Chapter 28
I leave the moment I’m sure Ramiel and Ronan are asleep.
Fastening my knife to my thigh and tying my hair into a tight braid, I walk silently down the hall, feet light against the creaky wood floor.
After slinking down the steps and out the door, I stand and stare at the canopy-lined infinite sky. The heavens brim with elusive clouds, stars wink in the hazy blue, and the thin crescent moon glitters. A breeze brushes my face, both warm and cool.
My skin tingles with the hum of magic, and I breathe in the earth-laden air with a desire to be a part of it.
I step away from the tavern and tear into the thick of the surrounding woods.
The trunks whistle their happiest tunes, all pulsing in harmony with one another.
Their beautiful rhythms are soothing. As soon as I climb above them and into the canopy, their songs will combine into a tranquil lullaby only elven folk can understand.
Nwatalith is just a bound away. A rush along the treetops.
My heart pounds with the urge to go. To visit as a shadow. As a wraith. To not be seen, because to my friends, to my family, I’m as good as dead.
A cold ache encases my lungs, the blessing sending me a warning.
Just for tonight , I reason with the pulsing in my arm. I have to see Pluto.
I rub my foot into the ground, soft dirt rising between my toes.
The trees’ songs get louder, words beginning to form until all I hear is one unison word.
Ether.
Ether.
Ether.
I rush to a robust tree, power swelling in my thighs and calves as I jump from bough to bough until I’ve reached the top of the tall cedar.
Along the canopy, different styles of leaves surround me at varying heights.
The glow of the moon covers everything in a blanket of blue and white and purple.
The trees’ hearts beat steadily beneath me, warming my own.
Their welcome outweighs the guilt I feel for leaving the prince behind. But I won’t be gone long.
A puff of smoke rises in the distance. I crack a grin.
Home .
Not wasting any time, I fly across the treetops, my toes barely grazing the pine needles, flat leaves, and spindly branches.
Adrenaline surges through me—when was the last time I’d traveled across the canopy?
The ley lines, our life source, running under the trees, call to me, urge me faster.
I didn’t realize I could miss it this much.
My lungs expand as I lock in on the white smoke wafting from my village, its thin trail billowing in swooping lines all the way to the cosmos.
In minutes, I’m balancing on an oak branch, peering down at the bustling nightlife of my elven home. It’s the perfect weather for a matchmaking festival, and about time for one too. With all the recent tension, the protectors deserve a night of peace.
Nwatalith’s ritual incense perfumes the air with amber and pine.
Braziers crackle around an open space for dancing, lighting up the faces of the children as they wag their arms above their heads.
Women wear ceremonial leather and silver plating on their breasts.
Their eyes are lined with kohl, their lips a deep rouge.
These imported goods are costly, but work surprisingly well in place of the overvalued trinkets traveling merchants sell.
I seem to have chosen the perfect night to be invisible.
As I drop into the scene, I blend in seamlessly with the kids and adults swaying to the strum of a lyre and the pattering of a grainy-sounding drum.
My return isn’t expected, so they won’t notice I’m anyone outside their current population.
And thanks to the air tinging with romance, all attention is on those exquisitely dressed.
I glance over the crowd, searching for my blond-haired friend. Would he be here on a night like tonight? My chest tightens at the thought. He’s never been one for nightlife; he much prefers studying in his hut. These festivals are all about pairing off, and he’s never shown the slightest interest.
I brush past a small group of elven women who nurse babies in their arms. One mother, impossibly young, nurses while protectively caressing her bulging womb.
The other women pay her no mind, but I know what they’re all thinking: they will soon have another child to protect.
Another target on the backs of our people.
The more children, the more vulnerable we are.
And yet, my people still hold these festivals.
I turn from the crowd.
In a quieter nook, four small stone village houses squat together. Pluto’s is the one on the far left. I advance toward it, but slow down when I realize it’s dark inside.
I tilt my head, puzzling at his absence. Where could he have gone? He can’t be asleep with all the ruckus.
Just as I turn around to search somewhere else, I catch an umbral movement to my right.
“Pluto?” I whisper harshly.
No response.
I walk behind the right-most house, where the shadow had passed.
