Thirteen
Zidra
Kyrundar was still sleeping when I woke. Only a hint of light showed in the sky through the window over his cot. Even after I dressed, he still slept, sprawled over his narrow bed with one foot hanging off the edge. His silvery-white hair spread out over his pillow like a halo, and I had the oddest impulse to stroke it.
Instead, I clenched my fist at my side.
This heartbond must be doing something strange to my head. That was enough to reignite the frustration with my situation that had faded with his gentleness and reassurance the night before. Of course, if the heartbond was getting stronger, that was my own fault. I shouldn’t have accessed it last night to check his sincerity. I couldn’t imagine using the bond would make it any easier to break, and we had to break it .
Even if spending this much time with Kyrundar had reminded me that between all the rivalry, we had been friends.
Even if I couldn’t deny his kindness in saving my life, sharing words of reassurance, and putting up with my fears and irritability.
Even if his whispered good night had soothed me in a way I couldn’t explain.
I was a wyveri and he was an ice elf, and it didn’t matter that intermarriages were not unheard of. I knew a few offspring of such unions, in fact.
The bond still had to be broken. Wyveri rarely married outside the clan. As demonstrated last night, Kyrundar didn’t understand what yoking himself to a wyveri meant, not really. And marrying an elf? One with a light elf mother, too, like the light elf king-turned-emperor who had banished my people to the islands? I might as well surrender all pretense of ever making my family proud.
This fretting and growing anger did me no good. The story about the snake and my time volunteering with the Sisters of Beneficence had chastened me. If I had a prayer of getting this curse out of my arm and breaking the heartbond, all without failing in my piety and rengir vows, it would take just that—prayer.
I slipped out the door and made my way through the dawn light to the Ravensburgh Sanctuary. The public house of worship in Ravensburgh, the Sanctuary was also attached to a monastery, and the abbot was just leading the monks in a sunrise liturgy. I sneaked into the back row of low benches and knelt on a cushion, adding my low voice to the refrain of the monks.
Kyrundar had once admitted he struggled with the memorization and repetitions of such traditions. I’d judged him for it at the time, but later I’d had to acknowledge his faith wasn’t any less sincere, and at times I was tempted to envy how easily and without pretense he could speak to Iskyr. For my part, though, the rituals helped steady the fire in my chest and clarify my thoughts and supplications.
When the abbot finished, I added my own traditional prayers and recitation of holy texts asking for guidance, provision, protection, and endurance, and then I crept out before any of the brothers noticed me.
With the sun up, the streets bustled with activity. People pushed market carts or opened doors to shops, calling out their wares. A girl hurried past me, corralling a flock of geese, and a boy tugged on the lead of a stubborn pig. A man with tattoos covering his muscular arms—likely a human, as few shifters or elves cared for tattoos—walked by carrying a barrel on his shoulder. I caught a few curious glances at my sword and was glad I’d stowed my Order insignia in my hip bag. Even though the time in the sanctuary had helped, I still wasn’t in the mood for extra attention.
When I returned to our room in the Haven, Kyrundar was dressed—thank Iskyr—and braiding back the sides of his hair. For a brief moment, I watched in fascination as his deft fingers flew through weaving together the thin strands, but then he turned his head to see me.
“Where did you go?” He raised a brow and leaned to the side. “And what are you hiding behind your back?”
“Sanctuary.” I pulled my hands in front of me, revealing two warm, glazed buns with dried currants. “And a baker was leaving as I returned. She’d donated some fresh baked goods. I was glad I was able to thank her before she returned to her bakery. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be asleep, so I thought I should grab one for you before the others get up and they’re all devoured.”
He grinned. “I appreciate it. Let me finish this, if you don’t mind.”
“Braiding your hair with sticky fingers would be unwise,” I agreed.
I waited until we’d both finished our buns to ask the question burning at the back of my throat. “Can we meet your friend now?”
Kyrundar looked up from his sticky fingertips and glanced out the window before shaking his head. “Not yet. I don’t want to inconvenience her.”
If asking a few questions was an inconvenience, his contact must not be overly friendly. The idea that he truly wasn’t that close with this woman pleased me, and I decided not to examine why.
“How is your arm?”
I shrugged. “The same.” Which included a glimmer of cold pain every time I made an abrupt movement or bumped the spot, but that would worry him for no reason. He’d done all he could.
