Álfheimr
Lamruil Vakas studied the various faces seated around the conference table. A few of the elves talked among themselves, but the stony expressions on the dwarves’ faces bothered him the most. As co-regents of the Elven lands, he and his brother Ailuin believed they had the perfect solution and had entered this discussion to reunite their people and regions with such hope. How could it have gone bad so quickly?
Twisting in his chair, he rose and walked to the large picture window overlooking the creamy alabaster fountain in his and Ailuin’s private garden. Surrounded by as many flowers and vines as Ailuin’s wife, Raisa, could grow, she had made the area a quiet paradise for them. He wished he could sit among the colorful flowers, breathing in their amazing perfume.
“Want to run away?” Ailuin whispered. A quick glance at his identical twin revealed amusement in his brother’s eyes. Typical for him, though. Ailuin found humor in most things, while he only saw the serious.
“More than you know.”
“Khendrul, it would be nice if you added your thoughts to this discussion,” Cyran said, the ever-present gravel more pronounced in their half-brother’s frustration. “You and Heldric have said nothing in the last half hour.”
Lamruil studied the interim dwarf king, his handsome face scowling at the Elven healer.
“I would if given the chance,” Khendrul said, his low voice filling the room. “Your council seems to want to monopolize the conversation.”
A faint twitch at the corner of Heldric’s stern mouth gave away the dwarf’s inner emotion. At least someone found humor in the situation. Lamruil turned to his brother. “I’m tempted to take a break so everyone can calm down. The tension in here is almost unbearable.”
Ailuin shook his head but kept his attention on the council members. “No, give Cyran a chance. His magic is subtle, and he can calm even the most aggressive elf. Of course,” he said with a sideways glance. “If you would stop moping around and join in, it would help. What’s wrong, Lamruil? You are the one who called for this conclave. Has something changed that you haven’t told me about?”
Lamruil shook his head. “Not that I can put my finger on, but something isn’t right. I can’t seem to keep my attention on the negotiations.” He straightened and forced out a long, calming breath through his lips and moved back to the table. Instead of sitting, though, he remained standing with everyone’s attention now focused on him.
He met Khendrul’s piercing-blue gaze. “You are correct. The council has enjoyed hearing themselves speak. We know their opinions on joining our realms once more and re-integrating our people into one society. Now, it is your turn.”
“Before I give you my thoughts on the matter, Lamruil. Tell me yours.”
Lamruil gave the interim dwarf king a slow smile. “You will make a fine king.”
Heldric scowled. “How will he be king if you and your brother are to become co-regents of elves and dwarves?”
Lamruil clasped his hands behind his back with a grin. “Because my thoughts differ from the council’s. I would like to see our realms interacting as one while remaining Álfheimr and Svartálfheimr. The black elves who escaped during and after the Great War have done well for themselves, and I don’t want to destroy that. Combining our realms and forcing the dwarves to once more call themselves elves and follow our rules will only hurt your people.”
Ailuin joined him and faced the two dwarves, mimicking Lamruil’s stance. “We want to show the dwarves that, while they are still our cousins, we have learned from the mistakes of our elders. We propose opening the border between our realms. Each elf and dwarf clan may come and go. We would also like to set up a trade alliance between our realms. Your mining and artisans are much needed here, and we can help by boosting your agriculture and healthcare.”
Lamruil’s gaze pinned Khendrul’s. “Only time will heal old wounds, but we offer you everything we have and give you hope. The Ironclaws decimated many of your people, and the demon possession of your king almost destroyed the rest. Let us help you rebuild Svartálfheimr, and in return, you can bring back what we have lost.”
Khendrul’s gaze narrowed. “And what would that be?”
“Family.”
The widening of his eyes showed his surprise, but like every good politician, he quickly recovered and met Heldric’s steady gaze. He nodded. The two dwarves stood and gave the brothers a slight bow.
“We will take the afternoon to discuss your offer.” They turned, but Khendrul stopped and glanced back over one shoulder, his gaze meeting Lamruil’s. “For what it’s worth, I knew your father. He was a good king and didn’t deserve to die as he did. You both are an honor to his memory.” He gave them a quick nod and strode from the room with Heldric by his side.
Ailuin frowned. “I wonder how he knew Father?” he asked Lamruil. “We found his body in his throne room, but we never discovered how he died. I know I always assumed his heart gave out, but…”
“This is a discussion for another time,” Lamruil said, his hard gaze turning to the three elves sitting at the far end of the table. “Are you trying to jeopardize this conclave? My brother and I asked you to sit on the council because you are the eldest of the remaining Elven clans. However, I am beginning to regret that decision. As elders, you should have the wisdom to know when to shut your mouths. Instead, you choose to sow seeds of dissent and hatred. Did you learn nothing from the war?”
