Strings of Fate

  If I had a troupe of bowmen wielding the Avonmora’s Trueflights, I’d take a kingdom for myself? They are bows so powerful that a man’s shoulders ache with every pull. But the results speak for themselves. I know of no armor that can turn such projectiles aside, save perhaps, that which is heavily enchanted, and who can afford that?

  — Hap Eldon, Imperial Highway Robber of the Second Imperial Branch, caught and hung for his crimes in the year 472 I.C.

  Cobaltean was not an easy material to work with. Over the centuries, however, the Avonmora had refined the craft into a master trade of its own. Skilled tradesmen developed a complex process to preserve the toadstool’s rich blue fibers, elevating the preparation of cobaltean to a near-sacred art.

  Depending on the particulars of an order, a master could dry and harden the fibers for use as bricks, lumber, or other building materials tailored to a craftsman's needs. Due to the toadstool’s astonishing diversity, not every tradesman could process cobaltean in every way. This led to the emergence of specialized guilds, each competing fiercely within their niche of the craft.

  Further complicating the process, only certain toadstools were suitable for specific applications. The colossal fungi growing around Lake Silverfinn, for instance, were ideal for masonry. Meanwhile, the smaller, less mature varieties offered finer grain and flexible fiber, perfect for bowyers, fletchers, and carpenters alike.

  Though cobaltean was a valuable and renewable resource, the elves of Vistadora tracked its harvest with meticulous care. Unlike the ancient crystal-mist oaks, which took centuries to grow, cobaltean matured in a mere fifty years, quick by elven standards. Even so, the Avonmora understood that the few locations where the toadstools thrived required strict conservation.

  To this end, the Avonmora employed a dedicated class of conservationists known as ecowardens. These guardians monitored the largest and most fragile growth zones, ensuring the balance between need and nature was never broken.

  The marshlands surrounding Lake Silverfinn marked the heart of the Crystal-Mist Forest. Here, the ecowardens remained ever watchful, monitoring the thriving cobaltean populations for signs of disease, blight, or illegal harvesting.

  Complementing their efforts, swiftfalcon rangers patrolled the forest regularly. These elite scouts ensured a vigilant presence around the lake and its marshes, deterring overzealous traders and curbing the kind of exploitation that had plagued the region in ages past.

  Over time, the Avonmora had mastered the art of stretching their cobaltean supplies between harvests. But lately, troubling signs had emerged. A string of unusual incidents near the lake and its surrounding wetlands unsettled even the seasoned swiftfalcons. Something was amiss in the heart of the forest.

  Portean of Vistadora stood in the lofty show hall of Bellador’s Bow, the famed shop of Bellador of Vistadora—master bowmaker, fletcher, and preeminent cobaltean craftsman.

  The store, gracefully suspended high within the boughs of an ancient crystal-mist oak, housed the most elegant, accurate, and strikingly beautiful bows in all the Crystal-Mist Forest. From his airy perch, Portean studied Bellador’s latest creations with a wistful eye. Each bow was a deadly work of art.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Waddling in with a warm grin came Mardo, Bellador’s portly apprentice, a rarity among the slim-framed Avonmora.

  “Captain! A pleasure as always,” Mardo beamed, jowls bouncing slightly with each word. “You didn’t snap another string on your Trueflight, did you?”

  Ever cheerful, Mardo had a knack for putting customers at ease, a vital gift considering his master’s temperament. Bellador was old, short-tempered, and notably deficient in the famous elven grace his people were known for.

  Portean simply shook his head as the plump apprentice approached. He was here on official business, and though a chat with Mardo might offer a welcome distraction from the weight of his current task, time was short, and growing shorter by the moment.

  “I need a word with Bellador, Mardo,” said the captain of the Swiftfalcons, his tone apologetic, though he met the young elf’s broad grin with one of his own.

  Recognizing the urgency in Portean’s voice, Mardo merely shrugged and gestured with a meaty arm, his manner as affable as ever. Without another word, he led the ranger through the showroom into the workshop at the back of the store.

  The oakspace, a magically expanded chamber wrought by the Order, extended deep into the ancient crystal-mist oak, its interior far larger than its modest exterior suggested.

  True to form, Mardo couldn’t help but prattle cheerfully even as he obeyed Portean’s request. “Bellador’s been in a mood lately, let me tell you. You know how he gets when he’s working on something big. Well, he’s on to a new model. I can’t say much, but if you thought your Trueflight had pluck, just wait. This one’s a beauty.”

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  His already bright expression lifted further, glowing with the pride of a craftsman’s apprentice on the cusp of witnessing greatness.

  The din of Mardo’s pleasant chatter continued in a steady rush as they ascended a steep, winding stair.

  Portean, usually keen on anything to do with archery, merely nodded distractedly, offering the occasional grunt or feigned smile whenever Mardo’s tone peaked with excitement. Though the passage took only a few minutes, it felt like an eternity to the preoccupied ranger.

  At last, Mardo stopped before a large, round wooden door. With a quick, apologetic nod, the apprentice slipped inside to check whether his master was ready to receive visitors.

  Another seeming eternity passed before Mardo’s bulky frame reappeared, an unreadable expression stretched across his round face.

  “Well, I can’t say for sure you’ve been granted permission, but judging by the volume and variety of Bellador’s swearing, I’d wager you’re expected.”

