Chapter 6 #2
The Sanvira extends a flat palm. My mind is blank as I slowly drop the trophies into his hand.
He tucks them into his dark robe without minding the crimson blotches that now streak across his skin.
He pushes several black braids over his shoulder before he leans into the seat, his back unable to straighten.
He is much too big for this small carriage, with limbs that might poke through the thin oak doors if stretched to their full lengths.
I press my palm to my neck, then swipe away the fresh blood. With disdain, I spread the stickiness across the coach’s wooden bench, all while eyeing the Sanvira, but the blemish I’ve wiped over the seat doesn’t seem to faze him. Instead, he stares at me with that same unnerved expression.
“Your hair is filthy,” he observes with a sharpness. “It’s as though you’ve only ever bathed in mud. Or blood. My bet is on the latter, considering how dark you’ve dyed it.”
Either he knows nothing of elven customs—which wouldn’t surprise me, since he’s been far removed from Aldorin for centuries—or he knows exactly what he’s doing. Not protecting me necessarily, but cautioning me. The earrings. My hair. I’m sure there’s more about me that could get me into trouble.
I run a hand beneath one of two sable-colored braids and bring it over my shoulder. “Yes, I’ve dyed it, using jagua and pitch. Hair made of starlight can be tiring for the eyes. But if you prefer I wash it, you may take me to any stream or well to rinse it out.”
Exhaustion fills the voids in his eyes. “They’ll have you cleaned at the castle, I’m sure. It was merely an observation.”
Then why mention it? Irritation is likely obvious in my eyes, but I hold my tongue.
“What have you brought with you?” He moves on to the next item on his checklist. His concentration slides to the bag sitting on my lap.
My hands clench the string that holds the satchel closed. I won’t let him take this too.
He raises an eyebrow. “You must at least be aware I’m bringing you to the castle . ” His eyes angle at me as if I should know his implication.
I gnash my teeth together, hoping he sees the viciously sharp fangs that make our kind so lethal, and pull my bag closer to my chest. “You’re a messenger. Of course I know this has something to do with the king.”
The smallest of smiles lifts his mouth. His neck bends horizontally, thanks to the shallow roof of the vehicle.
I almost laugh. Gods forbid I let such a sound escape my dry mouth. But it’s there, waiting at the back of my throat, tempting me like a chaser to the bitter air we share.
“Then you should know that outside items, especially those imbued with magic, are not permitted within the boundaries of Arioch.”
“Aldorin is part of Arioch too,” I argue.
The Sanvira raises a stiff gray brow. “Aldorin is within this kingdom and is under King Azriel’s dominion, but it is also severed from political involvement.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
His brows lift impossibly higher. “Would you like to know why you’ve been summoned on such short notice, or will you continue to show your lack of civility?”
I bite my lip so I don’t growl at him.
Civility. He acts as though he never served the same goddess we do. Or maybe he’s forgotten, some curse erasing the pleasant memory of Aldorin’s healing touch. The being staring at me now is wholly subservient to the throne. He will not intervene when my people suffer, because he helps make us so.
I bare my teeth, and a snarl rumbles nastily from my nostrils.
He chuckles and my body tenses. I can’t remember the last time I heard laughter. After all, what usually follows the sound is slaughter.
“Put those things away,” he says with a glower.
“Why?” I grin. “It’s how I display my… civility. ” I lift my lips higher, continuing to display the sharp canines all elves possess. Will he return my challenge? Will he drop this infuriating facade?
He breathes in deeply through his long nose and closes his eyes. He’s growing impatient. Perhaps he’ll change his mind and choose to release me if I pester him enough.
Before I can further our most engaging conversation, though, he smiles and his irises swirl with that silencing, emotionless gray.
“You are to attend King Azriel’s court and showcase your magical ability for his consideration.
Rumors have spread of your aptitude, even to the forsaken edges of Arcanvale.
” A pause as he steeples his fingers together, but his expression remains almost bored.
“As you’re aware, Crown Prince Xavelor Faundor is to be crowned king in a few months.
This summons serves to gather more powerful allies for his ascension.
The king has explicitly requested you to showcase your abilities before the throne. ”
“I—” But there’s nothing to say. The finality of his words leaves a hopelessness in the air.
Hand-selected by the king means no escape.
