Ylantri should have been frightened. The strange human mage had seen her true form, the one she kept hidden from everyone. The form she hadn't allowed anyone to see in many years, not since she was a young elf, stumbling out of the woods, trying to get as far as she could from the burning cabin. Her parents and brother had perished in that fire, and as the only survivor, Ylantri had known she had to do whatever was necessary. She had to convince the other elves in the nearby town of Larian that she was like them.
So she'd hidden on the edge of the woods, and when the fire died down, she crept back to the smoldering pile that had once been her family home. She gathered the ashes into a bag, and used them to cast the glamour. Once a month, she recast the spell. The other elves saw nothing but blond hair and blue eyes. They had not once witnessed her true form—her dark hair, her yellow eyes, the vessels shining through her translucent skin, marking her as one of the Shadari.
But this human had seen right through her glamour.
And he hadn't divulged it to the queen. That was curious. He had no reason to protect her true identity, yet he had. A more naive elf might assume he was simply cautious. Ylantri knew better. She'd spent her entire life hiding in open sight. This human was like her—he had his secrets. Her instincts told her he'd keep her secret as long as it served him to do so. Which only meant one thing: she had to discover his weakness before he unmasked her to the queen.
Ylantri swayed through the camp, confidence in her stride. She was the greatest healer the elven kingdom of Gailwyn had ever seen. She owed it to her heritage as a Shadari—a dark elf. The kind of elf the others pretended didn't exist. The kind of elf who held sway over life and death. The kind of elf who could destroy lives in a moment, or bring one back from the brink of death. It was due to her kind that the elves lived such long lives. That was a gift from the Shadari. A gift that had been squandered on vanity.
Ylantri's reputation as a healer had spread. So when the queen needed the best, she summoned Ylantri. Ylantri despised Queen Ambrielle and everything she stood for—but refusing wasn't an option. Not unless she wanted to tempt discovery and banishment. So she had heeded the queen's call, bringing her most favored healers across the Orianna Sea into orc territory.
On the boat, they'd briefed her on the disease. Orcs were dying quickly. They experienced shortness of breath, pain in the lungs, black boils, and a strange, disfiguring slump of the left shoulder. Their skin lost its pallor quickly, followed by drooling lips. Fever wracked the body in seizures. Vomiting and diarrhea were common. Those who didn't die quickly simply wasted away, confined to their cots.
No one had recovered.
Ylantri knew the queen didn't care for these orcs. The elves had long eyed both humans and orcs with disdain. They were below the elves, both in intelligence and culture. They lived short, dangerous lives, and had nothing to offer. For many centuries, the elves had lived as if the other races did not exist. Yes, occasionally they crossed paths, particularly in places like the Library of Filamir, but for the most part, they kept to themselves.
Humans and orcs weren't worth bothering, nor were they worth tending to. If more died today than tomorrow, what did it matter to the elves?
And yet, Ambrielle had insisted they help. Anyone with half a brain could see she had an ulterior motive.
An orc waved Ylantri over to a tent. She knew enough orcish to speak and understand their tongue. Elves lived long enough to learn more than was necessary. It gave them yet another advantage over those with shorter lives.
Ylantri bowed her head toward the orc, then pulled a veil over her nose and mouth as she entered.
The smell of sick permeated the tent. A single orc lay on a cot inside. A rasping sound escaped his wet lips, followed by a gurgle.
Ylantri sponged the orc's forehead. "What's your name?"
"Orseth," he answered.
"Can you tell me how you're feeling?"
"Like death. Tell me, am I going to die?"
"I don't know." Ylantri wanted to tell him that, yes, he was on death's door, awaiting the grim reaper's beckoning fingers. But until death truly embraced a soul, there was always a chance life might win out.
He coughed, his body doubling over from the intensity. Whatever was inside him, his body wanted it out desperately. The disease wanted out, too, needing another host to feed on. It needed to spread, just as a young man feels the need to spread his seed. It was biology, pure and simple.
Ylantri closed her eyes in the dark tent. She rested her hand on the orc's chest, feeling it rise and lower spastically. He would be dead soon. There was little she could do.
"Do you want to suffer?" she asked.
"No," he replied without hesitation.
The orcs were a strong people; his reaction didn't surprise her.
"Do you want me to help you?" Ylantri lifted the mask, letting him see her true face.
He gasped, lifting a shaking hand toward her face. Though the tent was dark, with only a flickering candle to illuminate them, it was clear that he knew he was looking into the visage of death itself.
"I don't want to suffer anymore," he said. "Do it. I am ready for an honorable death. Tonight I will meet Drothu."
Ylantri leaned down and her lips hovering just above his. Their breaths mingled.
And then, with one sharp inhalation, she took his life, sucking his very soul through his mouth.
As she pulled back, she rested his head gently on the cot. His soul swam inside her, fighting at first, then coming to rest with the others, somewhere deep inside. Ylantri couldn't pinpoint their exact location. They were absorbed into her, became part of her. That was the way of the Shadari. She was a protector of souls.
Of course, the other elves didn't see it that way. They didn't understand her kind. They called the Shadari soul eaters. Death bringers. The Shadari were feared. Reviled.
Ylantri smiled for only a moment, then let her glamour fall over her body again. She straightened her tunic and headed out of the tent.
"I'm so sorry, there was nothing I could do." She patted the arm of the orc who stood guard outside.
Instead of breaking down into tears, as most elves would do, he stood ramrod straight. "It is for the best. He was already on Drothu's door. His death was honorable."
Ylantri knew Orseth's soul would never reach Drothu. He would never find rest with his god. Instead, he would join the Shadari, living forever as part of their collective.
She stood back, observing the orc camp. The sounds of the sick were all around her. She would save those whom she could, but those who were on the brink of death, she would lead to a safer place… one where the disease would never touch them again.