Chapter 6
The Sanvira has given me exactly one hour to gather my things and say my goodbyes before leaving with him to wherever in Arioch he plans to take me.
“You’re a fool to follow him, E.”
Pluto speaks so softly, one might mistake his words for the wind rushing past Aldorin’s branches.
His expression is anything but soft. Bright beams of sunlight streak in from the sky holes in my hut’s ceiling, limning my friend’s gangly body and accentuating the hard angles where his elbows jut sharply from his sides, hands planted on his hips in disapproval.
He wears a worried frown, and his eyes flash that shade of blue he doesn’t usually express.
I frown.
“It is an honor to be selected to serve our king. May I also remind you, I have no choice but to go.” But that’s not exactly the truth.
Not all of it, anyway. There’s a semblance of truth in my reply, in my lack of choice in the matter.
Leaving to serve King Azriel, however, is no honor.
The lie burns hot in my throat as punishment, but because I don’t often lie, the pain isn’t severe.
Pluto’s eyes fill with alarming doubt. We don’t know why a Sanvira appeared out of nowhere to take me , but we do know it can’t mean anything good.
Once an elf is removed from their village, they’re not known to return.
Not that they can’t … It just doesn’t happen.
And when selected to serve the king…we all assume whatever he needs us for requires us to leave our old lives behind.
There’s a story I heard throughout my youth that I’ve never forgotten.
Of Boone and his extraction from Lounym, a long-abandoned elven village near Aldorin’s boundary.
When a royal messenger summoned him, he’d refused to leave, and his village suffered greatly.
Some say Boone was forced to watch each female elf and child die at the hands of some foreign, cruel magic, and some say the fairy tribes surrounding the abandoned land of Enigmem enslaved the elves of Lounym.
Some elves call this story a myth, a scary fable used to compel the ornery young into obedience.
But I’ve always believed it to be entirely true.
I even snuck out once in search of Lounym, the lost village.
Not surprisingly, the map a witch had given me led me to a flattened terrain, where ever-roses and Aldorberries grow wild.
No trees. No toxic Enigmem wasteland. But there had clearly been something there, whether a village, a town, or a small tavern or home.
My refusal to go with the Sanvira might be the downfall of Nwatalith.
“Ether, you do have a choice. If you concede, he will take you far away from here. He may even kill you.” Pluto’s eyes flash in the light, and for a moment, the bright blue in them marbles with onyx.
“You could stay with me, where you belong, protecting the young.” His throat bobs, and he begins pacing, his bandaged feet plodding against hardened dirt. Dust swishes into the air as he walks.
“You know what choice I would make, if I believed I had any say in the matter.” I reach for my burlap satchel.
I’d refilled it with week-old unleavened bread and leaf packets of stolen fairy powder that I squished between loose pages of castle parchment.
Mementos from when Pluto and I would go on adventures to Hearthstrom or Pally’s tavern.
With an ache in my chest, I dump the materials from the pouch and glance around my hut for things I use daily, things I would need for survival, and other valuables that would shatter me to leave behind.
As I begin grabbing items—first, threads used for tying hair, then a jar of preserved yellow fruit—Pluto settles a hand on my arm.
A jolt of energy passes between us, as it had when I’d transferred the power from the klopse burrow.
It’s warm and familiar, and I realize with horror he’s also something I will lose when I leave.
My only family.
Pluto’s eyes shimmer a dull shade of purple. I’m sure it’s a reaction to the change in my own irises. Tears slip down my cheeks. I bite the inside of my mouth so a different kind of pain can overtake the sharp pinch of loss creeping into my throat.
“At least let me do this right, then,” he croaks.
His hand tightens around my forearm, and he twists me into him. His fingers stroke the seam separating the hair braided into my scalp, then he begins mumbling a tune known to us all.
An anthem of farewell.
His rich tenor voice reaches around me like an extension of his embrace, and I shudder against him as tears roll from my eyes, unstoppable now.
Elven song is the purest form of magic because it is wrenched from our souls rather than borrowed from the magic ley lines of the forest. Each time we lament, a little part of us disappears too, so such occasions are saved for those we care about most. Pluto surrenders a part of himself in remembrance of my spirit and in mourning for my absence.
