter boots, but over his nightshirt he had only wrapped himself in one shawl, and he was shivering. Fairlark stoked the fire, put the kettle on and said,

“Tell me what happened.”

For a while, Falnight did not respond. He sat there, his shawl pulled tight around him, opening and closing his mouth several times but unable to find his voice. Fairlark searched his face for some hint.

“Are you hurt?” she asked. He shook his head. “Has something happened to Mama?” No. “Winedawn?”

Her questioning seemed to be making it harder for him to speak, so she sat down and waited. Falnight was a shy boy, prone to nervous crying if he was under too much pressure. It could be difficult to teach him some days.

The kettle boiled and Fairlark had pressed a cup of tea into Falnight’s chilly hands before he would speak again, haltingly, hesitantly.

“I was reading from one of those old books,” he began, and Fairlark’s expression turned steely. He rushed on, “I know that you said I shouldn’t—”

“I said that you were never to read from any of those books. Explicitly. I told you, never.”

“I know,” Falnight said in a very small voice.

“And you did?” asked Fairlark, dread mounting in her belly.

“I thought… I thought—”

Fairlark closed her eyes. “You did not think,” she said. “What did you read? What did it say?”

Falnight was quiet for too long, his mouth silently working. “I don’t know,” he said at last, “I don’t know what it said. I sounded the words out.”

“I told you to never recite words that you cannot translate!”

“I’m sorry! I just wanted to see—”

She did not care to hear his reasons now. She demanded, “What volume did you read from?”

He opened his shawl finally and presented her with a faded leatherbound book, old symbols stamped in silver on its spine. Fairlark took it from him, her jaw clenched. She could have shaken him. She told herself, he is your brother too, he is not just your student, he is not your soldier or your child...

Maring emerged from the bedroom, tying the sash of his dressing gown. He looked between them, his expression a silent question as Falnight shrank into himself, trying to disappear. Fairlark placed the book on the table.

“Show me exactly what you read,” she said. When Falnight did not move, she snapped, “Falnight, I cannot help you if I don’t know what you’ve done. Show me.”

Of course he was reluctant to show her. He knew that he had done wrong—this was the third of five volumes on old Hollow magic, dated practices that the Assembly had placed an embargo on centuries ago, even before Fairlark’s time. They were rare, and that Fairlark even possessed them was a privilege she owed to her rank and long service. She had showed them to Falnight as history books meant to supplement his regular study of the Hollow, not instructions of Hollow magic, and she told him this so, so clearly. For five years now, she had always taught him that he cannot practice any magic that he does not thoroughly, explicitly understand. Hadn’t she? It did not matter now.

Falnight still would not move. He was still shaking, clutching his shawl tightly around him again. Fairlark snatched the book off the table and stood up.

“Then I will have to see for myself,” she said. She strode past Maring, and he followed her into the bedroom, closing the door behind them.

“What is happening?” he asked. “You’ve never spoken to him like that.”

“He has been playing with Hollow magic,” said Fairlark. She put on a winter dress and set to buttoning up the collar, shaking her head. Her stomach felt tight. “There is no telling what exactly he’s done—he could not do anything of note alone, not without sacrificing another living thing…”

“You’ve done it.”

“My abilities do not come from the blood we share,” said Fairlark. “If he was capable of even half what I am, I would have seen it in him. He has potential, not prodigiousness.”

“What will you do?”

“I do not know yet. I don’t even know where he was practicing.”

“He can’t have been far,” said Maring, “not in this cold.”

“In any case, if I don’t return in an hour, go to my mother’s house.” Fairlark pursed her lips briefly, clasping the pin on her cloak. “I will either be there or you will need to inform him that something’s happened.”

“As if I will sit here and wait alone,” said Maring. Fairlark shrugged.

“Dress quickly,” she said. She pulled on her boots and took one of her autumn cloaks from its trunk for Falnight—it was light wear for her, but he would wear it like a blanket. They shared elf blood in their soft moon elf mother, but Fairlark had Greater blood in her from her father’s side where Falnight’s sire was a waifish Qerastan elf, making him thin and short, scarcely eye level with Fairlark’s chest. It made his magical potential all the more surprising, and, that night, all the more worrisome.

