The Plight of the Isle, page 1
THE PLIGHT OF THE ISLE
Copyright © 2023 A. H. Anderson.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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A. H. Anderson
https://www.authoraha.com
Formatting: Derek Murphy
ISBN: 978-1-7388699-2-3 (paperback), 978-1-7388699-3-0
(eBook)
First Edition, 2023
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Table of Contents
Copyright Page
The Plight of the Isle (Tales of Lahan, #2)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Appendix
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In the year one thousand, eight hundred and sixty-four, post-Astorian age.
One year following the Battle for Lahan, from which the House of Wembleye emerged victorious and Queen Nara I Crawforde met her end.
Chapter 1
Haven
THE GENTLE GRASS ON the mountain embraced Haven like a bed.
It was easy for her to forget her chores as she lay on that bed of grass, dappled sunbeams peeking through the trees and warming her skin. Bees hummed back and forth over her head as she watched fleecy clouds drift across the sky. Her eyelids drooped. The chirping of morning birds in the trees, the soft cooing of the nearby chickens and the bubbling brook made for the perfect lullaby.
Haven turned her head to the side and spotted the bucket of feed she had not yet brought to the hens. They would be hungry, as they always were. She didn’t look forward to the ruckus they were bound to cause when she let herself into their coop. She sighed and dragged herself to her feet, grabbing the bucket by the metal handle.
Haven winced as she approached the coop and the chickens noticed her. Their heads shot up and watched her. She let herself in and closed the gate, dipping her hand into the yellow feed and sprinkling it on the ground. She startled as they dashed forward, brawling for the largest helping in a flurry of squawking feathers. Haven huffed and rolled her eyes, leaning against the fence. They made such noise.
“No need to shout,” Haven chided them. “Plenty for everyone.”
She bent and pulled a long piece of grass from the ground, running her nail along the length of it, stripping part of it away. Her eyes flitted up occasionally to the chickens, who were still going berserk for the feed. She continued in her menial task of picking grass and taking it apart.
Haven was content to stay on the mountain. The only thing that spurned restlessness in her was her family, whatever was left of them. She knew that her mother was gone, but she had merely lost Aela and Vaeril. They could be found again.
Haven met the curious eye of one of the hens and sneered.
“Don’t look at me,” she scolded.
“It’s a chicken, Haven.”
Haven whirled. Felaern looked at her with a knowing smile, carrying a basket of fresh vegetables from the garden. He thrived even more than she did on the mountain. He glowed in the harvest sun, and his fingers were stained green from the work he did. His hair looked like spun gold. In whatever setting he was placed in—whether a palace or a mountain cottage—Felaern was breathtaking.
It usually annoyed Haven. This day, it didn’t.
“Well, he should know not to stare at me,” she told the Elf.
“It’s a she. They’re hens. And her name is Adala.”
Haven rolled her eyes then. “I can’t remember the odd names you’ve given them, all after your mythical Elves of old.”
“Not mythical,” he insisted, feigning offence. He couldn’t keep the smile from his eyes.
“Of course not,” Haven japed, crossing her arms.
She and Felaern were dressed much the same. Lammert took joy in making them clothes out of leather, cotton, and sheep wool. They wore simple tunics with leather belts. Lammert always embroidered Haven’s tunics with flowers, birds, and bees. It seemed the man could do everything. Haven admired his detailed handiwork. He was so many things at once—a shepherd, a farmer, a carpenter, an artist. He did it all himself. Even the candles in the cottage were made by him. As the year passed by, Haven and Felaern watched Lammert expand his home. He built it up with lumber, adding two new rooms to the cottage. They had space to spare.
Haven remembered the fear she felt for the first while they spent on the mountain. She was afraid they would be found since they never left Eladalis. However, Lammert assured her otherwise.
“They cannot see you,” he’d said. “No one can. There is a veil hiding my home from all who seek it...unless I let them find it.” He’d given her an assuring wink that calmed her nerves.
After a year, Haven finally believed him.
“Come wash clothes with me,” Felaern urged, adjusting his grip on the basket of vegetables. “I’ll bring this back to the cottage, then we can go.”
Haven nodded and tossed the last bit of feed to the chickens before following him, keeping a close eye on her feet as she walked. The tall grass had a way of catching the ankles of those who passed through.
Felaern set the basket on the heavy wooden table, and Lammert was nowhere to be seen.
“He must be with the sheep,” Haven assumed, noticing the absence of his walking stick. The two went off to find him, deciding that he should know where they were going. Lammert was often found up on the hill, looking out over the small flock of sheep in the mornings. Many lambs were being born, and he spent most of his time with them.
