3

Thanks to the long Northern nights in late autumn, it was still dark when I was awoken by a thumping at the door. The merchant stirred groggily next to me, but I was immediately alert, the events of the night sinking into my stomach. Paul’s voice came muffled through the door, “time to get up, you two! I need my elf back!” The merchant mumbled unintelligibly.

I felt the collar tugging at my mind and I slipped out of bed to open the door. His eyes widened at the sight of my naked body - I had apparently not stopped to dress, and he was not expecing my altered appearance. “What the fuck have you done to my elf, Radulf?” he asked, stepping inside and closing the door, clearly shocked and angry. The merchant - Radulf, presumably - was now dressing himself by the bed. Panic again gripped me - if Paul learned too much about my abilities I would probably be doing much worse than whoring. Elven magic was only safe because it stayed in Elven hands.

Radulf grinned as he laced an undershirt. “Just some enhancements, my friend. Quite something, don’t you think? You know, I’d be willing to see about a more permanent transaction here… She’d be worth a tidy plot of land, I think.” He was apparently smart enough to not reveal more than he had to, but I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

Paul’s voice was now calm, but with a dangerous edge. “She is not for sale. And I want her looking the way she did last night ready for her next client. What did you do?”

“I just had her cast a few spells–”

Paul cut him off, quickly and smartly ordering me, “no magic unless I say so.” Then to Radulf, icy, “this had better be fixable. Good day to you.”

“Really, Paul?” replied the Merchant, tugging on breeches, “I have a lovely farm down near Gillby. Surely that’s worth more than one whore?”

“She is not for sale.”

When I looked back at Radulf, time slowed - he had somehow produced a crossbow and was pointing at calmly at Paul. “Get over here, slave,” he said, and - it was not yet dawn - I started moving.

But Paul immediately spat, “kill him,” and I stopped in my tracks at the same time as the crossbow went chunk and when I looked back at Paul redness was blossoming from his chest. When I looked at Radulf again, though, he was holding a long knife while reloading the crossbow, watching me like a hawk.

“Well?” he asked, the obvious question needing no further words. But I’d formed my plan before he spoke, was already relaxing, or appearing to.

“I… you don’t have to worry,” I said, trying to imagine how it would feel for the compulsion I certainly felt to disappear suddenly.

“OK,” he said, not distrustfully enough. “Check him.” Paul had collapsed to the floor just inside the door.

I looked. “Dead,” I said. I saw my chance and, as I stood up, smoothly drew the boot knife I had spotted while checking him over and flung it in a blur into Radulf’s throat. It bit into his neck before he could pull the trigger on his now-reloaded crossbow, and he gurgled wordlessly, fury and confusion written on his face, as I leapt across the room to be sure of the kill. There was no need. The gurgling continued for a while, but his eyes stared, unseeing, at the dirty ceiling.

I got to work, knowing that if I stopped it would all be too much - from losing a game of cards, to prostitute-slave, to weapon, to free again all in under 12 hours was… too much. I searched the two corpses. I needed to get out of here, get somewhere safe, and then work out how to get this damn collar off. Money would be vital. The merchant had none on him at all - either he didn’t pay for his drinks or he had some other arrangement with the landlord. Paul had the stakes of our card game and change. That on its own wouldn’t get me very far, but Radulf had two rings and a torc which I slipped off. I quickly dressed in my own clothes, bending the torc until it fit around my own arm, and placing the rings and coins into my empty belt pouch. Finally I tore a strip from Radulf’s shirt to wrap around my neck and hide the collar.

The room was a mess and nothing was going to fix that, but I pushed and dragged the bodies behind the bed so that at least a cursory glance wouldn’t raise the alarm, though more than a cursory glance would spot the dark stains. The problem arose though, when I started to consider my exit. Paul had ordered me not to leave the tavern without him and, like his order to kill Radulf, apparently persisted in death. I could feel the collar pushing my mind away from the possibility of escape, which I knew would become insurmountable if I started down the stairs. I racked my brain, not wanting to remain here long enough for the corpses to be found, never mind forever.

