Then he was running toward us, or maybe more like bounding? It was joyful, though the distinctive whisper of Vaelith and Thyren pulling out their swords cut through the moment.
The young man skidded to a stop about ten feet from Bram, breathing hard, and started talking.
The words meant nothing. Not the Common Tongue, not Old Fae, not Fae, not Troll, not any dialect of Elvish I had encountered. A torrent of unfamiliar syllables, fast and animated, accompanied by expressive gestures.
The old woman was right: he was gorgeous, with a well-formed face, pointy little chin, and big, bright blue eyes.
His eyes darted between us, wide and questioning, a bright, uncertain smile on his lips.
“Do you speak the Common tongue?” I asked.
He tilted his head, frowning, pointed at himself and said something I could not understand.
I turned to Ilyndra. She was already reaching into her satchel for an aetherwoven ring. She handed it to me without a word, the corners of her eyes crinkling the tiniest bit.
I dismounted. The man’s eyes skimmed over my body, centering between my legs. He licked his lips.
“This will help you understand,” I said, holding out the ring.
He stepped back, raised both hands, palms out, and shook his head. The universal gesture of no, thank you—or maybe, I don’t accept magical jewelry from strangers. Which was fair.
I held the little wooden ring out again, more insistently. “It’s not dangerous, it’s aetherwoven, spelled by a powerful elf to translate languages. It will allow us to understand each other.”
The man spoke again, turned and slapped his own ass, winking. What the ever-loving fuck?
Behind me, Vaelith made a sound that she poorly disguised as a cough.
I took a breath. I’d faced down fae war-chiefs. I had survived a hundred and fifty years of the Long War. I had once endured a six-hour council session on agricultural tariffs in the Faraway Delta.
I could handle this.
I held the ring up where the man could see it. I pointed to the ring. Pointed to his ear. Pointed to his mouth, mimed understanding.
He stared at the ring, at me, at the ring again.
Behind me, Bram sighed, and I knew what he was thinking. The commander of the elite, highly trained Grey Guard, reduced to pantomime on a country road.
I tried the pantomime again, pointing at my ear, nodding as if I’d heard something. He reached out and took the ring and put it on.
“I don’t know why you keep insisting on giving me this ring, but whatever. Sure, Lothario, I’ll take a ring. This does not mean we’re engaged, though. I mean, we can fuck, if you like, because who would say no to all of that.” He made a little gesture at my body. “I’ve been walking for HOURS and I have no idea where I am or how I got here. I think I blacked out. Do you think I was drugged?”
The words hit me like a wall, loud and forceful. The ring was still weaving a connection to his mind, and the meaning arrived in fragments, in bright shards of sense buried in a torrent of sound. I tried to cut in, but he was still going.
“And my phone is in my bag back at the club, because, I mean, no pockets!” He patted his tiny trousers. “I tried asking a cute old lady, but she sprinted to her wagon and raced off. Is this like a Renaissance fair? Because the production value is incredible but I need to—“
I gave up on waiting for him to finish and cut in. “I’m afraid I must first ask who you are.”
The man stopped. Stared.
“You — I can understand you.”
“Yes. The ring is —“
“Holy crap.” He looked at the ring on his finger, pulled it off then started talking again.
I shook my head.
“It needs to —“