She went back to the kitchen and drew Falnight up by his elbow, draping the cloak around him and securing it with the leather cords sewn through its neck. He did not protest or pull away as she dressed him. He did not even look her in the face, his chin tilted down and his eyes cast on the floor. Fairlark pursed her lips. Without a word, she tucked the book into her dress pocket and pressed Falnight’s undrunk tea into his hands again. He held it tightly, but still did not drink.

Fairlark thought she ought to say something, but her mind was shadowed with worry over what Falnight may have done with the book and she could think of nothing comforting. Thankfully Maring came out of the bedroom before long, fastening the buttons on his coat, and he said to Falnight,

“Come, then, let’s see what we can do.”

Falnight nodded mutely and went to the door.

The houses and shops were dark, the weather too cold for any nighttime work. When it was warm, an elf who awoke in the middle of the night might spend an hour or a few sitting on their porch with their mending or their woodcarving in the moonlight until they felt it was time to sleep again, but in the winter, it was better to stay tucked in bed with a journal or a good book. Sheaside was still. They had not yet had the first snow bringing its muffling white quilt, and the night felt crisp and crystalline. The sound of Fairlark’s boots on the ground and the rustle of her woolen cloak seemed too loud as she led the way to her mother’s house.

The front gate stood open still, and right away, she could feel it—the Hollow’s coolness creeping under her skin, the uncomfortable prickle of the dead and restless at the back of her skull. Spirits had not quite found the gate yet, but they sensed it, and they were curious. They were gathering in the area, searching for the warmth of the still-living. As she approached the barn, the hair on the back of Fairlark’s neck stood on end.

The horse was dead in its stall, slumped awkwardly against the wall where it had simply toppled over. It was already cold, its muscles stiff, completely void of energy. Opening the gate had robbed it of the natural process of death and turned it immediately into a husk. It probably had not even realized that it was dying. Falnight began to cry again as Fairlark looked it over, shaking her head solemnly.

“If it had not died, then you surely would have,” she said. “Let that haunt you when next you decide to go behind my back and meddle with forces that you do not understand.”

Falnight inhaled so sharply that he hiccuped, and quickly hid his face in his hands.

“Fairlark,” Maring said, quiet, firm. Fairlark knew, she heard herself, she felt the crease of her frown. But what else would Falnight understand? She had been a fair teacher, and now she was here.

She rubbed her chin, closed her eyes as she cleared her head. It would be an unpleasant night.

“Go wake your parents,” she told Falnight. A new chill down her spine made her open her eyes, and she saw Falnight staring tearfully at her, hands clutching at the neck of his borrowed cloak. Fairlark pointed. “Go! I need their help, and you must tell them what you’ve done.”

Falnight startled, then turned and hurried out.

Maring waited until the barn door had swung shut again before he turned to Fairlark, eyebrows knit.

“Don’t,” Fairlark said, though she knew he would.

“This is not like you anymore,” he said. “He is a child. Your little brother.”

“He needs to understand what he’s done. I told him not to mess about with those texts, and yet he did.”

“But he trusted that you would help him when he did make that mistake. This is the first time he has done anything like this, isn’t it? Please, do not teach him to fear authority. Show him to be cautious, not afraid of trying something new.”

Fairlark pursed her lips. Maring was right that Falnight was still at an impressionable age, he had never done something this serious, and that tonight would be a pivotal moment in his learning and in his life. Fairlark was also right that Falnight needed to understand that his actions have consequences. Even if the gate was not very big, even if nothing came through. Accident or not, undeclared Hollow magic was not taken lightly by the Assembly. If word reached one of the lodges, Falnight would be swept away to a crossroads college, his parents and Fairlark would be fined, every mage in his life would be examined and many of them would be barred from magicwork for a year or more. No amount of Fairlark’s anger or disapproval would affect Falnight like the Assembly would, and the Assembly did not love him like she did. He was still her brother.

“I have seen too many good boys spoiled by bad discipline,” Maring said, when she did not answer him. And he had, but Fairlark would not be compared to the cult authority he had grown up with.

“I am not the Sunherald,” she said tersely. Maring shook his head.