  Mardo laughed boyishly. “Go on in, but watch your step. I knocked over a barrel of arrowheads on my way out.”

  Thanking Mardo with a curt nod, Portean stepped through the doorway and into Bellador’s workshop.

  The space was cramped and dimly lit, but the captain’s sharp eyes adjusted quickly. A worn yet meticulously maintained lathe dominated one corner of the room, a thick layer of fresh cobaltean shavings beneath it attesting to recent use.

  Above, a ceiling-mounted globe cast a dull, orange glow, functional but uninspired. The walls were a study in precision: rows of gleaming chisels, files, mallets, and other tools hung from carefully spaced pegs, each one exactly where it belonged.

  Near the door, a small wooden keg lay on its side, arrowheads spilling across the floor in a chaotic scatter.

  Several large worktables lined the perimeter of the room. On one of them, a lumpen object lay concealed beneath a dust-covered white cloth, its shape irregular, its presence suggestive.

  Portean’s eyes lingered on the cloth-covered lump, but he made no move toward it.

  At the center of the room, an aged, bald elf sat perched on a swiveling, three-legged stool. His nose was hooked and severe—almost beak-like—and a thin pair of wire-rimmed spectacles clung precariously to its bridge. Beneath them, his unusually bright gray eyes squinted through the orange haze, assessing the quality of a freshly turned, indigo walking staff about the width of a wrist.

  “It’ll do,” he rasped, voice gravelly with age and irritation.

  With gnarled fingers, the fletcher ran his careworn hands along the polished length of the staff, issuing a low cluck of satisfaction only after each fiber had passed his rigorous inspection.

  Portean said nothing. He simply waited, eyeing the elegant staff with quiet admiration.

  He wondered how many years it had taken to reach that level of mastery. Even if, by some miracle, he ever found the time to pour himself into a craft, would he possess the patience, or the talent, to rise to such heights?

  Perhaps Bellador had simply been born exceptional, a prodigy of his art, just as Portean was with bow and blade.

  “You expect me to be finished with your bleeding items, I suppose,” the old elf wheezed tiredly.

  Groaning as he stood, Bellador waved a dismissive hand toward the stool beneath him. It promptly scurried back to the wall beside the lathe on spindly wooden legs. Not all master craftsmen practiced magic, but most were, at the very least, passably proficient. Bellador, however, wielded more than enough of the Gift to have earned high rank within the Order, had he ever desired such a life. His heart, it seemed, had chosen the chisel over the staff.

  With another wave and an exasperated curse, the elf set a broom and dustpan to work gathering the scattered arrowheads. “Damn fool of a lad, that Mardo. His clumsiness will be the death of me yet.”

  Portean paid no mind to the animated furniture and dutiful tools. Instead, his eyes drifted to the object beneath the dusty white cloth.

  “You said they’d be finished in a month, Bel. I’m not interested in arguing deadlines again.”

  Though his tone was firm, there was no mistaking the underlying fondness in his voice. Still, today he had no time for their usual ritual of verbal sparring.

  Sensing the ranger’s mood, Bellador grunted sourly and let go of what he’d hoped might blossom into a delightful squabble.

  “No matter, then. I finished them yesterday.”

  He followed Portean’s gaze, peering over his spectacles toward the cloth-covered lump. “How is your father?”

  “He’s well, thank you,” Portean replied as they approached the table together.

  “He sends his regards, as usual. In fact, he told me to remind you that you’re expected at dinner tonight, if you’ll come. I think he’s finally getting the hang of cooking for himself.” The ranger raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

  Bellador balked, let out a suspicious cough, but didn’t refute the claim.

  “I had hoped to test them more extensively, what with all the rumors of danger in the forest…” His voice trailed off hesitantly. “Well, see for yourself.”

  With a practiced motion, the bowyer withdrew the cloth, revealing not one, but two items of interest.

  On the table lay a thin wand and what appeared to be a child’s toy hound.

  The wand was no thicker than a thumb, precisely eleven inches long, and etched with minute, gleaming runes, each carved with exquisite precision.

  The hound figurine, by contrast, seemed almost mundane, save for the breathtaking craftsmanship. Every strand of fur, every wrinkle in its muzzle, was rendered with lifelike intricacy. It looked as though it might spring to life at any moment.

  “I call it Veilpiercer,” Bellador said, almost shyly. “Too grand, perhaps—but fitting.”

  He retrieved a small wooden case from a shelf beside the workbench. “It’s all very experimental,” he muttered. “But I believe that if something is out there, something clever enough to slip past even our keenest eyes, it won’t elude Veilpiercer.”

  Packing the wand and figurine carefully into the case, the bowyer glanced up and offered Portean a rare smile.

  “You remember my instructions? And do be careful when you use it, Wild One. I’m not sure your father or I could stand to lose your company.”

  Portean bowed low, his expression darkening.

  “Something is out there, Bel. Call me a fool, but I swear I feel eyes on me in the forest.”

  He paused. “If this gives us the answers we need, I’ll gladly pay the price.”

  With that, the captain of the Swiftfalcons turned, the case tucked neatly under his left arm.

  “But I promise you, I’ll heed the hound’s bays, just as you’ve drilled into me time and time again.”