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She’d long given up her hopes and dreams for the future. She’d been a fool, a dreamy-eyed fool, to think that this stranger would care for her even a whit. And why should he? He didn’t choose her any more than she chose him. They were ill-suited, but they were stuck with one another. It was the worst sort of fate she could imagine. The seconds ticked by to the snick, snick of his knife.
She stumbled back to Medda, angry tears burning behind her eyes. Talos would never see them though, those tears. They were hers and hers alone, and she willed them away.
Anrid sat with her back to them and rocked back and forth, growing more agitated by the minute. What were they waiting for? They hadn’t been traveling long enough to warrant stopping for the night, and no one had said anything about a meal. Medda lay in her sling, forgotten and growing weaker. Had her breathing become shallower, or was that Anrid’s imagination running away with her?
She missed Jael. And Trap. And the children. Even Kora, a little. He wasn’t so bad when he was trying to behave himself.
Footsteps approached from behind. She twisted with hopeful enthusiasm as the older elf stopped alongside her, gazing down at Medda. “Any change?” His voice possessed a soft, almost musical quality she might have liked under other circumstances.
She shook her head. “Are we about to leave?”
The elf winced, emotion flickering over his face before he forced an apologetic smile. “I’m…afraid not. Not quite yet. But soon.” He looked over his shoulder and muttered something that sounded like, I hope.
Panic lanced through her entire body, but Anrid forced it to be still. She needed to remain calm and levelheaded for Medda.
“I’m Anrid,” she said when the elf did not walk away and abandon them. “And this is Medda.”
His observed her with steady eyes. “I know.” An awkward pause hung between them before he cleared his throat. “My name is Teague Meddallan. I have a daughter about your age. Margit, her mother named her. She’s like you. Human.”
“Your daughter?”
He barked a laugh at her confusion. “No, my wife. My wife is human. Margit is…well, half human and half…me.”
“Oh, I see. Of course.” Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment.
To her surprise, he crouched beside her, balancing on the toes of his boots with elbows propped on his knees. She studied him, more than a little surprised to learn that he had a human wife. But why should she be? Humans marrying the dark elves had become a very common practice.
“Your wife,” she began, wondering if he would find insult with a personal question, “was she a peaceweaver? From Haldor?”
He observed her with equal intensity. “She was. One of the first. You would like her, I think. She has enough room in her heart for all of Rhuin.” A rueful smile touched his mouth, but it exuded with sadness. “And my wallet bears proof of it. She gives away my earnings as quickly as I manage to collect them.”
For some reason, this made Anrid like him. She wanted to meet his wife, this human lady who had made herself at home in Gelaira and sought to give away Gelairan riches to help those in need. What fascinated her even more, though, was that Teague appeared genuinely fond of his wife. She was guessing, of course, but he spoke of her without malice.
“You are both happy?” As soon as she asked the question, she knew it was much too personal and pressed a hand to her flaming cheek. “Oh, forgive me, you don’t have to answer that. I’m just—I meant—”
He held up a hand as she floundered into mortified silence. “We are happy,” he answered, in a gentle way, the way she imagined he might speak to his own daughter.
Was he trying to encourage her? To allay her fears? She managed a wobbly smile of gratitude, although his words had done little to stir the fear broiling in her belly. If her intended was as nice as Teague, perhaps she would stand a chance of finding happiness. But as things were...
Happiness did not wait in her future, not if she went through with this, as she was bound to.
Anrid reached down to adjust the blankets around Medda. “Do you think you could encourage them to leave soon?” She asked the question without daring to look at him.
His heavy sigh answered her question. “I wish I could,” he whispered, for her ears alone. “Believe me, I wish I could.”
He rose then and pressed two fingers against her hunched shoulder before moving to rejoin his companions, leaving her and Medda alone.
A few minutes later, something stirred in the shadows of the tunnel leading back to Imenborg. Anrid unfolded herself and peered over the stalagmite sheltering her and Medda from the others. A shadow peeled out of the darkness. Her heart leaped to her throat, as she feared the living monsters from her nightmares had once again broken free.
But, no, she breathed a sigh of relief. This shadow was of the living variety. Frowning, she squinted to make out who it was, but he was too far away and standing in the blackness of the tunnel. Several of the elves went to greet the new arrival, as if they’d been expecting him.
An unpleasant taste soured her mouth. No wonder they had been lingering here in the cavern: they’d been waiting for someone. But who? And why?
The newcomer handed something to Talos. She inched around the stalagmite, straining her ears to catch snippets of the conversation. She caught a word or two but nothing that made sense until she slipped too close.
“You’ll keep your end of the bargain?” As he said the words, Kora glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Anrid. His expression twisted—was that alarm? Regret? But he masked the emotion and shifted his attention back to the elves.
Talos laughed a low, cold laugh as he turned the item over in his hands as if it were something precious. One of the younger elves caught Kora by the collar.
