Chapter 6: Unexpected Visitor
Midway across the Atlantic someone else was pondering a secret worry. Although the ageless foe of the Paragons could hardly be described as mirthful. Quite difficult to describe in general, he was putting the second tier of his scheme into motion, or rather -- planned to -- once he got a vital piece of information.
Privately, he wondered if his journey was in vain, recalling a petition made long ago, not by him, yet on his behalf that had seen no sympathy or satisfaction, only a cryptic prognosis. It had cost him dearly. Very dearly.
Would today’s trip yield more than that? he pondered.
Once he’d been a man, a real man -- not this halfling, this shapeshifter that he’d become. A man who shared his problems with those he loved, knew the strength and wisdom of family. That was a different time, he recalled bitterly.
Hearing a noise, he froze. Blending into the landscape as only a shapeshifter could. Seamless. Foliage, leaves, air and light -- all mingled into one, masking his presence.
The Paragons’ spying capabilities might be limitless, or so he’d heard. Still, he doubted they could track him. He had skills that his father had not possessed.
Unbidden a memory resurfaced from long ago.
“And how exactly are you gonna know what you’re looking for?” he’d asked ironically as his father had set out after the Paragons. “Their gifts don’t lend themselves to a compelling argument for sneaking up on them. Let alone finding them.”
“Well, I’ll be looking for their fiery eyes...won’t I? Shouldn’t be too difficult,” his dad had quipped.
He’d snorted in amusement at the time.
It had seemed like a sound, albeit, ambivalent approach. Until his father turned up dead.
Paragons prided themselves on the ability to find any soul at any time, anywhere on the planet. Others in the supernatural world knew this and acted accordingly. Some going as far as taking precautions against surveillance and unexpected intrusions through the use of various enchantments and spells.
Sorcery their only option for secrecy.
One of those places was the subject of the shifter’s stealthy approach and the reason he now hid.
Two figures came into view a moment later. Heads turned away from his position.
His jaw dropped open in amazement. Fortunately it was disguised as part of a tree and high above their heads. He clamped it shut.
They’re elfin! he thought, excited. Real elves here in the glen. How was that possible? The elusive pointy-eared creatures were rarely seen. Did they feel safe enough in this particular environment to go roaming about?
Iceland’s folklore was filled with stories about the gnomish figures. It was the first time in all of his years that he’d actually seen one, or in this case, two.
Another thought struck him almost simultaneously, were they part of the defenses of this place? Were they in league with the white witch that he hoped to see?
Their postures were tense, tiny shoulders stiff with awareness. Slowly they scanned the area, finally turning in his direction. Grim faced and eyes wary. The pair were indeed looking for something.
Had the seer’s abilities warned of his approach? He hadn’t counted on that.
As he watched from his sheltered stance, one elf raised a small hand, pointing to something in his direction. The other stiffened, watching. Then they both disappeared.
His eyes focused immediately on the spot where the small hand had been, knowing it had been there, helped, but it still took several seconds before he could see the outline of the pair. They hadn’t vanished after all.
It was as if the light in this magical valley has conspired with the landscape and the grass, making the tiny creatures coalesce into the background nearly as well as the shapeshifter himself.
They stayed there, waiting for several moments.
Had they seen him? he wondered, thinking that impossible. His ego taking a hit at the thought. While he hated the curse which had changed him into this, over time he’d found a way to live with it. Acquiring other magic himself in the process.
Another sound stopped his thoughts cold.
Footsteps.
Someone was running in his direction. Eyes instantly flickering back to the elves. They hadn’t moved.
It was coming from behind and moving fast.
He edged closer to the tree trunk, his camouflage shifting with the minuscule movements. Should the runner come too close he didn’t want to be mowed down. The power of concealment made him invisible to the eye, that didn’t mean he was not without form. Nothing ruins a good hiding spot like some oaf charging smack into a body, he wryly mused.
The footsteps whizzed by with several inches to spare, pulling up short in front of the others. Not an oaf. Something much smaller, a third elf.
“Hold on there Golwenor,” the first elf said in a tinny voice with great authority.
“You two are supposed stop me?” Golwenor challenged.
“We were told to bring you back,” the second sentry nodded toward a growth of rowan and willow trees that marked a distance at the base of a far hill. “It’s not a good time to provoke an argument...right now. Wouldn’t you rather have a drop of ale instead?”
There was a minor whish as Golwenor snorted in genial contempt.