Lammert was sitting in the sunshine when they arrived, chewing on a piece of straw and absently prodding the ground with his walking stick. His warm, hooded eyes surveyed the pasture below and kept a careful watch over the docile sheep.
“You two finished all your chores?” he asked as they sat on either side of him.
“We need to wash the clothes,” Felaern told him.
Lammert looked at him, his eyes cautious. “You can go by yourselves, but you should be careful. It is near my border.”
Felaern nodded in understanding.
“Don’t go past the creek,” Lammert continued. “It isn’t safe beyond.” He turned to Haven, looking at her knowingly. “I especially want you to agree that you will not go further.” The way he said it reminded her of Vaeril.
She lifted her gaze to his and offered a crooked smile. “I won’t,” she said.
Lammert lifted his thick eyebrows.
“I promise,” she added, nodding once.
The older man gave a teasing grin and gently nudged her. “Go on then...before dinnertime.”
Felaern was on his feet. Haven followed him back to the cottage to retrieve the laundry.
She usually looked forward to washing clothes—far more than she cared to admit. It could be a tedious task, but the cool creek water was refreshing and Felaern often hummed little songs while they worked. The birds seemed to sing with him that morning. Haven once again found herself baffled by him. He seemed to have found the life he’d always dreamed of, but she also knew that he was willing to follow her when they finally made the decision to leave the mountain. Haven still had a family to find, after all, and a kingdom to reclaim. It was easier said than done, she was sure, but it was reassuring to know that Felaern was willing to go with her.
“Do you ever miss Ailmar?” Haven asked him as they scrubbed the dusty clothes against the washboards.
Felaern looked up at the trees, at the birds there who sang merrily, and smiled softly. “At times,” he admitted. “But this is what I’ve longed for.”
“Will you want to stay here...if I go?” Haven had asked it before, but each time she wondered if his answer would be different.
Felaern shook his head. “No,” he said simply.
Haven sighed. For his sake, she wanted him to stay on the mountain. He’d found a safe, peaceful life, the life he never would have found in Ailmar. He was the second son. He wouldn’t have seen the throne, but he would still be dragged into all the political squabbles. Here, on the mountain, was where Felaern truly belonged. It certainly seemed so to Haven.
In a sense, she supposed she belonged there too. Though, s
Haven looked up again as soft quacking sounded nearby. Her brows furrowed as she spotted some ducklings floating by, playing and splashing in the giggling creek. A smile spread across her face as she watched them, and she was overtaken by the insistent urge to hold one. Slowly, she set her laundry to the side and rose, catching Felaern’s eye. His eyes widened as she waded out into the water.
“Haven, we need to stay on this side of the creek. Lammert said—”
“I’m not going to the other side. I’m just going to the ducks,” she whispered.
Felaern froze, staring after her but saying nothing more. Haven neared the little ducks, who seemed oblivious to her. As she grew closer, there was a snap from the woodland on the other side of the creek. The ducklings scattered, and Haven stood still, her eyes darting around as she looked for the source of the sound.
“Haven!” Felaern hissed. “Come back!”
Haven said nothing in response as she stared into the trees, her lips parted in expectation. She stayed frozen in place, the water wrapping around her ankles like icy ribbons.
Haven’s blood ran cold as Elves emerged from the trees, staying near the edge of the creek. They spoke quickly between them in their language, and Haven recognised the cloaks they wore as Tairian, stitched with gold thread and lined with sapphire velvet.
She had never seen Lammert’s border in action before, but it seemed to do its job. She went unseen by them, even though she was standing directly before them. It would not keep them from crossing the creek if they chose to. If they passed through the border, they would see her. Lammert would know immediately if someone crossed over his border, but it may be too late by the time he got to them.
One of the Elves approached the creek and knelt, scooping some water up and splashing it on his face. They complained back and forth, and the kneeling Elf looked up, straight into Haven’s eyes. He squinted and slowly reached out towards her, as though gesturing for his companion to look. The other Elf snapped something before he could say any more and the Elf who knelt pressed his lips together, lifting a brow and shooting his comrade an irritated glare. He rose to his full height and followed the other back the way they had come.
Haven released the breath she’d been holding.
“We should leave,” Felaern said once they’d gone.
Haven hurried out of the creek. They’d gotten too close. Now, Haven understood why Lammert usually went with them. Though, they’d never seen Tairian sentries before. Haven was alarmed to see them still out searching, after all that time. Part of her wanted to assume that they were out patrolling for some other reason. But Thalanil wanted a seer, and he would be hunting her until he found her, or until he knew she was dead. Until then, they were not safe.
When strangers passed through Lammert’s borders, he always found them quickly. Though, they only saw him if he wanted them to. He decided if he would welcome them as a friend or send them away as a foe. Haven and Felaern did not know how he decided who the strangers were. If Lammert did not welcome a stranger, he would close the door to them, and they would see the house no longer.
