Chapter 9
ARLET
Our entrance to Shvathemar is accompanied by hundreds of elves crowding the streets, attempting to catch a glimpse inside the carriage.
The procession is small. They don’t crowd around the coach, nor do they spook the elk that carry us onward. There is a calm sort of order to their behavior. Most of the onlookers are men, but when a woman is spotted, she’s usually half hidden behind a male counterpart.
I see absolutely no children as we move through them. Not totally a surprise as I am very aware of the fact that the elves are in the middle of a birth rate crisis.
Perhaps the children are just inside their homes, safe from any onlookers, so that the adults might be able to help protect the ones that they have worked so hard to bring into this world.
Shortly before continuing our journey, Thorn had opened the trunk of gifts from the Elf King and given me a new dress to wear.
The neckline dips low, and the fabric is loose as it flows down my body, skimming over my curves without suffocating them.
It’s a rich, deep green color, with silver thread and long, wide open sleeves that extend a few inches past my fingers.
I have been in two elven cities at this point, the first being the Enclave, entirely crafted from nature magic, which ensured not one branch was cut to craft a single structure. The women there, violent and deadly as they were, still preserved nature above all else.
These people, in contrast, look clean-cut. They do not seem to exhibit the same care for the forest in which they find themselves. The wood around the city is cut, carved, and expertly cared for. The pale, polished color remains unblemished by weather and mold.
Pointed, arched roofs reach up to the sky, creating long lines that make everything seem taller, elegantly so, than it actually is. The city facade, set against carefully manicured trees, is beautiful.
I think of Dragonsreach. The city carved into the mountain, full of another faction of elves, ones so dedicated to remaining unknown by the crown so they can raise their dragons in peace. It is an interesting contrast.
All of it is.
This city is to be my new home. If I bear a child and thereby earn the right to live.
My stomach clenches. That same sick feeling that has been following me around rears itself yet again.
When I was younger, I thought my entire world would revolve around children. In the years since, and during the blissful time I spent with the Enduares, I’ve started to realize that those dreams were an expression of the deeper parts of me.
While in a bad place, in one of the most dehumanized, ugly situations the young me experienced, a natural instinct to give love and to protect awoke in my soul.
Because I saw the happiness they brought, it had me believing that my life’s purpose could be to bring a child of my own into the world.
It was my chance to defy the ugliness of life, to believe in something better—a chance to make the next generation of humans better.
My life has progressed, and I have seen and experienced people and places I never thought I would ever encounter. I don’t want a child any less, but I have changed.
Could a child complete my life? Maybe, with the right person. Not because it would give me purpose or help me escape from reality, but because I have so much to give.
Who could’ve known that I, a woman stuck behind books and wefts of fabric, would love flying a dragon?
Or trying new foods like honeyed berries and meats?
How could I have known all of the things I would learn developing Lorepath, all of the history I’ve been able to read?
Hell, that I would ever be able to read more than one language?
But I won’t have a child with the right person. I’ve agreed to do it with a sadist.
Sadness impales me once more as reality sets in.
Life’s cruelest trick to this point is making me believe I could have it all. Family, a home, a job, love…
I’ve lost something precious.
As more faces of elves pass me by, I realize it hasn’t just been life that’s made me feel this way. It was also the Enduares. Specifically, one Enduar with a cleaver and empty promises.
I wish he hadn’t helped me find so many pieces of myself, but he did. He was guarded and layered, and I enjoyed peeling back each of those new stages as much as I’d enjoyed any romance scroll.
He was brusque and harsh with most people, but he took time to tend to the memories of those who had passed. He killed ruthlessly, but used those same battle-blood-soaked hands to paint. He barely spoke some days, but his mind was filled with poetry. He could face an army, yet he feared heights.
I hate him for leaving me with all these memories, because now I have chosen to turn my back on who I’ve become.
Unbidden, flashes of the last night we shared come to my mind, when he tied me up and…
I wipe my hand over my brow, feeling hot and cold all at once.
Basta, Arlet, I chide, squeezing my eyes shut as if that could turn off the light in my churning head. That hopeful chapter of my life is over. I must accept that.
