| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Matthew Luckow / Artwork by Lee Kuruganti |
| Lotus |
Elka Rikalagon was nowhere near ready in any sense of the word.
On the verge of adulthood, the youth of the Algothri people were sent on the Pilgrimage, a quest
bestowed upon them by the elders which they could not return to their clan without completing. Elka
sheathed the knife her mother had given her before her departure three weeks before, and surveyed the
golden fields that surrounded her. The knife, a serrated iron blade with a pale handle, was her only
weapon, save for the bow she had put to good use against the beasts of the plains.
The Cenean capital city of Emaros was still several weeks on foot away. Elka did not look forward to
dealing with imperials, but there was a chance they held the answers she sought. Or, if nothing else, the
right questions.
She cleared away her encampment, brushed the auburn hair from her eyes, and set off. Her skin was at
one time as white as the snows of her homeland deep in the Alkun, but the late spring sun had singed
her a healthy copper. The further south she went, the more of her furs and leathers she shed, keeping
them for the cool, windy nights.
The sight of Emaros on the horizon was more relieving than she had imagined. The city stood on a great
hill that overlooked a lake glimmering in the now-setting sun. Sharp, stone walls guarded its heights,
gray as the mountains that ringed the city’s northern and eastern hills. The style was grand, blocky, with
prominent angles that were familiar in much of Algothri architecture. Emaros had once been a beacon of
the Algoths in eons past, before the Ceneans migrated north and took it for their own. The Algoths were
not ones to forget, and Elka’s grip on her rucksack tightened as she traced a dusty road to the city’s
iron gates.
She slipped into a train of horses and ox-driven carts—perhaps a nobleman coming to pay respects for
the Emperor—and was given only a few wary glances from the guards before she was allowed to pass.
The Empire’s enemies these days were easily distinguishable from humans, but like the Algoths, Ceneans
trusted very few, and not even themselves. Elka had no trust for Ceneans either, and ignored the hostile
stares she received from the peasants and townsfolk as she maneuvered through the narrow streets.
They were steep and rocky, and she scaled them effortlessly enough, although the Ceneans seemed to
do a fine job of it on their own. Perhaps she had underestimated them. She didn’t doubt the streets
were cobbled, perhaps even paved higher up in the city. Sod buildings choked the paths. Their roofs
were thatched with straw and dry grasses. Evidence of wood of any sort was difficult to come by. The
dwellings closer to the citadel were stone, many still intact from when the Algoths held lordship over this
city.
Elka avoided the upper tiers and struggled her way into what she supposed was a tavern. The torn
banner hanging above the rusted doorway read The Mare’s Brew in both Monasule and Zelkiri script. The
Algoths had no such establishments—there was the home, and only the home. Elka winced at the stench
of ale and smoke as she creaked the door open. Men of varying drunkenness eyed her from across the
dim room. She did not feel unwelcome, only out of place. Enough Algoths had passed through Emaros
on Pilgrimage, it seemed, to establish they were the kind to be left alone. Elka preferred this. Otherwise,
her mother’s knife remained tucked in the inside pocket of her leather vest.
She pushed towards the bar and took up an empty stool on the end; waving away smoke trailing from
the pipe of the aged, shriveled figure slouched next to her. The tavern keeper ambled to her and crossed
his heavy arms on the countertop. A thick, brown beard covered his face, and bright eyes studied her
with only vague interest. She gathered some very strange people must have wandered into this place
over the years for him to regard her with such normalcy.
He spoke in a burly voice. Monasule was the language of the realm, a tongue of many words and little
meaning. Elka knew enough to get by. “What can I get for an Algothri lass such as yourself, hm?” the
tavern keeper grumbled. “I have some very strong, very potent drinks indeed, but none that can
contend with an Algothri stomach, I’m sure.”
Elka had no gold to speak of, and little on her person that an imperial would find of value. Otherwise, she
was somewhat certain she would have taken up the tavern keeper’s challenge. “I am on Pilgrimage,” she
said firmly. “I’m looking for a flower called the Ivory Lotus. Can you tell me where I might find it?” The
language came hard and abrupt off her tongue in such a way the tavern keeper might find her rude.
