The Ainzel Tales
The iron door to Lonnie’s new cell slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the room, but for the five blinding slats of sunglare torchlight flooding in through the window. She groped around for the straw-filled cot and collapsed against it. Her cell in Stonehold had been much like this — but less furnished, if you could believe it.
Stonehold. Talimour. Remembering the city she’d hailed from, and the streets she’d been snatched off of, Lonnie found tears welling in her eyes again. Again, again, again.
Gildhe! Alevar! Father! I’m sorry!
And then a polite voice spoke over her misery.
“Poor child. You mustn’t cry, for they punish criers very harshly here. What is your name?”
The small question, whispered from the neighboring cell, shocked Lonnie out of her weeping with an ugly hiccough. It had been a long time since she’d been asked anything that friendly. Stonehold had been deathly silent when the knights were patrolling, and then full of wailing when the prisoners were left alone.
“Are you there?” her neighbor called out again.
“Maybe,” she muttered, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
Her neighbor laughed. “Ahh, good. Some new blood, they lose the will to speak at all. As I was saying — what is your name, my dear?”
“Lonnie.”
“A nice name,” her neighbor rasped. Their accent was hard to pin down. An Ulluic lilt, smothered under gruffer Gadhian pronunciations. Neither here, nor there. Strange. “Do you have any other names?”
“Lonnie of the Frostbitten Court.”
She hesitated into the silence. Did her neighbor want more than just her court allegiance? Her history poured out of her, colder than the tears.
“My baby name was Rabbit. My courtfather swore it weren’t because of my big ears — it were just because of the stuffed bunbun I was dropped off with — but we all knew better. The name got funnier when my teeth came in. Uh, buckteeth. Alevar thought they were cute. Some of my siblings called me Lonnie Rabbit after I picked my own name, but Gildhe called me ‘Lonnie girl.’ That’s all the names I got.”
She heard her neighbor shift in their cell, rough clothes scraping on the dirty floor. “Lovely. Thank you for telling me about yourself.”
“You have a name too, right?”
“If you would like to, then you may call me Ainzel.”
The reverence with which they spoke it — Ainzel — made it seem as if the name wasn’t really theirs, but Lonnie didn’t want to upset them by saying so. So she shrugged into the dim. “I like your name too.”
“How kind. Do you care to hear a story, Lonnie?”
Lonnie sighed and sat up, staring into the blinding glare of her window bars.
“Sure.”
And so Ainzel laughed again, and began to weave a tapestry of words.
Once upon Rhimn, and upon Rhimn he will be again, there was a fey named Ainzel.
This Ainzel was a dutiful young man with a berry-basket in hand, and fine green ribbons lacing his braid. He was returning to his court — from a friendly visit to a neighbor — and the sun cast an orange glow over the sky as it set. He had to make it home before nightfall. Before the Irongardhe knights began their patrols, with their sharpened swords and sharper senses of duty.
But blocking his path was a pitiful crow. The crow was curled up in the dirt, crying to itself.
“What’s wrong, crow-cousin?” asked Ainzel, kneeling before it.
“Oh!” cried the crow. “I’m sorry, good sir! I am famished; I want to fly home, but I haven’t the strength to do so anymore. I fear I will die, foolish and unprepared.”
Ainzel, who was keen to get home himself, was moved. “You poor creature! Here, let me share what I have.”
And so Ainzel opened his berry-basket and let the crow eat its fill from the food packed inside. Soon, strength filled its sable wings again, and it soared over the treetops and into the dimming sky with a grateful caw.
With an empty basket, Ainzel continued on his way.
But blocking his path again was a pair of frogs, croaking forlornly into the dry, sunbaked dirt.
“Are you alright, little frogs?” asked Ainzel, kneeling before them.
“Oh!” croaked the frogs. “I’m sorry, good sir! We are tired; we want to hop home, but our skin is parched stiff, and soon the hunters of the night will find us and have their fill. I fear we will die a death cruel and comfortless.”
Ainzel, who was hoping not to be hunted himself, was moved. “You poor things! Here, I will carry you home.”
And so Ainzel poured a little water into his boots, and scooped up the frogs. Once he got to the river, the frogs had the strength to hop out again, and join their brethren in the water with grateful croaks.
Ainzel set the damp boots in his berry-basket to dry and went on his way.
But blocking his path yet again was a graceful doe — though, not very graceful was she now, with her hoof caught in a wicked trap.
“That looks painful!” Ainzel said with a gasp.
“Oh!” cried the doe. “I’m sorry, good sir! I am trapped; I want to return to my children, but my leg hurts so, and the hunter who set the trap will soon find me. I fear I will die, yearning dearly for the warmth of a kind touch.”
Ainzel, who had children of his own to hurry back to, was moved. “You poor dear! Here, I shall free you.”
And so Ainzel pried open the trap with a branch. He unlaced the ribbons from his hair, and with the doe’s cooperation, he splinted and bandaged her hoof so that she could walk again. Once she was freed, the doe bounded off into the bracken with a grateful look back.
Ainzel continued his trek home.
