When they stepped out of the portal, the sun was setting. There was a wide monotonous heath stretching in every direction. Only in the west there were some hills and bushes.
"Damn witch, she has swindled us!" Alva said, annoyed, still using Khattal's vocabulary.
"Not by much," Kintaro objected. "The border of Ilmaer is this way, and Selkhir is that way. No more than a three-days' ride, I'd say."
Kintaro's ability to know the Wild Steppe as the back of his palm had never been doubted. Ithildin closed his eyes, as if listening to his inner voice, and said in a dreamy tone, "I know this land. I fought the Essanti thirty miles east of here."
"That's right. That's the Teraisa Plain. That's where everything had started between us."
"I kinda don't want everything to end here too." Alva giggled nervously.
"Come on, sweetling. That's the Wild Steppe. We'll hunt some game in the morning, roast it over the fire. The smoke will make my Essanti to come checking if they haven't moved their camp too far. Or we'll meet a patrol from Selkhir. In any case we won't have to walk. We could spend the night in that hollow between the hills. But I must warn you, my sweet, you'll get no sleep tonight!" the nomad looked at Alva with meaning. "I always work up such an appetite in the Steppe."
While they walked, the dusk crept upon them, and then, as if by magic, a campfire flared up in the hollow of their destination.
"Ah, must be us they are waiting for," Kintaro said, carefree, never even slowing his pace.
"At least take out your sword!" Alva said, trying to invoke some caution.
"It's the steppe. What do we have to be afraid of here? What do we have to be afraid of anywhere, come to think of it?"
"True enough," Alva admitted, and all his caution vanished in a flash.
Once they came near the campfire, they were rather taken aback. The camp itself gave no reason for concern, it was like some classical painting Supper in the Steppe coming to life: a motley tent, like one a southern merchant would use, pitched on poles; venison hissing and spitting over fire, emanating a mouth-watering smell; a small field cask with its lid open, about ten pints of dark wine inside. But those who made that camp seemed strange, to put it mildly.
"Escaped from a masquerade, did they?" Alva muttered, the only one of them who was able to put his amazement into words.
A tall black-haired woman, who was drawing wine from the cask, smiled and saluted them with her mug. Not like greeting strangers. Like she had been long waiting for her guests, and here they were at last, deigned to show up. Among the three persons in the camp she seemed the least exotic. Swarthy skin, hair braided into four braids, as was the steppe custom. She wore knee-high jackboots and an old-fashioned leather breastplate with a heraldic dragon inlaid with gold. There was also a leopard skin dramatically draped over her shoulders. Her ringed fingers glittered in the firelight − sapphires, rubies, sunstones, expensive and cheap gems indiscriminately.
The combination of a soldier's attire and flashy jewellery made one think of brigands − or warriors of old who roamed the earth some three thousand years ago. She had no weapons, though, except maybe a knife in her boot. But a few steps back, at the tent's entrance, there was a marvellous black shield with a lion's head skilfully carved out. The lion's head was huge and gilded and stuck out of the shield up to its mane, like the National Emblem of Creede. It looked pure gold, but couldn't possibly be, or else the shield would be absolutely unwieldy, right?
The two others were men, and neither their clothes, nor appearance, nor even race resembled the tall woman's. The first was wrapped up in a snow-white cloak from head to toe, as if they were not in the steppe, dozens of miles away from any comforts of civilized life, but in the garden of the RoyalPalace in Trianess. His long, fair hair streamed down his shoulders like melted silver. His eyes were light-coloured and shone like stars in the dark. His cloak was fastened on his breast with a fibula in the shape of a tree-leaf with dew-drops − such a clever piece of work, that it was undoubtedly done by the Ancient Race. Or by someone able to imitate their work perfectly. By his side there was a typical elven blade, which looked more like a lance or a scythe than a sword: with a long wide blade, on an even longer handle.
The third member of the company was the most confusing. Judging by his looks, a steppe nomad, clearly an Essanti at that: tall, dark, broad-shouldered, no clothes except skin-tight leather pants with nothing underneath, eagle feathers in his braids, a jasper necklace and matching earrings, a traditional atarink − longsword − on his back. There was no traditional round shield anywhere. His bronze skin was covered all over with intricate patterns − either tattoos or war paint or ritual scarring, it was hard to tell for sure. On his forehead there was a naked sword drawn or tattooed, pointing to the bridge of his nose. Neither Alva nor Ithildin ever saw anything even remotely resembling that barbaric piece of art. It looked incredibly erotic.
Kintaro, on the other hand, clearly did. He was not surprised in the slightest. He was the first to come closer to the campfire, and the Essanti brave stood up to greet him. They slapped each other on the shoulders, shook hands in the steppe custom, gripping forearms, not palms, flashed their white teeth at each other and exchanged some words in their tongue.