“I intend to have a stout, myself,” winked the tinny voiced elf. His eyes crinkling as he smiled in anticipation of refreshment.
“Come on, let’s go,” the second said more companionably. Talking to Golwenor as one does a friend, putting his hand on the newcomer’s shoulder amiably. “After you’ve had your fill...if you still want to go talk with her...we’ll accompany you.” He finished with a nod at the tinny voiced elf as if cementing the bargain.
The other agreed.
Golwenor hesitated, taking a reluctant look at the ridge in the opposite direction. He sighed and nodded accepting the offer with an a note of resignation.
Suddenly his head jerked upright, eyes alight with a mischievous new gleam. “Race ya,” he said before turning and running off the way that he’d come with the two guardian elves hot on his heels.
The shapeshifter smiled ruefully to himself, watching them pass. Wondering briefly what the fuss was about? Who was Golwenor going to see? His previous trajectory could have taken him along the same path to the seer’s domicile.
Now the trio headed down the slope, one barely as tall as the buttercups that grew in the field they passed through. So much for them being the psychic’s guardians. Unless they were here to protect her from misguided elves.
He scoffed.
Still, he remained hidden until they were gone. Less concerned by the idea that they presented formidable obstacles to his plans, he didn’t want any witnesses either.
Moving along again, he stuck close to the trees whenever possible perpetually hidden in shadow. Using special care since he didn’t know if the territory held any more surprises or dangers from those who possessed greater magic than his own.
Bright eyes constantly scanning the horizon, no more challenges came his way as he passed through the field. No sounds other than the birds and the wind rustling the leaves and branches. If they heeded his actions at all, they raised no alarm.
His feet instinctively following a trail they’d never tread before, guided by the memory of a map drawn by his brother’s hand. A hand much larger than his own. One that he’d shook the day his sibling left in search of the Paragons as well. He too did not return.
“Those Paragons are not as perfect or benign as they’d like to have one think,” the shifter grumbled with malice, not for the first time. His life could have been different if the Paragons would have helped. Instead they’d taken his family when both members had reached out to them, searching for a cure.
He no longer sought a cure. What he wanted was revenge. To kill the elusive Paragon who had abandoned him in his hour of need. First, he had to find him. Draw him out from the hidden realm. When
he did, the Paragon’s death would be slow and full of torment. Much like his existence had been until he learn to cope with this curse.
Rounding a bend in the trail he caught his first look at the house through the trees. It was built as though part of the earth itself. Walls rising out of the grass to form the outline of a little cottage. Everything covered in grass, the door nearly obscured by flowering plants and wild onions.
So far, so good, he thought.
Beginning to feel faintly hopeful. The trip to her house had not been as problematic as he feared. If she was less disposed to malice, wasn’t that a good sign? Again he wondered if she knew of his approach. Nothing had stopped him. Surely that meant she would help.
The air seemed to echo his optimism, the breeze picking up, making his hair dance with excitement, forcing him to concentrate to keep it camouflaged.
He pressed on. The structure pulling him closer like metal to a magnet.
Approaching the front, he saw there were no steps leading up to the door just a flat concrete pad before it. Stepping on that, his feet making no noise above the shuffling wind, he was startled when the door quite suddenly swung inward.
A wizened face gave him a dazed sort of look.
Not the person he was expecting.
“You! What are you doing here?” the diminutive, old man asked after a moment of blinking -- once recognition set in. His eyes grew wide with outrage.
The shapeshifter did not know this man. How was it possible that he knew him? Pulling back into the shadows of the porch, he took a step back.
The old man’s hand shot out with deceptive speed, grabbing at the shadow connecting with flesh and bone, pulling him forward. Not an old man at all, the shapeshifter thought. A wizard.
There was powerful magic in the fierce grip that pulled him inside.
With a wave of the wizard’s free hand the door shut itself, the bolt clicking into place.
The air inside the plainly furnished room was warmer, smelling of burnt damiana and mugwort. There were closed doors in the back, presumably leading to other rooms.
A small couch stood against one wall with a floor lamp next to it. It wasn’t on, nor was it needed. A hidden skylight flooded the space with a warm, radiant light. Along the other wall stood a table with two wooden chairs. Beside it a cheery little fire burned in the hearth.
A young woman stood in front of it. She looked to be about seventeen with long fair hair -- almost as yellow as the buttercups in the field he’d seen earlier. She wore a pale blue dress that hung down to her knees. Her feet clad in nude ballet flats nearly the same shade as her pale skin.