But the sun had cast its judging gaze away from the earth now, and the knights had crept into the woods, replacing its light with the searching gaze of their torches. Without anything to eat, Ainzel stumbled as he ran. Without his shoes, he tripped over rocks and cut up his feet. Without his braid-ribbons, his hair tangled in the branches and slowed him down. Inevitably, the knights caught up to him, and caged him in their wagon.
Just as Ainzel was thinking that he would never go home, a crow swooped down from the sky and perched on the wagon. “You poor man!” the crow whispered. “Here, let me help you.”
The crow stole a key from the knights and unlocked the cage.
But Ainzel was too afraid of the knights to escape.
The wagon soon passed over a bridge. The river beneath the bridge was teeming with the night-songs of happy frogs — but as the frogs looked up at Ainzel, their singing stopped. “You poor man!” the frogs croaked. “Here, let us help you.”
The frogs gathered the help of stout river-fish and jostled the bridge, frightening the knights away from their wagon.
But Ainzel was too tired to run.
A doe, traveling past with two fawns at her side, slowed as she saw Ainzel tentatively leaving his cage. “You poor man!” she said. “Here, let me help you.”
The doe carried him away on her back. While the enraged calls of the knights echoed through the trees, they did not catch up to Ainzel. And so Ainzel returned to his court, with a grateful wave back at all those who had helped him, and lived long enough to become a story.
“Is this your story?” Lonnie asked, ears cocked curiously. “I mean, did this happen to you?”
“Goodness, what a question! I wish it did. Then I wouldn’t be here.”
“Then did ya name yourself after the Ainzel in the story?”
Lonnie had a brother who’d named himself after a storybook character. As far as namesakes went, it wasn’t a bad place to take inspiration from.
“Ainzel is manifold,” was all her neighbor would say. They yawned, and Lonnie heard them crawl into their cot. “And manifold will be our work in the morning. I bid you goodnight, and a blessed lack of blister, Lonnie.”
“G’night,” she reluctantly replied.
Lonnie woke up to a quick breakfast of gruel and her first day in the workrooms.
The guards gave her leather gloves, and sharp chiseling tools, and sat her at a workbench by herself. The table before her was stacked high with objects. Inkpots, flowerpots, and metal desk-weights, among many other things. Each item was attached to a small paper with instructions written by the Irongardhe’s enchanters.
She was to carve very precise sets of runes on every item, to very precise measurements, in very precise lines.
Before, Lonnie had been a pickpocket. She had a steady hand. She knew how to work silently, swiftly, never noticed — except for once. But once was all it took. Now, her old skills translated too well to this new line of work. All she had to do was keep her head down, shut up, and focus.
And she really needed to focus. If her carving was too slow or too sloppy, then the guards said that she might get put in the bloodforging cells instead. The very thought made all the little runes swim queasily before her eyes.
Nobody wanted to be bloodforged.
Nobody particularly wanted to carve the runes for bloodforging neither.
The worst part was that the work was almost as intriguing as it was grueling. Lonnie stared into the runes — the unusual little strokes she had to etch just so — and wondered what they meant, and what they were for.
A couple of times, she glanced around, wondering if Ainzel was at one of the workbenches nearby. The guards barked at her to get back to work.
Lonnie was returned to her cell again that night. She had tried to get a glimpse of Ainzel in their neighboring cell, but the window was too high, and the cell too dark, and the guard had hurried her on too fast. Still, it was lovely to hear their voice again.
“Good evening, Lonnie,” they said after the guard left.
“Hullo, Ainzel.”
“Did you blister?”
“Only a little,” she said, kneading out the soreness in her hand. “Ain’t as bad as it could be.”
“It will get worse over time. The only salve I have is this warning, and whatever soothing stories I recall during the workday.”
“I wish we could tell stories while we worked.”
“Indeed, but that would be dangerous. They’re quite careful in keeping us apart. Those in neighboring cells are sent to different workrooms, and let in and out at different times. I’ve been here long enough to learn that. But do you mind if I steal your sleep, and tell you another story now?”
“Please do.”
“Wonderful. Unlike the Ainzel with his woodland animals, this tale comes from my Beldam’s homeland. We tell different stories there, for there are no knights governing Ullua.”
Once upon Rhimn, and upon Rhimn they will be again, there was a fey named Ainzel.
This Ainzel had lived for many years, and those years had been kind to them. They had soft sunspots and starlight-silvered hair. Smiling wrinkles were chiseled into their face, and their hands were instinct-nimble from years and years of weaving.
Now, Ainzel lived with their court in Ullua, in a town governed by a duo of Edah Fyrian nobles. One day, the shared husband of the noblewomen died. This posed quite a problem. The noblewomen wanted to remain together — but not for any love shared between them. Neither desired to directly marry the other. But without a tie of marriage, neither trusted the other to keep goodwill between their houses.
Their answer to this conundrum was to find a new spouse to share, and continue on as tolerable huvri-wives.
Ainzel sat outside their home spinning silkweed flax into new thread when the widows approached them. The beautiful old widows had adorned themselves in their finest wraps and jewelry, certain that they would impress Ainzel before they even made their offer.