He had seen enough rudeness in his time; it seemed, to not care. “An Ivory Lotus?” he repeated, brows
raised. “I dare say His Highness has never looked upon one.”
“Where does it grow?” Elka demanded.
The tavern keeper excused himself for a moment as he went to fulfill a pleading request for more ale.
Elka did her best to ignore the whispers of those around her. How many drinks she could inhale.
Whether the tattoos sprawled down her neck, arms, and back had been burned there from the touch of
actual Wyrm blood. If she had slain the Wyrm herself. If it was true that same blood flowed through her
veins. And also, curiosities of a more vulgar nature. Elka did not turn to confirm nor deny any of these.
The tavern keeper returned to her after a few minutes of exchanging banter with his fellow Ceneans, and
helping a tipsy, young man debate his chances with a relatively sharp-witted woman across the room.
Were he Algothri, he would have to endure the woman carving a mark on his back with a knife dipped in
Wyrm blood. Judging from Cenean culture, the boy was not looking to have his attempts at romance
permanently emblazoned on his skin.
“Thank you for your patience, Algoth,” the tavern keeper said upon returning. Elka scowled. Her kind
were well known not to have it in any remote form. The tavern keeper cleared his throat and continued,
“Do you see that man over there, in the corner? His name is Celhas. He knows more of the Far South
than any other here.”
Elka scanned the room and found the dark-cloaked figure leaning against the back corner, leather boots
propped onto a table. All things considered, she didn’t have many options besides him. Elka quietly
thanked the tavern keeper and made for the lone figure. His dark eyes followed her as she approached.
She couldn’t see much of his face. Long, dirtied hair fell over it, with a hawk-like nose forming a sharp
silhouette in the dark. He was no Algoth, but the other Ceneans offered him a similar distance. He did
not greet her as she sat down across from him.
“The Ivory Lotus,” she said. “Where can I find it?”
The man twisted his head towards her, candlelight flickering over the scars that serrated his sharp
cheeks. A week’s stubble bristled from a pointed chin. Shaving—another Cenean custom Elka could not
bring herself to understand. Some of the men in the Mare’s Brew appeared to have abandoned the
practice well enough.
“You speak of a flower that few have ever laid eyes upon,” Celhas answered, his voice hushed and
relatively smooth in tone compared to the tavern keeper’s. “Rumors say they grow deep in the caverns
of the south. That’s valmari territory, that is. But you folk aren’t scared of them, are you?”
Elka swallowed, and afterwards hoped the Cenean didn’t notice. The valmari were a people—if they could
be called such—of the southern woods that fed on the blood of men. Living in the Far North, the Algoths
had no trouble avoiding them entirely. It was said they once held dominion over the Ceneans, keeping
them as slaves, and it was a brutal uprising that caused the Ceneans to flee north in the first place and
form their own empire. How a valmari would react to an Algoth on Pilgrimage, she couldn’t guess.
“Can you get me to Valmara?” Elka asked.
Celhas nodded. “I lead a caravan west to Telimyr in a couple of days. I have business with a Zelkiri
merchant who has been waiting the winter for my goods. You should be able to find a ship there that will
take you south. That’s one thing about the Zelkiri, they surprise me without fail.”
Elka nodded in return. She decided not to ask what sort of goods Celhas was in the business of selling,
and agreed to meet up with him outside of the city gates in three days’ time. She housed with the tavern
keeper under the condition she tidied the place after the previous night’s festivities. It was an extremely
humbling undertaking that nearly made Elka consider the streets, but after a while, she warmed to their
rowdy, if not daringly bold, company. The tavern keeper offered her a drink on the final night of her stay,
and she accepted, if only to be polite. It was an oddly Cenean thing to do.
She gathered her meager belongings, ensured her mother’s knife was secure, and on her way out,
kissed the young boy on the cheek who was drunk with alcohol and love on her first visit, and was now
slumped unconscious against the bar.
“You’re early,” Celhas remarked as she approached the caravan of wagons and carts stalled outside the
city gates. “And I am running painfully late.” A pair of copper-armored guards were doing a leisurely job
of searching the cargo and its keepers.
