at the water. Her behavior puzzled Kestrel, but he was content to sit silently and watch the sprite carry out her internal debate. She was beautiful, and his observation of the mobile expressions that passed across her lovely face as she studied the spring water only added to his enchantment.
Kestrel watched and the sprite stood indecisively for several minutes, until there was a momentary rustle in the bushes nearby and a wolf jumped out of the greenery, clamping its fangs upon the screaming girl’s thigh, then disappearing back into the forest. Kestrel sat stunned at the suddenness of the violent assault.
The girl screamed again at some distance, and Kestrel realized that he could perhaps rescue her. He stroked across the water, and picked up his knife from the pile of clothing he had left on shore, then ran into the underbrush, spotted the wolf’s trail, and sprinted in the direction that that animal had carried the female sprite away.
There were drops of blood on the ground, and Kestrel made a sharp right turn to follow the wolf’s track through the forest. The sprite had only been taken moments earlier, but Kestrel was concerned that the wolf would not wait long before proceeding to devour the small girl, unless he could intercede and rescue her — in order to hopefully carry her back to the healing waters of the hot spring.
Could this be the rescue Kere had commanded him to carry out? he momentarily wondered. No, he told himself, the goddess had told him the girl he would meet would be like him, of human-and-elf mixed race.
He stopped, as he saw movement just ahead of him. He had started from the hot spring at the foot of the first of a series of foothills, and the wolf’s trail had led into the hills, following the valley that meandered between rising bluffs of stone and soil. Now, he saw, the wolf had placed the sprite down on the ground in a well-worn patch of dirt that was surrounded by large boulders, trees, and three wolf pups, all of whom were eagerly approaching the meal their mother had brought them.
With a shout, Kestrel picked up a stone and heaved it at the mother wolf while he ran forward towards the small family pack. The mother yelped at the stone struck her in the ribs, and the pups all turned tail and disappeared among the rocks that sheltered their den. Kestrel reached the sprite and hovered over her protectively as the she-wolf snarled at him and bared her fangs. Kestrel held the knife in front of himself defensively as he reached down and grabbed the sprite with one hand, lifting her up and pulling her against his own body beneath one arm, his injured arm that was too weak to hold her for very long.
He started to carefully back away from the wolf, swinging his knife in front of him, hoping that he could quickly remove himself from the vicinity of the wolf’s ill-will and then shift the sprite to his strong arm. After only five steps he had to put the girl down and re-lift her into place, then resume back-pedaling away from the wolves, watching carefully as the she-wolf maneuvered herself into position between him and her pups, then warily stood her ground as Kestrel opened the breach between them, continuing to walk backwards until he could no longer see the wolf through the bushes and weeds that grew on the forest floor.
Once he felt safe from the wolf he shifted the limp body of the sprite in his arms, and started walking forward, back to the spring, looking down at the small woman he held. Her right thigh was badly mauled, and her left hand had been bitten too. Her right arm had a terrible rash on it as well, and it struck Kestrel that the rash had been what he had seen her rubbing before the wolf had snatched her.
She was unconscious, which struck the elf as a good thing. She wasn’t aware of the pain of her wounds, and she wasn’t aware that she had traded one frightening experience for another, being held and carried about by one of the members of the large races.
When they reached the edge of the hot spring, Kestrel laid the girl down, then paused for a moment before he carefully undressed her, leaving her torn clothes dry on the bank of the spring as he lifted the girl into the water with him, and laid her across his lap once he returned to his sitting shelf among the boulders in the cooler portion of the spring.
Up close, the girl’s beauty continued to entrance him with its perfection. He studied her face, her features, her hair — everything about her while they soaked together in the water. Kestrel was feeling much better as a result of the energy of the spring water, and he silently thanked Kere, the elven goddess, for commanding him to find the spring and soak. Not only had the goddess’s order led him to healing his own injuries, but it had also allowed him to intercede on behalf of the tiny being whose body was cradled against his. And he wondered if that had been part of the plan.
