52
I darted my gaze from Amlach to my father.
“King?” I asked, more than confused, switching to the common tongue as well.
“No, he . . .” I looked at my brother, who traded a grave look with Father.
“He is . . .” I watched Amlach, whose arrogance had faded, replaced by a haughty seriousness.
Finally, my eyes returned to Father. “He is the commander of the King of Men’s army. ”
Father laid his hand on my arm, almost as if it were a gesture of compassion. “I’m not surprised he kept his true identity from you, my daughter.” He glared at Amlach. “Besides, we know well how conniving men’s nature can be.”
Amlach responded with a scornful half-smile. “Said the King of the Elves, who not only decided not to lend aid to one of the peoples on the continent where he lives and watch humans slowly die, but also let his own daughter and heir be humiliated and enslaved.”
Araton’s fist hit instantly.
Amlach’s head jerked to the side with such force that his hair fell over his face as he wobbled.
The next moment, moving with supernatural speed to stop Amlach from reacting, my brother seized his light brown hair to reveal his face.
No, I realized. Not his face.
His ear.
A pointy ear.
My heart stopped. My wide eyes searched for Amlach’s. They found them with an incisiveness that left me breathless.
That destroyed me.
Araton pulled his hand away from his hair with a nauseated grimace and stepped back, as if Amlach carried a contagious, pustular disease.
Never taking his eyes off me, Amlach calmly straightened his posture, though his stern face hinted at deep suffering.
“You’re an elf,” I breathed.