Elka said nothing as she climbed into Celhas’s rickety carriage. In the daylight, the man’s ruggedness
was much more apparent. His ripped, black cloak was wrapped tightly around a body that was not
entirely well-fed. He may have been young, but the sincerity of his gaze aptly hid this.
His next words caught Elka slightly off-guard. “Payment, Miss Algoth?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I have very limited supplies and can hardly afford an extra passenger,” he explained. “You must know
this about Ceneans. We do nothing unless we can get something in return.”
“I have no gold,” Elka plainly stated.
Celhas’s eyes drew to the metal glinting in her vest. “That knife. I don’t think you quite understand its
worth. It would be enough to keep my greedy little mouth shut for a long while.”
Elka withdrew, said sharply, “Greedy little mouth indeed. I don’t think you quite understand its worth.”
She gave a half smile at her attempt at the snappish deprecation of Cenean humor, and even Celhas
smirked in approval. She added, “It’s not up for trade.”
“So I can see,” he remarked.
“I’ll help with the animals. I can hunt, too.”
Celhas stroked his chin in though, eyes narrowing. “Very well, Algoth, that’ll do. I hope when we reach
Telimyr, you can find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Elka nodded, and found his well-wishing oddly honest.
The gates grinded open against the weight of twelve Cenean soldiers, and the carriage rocked as it
surged forward onto the wide road surrounded by golden fields. For the first time, as Emaros shrank
into the distance, Elka found some semblance of beauty among the gilded lands of Cenea. She clutched
the handle of her knife and watched the westward path.
The caravan made with great speed, and completed the six-hundred-mile journey to the coast in just
over a month and a half’s time. The mules had no trouble finding areas to graze, but there was little Elka
could do to comfort their weariness. They had lost two during a week’s length of terrible drought. A very
skilled sorceress kept Celhas’s train company along the journey, but even her arts couldn’t sustain the
beasts for long. Celhas had Elka quarter them for rations, and abandoned the wagon they were pulling
for whomever happened upon it on the dusty trail. Had Celhas begun the trip any later in the season,
Elka was certain the summer sun would have claimed much more than two mules on the open plains.
Packs of wild dogs often assaulted the caravan as well. Elka’s arrows kept them at bay for long enough.
Circling the wagons at night, much like the yak of the Alkun did to protect their young, also helped.
Celhas never once seemed deterred.
As they ventured west, the parched steppes gave way to a rolling savanna, and eventually Tyar-Zel’s
lush forests. The coast, and the Obsidian City of Telimyr that stood upon its silver shores, were a
welcome sight. They arrived early morning, and the city was very much alive by then. Under the shade of
sweeping, elegant minarets and monuments of Zelkiri architecture, merchants called out in song and
danced for the attention of the passersby. Elka would have tossed them a gold coin or two if only for
their eccentric performances, but for now she simply rewarded them with a smile.
The Algoths had long held the Zelkiri in good favor. They were very old, and very valuable trading
partners, and while Algothri were usually out of tune with the finer points of culture, there was
something to be said of Zelkiri craftsmanship. Things went bitter after the Zelkiri did not come to their
aid against the Cenean invasion, but after a thousand years and a not entirely bloodless change in the
philosophies of their chieftains, that point was for the most part forgiven.
Celhas insisted Elka follow him no further, and left her to her own devices. She wandered the decorated
streets for some time, inspecting the exotic fruits and artifacts of the land, before she made her way to
the docks. Hundreds of ships bobbed in the sea near and far, and the call of shorebirds echoed with the
coming and going of the tides. Her worn boots clacked against the boardwalk’s groaning wood.
She approached a man working the ropes of a dhow’s triangular sail. His skin was as dark and sheen as
the ebony wood of the sleek ship itself. She studied him for a moment—young, sturdy, capable—before
clearing her throat and announcing her presence.
The Zelkiri glanced up at her with shimmering eyes and a pearly smile. “It’s not often I have the honor of
meeting one of your kind, madam,” he said in his own tongue, a swift-spoken and colorful language Elka
had always admired the intricacies of. His voice was melodic, every word a note, every sentence a song.
