Elfin Art
A few nights later I return from my kitchen shift to find Jarod and Aislinn waiting for me in the North Tower’s upstairs hallway, Wynter perched lightly on the windowsill behind them. Wynter is watching us all with a look of curiosity, her dark wings loosely wrapped around herself.
“You’re visiting me!” I cry, made inexplicably happy by the sight of a Lupine, a conservative Gardnerian and an Elfin Icaral bunched together in such a calm and peaceful way.
Aislinn shrugs. “I’m finding that I like meeting new people,” she says quietly. “People different from me. I’m tired of being afraid of everyone.” She looks up at Jarod shyly, and he smiles warmly down at her.
“We’re going to see the Elfin art exhibit,” Jarod tells me, his arm wrapped around a few books. “Your roommate expressed an interest in accompanying us. We hoped you’d join us, as well.”
“We’ve just discovered that we all share an interest in art,” Aislinn tells me, clarifying this strange trio that has sprung up out of nowhere.
“And poetry,” Jarod adds. He gestures to the books with his chin.
They look at me expectantly.
I’m way behind in my Apothecary and Metallurgie studies, I have a Mathematics exam in two days and I’m supposed to have drawings of virtually every species of Verpacian cornflower done by tomorrow.
And I don’t care.
“Just let me throw my books on my bed,” I tell them, unable to contain my excitement at the thought of so many new friends coming together.
* * *
We reach the Elfin gallery after a long and winding walk, Jarod swinging a lamp in front of us.
I’m surprised to see how different the Elfin architecture is from what I’m used to, the gallery nestled just inside the wilds. The buildings are bone white and all curves, like great seashells, and are topped by wavy, spiraling turrets that remind me of candle flames. They stretch toward the pinnacles of the tall pine trees and are joined to each other by cobbled walkways made of thousands of flat, silvery stones.
Wynter leads us into the largest of the buildings, down a twisting route through multiple doors with strange, curving symbols carved into them.
A large exhibit hall opens up before us, the floor’s inlaid tiles of polished gray and blue stone set in flowing lines that make me feel as if I’m walking on water. The cathedral-like walls are curved and sloping and lit by the green-tinged light of Elfin lumenstone.
There are statues and paintings of Elfin kings and queens on horseback, landscapes depicting strange ivory dwellings built on steep mountainsides and nature studies in which the images of plants and stones appear as if they’re floating above the paper.
And there are things I didn’t even know could exist.
Statues made of swirling mist, tapestries depicting scenes that seem to come to life as you move in front of them, sculptures formed from moving water.
Wynter perches on one of the gallery’s oval windowsills, still as stone, and follows us with her eyes.
I moved from piece to piece as Aislinn and Jarod talk about the art, engrossed in their conversation with each other. I can’t help but notice how happy and animated Aislinn seems, and how bright Jarod’s eyes glow.
“Where is your art?” Jarod asks Wynter.
Wynter cocks her head and considers his question. “My art cannot be displayed here,” she explains in her softly accented voice. “It is infected with my darkness.”
I frown at Wynter, saddened by her harsh statement and casual acceptance of her exclusion.
Aislinn and Jarod are both looking at her as well, Aislinn’s eyes gone wide, Jarod’s face tense and troubled.
“Show us,” I find myself saying.
Wynter hesitates, then reluctantly hops down from her perch and leads us out of the museum and toward an out-of-the-way storage barn built in the Keltic style.
It’s cold inside the large structure, and it smells slightly of mildew. Old furniture and battered frames line the walls, along with abandoned canvas, intricate weaving looms and a variety of worn art tools.
But in the center of this unattractive space, spiraling upward toward the rafters, is a large statue carved in white stone that glows as if illuminated from within.
It’s an Elfin archer on horseback, the horse rearing high, the archer’s bow and arrow pointed into the sky. It’s slightly larger than life, and so real I’m almost afraid to step in front of it, lest the horse’s hooves come crashing down on my head.
Jarod, Aislinn and I circle around it as Wynter trails quietly behind, hugging the shadows.
“You made this?” I breathe.