Kyrundar nodded. “Want to walk around town until it’s time to meet my friend? ”
As that seemed preferable to sitting in the Haven, I readily agreed.
About an hour later, as I was wondering whether I risked sounding like a petulant child if I asked again when we would meet this mysterious woman, Kyrundar changed course. He switched from an aimless stroll to jaunty strides as he left my side to approach a long building.
The ground floor was made of limestone, while the upper two stories were built of timber-framed wattle and daub. Wood shingles covered the steep gables of the uppermost rooms. A sign jutting out from the second floor over the busy thoroughfare depicted a steaming teapot, and red letters painted over the door declared THE BLOOMING LOTUS TEAHOUSE.
I caught his sleeve and brought us to a halt. “What is this?”
“It’s a tea parlor.”
“I can see that.” I crossed my arms, ignoring the icy twinge of my wound. “Why are we here?”
“To have tea, obviously.” Kyrundar’s wide smile made me want to singe off his ridiculously silky hair. “The Blooming Lotus not only serves the best tea on this side of the continent, it also observes the ancient tea ceremony from Shuallang as a practice of pursuing calm, releasing worries, and treasuring the blessings of the present moment.”
Just saying all of that took too long. “We don’t have time for—”
“My contact is the proprietor.” He waved toward the front door. “It would be terribly impolite to ask her for a favor without first giving her our business, now wouldn’t it?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You said she was your friend.”
“So she is,” Kyrundar agreed far too cheerfully. “And I like to support my friends.”
“You said you spent all your money.”
“I suppose you’ll have to pay, then. But a rengir’s money is never truly her own.” He winked. “Come on. An hour won’t delay us that much, and it will be good for you to remember it’s all right to rest now and then.” He headed inside.
An hour. On top of the night spent at the Haven and the hour spent milling about Ravensburgh… I groaned and followed him. It wasn’t as if I had any leads of my own.
A bell behind the door jingled as we entered. The interior was surprisingly airy. Tables with two to six chairs around them, depending on size, were spaced throughout the room, with wide aisles between them. Only a few of them were occupied by men and women drinking tea or eating finger food. Perhaps the establishment didn’t get much business, since they didn’t feel the need to cram in seating. Green organza curtains draped from the ceiling, tied back to the staggered support beams. A long wall along the back was broken by a curtained door in the center, which doubtless led to the kitchen. A staircase occupied one back corner, and in the opposite corner stood a curious, empty square room that could be no more than four feet wide.
The curtain moved, and then a diminutive elf woman emerged—no, not short.
An elf woman in a wicker chair with wheels. A braid of golden hair fell over her maroon dress down to her waist, and she had a rosy flush in her cheeks beneath her light-beige complexion. Gold hoops and chains and dangling rubies dripped from her ears from lobes to pointed tips. Her ears weren’t as long as Kyrundar’s, though, and her earthy-brown eyes were unusually dark for a light elf. Her gaze landed on Kyrundar, and she waved with a wide grin, then returned her hands to the wheels and propelled herself forward.
“Kyr, you rascal! Six months without seeing you is entirely too long, and I was most offended you didn’t stop by on your way to the Dawning Festival.”
Kyrundar’s shoulders hitched up toward his ears. “I do apologize, Sylathria. I was traveling in the wolf clan’s lands and would have been late to Laedresh if I’d come so far out of my way.” As she stopped in front of him, he leaned down, placed his hands on both of her shoulders, and lightly kissed the top of her head. “How are you feeling today?” he asked, far quieter.
Sylathria waved dismissively. “My bad leg collapsed this morning, but the pain isn’t bad. It’s just too weak today for the crutch, clearly. Hulfson tried to talk me into taking the day off, but there will be people coming through leaving Laedresh, and I can’t miss out on all that excitement.” She looked to me, and the corner of her lips curved up. “No need to stand there looking so self-conscious. Injuries happen. Sometimes they don’t heal. ”
She looked pointedly at my arm. I started to reach for the bandage, as if to hide it, and decided that would look more suspicious.
But rather than asking invasive questions, she looked back to Kyrundar. “Congratulations on the Emperor’s Merit, Kyr! It’s well deserved. And would I be correct in assuming this is Zidra?”
