The Sylvan Elves

Dameon lay still and tried very hard to remember a time when he had felt worse. After a while he gave up. If I’m not dead already, he thought, I might as well be, I feel so — About that time a violent throbbing lodged itself in the back of his head, giving him a very good reason to hold off thinking for a few minutes. He lay still for a long while, waiting for the throbbing to go away. He was getting impatient when it eased off, giving him a chance to check himself over. He noted that his stomach no longer felt like returning the last meal it had had … which, altogether, wouldn’t be such a bad idea, considering that it had been his last meal, in the prison, that had gotten him in this state in the first place. But then Dameon cracked open his eyes and looked around, because he felt that he was no longer lying either on the hard marble of the Great Hall, nor on the moist loam carpeting the jungle.

Confusion reigned for a few heartbeats as he took in his surroundings. A single candle — there was no window — burning on a side table illuminated the carved-wood walls, steel-braced door, low smooth ceiling, and a wood-frame bed built into one wall of the bedroom … on which he was now lying, a green cotton comforter draped over him, and a feather mattress under him. He found he was very comfortable here, besides lacking the energy to get up and look around, so he was content to just lie there. A leisurely study of the walls told him this was a sylvan elf’s home, or at least had been built by one in the classic style. The woodwork was exquisitely fine, Dameon’s eyes tracing its candlelit contours for long minutes. Eventually he decided he wanted a closer look, crept out of the bed, and whacked his head on the ceiling.

“Ow!” Dameon declared, and sat down hard on the bed, rubbing the top of his skull. The ceiling really was low. Slowly, he got to his feet again and found he was three or four inches too tall for the room. Moving carefully, Dameon knelt and examined the wall. The curlicues molded in relief formed a perfectly meshing pattern, spreading over the wall in a repeating series. Dameon racked his brain trying to remember the name of this art form, but came up blank. A look at some of the other walls revealed similar pattern spreads, as well as a small series of ventilation ducts drilled right out of the wood. Dameon had now good reason to suspect that this room had been carved out of a tree, something that further confirmed that this was sylvan elf work. Perhaps there was someone he could ask.

Dameon tried the door. It had no knob, but a handle, and opened outward. Dameon pushed it open a bit and peered out, a little dazzled by the brighter light illuminating the hall outside his door. The walls here were also of carved wood, stretching away to his left. Dameon could hear a low conversation going on somewhere down the hall.

What little strength had gotten him this far suddenly gave out. He lost his balance and barely caught the door. The conversation stopped. While Dameon scrabbled to keep his balance, a figure in tan robes rushed into the hall and, gasping, caught him before he slid to the floor.

“You’re still in bad shape,” the figure said. His voice was deep and soft, soothing and flavored with an accent Dameon found rather charming. “You should rest.”

Dameon tried to focus on his face. He found a kindly expression on the youth’s angular Oriental features, utterly devoid of malice. “Where am I?” Dameon asked, embarrassed that he couldn’t keep his words from slurring.

“You’re in the home of the Sylvan Elves of Kuturi,” came the answer. A smile tried to cross his face and faltered, but Dameon was satisfied anyway. He might not have the faintest idea of where the Kuturi Forest may be, but he had been right about the Sylvan elves. He decided, for the moment, not to worry that the young man was incongruously Human.

“You’ve been through a horrible ordeal, I’ve been told,” the young man was saying. “Please, rest.”

“Oookay,” Dameon breathed, allowing himself to be helped back to the room. Dameon couldn’t believe how weak he was. His feet dragged, his eyelids drooped, and his jaw refused to obey his brain’s orders to ask the young man who could possibly have told him what before he was back on the bed and feeling his consciousness float away on the sweet winds of sleep.

A few days passed while Dameon regained his strength. The young man told him his name was Leon; judging from the brews and food he gave to Dameon, and by his own admission, he was a monk and a healer of some kind. Dameon didn’t get a chance to find out much else, mainly because he spent most of his time sleeping. Being awake tired him out, and Leon was constantly advising him to get some rest. This Dameon did happily, glad to be able to do nothing but eat and sleep, and felt as if he were living like a king. He did sleep less and less as the days went on, and Leon would tell him how much better he looked. Dameon for his part did all he could to get better, worrying that he might be overstaying his welcome.

One morning Leon came in to find Dameon asleep later than he recently did. He tried to shake him awake, but it was like shaking a rock. Leon shook his head and left, smiling. An hour later he returned and had better luck rousing Dameon.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling much better, thank you, sir.”

“How did you come to such a dire fate?” the young man queried. “Your body was dreadfully poisoned.”

Leon looked terribly concerned. Dameon was a little reluctant to remember the events that had led him here, but Leon deserved to know. He had, after all, done no small thing saving his life.

He told the monk everything he remembered, beginning with Sianna and finishing with the last thing he knew for sure, the moment he had collapsed in the Great Hall. When he was finished there was a deep silence.

“What ever caused the leaders of your village to treat you with such vileness? You seem harmless enough to me.” Leon seemed to be not quite thinking aloud. Then he smiled warmly at Dameon, who realized an answer was expected of him.

“They don’t care about harmless,” he said bitterly. “Just about their best interests.” What followed was a short debate in Dameon’s head about precisely how much to reveal to this monk, who had admittedly saved his life but seemed just a little too curious. The end result was a noncommital silence on his part.

“Such actions are usually done out of fear. Or bigotry,” Leon pointed out.

On the nose! Dameon almost shouted. That would have been too rude, though, so instead he agreed icily, “Oh yes, fear was a major motivating factor back there.”

“Hmm …” Leon said; Dameon had no idea what that was supposed to mean. “Well, what do you plan to do now?”

Dameon thought for a moment. “Hnh. I can’t go back home; everyone thinks I’m dead. I’d really like to go get some things of mine, though.”

“How do your parents feel about this? Do you think they would be willing to help you?”

Dameon avoided his eyes. Heatedly, he said, “My parents were there when I was sentenced. If they didn’t help then, why would they now?”

Leon was shocked. “Have they no conscience?!” he cried. Dameon bit his lip hard and restrained himself from punching the carved wall. “If it’s a curse, I may be able to get you to someone that can free them,” Leon continued.

“Perhaps, if they knew you were alive, they would send away your belongings,” Leon suggested.

Hope sparked. “I suppose,” Dameon said uncertainly. “That shouldn’t be too much to hope for.”

“Then do you want me to ask your parents for them?”

With a cynical shrug, Dameon answered, “Yes. What have I to lose?”

Leon gave him a look. After a moment he said, “You don’t think your parents will be cooperative?”

Dameon rolled his eyes. ‘Cooperative’ is the essence of my parents, he thought, as he asserted, “Sure they will. I’m worried that the local authorities might do something to you.”

“Don’t you worry about me. If there’s something in particular you’d like me to retrieve, tell me now.”