“Yes,” she says softly.
I turn to her. “It’s your brother, Cael. Isn’t it?”
Wynter dips her head shyly. “Yes.”
“Has he seen this?” Aislinn wonders, her tone one of awe.
Wynter nods.
“What did he say?” Aislinn asks.
“He was very touched,” Wynter answers, almost in a whisper. “He liked it a great deal.” Wynter reaches up to reverently run her hand along the cool white stone of the statue’s base.
“It’s beautiful,” Jarod tells her. “Is there more?”
Wynter nods and gestures all around.
I’m like someone who has just been sent on a treasure hunt. We all are. Aislinn, Jarod and I immediately begin rummaging around, pulling old canvas sheets off sculptures and paintings, each new discovery bringing forth delighted gasps.
“Oh, look at the tapestries!” Aislinn’s voice rings out as she lifts some canvas to expose four loosely rolled works. She turns to Wynter. “Did you weave these?”
Wynter nods as Jarod and I join Aislinn. The intricacy of what Wynter has done is evident even from a quick glimpse of the fabric’s edging.
Wynter watches us modestly from where she sits, now perched on the base of her statue of her brother, her hand resting on the horse’s smooth leg.
Aislinn pulls at one of the tapestries unsuccessfully. “They’re terribly heavy...”
Jarod reaches around her with long, sinewy arms and effortlessly pulls one out.
Aislinn turns to him, amazed.
“Pretty handy to have a Lupine around,” I observe, beaming at him, and he shoots me a small smile.
Jarod lowers the tapestry down on the floor and carefully unrolls it. It’s large, able to cover a sizable wall, and pictures ethereal white birds flying across a summer field. I move my head and am fascinated to find the birds move as I do so, their wings flapping gracefully up and down.
Watchers.
Aislinn and Jarod enthusiastically move on to unfurling more tapestries as I stare at the ivory birds.
Wynter quietly approaches my side.
“I’ve seen them,” I tell her, my voice low.
“I know this,” she says. She looks to me with concern. “It is not good to see them, Elloren Gardner.”
“Why?”
“The Shining Ones of the Inner Sanctum have deemed it so. They are messengers of the Shining Ones. Only the most holy may look upon them. For the impure to gaze upon them is blasphemy.”
I’m thrown by how foreign her faith is to me, and how odd it all sounds. “And they think you impure?”
Wynter hangs her head, sorrowful. “All Icarals are impure. Cast out for their evil.”
A spark of outrage rises deep inside me. “But how did all of this start? Why are Icarals viewed as evil?” I’m dismayed that her religion echoes this prejudice of ours.
Wynter is staring at me evenly, as if the truth of this is written in stone. “Because they seek to fly away from the Inner Sanctum into the realm of the Dark Ones. It is written in our sacred texts.” Wynter’s shoulders drop, and she looks to the birds in the tapestry with open longing. “I know that I should not sculpt these messengers, or paint them...but I find them to be so beautiful. I know it is blasphemy to say it, but they call to me.” Wynter’s voice grows stifled and faint. “They are my muse.” She says it as if she’s confessing some heinous, unforgivable crime.
I glance around at the unrolled tapestries, suddenly filled with stubborn purpose. “We should hang these up.”
Wynter gives a start. She shakes her head in shocked disagreement. “No, Elloren Gardner. My work can never be hung in the gallery.”
“Not in the gallery. In the North Tower.”
She peers at me with deep concern. “My work would pollute any dwelling. Curse it—”
“No, Wynter.” I cut her off gently. “This artwork was not meant to be thrown in the corner of some storeroom. Besides, we need the tapestries to keep out the drafts. I’ve noticed the cold doesn’t seem to affect you and Ariel, but it sure affects me.”
“You can hang the paintings all along the staircase,” Jarod amiably suggests.
“And the flower series in the upstairs hallway,” Aislinn chimes in.
“Surely some of the smaller sculptures could be brought up,” Jarod adds.
We all turn to look at Wynter.
“Very well,” she quietly agrees, a small smile lighting her face.