“Goodness, yes, forgive me.” Kyrundar ducked his head, causing his silver earrings to sway. “Sylathria Graystone, this is Zidra Eilmaris. Zidra, my dear friend Sylathria.”
I inclined my head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine, having the honor of serving not only two rengiri, but the co-recipients of the Merit!” Somehow, when she said it with that sincere tone and warm smile, being a co-recipient didn’t sound as much like an insult. “What will you be having? Your preferred private tea room is available, Kyr, if you like.”
“Excellent. We’ll take…” He turned to me. “How much coin do you have?”
With Sylathria watching, I couldn’t berate Kyrundar like I wanted to. And with Iskyr watching, I couldn’t lie. “Two crowns, four half-crowns, and a few copper pence.”
“Then we’ll have the full ceremonial tea and some light desserts,” Kyrundar declared. “I know the way, so don’t worry. We’ll seat ourselves.”
Only after we were on the way up the stairs and safely out of earshot did I dare ask how she would have shown us to a room upstairs.
“Oh, the little room on the opposite side from the stairs is actually an empty shaft that opens onto all three levels,” he said. “Syl uses her plant magic to manipulate vines to carry her up and down so she doesn’t have to use the stairs. It’s big enough she can move her wheeled chair up and down as well. She lives in the rooms on the third floor with her husband—that’s Hulfson Graystone. He’s a human, from Neaston.”
The revelation that Kyrundar’s friend was married almost made me trip. The scoundrel had teased me about being jealous, all the while knowing she was married? I would have scolded him, except that would only prove that I had been jealous, and he would doubtless love that. Infuriating elvish rogue.
He led the way to a room decorated with blue organza dripping with green tassels. Blue cushions were arranged around a low table. A painting of an emerald sea surrounded by blue-toned mountains covered most of one wall. I had to admit, the atmosphere was relaxing.
Kyrundar dropped onto one of the cushions. “Syl’s father was Shuallangian,” he said, confirming my theory she was half-human. “She lived the first fifty years of her life there, which is why she loves their teas and traditions. Then her father’s eyesight failed, and he had to retire from being a stone carver, so they moved to Bryluthia. Obviously that’s where we met. Syl inherited human magecraft with an affinity for stone from her father, but her plant magic is much stronger. She mostly uses it to get around and check the quality of tea leaves. She started this teahouse while I was still at Harcos. It’s close enough to the capital that it’s lively and gets a variety of visitors, but it isn’t as crowded and chaotic as Laedresh—”
“Is any of this relevant to how she can help us?” I settled onto a cushion on the opposite side of the table.
“I suppose, in a way.” Kyrundar’s happy expression faded into something almost sulky. “Sylathria knows everything, and I mean everything . If we could gamble, I’d bet that she has heard something about Rouven. The Blooming Lotus is well known and has a wide variety of clientèle. People pass through from all over the empire. In the evenings, she hires bards and storytellers and other performers. The Blooming Lotus is an excellent locus for both disseminating and gleaning information, and Sylathria or her staff have heard every noteworthy story, whether fact or rumor.”
“Disseminating stories?” My posture went rigid. “Like tales of Kyrmaris?”
“Ye…” Pink spotted his pale cheeks, and he abruptly was very interested in unbuckling and removing the swords strapped to his back.
I crossed my arms. “So you have been following me around and then selling stories to bards!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Kyrundar smiled, but it was more guilty than confident. “I don’t ask for payment. Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that. Most rengiri tell stories about themselves. Every story I’ve told is completely true, and anyway, the bards mostly ask for additional details. They prefer the tales about events that other people have witnessed. If only one troubadour tells a story, people think it’s fabricated. But if she has extra, never-before-told details on a story many bards are telling, people will pay more for that. I’m helping entertainers make better wages.”
Before I could argue, Sylathria rolled into the room with a large tray balanced across the arms of her wheeled chair. It felt wrong to let her manage by herself, but Kyrundar knew her better, and he made no move to get up, so I remained seated. I didn’t want to insult her by offering help that wasn’t needed, or worse, try to help and instead make her task more difficult by interfering with her process.
Sylathria set down the tray. “Your desserts should be up by the time you’ve finished the tea ceremony.”
“Thank you,” we said in unison.