“Good Ainzel,” said the widows, “gifted weaver and spinner of wonders, we are in need of a new spouse. You would be made much richer by joining our household.”
Now, Ainzel was not interested in such a marriage. The widows were known to be rather incurious people. One was prone to pride-of-lineage, and would no doubt work Ainzel to the bone so that she could gloat about having a renowned weaver for a spouse. The other was prone to pride-of-wealth, and would no doubt work Ainzel to the bone so that she could sell their fabric and fill her coffers with coin.
When Ainzel declined, the widows only laughed. “You will change your mind!” they said, then headed home to their estate, giving Ainzel another day to think it over.
Ainzel would not change their mind.
“If they cannot have you, then I fear that they will decide to run all us out of town,” said Ainzel’s elderly courtmother with great worry.
“Worry not,” said Ainzel. “I have a plan.”
For the widows were also known to be superstitious. With the help of their court, Ainzel spread rumors that a dry well just outside of town had been blessed by the Romne with their powers of prophecy. Naturally, the widows were intrigued. The two of them traveled out to the well to seek its advice.
When they arrived at the well, Ainzel had already climbed down into its dark depths, far beyond the reach of starlight or candleglow.
“Blessed well!” said the widows. “We have come here for your advice.”
“I know,” said Ainzel. They did not recognize Ainzel in the well, for it made their voice deep and long-echoing, like a god of yore. “You wish to consult me about your future marriage.”
The widows were impressed with the well’s foresight.
“Listen here. If tomorrow, you find your servants eating out of porcelain dishes, then the marriage should work out well. But if you find them eating out of wooden dishes, then you would be better off marrying someone else.”
The widows agreed and returned home.
Grinning, Ainzel climbed out of the well. They had work to do.
Gathering the gossips of their court again, Ainzel spread rumors that the Matrius in Edah Vale had declared porcelain bowls out of fashion. Wooden tableware was much more enviable. Thus the servants of the widow’s estate, being fashionable people just like their employers, scrambled to trade their porcelain dishes for more expensive wooden ones from the local merchants.
The widows gawked as they found their servants eating out of wooden dishes the next night.
“It is fashionable!” a servant explained.
This was clearly a portent that the marriage would not work out well. And yet . . . if the widows wanted to keep up with these expensive new fashions too, it would help to have wares of their own to sell. Like tapestries!
They wanted very badly to own Ainzel’s talents. And so, with slightly emptier wallets, they proposed to Ainzel a second time and were turned down.
Thus, they returned to the well again.
“I have already given you my portents, and still, you doubt? You will change your mind,” promised Ainzel. “Listen here. If your house is uninfested, then the marriage should work out well. But if your house is plagued by insects, then you would be better off marrying someone else.”
The widows agreed and returned home.
Somewhat annoyed that the widows had not taken the hint the first time, Ainzel climbed out of the well.
With the help of all the eager children of their court, Ainzel caught jars of insects. They were not picky about what kind. Damselflies and locusts, common house-gnats and rare ivory-moths, all suited their purposes just fine. While the noblewomen were asleep, Ainzel cracked open a window and poured jar after jar into the house. The estate woke up to the servant’s screams.
“Plague! Plague! A plague of insects is upon us!”
The noblewomen gawked at their infested house, with moths eating their silks and gnats biting their servants.
And yet . . . Ainzel could replace their silks with beautiful new ones, they knew. They wanted very badly to own Ainzel’s talents. And so, covered in insect bites, they proposed to Ainzel a third time and were turned down.
At the cusp of dawn, they returned to the well again.
“I have already given you my portents, and still, you doubt? You will change your mind,” promised Ainzel. “Listen here. If you are healthy tomorrow, then the marriage should work out well. But if you find yourself gravely ill, then you would be better off marrying someone else.”
The widows agreed and returned home.
Fuming that the widows had sought out portents that they surely would ignore yet again, and intending to do them great mischief, Ainzel climbed out of the well.
The medicine-peddlers in Ainzel’s court met with them in secret, and put together a most unpleasant concoction indeed. When the widows came, desperately seeking something to keep them in good health for the coming day, the peddlers were eager to help.
“Anything for Ainzel’s future brides!”
They were pleased to be so welcomed. Perhaps this time, the well would give them the confirmation they sought.
And so the widows drank the concoction and went to bed. In spite of their careful efforts, they woke up sick as Ulmatra. Purple rashes spotted their skin, and green boils blistered their lips, and they hacked and coughed and spat up yellow phlegm.
But the concoction was not designed to kill them. Only to make them regret.
Despondent, the widows approached the well a fourth time.
“I have already given you my portents, and still, you doubt? You will change your mind!” promised Ainzel, with growing frustration. “Or must you suffer more portents of woe for your disbelief?”
But this time, the widows cried; “We promise, blessed well! We believe your portents! Just please make them stop!”
“Agreed. Do not marry Ainzel, and speak to me never again.”
