[Third Era – Year 804 of the Divinity War, Sirithae (formerly known as Hopron), mountains of mist]

  Gwyff awoke to the silvery, tinkling voice of a breathtaking young girl, etched in the scant, mystical light of the shimmering mists. Shifting, the girl gathered herself into the folds of a wan traveler’s cloak, donned hastily to conceal her clinging, silk nightdress. A few strands of hair escaped the hood of her cloak, which veiled her face in vague shadow. Gwyff’s head hung level with her chest as he dangled by his feet, bat-like, wrapped in the chrysalis sac in which his people were accustomed to sleep.

  She dropped into a crouch to regard him, her cloak billowing outward, sending shivers of sparks through the swirling mist along with the scent of winterblossoms. He stirred, and she straightened, pushing back the hood of her cloak. Her slender hand seemed lost in its snowy folds, its tailed sleeves twined with braided silver vines.

  It was Salicis. She stood, and the flowing mahogany hair that danced from her crown fell into droves of perfect locks, shaken out by a mere toss of her head. He stared up into her sapphire-blue eyes which shined out from her stardust freckled skin. A smile lit her purple face with a sweet glow. But what is she doing here so early?

  Only just after waking would Gwyff have been able to sort out what he was seeing, hanging by his feet as he was, when his mind seemed to right the image naturally. It was a peculiar thing, he knew, to see the world right-side-up while he hung upside-down, but time could adapt the mind to even the strangest of things.

  He wormed his way out of the sack, freed his arms, and turned a handstand into a somersault as he escaped his chrysalis sack and stood to face Salicis.

  Salicis's question was cast in illusion—an image of him, highlighted with pale light, and a blanket of ice wrapping around him. The image was in black and white to indicate a hypothetical, in this case a question, although it was also used for future tense. The translation came to him with the memory. “Aren’t you cold?”

  Gwyff responded by casting an illusion of a figure from an old children’s tale, Malok, with a beard made of snow. The face dissolved and the beard turned into a blanket, which covered a shivering figure. “Cold as Malok’s beard,” his illusion said, though many nuances were lost in the translation.

  “Master Ultorak says a gilder has come to the village.”

  In excitement, Gwyff raced down the spiraled hallway, a mystic grin spreading across his face.

  The faint glow of the mists brightened in the wake of their passing, stimulating more of the tiny sparks—or thunderclips as they were known—by the stirring of the air. The thunderclips twinkled in myriads, like countless stars filling the darkness.

  “How could a gilder even reach the village?” Gwyff cast as they ran. No gilder had passed through their little village since the reign of the king. Not since the lighthouses had failed, cutting off their only safe passage to anywhere else.

  They reached the great room. Gwyff watched while Master Ultorak greeted them all with fondness, all of the orphans under his care, handing out breakfast and messing the hair of the little ones. They were fewer in numbers since Quiin and Rythe had been taken in by families, one within a few months of the other. They had been gone now for nearly two years, but they were never truly gone, for they lived in the village and visited as often as not.

  “Is there really a gilder?” Gwyff cast to Ultorak.

  “I haven’t confirmed it, but that’s what they’re saying. Why don’t we all get some fresh air and check at the Hall of Enthrallment?”

  It was fairly rare for them to go to the Hall of Enthrallment, not that it was too expensive, just too crowded for Ultorak’s tastes.

  The Hall of Enthrallment was situated nearby in a massive building that had been constructed in a suspended fashion between and around several tree trunks. The villagers congregated there several nights a week when master illusionists would come to weave tales all around them.

  They climbed stairs up to a large platform before the doors of the Hall of Enthrallment. Ultorak pulled out seven small white crystal pence from a pouch at his belt. He handed one to each of them. Then Ultorak took the others and went ahead while Gwyff and Salicis lingered upon the platform.

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  A familiar voice brought them to a halt before they had taken a step. Flash illusions weren't the only way to get someone's attention. Their people may have forgotten speech when the Amnesia Storm struck, but they still used sound to catch each other’s attention or mimic sounds they heard. Gwyff and Salicis turned to see who was calling over their shoulders. It was Quiin, her hair perfectly styled as usual. They greeted their friend with excitement, but her attention was elsewhere.

  “Oh no,” Quiin cast a flash of darkness. Her next image was of their friend Rythe, with a dozen afterimages, and an eye opening up to consume a book, both were periwinkle, indicating they represented concepts. The translation came to him, “I thought he learned his lesson last time, or any of the dozen times before that.”

