Written by Lauren Bailey Fawcett / Artwork by Marge Simon
The Weaver of Linlea






















I am a Weaver. Like the knobby hands of the old women on Gooden’s Way who warp and weft their yarn
to sell their wares at market, my hands are deft and proficient; but it is not my hands that keep the
stories of the past alive. It is my words.

They are the bridge between then and now—between magic and truth—which I interlace seamlessly to
create a legend of mystique and enlightenment.

I am the keeper of the past, the Weaver of words, and the only one remaining who can unravel the
resonance of the trees and heed the visions of the mountains. They speak to me in passing; they fill my
soul with sound.

But there have been rumors, faint ones, among the older folk that the others are still out there. In
hiding. Pray, I hope they are not, that the rangers searching ceaselessly for a glimpse of this ancient
history do not find it. For it would be their death. And mine.

I think this as I stand before Annandale’s sovereign, King Maccus, who sits next to his wife, Queen
Ardra, who in turn sits next to their son, Prince Deverell. The Prince’s beloved, Betha of Rothen, sits
close by. She smiles absentmindedly. The rest of the royalty also sit, heads turned and eyes settling on
nothing but me.

I am thought to be the King’s favorite; I have been summoned here many times over the years and have
come to know the King, his wife, and son well. Along with the inspired visions I draw on for my stories, I
have created my own fantasy—one that only involves the Prince and I. This is my greatest work yet, as
this story is the most magical and the least likely of all.

The silence is as thunderous as fifty horses’ hooves striking the ground at a gallop, as deafening as
Prince Deverell’s stares. Perspiration dribbles down my sides and I hope it doesn’t show through my
dress, which was chosen for the occasion because it accentuates my light hair and forest green eyes.

I believe I am here to recite poetry, that the King will pay me handsomely to perform a song regarding
his bravery in battle, but the King gestures me to come closer. His insignia ring catches my eye. It is his
coat of arms, a lion crushing a snake. I lean down until I can hear the quiet heave-ho of his breathing.

“We will hear the story of the elves,” he whispers. I am suddenly afraid but I don’t dare disobey the King.

I begin. “I am Keelin of Linlea, Master Weaver, and this is the story of the elves.”

There is chatter at this, and a few gasps for there is no written word on the elven kingdom and few
people know the truth. But even what I know of the elves is little.
I hide the fear in my voice well. It resonates into every crevice of the cavernous room. “The elves were
born of the seeds of a bellflower, long before the time of humans, when Annandale still floated in the sky
like a bird, before it grew heavy from the discord of human battles. They were born eight hundred suns
after the trees, when oaks and sequoias as tall as this castle stood firmly rooted to the ground. The
elves lived among them, as if they were as one and not separate as a tree and an elf.”

Everyone’s eyes are glued to me but it is the Prince’s eyes that are unnerving. Dark brown like his hair, I
cannot see his pupils and he looks somber. Brooding. He is not his usual self today.

“Some say the elves could talk with the trees,” I continue. “Hear the words of a rumbling river, and
converse with the blue sky above them. But we could not really know—not now—for the elves have been
gone for centuries, extinguished after the birth of humankind, after the vast destruction of the forests
which nourished them.”

I pause dramatically and a man yells, “What a fairytale!” It is good, I think, that the past is not real to
them. Let them believe all of this is a fabrication.

The King stares at me intently, like he can read my mind. “Tell me more about the elves’ connection with
the forest.”

My throat thickens and my hands are now as clammy with sweat as my flanks. “They were somehow
bonded, not physically, but within the very essence of who they were. If a tree was hit by lightening,
they would feel the pain as if it were their own. When a tree died, they would mourn it like we would
mourn a member of our family.”

“And the eradication of the elves?” he questions.

I don’t want to tell this part of the story. It’s too sad.

“It was gradual, at first. Trees were cut down to make room for humans. The elves hid from them by
pulling back further into the forest. They mended what trees they could but weren’t able to keep up with
the furious speed of our axes. They became desolate and fearful.”

The Prince stands. His pacing makes me uneasy.

But I don’t stop. “As more forests were destroyed, the elves had fewer places to secrete themselves and
we humans eventually discovered them. Terror reigned. Although some humans tried to understand the
elves, most lashed out in fear. You see, humans didn’t understand the elves’ bond with the land for we
had no such attachment. The trees were voiceless to us even then. We took advantage of the elves’
weakness by cutting down much of the forests and the elves became broken. They could no longer
survive. When the last elf died, Annandale fell from the sky in despair and sits where it is today.”

A smile limps across my face as I watch the King but it is a fake smile and it hurts my heart. King Maccus
is deep in thought, considering something.