Elka was afraid to speak out of fear she could not replicate the majesty of the language herself.
“I rarely have the honor of meeting a Zelkiri, either,” she eventually remarked. “The name is Elka, and I
have traveled from Emaros and Algon on Pilgrimage in search of an Ivory Lotus. Song has said they can
only be found in Valmara. Song has also said only a Zelkiri would have the mind to make that voyage.”
“You have heard well,” the Zelkiri answered, taking up her shaky melody and shaping it into something
she could never have imagined herself. “The name is Dyelte. I have been preparing to depart for the
shores of Osyr in a fortnight. A trip to the southern shores of Valmara would take just as long.” He
wiped the sweat from his smooth head and folded his arms. “My question is, what’s in it for me?”
Elka answered with the currency that was most valued among Zelkiri youth, “Adventure.”
Dyelte’s smile widened. “I know of no man who has ever met a valmari, and lived. The songs I will sing…”
His eyes caught the glint of the knife tucked in her vest that waved in the warm, ocean breeze. “That
knife?” he asked. “May I see it?”
His tone was one of natural curiosity, not the slyness that had filled Celhas’s. Elka carefully drew the
knife and placed it in Dyelte’s palms. His strong fingers felt the pale handle and the dark, iron blade.
“Wyrm bone, if I’ve ever seen it. The blade, infused with magic.” His voice searched for the right pitch,
but as he inspected the knife, he couldn’t find one. “I know of many who would offer more than a fair
amount of gold for such an artifact.”
Elka said as Dyelte bowed and returned her the knife, “It’s not for sale.”
Smiling, “Of course, young Elka.”
The Zelkiri allowed her to house with him for the next few days as he finished his preparations. He lived
in a modest cabin by the sea along with his elder sister, a long-haired, fair-featured woman by the name
of Tsireth. Her magics and songs were more beautiful than any Elka had ever witnessed, and she spent
the evenings silently watching Tsireth conjure dancing lights and colors to accompany her musical
chants. While she did not seem the boastful type, Tsireth at the very least enjoyed having someone new
to share her arts with. Elka could not even begin to understand how her sorceries worked, but she
appreciated them no less.
Two days after her arrival, they set sail at dawn. The northerly wind was warm and welcome, and carried
them swiftly alongside the western shore. Elka leaned against the deck and stared out at the sea, its
gentle waves shining in the red of the low sun. The gradual swaying of the dhow beneath them calmed
her.
Tsireth took to her side and gazed into the prismatic blue. The smile that lit her face indicated she found
no less beauty in the ocean than Elka did. “Have you ever seen it?” she asked.
“No,” Elka replied. “I have lived only among the mountains of my ancestors. There is a great river that
flows through our valleys, but the sea is something far and strange beyond our lands.”
“But your mountains are beautiful, are they not? I’ve heard songs of them in my youth.”
Elka shrugged. “Yes. I suppose they are.” She allowed herself to bathe in the warmth of the sun, and
searched the horizon, only to find no end to the waves. “What is beyond the sea?” she asked.
Tsireth hummed amusedly to herself. “What lies beyond the sea? Such is perhaps the greatest and
oldest song any could sing. To the West lies Emalya, Osyr, and the Emerald Isles. I have visited them
only sparingly in my own time. But beyond them, there is only the sea. An openness, and a great many
currents, that will sweep you to the ends of the world.”
Elka only nodded, folding her arms upon the smooth ebony. She wondered what exactly Tsireth meant
by the ends of the world and guessed many Zelkiri had embarked on voyages from which they would
never return to discover this for themselves. Perhaps one day Tsireth and Dyelte would. The thought
brought a strange emptiness.
“Sing to me,” Elka said, and Tsireth did.
The weather fared well for the next few days as they sailed south along the coast. Tyar-Zel’s white
shores disappeared, replaced by pale, jagged cliffs crowned with jaded forest. Waves crashed against the
worn slopes. Dyelte brought the dhow to farther waters to avoid the cliffs and the sharp pillars of rock
that formed a forest of their own around them.