“Pluto?” I say a little louder. The far side of the house leads directly into the thick forest, beyond which lies the boundary line between fairies and elves. The Separation.
Our village is the closest to it.
A branch snaps, and I whip around.
My eyes widen.
A tall, cloaked figure blends in with the night, retreating.
What in the seven hells is a mage doing here?
I settle against the hut’s stone siding to think.
Is the king watching me? That could be it. Why else would a mage be following me?
Or be in my village at all?
I shake my head, my pulse jittering in my fingertips.
Where is Pluto?
A sound comes from inside the hut, and I instinctively crouch. This is my village, yet my heart crashes in my ears and my face goes hot as though I’m infiltrating a fairy camp. I know if I’m discovered, nothing good will come of it.
This isn’t Pluto’s hut, but could it be him inside?
Carefully, I stand and peer through an opening in the back. The room inside is lit with a fat candle, its flame tall. My heartbeat quickens and my legs go wobbly, anticipating seeing something I shouldn’t.
Thank Aldorin, I don’t.
Clarisse, a young elven girl whose future is in elven healing, sits at a table, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. Thick ropes of red hair and freckled skin have made her rather pretty compared to others her age, but she also never seemed interested in finding a partner or mate.
Her tongue flicks to the left side of her mouth as she concentrates. The candle illuminates her face with a bronzy warmth.
So far, no Pluto. I shouldn’t feel as relieved as I do.
She lifts a small animal from a wooden box beneath her chair and places it on the table.
I instantly recognize it to be a fluffy, white crobie.
They’re the kinds of creatures we tend to keep as pets.
Similar in shape and size to a klopse, the crobies lack teeth, and their eluviams are insufficient for our needs.
They’re also endearing and loyal to a fault.
I’ve never parented one since they do have the nastiest-smelling breath and their droppings are a pain to clean, but they are cute.
This one’s eyes protrude even behind its thick, long fur, and its pupils are glazed with a milky film of white.
I throw my hands over my mouth.
It’s blind .
My heart stops. My mark flares with heat.
The young elf holds her finger over the stone bowl, squeezes her eyes shut, and produces a small ball of water from her fingertip. The crystalline orb dances and spins in the air before it splashes into the bowl chaotically when she loses control over it.
Some of the fine dust she’s been grinding flies into the air and sparkles as it reflects the candlelight.
Unfazed, Clarisse mixes the powder and water with her finger, then lifts the dark paste to the crobie’s eyes. She rubs it directly over the poor thing’s murky irises, wiping the excess on the edge of the mortar.
She stands, stretches, and moves to a sink to grab a prefilled cup of water. Her magic supply must not be enough. Kneeling, she dips her hands into the water and massages the paste from the crobie’s eyes.
I hold my breath.
The crobie’s irises are clear and glow green.
“Can you see now, sweetie?” Clarisse coos. The creature chitters its affection, leaping into the young girl’s arms. “Aw, I love you too! Now let’s get you back to your friends, okay?”
I watch as the girl turns—the fluff of white spilling over her arms—and exits the hut while humming a happy tune.
I recognize the scent lingering in the air and sparkling in the candlelight as eramire, a rare sporous plant that can be found in the elevated areas inhabited by fearsome beasts.
Eramire is rumored to be able to heal small ailments in an impressively short amount of time, including cuts and bruises, and other physical afflictions. But if it can heal a crobie ’s blindness, then maybe…
With a glance at my surroundings, I run around the front of the hut, sneak under the arched doorway, and swipe the mortar from the old wood table.
I whisper an apology to the young elf as I tuck the paste carefully into the fabric of my cloak, leaving before Clarisse returns.
The shadows conceal me as my eyes flash to the canopy above, then at the lively festival down the stretch of dirt road where my people are dancing and singing and enjoying their peaceful night.
An ache nestles in my heart. I long to be with them, ignorant and full of freedom. But the burning sensation in my forearm reminds me that my duties currently lie elsewhere.
So as the pain increases, I climb a sizable oak and fly across the canopy in the direction of Pally’s.
When my feet hit the cool ground a few minutes later, Ramiel is waiting for me outside.