  The three of them gave each other fond embraces then turned to see where Quiin had been looking.

  Rythe was a broad-shouldered boy with mud-colored hair, and his illusions were sputtering awkwardly at a pretty girl who had an impatient look on her face. They knew her. Though she was slight, she had more than enough fire in her to make up for it.

  “That can’t be Kirin,” Salicis cast.

  “I’m afraid it is,” Quiin answered. “I’m surprised she hasn’t tromped him simply for approaching her.”

  Gwyff rubbed his arm as if soothing a bruise. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Shouldn’t we stop him?” Salicis cast.

  “Too late.”

  The pair were pressed close enough through the fluid crowd, coming and going from the Hall of Enthrallment, that they could just barely see the illusions he was casting, standing off to the side as he was.

  Kirin wore an ambivalent expression, half smiling but with angry eyes. Rythe gave an abashed look toward his feet.

  “Well, Kirin, I just thought you should know …” There was an empty space in his illusion. It was a thing rarely done except to make a point or make the watcher wonder. Rythe's face had turned bright red and he seemed unable to complete it. He looked at the space between them and slowly the illusions formed in the air. The shape began to coalesce.

  “No, not again,” Gwyff covered his face with his own illusory words as if to block out the sight. But he peaked around his casting just to be sure.

  The shape started to form into a bird, and he knew what was coming. It was a soras nel, the elaborate bird that was the symbol for love. “I love you,” it said.

  The poor fool, he actually did it again, and to Kirin no less.

  Before Rythe mustered the courage to look up into her eyes she struck. He tumbled back, rolling several times before he came to a stop, sprawled out, shocked eyes blinking into the sky, obviously stinging from the blow.

  Salicis ran to him with a shout. Gwyff and Quiin followed but were stopped short by the enraged Kirin.

  “If you or your friends ever come near me again, I will throttle you all until you can’t walk straight.” Though she was smaller than any of them, she knocked them aside as she stormed away.

  Salicis ran to help Rythe to his feet.

  “Why does he do that?” Quiin cast. “Doesn’t he know he can’t just go around telling random people that he loves them?”

  Gwyff shook his head, adding an uncertain shrug. They marched up behind Salicis who was helping Rythe to his feet.

  “What were you thinking?” Quiin began. “The other girls may have been too embarrassed to mention what you have done, but Kirin is a different breed, hungry for vengeance if anything. By tonight there won’t be a girl in the village that will talk to you. Everyone will know.”

  “You’re not helping.” Salicis spun back to Rythe, who had turned another shade of red. “Besides, I’d still talk to you, and so would Quiin.” Salicis shot Quiin a thorny look, daring her to say otherwise.

  Quiin only stared at Salicis, as if surprised to find a girl willing to defend him.

  Salicis ran her fingers through his short tousled hair, brushing it back in place in a motherly way. “Let’s just drop it.”

  Quiin shrugged again and looked at Gwyff. For some reason, the others turned to him as well.

  “We heard there was a gilder. Want to check?” he suggested quickly, in an effort to turn away their uncomfortable gazes.

  They nodded and made their way to the gate. The keeper of the hall took their crystal pence and waved them inside. Rythe walked ahead of them lost in thought and Quiin began again. “I’m sorry, I do want to help. It’s just that Rythe doesn’t seem to understand what he is doing.”

  “Well, I do,” Salicis cast.

  Quiin and Gwyff both looked at her sharply. “You think it’s a good idea to go around announcing your love for everyone you meet,” Quiin cast.

  “No, but I feel the same way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I just understand that’s all. I know how he feels.”

  “You like him,” Quiin taunted.

  Salicis didn’t answer.

  Gwyff gave a jealous snort and looked away. Refusing even to glance at Salicis.

  His eyes drifted toward Quiin as she glided beside him. Quiin brushed her honey-colored hair from her face and turned to smile at him. She was beautiful, although, in a very different way from the effortless beauty that Salicis exuded, Quiin always took great care and fuss to make herself so.

  The corridor was formed from three great rings, which ran the girth of the stout trees around which the structure had been braced. Many little chambers lined the outside of the hall, but between the three trees themselves stood the Gilder's Hall. Of course, since the lighthouses had failed, gilders could no longer visit their out-of-the-way village, until now, perhaps.

  The illusion language was one of my favorite setting ideas to write. What did you think?