On the fourth night of their voyage, a violent summer storm ravaged the seas. Despite Tsireth’s and
Dyelte’s insistence, Elka remained above deck. Tsireth’s magic kept the waves from crashing over them,
but she could do little against the lashing rain and wind. When the sun rose red in the clear sky the
following morning, Elka’s furs were drenched. She hung them over the side of the ship to dry, and
Tsireth loaned her a smooth, black robe with white, arcing patterns sweeping along the sleeves and hem.
Elka tucked her knife into the sash tied about her waist.
Dyelte exclaimed they were lucky the ship was in as good a condition as it was, and wished his many
friends in Telimyr good fortune, for the storm would shortly be upon them. Elka worried the storm had
thrown them off course, but she trusted the Zelkiri, and their relaxedness put her at ease.
She watched the stars with Tsireth that night, who had names, it seemed, for each of them. Dyelte
adjusted their heading at Tsireth’s command—the winds had faced them in a slight, westerly direction. A
low, bright beacon she called Yenazel guided them south. Elka wondered if she, too, saw the Elder
Wyrms among the glittering bands. Or if not, what she did see. Elka never voiced these questions.
The morning light once more revealed the cliffs. As they went deeper south, the trees that lined the
coast grew a deep red, and not due to any force of the seasons, but, as far as Elka knew, some
nameless magic that breathed life to these woods. It was because of this she knew they had reached
Valmara.
The Zelkiri’s easiness vanished. The two watched the skies ceaselessly. Elka joined them, unsure of what
she was supposed to be looking for. “Shall I make for the nearest shore?” Dyelte asked.
Elka traced her fingers along the ebony. “Not yet,” she said. “Farther, if only a few dozen more miles.”
Dyelte looked slightly concerned, but obliged. It was early evening when they found a rocky bay, and
carefully brought the dhow to the rough beach. Elka donned her furs once more, which had for the most
part dried, strung her bow, and checked her knife. Dyelte was no doubt torn to leave his ship, but the
three of them knew better than the leave anyone behind here.
They ascended the slopes, with which Elka had little difficulty, but Dyelte and Tsireth, as strong and well-
built as they were, struggled somewhat. She showed them how to get the best grip and find solid
footing, as well as how to make their weight work with them and not against them. This filled her with an
odd sense of usefulness. She expected to learn much from the world on her Pilgrimage, but she never
expected to teach the world much of anything in return.
Upon reaching the heights, they ventured deep into the hills of the red-leafed elm forest that stretched
across Valmara. Strange, many creatures darted along the forest floor, which held few shrubs and was
covered in a scarlet blanket of leaves. Elka’s feet sank in the soft, black soil. What any people would give
to farm here, be they Algothri, Cenean, or Zelkiri, but these virgin lands were protected by unseen
guardians of the woods. Elka kept cautious fingers on the handle of her knife.
“How do we find the valmari?” she asked.
Dyelte swung his satchel from his broad shoulders, settled himself against the thick trunk of a tree that
stooped with age, and answered, “We let the valmari find us.”
There was a silent agreement not to keep a fire. How much that would desecrate the forest, their
presence already did. Elka found no rest as night fell and silver moonlight pierced the canopy. Her eyes
followed shapeless shadows that may only have been figments of her mind. Her fingers went white-
knuckled around the Wyrm bone. In the night, howls and wails of creatures unknown called out between
the shifting trees.
Then came a whisper, soft in Elka’s ear, “Are the humans with you, Dragonkin?” It was in broken
Monasule, the words strung together from a tongue that was not human.
Elka’s first reaction was to draw her knife, but she managed to calm herself, and dared not look to the
source of the voice. “Yes,” she replied in Monasule. “They are with me.”
“Wake them,” the female voice whispered. “If they resist, they will be killed.”
Elka did as she was commanded. Dyelte and Tsireth rose with a start and Elka had little time to explain
before they were all blindfolded and carried away into the night.
When the blindfold was finally torn from her what seemed like hours later, Elka found herself on her
knees in the middle of a vast cavern. Vines and fungi, the likes of which she had never seen, glowed in a
magical iridescence, casting bright sapphires and greens over the sharp stalactites and stones that
surrounded her. An underground brook must have flowed nearby, for the babbling rush of water echoed
from the walls. Before her, a short flight of rugged steps led to a tall throne of arching rocks.