Queen Ardra, dressed in silk robes of burgundy and gold, speaks up next. “But the elves had certain,
shall I say, powers? They were a dangerous race. Wild and unkempt. They could’ve killed us all.”

I don’t have a chance to respond. Prince Deverell steps closer, so close I can smell the heady scent of his
skin and glimpse the passion flickering in his gold-flecked eyes. I wonder if they flicker for me.

“There are still forests south and east of Linlea, and some north of Mount Coublet. How do we know that
these elves aren’t still living there? How do we know they won’t come after us?” He says “elves” with
contempt, as if they are but a burnt piece of pheasant or some such fodder unsuitable for even a leper.

He clutches his sword with his right hand while he waits for my response. My instincts are to back away
but I force myself to stand tall and with confidence. I am disheartened by the Prince’s comments; I am
disappointed he doesn’t live up to the generous Prince Deverell of my dreams. “No elves have been
sighted in over a century, your Highness, and the forests continue to dwindle and die of their own
decree. They cannot endure without the healing of the elves.”

Stillness swathes the room. I can hear the soft footsteps of a servant walking past.

Prince Deverell now stands within a few feet of me. He suddenly smiles, a lopsided grin, but it doesn’t
light up his eyes and I know that it is as false as the smile decorating my face. “There are rumors,” he
says, “that an elf has infiltrated the human race and lives among us like one of us. I hear there is no
difference in the way we look.”

He studies me and a nervous chuckle almost escapes from my lips. “Gossip of silly old women,” I say,
“Everyone knows elves were untamed. Feral. They could not be domesticated. How would they survive
among us? They would stick out like sore thumbs.” The laughter of the others rolls and clangs around
me.

“Elves among us!” I hear someone say, “Did you hear the Prince?”

The King asks me to recite poetry then, which I do, but the Prince’s eyes never leave me. They are cold,
seemingly heartless, and a shiver runs down my spine. I am glad to be dismissed and paid. A royal
carriage with guards awaits me outside. As a courtesy, they will guide my four-day journey back to
Linlea. The castle looms over me as we pull away, threatening me and the core of who I am.

We move roughly over the dirt path, passing a few remaining trees that overlap the route home. I hear
them screaming out to me, “Run!”

~ * ~

My father is a skilled carpenter with two apprentices. His shop sits in the center of Linlea where the smell
of bread and pastries makes my stomach yearn and my mouth water. I am watching him carve wood into
an ornate chair for a wealthy buyer. It is ironic, really, that the man who saved me from certain death
brought me to a place where trees are bent and whittled with a human’s will. But he is a sweet man and I
suppose he does not understand the grief I feel regarding his occupation.

I pick up a wooden bowl. Run my hands over it’s smooth surface. I do not hear the voices of this tree. It
is lifeless.

“Keelin!” my father notices me. “You’re back already? How did it go? I’m sure you were wonderful. You
always are.” His words run together with excitement. Always my advocate, my father.

“I made four hundred tipkers,” I say, holding up my money pouch. “Enough to last through the year.”

We talk of the King and my visit to the castle over a bowl of soup. I tell him about my recitation of The
Tale of Butter Tompkin and Away Goes the Winter but I don’t divulge that I also recounted the legend of
the elven kingdom. He would be gravely concerned. He asks about the royal family. Prince Deverell, I say,
has solemn eyes and appears ill-suited to his future wife for she is a jovial sort with the silliest laugh. It
comes from her throat like a rat-a-tat-tat, like rain hitting metal.

Father suddenly grows quiet. “There have been rangers,” he says.

“Oh?” I act nonchalant but this news worries me.

“At least two within the last week. Headed toward Elm’s Green Forest.”

I nod.

“Perhaps,” he sighs, “Perhaps you shouldn’t go there anymore. If they would find you—”

“—if they would find me,” I interrupt, “then I would tell them who I am. Keelin of Linlea. They have no
proof otherwise.”

“You have no reason to be there. So deep in the forest. They will suspect.”

I walk to the window and look out. Linlea is a small village with a few central shops and homes lining the
outskirts of town. I know everyone here. They, too, have known me since I was a baby, since father
found me alone in the forest and brought me here to live with him. He risked shame by telling the
villagers I was his out-of-wedlock child and my mother had passed away in childbirth. Part of the lie
would be true, I guess, as my mother was murdered trying to save me, had heard the humans coming
and hid me under a pile of leaves. Father had found me there hours later, crying, my mother’s
motionless body nearby.

“I cannot stay away, father.”

His hand reaches out, holds mine.