He stared at each elf, noting the fury in their gazes and their pinched expressions. “Return to your homes. We no longer need your aid in this endeavor. If I ever hear anything negative regarding the results of this conclave or the mistreatment of dwarves, I know who to send for first.”
The three elves stood and left the room without a single word.
Cyran chuckled. “I don’t think they consider you a friend after that. I’ve wanted to drop-kick them out of the room from the minute they opened their mouths. Self-righteous pricks.”
Ailuin laughed. “Tell us how you really feel, little brother.” Ailuin sat in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t understand why they are so resistant. I figured it would be a good idea for them to participate since they have direct knowledge—as elders—of how things were before the Great War.”
“I believe that is the problem,” Cyran muttered.
Lamruil sat in the chair between his brothers. “I agree, Cyran. I think they can’t put their bigotry and prejudices behind them. They will never support the reunification of our people because they don’t see the dwarves as equals, only slaves.”
“Are any of the old families who kept the black elves as slaves still alive?” Ailuin asked.
“I’m not sure. We lost so many during the war. My focus was on getting this conclave started, and I failed to check if those three owned slaves.”
“Not your fault,” Cyran said with a slap on his shoulder as he stood and stretched. “Now, if we’re going to have a short recess—”
A golden light appeared, filling the room and washing away the indecision he had about admitting the dwarves to Álfheimr. Not that he was like his father or the elders he had just fired. The question was whether the dwarves would accept their offer. With the history of slavery by elves long dead, would they even try to fit in? He wanted a peaceful realm focused on family and peace, not death and strife, but that’s what this conclave felt like.
Turning, he pasted a smile on his face and leaned forward in a quick bow. “Freyja, to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?”
Her tinkling laugh filled the conference room. He met her amethyst gaze and realized nothing much got past this Norse goddess of magic and the afterlife. Her afterlife differed from that of the goddess Hel, who dealt with souls. Freyja’s version, Folkvang, took the form of a warrior realm where those who were unchosen on the battlefield by Óðinn lived and trained.
“Still so formal, Lamruil? After all the centuries we’ve known each other?” She patted the braid, twisted into a bun on top of her head. Her long, strawberry-blond hair glistened as the tiny gems wound throughout the braid caught the room’s soft light. True to form, she wore a beautiful purple medieval gown, the silver tassel cinching her small waist. A quick peek at the floor showed her bare feet, and he could not help but smile. She was unlike any goddess he had ever met and liked her all the more for it.
Ailuin stepped forward and kissed the goddess on her cheeks. “You are most welcome, my lady. Is Raisa expecting you?”
She shook her head. “No, your wife is staying quite busy designing your new realm and trying to keep the werewolves from killing the draugar. They are a quarrelsome bunch, for sure.” She smiled at Lamruil. “My business is with your brother, who, I believe, needs a bit of a break from the conclave. Is it not going well?”
Lamruil shrugged. “Who knows? Now that we’ve rid ourselves of the naysayers—namely, the elders who believe holding onto past aggressions is the only answer—I hope to move forward. If Khandrul and Heldric return. They have…doubts.”
Freyja chuckled. “Of course, they have doubts. The elves of yore enslaved their cousins for more than a thousand years. Wouldn’t you be leery?”
“Put that way, yes, I would.” Lamruil growled in frustration. “Honestly, I’m not even sure anymore if this is a good idea.” Seeing his brother’s concerned expression, he held up his hand. “I believe in our plan, Ailuin, just not the outcome. There are too many unknowns, and you know how I hate not knowing things.”
Ailuin nodded. “You are a bit obsessive-compulsive about the details and expect exact results.”
Lamruil rubbed the middle of his aching forehead, wishing he had the answers they needed. Try as he might, though, his mind remained stubbornly blank, which wasn’t like him. Maybe Freyja was right in her assessment, and he really did need a break. Maybe a long break…
She stepped forward and laid her cool palm against his forehead, her touch soothing. Realizing she used her seidr, her healing magic, a soothing balm filled his head, and the building pain dissipated. He waited for the magical after effects. From experience, Freyja’s healing touch was usually more than just healing. Rumors swirled about her magical abilities and even raising the dead, but he had never heard of her doing that without her best friend, Idunn’s, help.
She rested her hands on his crossed arms, her soothing gaze staring into his. “You are too hard on yourself, Lamruil. Stop stressing about things you cannot control and nurture those you can. I think if you let yourself, you would realize you already know what needs to be done for the dwarves and elves. You are the same people, no matter what name you go by. People evolve and change; some for the better, while others take a wrong path. Accept the dwarves as the long-lost cousins they are and let them decide how they want to live.”