Within it, long legs crossed and fingers coiled over the armrests, sat a valmari.
Her smooth skin was a ghostly pale. Scarlet markings in an elegant script ran up her legs and arms. Elka
tried to put out the thought that they might have been blood. Wide, slanted eyes stared down at her.
She could almost see the red in them. A river of crimson hair cascaded over the valmari’s unclothed
body. Thin lips, colored the fragile pink that also graced her breasts, were curved into a curious smile.
Long, pointed ears swept back and twitched at every splashing droplet of water and flitting of a bat
above. Most notable, Elka thought, was the scarlet-petaled flower—a lotus—nested in her hair. It, too,
gave off a slight, reddish glow, and carried a scent sweeter than Elka could bear.
She rose to her feet and eyed the six, armored valmari that circled her, their long, curved swords drawn.
They were all female, each impossibly beautiful. No males were to be found. And for that matter, neither
were Dyelte or Tsireth.
But, as she slid a sore hand into her vest, her knife was.
The valmari before her rose to her feet and lowered an elegant hand towards Elka as she spoke in her
own tongue, a flowing language whose smooth words rendered Elka motionless. The magic seeded in
them invoked a pleasure from deep within her—not the joy and fascination as from the Zelkiri, but
something much more base and primitive. Perhaps it was the flower’s aroma, the language itself, or a
combination of both. Were Elka a man, she knew she would have given herself to the valmari the instant
she first saw her. Even as a woman, the thought crossed her mind more than once, if only fleetingly, as
the valmari took slow strides towards her.
When the valmari finished speaking, Elka responded firmly in Algothri tongue. “I am Elka Rikalagon of
Algon,” she said. “I am on Pilgrimage from the Far North.”
The valmari paused in her steps, her smile spreading. “I did not believe it when word first reached my
ears of an Algothri in our midst,” she said in a fluid Monasule. She circled around Elka, who studied the
valmari just as much as the valmari was studying her.
The valmari’s hair swayed gracefully as she went, the thin strands occasionally curling, then loosening at
the ends. The more Elka watched her, the more it seemed as though her hair flowed from the glimmering
lotus on her head.
Not hair, Elka suddenly realized—roots.
It was not the flower that was growing from the valmari, as much as it was the valmari who had grown
from the flower.
Elka’s thoughts suddenly drew to Dyelte and Tsireth.
“Do not worry, your companions are being kept safe,” the valmari said. Elka wondered if, and to what
degree, the valmari could read the thoughts of her prey. Her continuing to circle Elka didn’t calm her in
the slightest.
“You feed on human blood,” Elka asserted.
“When I get the chance, yes,” the valmari replied, nodding. “But otherwise, valmari blood does just as
well.” She stepped closer to Elka and stroked her fingers along the Algothri tattoos. Elka shivered at her
touch, but otherwise didn’t protest. “Know this, Elka,” the valmari continued. “Those who die by my lips,
in their last moments, know a pleasure greater than any other. There are few killers, or lovers, who can
say that much.”
In a rare and singular moment, Elka decided if she had to be male, she would rather be Algothri.
“What is your name?” she demanded.
“Of course,” the valmari said. “There have been many who have gasped it in their final breath. It is Alsaya
ay Kalsen. I am the Matriarch of this realm. Forgive me for not mentioning it earlier. As one of the
Dragonkin, I mistook you for having the gift of mind-sight.”
“I am on Pilgrimage, Alsaya. I’ve come in search of an Ivory Lotus. Do you know where I may find one?”
“I might,” was the valmari’s tentative answer. “But that is dangerous knowledge. I will not give it freely.”
Her eyes narrowed on the knife in Elka’s pocket. “Your weapon. It holds a magic you do not yet
understand. I would accept it, in return for the knowledge you seek, and the lives of you and your
companions.”
Elka stumbled back, clutching her vest. “Is there no other price I can pay? This knife is my mother’s. It is
very dear to me, and I will not easily be rid of it.”
