Chapter 6 #2
“Why do you think I made such a big deal about Rhohen and Draenelynn?” Fieran murmured before brushing a light kiss against her hair. “Thoroughly distracted him.”
“It worked.” Pip glanced at the spot a few rows down.
Draenelynn was sitting alone now. Rhohen must have gone for refreshments.
Probably just as well Merrik had gone alone, then.
She could only imagine how Fieran’s maturity level would have been tested if he and Rhohen ran into each other at the refreshment tables.
“Though don’t deceive yourself. You aren’t as mature about Rhohen as you pretend you are. ”
“Fine, fine. You know me too well.” Fieran rubbed his thumb on her upper arm before he stilled. “Do you think that’s why Merrik volunteered to fetch food?”
“He knows you too well too.” Pip clasped Fieran’s free hand, her grip tightening as Rhohen appeared again, two plates and two glasses balanced in his hands. He was smiling as he handed one plate and glass to Draenelynn.
Thankfully, Fieran was further distracted when the whole group of flyboys returned, Rothilion leading the way as he pointed at something on his plate with the hand holding a teacup of all things. “This is an elven ishikal, a heavy pastry filled with honey.”
“And what’s this one?” Lije pointed to a square formed of flaky pastry on the bottom and topped with a layer of red berries.
“Alalah,” Lt. Rothilion informed him with a dignified tilt of his head.
“It’s a lemon-raspberry bar.” Fieran straightened so that he wasn’t so slouched in his seat.
Pip released Fieran’s hand and also straightened so that she wasn’t as slumped against him.
Mak shuffled past them and sank onto the seat next to Pip. He held out one of the two glasses he carried. “I got you a cherry cranberry juice.”
“Perfect.” Something more tart than too sweet. Pip claimed the glass and took a sip.
Merrik held two plates and two glasses. He twisted his wrist to turn one of the glasses toward Fieran. “And raspberry strawberry for you. The sweetest juice the elves make.”
“Linshi.” Fieran took the glass with his free hand. Then with a glance from Merrik to Pip, he withdrew the arm he’d had around her shoulders to take the second plate from Merrik, the plate piled with enough tasty treats for two.
“I did not think you would mind sharing a plate.” Merrik raised an eyebrow at them as he eased down onto his seat on the bench. “That was easier than trying to carry three.”
“I don’t mind sharing.” Fieran balanced the plate on his knee so that she could easily reach it.
“Well, you know, you and Merrik could share, and I could have a plate to myself.” Pip already missed the warmth of Fieran’s arm around her shoulders.
Fieran and Merrik shared a look, then both of them shook their heads emphatically, almost in sync. “No.”
“Fine. I’ll share with Fieran. If I have to.” She laughed and inspected the items piled on the plate. Merrik had picked out a good variety of items.
For this event, the elves seemed to be going all out in providing a taste of elven culture for their human allies, from the traditional elven entertainment to a selection of traditional elven desserts to the elven juices to drink.
Many of the desserts involved things like berries, molasses, or honey that was sourced from Tarenhiel’s forests and woodland meadows.
Since elves used fires for cooking as little as possible, most of the treats featured pastries that only took minimal baking.
Some, like the molasses twists, didn’t need baking at all.
Pip blinked, her throat unexpectedly tightening. This was a taste of home. Of the western rail terminal at the edge of Tarenhiel where she’d grown up. How she missed it. Missed her parents, even though she’d seen them only a handful of weeks ago.
Next to her, Mak shifted before he nudged her gently. When she looked up at him, his eyes were searching. As if he could read the sudden surge of homesickness twisting her chest.
She forced a smile and mouthed I’m fine.
And she was. She might be homesick, but she also didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Within a few minutes, the elven flutes finished with a flourish. The elven announcer stepped onto the stage and proclaimed the next ballad that would be performed.
Fieran stiffened, his hand pausing partway to his mouth with one of the desserts. On his other side, Merrik’s face washed even more pale.
The title of the ballad finally registered, and Pip gasped. “Why would they perform that one, of all stories? That hardly seems fitting as an entertainment for a morale boost.”
“What? What’s the ballad about?” Lije leaned around Merrik to better face them.
Rothilion’s expression had tightened. “It is a history that chronicles all the past warriors of the magic of the ancient kings. It tells of their great victories…and their deaths in battle.”
“Oh. Oh.” Lije’s eyes rounded.