"Welcome to our humble abode," the woman said in the Common tongue. Her manners were painfully familiar − a cavalry captain from Selkhir or an adventurer from the docks of Trianess.
Still dazed, Alva and Ithildin sat by the fire, and it just so happened that Alva found himself by the lady-adventurer's side, and Ithildin − by the man in white who looked like an elf. Alva would have given anything just to look at his ears! Kintaro was stuck with the painted brave and looked at him with such admiration, as if he was ready to suck him off right here, right now. It was entirely possible he was going to do exactly that.
As it was done everywhere where the tradition of hospitality existed, they were given food and drink without any questions. The wine was thick and sweet, the bread fresh and fragrant, the venison well-done, with a touch of spicy steppe herbs. They ate in silence, which was not awkward at all. They all were enjoying their food and the comfortable calmness of the night steppe.
No one asked for names or gave theirs. There was an impression that the mysterious strangers knew all there was to know about them anyway. They often exchanged meaningful glances, as if conversing without words. Alva wanted to talk to them, but he didn't know what to say. Ask them how they had found themselves in the middle of the steppe in such uncommon clothes, and without horses at that? Ask them how they had known the portal would take them here and not to Selkhir? Ask them who they were and what they wanted? Instinct told him none of his questions would be answered. Here, near that fire, under those skies, any questions would have been out of place. They would have ruined the atmosphere of magic and mystery which the strangers were surrounded with. And, deep down, he had some suspicions who they might have been, those three strangers he had met in the velvety darkness of the warm steppe night.
The woman's eyes were of a dark-blue color, like the evening sky. She watched Alva point-blank, and her gaze made Alva feel self-conscious. He looked away and saw Kintaro and the steppe brave get up, take out their swords and go away from the fire, to mock-fight to their heart's content. Two silver elves were silent, immovable, looking into each other's eyes, holding hands. Words were of no use to them.
The woman took his chin and turned him to face her.
"So much like your father," she whispered before pressing her hot mouth to his.
They traded long, passionate kisses; she savoured his lips as if she was drinking mead from his mouth, as if she was trying to take his breath away. Had she wanted more than a kiss, Chevalier Ahayrre wouldn't dream of refusing her. But she was content with just kisses. It's not necessary to pluck a rose in order to smell it. She was just a person who wouldn't pass up a rose.
And then it was suddenly over, as if they woke up from a dream, and they were alone in the camp: Alva with a smile of pure bliss on his lips, Kintaro, panting, covered in sweat − the new friend must have given him a run for his money − and Ithildin, pink with excitement, not a shred of his usual restraint.
"Did you see the blade?" he exclaimed, agitated. "It's Aglaros, 'First Light of Daybreak'. And the armour under the cloak? It's made of mithril and engraved with the swans of the royalty. You couldn't possibly fail to recognize him," he added, meeting Alva's puzzled look. "His statue stands at the entrance to Naith Saihn."
"You mean the fellow was dressed up as Dirfion?"
"He was Dirfion! My long-dead ancestor. The one we call for in mortal danger, to find our courage. The greatest warrior of the Ancient Race."
Alva opened his mouth to make a sneering remark and close it again. Didn't he himself suspect something similar not five minutes ago? But it's one thing to suspect and quite another to admit out loud that they'd had supper with the legendary warriors of old.
"I've never quite believed in the Younger Gods," he murmured.
"Oh ye of too much education," Kintaro proclaimed pompously. "Your gods live in your temples and books. Ours come to us, sit by the fire, ask if the summer has been good, if the hunt has been plentiful, if there has been many strong boys and black foals born. I asked him if it was true what Tenmaru used to say, that he had seen him in battle beside him. And he said that before me Tenmaru was the best Essanti warrior, it was a pleasure to fight beside him. I would die to see him in battle. I could barely hold my own against him in single combat, and only because he was holding back."
"Excuse me?"
"It was Amanozaki," the nomad explained patiently. "The Essanti god of war. Did you see the sword on his forehead? His twin brother Kitabayashi looks just like him, but he carries a shield instead of a sword, and there is a shield drawn on his forehead, because he is the god of peace. As the legend goes, a lightning hit a rock, the rock split apart, and they were inside, two infant boys with those patterns all over their bodies. I've always wondered if they have patterns here too." Kintaro grinned and patted his groin.
"Right, and the lady was the warrior princess Ashurran herself," Alva drawled with open sneer... and stopped short.
Because she looked exactly like Ashurran, as she had been described in legends. And her shield was the famous Golden Lion Shield, which she'd got from a sea dragon.
Fancy that.
Alva could have pondered for a long time whom they'd met on the Teraisa Plain after all, hadn't he remembered suddenly that they'd spent a whole year apart. So much lost time to make up for! He took Kintaro firmly by his braid and pulled him to the tent, its flaps invitingly half-open.