Alsaya smiled. Remarked, “A true Algothri.” She looked up, ran her fingers through her hair. Her cheeks
blushed rose-pink as she did so. “What you see here is the maeralsar, the Blood Lotus. It is my…” Her
lips pursed as she searched for the right Monasule word. Perhaps quite unable to, she eventually said,
“Heart.” She went on, “The maeragath is a flower unseen since the Elder Days. It contains a soul of a
very different kind.”
“What kind of soul?” Elka asked.
Alsaya’s fingers returned to the tattoos. She answered, “A Wyrm’s.”
Elka’s knees grew weak. Her lower lip trembled. She managed, “Thank you. That is all.”
The valmari nodded. “In return, I ask for but one small favor. Hold very still, Elka.”
She shut her eyes and braced herself. The valmari’s hands wrapped about her shoulders, and then a
delicate kiss graced her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open as she felt, surprisingly, very little.
Alsaya only whispered something soft in her tongue, a blessing, perhaps, and backed away. Elka caught
an earnest smile before the guards pulled her away and led her to the mouth of the cavern, where Dyelte
and Tsireth waited under watch. Relief flashed across both of their faces as they saw her.
The valmari escorted them through the woods, all the way to the shore where they had made landfall.
They watched until the three of them were upon the waves, and they could see them no more.
The sun peeked over the red canopy and into the eyes of Elka and Dyelte who gazed back upon Valmara,
leaning on the deck. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Dyelte asked.
Elka took in a deep breath, felt the Wyrm bone of her knife, and answered, “I’m not sure. How about
you, Zelkiri?”
Dyelte exchanged stares with her, smiled, and began laughing. Tsireth joined in. The three of them sang
the entire voyage back to Telimyr.
From the Obsidian City, Elka bid them a fond farewell, and found a northerly road which she followed until
she came to the foot of the Alkun Mountains. Never had she been more relieved to see their windswept
peaks.
She returned to her clan empty-handed, with but the sack, the bow, and the knife she had left with. The
children rushed to greet her, some displaying tattoos that had not been there when she left. A goat was
roasted in her honor. The feast with the elders was quiet, as Algothri festivities tended to be, but this
was unusually so.
Elka ran to her father the moment he returned from the valleys later that evening. He took her into his
warm arms without a word, held her tight. Then, his tears started falling.
“I’m so sorry, Elka,” he finally whispered.
“Where?” she croaked.
“On the banks of the fjord,” he answered.
Elka didn’t wait until morning. She raced down the mountainside and towards the northern valley. Steep
cliffs flanked a slow river that glimmered in the setting sun. She made her way through the maze of
boulders and eventually came upon it, where the deep blue waters lapped against the rocks—the mound
where she was buried.
Elka drew the knife and collapsed onto the mound, unable to hold back her tears. Through the stones, a
pale-petaled lotus had grown. It carried a warming scent in the chilling breeze.
“I completed my Pilgrimage, Mother,” Elka said, taking in the smell. “I found it.” She sheathed the knife
and stood. “I am the Ivory Lotus.”
A heavy, distant roar shook the clouds. Elka glanced up to see the great-winged silhouette of a Wyrm
for but a moment, before it vanished among them. She gathered herself, kissed the stones of her
mother’s grave, and climbed her way back to the mountain halls, knowing full well that tomorrow, the
elders would give her the honor of hunting it.
She was ready.
Matthew Luckow is a student of the University of
Wisconsin-Stevens Point with a major in Web & Digital Media
Design. The youngest of a set of triplets, he spends much of his
time working with his hobbies of digital art, writing, and music.
He aspires towards a career in art or design in the video games
industry.
'Lotus' marks his first writing publication, while his art has
appeared in The Opinion Guy's Speculative Fiction.
Wisconsin-Stevens Point with a major in Web & Digital Media
Design. The youngest of a set of triplets, he spends much of his
time working with his hobbies of digital art, writing, and music.
He aspires towards a career in art or design in the video games
industry.
'Lotus' marks his first writing publication, while his art has
appeared in The Opinion Guy's Speculative Fiction.