Stickyfingers choked on his dessert and coughed. “Another tragic ending? Multiple tragic endings? What is with elven stories?”
“Pip’s right. It does seem like an odd choice for a morale boost.” Lije eyed Fieran.
Rothilion sighed and shook his head. “We elves do not see it that way. This ballad is a stirring story of the warriors of old who made great sacrifices and won even greater victories. It is meant to encourage those watching to a similar sacrifice. But I agree that the choice is…regrettable, given the audience.”
On the stage, the dancers were whirling with blue ribbons like magic flowing around them as they portrayed the many warriors who lived before the fall of the elven empire. Within moments, all of them fell but one as they all died in the final battle that ended an empire.
Fieran stared, but he didn’t seem to be seeing the stage.
“No warrior of the magic of the ancient kings has died of old age in millennia. Oddly enough, my dachasheni’s disease likely prolonged his life, since it kept him from battle, even if it killed him in the end.
Even my dacha won’t have a long life by elven standards because of his elishina with my mama, even if he lives to old age. ”
If. That little word, the one that acknowledged the frailty of life, hurt like a bullet wound in her chest. Warriors of the magic of the ancient kings seemed destined to die in battle.
Pip reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers. Stirring those watching to honor and sacrifice might be the purpose of this ballad, but for Fieran, it would be a reminder that his dacha could be killed.
On the other side of Fieran, Merrik’s face had gone as gray and bleak as Fieran’s had. He would be thinking of Adry. Of how she, too, had inherited the seemingly doomed destiny that the ballad before them was celebrating.
As had Fieran.
Pip swallowed, that ache clawing up her throat. She’d already come perilously close to losing him once already. Would he suffer the same end that so many of his ancestors had endured?
On the stage, the lone warrior of the magic of the ancient kings performed feats of acrobatics as the blue ribbons whirled around him in a storm.
The ballad spoken by the narrator told of great victories, although Pip noticed a few changes from the last time she’d heard this ballad performed.
This version was much more delicate in the way it handled the wars with the trolls, likely to avoid offending any trolls in the audience now that the two peoples had spent the past seventy years repairing their kinship.
“There is one crucial difference now compared to then.” Merrik gave a small wave toward the stage, where the dancer pretending to be the previous warrior of the magic of the ancient kings died after rending the Gulmorth Gorge to split Tarenhiel and Kostaria.
When the others looked at Merrik, he tilted his head.
“For many centuries, there has only ever been one warrior of the magic of the ancient kings at a time. Now there are five.”
“And they do not fight alone.” Rothilion turned to face Fieran, tipping his head in a nod that was almost a salute. “The whole of the Alliance is behind you.”
Pip held tight to Fieran’s hand, the sweets she’d eaten churning in her stomach.
Would Fieran, his sister, and his dacha survive the war? Or could victory only be achieved through a sacrificial death?
On the stage, the tone of the ballad changed.
An acrobat portraying Fieran’s great-grandfather Ellarin whirled onto the stage.
Blue ribbons fluttered from his hands, but they were small, not the long bolts the other dancers had wielded.
The ballad told of how he’d reigned over hundreds of years of great peace and prosperity for the elves.
When that actor stepped from the stage with a dignified exit rather than the dramatic death of the others, a new warrior stepped onto the stage, this one with blond hair and a storm of blue ribbons whirling around him as he moved. He held two swords in his hands alongside all the ribbons.
Fieran slouched deeper in his chair, as if he was hoping everyone would forget he was there. He leaned closer to her, whispering in her ear, “Dacha would really hate this.”
She could imagine. His dacha didn’t seem the type to enjoy watching a dramatized version of his past battles play out like this.
And then, more dancers with blue ribbons joined the one portraying Prince Farrendel, including one with red hair—long as if the elves didn’t know how to show him as anything else.
Pip straightened. This was definitely new. The last time she’d seen this performance, it had ended with Prince Farrendel. A great victory over the trolls, but a warrior still standing alone. This time the ballad ended with the magic of the ancient kings reborn in a family standing together.
Next to her, Fieran stiffened, his eyes widening. Down the line, the other flyboys and flygirls gaped from him to the actor portraying him.
Pip squeezed his hand, then leaned her head on his shoulder once again.
Perhaps Fieran’s ending wouldn’t be like that of previous warriors of the magic of the ancient kings. He had a family at his side.
And he had Pip. Her magic. Merrik. The whole squadron.
She wouldn’t let him ever fight alone.