I do not remember my real family but I know of them. The trees tell me. According to the tale, my
parents were both viciously murdered but I have an older brother, a brother with light hair and green
eyes, who disappeared on the day I was brought to Linlea.

What happened to him? Where could he be? Was he murdered, too?

I search the woods every morning, when the grass is still crisp and wet with dew and a slow, rolling fog
throws it’s ambiguous curtain of gray upon the world. I will not stop looking.

“Just be careful, then.” Father hands me a dagger and a leather sheath. The dagger has a finish of
mirrored polish and I can see my reflection in the blade. My cheeks, normally a rosy hue, are pale and
waxen.

I watch father working a little while longer. He looks older since last I saw him; his face is lined and he
stands with his shoulders slumped, as if he carries a heavy burden.

A tear slides down my cheek. I turn away and wonder what will happen to him when I am caught.
    
~ * ~
    
I have a new friend. Her name is Gem because she is all things precious to me. We first met by the
blacksmith’s; I was eating a biscuit and she was begging on the corner so I gave her a piece. She’s
followed me everywhere since, her tail sailing high like a flag of welcome.

I take her home to bathe her and she grins as I rub her down with a mix of lemon and eucalyptus oils to
prevent fleas. Her body is white but her face is a muddle of black and brown over her right eye and ear.
“You’re such a happy Gem,” I coo.

Father walks in as I’m drying her off. “Can we keep her?” I ask.

“She’s a skinny thing,” he says. “Look at her ribs.”

“She’ll get better if she stays with us.” I already know they like each other because she shows her belly
and he rubs it with a smile. Later, when Gem is dry and sweet-smelling, he comes back with a small
wooden tag carved with the letters GEM. I fashion a collar out of a strip of old dress, slide the tag over
it, and fasten it around Gem’s neck. She’s part of the family now.

Gem has a hard time deciding who to sleep with at night. She marches back and forth between father
and I, and then plops down next to one of us, only to move to the other’s bedroom a few hours later. I
talk to her soothingly when she’s with me. “Gem,” I say, “you are a very good dog.” I tell her I’m an elf
because I’m not afraid she’ll tell anyone and I have to know that she’ll love me anyway. She cocks her
head and looks at me inquiringly. This is a good sign, I think.

I brave the waters. “Not only am I an elf,” I say. “But I’m the Tsarina of the elves.” This gets no
response from her. “You know, the leader? The ruler?” She licks her paw. “My mother,” I explain, “was
the Tsarina when she was murdered and the duties passed to me because I’m her only daughter.
There’s really no subjects to lead, though. Except for you.” I scratch her ears. “So that means you have
to listen to everything I say. No whining or chewing on the furniture.”

Gem looks bored with my conversation so I try to think of something to say that will impress her. “I’m in
love with the Prince.” Her ears perk at this. “I think he has feelings for me, too, but he’s engaged to
Betha of Rothen. She is quite lovely, really. And it’s not his fault, you see, because he’s expected to
marry someone of royal blood so that excludes me.”

Gem woofs softly.

“Well, technically, I am of royal blood being I’m the Tsarina and all, but I couldn’t possibly tell him that.
Elves aren’t exactly received with open arms. He’s better off with Betha,” I say, but I don’t say it with
much conviction. “Besides, he’s been acting strange lately.”

The children love Gem as much as I do. Walking through town, they gather around us, pushing each
other out of the way to pet her first but Gem cowers behind my skirt.

“You must be patient and gentle,” I say. And when they are, Gem comes out from behind my legs and
relishes in the attention of more than a few grasping hands.

The children ask me to tell a story.

I sit on the bench outside father’s shop while Gem rests her head on my thigh, and I tell the children
tales of times long past. The children are captivated by the stories and their faces become little
expressions of happiness, and excitement, and all the feelings that stem from the adventures I speak of.
I love their laughter and their innocence.

Their purity makes me ache for a child of my own but there is little chance of that, I think. Although I
have been courted by men over the years and still find them staring after me, I don’t know how to open
my heart when doing so could only bring me harm; I don’t know how to love someone wholly when they
can never know who I really am. The time of a possible courtship has passed, anyway. I have been alone
too long; I have turned down too many men; I have grown too old for many of them.

Movement catches the corner of my eye. It is a man with long, thick hair braided down to his waist and a
full beard. He stands behind the children and watches me. There is something about the man, about the
way he’s watching me, which feels threatening. I do not like this man.

“Tell another one!” the children chime.

“That’s all for today,” I stand and Gem jumps up. “We’ll have more tomorrow.”

I open the door slowly, walk casually into the shop, but my heart thumps hard against my chest as I
close the door and stand with my back against it. I think I hear footsteps drawing close. They pause. I
imagine the tall, strange man on the other side of the door, his ear against the wood.