“Still, I see you slipping into your old self. He is already scared. Soften your shoulders, unclench your jaw.” He cupped her face in his hands, and she willed herself to relax under his touch. “Tonight will be bad, but try not to make it worse.”

Yes, he was right, more right than she. Fairlark closed her eyes for a long moment.

“I hear you,” she said at last. “I will be fair to him. I’ll do my best.” She rubbed her chin and sighed. “It has been a long time since I did such magic. I will need you behind me.”

“And you will have me.” Maring let go of her face so that he could take her hand in his and kiss her fingers. “There is no one better that he could trust to make this right.”

The barn doors creaked open again for the parents, and Ishgod entered first. He stopped, tense, once he crossed the threshold, like he had run into a wall of cold air. Where the rest of them could feel the Hollow outside the barn, a sun woods elf like Ishgod would not sense it until he was nearly standing on top of it. The Hollow did not hurt, but it was not a part of their plane and it was not meant to be felt by the warm and living. It startled him. Then his gaze fell on the dead horse, and he closed his eyes.

Vicaste was close behind him, their brows knit and a scowl beginning to pull at their scarred mouth. Of Falnight’s parents, it was his sire that concerned Fairlark the most. While not cruel by any means, Vicaste was sharp in tongue and wit, always pessimistic and prone to being unthinkingly harsh. Fairlark could handle their diatribe, should it come, but Falnight would be inconsolable. Fairlark met Vicaste’s eyes steadily, silently. They said nothing but a swear word under their breath when they saw the horse.

Soldove entered last, and Falnight was hiding behind him. It irritated Fairlark, and immediately she felt guilty for it—in any other moment, she would never fault him for his clinginess. Soldove was so protective of him, loathe to even let Falnight out of his sight. As much as Falnight did not remember his time with the Griffon, Soldove remembered every dreadful moment of his absence, and had tightened his hold on the child even more. That was a large part of why Fairlark had agreed to teach Falnight—she knew their mother would not release him to a city school, not even one founded by the Heiric clan. She had to be careful in her next steps.

“Oh, my,” Soldove sighed when he’d seen the horse too. He reached for Ishgod’s hand and squeezed it, murmuring something that Fairlark did not listen in on. Falnight stayed close behind him, clutching the edge of his hastily clasped cloak, teary eyes carefully anywhere but the horse or Fairlark.

“Falnight said that you would explain,” Ishgod said to Fairlark.

“Falnight has been messing about with magic that he does not understand, despite my warnings, and so he has opened a gate into the Hollow,” said Fairlark. Surprise rippled in varying degrees across the parents’ faces, Ishgod understanding the least, Soldove the most. He had been married to Fairlark’s father, after all, and he had heard a great many of the lectures that Mooreve had given, many of which Fairlark repeated to Falnight. But Fairlark was at least sure that Ishgod and Vicaste understood the legal implications. She gestured to a spot in front of the horse’s stall.

“Just there, I think,” she said. “I will know for certain in a few moments. It is quite small, else there would be more bodies—” Falnight hid his face against Soldove’s back at that— “and I should be able to close it by dawn.”

“And what are we to do?” asked Vicaste. “Stand by and watch?”

“Yes,” said Fairlark. “I want Falnight to watch so that he may know the full consequences of ignoring my explicit instructions, and I want the rest of you here because he is your son, and this is your home.”

Vicaste looked thoughtfully at her for a moment, then nodded. “I see.”

“You will not see much,” said Fairlark. “But all of you must promise to follow my orders, should I give any. Maring’s, too. Our aim is to keep you safe.”

One by one, the four of them nodded. Fairlark turned to Maring, and he smiled at her.

“Shall we, love?” he said.

Fairlark closed her eyes. She had learned truesight during the wars, after the dwarves and humans discovered how to open gates into the Hollow and promptly put it to indiscriminate use against the elves. Before the ranks of the Gatekeepers had formed, dealing with the open gates had mostly fallen to any soldiers that had the ability and stamina. Truesight was a dangerous thing, but necessary in dealing with the Hollow.

