Page 7 of A Queen's Game
And Kentro, the place Marietta now walked, was her home. The capital sat at the center of Enomenos, bustling with industry and nightlife. Growing up here meant never having a moment of quiet, which Marietta loved.
Because her job was to connect businesses together, she had clients all over the region and often spent a week or two in each city-state. Every day was different—different clients, different places, different tasks—sharpening her mind and indulging her ever-present desire to see and know everything. No other jobwould give her that freedom, that independence to travel at will where no day repeats itself.
As lovely as the city-states were, they paled in comparison to the people who lived there. Marietta loved the dynamics between the citizens—humans, elves, and half-elves—that occupied Enomenos. The physical differences between them were subtle. The elongated, sharply pointed ears of an elf were easy to spot from the round-tipped ears of humans. Half-elves, like Marietta, had a blunted arched tip that was somewhere in the middle. If someone had hair upon their face, they were human or half-elven because the elven couldn’t even grow stubble.
It was a common belief that humans and elves descended from different beings. The old gods had molded the first humans, or the pili, from the earth and gave them sentience. Their children—the humans and half-elves of today—were named the pilinos. Elven had their own creation myth, believing that they were descendants of the fey. As a child, Marietta’s father had shared such feyrie tales with her.
Beyond physical discrepancies, the main difference between the pilinos and elven was the length of life. Humans lived less than a century where elven could live up to six. As she journeyed down the street, Marietta smiled as she passed an elf still in their prime with a human wrinkled with age. Were they friends? Lovers? Maybe they’d been married for the last fifty years?
It wasn’t often she’d see an older elf with a young human, many mindful of the age gap in romantic relationships; yet, camaraderie and friendships defied the distance in age. Even one of Marietta’s dearest friends was an old elven man from Avato.
As for romance, Marietta knew if she ever loved a human, she would be unmarked with age by the time they’d pass on, outliving them by a century. To remarry after a spouse diedremained common for that reason. It wasn’t unusual for elves to love and marry multiple people across their six hundred-year lifespans. Not that she’d find a partner who worked with her schedule. The seamstress from Notos had ended their relationship last month for that very reason, claiming Marietta didn’t make time for her. Her business came first—always.
The travel came with another drawback: being alone on the road made Marietta an easy target. Hiring a new sellsword or mercenary to escort her grew tiresome—and expensive. A friend recommended a Syllogian elven man new to town looking for permanent work. Marietta was on her way to meet him.
Marietta’s cloak fell open as she approached the Drunken Drought, a tavern in the center of Kentro’s entertainment district. The wintry air cut through the narrow street, the sun’s last rays giving way to a clear night sky. Above her, the stars twinkled.
She pushed past the heavy wooden door and took in the familiar features of the tavern. The lighting was warm, with lanterns hanging from the ceiling and hearths illuminating the bottom floor. Idle chattering and the stale scent of ale and food made her smile.
The barkeep, an elven man well into his life with wrinkles creeping onto his face, waved her over to say hello. Marietta started for the second floor after a quick greeting and asking how his wife and daughter fared. It had been a year since she worked with the Drunken Drought. The owner had hired someone to do his finances, which meant she had done her job well enough that he could afford to hire someone.
The staircase creaked as she ascended to the second floor, reaching the balcony and leaning on it to watch her surroundings. The walkway around the second floor was wide, encircling the bottom, and gave more privacy than the packed tables on the first. Marietta preferred to meet up there,especially on nights the tavern grew busy like it would that evening. Kentro had a rich nightlife, with many flocking there for a vacation filled with entertainment. A musician would play that evening; most likely, Marietta knew who they were.
As she took a seat, an elven man she presumed to be Alyck based on his description walked in. Stocky for a full elf, a buzz of black hair, and a grin on his face. Marietta sighed as she noticed the other elf at his side. He towered over his friend with a thick wave of brown hair and cheekbones that could cut stone. Broad-shouldered with a narrow waist, Marietta noted the confident way the hulking elf carried himself.
As they approached the table, Marietta bit back her annoyance and smiled. “Hi there, you must be Alyck,” she said, her hand extended to shake.
With a glance at her otherwise ignored hand, Alyck slid onto the opposite bench. “That I am. Have you ordered yet?” He raised his hand, flagging down the barmaid.
Gods, he lived up to the stereotype. Likely, he held the same views of other Syllogian elves—that pilinos were subservient to the elven. At some point in history, the elves of Syllogi deemed being descendants of fey made them more important than those who descended from the pili. Marietta found it all to be quite stupid. People were people regardless of being human, elven, or something in between; yet, across from her sat the perfect depiction of arrogance bred from a well-fed superiority complex.
Marietta dropped her hand and narrowed her eyes. “Ah, yes. The reason we’re here—the ale.” Sarcasm laced her tone as she shifted her focus to the other elven man. “Are you here to get drunk as well?”
The man glared at his friend. “Apologies. I didn’t realize Alyck had a meeting when he invited me.”
“Well, now you know. We might as well kill two birds with one stone. Get drunk, conduct some business,” Alyck said, turning to the approaching barmaid. “Two mugs of ale each.”
The barmaid, who Marietta was familiar with, shot her an expression—the same expression all Enomenoan women gave to each other when dealing with rude Syllogian elven men. Marietta mouthed an apology as the barmaid went back to the bar.
“Two each?” Marietta lifted a brow. Seldom was there a chance to see such an accurate depiction of a stereotype play out. “Why not make it three?”
“Now, that’s a stupid question,” Alyck answered, his gaze locked onto a group of women on the first floor. “The third ale would just get too warm while you finish the other two.”
“The expert has spoken.” Marietta shook her head and turned to the other male. “Do you also carry such ground-breaking opinions on the correct number of ales to order at a time?”
“No,” he said dryly.
“A shame.” Marietta took in the sharp angles of his face, noticing the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. An adorable detail on such a hardened man. The features conflicted with one another. “Do you have a name?”
“I do,” he said, clearing his throat as he extended his hand. “Keyain.”
Marietta grasped it and shook. “Marietta Lytpier.”
Keyain held on to her hand a second longer before dropping it. He turned to his friend. “Why were you meeting Marietta tonight?”
The barmaid set down the ales. Alyck grabbed one and began chugging, Marietta rolling her eyes as a bit dribbled onto his shirt. He stopped to belch and turned to his friend. “Guard job or something.”
Keyain exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “A guard job…. Don’t you think you’re being a tad unprofessional?”