“Keelin?”

I jump.” You scared me, Aod.” The apprentice is young, perhaps half my age. “Have you seen a stranger
around town?” I ask. “A man with a braid to his waist and a beard?”

“That’s one of those rangers. Came in yesterday. Why?”

“Oh, I was just curious, that’s all,” but I’m anxious. Why were the ranger’s eyes on no one but me?

~ * ~

The river winds past Tangred’s Bend to the bottom of the hollow and slices through the south end of
Linlea’s border, flowing gently into Elm’s Green Forest. My feet follow it instinctively. My heart quickens
with anticipation as the foliage thickens and I am once again surrounded by a tower of lofty trees.
There’s a splatter as my feet enter the cool water and Gem jumps in after me.

The forest is a synchronization of melodies: the sharp trill of calling birds perched on a branch above me,
the splashing of Gem playing in the water, the soft inhale and exhale of the trees breathing around me.
My body relaxes.

I am home.

I imagine sitting here with my family. What would it be like to hear their laughter? To know their voices? I
am lucky to be alive, to have a father who loves me, and yet there is sadness so deep and dark that I
feel immobile, like I’m moving through water, my limbs heavy and slow.

Gem lopes off to discover new things. I close my eyes. Finger the grass. My eyelids become heavy with
sleep.

A giggle breaks through the stillness. My eyes startle open and I jerk to my feet. Who would be out here
so far from town? Certainly not a child. And yet that sound, that laugh, is a child’s. I scan the brush.

The laughter comes again and I run after it, to where I think it comes from, across the river and through
the thicket.

There is nothing.

But the laughter spills out again and I run faster. Faster still. Until my lungs burn with exertion and my
heart pumps wildly. My legs move with a quickness previously unknown to me and I fly through the
forest like a hawk on the hunt for it’s next meal.

I spin right and then left, and dash past a large boulder. A girl sits there. She pets Gem who can’t seem
to contain her excitement and licks the girl’s face and neck and hands with zeal. The girl is smiling,
laughing, and then she sees me. I raise my hand to wave but she is off, already scampering gracefully
through the forest like she knows every rock and cranny by heart.

I can’t stop myself from pursuing her, from knowing her, but soon she is far ahead of me. I trip over my
skirt and fall to my knees. Rocks cut into my hands, breaking the skin and when I look up, she is gone.

“Gem!” I yell out. “Here girl!”

But Gem does not come.

Who is the girl? I wonder. Where is Gem? My mind is distracted and my soul is terribly disappointed so
it’s no wonder that I don’t hear the trees warning me. That I ignore the almost inaudible sound of Gem’s
barking. That I don’t see the ranger standing just out of sight. I turn back to head home but the ranger
grabs me. He pulls a hood over my head so I can’t see anything but darkness. My hands are bound
behind my back as I kick and scream but he ties my ankles together, too. I feel pressure against my
neck, a blade, I presume. My own?

The man growls, “Scream again and you’ll be as dead as this forest.”

I quiet. Still my mind. The man pulls me away- away from the forest, away from my home. I stumble
because I can’t see where I’m going and he drags me over the forest floor, over the roots and the rocks
and the twigs. The wind picks up and whips through the branches.

The trees are angry. There is so much pain but I can’t let myself cry out. I must keep silent, I think, for
the life of a young elven girl.

~ * ~

The hood is pulled roughly off but my wrists and ankles remain tied. I take in my surroundings. I am in
some sort of one-room hut with two windows, a table, and several chairs. There are certain tools on the
table. Tools, I imagine, that are meant to inflict pain, to get me to speak. “Where are the other elves?”
he will ask before he kills me slowly. But I will not tell him.

My head wrenches to the side when he slaps me hard across the face.

“Hurtin’ already?” he snarls.

He pulls me up by my hair until my face is level with his own. His breath smells of ale. I cringe and
anticipate the next blow. It knocks me to the floor and blood dribbles from my nose, spotting my dress.

The ranger somehow knows that I’m an elf, and I know what comes next but I don’t want to die. Not
now, not when I have found fellow kin in Elm’s Green Forest. The ranger kicks me in the ribs and I curl
into a fetal position.

He says, “Move and I’ll kill you,” and then he leaves. The door slams behind him, sending an earsplitting
bang to resonate through the abandoned hut. I don’t know where he’s gone but I imagine that he’s
gone for the Sheriff to collect his reward for my capture. An elf is worth over 20,000 tipkers—enough
that the ranger will never work or want again.

I don’t know how long I lie here on the floor waiting for him to return. My mind crams with possibilities of
ways to escape. I roll around on the floor in an effort to pull free from my binds but a pain, sharp and
deep, hits me. It is no use.