Was she the seer? he wondered. She seemed awfully young.
A mild smile was playing about her lips.
The color of the dress accentuated her pale blue eyes to perfection. They were openly staring at him with a depth that seemed much older than she looked.
Perhaps she is, he thought, staring back. There was something very calming about her. He felt himself relax involuntarily. An odd sensation for someone who never dropped his guard.
“What are you doing here?” the wizard prompted again, chasing the calm away. Peering intently, his ancient eyes were clearly trying to pierce the shroud that engulfed the shapeshifter’s appearance. It was evident that the old man knew the apparition before him was a shapeshifter. Reviled in the wizard world.
Shape-shifting was not a natural occurrence. It was a curse bestowed by black magic and quite often -- as the warlock’s expression seemed to rightly assume in the example before him -- as a punishment for evil doing.
“The shifter’s here to see me,” supplied the woman in the pale blue dress.
The old man’s jaw dropped open as he cast a wary eye at the young man held in his grip. He had clearly been surprised by the shapeshifter’s arrival.
She was expecting him, the shifter thought.
“Oh do let go of him Dvarg, he’s not going to hurt me. Are you? Um ---” her eyes narrowed for a moment, as her sight turned inward. A sadness came into her gaze.
Was she trying to divine his name? He opened his mouth to introduce himself, the word caught in his throat at the swift change in her expression.
Her blue gaze focused on him for a half a second before shifting to Dvarg who was openly staring at him. She shook her head once. Clearly she didn’t want the wizard to know.
“Not that ...wait...I’ll fashion one of my own choosing,” she instructed mildly.
How did she know about that? he pondered, his own eyes narrowing. He shot a glance at Dvarg, then back at her. She knew that his family had feuded with the wizards.
Her dainty shoulders shrugged, suddenly as if changing her mind.
“Names are a trifle overrated, come to think of it,” she declared with a small frown.
She knows my kind, probably even knows my name, he thought, and yet, she’s willing to keep the wizard in the dark.
“I’m the one you’ve come to see. That’s Dvarg holding your arm like an insane mage. There, now that that’s resolved. And...oh...” a smile lifting the corners of her mouth, “he’s brought me a gift.”
“A gift?” Dvarg repeated dully, eyes still filled with suspicion as he examined the shifter’s hand which was busy extracting a small bag from an unseen pocket.
The seer sniffed appreciatively, reaching out an elegant palm as he offered the token to her.
“Peppermint. How kind of you.”
Holding the bag up for the warlock’s inspection, she said, “See, he even knows that peppermint aids my psychic abilities. Do let go of him. Please. Let’s have a seat.”
Dvarg released his grip, gesturing with the now free hand to the settee.
The shifter lowered himself to the delicate looking couch, unsure if it would bear his weight. He was the tallest person in the room. It did, although creaking in protest under the burden.
He was surprised when the wizard assumed a spot next to him. So the old goat was accepting enough that he meant her no harm. Not that he was willing to do more than that, he surmised. Well mistrust goes both ways.
The settee jostled faintly and creaked again as a lighter weight perched on the arm, a pale hand smoothing the blue dress over her lap as she did.
Little prompting was required for the task at hand to begin, as the seer seemed well aware as to his motive for coming. He knew in advance what he wanted to know. Sifting through all the possible queries he could make, refining it to one single thought. Although in reflection, he knew that not knowing -- would not stop him.
She smiled at him.
He felt the involuntary serenity settle over him again like a cloud of goodness. He didn’t like it. Realizing that the white witch was using more than her clairvoyant powers on him.
Get on with it, he thought impatiently, wanting to be gone from this place, this illusion of safety. No such place existed, he thought with great hostility.
Her pale brow furrowed as the small smile faltered. Blinking, she seemed less sure of herself.
Did she read minds too? he wondered.
“I have only one question,” he began, there was a clear edge of harshness in his resonate voice.
Sadness returned to the woman’s pale gaze. “Ask what you must.”
“Will I find him?”
Her gaze unfocused the width of a heartbeat before returning to his. It was considerably longer before she spoke.
A bead of sweat trickled down his back. He ignored it. Guarded, his eyes carefully watching the seer, trying to read her expression.
From her perch on the small sofa’s arm, the psychic openly assessed him.
