Chapter 5
Saechon is the eldest son of Varith Ariar. The first-born prince. There are four princes in total: Saechon, stationed at Oxford; Brannion, stationed at Peking University in Beijing; Daerios, stationed at Harvard; and L?th, the youngest, stationed at Yale.
Though elves are notoriously secretive, they’ve spent enough time on earth for rumors about the royal family to leak out.
Brannion, for example, is said to be the cleverest of the princes—but also the most calculating.
A military captain back in Elaerion, Brannion regularly liaises with the Elvish General.
It’s believed that he played a key role in the Sun Elves’ victory during the Elemental Wars.
I find myself relieved that it’s not him arriving on horseback tonight.
I don’t know much about Saechon. Tabloids fawn over him the way they do Brad Pitt or George Clooney.
He’s obnoxiously handsome, with sleek blonde hair and a perfectly sculpted face.
Too perfectly sculpted, in my opinion. Rumor has it that, with the king constantly absent from his children’s lives, the role of father fell to Saechon.
He “leads” his younger brothers. In what capacity, I don’t know.
But I’m about to find out.
A deep baritone, speaking Maevish, sweeps into the room. “Status report,”
Saechon.
The sound of twelve chairs scraping back as the Punches rise to greet their prince.
“Nothing yet, sir,” says Magrion. “However—”
“I found something,” interrupts a familiar voice. Gravelly, unlike most elves’ sweet lilt.
Chills creep up my spine.
“Daerios,” says Saechon. Footsteps. “You?”
“It’s not…” Daerios clears his throat. “I didn’t find it here.”
“Where did you find it, then?”
“The library.”
The library? Does he mean Widener?
“And you didn’t think to bring it with you?”
“It’s not there. Someone else checked it out.”
A beat of silence. Then, from Saechon, in a tone of deadly quiet, “Leave us.”
“Sir?” asks Magrion.
“You heard me. Everyone but my brother, leave.”
Chairs scraping and light footsteps as the elves file out of the room.
Someone else checked it out. He couldn’t be… He’s not referring to Morphological Similarities Between American English and Elvish Lukkarin, is he?
I shake away the thought. Of course not. Thousands of books are checked out of Harvard’s libraries every day. That would be preposterous.
When the door shuts, there’s a beat of silence. Then Saechon says, “This isn’t one of your ridiculous pranks, is it, Daerios?”
“No.”
“Because it wouldn’t be the first time some insolent little elf has claimed to—”
“I’m not lying, Sae.”
At the sound of his nickname, Saechon seems to soften. “Then tell me.”
“I’m not positive that it is what I think it is. I need more time to investigate. But I’ve made all the arrangements, and—”
“Daerios,” Saechon interrupts. “You need to be absolutely sure. More than absolute—you need to be willing to bet your life on it. You remember what happened to the last elf who claimed to have found it.”
Neither speaks. The chill rising between them seeps out the window and settles over me too.
“I will be,” Daerios says at last. “As I said, I’ve made all the arrangements. I won’t come forward until I’m absolutely certain.”
“Good. Keep me updated with regular status reports. Same method as always.”
“I’ll send word with Rad.”
Rad? I’ve never heard of him. Or her, or them—d is a gender-neutral ending to a Lukkarin name. I needed to figure out who they are. If I can identify their messenger, I might be able to intercept them.
“I’m off, then,” says Saechon. “I need to stop off at Yale before I head back overseas.”
“Send my love to L?thie.”
I press a hand to my mouth to keep from laughing. Did I truly just hear that?
“I will.”
The muffled clap of a hand as it grabs onto a wrist, then a second as the other brother returns the favor—the elvish version of shaking hands. I can picture them: face-to-face, grasping each other’s wrists.
“Naválaev, brother.”
Be well. The most common Maevish farewell.
“Naválaev.”
And with that, my first real chance at learning the elves’ secrets rides off into the night.