I wait. The colorless squall of afternoon fades into a murky evening of dread. I try to move again; after
all, there is father. I hope the ranger hasn’t gone for him. I wouldn’t be able to take it if he were to hurt
father like he will certainly hurt me.

My dress is dirty, torn. My dagger is missing. The throbbing of my head, arms, and legs is overwhelming.
I flop onto my stomach, not unlike a bug that’s been stuck on it’s back, so I can struggle more forcefully
against my binds. I finally give up.

Rain slashes against the windows in a torrential fury and it reminds me of the day I discovered I wasn’t
human. It had rained hard that morning but I had nevertheless ventured out to play during a break in
the storm. I came upon a boy throwing stones at a little bird in an apple tree and, even though the top
of my head only reached his chin, I confronted him. With my hands on my hips, I did my greatest adult
impersonation.

“That’s mean,” I’d said. “How would you like to have stones thrown at you?” The bird had already been
hit once in the wing which was why it hadn’t flown off. I was surprised to feel an ache in my right
shoulder where I thought a wing would be if I were a bird.

But the boy didn’t seem to care about me or the bird. He shoved me to the ground and with one final
throw struck the bird in the head. It fell limply from the tree and he ran away laughing. “Prissy girl,” he
taunted, “doesn’t want the poor little bird to get hurt. What do you think now, prissy girl?”

I had cradled the bird in my hands. Felt the weight of it’s death. It was still warm but it’s tiny blue head
hung down, twisting awkwardly away from it’s body. Tears fell hotly down my cheeks as I ran through
the orchard, past the startled villagers on Gooden’s Way, to my father’s shop at the center of town, still
cupping the bird gently in my hands.

“Papa, papa!” I cried, banging the door open. He came quickly.

“What is it, Keelin?”

“They killed him, papa. They killed him,” I said between the shudders of my sobs.

He cradled my hands that cradled the bird, and looked into my tear-streaked face. “Let me see,” he said
softly.

“It’s just a little bird,” I wailed, “just a baby.”

Hadn’t the boy felt the bird’s pain? Heard it’s whimpers of distress?

Father prodded the bird but his face was grim. He sighed. “I’m sorry, honey.” Then an odd look came
across his face and his hands paused in mid-air. “Keelin? Look! It’s the bird.”

I looked down at the crushed creature sitting in my hands but it wasn’t crushed at all. It’s eyes were
open and it gently rustled it’s ruffled wings.

“But papa,” I said, “the boy killed him with a stone. I saw it!”

“It looks healthy.” He placed it by the open window. “It can fly away and go home now.”

The sky was melancholy, as were the clouds, and lightening flashed dangerously across the sky as the
bird took wing and my father told me the story of my finding.

After that, the trees called me Little Bird because an elf isn’t named until their first healing.

Now the trees sway in turmoil. “Oh Little Bird,” they whisper, “Oh little one.”

I hear the rumble of voices. Several people stand outside the door. Although I strain, I can’t hear what
they say.

I reach out with my spirit and ask the trees, so sparse in this friendless spot, to relay the substance of
their conversation.

“They argue, Little Bird. They want something from you. A secret. A sad, sad secret.”

I assume they want to know where the other elves are so they can become rich in another’s death. My
immediate future is about to become desperate and I will soon no longer walk the earth as the living, but
I want to understand and know the elven girl. “The elf in Elm’s Green Forest,” I ask, “who is she? Why
didn’t you tell me there was another elf?”

“They asked us not to tell you. To keep quiet for their protection. Dear sister, they have been watching
after you.”

I am surprised and angry. They? So there are more than one! But why haven’t they approached me? I
don’t consider myself a threat but perhaps I have been living as human too long.

There is no time to dwell on the matter because the men enter, one by one, their boots thumping on the
hard ground. The trees fall silent.

“The Weaver herself,” the ranger announces as the other men surround me. They have targeted me,
sought me out. But why?

The last man draws back the hood of his cloak and I’m shocked because it’s not a man but Betha of
Rothen, the Prince’s beloved.

She threatens me. “You’re going to answer our questions. The Prince is on his way.” She smiles. “I don’t
think you want to be here when he comes.”

~ * ~

The next few moments of my life are violent and nasty but not as nasty as they could be. Betha tells the
ranger to use the tools on the table; I’m thankful he doesn’t but instead looks on. The other men hit
and kick me several times and I am bleeding from more than my nose but, still, they never pick up the
tools on the table. Hallelujah.

Betha has asked me where the elves reside in hiding. I know they exist, she says. Funny that she
doesn’t label me “elf.” Strange she only asks me where “they” live. Instead, she calls me slut.