Thus was Ainzel finally spared their unwanted matrimony. The two widows visited them only one more time, explaining that they had changed their mind about the marriage. The pair eventually found another spouse just as empty-headed as them. Thus lovely, clever Ainzel spun and wove the rest of their days in peace, and lived long enough to become a story.
The tale ended with a longing sigh from Ainzel. Maybe the story had made them miss their homeland. The storytold Ainzels were so enviable for escaping that which would trap them.
“One of my nieces named herself Great Mischief,” said Ainzel. “It’s a common phrase in Ainzel tales.”
“I had siblings who talked about running away to Ullua,” Lonnie said faintly. “Gildhe discouraged it ‘cause they didn’t want nobody getting their hopes up on a dumb thing like that. There’re safehouses that’ll smuggle people outta Talimour, but there’s always the chance of the knights finding ‘em out and catching you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Faelin and Alevar talked about catching a boat, sometimes. Meparik only said things like ‘someday I’ll leave for Ullua and never come back!’ when he was mad at somebody. But either way, it got said.”
“And what about you?” Ainzel asked.
She shrugged, and the straw in her mattress crunched beneath her. “My court’s stuck in Talimour, and I didn’t want to leave ‘em. So no dreams of Ullua for me.”
“I see. Well, good night, Lonnie.”
“G’night, Ainzel.”
Lonnie learned how to work more quickly in the coming days. She learned how to recognize each rune she was supposed to carve, though she still did not know what they meant, or what each one did. As the work became more automatic to her, she found her mind and her eyes wandering.
She no longer looked for Ainzel, knowing that they were not in her workroom. Instead, she tried to see if there were other friends here. Or family. Since all the runecarvers were dressed in the white robes the Irongardhe had given them, it was hard to tell what court anyone was from. And with everyone so haggard, and so unwilling to meet her eye, it was hard to tell if anyone familiar worked here. Did she have siblings trapped in this very room? Other Frostbiters that had been caught before her?
She wanted so badly to sign a stealthy “hello” to the other fey, but the guards did not let them speak in Gesture. If they took their hands away from their work, the guards’ hands went to their weapons.
Though . . . the shiny lip of a key-ring beckoned from a guards’ pocket whenever they approached to give her more work. Lonnie knew what she should do. In theory, it would have been so easy for her to steal the keys — just like the crow from the first Ainzel tale. But if she was caught, that would be the end of her.
The fear stayed her hand.
It was for the better. Once, a child threw down his tools with a disobedient hiss and refused to carve another rune. The guards hauled him off. Lonnie was given some of his work.
Every night, after Ainzel and Lonnie were locked in their cells, they greeted each other. Ainzel always greeted Lonnie first. They were eager to hear her, and even more eager to talk. There was always a new story on their tongue. How could they possibly memorize that many?
“Well, ‘tis not that hard for me,” Ainzel said. “I’ve been doing it ever since I was a child. My court is full of storytellers and performers.”
“That’s lovely. Mine’re just a court of thieves.”
“So, too, is the Mystral Court, and they’re spoken of highly. You Gadhian courts adapt how you may, and you do it well. But enough about ugly reality. Would you like to hear another story about knights being foiled, and cleverness winning the day? This one may be long.”
“Yes, please.”
“Wonderful.”
Once upon Rhimn, and upon Rhimn she will be again, there was a fey named Ainzel.
This Ainzel was a strapping young lass from the lushlands of Ullua. A solitary nomad in nature was she, until she fell in love with a human from the borderlands, and they took each other as wives.
Ainzel’s wife — Ylanah — lived to fulfill a dangerous task. She was one of the Matrius’ spear-sentries, stationed at the border in the days when Gadhi and Ullua were often tempted to invade one another. To war is the nature of mortalkind, some might say. It was not in this Ainzel’s nature, however. This Ainzel was a messenger; a tamer of crows, a deliverer of parcels, a bearer of news both good and bad.
One day, while she was out carrying letters across the borderlands, Ainzel tripped over a god.
Now, this was not any of the known gods. Not Gardhe, nor Alluari, nor the Romne, nor even that shadowy goddess who so gleefully eludes the Irongardhe’s best knights. “My name is Imos,” said the god. “I did not mean to hurt you.”
Ainzel kneeled over what she had tripped over — a stone shrine pedestal that had toppled toward her as she’d passed by. “Then what did you mean to do?”
“To be noticed by you.”
“Oh? I’m flattered. Do you need something?”
“I need devotion. I am a lonely god — an old god of domestication and tameness. I am that process by which the wild is welcomed in. My work is invisible, and it often goes on unnoticed. But if you offer me a place to stay, then I will let you harness me too.”
Ainzel smiled to herself. She had already tamed crows, and had already been tamed by her wife. She didn’t see a use in harnessing him, but such a god would be welcome in her life.
“If it pleases you, then there is plenty of room in the crow’s hutch,” she said, taking a stone bowl from the rubble to make an offering shrine of her own. “The Romne won’t mind sharing it with another god.”
And so Imos joined Ainzel’s household.
