Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain: Part 1

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Because every fantasy story needs some sort of map (and as seen in my previous post)...I'll just leave this here...Click the image to view full size.

Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain

by M.L. Crabb

Prologue

I knew the maiden before the downfall she wrought upon herself, before the treachery set itself into her mind, and before she met her betrothed. Many say it was vanity. Some say it was revulsion. Others say it was pride, and few say it was hatred of the elves which spurned her fate.

It was naivety that did her in, and now she is but a song that Westridge children sing in the fields.

See saw,

Tip or fall!

Lord or Elf,

Slay them both.

Maiden Fair,

Dissappear!

I. Luthandra Raikin

A chill settled in the Adaina Mountains, marking the descent of the sun. Where it went, only Night knew. Luthandra Raikin extended a pale hand as her warden, Jeffroy Wynn, helped her out of the carriage. A horse whinnied in the distance. She shivered and wrapped her cloak around her slender form.

"We'll camp here for the night, Lutha," he said. Her legs felt hard and stiff from the day's ride. It had been particularly rough, but traveling through Adaina Pass didn't have a reputation for being bumpy for nothing. She issued Jeffroy a nod without looking at him.

Servants climbed out of the wagon behind her carriage, and she knew that they'd soon be busy building a fire and clearing the area for the night's supper.

"I must do a Lady's bidding," she said with a half smile. Lady. It would be something she'd have to get used to. Her eighteenth name day was only one month ago, and it was within that same month Lord Dráiden Kaldor of Westridge had made the proposal to her father, Lord Arel Raikin of Bellavis. There were politics involved, secrets, lordly reasons, and a treaty drafted—none of which was of any concern to Luthandra.

She was going to be a Lady. She was going to have her own castle, her own lord husband, and babies. Lots of them. Her cheeks flushed at the thought, and she giggled.

"I'm right behind you!" said Braynia, her handmaiden. "You promised you wouldn't get into trouble without me, and here you are laughing like a whimsy girl of thirteen! What deviousness possesses you?"

"I wish to do my business alone," she replied. She heard Braynia scuffle her feet in an air of disappointment. Oh, she liked the girl just fine, but sharing a tiny compartment with the same person for days on end would wear down even the most well mannered of women.

She skipped away from the others, humming softly to herself. Images of Lord Dráiden Kaldor filled her mind. What did he look like? She ran her fingers along a tree trunk when she was out of sight, and she slowed her pace to a saunter. Her sandy curls bounced down her back as she tilted her head in her dreamy state.

His first name certainly sounded elvish, and it was no secret that Westridge had dealings with them; after all, a narrow valley was all that lay between Westridge and the ancient elven forest. I bet he has long, smooth ebony hair and skin like honey. Their children would be beautiful, and her first daughter would one day inherit the mysterious stone at Luthandra's throat.

It was green, and on some nights when the moon was big, it would glow. On instinct, she brought her left hand to it. It was set in a thick brass band that went around her neck. Luthandra ran her index finger over its smooth surface. Sometimes it reminded her of a pearl, and other times it looked like a faint emerald star.

"Lady Luthandra Kaldor," she announced to the trees. She was a noblewoman to be sure, but the odds of her becoming a bride of one of the nine lords of the realms of Men were slim. There were many noble families, but only nine women at any given time could hold the coveted title of Lady.

A twig snapped to her right. She glanced over her shoulder. A pale face peered at her from one of the trees. Luthandra froze when she noticed its angular features and pointed ears. An elf. Maybe wishing her beloved had elf blood in him was a bad idea. She swallowed, her throat going dry.

The elf leapt out of the tree, landing in front of her on his feet as though he had been standing there all along, silent as a statue. He was nearly a foot taller than she with a muscular form that would have made her blush had she not been so terrified. He wore a shimmering hubric of silver with pants the color of charcoal underneath. A small sword hung from his left hip, and he lifted a hand.

His hair was dark, just like the Dráiden Kaldor of her dreams. He's not one of Avanduil's folk. It's okay. They look like angry forest men in their browns and greens. A wave of relief swept through her form. He was smiling at her. Definately not one of them. Men did not return from the silva forest beyond the greylands, or so the legends told.

"Fair maiden," he said, his voice like silk. "I didn't mean to frighten you. In fact, I was not going to reveal myself to you at all until I saw..." he tilted his handsome face and reached his fingers out. "That," he paused and lowered his hand. "The jewel you wear."

"Don't you like it?" She twirled around for him, letting her skirts swish around her ankles. Her gown was made of heavy, traveling fabric, but it was still blue and still pretty. Her beloved had sent it as a gift after the betrothal had been finalized.

