10. Sardines! Isn’t a Curse Word #2
“Keep walking.” The elves push them onward, not allowing them to rest as their muscles ache and feet blister.
But the spray from the water cools their overheated bodies as they climb a rocky cliff on a slippery path lining a tall waterfall.
The cliff is dotted with buildings with cone roofs, and at the top of the cliff sits a massive, multitiered, crystalline castle with a moat and colossal watchtowers on either side. It’s extraordinary.
When they enter the castle, the guards at the front, who were holding the torches, branch off, and two elves grab Sapphira and Isabel, separating their linked hands.
Guards are stationed on either side of Isabel, and she keeps glancing back at Sapphira as they are led up to the highest floor of the castle.
Sapphira is kept at the tall, intricate door they passed through, while Isabel is pushed farther into the room.
The healer stumbles toward a giant bed, where a figure lies.
The bed has luminescent bedposts that look like dappled sunlight and a frame like a waterfall.
Water trickles down behind the figure’s head.
Isabel stops and stands at the q?n’s side. She lies still on the bed, arms crossed over her chest with a black veil over her head and face. A crown set with curled horns is atop it, and her large wings are tucked beneath her.
She looks like she’s just a girl , Isabel thinks. So young .
The elven commander steps up beside Isabel and eagerly greets its q?nsol.
“Q?n Maedorei Tomakabei Ts?ma,” the elf says, its voice soft and reverent, so different from the barking commands before.
It kneels beside the bed. “It’s Domhen, your greatness.
We have brought you a healer. She will make you feel better. ”
“You mean forced?” Sapphira snaps, her anger rising like a tidal wave. “Remember, Commander, we are not here of our own volition.”
The elven guard beside Sapphira is quick to move, ready to punish her for her outburst in front of their ruler. The elf crushes her head, pinning her against the stone floor.
The commander’s sharp, slanted eyes are hard with fury as it hisses something in Elvīnum, its small mouth pinched in displeasure.
“Stop it!” Isabel shouts. “Do not hurt her, or I will let Q?n Ts?ma die. Do. You. Understand? ” Isabel’s eyes are wide and searching, panicked despite the confident grit in her voice.
She’s hoping the elven-fae won’t force her hand.
She doesn’t want to hurt anyone, not even by omission.
Her chest heaves wildly, and she’s shaking uncontrollably.
To see Sapphira in pain—to hear her cry out like that—was unsettling. It disturbs something in Isabel.
The q?n lying on the bed turns her head in Isabel’s direction. She makes no other moves or sounds, just a turning of the head as if trying to look at Isabel. Through the veil, Isabel can’t tell if she’s seeing her or not.
Domhen looks to his q?n, then stares at Isabel for a long moment before motioning his subordinate to get off Sapphira. Sapphira barks a curse when she’s let up and glares at the elf as she gets to her feet.
Isabel motions Sapphira to her side, and the guards don’t move to stop her. “That will not happen again,” Isabel warns. “Or this is all over.” Needing to feel the soft, warm press of her, she clutches Sapphira’s arm when the woman’s by her side.
Turning to face the q?n, she asks Domhen, “What happened? What’s wrong with her?
” As much as she would love to explore the elven land, she needs to get this over as soon as she can so she can get Sapphira home.
Home? That thought trips her up. The cottage isn’t Sapphira’s home .
. . To get her home would mean to let her leave.
The commander pulls Isabel from those thoughts as it pulls down its ivory hood and removes the dog mask over its mouth, revealing a strong, square jaw and more golden markings. Its skin is smooth and dark, and short, pale braids frame its face. It has the split tongue and ears of all elven-fae.
As it motions to someone, another elf with wide-set eyes steps forward. Around its shoulders is a black and gold cloak that sweeps the floor. This must be the elven-fae’s healer. The black cloak is a giveaway.
“Our q?nsol has the symptoms of fayebane,” the healer says. “Elven flu. She came down with it six tides ago.”
“Six tides?” Sapphira questions, her brows knitting in confusion.
“Three days,” Domhen corrects.
“ Ah , yes,” the elven healer says in that lazy, long way it has, every word a long note. “Three days by your count.”
“And what of her symptoms?” Isabel asks.
“Fever, uncontrollable shivers, muscle failure, and regurgitation. Our q?n can’t keep any food down or leave this bed. If her fever gets any worse, she will die before the night’s out.”
Isabel hums, biting the end of her finger as she stares unblinking at the ruler in her large bed with silk sheets pressed perfectly around her.