“I see the way you look at the Prince,” she laughs. “Coveting him. Wanting him. And oh, doesn’t he look
back? Doesn’t he wish you were of royal blood so you could be together? How terrible to be in love with
someone you can never really love. You have it bad, slut, because I will marry the Prince, share his bed,
sire his children, and become the Queen of Annandale while you become nothing.”

Her words are suffocating. I strain against my binds. I want to hit her, tear at her eyes, scream out that
I am already a Queen. But there is no point.

Betha slaps me. “Tell me where the elves are.”

I tell her I don’t know and the truth of the matter is that I don’t know where they live.

Betha is getting frustrated. I can see it in the dark shadows of her eyes. “Don’t you understand?” she
screeches. “The future of the Kingdom depends on this. My future with the Prince relies on finding the
damn elves.”

So that’s what it is, I think. Betha won’t become the Prince’s bride and the future Queen unless
she…unless she what? Finds the elves? Kills them? My thoughts are hazy and unclear. My heart beats as
fast as the deer runs and I duck my head as one of the men raises his fist.

I mumble, “Why do the elves matter?”

She doesn’t answer my question. “The Prince will be very disappointed when he gets here and doesn’t
have an answer.”

I had always hoped the Prince would want me—and she tells me that he does—but the Prince is not the
man I thought I knew. If he cares about me, then why would he have Betha kidnap and torture me?
None of this is adding up.

“There are no elves. They all died long ago.”

“You know where they are. You know everything about them. We’ve been watching you, Weaver. You
visit the forest every morning, commune with them, share their secrets. That’s how you tell such
elaborate stories with details only a traitor would know. The law states that a human who cavorts with
the elves will be hung for all to see. Tell us or hang.”

A human? I think. She doesn’t know I’m an elf. Confusion paralyzes me. I don’t know what to say.

Betha beams. “I’m sure your father would love to see your dead body twisting back and forth from a
thick rope every time he looks out his window.”

“Speak, slut,” a man shouts as his fist come down on my ribs. But it is the gleam in Betha’s eyes that
strikes me hardest.

She circles me like a vulture before it devours it’s prey. “You live with your father in Linlea. You are very
close to him. Melor,” she nods to one of the men, “bring him here.”

I don’t want her to see how terrified I am but I can’t stop myself from crying out in fear.

She stops Melor. “We could compromise. The life of your father or the location of the elves?”

My hands feel bloodless because I grip them too tight.

“Really, Keelin, it’s not that difficult of a choice. The man who raised you or total strangers? Why do you
protect them? They are nothing. Nothing!”

I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t possibly—no, never—I wouldn’t let them hurt father. But the elven
girl in the forest, what had she done to harm anyone? Such a small, defenseless child.

“Go Melor,” Betha nods. “I’m sure she’ll talk once we have her father.”

The man named Melor grabs his cloak, walks to the door. Opens it.

“No,” I yell out. “I will do it. I will do whatever it is you want.”

“The location of the elves!” she shouts.

“There are no more elves. Just me. I am the last one.”

They all stare at me.

“You have what you want.” I bark, “Have it over with and kill me now.”

Nobody moves.

Betha scrutinizes me.” You are…an elf?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I have no reason to lie,” I say.

“But you do,” she responds. “The life of your father. If you are an elf, then you must prove it.”

“How?”

She glares at me. “How should I know?”

The sound of hoofbeats pierces the night. Betha chirps, “Prince Deverell is here.”

~ * ~

I resign myself that the tools will now be employed.

Prince Deverell enters. Stubble adorns his chin like he hasn’t shaved in days and his hair has grown long,
well past his ears. “Betha?” His forehead is lined, worried. His dark eyes skim the room and come to rest
on my bloodied and hurting body.

“What’s going on?” I’m pleased that his voice sounds concerned and not elated at my expense, but I
figure it’s only a matter of time before he’s hitting me, too. Betha runs to him, hugs him. She is happy
and kind now, not the malicious woman who has been attacking me. “As long as this traitor isn’t lying,
than I’ve found the answer!”

“The answer?” The Prince looks dazed. He walks over to me. “Why is Keelin tied? What have you done?”
His hands are gentle as he takes my bound wrists.

Betha seems perturbed by his actions, as am I. “Don’t touch her. She’s an elf. When we’re done with
her, she should be hung in Linlea outside of her father’s shop.”

Startled, he looks around the room. I am as confused as he looks.

“What is the meaning of this? Why have you called me here? Who are these men?”