She opened her eyes again, and they were pools of ink, leaking black ichor, but she could see more clearly than ever. The barn shimmered with colors she had not seen in many years, colors that she could never name or paint or dye. To some mages, the sight was addicting, and they looked through black eyes until they went blind and spent the rest of their days lamenting those colors. Even Fairlark could not deny that it made the world all the more beautiful. But every minute she could see them was another day that she would not see through green eyes again, and she would not linger. She had to work quickly.

All magic took its toll, but Hollow magic was especially wearisome. Fairlark felt it as soon as she put her hands to the open gate; the heavy draw on her energy, the ooze of warm Light into the cold Hollow. Everything ended with the Hollow, and opening a gate hastened that death march. Sometimes, a gate might open unprompted where there was a great deal of the dead and dying, but otherwise, small gates were only opened so that Hollow mages could study their field, that they might understand how to better protect the living and the dead from each other.

Falnight was lucky, luckier than any elf could hope to be. This gate was quite small. If enough spirits found it, they could widen it as they reached for the Light, but Fairlark felt that she could seal it before that happened, as long as she set a good pace. She was a long way from her battlemage days, but with Maring at her side, even without a full night’s rest, the effort would not drain her completely. She would be alright by the morrow’s evening. It would take a little more time for the living world to knit back together there—the Light of life would still seep into the Hollow, drawing the attention of spirits who missed its warmth, but once Fairlark finished, they would not be able to pass through the gate.

All this, she thought, as long as a spirit did not find its way through the gate before she was finished, and she ought to have known that she would not be as lucky as Falnight.

She had been working steadily for nearly an hour, Maring at her side with a hand between her shoulderblades as she made her way from the top of the gate to the bottom, binding the edges together with her hands and an invisible stitch. She sensed the reaching hand before she saw it. One side of the gate began to twitch, widening the opening by nearly a centimeter, and she felt Maring shake. The muscles in her shoulders seized painfully for a second, and she gasped as the hand slipped through into the light.

It was small, like a child’s, but its fingers grew long so that they could wrap around her wrist, sending sharp, icy pain up her arm into her neck. A memory that was not hers rose, unwanted and muddled, in her mind. She blocked it out before she would know any of the details, thinking of her wedding day instead.

“Ishgod,” she said, her voice feeling thin and strained, “lend me your hand a moment.”

He came to stand beside her, laying a hand unbidden at the small of her back, a father’s gently concerned touch. It was what she needed. Diluted as woods elf magic was, he was the only other source that Fairlark could think to safely draw on. Falnight was too young, Vicaste too frail, Soldove too hesitant. Maring was nearly at his limit. Ishgod was a devout man who had worked hard to find his faith and keep it after his family’s goddess forsook him as a child. He was strong of spirit, and he was of good constitution, the only man Fairlark had ever met who nearly matched her size and strength and did not have a drop of Greater elf blood in him. She could take of some of his Light, and he would live.

“Be steady,” said Fairlark. The little hand was tugging on her wrist, trying to pull itself forward. There wasn’t time to explain exactly what she intended, how it would feel, what it would do to him. “You must trust me.”

“What are you doing?” came Vicaste’s voice, distant to her ears. Soldove made an indistinct response, quieting them. Ishgod only nodded. Fairlark stared into the open gate again, at the distorted hand still around her wrist, its fingers twisting halfway up her arm. Her jaw ached terribly.

She felt Ishgod twitch as she began to pull his Light into her own, felt him nearly withdraw his hand and then press his palm more firmly against her in determination. His strength bolstered hers, and she forced the spirit away. It let go of her arm and slid backward into the gate, its fingers shrinking rapidly until it disappeared into the black of the Hollow. Fairlark exhaled a long breath, then turned her attention back to knitting the gate closed.

No more spirits tried to press through, and as the opening shrank, Fairlark felt the pull lessen until the only pressure on her body was exhaustion. She could only imagine how Maring and Ishgod felt.

Finally the gate was sealed again, and Fairlark could close her burning eyes. Someone gave her a handkerchief, and she wearily wiped the ichor from her face. Then she simply sat there, face buried in the handkerchief, and thought that she could fall asleep there on the barn floor. That was a good sign. She could relax. There were no spirits vying for her attention, nothing haunting her living world. The night was peaceful.