But he had no time to settle in, for the next day, Ainzel’s crows came home bearing terrible news. Ylanah had been captured by an invading regiment of knights.
Ainzel prepared to flee her home, but the force came overran her as well. The knights drove her crows away with volleys of arrows, and they smashed the Romne’s shrine. They scattered all the messages she was supposed to deliver into the wind. But they permitted her to keep some practical things as they took her prisoner. For instance, a small stoneware bowl, featureless and utterly uninteresting.
As good luck would have it, Ylanah was still alive. She was bound with thick iron chains, for the Irongardhe were afraid of her power. But soft, hopeful Ainzel was left unbound — chained instead by her love for Ylanah, and the point of the knight’s swords.
“Guide us to the Matrius’ palace, message-runner!” demanded the enemy commander with a swish of her blade. “We will ruin the goddess Alluari and all of her temples!”
With no other choice, Ainzel began to lead them south.
In the meals between the marching, Ainzel ate out of the offering bowl she had taken from Imos’ shrine. “I’m sorry, but I have nothing to offer you now,” she prayed silently. “And no house to welcome you to. I can only share my food with you, if that is enough.”
“I appreciate it,” Imos said.
As Ainzel ate, a wild bee found its way to her porridge. It had been tempted by the scent of honey. Thinking it wrong to do any violence in a holy vicinity, Ainzel did not shoo it away, but instead shared her meal with it too. This happened once. Then twice. Then by the third meal, more bees had learned of Ainzel’s benevolence, and gathered eagerly around the regiment. Their progress was slowed somewhat as the soldiers swatted the insects and became vigilant against unexpected stings.
But harassed or not, they still expected Ainzel to lead them onward.
Ainzel was exhausted from trudging through the sand without rest. Her uen was dry, and her feet were sore, and heat-dizziness struck her from time to time. When they stopped for water, she drank eagerly from the portion the soldiers poured into her bowl.
But she did not drink it all.
The soldiers’ mounts were sleek-carapaced serkaet — ahh, you don’t know what a serkaet is? Well, they are something akin to a scorpion, and yet they stand with the four-legged regality of a deer. But nevermind their biology. The serkaet had been snatched out of the open desert, forced to serve the Irongardhe with enchanted bridles when their woodland deer had been unable to cross the sand.
And, like Ainzel, the poor creatures were tired and put-upon. Feeling sorry for them, she shared her water while the soldiers were not looking.
“I’m sorry that I still have so little to offer you,” she prayed silently to Imos as the serkaet drank from his offering bowl. “And no house to welcome you to. I can only share my water, if that is enough.”
“I appreciate it,” Imos said.
The bees hummed in the distance, and the serkaet surged forward with more strength, and Ainzel feared what would become of her and Ylanah once she led the knights to Edah Vale.
One morning, Ainzel woke up to cries of confusion and concern among the regiment’s ranks. A distant roar followed. Before she knew it, she was being hauled onto her feet, and dragged before the enemy commander.
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” the commander accused.
“What? What have I done?”
“You lead us straight into some drakon’s territory!”
Normally, Ainzel was quite keen with her directions, but this wasn’t one of her normal deliveries, was it? Force anyone to march on the lean for weeks on end and see if they keep their usual wits about them. She woozily consulted her maps, and found herself quite unsure of where they were anymore. All she wanted to do was lie back down.
“She’s an animal handler,” said one of the soldiers. “We should send her to get rid of the beast. Either she can subdue it, or she can make a decent enough meal to make the thing leave us alone!”
“Who will guide us if she dies?”
“We’ll figure out the maps ourselves. It’s not like she’s doing a good job of it anyway.”
And so Ainzel was shoved out in front of the regiment, to face the drakon all alone.
Broad wings darkened the bright sky. Between the open desert and the soldiers already retreating behind her, there was nowhere to hide. She simply clutched Imos’ bowl and curled up as massive talons crashed into the sand in front of her. A gigantic mouth yawned open, studded with teeth large enough to be knives. And a dry voice hissed out from between them.
“Strange. Something about you feels awfully calming. Is it a trick? Are you here to accost me with more spears and arrows?” the beast demanded.
Ainzel stared.
“Well?”
As Ainzel was not quite as brave as her wife, it took her a good minute to find her voice. “No?” she mewled. “All I have is my bowl.”
Instantly, the drakon raised its head, blinking in surprise. “Was it you whom I was searching for? The bees told me that someone was out here offering her porridge to the weary,” it admitted sheepishly.
Inside Ainzel’s head, Imos laughed and laughed.
“Drakons like porridge?” she asked.
“I don’t know about other drakons, but I certainly do. It’s good for the digestion. Of course, it is hard to ask for some when everyone I approach screams and runs in fear. Doubly so when they come back bearing weaponry.”
Ainzel imagined so. “Sadly, I haven’t any porridge to offer you right now. There is plenty back at the camp, but making enough porridge to satisfy a drakon would be quite a feat — and I’m sure that the soldiers would rather eat it themselves on the march! Honestly, I’d rather you have it than them. They’re probably going to kill me and Ylanah as soon as I stop being useful.”