"I want to screw you while I am looking like me. And say 'I love you' in the Common tongue. And you, my silver elf, will take whoever is left conscious."
No one was there to watch them. No one was there to tell how it was. Probably the usual way. For thousands of years of existence mankind hadn't invented too many ways of making love. The common, everyday magic possessed by everyone who is in love and is loved back, who desires their lover and is answered with equal desire. Who has studied every birthmark, every wrinkle on their partner's skin but never lost the sense of novelty. They were filled with passion, with fierce hunger − hunger for touch, penetration, merging. They wouldn't be cold, even if surrounded with the white silence of a snow desert.
Pleasure isn't like an apple or an orange − it grows when shared. Delight isn't like a well − take as much as you want, and it wouldn't dry out. Love isn't like gold − give it away, and you'll have more of it, not less.
They didn't sleep until morning, switching from making love to making conversation and back again. They talked about many things, but not about those strangers they had never seen before but knew instantly. They even forgot them as if they had met no one at all. That was the usual side-effect of meeting the Younger Gods: the person forgot them, and their conversation, except for those pieces of knowledge the Gods wanted them to have.
So Alva, Ithildin and Kintaro knew that behind those hills archaeologists from the capital had made their camp, and they would be welcomed there with open arms. They knew that the portal had missed Selkhir by fifty miles not out of Dame Tallian's malice, but by the will of the Younger Gods. They knew they were together again, and in love with one another, and happy as no one else in the whole world − but they needed no gods to tell them that.
* * *
Ashurran stepped on the marble floors of the Sky Palace which was located nowhere and everywhere at once: in the moonlight, in the Northern lights, in the sun patches across water, in the shade of glaciers, in the glassy surface reflecting the clear blue skies.
The warrior princess threw herself on the bed covered with a leopard skin and rolled from side to side like a playful cat.
"So much like his father!" she said dreamily, touching her lips with the tips of her fingers.
"I see you are pleased with your descendant," Amanozaki said in his husky voice, appearing by her side. He was speaking the Essanti tongue, its archaic version spoken some five centuries ago, but she understood him easily. "Next time I'll make you share him. Woman, how could such walking talking temptation sprout out of your loins?"
"Shut up before your brother Kitabayashi hears you." Ashurran laughed.
Dirfion, fair as a snowy winter, sat on the edge of her bed and spoke in the elven tongue, "My beloved brother Faelivrin will be pleased. That elf has his soul, even if he looks like me. And he'll help unite both our lines, mine and my brother's, in a short while."
"Still, it's years away. But the girl whose veins run with the blood of three Younger Gods has just learned how to speak. Call Faelivrin, we will visit her together and check up how she is growing. Hey, Amano, care to join us?"
"A girl? She's a good-for-nothing," the nomad god answered condescendingly. "I'll join you, only to see for myself."
"You steppe chauvinist, you'll be pleased with her nevertheless. She has your fighting spirit and my fiery heart. She also has a love for beauty and arts like her elven ancestors. Here you are, Faelivrin! You will be glad to see how she reaches for books even from her cradle."
"How restless you are, Ashurran, my love." A willowy elf with snow-white hair and eyes the colour of a forest violet appeared out of thin air. "Our brothers and sisters are waiting to hear what you want to say about your descendants."
And Dirfion and Amanozaki said in unison, "They possess all seven god-like qualities in abundance: strength, glory, courage, knowledge, beauty, love and abnegation. They could take their place in the Sky Palace any time, even this very day, and help us carry out the Creator's will."
"I am of like mind," Ashurran concluded. "But why hurry? They will live a long life and undergo many trials before they will be born again as the Younger Gods of this world. Their descendants will unite what had been divided for thousands of years, and a new human race will be born, and mortals will become equal to the gods, and a Golden Age will have started. But now it is as far away as the moon from the earth for a man on Shank's mare. So back to work, brothers and sisters. We have much to do yet."
And those who had been flesh and blood once, elf or human, warrior or wizard, mother or father, and now ruled the world of mortals, went about their business walking through space and time.
Author's Notes
Ashurran, Dirfion and Faelivrin are the characters from my novel Gates to Glory, published on Wattpad in full. It's an epic fantasy set some four thousand years before Ekleipsis. Ashurran was a female superhero of that world, and after death she became a goddess. Along with many other heroes - the Essanti gods Kitabayashi and Amanozaki had probably started out as humans too. You can read and, I hope, enjoy Gates to Glory, but it's a completely different novel, in the different style, and some episodes are cruel or sad, as in any other epic warrior story.
As for the mysterious baby girl, the next and last chapter will reveal who she is, but my clever readers can guess. You need to know that the High King of Creede is the direct descendant of Ashurran, the warrior princess (as was said in Royal Blood, short story, also available on Wattpad), and her elven husband. So he has a bit of elven blood in his veins too. I can't say more without spoilers for Gates to Glory.