He knew that her answer could change his world…and suspected that she knew it too. Would she lie? Would he abandon his plans if she told him something else? No, he mused. Fail or succeed, he would not.
As benign as the shapeshifter now appeared -- he embraced the true evil in himself. It would make no difference... as surely as the first domino had already fa
llen...the course of events had already been put into play.
She took a deep, steadying breath. The seer remained silent for some time.
What could be seen of his brow-- furrowed.
Settled into place side by side with the little old wizard, the shapeshifter waited for her to say something. The answer didn’t come.
Feeling the magician’s gaze, he glanced at the ancient eyes which looked at him for a long time without speaking.
“Is there no possibility of reconciliation?” she asked, when finally the seer spoke.
His head snapped back in her direction.
It was not what he expected.
“No,” he replied curtly. Did she not intend to answer?
His round bright eyes stared into hers as a fleeting glimmer of belligerence passed through them. Blinking rapidly, he controlled it.
Not before she had apparently noticed. She expelled a resigned sigh. “Yes, you will find the answers you seek,” her voice had dropped to almost a whisper, as if reluctant to answer his question
The low tone raising goose-flesh on his skin.
Save for the crackle of the fire, there was no other noise in the house.
The atmosphere changed as soon as the words left her tongue.
The welcome he’d felt before suddenly chilled. It was not due to Dvarg. Old battleaxe that he was -- never ceased giving him hostile looks. His lips remained pressed tightly together.
He glanced back at the clairvoyant.
It was her.
She no longer wanted him here. It was like a curtain had fallen, the closing credits had rolled. The show’s over it said, you got what you wanted now go.
Just as he’d thought, smug with satisfaction laced with malice. There is no serenity. It was nothing more than the white witch’s illusion.
He fought back a short sarcastic laugh that was on the brink of bursting from him. His plans would succeed! The woman had seen it. And what’s more, she didn’t like it. Well...she didn’t have to, he thought, feeling jubilant.
Jumping to his feet, the movement startled Dvarg who was instantly on his, echoing the shapeshifter’s posture.
“Well then,” the shifter said.
He took a deep breath, released it and turned to the seer -- opening his mouth.
She cut him off.
“We shall never speak again,” she said with finality, dismissal in her tone.
“uh...thank you...uh...for...the prophecy,” he said somewhat awkwardly. What does one tell a psychic who just confirmed that his plans would come true? And since they evidently were, why would he ever need to come here again? He mused. Double score!
Without another word, he walked to the door, this time under his own power. Dvarg following close on his heels.
Opening it, he glanced once more behind him, ignoring the wizard’s quizzical gaze, at the pale blue eyes.
Sadness was back in them.
It didn’t matter to him, he would succeed. Closing the door behind himself carefully.
Pausing, he listened deliberately.
There was movement behind the door. Soft footsteps propelling toward the front of the house. Evidently the seer had risen and moved forward.
Spying on him no doubt, he mused. He was turning to move off the porch when he heard Dvarg’s voice.
“I’m surprised that you chose to speak with him.”
The shifter’s limbs froze, daring not to move. He didn’t make a sound as he waited to hear the woman’s answer.
“I fear the time for speaking has long passed,” she said. There was great weariness in her voice.
The shifter saw her pale face glance out of the window. He melted into the shadows of the porch. Invisible.
“What will come to pass has already been set into motion...All those unmated people are dead. And the Paragons know it.”
“Did he kill---”
“No,” she interjected, cutting Dvarg off, “He didn’t bloody his hands this time…but he gave the order. He’s on a violent path.”
Her eyes darted to Dvarg. The wizard had come to stand beside her at the window.
Both were just inches from him on the other side of the glass. He stood still, listening to the beat of his own heart. Seconds slipped by. He lifted a foot to leave, stepping quietly past the window. One step, then another and one more. He was at the other edge of the casement.
The seer’s gaze returned to the trees, as she said, “I hope someone keeps an eye on that girl.”
Dvarg glanced out the window with something akin to renewed fascination, ancient eyes clearly searching for a trace of him. The old man’s face had gone three shades paler with an expression that was an amalgamation of fear and awe.
“Could he be a threat to Emily Wren?” he whispered to the glass. It did not seem like he was really asking a question.
Her pale blue gaze turned inward just the same.
The shifter’s attention was riveted by her face.
The woman’s gift was obviously responding to the query without conscious thought. She was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed in apparent surprise then uttered something rather sacrilegious for a seer, “I honestly don’t know.”