“It’s done,” she heard Soldove say. Fairlark lowered the handkerchief and looked up. Falnight was crying again, his face hidden against Soldove’s shoulder, and Soldove was stroking his head soothingly, watching Fairlark.

“It is done,” she confirmed. She looked round for Ishgod—he was sitting a short distance behind her, his head gracelessly dropped between his knees, his long dark hair gathering bits of hay where it dragged on the ground. He looked utterly defeated, exhausted. Vicaste stood beside him, leaning so that they could rest their hand on his shoulder, because they could not easily crouch or kneel on their illness-stiffened legs.

“Thank you,” Fairlark said. “I’m sorry that I did not explain myself. I needed to draw on your Light if I was to succeed, and I did. Thank you. Let me see to your horse, old and new.”

Ishgod flicked one hand in acknowledgment, but he did not look up or speak. Fairlark understood, and took no offense—she had asked a lot of him and he had not faltered.

Maring was still standing, although he seemed heavy on his feet. He had one hand at the small of his back, massaging his cramping muscles, but when Fairlark looked at him, he still offered her a gentle smile. His constant, pleasant serenity was calming, comforting.

“If I may intrude on your hospitality, shall we go inside?” he asked the parents.

“Intrude? You’re no intrusion,” said Vicaste. They straightened up, drawing themself tall and haughty, like Maring insulted them by insinuating that he was any bother. “I’d say I would not let you off this property before you’d been fed and rested.”

“I’ll warm up some biscuits and coffee,” Soldove said. He took Falnight with him back to the house. The rest of them sat in the barn for a few minutes longer, until Fairlark stood at last and offered Ishgod her hand. He staggered as he stood, and Fairlark and Maring each gripped an arm to steady him.

“It may take a few days before you feel back to your full strength,” Maring said. “Take tomorrow to rest at home and eat rich foods, and do nothing more strenuous than walking upstairs to put your children to bed.”

“This is usual?” Vicaste asked. They plucked a few bits of hay out of Ishgod’s hair, mouth set in a tight line.

“For a man of his kind, yes,” Maring said.

“Of his kind?” Vicaste gave him a sharp look then, but Maring was unphased, his smile as pleasant as ever.

“An untrained woods elf,” he said.

“I was never good at magic,” Ishgod said, before Vicaste could respond to Maring as though he had insulted Ishgod. “My parents didn’t see the need to have me trained in it. And I think, after tonight, I can say that I do not miss it.”

“Even with the usual mage training, most woods elves would not have the faculty to do what you did,” said Fairlark. “They would have passed out the moment I finished the gate. That you are able to stand now is impressive.”

Ishgod looked demurely pleased at that, and Vicaste’s expression softened.

Inside the house, Soldove had warm, savory biscuits waiting for them, and the coffee was nearly ready. Falnight was curled up in one of the chairs by the fireplace, Fairlark’s cloak still wrapped snugly around him. Winedawn sat in the other chair, picking at a biscuit and eating it one morsel at a time. He looked up when Fairlark and the others came in, but Falnight’s gaze was fixed on the floor. Fairlark went to him and knelt by the side of his chair.

“Falnight,” she said, as gently as she could, “look at me.”

After a long moment, he did, his eyes watery and his mouth clamped tightly shut to stop his lips trembling.

“I am here to guide you,” Fairlark said. “I will teach you what you need to know about magic, and you can ask me anything. I will not hide things from you. When I tell you not to do something, I have very, very good reasons. You must understand this.”

He gave her the smallest nod. His lips parted slightly as though to say something; it took a few moments for him to get out, “I’m sorry for…” and his voice faltered. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

 

“I know,” said Fairlark. “You’re safe now. And I am sorry for snapping at you. It was not helpful.”
She was acutely aware of Winedawn watching them, silent but curious. He was a half-brother to both of them, the son of their mother and Ishgod, long of face and black of hair. Like Ishgod, his magic was uncultivated. He had little interest in it, either, except when it came to Falnight, and then his curiosity was almost morbid, the way one might be curious to watch a cat hunt and eat a bird. Fairlark was certain that she was the cat.