I slip my arms under the stiff, short braid that aligns with his spine.
The twine tying the end of his flaxen hair has frayed.
I close my eyes and run my fingers along the bumpy ridges of the woven strands as I breathe in his scent.
Dried daisies and rain and salt. I sear it into my memory.
I never want to forget how he smells. How home smells.
When Pluto finishes his song, he gently peels himself from me and cups my cheeks with thin hands.
A smile straightens on his lips, his red eyes crinkling.
As a peacekeeper for Nwatalith, he’s expected to flawlessly command his emotions.
For once, the control he has over the color of his irises betrays him.
The intensity of his stare and the muscle ticking in his jaw show his teetering resolve to keep his sadness concealed. But I’m the closest family he has too.
His thumb brushes the wetness from under my eyes, and then he pulls me closer to press his forehead to mine. “ Minart ha d’lith, ” he whispers. My heart is with you. An ancient elven proverb spoken over those believed never to be seen again. He’s offering me a little of himself here too.
I swallow a sob and accept his blessing.
Pluto stands, gives my hand a quick kiss, then ducks under the arch of my hut without glancing back.
I am empty as I finish packing my satchel. I no longer pay attention to whether the items are important or not.
I pass by young elves and a few old, trying to ignore their somber expressions. The ripple of deep indigo irises fixates on me. I do my best to detach myself from the mourning looks, but Nwatalith is etched into my heart. It will not be easy to forget.
I stride past Clarisse, the young healer, and her brethren. She will likely have to set aside her work to replace me, since she has recently come of age. The red-haired elf twists her arms around her three younger brothers, tethering them in place.
Pluto is nowhere to be seen. I don’t search for him. We have already said our goodbyes.
The Sanvira waits for me in a wood-and-metal carriage, drawn by two horses and a footman with faded gray clothing.
I’m not sure which surprises me more: the horses in our woods, or the human steering them.
The Sanvira escorted the man here, no doubt.
Centuries ago, the Aldorin people made a peace treaty with the human villages of Arioch so no human may enter the magical forest without a chaperone of the forest, and no Aldorin creature may leave the forest without a servant of the throne to accompany them.
Thanks to the treaty between our people and the hostilities at the border, such instances are rare.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a human, if ever.
Previous summons had been private, so if there’d been a horse-drawn carriage service, the knowledge was never shared with us.
I try not to stare as I step into the vehicle. It’s easy once he turns his back to adjust the straps on the horses. My focus shifts to the Sanvira, whose expression is unreadable save for his stoic assessment of my appearance.
The door squeaks shut behind me, and before I can even sit, the carriage lurches forward.
I stumble onto the bench across from the messenger whose legs are so long, his knees nearly reach across the coach.
With a groan, I arrange my satchel over my lap and rest my right hand over the dagger strapped to my thigh.
You can never be too careful.
The carriage is clean and spacious, though the Sanvira looks uncomfortably crunched in his seat. I avoid staring, afraid I might laugh if I see his hunched form deteriorate into worser states of discomfort.
“Your ornaments,” he says stiffly, appraising me with gray eyes.
My eyebrows lift, then I realize his gaze is lingering on… my ears. The sharp shards of obsidian piercing through my earlobes and cartilage are still there, a reminder that I belong in the forest. A grin tugs at my cheeks.
“What about them?” I ask, perhaps a little too smugly.
“Remove them.”
I blink at him, and my smile drops. “Sorry?”
“Remove them at once.” His scowl deepens.
My hands rise defensively to the thorns in the tips of my ears. Smooth like dragon spines, each represents a mighty creature I’ve slain for our village. Foraging for winter in the Aldorin forest is no easy task, so such ornaments are a sign of superiority and strength.
I grit my teeth, that familiar feeling of forced respect flooding my veins as though he is willing it. I don’t fight— can’t fight— as my fingers move on their own, enchanted to pull the shards through my flesh, ripping the outer parts of my ears. Warmth trickles down the sides of my neck.
I don’t hide my glare of hatred, and find it is something not even he can control.