* * *
We make our way back to the North Tower, Jarod effortlessly carrying several tapestries. Aislinn, Wynter and I lug paintings.
“So, Black Witch, collecting freaks, are we?” Ariel asks as we walk in, her words slurred. She’s lying on her bed, slumped down against the wall behind her, her eyes hooded, her lips stained black.
By now I recognize this state of hers. She’s been eating those berries.
“You’re the biggest freak of us all, you know,” she goes on, attempting a look of hatred. “And you better keep the wild dog away from my chickens.”
“He’s Lupine,” I clarify, irritated by her continual insistence on using racist language when talking to anyone but Wynter. But then I remember—it wasn’t too long ago that I harbored quite a few prejudices of my own.
Jarod sets the four tapestries down on the floor and glances at Ariel.
“I mean it, wolf-boy,” she snarls. “Touch my chickens, and I’ll singe your mangy hide.”
“Jarod’s not interested in your chickens, Ariel,” I tell her as I prop paintings up against the walls.
“It has a name?”
“It’s best to just ignore her when she gets like this,” I tell Jarod.
Jarod nods, seeming to understand.
Ariel sinks down against the wall, apathy finally settling in, her eyes going blank.
Aislinn and Jarod stand over the tapestries, discussing the best way to hang them. Aislinn fishes the hooks she’s collected from the gallery out of her tunic pockets and holds them up for Jarod’s perusal.
I sit down on my bed next to Wynter. “What are the berries that Ariel chews on?” I ask her, my voice low. I’ve been meaning to research them, but have had so little free time.
Wynter glances over at Ariel, who’s now passed out on her bed. She sighs deeply. “They are nilantyr, a very powerful sedative,” she says.
I inhale sharply, hearing this. “Ancient One, Wynter. It’s illegal to possess. How on Erthia did she get it?”
Wynter shakes her head sadly. “I do not know. All I know is that when she was thrown in the Valgard asylum, they had a hard time controlling her. So they fed her the nilantyr to keep her calm.”
I look to Ariel, sober understanding washing over me. “And she’ll get the craving sickness if she stops taking it. They turned her into a craven.”
Wynter nods.
“She told you all this? About being forced to take nilantyr?”
“Oh, no. She never speaks of it. When I touch her, I am shown these memories.” Wynter hesitates before continuing. “When she takes the nilantyr, the memories disappear. It all goes blank and empty. It is a cold peace, but peace nonetheless.”
“It must be hard for you to see all this.”
“It is very painful,” she agrees, pulling her wings more tightly around herself.
I think of how often Ariel lies wrapped in Wynter’s arms. All of those times, Ariel’s memories were flooding into Wynter, and yet I’ve never seen Wynter pull away.
“You’re a good friend to her,” I say, moved.
“I love her,” Wynter says softly. “She has become a sister to me. I want her to be at peace. But I fear that the nilantyr is a dark path. It is like a parasite, slowly breaking her. It has brought her to a point where she cannot fly, although she could when she was younger, and it robs her of her fire. She could once summon a large flame, but every day it grows smaller and smaller. And the drug, it has an odor that seeps through her skin. Even when she does not take it for a time, it lingers.”
I think of the Icarals in Valgard, of their foul smell.
Were they fed this drug? Thrown in a cage when they were small children? Were they truly demons, or slowly driven mad from the cruelty inflicted on them?
“Can you fly?” I ask Wynter. I’ve never seen her use her wings for anything other than a flimsy shawl. I wonder if she’s partaken of this nilantyr, as well—though I doubt it as she doesn’t have Ariel’s rancid smell.
Wynter shakes her head resignedly and lifts her wings. “My wings, they are too thin.”
I turn back to glance at Aislinn and Jarod. They’ve finished organizing the hardware Aislinn pilfered and look about ready to start hanging the tapestries.
“We don’t have any tools,” Aislinn laments, looking around.
“I have tools,” Jarod informs her.
“You do?” she asks, looking confused.
Jarod hesitates. “I...don’t want to shock you.”
“What do you mean?” Aislinn inquires.
“My claws. They’re...useful.”