Her medicines and healing magic won’t work properly on elves. She isn’t sure why. There are some things she just can’t heal. She growls in frustration, the wood of her staff creaking beneath her hand.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” she asks.
When the healer doesn’t answer, Domhen says, “Our q?n is only two hundred years old. She ascended fairly recently as well.”
“Only two hundred?” Sapphira huffs beneath her breath. Then louder, she says, “Anything helpful you can add, Commander? ”
Isabel puts out a hand between the two to cut off any back-and-forth. “It’s fine, I’ll figure it out myself. Let me just get a closer look.”
Isabel climbs up onto the giant bed, ignoring how the commander tenses at her movement toward the q?n and moves its hand, going for the weapon at its side.
Isabel lays a small hand on the elves’ forehead.
The girl isn’t much bigger than her and definitely is not as long and lanky as the other elves she’s met.
She realizes that this may be due to her age.
Isabel closes her eyes as she concentrates her magic and shivers at the darkness swirling inside the q?n, then quickly retreats from the elf’s mind. Isabel senses all of the symptoms that the healer listed.
“Can I see your medicines?” Isabel asks.
Domhen calls, “Misehe?”
The healer, Misehe, motions to a figure in similar robes, except they’re plain white with no golden accents. And the young aide doesn’t wear a mask. It lugs a giant herbarium up onto the bed and pulls the flaps open, showing the pages and images of the medicines they’ve used.
Misehe says, “I have treated the q?nsol with ground ashke root for the purging, but it hasn’t worked. Nor have the cat-eye pearls for her fever.”
“And how deadly is elven flu normally?” Isabel asks, turning to look up at the healer from where she’s kneeling on the bed. Even from this height, it stands even with her.
“With treatment, a 20 percent death rate. Forty-five without it. The q?n should be getting better. She has the best healers, and her body is stronger than any other fae.”
Isabel wonders why their medicine isn’t working. If the q?nsol’s own healers can’t cure her , she thinks, how do the elves expect me to do it?
Sapphira must think the same thing because she throws up her hands and shouts, “Sardines!” like it’s a curse.
Isabel turns. Both she and the elves stare at Sapphira in surprise.
“You want Isabel to fix your queen because you were so useless at it. But this is not her land or her people. And Queen Made or whatever is not her responsibility.”
“Q?n Maedorei Tomakabei Ts?ma,” Domhen corrects, jaw clenched and eyes unforgiving.
“See? Exactly!” Sapphira smacks the back of one hand to her other palm. “Why is Isabel responsible for this? This isn’t her problem.”
Spitting mad and looking like now it wants to slam Sapphira to the floor, the commander says flatly, “You were in our territory.”
“We were at the border just outside the Cielo Dominion,” Isabel corrects. “That’s neutral territory.” As far as Isabel is aware, only draek?ns and raiders have tried, and failed, to claim the deadland. It’s impossible to enforce.
“Not anymore. The Shaharin Pass has been under elven-fae rule for nearly four thousand tides.”
Isabel’s brows furrow. Nearing five years? That news hadn’t reached Cielo. I might not have run so recklessly into the deadland if it had. Or at least, I might not have let Sapphira come.
But Domhen said they ruled the Shaharin Pass. That means they don’t own all of the deadlands. She can’t see how the draek?ns would let them take Trinalt.
Rising higher on her knees, Isabel turns fully to face Domhen, even though she’s still shorter than the elven-fae, even at this height. “How can you claim the sands between Cielo and Oshmaliaen?s? We fought no wars to decide that.”
“You should ask your high lords and ladies,” another elf says smugly, as if it knows something she doesn’t.
Domhen crosses its arms over its chest. “Unless a war is what you want?” the elf threatens.
Isabel glares but doesn’t speak. The elves would crush Cielo into dust.
“Also,” it adds, “that draeɡ?n was trespassing.”
Isabel’s eyes pop wide open, her mind whirring. “You’re the ones who poisoned the serpere?”
Domhen nods and says, “As head guard, it is my responsibility to take care of threats on our land.”
Isabel’s fists clench, her blood boiling hot at the confession. They hurt a draeɡ?n. That is bold, even for elves. It’s like they’re trying to start a war. Or do they truly trust their abilities that much?
“Now, enough standing around,” the commander growls. “Heal our q?nsol or die.”
“You know, that threat is getting real old,” Sapphira snaps. “I thought such a mighty elf could come up with a better line.”
Isabel ignores the bickering that ensues. Domhen is right. She needs to hurry so they can leave. Kaleen is waiting for her, and the longer they stay here, the more danger Sapphira is in.