My fate will be in his hands, or his faceless son’s.
I’ll be a member of the king’s court, a slave to the family who banished our kind to the outer edges of the kingdom.
I am to work for the same humans who kill all who try to escape Arioch.
“Ether Malaphon, if you are to prove yourself fit to serve the king, you must change your attitude. To start, tell me what you have in that bag.”
I glance down at the burlap pouch, now crushed against my ribs, my knuckles holding the opening closed. The Sanvira hasn’t moved to take the bag from me yet. Perhaps he’ll let me keep it. After all, he knows I can’t lie…
For a thousand years, our people have been cursed to exclusively relay the truth to those who seek it. Curse after curse has afflicted our people, yet none of us know who cast them upon us. Though I suspect it was some poor soul forced to do the will of the ancient king, Arioch Faundor.
Fortunately, we’ve managed to find our ways around whole truths, as long as there is a semblance of truth in our statements. Many innocents have perished because of this curse. They would lie to protect their families, and the curse would strangle them to their deaths.
I have no plans to die now, so I don’t lie. I simply keep my answers vague.
With a sweet smile, my hands gradually release the opening of the bag. “Some bread for rejuvenation. A leafprint of my family. Twine for my hair. A few other things.”
“No food,” he says. His hand reaches across the space between us, palm-side up.
My hands move on their own again. He controls my fingers, puppeting them to loosen the string around the opening. I remove the jar of yellow fruit, then the small woven satchel of bread crackers. I place both in his hand, and he tucks them into his robes.
“Saving those for later?”
The Sanvira grunts, then presents a small yellow square with a thin smear of translucent icing on top. “Eat this. It will satiate you until we reach Arcanvale. It will be several hours before we arrive. There, I will explain the etiquette you must use when you have your audience with the king.”
He holds the square for a moment longer before sighing and forcing my hands to lift stiffly. He places the moist pastry in my palms. Then, without a moment to breathe, I shove the thing in my mouth and swallow it whole.
Its magic takes immediate effect as a sudden darkness overpowers me.
I wake to the sound of rhythmic hooves clicking against paved ground. The day has given way to the heat of summer, and with no openings in this carriage save for a small vent in the ceiling, it is nearly impossible to breathe.
I’m not sure how soon after eating that strange sweet square I’d fallen asleep, but I must’ve slept for a while because a soreness pulses over my right eye.
I’ve never traveled outside of Aldorin, so I don’t know what it’s like to be away from the ley lines that course from tree to tree, connecting the forest with invisible magic tethers.
The magic in Nwatalith reduces our need for sleep.
Being so far away, I’m starting to feel groggy.
I sit up slowly and blink the fatigue from my eyes, wincing at the pain in my right temple. It takes me a long moment to realize something is off. But then my heart lurches.
The Sanvira is gone .
This could be my chance to escape. There’s no reason to heed the instinctual worry pounding in my chest, betraying my better judgment.
My eyes flicker to each corner of the vehicle, then rest on my satchel, which is now lying on the opposite bench.
Its contents seem to have been removed. My lungs jump to my throat as I reach across the carriage and pat the center of the bag.
The air within it deflates, and I feel nothing.
A heat rises within me, though I try to suppress it.
With deep breaths, I stuff my hand into the bag to grab around for the most important thing—the leafprint—and my heart returns to its proper place when the soft, jagged edges of the oak leaf brush against my fingertips.
Pluto’s likeness is irreplicable, but I know my artistry captures his crooked smile, caring eyes, and those mischievous eyebrows that always wiggle when he knows I’m up to no good. If I lose this, will I forget him?
I shake my head and gently fold the leafprint and slide it beneath the sheath strapped to my thigh. My breath hitches for a moment as I check to make sure my dagger is still there. I breathe a sigh of relief when its hilt warmly meets the heel of my palm.
I close my eyes, steadying my inhale, my exhale.
Then I stand, straighten my legs, and force my body against the small carriage door.
It breaks easily, sending wood splintering and crackling around me. I roll across bumpy ground as the horses lead the carriage away frantically. The footman’s panicked voice trails away along with them.
My arms pepper with soreness that will undoubtedly become bruises later, but at least my headache has vanished.
I prop my hands beneath me and stand, rocking on the balls of my feet.