“These are my men from Rothen. Listen Deverell,” Betha pleads sweetly, “Elves have special healing
powers. They have magically nursed trees and animals, even each other, back to health for thousands of
years.” This is mostly true. I think of the little bird I once helped mend, but elves would only heal each
other’s minor wounds because the consequences of doing more are too great.

She continues, “So who says they can’t heal humans?”

I’m not sure if she is crazy or just dense. I think of my relationship with the bird again, how he had
visited me everyday and how I had looked for him in the sky with longing. I remember the despair I had
felt at his death years later. Our bond had only deepened after I’d healed him. What would that mean for
an elf and a human? How deep would the bond go between two similar races?
    
Now everyone is looking at the Prince. “You’re holding Keelin against her will because you think she’s an
elf and she can heal me? Betha, where is your mind? It’s too late to help me. Keelin is human like us.
There are no more elves.”

My mind spins in circles. The Prince is sick; I can feel his pain coursing through my veins, and sadness
envelops me.

“You aren’t a part of this?” I ask the Prince.

“No, Keelin, I wouldn’t hurt you. How could you think I would do this?”

“You have been acting…strange…lately,” I say.

“I have not been feeling well and there’s been this business with Betha. The engagement.” He reaches for
his knife to cut my binds but Melor stops him.

My stomach clenches and I find myself dry heaving. I understand Betha’s motives. Although she feigns
concern over Prince Deverell’s health, she is more fearful he will die before becoming King and she will
never take her place as Queen of Annandale.

“Untie her,” the Prince demands.

“No!” In desperation, Betha pulls a longsword from it’s sheath at her waist and aims it at my heart. Her
men pull their swords and circle the Prince. “The elf-slut will heal you, Prince, and you and I will be married
tomorrow. I will wait no longer.”

“I will not marry you. I have no interest in a woman who hurts others for her own gain.” Betha’s men
draw closer to him.

“You will marry me or I will torture your precious Weaver.”

She cuts my binds. Tells me to heal the Prince. I try to stand but my legs are so weak from being bound
that I fall back. This time she grabs me by my dress and throws me at the Prince. He catches me; I can
feel the racing of his heart underneath his gold and ivory doublet.

I say that I can’t heal him. That it’s impossible. I tell them about the bird and the irrevocable bond that
will connect the Prince and I for life if I heal him. We would die to be near each other. “It won’t do,” I say,
“a human and an elf should not be bonded. We aren’t meant to live like that.”

The look on Prince Deverell’s face is one of astonishment. “You mean to say you really are an elf?”

I look up at him hesitantly. “I am Little Bird, daughter of Darting Fawn. She was Tsarina before she was
murdered. Now I am the last Tsarina, the last of all elves.”

My heart boldens because he doesn’t back away. He doesn’t scoff. He looks at me kindly. “I have made
comments, in the past, in front of you about elves but I didn’t mean them, Keelin.”

Betha criticizes me. She says I’m a hypocrite, calling for peace and love between the races but refusing
to feel enough for a human to make a sacrifice. “You will do it,” she threatens, “or your father will die
after he witnesses your own hanging.” I don’t doubt her. My eyes question the Prince and he nods. He
accepts the ties that will soon link us and bring us together as one. Feelings of happiness and
excitement and fear crowd my soul.

I tell the Prince to lay on the floor. My hands shake as I move them over his body. I can feel his
weakness, his death, in my hands. “It is here,” I say, “a knife wound.”

“An accident,” he admits, “while sparring with a friend a few days ago.”

The healing comes from me naturally. I can feel the warmth of it leave my hands and enter his body. He
watches my face the whole time and I am suddenly self-conscious. What will he think of me once we are
bonded?

And then the deed is done. Our eyes meet and the room stills around us. All we see is each other.

My head is wrenched back and a sword is held at my throat. “Tie her up,” Betha instructs the ranger. He
hesitates long enough to distract Betha and her men, and the Prince jumps to his feet, his sword drawn
and ready. One of the men approaches him and they battle.

I am dragged away by Melor. I struggle and kick but I’m too weak to fight him off. My hands and ankles
are bound again; Melor carries me outside, tosses me onto a horse, and Betha mounts it.

She speaks to Melor. “I’m taking her into hiding until the Prince and I marry. You know the place. Bring
me the Prince. Alive.” And then we are off. There is little I can do to save myself. I try to place our
destination but the scenery passes as a blur. I reach out again to the trees for guidance but there are
none. At least I can still feel Deverell; his heart beats strong in my chest.

Suddenly, Betha reins the horse in. A figure stands in the pathway, blocking us from passing, but I can’t
see who it is in the darkness. A whooshing sound flies through the air and Betha cries out. We both fall
from the horse. The wind is knocked out of me and I try to inch away but the figure is there in front of
me, crouching down, bending towards me. I close my eyes but the man is still there and then he’s
fumbling at my back, untying my binds, and I open my eyes. I look up into the face of the ranger.