Cyran grinned. “We already did that. My brothers were quite eloquent before dismissing the three elder elves. Ailuin told Khendrul we wanted to open the border between our realms with free passage for all. He mentioned setting up a trade alliance to leverage their mining and artisans, as well as boosting their agriculture and healthcare. Lamruil’s was more emotion-based and offered everything we have, including hope, to rebuild their lands and homes.”
Cyran’s gaze met Lamruil’s. “It was the last part that got to me the most. He told Khendrul they could bring back what we here in Álfheimr have lost.”
Freyja’s arched eyebrows rose. “And what would that be?”
Cyran turned his teal gaze on her. “Family.”
She smiled and clapped her hands, pressing them against her mouth, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Oh, well done, Lamruil. Well done. That will bring them home.”
He smiled. “I hope so, but dwarves are unpredictable.”
Ailuin clapped him on the back. “So are elves—one and the same, remember?”
“So, we are,” Lamruil muttered.
“That brings me to why I’m here,” Freyja announced. “I am certain Cyran and Ailuin are more than capable of finishing up the meeting and starting the rebuilding process in Svartálfheimr. I have a mission for you, Lamruil. One, only you can accomplish and achieve a positive ending, I’m afraid.”
“You have never led me astray, my lady. Nor have you put me in harm’s way, but why now? Can I not complete what my brothers and I began here before setting off on a new adventure?”
She shook her head. “There is more at stake than just a failed conclave. You know of my work in Midgard during their Second World War and how I obtained my Night Witches?”
Ailuin nodded. “I do because of Raisa, but I don’t know that I have ever told anyone else her complete story.”
“I met Natalya and Mikhail during their journey in Germany,” Lamruil said. “She discovered the Wolf’s Lair compound in Poland and what Himmler was creating in the basement.”
Ailuin nodded. “Werewolves. That was where he perfected Fer-Diorich’s formula, tweaking it until the men lived through the transformation.” He glanced at Freyja. “A few of them talk to her late at night when they can’t sleep. She comforts them.” He grinned. “I completely understand how they feel. She has a presence…”
“Yes, she does,” Freyja agreed. “I felt the peace and strength in her soul when my brother shared the memory of her near death, which was imprinted on your soul. As my niece’s magic drained your life force, your souls touched. Such a beautiful thing to experience.”
He grimaced. “Wish I’d experienced that feeling instead of the draining part. That was hellish. I never want to feel that weak again.”
Freyja smiled. “Now, it’s your brother’s turn for a quest. There is a young she-elf who has gone missing, although missing is a loose term. She’s actually stuck in a deadly time warp. I’m afraid you may have to resurrect your alter ego, Uralt Betrüger for this mission.”
Lamruil’s blond brows drew together. “She is on Midgard?”
Freyja nodded. “Germany, in fact, during the middle of the war, 1943, in fact.. I traced the events my Night Witches fixed backward in time and discovered one person was behind them all.”
“The she-elf I’m to find? Am I bringing her back to face trial? While it isn’t unheard of for someone to be tried and convicted for a crime in another realm, how would we present that during a war?”
“She is not really the one responsible. There has been someone controlling her every move, like a marionette. I watched her desperately try to undo the damage after every manipulation, but he is too powerful for her. Combine his power with the Nazi who has her? I don’t envy you your task, Lamruil.”
“Who are the people controlling her?” Ailuin asked, his sharp gaze landing on Cyran, who nodded.
“Fer-Diorich and a German commander high up in Hitler’s inner circle. I believe there is another, but who that is remains unknown at the moment. We have been given the names Kaltenbrunner and Kammler, but those helping us haven’t been able to tie them to her. The poor girl has already been forced into the time warp too many times. They’re playing with fire and don’t realize it. Time warps are nothing to play around with.” Her cheeks took on a faint pink hue and she looked away. “I may or may not have found out the hard way about that.”
Lamruil walked over to the picture window and moved the shimmery curtain open with his finger, staring out at the soothing fountain. He wished he were closer, listening to the gentle gurgling of the water as it bubbled from the spigot and cascaded over the tiered metal that Ailuin designed when they built their palace in this new location. Neither of them wanted to walk the same halls their father, the last black elf king of Álfheimr, had walked before his death.
Letting the curtain close, he turned back to Freyja and his brothers, unwilling to bring up the past but knowing he had to. “When I was spying on the Nazis, I was known as Uralt Betrüger and worked directly under Himmler. In fact, it was I who gave him the Dark Fae’s formula to convert the werewolves.”
“What?” Cyran’s voice boomed in the room. “How could you? Do you realize how much pain
and death that created?”