“And then I will be alone again,” lamented Imos.
The drakon tilted its head thoughtfully toward Ainzel. “Are you not the knight’s comrade?”
“Not exactly . . .”
And so Ainzel explained her plight to the drakon. Her hostage wife, the long journey, and the wicked intentions of the knights. Together, she, Imos, and the drakon came up with a plan.
Ainzel returned to the knights with the drakon in tow.
“There has been a misunderstanding!” she told the knights. “This old drake has his own enmity with the Matrius. When he descended upon your regiment, it was in the hope that he could help you in your endeavors. He is willing to forgive you for attacking him in fright, if you will only let him accompany your conquest!”
The knights took this news with celebration and excitement. For as terrible a foe as a wild drakon can be, they make far greater allies. Thus they rushed to arm their new friend. Their whetstones sharpened his claws, their steel-polish bronzed his scales, and at his request they sent their archers out to hunt wild game to satiate his great appetite. All small prices to pay for his talons and teeth, reasoned the commander. When their work was done, the entire regiment slept deeply, exhausted by their work and confident that the drakon would protect them.
All except for Ainzel. Traveling on light feet, she and the drakon went to work.
First, Ainzel targeted their mounts. When she freed the serkaet from their enchanted bridles, she expected them to bolt off on their own if she was lucky — or lash out at her with their tails if she was not. But the creatures only nickered politely and followed her through the camp.
Secondly, Ainzel freed her wife. The drakon’s freshly-sharpened claws were more than enough to cut the chains binding Ylanah. Ylanah first reached for her spear, but Ainzel hushed her, for they had safer plans.
Thirdly, Ainzel heeded an odd request from Imos; to draw a great rune circle, and to place his bowl within it.
She laid offerings therein. A smidge of honey, a cut bridle, and a scale willingly gifted from the drakon. With words spoken in a long-forgotten tongue, the runes flickered to life, waking the knights.
“What is this?” shouted the commander. “Who is attacking us!?”
The bees and the serkaet all hummed with one voice.
“I am Imos,” said the god, master of the gentle hand. “You stand in my holy space, before my first priests. Your cruelty will be rewarded with disobedience!”
The knights screamed as the serkaet and bees turned on them. The drakon followed with a great roar, scattering the regiment deep into the desert. Without mounts, food, or a good sense of direction, they would surely not last more than a few sunrises — the land would not be tamed by their sword.
Exhausted, Ainzel collapsed into the arms of her wife. They slept quietly in the night-cooled sand until the drakon returned. It bore a dozen sacks of dried porridge on its back, and a pleased air to the turn of its chin.
“Excuse me,” it said. “I have my porridge now, but no means to cook it, it seems.”
“I could do it if I had my kitchen,” said Ainzel.
Imos laughed and laughed from his bowl as she picked it up.
“I am now a priest of Imos!” said the drakon proudly. “A thing tamed by kindess, and wildered by cruelty. You have offered me and many others a place to stay in the generosity of your heart. Harness me, and we shall ride!”
Thus, Priestess Ainzel returned home with her wife and her new friends, and lived long enough to become a story.
Ainzel’s voice trailed off in longing. Their speech was a little gruffer now; Lonnie suspected that imitating the drakon’s harsh growl had strained them. This story had gone more strangely than others Ainzel had told her.
“Why didn’t they just kill Ylanah?” Lonnie asked.
“What?”
“Instead of taking her hostage at the beginning. They would’ve just killed her, I figure.”
There was a silence from Ainzel, which she took as a shrug. “This is an Ainzel tale, little one. That means that they all must live in the end.”
There were things about these tales that were ever-constant, and then there were things that changed from story to story, like water taking the shape of whatever cup it was poured into. Almost anyone could be Ainzel. Ainzel could be a pirate captain. Ainzel could be an old man, tending to his garden. Ainzel could be a queen. Ainzel could be a child with muddy hands. Ainzel could be a pickpocket living in the heart of Talimour.
But Ainzel — in the stories — was never a runecarver. Ainzel was never truly caught by the Irongardhe, so that fate could never befall them.
Lonnie and her Ainzel were runecarvers.
And it was always called runecarving, even when you weren’t carving the runes. The enchanters had learned that Lonnie was good with a needle and thread, and they gave her different projects now. Handkerchiefs with lace edges detailed so finely that their gaps could hold sand. Silky ball gowns with jewels sewn daintily into the neckline. Dishcloths soft enough to absorb a whole lake, and maybe a river to boot.
She held her breath and sewed her runes carefully, lest she mar the fabrics.
“This one might stick around for a few years,” one of the guards said when her back was turned. “Maybe a decade if it’s lucky. The forgemaster likes its results.”
Lonnie was trying to decide how badly she wanted to stick around. Something inside of her was being worn thin by the work. If she didn’t do it, some other fey would be forced to do it anyway. It was all worth it for Ainzel’s stories, she decided. And perhaps for the faint and silly hope that something miraculous would free her. That was also the stories’ fault, she knew.