Aislinn swallows and looks at him, wide-eyed. “I...I won’t be afraid.”
Jarod rolls up the right sleeve of his tunic and lifts his hand, keeping his eyes on Aislinn. We all watch, mesmerized, as it morphs and grows furred, with curving claws for nails.
Jarod walks over to the wall and uses a claw to quickly hollow out multiple areas in the stone, then morphs his hand back to normal and screws the hooks in. He turns to gauge Aislinn’s reaction.
“That’s very...useful,” she observes, her understated words at odds with the stunned expression on her face.
Jarod studies her reaction for a moment longer before repeating the process, Aislinn’s shock softening as he works.
* * *
Well past midnight, we all rest on the floor by the fire.
The room is completely transformed. Warm tapestries now hang on every wall, and a series of sculptures and paintings line the upstairs hallway and spiraling staircase. The North Tower has become a small but impressive private gallery of fine art.
I make tea and pour it for everyone. Everyone except for Ariel, who’s still passed out on her messy bed.
Jarod and Aislinn are taking turns reading from Jarod’s poetry books as Wynter sits on the windowsill listening.
After a time, Aislinn’s lids grow heavier, and she keeps interrupting herself with yawns when it’s her turn to read, so Jarod takes over the reading in its entirety, his deep, steady voice pleasant to listen to as I drink my tea.
I watch, amused, as Aislinn’s eyes close, little by little, until, like a flower folding its petals in for the night, she eventually gives in, lets her eyes fall shut and leans into Jarod.
Jarod pauses in his reading. He gently puts his arm around Aislinn to steady her. She breathes deeply and snuggles in close to him, her hand finding his waist.
Jarod raises his eyebrows in surprise, frozen in place, the poetry book now lying forgotten in his lap. Wynter has retreated under her wings, perhaps asleep, as well.
Jarod’s eyes dart toward mine warily. And his wariness is not unfounded.
My heart speeds up slightly at the sight of them so close, so intimate, and I suddenly feel worried about my friend. It’s one thing to wish Jarod was Gardnerian in the abstract. But he isn’t. He’s the son of his people’s alpha, and Aislinn’s from one of the most conservative families in Gardneria. Our people hate each other.
No, this isn’t good. This is a road best not traveled down—a road leading straight off a cliff.
“Jarod,” I say, a cautionary note to my tone, “Aislinn’s become a good friend to me.”
He cocks one eyebrow and regards me coolly. “I know, Elloren,” he says slowly. “To me, as well.”
“I can see that,” I reply as I glance pointedly at the arm he has wrapped loosely around her. “I just don’t want to see her get hurt.” The atmosphere between us grows chilled, the tension palpable.
“And you think wandfasting to Randall is the best way for Aislinn to not get hurt?”
I don’t know what to say to that, and am momentarily unnerved by those glowing amber eyes of his boring into me.
Of course it’s probably the best way for her not to get hurt. She and Jarod are good friends, but a romance between them would tear Aislinn from a family she loves more than anything. Maybe Randall isn’t Aislinn’s idea of the best person to spend time with, but he won’t be around much, and she has many other interests and people who love her to make her life complete. Besides, she finds romantic attentions of a physical nature to be very off-putting—although I have to admit that she looks pretty comfortable nestled in Jarod’s arm. I can’t for the life of me imagine her looking like that lying against Randall.
A flicker of disgust passes over Jarod’s face, and he turns to look at the fire. “Don’t worry, Elloren. I don’t plan on dragging her off into the woods anytime soon.”
His words sting, and I feel immediately guilty for interfering in something that is really none of my business. “I’m not worried about that, Jarod,” I clarify anxiously.
He turns his Lupine eyes back to mine. “I know what you’re getting at. We’re just friends.” Bitterness gives way to a flash of quiet devastation in his eyes before he looks away. “I know that...anything else between us would be impossible.”
My eyes catch on Jarod’s fingers. He’s stroking Aislinn’s hair absently with a tenderness that’s heartbreaking to witness. I turn away from them both, tears filling my eyes over their hopeless situation.