"I...do, Maiden," he drummed his fingers over his chin as though he wasn't quite sure of how to act. The elf shifted his weight. "I have a proposition for you, and one would be wise to heed the advice of an elf. I've seen many turns of Men in my lifetime." His dark eyes sparkled. I bet Dráiden's eyes sparkle better.

"Oh, and what sort of proposition do you have?"

"I will take your hand, and you will live out your days in happiness. You will return our dear Celmyra's Gift, and in return, I will be your husband. I'll treat you kindly; you'll have children who'll enjoy the pleasures of elvendom."

Marriage!? Was this elf out of his mind!? Did he not know who she was!? Her eyes widened, and Luthandra put her hands to her gaping mouth.

"Kind Sir, who are you to ask such a thing of me? What lands do you hold, and what brought you neigh?" She squared her shoulders. Her father would be proud of her eloquence! She was sure of it.

"I hold no titles. I am a simple swordsmith. You will be happy. You will have all the comforts of home and then some." He stretched his right hand out to her, his eyes large and welcoming. "You will be treated with the highest respect for returning-"

"I am sorry, but no. I'm on my way to be married to the Lord of Westridge."

"I know. I've seen your convoy and heard your wardens speak of it," he said, nodding his head with a grim expression on his face. "Disappointment awaits you. Give my people Celmyra's Gift, and only happiness you shall see."

Luthandra put her hands to her neck, covering the gem. My family's prized gem...The elf was after nothing more than treasure! She scowled at him, screwing her pretty face into a twisted scowl.

"Do you think I'm stupid!?" she snapped. "I am to be Lady of Westridge! How do I know you won't just snatch it away from me and leave me for dead!? Get away from me before I scream and summon my wardens!" The elf backed away, his face unreadable. He uttered a word in a tongue she could not understand and was gone. A leaf trickled down from the tree behind the spot where he had stood, and there was no evidence that he had ever been there, not even a footprint.

He was after her riches! Elves were supposed to be better than that! They were supposed to be wise, gallant even! Were all the wonderful tales of elven princes whisking innocent maidens away lies!? It was no matter. Dráiden was gallant, and Dráiden would protect her. He'd give her all that she could possibly want.

Luthandra picked another place to do her private bidding and headed back to the campsite. Jeffroy was telling Braynia that they only had a day and a half before they'd reach their destination. At that notion, she smiled. Luthandra said nothing of the elf; some things were never meant to be known.

...

The sun blazed overhead in a final attempt to threaten Ithir with one last heatwave before Autumn prevailed over Summer's end. Luthandra's convoy inched closer to the gates of Westridge. A trumpet sounded from one of the watchtowers in the distance. Heavy stone dragged against an unseen, hard surface as the massive gates opened. Luthandra plastered her face at the window.

Lord Kaldor's banners flapped in beautiful blue streams as his men rode out to greet them. Luthandra held her breath. The carriage came to a stop. Another trumpet sounded as drums began to thunder. Lord Kaldor rode out from the gate, his horse a massive black stallion decked in black leather. Silver fire and blue frost marked Lord Kaldor's cloak, which billowed behind him.

"I can't take this anymore!" she cried, shoving the door open.

"My lady!" Braynia shrieked. "This is unseemly behavior!"

"I want to meet my beloved!" She jumped out of the carriage, landing squarely on her feet. Lord Kaldor's horse trotted to a stop, and the man swung himself from his saddle with one, fluid movement. No elf could be that precise! Smiling, she walked towards him, passing his bannermen and their pretty streamers.

He neared her, and it was then that she saw him.

Luthandra stopped, but remembered to curtsey.

Lord Dráiden Kaldor closed the gap between them with three long strides. Oh, he was tall and physically fit in stature all right, but...His face...His skin...It was sallow, almost sickly with about as many ruddy pot marks as there were stars in the sky. His nose was a huge, hooked mess, and he had a stringy blonde mustache that looked greasier than a basted chicken leg.

His brow was adorned with a silver band, but it did little to mask the fact that the man was balding, and what was left of his hair hung in mismatched clumps about his shoulders. His eyes! His eyes were sunken and beady, like tiny buttons sewn into a fabric too thick and coarse for them to be of any use.

"My lady," he smiled. "It pleases me that you are so eager to meet me," kindness marked his tone, but Luthandra held her breath. The only thing that smelled worse than Lord Kaldor's mouth was the rotting cow her caravan had passed along Alpine Road two days into their journey.