“Little bird?” he asks. “Are you alright?” There is barking then and Gem is soon dancing around me,
licking at my face. “I didn’t want to hurt you but it was the only way.” He uses the rope to tie Betha and
holds out a dagger. My dagger.

“I had to protect my identity and ensure you didn’t tell the whereabouts of my family.”

I just sit there, taking everything in. Somehow all of this makes sense to me. He explains that he is not a
ranger but an elf masquerading as a ranger to ensure the location of the elves remains hidden by
circumventing the others and spreading false rumors.

“How many elves are there?” I finally ask.

“We are only ten strong but there are six others in Potter Woods. We have been looking forward to
reuniting with you, Tsarina.”

His hands move over me. The bleeding stops and my wounds heal. The ache in my ribs ceases.

“Where was Gem?”

“With my daughter. The girl you saw in the forest.”

We hear the clear galloping of a horse and scramble for cover but we don’t have time to gather Betha
who lays unconscious in the middle of the road, wounded by an arrow to the shoulder. The horse and
rider stop and my heart rejoices as the Prince dismounts. He is unharmed. Safe. I run to his side, Gem
following close behind, and Deverell grabs me in a bear hug. I feel comfortable calling him that now.

Deverell reaches for his sword as the ranger steps out, but I yell, “No! Please.” I look up into the Prince’s
handsome face beseechingly. “He is my brother,” I say. I’m not sure how I didn’t see it before, didn’t
instinctively know we were related. His eyes are a forest green and his hair an ashen blond like my own.

Deverell lowers his sword. My brother approaches slowly. “I am Red Fox. We have been waiting for this,
for a change in what the future could have been.”

“What change is that?”

Red Fox explains, “King Maccus and Queen Ardra are revered among your people, as you will be when it
is your time to lead. We will spread the word, far and wide, from ear to ear, Prince Deverell, that your life
was saved by an innocent elven woman and when the time comes, when you take your rightful place as
King, the humans will be ready to unite with us.”

Deverell’s face is serious.

“My parents and I have always been curious about elves, only pretending to loathe the idea for the sake
of our people,” he says. “We will speak of elves differently, build up the forests, change the laws, and
when it is my time to rule the land, the humans will accept the elves as fellow kin.

Red Fox shakes my hand. “I should go,” but before he does, he says to the Prince, “You know that
Keelin is the Tsarina? That royal blood runs through her like it does you?” He clears his throat, grins.
“And isn’t a Prince supposed to marry a beautiful woman of royal blood?”

I feel myself blush; my face must be the color of a robin’s breast.

“That’s certainly something to think about,” Deverell winks.

Startled, I turn and look at Deverell. He runs his thumb down my face to rest on my cheek. His smile
lights up his eyes.

“I have long dreamed of this,” he whispers to me.

Red Fox makes me promise to meet the others and take my place as Tsarina among them soon. “I am
tired of leading, little sister. It is your rightful place.” He leaves, his presence unknown to the
unsuspecting eye.

“You will meet father?” I ask Deverell.

“At the castle. As our guests. Tomorrow.” He clasps my hand. I rest my head on his chest.

“What will happen to her?” I nod toward Betha.

“She’ll be tried in court for acts against the King.”

The indefinite fog of first light curls around us, masking our new devotion to each other.

“You will spread the word?” he asks.

I look at Gem, whose ears are perked and listening to a sound only her ears and mine can hear. “It has
already started,” I say.

With one last toe-curling look, Deverell, too, takes his leave, Betha thrown over the back of his horse.

I mount the last horse and hurry to tell father all that has happened. I will tell him I will stay in Linlea, for
awhile anyway, but I expect my visits to the forest will be longer and a lot less lonely.

Gem runs besides us, her tail still a pointed beacon of hope.

I move in the opposite direction of Deverell but I don’t feel far from him. We are close, connected. I know
him by heart. The few trees I pass on my journey call out in joy with the promise of a new dawn, their
whispers emerging into a buzz-hum of excitement, their leaves dancing in the swelling glow of a now
fogless morning.
THE LORELEI SIGNAL
Lauren Bailey Fawcett has a Master of Science degree in Education and
works as a Licensed Professional Counselor for at-risk youth. A rather
indecisive person with varied interests, she enjoys writing in multiple
genres, including Fantasy, Western, Historical, Young Adult, and
Romance.

She resides in rural western Pennsylvania with her husband, Patrick, and a
cat, Yumo, who thinks he’s a dog.