Her knowing expression as she glanced between us made me hot under the collar of my tunic and leather breastplate. She backed away in her chair before turning in a circle and rolling out.
I frowned at the items on the tray. How many cups and pots did two people need? There were two handleless teacups, oddly small given that tea drinking was meant to be the main attraction. A teapot and a large kettle sat on either side of another teacup, but this one was larger and had a lid. The tea leaves waited in a miniature oval trencher. An empty bowl to the side further confused me.
“I’ll serve,” Kyrundar said, as if there were a chance I had any idea what to do with everything arranged on the tray. He picked up the kettle, his movements slow and measured. “You know how I struggle with the recitations and some of the rituals in the sanctuaries?”
I nodded.
“Well, something about this tea ritual…it calms me. Perhaps because I know I get delicious tea at the end of it.” He chuckled. “Maybe because of how Sylathria explained it to me. She said every step demonstrates that you value the gift of the tea, that you appreciate the access to the implements of the ceremony, and most importantly, that you honor and are grateful for the friendship of your guest.”
As he spoke, he poured steaming water out of the kettle into the teapot, then into the teacup with the lid, then into both smaller teacups.
Admittedly, it was harder to be upset with Kyrundar for wasting our time with ritualized water pouring when he claimed it was symbolic of gratitude and honoring our friendship.
To my growing confusion, he poured the water out of the teapot and the teacup with the lid into the empty bowl. “Did you forget the tea?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.
Kyrundar grinned. “No, that was to warm the dishes.”
He carefully poured the tea leaves from the trencher into the empty teapot…and replaced the lid. I resisted the urge to drum my fingers on the tabletop as, instead of pouring the hot water, he gently shook the teapot, removed the lid, and then lifted the teapot, closed his eyes, and smelled the leaves.
With a sound of contentment, he held out the teapot to me.
I looked at him flatly over the vessel. “We could have drunk tea by now—”
“It’s not about the tea. Not only.” He lowered the pot, his expression thoughtful. “Why do you drink tea, Zidra?”
I kept my impatience off my face with effort. “For refreshment, as the body needs hydration. Perhaps for the little bit of added energy it provides, or the heat on a cold day; otherwise, I would simply drink water.”
“Ah, so you drink tea to aid your productivity.” His tone was gently teasing. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
I shrugged as if that would disguise my blushing. “Essentially. This”—I indicated the ceremony implements—“serves no purpose. It could be achieved faster, with less waste and effort.”
“That’s true.” He waved the teapot. “Smell the tea, Zee.”
“Only to get you to move on.” I didn’t lean as close to the teapot as he had. With my shifter senses, I could already catch a hint of the complex, nutty leaves. I inhaled deeply through my nose and refused to let my face or words admit the soothing quality of the rich, earthy, and slightly floral aroma.
Satisfied, Kyrundar placed the little teapot in front of himself again. At last, he poured hot water over the leaves and replaced the lid.
“Purpose is an interesting concept,” he mused as he methodically discarded the hot water from the teacups. “I don’t believe there’s value only in things that have a practical, material application. We can’t solely do things that help us earn coin, fulfill a duty, or increase our glory, right? ”
“I’m not only concerned with glory,” I protested, bristling.
“No, I know that.” He removed the lid of the larger teacup. Into this he poured the entire batch of tea, and then he replaced the lid. “Is your main concern your image, then? Your need to prove to your family, the citizens of the empire, and yourself that you are a good rengir, a good person?” He glanced up. “Which you are, by the way. You don’t need to prove it.”
I nudged my teacup with my forefinger until it was centered in front of me. “I do, though. I need to prove I’m not like the ancient wyveri king, and I need to prove I made the right choice in becoming a rengir.”
His mouth twisted to the side. “Anyone who spends more than a few moments with you can see both of those things are true.” He used the lid on the large cup as a strainer to catch any escaped leaves as he poured the tea into my teacup and then his own. “Why do you seem to think something is valuable only if it’s, I don’t know, productive? Including yourself? That your value is contingent on your being useful in some way, like…um…a sword?” Setting down the cup, he motioned toward my sword.
I reached for the tea, thankful for the excuse not to answer, but Kyrundar held up his hand. “The second steep will taste better.”
To my horror, he took my teacup and dumped the contents into the waste bowl, then did the same with his teacup and the entire contents of the cup with the lid.