Last night it had not seemed possible to trick the collar - it knew, or I knew, the spirit of my commands, and it was inexorable, unyielding as cold iron. Now it seemed like the letter of the law would have to be followed, but maybe only that much - I felt no instinctive block as my plan coalesced.

And so it was that in the grey pre-dawn I and Paul’s corpse landed with a whud and a sickening crunch, respectively, in the stable behind the tavern. A horse whickered softly but nothing and no-one else stirred. My order complied with, I seemed to be free.

4

I ditched Paul’s corpse and ran. I needed to get some distance between me and the tavern, and preferably be out of view. I couldn’t afford scrutiny, and if an elf up here didn’t stick out enough, now I was an elf with huge tits. The fact that I hadn’t had them in the taproom would add some confusion, no doubt, but not enough for it to be protection, especially not when they saw the collar, whose presence may or may not prevent summary justice being meted out. The tits didn’t make running any easier, either.

And I couldn’t stop somewhere to fix them - and change my appearance more drastically, for that matter - because fucking Paul had ordered me not to cast magic. That had also been my only thought of how to attempt to rid myself of this pestilential collar, though I didn’t know if it was possible without special equipment, even with my ability. I needed help - magical help. The problem was that there wasn’t anyone in this town who could help; that was what brought me this far North. My best bet would be the elven community. Someone would at least know someone with the ability even if it would take a week or two to get to them. And in the meantime they were my best chance of finding someone who would keep me out of sight.

The streets were oppressive at this hour, but quiet. No lamps burned, but there was already enough light to see by. Buildings here were compact - two storeys at most, generally, and with space between them. It meant that there were no alleys to duck down, but I didn’t spot anyone who could’ve seen me as I hurried away from the grisly scene in the tavern.

After a few streets it was proving impossible to run further, but I hoped it was enough to avoid any searching. The town was not the biggest, and after a little while walking I came to the shop and home of an elven cabinet maker I knew. I knocked urgently at the door, trying to keep myself from hammering it down for what felt like an hour. Finally it flew open and I was faced by an angry elf, soon replaced, when he recognised me, by a shocked elf. He was tall and broad for an elf, with loose chestnut hair and an aquiline nose. His mouth fell open when he saw my shirt straining its laces and, I thought, his lip curled for the briefest moment when he closed it again. I was probably being overly sensitive.

He let me in wordlessly and took me to a small upstairs sitting room. “Béatan, Toandron,” I started, “I… need help. A lot of help.” I unwound the makeshift scarf. This time, Toandron hid his shock in a manner more befitting his race, though it was still evident.

I explained briefly what had happened, skipping the obvious uncomfortable details. “So, I need to stay out of sight, and I need to find someone who can get this thing off me.”

Toandron pursed his lips, sitting in an old armchair as he watched me try not to pace around. “You ask much of me, Liandra,” he said. My heart somersaulted, fearing rejection.

“Don’t make me beg Toandron, please. We elves must surely stick together out here.”

“We must indeed. I will help you. But I want you to understand what you ask of me; if you are implicated, even wrongly, in these deaths, I will be harbouring a fugitive. You must remain hidden for the safety of us both.” I avoided his gaze. “I also want to know one thing… how did you come to be wearing this collar in the first place?”

“I don’t remember,” I lied, immediately. I didn’t need anyone to tell me that I shouldn’t have gambled more than I was worth - the present situation was more than adequate as a lesson.

While with Toandron I tried to stay out of sight. Word of the deaths of Paul and Radulf spread rapidly through the small town and, sure enough, information about the elf seen in the company of Paul was keenly sought. As I sat, silently, in his upstairs room, I heard at least one customer a day in the shop downstairs ask Toandron if he knew about the she-elf, and once or twice they lowered their voices and mentioned - I was certain - a Volu collar. Elven ears were sensitive.