Time passed further, and Kestrel was aware of the sun starting to set in the west. He needed to return to his inn for the night, he decided, but the sprite created a dilemma for him. He didn’t know what to do with the girl. She was still unconscious, and he didn’t want to just leave her lying at the spring-side, likely to become a meal for some other passing predator. Her wounds had gradually healed as she had sat on his lap in the water, and he judged that she was healthy and ready to leave the spring water behind. And he had afterall fought for her, and deserved the right to retain her in his own company while she was unconscious, he rationalized. It was remarkable! He had a sprite — he had seen, fought for, and held one of the mythical, mystical beings. He should retain possession of her in his company, at least until she was awake once again, and could leave his company safely.
Kestrel carefully waded through the spring pool to the bank on the far side, where their clothes lay in heaps, and he carefully replaced the underclothes and dress on the sprite, hoping that he was doing it right. He then dressed himself, watching the sprite as he did so, then, when she remained soundly asleep, he picked her up and held her in his arms as he started to walk back towards the village.
She felt heavier than he expected; he was used to lifting the light bodies of elves, who had bones and flesh that were so light they seemed prepared to float away, while his partially-human arms were comparatively brawny in contrast. But despite her race’s legendary ability to fly, the sprite had more substance than the elves did, and his arms, one still supported partially in a sling, began to grow tired, so that he shifted his bundle and carried the small body as though it were a child, her head resting on his shoulder.
As he drew near the village, and the sprite remained asleep, he began to consider what to do with his ward. He pondered trying to smuggle her up to his room in the inn, where he could watch over her until she awoke and could return to safety.
But smuggling an entire person, even a small one, through an inn, was a daunting challenge, one that would require some type of distraction or prop. He considered his sling; it wasn’t contributing any useful support to his largely-healed arm any longer, and it was a fairly large piece of cloth. He put the sprite down, removed his sling, then unfolded the fabric, before he picked the sprite back up and draped the former sling over her.
The cover was sufficient. It was obvious he was carrying something the size of an apparent child, but no one could tell he had a mythical, blue-skinned being in his arms. He could simply walk straight into the inn and up the stairs to his room, stopping for no one, and quickly deposit the sprite there, he decided. It was straightforward, and he could think of no better solution as he reached the step at the entrance to the building.
With a deep breath Kestrel barged into the entry hall, keeping his head low and avoiding eye contact with any other person as he plowed forward and up the stairs. He heard an inquiring shout behind him, which he ignored as took the steps two at a time in his anxiety, no longer aware of the tiredness in his arms from carrying the sprite. He saw the door to his room, pressed his key into the lock, gave a turn as he heard footsteps behind him, then shoved the door open with his shoulder and entered his room, slamming the door shut behind him just seconds before there was a pounding knock.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my inn?” a man’s voice called loudly from outside the door.
Kestrel was on the edge of panic, driven by the fear and excitement that roiled within him. His forehead was beading up with dripping sweat, and he knew without looking that the shirt beneath his armpits was dark with perspiration caused by the situation. Both the excitement and fear of holding a sprite, as well as the concern over the angry innkeeper outside his room combined to make him question how he could have possibly gotten into such a situation.
He hastily placed the sprite on the narrow bed in the dingy, narrow room, then pulled the blanket up over her. With a deep breath, he turned back to the door, where the innkeeper was pounding once again. He wielded the message tube with its now slightly-dingy blue ribbon in front of him as he opened the door. “I’m delivering this message,” he blurted out immediately. “I’m on my way to Center Trunk.”
The innkeeper paused, a beefy man with a florid face. His mouth hung open, then abruptly snapped shut, as he swallowed the coarse comment he had been about to utter, and considered the authority the blue-ribboned tube gave Kestrel. “How’d you get the key to the room?” he asked after re-thinking his approach.
“A woman at the desk gave it to me,” Kestrel asked.