But one fateful night, when Lonnie was returned to her cell, Ainzel did not greet her. At first, she assumed the worst.
“Ainzel? Are you there?” she whispered urgently into the dark.
“Yes. My apologies,” Ainzel replied.
“Thank the Romne. Um, you don’t sound no good, though.”
“I’ve . . . I’ve hurt my hand.”
Lonnie sucked her breath in through her teeth. Injuries didn’t usually get treated here. You could limp around on a bad foot just fine, but a hand? You couldn’t work through that so easily. “How bad? Can you still carve?” she asked.
“I can try. Either way, I shall make my peace with it.” Ainzel spoke quickly, hurrying quickly past their sorrow. “May I tell you another story, to ease my fears?”
“Another Ainzel tale?”
“Yes and no. My Beldam told it like an Ainzel tale, but the fey in this one has its own name. This is more history than fable.”
Once upon Rhimn, and upon Rhimn it will be again, there was a fey named Tincre.
Now, this Tincre fellow was a nervous creature. Nobody quite knows what court it originally came from or what genders and names it wore in its past. What we do know is that young Tincre ended up in the hands of the Enchanter’s Guild, just like us.
This was during a time where the Irongardhe did all the runecarving themselves. It was tedious work, and the forgemaster — the same one that presides over us now — was searching for a way to make the carving less onerous on her apprentices, who complained and complained about their sore hands. While Tincre was in her care, she hit upon a brilliant idea. The fey they used to fuel their enchantments could be put to work carving them as well!
Tincre was one of the first put under her tutelage. Back then, the process was not so distanced, and the forgemaster worked directly with the fey. It was a blessing and a curse. She did not tolerate mistakes, but she did reward good work.
For better or for worse, Tincre did the best work.
Each morning, it carved runes, gravestones for its brethren. And each evening, it was permitted to study books given to it by the forgemaster, to help her devise better and more elaborate enchantments in the future.
The forgemaster thought of Tincre as a useful tool. Tincre adapted and thought of her the same way. Unbeknownst to her, it was learning enough about runes to devise enchantments she had never even thought of, and with the help of the other runecarvers, it was able to slip tools and little scraps of wood into its cell.
The only thing it could make with scraps so small were rings. Tincre worked tirelessly into the nights, carving ring after ring by starlight, each one studded with runes like jewels.
It took many attempts to get the result it was looking for. Tincre put on each ring after it finished the enchantments, checked its reflection in the iron bars of its cell, then inevitably hid every failed attempt into the bushes outside its window.
But one day, when Tincre looked into its reflection, it saw a human staring back.
When it was given library time the next day, Tincre snuck in a carving pick and killed the guard that supervised it. It took the guard’s cloak and keys and disguised itself long enough to free the other fey from their rooms. The body was discovered, but by then, all the runecarvers had fled the Guild’s tower with alarm bells chiming in the distance!
And so Tincre and its new court ran and ran, moving from town to town, disguising themselves as ordinary humans with the aid of their glamour enchantments. They taught this power to other courts. Such as mine, the Mirthful Ones.
Now, the Guild works fey to the bone, and keeps us separate. They no longer let us understand the workings of the runes we carve so tirelessly.
But I tell you now — the court of the Encanted Eye is free, and they are learning. They are adapting. They remember their history, and they tell it to their children. Someday, they will come for us. Someday, all courts will work together, and we will topple the Guild under the weight of their own greed once more. Someday, the Irongardhe will fall.
Thus Tincre has lived long enough to not only become a story, but also an inspiration for the rest of us to follow!
Ainzel’s voice grew strained again at the end of their tale. Lonnie placed a hand on the wall between them, wanting nothing more than to comfort them the way they had comforted her for all these nights.
“Thank you,” she said.
“And thank you,” they replied.
“For what?”
“For letting me live long enough to become a story. My baby name was Laughter-Cures-All. The first name I chose for myself was Dance-Away-The-Day. The second was High Praise. Now, I should like to live my last with the name Deliverance on your tongue. If you ever meet a Meticulous Effort of the Mirthful Ones, say that Praise forgives her and all of the others.”
“I’ll tell her that,” Lonnie said, feverishly hoping that poor Meticulous Effort would never make her way into here.
Deliverance sighed. “And if you ever do meet the Encanted Eye, give them the name of the fey who told you Tincre’s story. Tell them that it was woven by a child of Bedlam and Bemusement. Tell them that the Mirthful are still upsetting the wicked ways of the world!”
“I promise!”
“Ahh, see, you’ve done so much for me. Good night, Lonnie.”
“G’night, Deliverance.”
Deliverance was not returned to their cell the next night. Nor the night after that. Lonnie overheard one of the guards talking about how clothing with luminous embroidery was the newest fashion among the white-beaded nobles — and that his aunt had just snatched up an order for an enchanted tunic for cheap, thanks to an injured runecarver.
It was like . . . whenever her older siblings had vanished while pickpocketing. She knew what had happened, though she’d never get a solid confirmation of it.
A week of silent nights passed.