I paid Toandron with what I stole from the bodies, but it wasn’t much compared to his hospitality and risk, so I tried to help him as best I could. I was no carpenter, so I was reduced to menial tasks with none of the artistry his finished work demonstrated. I mostly worked at night so that no-one would hear the sound of me sawing and sanding while talking to Toandron and ask about his new assistant. When I mentioned money I’d have access to if I could get to the Vamsindur bank, he politely changed the subject; the prospect of making the journey to Murmelsgrad seemed far off in any case.

The days stretched to weeks and there came stretches of time when I forgot about the thick metal collar around my neck, and the heavy orbs on my chest. Then I’d turn around too quickly and become all too aware of them, or idly think about using magic to complete some varnishing then realise I could not. Perhaps with time it could even become a pleasant life; I worked, slept (on a spare cot), ate. Only compared to the power and prestige that came with the exercise of magic was it really so awful. I was even getting better at the work.

“Will you get those legs finished and ready for varnishing tomorrow?” he asked me one day over dinner.

“The small ones? I already finished those, they’re next to the varnishing table.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “That was fast.” He didn’t show his approval in his tone, but a slight smile crept onto his face. I allowed my own to show more broadly. Seeing my pleasure he chuckled, “I can always take you on as apprentice…” I laughed back but looked away. “It… might be the best outcome…”

After a silence I said, “I no longer feel like a fumbling idiot, which is nice, but… this isn’t me. This isn’t me.” I pointed downwards with my chin. I saw his lip twitch again.

“Mmm. That is your right to determine.”

5

The weeks rolled on and autumn turned to winter. As I gained more skill, my responsibilities around the workshop grew, but still always out of sight and hearing. The town had stopped talking about the killings and assumed the killer had fled, but Volu collars were rarer than rare, so revealing myself remained unthinkable. I thrived off Toandron’s approval when he gave it, and off my increasing capability when he didn’t. By midwinter I had started practising with the lathe, though I wasn’t very good yet.

We had agreed that, come spring, we would travel south to Asherbrug, try and find a sympathetic mage who either had expertise in Volu articles or who knew someone who did. With travel difficult until then, it settled my mind to know that there was nothing else to do but carpentry. Toandron continued to train me on the lathe, and by midwinter I was turning passable legs that we stored for future orders.

It was a week past the solstice when Toandron hurried in from his trip to the market. “Liandra!” he called, “Liandra! There’s a mage in town!” I thudded up the stairs from the basement workshop, questions already bursting from me. “Why is he here now? Does he know anything about the Volu? What did you ask him?”

Toandron motioned for me to slow down. “He was meant to pass through months ago but something happened in Asherbrug that kept him there until the snow arrived, then he had to wait to find someone travelling north. I haven’t said much to him, except that I had something I wanted to ask him about. He said he’d call on me later.”

I could hardly contain myself, saying “I can hardly wait to meet him!”

Toandron looked at me sharply. “Really? Is that wise?”

My heart sank, though I knew it was a good point, and that meeting the first mage to pass through myself wouldn’t get me back to normal any faster. “You’re right,” I said, calmer. “I’ll meet him if he can help.” Toandron nodded.

I returned to quiet activities in the workshop, but when the mage arrived, late afternoon, I couldn’t focus on work and listened. I could tell immediately from the man’s footsteps that man he was, not elf. But even my elven hearing struggled when they went upstairs to take tea, and I had to meditate to give the focus required to make out most of it. Toandron was cautious, circumspect even. For half an hour he made chit-chat, asking a couple of innocuous questions about his dealings with elves - to work out whether we could trust him, I surmised. Satisfied, he tactfully broached the subject of a job requiring unusual skills. At that point I heard nothing for a while, then, “I think it is time for us to be direct, Toandron. The fact that we’re having this conversation means you can’t establish my trustworthiness through other means, and I don’t think you’re going to get any better. Time to decide.”

Another pause before Toandron’s voice said, calmly, “can you work with Volu technology?”

“Ah. No, I cannot.”

“Can you direct me to someone who can? Someone trustworthy?”

“There is someone. An elf named Odalon, works in Vindfort.” Vindfort was weeks’ travel away, much further than Asherbrug. But my disappointment was tempered. We had a destination, and a name.