“This is insanity,” I declared .
Kyrundar smirked. “No, it has a practical purpose—I promise it really will taste better.”
“Not that I can compare them,” I muttered.
“Or you could say its purpose is teaching patience.” He winked. Once again, he poured hot water over the tea leaves and replaced the lid on the teapot.
“Fine, I will admit it has marginal value.” My attempted joke felt brittle even to me.
“Only marginal if you’re discounting less practical value. Things like…hm.” Kyrundar set down the kettle and looked around the room, his eyes brightening as they landed on the painting. “Elves believe art’s purpose is to be beautiful, to inspire joy and wonder. That’s not practical, but it’s valuable, right?”
He spoke faster and leaned forward, like a child describing his favorite subject. “I love this room because the painting and the colors remind me of winters in Glacori. Décor making me sentimental isn’t strictly useful, but it brings me joy. What is a world without beauty, without reasons to smile, without things that leave you in awe and take your breath away? These things aren’t lesser. Perhaps you can’t eat beauty or use art as a defense against a blade or slay a monster with wonder, but they’re still necessary for life if we want to truly live. These things feed and heal our souls. They are gifts from Iskyr and remind us of divine beauty and awe and goodness as well.”
His words caused my heart to swell. I dug my fingers into my leg beneath the table, refusing to get caught up in Kyrundar’s useless elven philosophizing .
“Anyway. Tea!” For the third time, he poured the liquid from the teapot into the large cup. Setting the lid at a slight angle, he carefully poured tea into first my cup and then his own. After he set down the cup, he gracefully turned his palm up and motioned toward my cup.
“First, smell the tea,” he instructed. “This is the ritual. You like rituals, come on.”
I sighed, half faking my exasperation, and breathed in the tea’s pleasant aroma.
“Now we admire the color. Then sip, savoring the tea. In this way, we acknowledge the tea’s value, and we give ourselves time to properly thank Iskyr for his gift of pleasing tea.”
I obliged. The pale amber tea was far more flavorful and less astringent than any I’d tasted before. Silently, I thanked Iskyr for pleasant tea, even though I had mixed opinions on how valuable both tea and this elaborate ritual truly were. Across from me, Kyrundar held his free hand in front of the teacup, as if hiding his imbibing. I’d seen Shuallangians do the same before, so it must have been a practice he’d picked up from Sylathria.
He refilled our teacups. “This tea ceremony reminds me why I fight in the first place. Why I wander the empire.”
“ How ?” I asked, baffled. “Wait—you aren’t saying you became a rengir to drink tea across the empire, are you?”
Kyrundar laughed. “No, no. Our goal as rengiri is serving Iskyr, specifically protecting his people. Therefore, the whole reason there’s value in protecting Iskyr’s people is because there’s value in those people, right? ”
He waited for me to nod, then continued. “Then the way I see it, there must be value in the good things they create. Art. Songs. Stories. Delicious tea. If those things are good, then there’s also—perhaps even more so—value in friends to enjoy those things with. Enjoyment isn’t bad simply because it isn’t productive, right?”
I wasn’t sure I was following, so I sat quietly while Kyrundar squinted at the ceiling.
“Iskyr could have given us a purely utilitarian world,” he continued slowly, as if still piecing his thoughts together. “We could have been made to exist on our own, like tigers who keep to their own territory. Instead we have a world of beauty and emotions and relationships.” He grinned. “That’s the point!”
I blinked. “The point of what?”
“Of the slow, ritual steps of the tea ceremony. We can miss the blessing of relationships and creativity and emotions if we do not take the time to appreciate them.” Kyrundar held up his teacup. “This is only tea. The highest quality tea, but still only tea. In spending time and care in its preparation and consumption, we acknowledge the value it has, without asking it to be anything more or labeling it as inferior for not being something else.”
I did not move to drink my second cup. Where was he going with this? My skin prickled, and my pulse increased, but there was no threat for me to face. Only this ridiculous ice elf, peering at me over his teacup with a strange glimmer in his eyes.
“Don’t undervalue the tea because it can’t become a sword, Zidra,” Kyrundar murmured.
My spine stiffened. There it was.
I’d been fool enough to trust him with my fears about being unable to shift, and this was how he handled my vulnerability?