Haven had only seen it done once before, when a haggard man with a scar on his cheekbone knocked on their door one rainy night. She and Felaern had hidden themselves under the table, afraid as they always were that it would be sentries they would see. But this man was no sentry. He appeared to be a wanderer from the coast, perhaps a trader. Even Haven had received a foul air from him, and Lammert was even more keen. It was a strange thing to behold—the man standing outside when the door was closed, then passing by as though he’d never seen the cottage at all.
But strangers needed to reach Lammert before he could send them away. If those Elves had crossed the border, Haven was unsure if she and Felaern could have outrun them and made it to Lammert in time.
Lammert needed to know that these sentries were creeping up to his border.
Haven and Felaern caught him making his way back from the hill. They were both winded as they reached him, and he gestured for them to calm themselves as Haven took the man’s arm.
“We saw Tairians!” she told him, gasping for air. “They were right across the creek!”
“Haven was only a few feet away!”
Haven shot Felaern a glare, but she could tell by his innocent expression that he didn’t mean to snitch. Lammert looked at Haven, questioning.
“Why were you only a few feet away?” he asked.
It seemed to dawn on Felaern then. He sheepishly glanced at Haven and winced.
“I...waded into the creek to go see some ducks. I wasn’t going to cross the border! The sentries just happened to be there as I was standing in the creek!”
Lammert sighed and shook his head. “You both should stay close to the cottage for a spell. It isn’t safe if the prince still has men out patrolling.”
Haven lowered her gaze sadly. “I hoped he thought I was dead,” she murmured.
“He would not give up so easily. You’re very valuable to him. Besides this, you are kin of the Torriens. They were charged with keeping you in good health. The Elves take their vows seriously.”
Haven nearly scoffed at that.
Lammert looked at Felaern. “And you are valuable to your family too. They’ll not give up on either of you easily.”
“Eventually, we’ll have to go. They’ll find us someday, then you’ll be in danger,” Haven said, looking up at Lammert in worry. “I don’t want them to hurt you.”
Haven recalled what happened to Len Marrow. She thought of him each day. She would give anything to have him back. He didn’t deserve what happened to him, and she could still see his execution when she closed her eyes. Two things, she saw vividly—her mother on the wall and Len Marrow having his throat cut. The day Len died, she wanted no one to suffer more than Thalanil. He rivalled Olyver Wembleye and Ged Motley in how fiercely her hatred burned for him. It incensed Haven to know that all three of them were still alive and well. Olyver still sat the throne in Lahan. Ged Motley still enjoyed his position as captain of the guard. Thalanil was still Crown Prince of Tairia and heir to one of the most powerful kingdoms in any realm. They seemed to reap reward for the suffering they caused.
“They can’t hurt me,” Lammert said gently, offering her an unbothered smile. “I have all that I need.”
Haven furrowed her brows and lowered her gaze, unsure of his words.
They followed Lammert down to the butchering shed. It was Haven’s least favourite place. Besides the smell, death hung in the air, and it was a feeling that made Haven’s skin crawl. She could tell that Felaern did not enjoy that place either, but they went with Lammert everywhere if there was a chance that he would teach them something new.
That day, there were sheep to prepare.
“We won’t butcher them today. To get tender meat from them, we’ll need to be patient,” Lammert explained.
They neared the shed, and he let them inside. There were three sheep carcasses laying on the table, and Haven observed them. It did not bother her, in truth. Felaern seemed more disturbed by it all. Haven had seen where her food came from when she was a child. She could imagine Elves never seeing animal carcasses. They had strange superstitions about death. With their long lives, Haven supposed it was a foreign thing to them, jarring when it finally occurred. They perhaps wanted nothing to do with it. On the Mainland, things and people died all the time.
She watched as Lammert took rope and tied it around the neck of one of the sheep. He lifted the body over his shoulder and exited, gesturing for the two youths to follow him. They trailed after him as he led them to a tall tree. The branches near the bottom had all been cut, and only the higher ones were left. Haven knew about this place. It was the tree where Lammert suspended the meat to tenderise it.
Lammert laid the sheep down in the grass and tossed the rope over the high branch.
“This creature gave its life for us—to sustain us.” He pulled the rope, and the animal lifted off the ground. Haven felt a strange sensation spread from her spine up into her head as she watched, standing with her arms crossed. “Let us remember it, even while we’re eating.”
Haven’s mouth went dry as she watched the sheep rise into the air, hanging by its neck.
“Do we have to let it hang here?” she asked weakly, the words barely squeaking past her lips.
Lammert looked at her, puzzled.