Then there were whispers of a new batch of fey being sent in from Caraghmagh. She had been settling down for yet another unsettled sleep, and then the cell door next to hers creaked. There was sniffling. Lonnie’s ears pricked up at the sound
“Quit your whining!”
“B-but—”
“I mean it,” the guard outside barked. “The forgemaster hates having whiners on her hands.”
The door shut with a flinch-inducing slam. After the guard left, sobs echoed down the hall again. Her new neighbor wouldn’t be here for long if he kept going on like that.
“Hey,” whispered Lonnie, pleading.
The sobbing stopped.
“What’s your name?”
“I—” Her neighbor coughed wetly, clearly composing himself. “Sorry. I’m Tamrin. Um, Tamrin of the Mystral Court.”
“That’s a nice name.”
“What’s yours?”
Lonnie had to think on it for a minute, staring out her window. The torchlight shining outside her cell was as oppressive as it was on the day of her arrival. She narrowed her eyes against the glare on the bars.
Deliverance was on her tongue.
“My name is Ainzel,” she said. “Mind if I tell you a story?”
F I N
Reading Guide
Ainzel tales are an oral artform passed down in certain feyrie courts. You might have noticed that all of Deliverance’s stories start and end the same way;
“Once upon Rhimn, and upon Rhimn [they] will be again, there was a fey named Ainzel.”
To many fey, leaving out this sentence implies that you are not telling an Ainzel tale, but a tragedy. “Upon Rhimn they will be again” is particularly important. It implies that the protagonist of the story is still in the Cycle of reincarnation; that they have not been captured and bloodforged. This primes the audience for the catharsis of escape that is a key feature of these fables.
For similar reasons, ending on “lived long enough to become a story” is also customary.
The protagonist description that follows the introduction is a necessary component of classic Ainzel tales too. It helps to separate the anonymous Ainzels of each story from one another, and becomes a good spot for storytellers to drop setting details, early characterization, and plot devices.
Since Ainzel’s purpose is to escape a terrible situation, they also must have something — usually someone — to outwit or evade. Irongardhe knights are commonly evoked, especially in Gadhian tales.
Other frequent features of Ainzel tales include;
- Leaving Ainzel as the only named character.
- Repeating plotbeats, changing ever-so-slightly upon their repetition, often until the changes hit a tipping point.
- Emphasis on quick-thinking, generosity, resilience, and manners.
- Utilizing social connections as a method of problem-solving.
- Talking animals.
- The presence of crows, or other symbols of the Romne.
These fixed frameworks can be a hindrance to more freeform storytellers, but many find it easier to use the Ainzel framework as a guide instead of inventing an unstructured story on the spot.
The first Ainzel tale that Deliverance tells is a morality tale sourced from Maughrin, one of the regions where the Mystral Court roams. This is implied to be the court that Ainzel is returning home to. The “neighbor” he visited is likely the Lycarious Court in Kavia.
The animals that rescue Ainzel are sometimes swapped around depending on the whim of the storyteller, but Deliverance used the traditional crow, frog, and deer combination.
As it could be considered ungrateful to the Romne, the crow is not usually swapped out. The deer, however, is frequently replaced. Though the Mystral court uses deer as transportation, so do the Irongardhe, leading some of the other courts to have a negative association with the animals. Direwolves, goats, boar, kvarhev (wingless desert drakons), serkaet (scorpion-antelope), and sometimes wyverns can stand in for the injured doe.
Lonnie fancifully trades the frogs for rabbits when she passes on the tale.
The second Ainzel tale is from Edah Fyr, around the orchard lands north of Edah Vale. It’s considered a humorous story in its original form and is told to keep children entertained for long stretches of time.
If Ainzel jumping to poison the bumbling widows seems abrupt, that’s because it is. Traditionally, Ainzel brings seven portents of poor marriage upon the widow’s estate, and finally gets fed up enough to resort to the ludicrous concoction after the sixth. Though, one version has all of the portents be different plagues of insects that Ainzel pours into the windows. The concoction is replaced with stinging hornets in that instance.
In any case, Deliverance abbreviated the story to just three portents so that they and Lonnie could get more sleep.
The third Ainzel tale is, as one would expect, from the borderslands. Having named characters besides Ainzel in the tale is significant. It means that this story might have a basis in reality. While Imos and the drakon are likely fictional, Ylanah is a common name near the borderlands. It is possible that there really was a Ylanah with a feyrie wife stationed there once.
Perhaps Ainzel and Ylanah really were captured by Irongardhe forces, and Ainzel created a fictional account of the event to immortalize the name of her wife. Or perhaps there’s some other explanation afoot. With lesser-known tales, one can only speculate.
As you might have guessed by the strange tone, this tale was actually a more serious Ainzel tale, and Deliverance’s recounting is patchy. They forgot the original leadup to the ending, and hastily made up the talking dragon and the porridge in order to bridge the gap. The original story has more focus on piety as a theme. In most versions, the drakon does not talk, and Imos guides Ainzel through taming it in secret during their travels, eventually able to turn it against her captors along with the serkaet and bees.
Tincre’s tale is real.
