Page 48 of Seaspoken

“Never say that again,” she says firmly. “I have chosen you, and no power under the heavens can turn me aside from that choice. But I am not a fool. Maybe we ask too much of our peoples if we think our union will lead to theirs.”

I can think of no comforting answer to give, though I wish I could. Evya saw the very worst of the elves last night, and I can offer no defense on their behalf. Still, I’m not quite ready to give up hope. The wind carries the scent of stew and fresh herbs, reminding me that one person in this fortress might still be glad to see us.

A cold breeze whips around us. Evya pulls her cloak close as we walk on through the garden. Before we left my chamber, she exchanged her festival gown for borrowed clothing, then carefully washed the bloodstains from the splendid white dress and left it to dry. I wish I could have offered her a proper gown to replace it, but even if one of the elven women would be willing to lend her one, their clothing isn’t made for someone as tall as Evya. The best I could do was lend her some of my own garments: a sleeveless silver robe belted with a wide gray sash, and a warm velvet cloak of midnight blue.

We walk hand in hand down the path of smooth stones, then up the steps. The library wing rises only three stories, modest in comparison to the rest of the fortress, but some long-ago builder took care in making the place particularly beautiful. Its pale marble walls are polished smooth and etched with floral motifs and its windows are paned with faceted glass that scatters the sunlight like a thousand tiny prisms. The air smells of sweet, woody incense. A familiar feeling of peace wraps around me as we ascend the stairs. Even Evya seems to relax a little, though her gaze still darts around nervously and her grip on me tightens as I reach the top and turn the latch on the door.

The sound of children’s voices greets us as we enter the chamber at the top of the staircase. Eight young elves sit on cushions in the middle of the small room, holding lesson books and surrounded by parchments and ink wells. In the center sits Nehanir, the old priest, with a gilt-edged book in his hand and a look of exasperated patience on his tan face. His long indigo hair hangs over one shoulder in a simple braid, and he wears a silk patch over his sightless left eye.

At a glance, the priest looks barely older than Evya or I, but he has the look that the most ancient of my people bear, as if his focus is never quite on this world, and the light of distant stars gleams in his good eye. Nehanir Faltor Erë-Setaryel has never told me his age, but I know he is older than Tandith itself—one of the elves who fled from the destruction of the star-clouds and came to this world as a refugee. But any renown he earned through the millennia is just a whisper in a fireside tale now, thanks to everything Raith did to discredit and destroy the priests. Now, Nehanir spends most of his time tending his herb gardens, instructing the few children at Kara Davonashi, and carrying on the simple rituals of faith that most of the fortress’s inhabitants see as a waste of time.

Such as giving counsel to foolish young prophets and making sure strangers don’t get shot while they’re pounding on our gates for help.

The children clamber to their feet as soon as they see us, casting their books and quill pens aside. They start to swarm around me with their usual barrage of greetings, then draw back with wide eyes as Evya follows me inside.

She hesitates for a moment, weary resignation on her face. Then she slowly kneels down and greets them in the common speech, keeping her empty hands visible and drawing her cloak back so they can get a better look at her. She gives a tired smile, shifting her teeth to sharp points and drawing awed gasps from the children.

Finally, one of the smaller girls ventures close enough to trace a finger over one of Evya’s finlike ears, then draws back with a nervous giggle. Her actions are enough to break the tension. I stand close to Evya and rest my hand on her shoulder as the students draw in close around us and ply us with questions.

Nehanir gives the children a few moments to speak, then stands from his pile of cushions and gently shoos them out the chamber’s side door onto the balcony beyond. He shuffles forward, limping on his bad right leg, and pulls me into an embrace. He releases me only when I grunt in pain.

Then he turns to Evya as she stands, touching his fingers to his forehead in respect. “I greet you, princess. Thank you for aiding Keliveth as you did.”

Evya is silent for a moment. Her eyes glint if she’s pondering a strategic move.

“We shine beneath the same stars, priest of the Eternal.” The words of the traditional greeting flow from her tongue in the ancient Selistarin dialect, light and musical, if not quite fluent. I nearly fall over in astonishment as she continues. “The paths of the worlds have led to our meeting, and I am glad.”

Nehanir’s face lights with a wondering smile. “You know the old language?”

“I would be a poor leader if I did not learn the tongue of my enemies,” she says, still speaking Selistarin. “Falamar and his lords do not know I can understand the high speech, and I kindly ask you not to reveal my secret.”

“Am Inotyour enemy, then?” He arches his brows, looking a little surprised. Perhaps he'd expected Evya to dislike him.

“You are the first in this place to greet me as a chieftain’s daughter and not as a savage.” She pauses. “No one is my foe unless they choose to be.”

“Then you have a sense of honor the lords of the elves have forgotten.” He heaves a heavy sigh. “I hold out hope that Falamar will learn that one day. Though I know now that I hoped for his good will too much when I sent you to him last night. For that, I can only ask your forgiveness.”

A slight grimace passes over Evya’s face, as if she’s trying to think of an appropriate response. A conversation from her lessons surfaces in my mind, and I realize why. Tuath do not have words for asking forgiveness. The only true way to say you are sorry is to do something that shows it. Though Evya knows how apologies work among the elves, I can see her diplomatic veneer wearing thin from exhaustion and hunger.

“You can make it up by feeding us, old man,” I interject, stepping close to Evya and taking her hand again. “I assume we haven’t missed luncheon?”

“No, no. I was just about to feed the little ones. Please, sit.”

We settle onto the piles of cushions that lie about the room, while Nehanir vanishes into the makeshift kitchen adjacent to the study area. The priest learned long ago that his students learn better with full stomachs and that most of their families had little food to spare, so he took to feeding them himself. Today, the smell of venison and rosemary wafts from the kitchen doorway. He returns a moment later with two earthenware bowls filled with steaming red stew.

Though the broth is thin, it’s rich with the flavor of humble garden herbs, and it brings me back to life a little more. While Evya and I nestle close together and slurp down the stew, the priest tends to the children on the balcony, handing out bowls and making sure none of them try to slip away before he can begin afternoon lessons.

Evya stays quiet, looking thoughtful and staring into her bowl of stew as if it might hold answers to impossible questions. Questions of my own begin to form in my mind. Her bold, earthy bearing is an odd contrast to the prim stateliness of Kara Davonashi, but nothing about this place or its inhabitants seems to take her by surprise. Even from the start, she has borne an understanding toward me and my ways that goes far beyond the familiarity of a warrior who studies her adversaries.

“You speak the old language with a northern accent,” I venture. “Where did you learn it?”

Evya’s gaze goes distant, perhaps with the memory of some vanished happiness. “At the university at Lanta Koriashen. I studied there for many years—long ago, in happier times.”

“You hold a degree from an elven university?” I feel like a fool for not suspecting it sooner. It used to be common for tuath leaders to study among the elves, before Raith’s brutality widened the gulf between our peoples. Evya is old enough to have studied at one of the temple schools in a more peaceful era.

A smile flickers across her face, radiating quiet pride. “Two high valtas, one in diplomacy and one in runecraft.”

I let out a low whistle. Earning even one high level degree is a feat, let alone two. “Just when I think I know you, you surprise me all over again.”

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