When the elven palace comes into view for the first time, I sit up straighter. Sticking up from the leafy green treetops is a tall, pale gray structure. It is taller than most other buildings I’ve seen, with pointed spires piercing the sky.
The majesty of the structure overwhelms my eyes, and I don’t know where to look first, from the colored-glass designs to the organic patterns that flow seamlessly into lines and abundant foliage.
What must be thousands of pale blossoms are planted and pruned along the front, with perfectly manicured grass and bushes sprouting everywhere.
There is a neatly maintained path to the residence, wide enough for half a dozen carriages to ride side by side.
I saw glimpses of the giants’ palace as a slave in Zlosa, and obviously, I am very familiar with the Enduar palace, but I have to begrudgingly admit that this is more beautiful than either.
Thorne is silent as we move closer to the front entrance. The carved images of what I recognize as Living Wood and Elder Tree iconography run up the arched sides of the entrance, surrounded by creeping ivy that seems as intentional as every square inch of this lavish place.
As the carriage pulls to a stop, Thorne finally clears his throat.
“Wrinkles,” he says abruptly, nodding at my gown.
I let out the long breath that I had started holding somewhere on the way here, and unflex my fingers from my dress. My grip leaves a few lines in the delicate silk, and I attempt to smooth them with a bit of pressure and the warmth of my palms and thighs.
Would these small imperfections make the king angry?
“When we get inside, they will take us directly to King Arion. When you see him, you will bow and play nice just as you did the first time you met. You remember his honorifics?”
“High King Arion,” I say slowly. The darkness inside of me stirs, like swirling sands in the wind.
“And you remember how to act?”
I glare at him, despite my nerves. “It wasn’t that long ago that I met him.”
I wish the night he came to Enduvida wasn’t scorched into my memory. He danced with me, insulted me, and then held me in place and made me watch as he invited enemies into Enduvida to kill and destroy the Enduares.
“Arlet, I know you think that you are in some sort of position of power here, despite everything I’ve told you and everything that has happened, but you are not. If you displease the king, he will take it out directly on your friends in the caves.”
My fists clench, and I recite the lessons the Enduares gave me. “Try to avoid making eye contact, be submissive, stay one step behind him if walking, and answer his questions directly, without adding my own opinion or conjecture about unrelated matters.”
“Well. Make yourself at least appear to be appealing,” he grumbles, and my cheeks heat at the insult. “Smile more, and all that.”
Molding myself into something agreeable, something happy to be here, feels like a task as hard as climbing uphill for a week straight.
One of the guards opens the coach’s door, and my companion gestures for me to exit first. I stand, slightly hunched, then make my way to the steps. The guard holds out his arm, and I use him to stabilize myself as I step down onto the uniform gray gravel.
Two rows of servants emerge from the palace and line either side of the entrance. I look at them, lightly confused when I realize there is no sign of Arion.
Thorne appears at my side, staring at me as I position my hands neatly in front of my body. I look over at him and see him assessing my posture with a hint of approval.
“Where is the king?” I ask him.
“Inside,” he responds, and then he walks forward, clearly expecting me to follow.
I do without another word, nodding as I pass the men and women who were sent to receive me.
Deep in my bones, something feels wrong. The bride of the king isn’t something to sniff at, so where are the courtiers meant to be greeting me? When I was first brought on the boat with Thorne, they had bowed. Treated me with respect.
Now I’m only awarded nods and blank stares.
“Are you excited to give the king the magic you used me to carry across the land?” I ask Thorne, voice low.
He shoots me a warning glare, and my nerves ease.
Antagonizing him is the only thing that seems to bring me peace anymore.
As we move into the palace, my head naturally falls back to take in the beauty inside.
From floor to ceiling, everything is made out of wood.
The rich, pale color so popular around the city seems even finer here, more expertly chosen.
The wood grain of the wall cladding matches up perfectly with that of the planks on the ground, creating a sea of curving lines.
Carved columns support the tall coffered ceiling, where grids of sunken panels are framed by beams and moldings resembling leaves dangling from branches.