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It began in the Undersea.
A distant hum of energy that became infinitely clearer the moment Cardan emerged from the skin of the serpent. Then, it had become less of a hum, more of an all-consuming feeling that came and went until, very recently, it fell absolutely silent. As though whatever it was had just... given up.
He'd mistaken it for homesickness at first.
A tug of the heartstrings. The sweet ache of nostalgia tinged with the quiet knowledge that he was somehow incomplete.
In her many poetic biographies, Mab described it as The Call.
They learned a little of it at school in their obligatory studies of her history. The lecturer disregarded The Call as merely a lyrical device. A tool of poetry. A concept too abstract for a tired educator to explore with a pack of spoiled gentry brats.
The Call.
That term made good sense now. Fit the feeling like a unicorn leather glove.
Eldred never mentioned The Call. Odd, no? To be fair, the High King never left Elfhame long enough to sense its gentle thrall. He was always near to his homeland, as though being separated from it might drain the very life from him. "Symbiotic suffering" as Jude would call it. The land needed a king or queen as much as the king or queen needed the land.
