Page 38 of Prince of the Sun

Daerios releases my hair, stepping back from the table. “I’ll see you around, Quinn.”

And then, with a swoosh of his cloak, he turns and strides out of the courtyard.

In Linguistics the next day, I nod to Daerios and Berendir as I pass, headed for my usual seat at the back of the classroom. Before I make it even one step up, however, a hand wraps around my wrist, tugging me into one of the desks in the front row.

I land with a grunt.

“What the hell?” I growl at Berendir, who withdraws his hand. He shrugs innocently. I glance around him at Daerios, who keeps his gaze forward with an unreadable expression.

“You know what?” Berendir announces. “I can’t see the lecture well from here.” He turns to me. “Quinn, will you switch seats with me?”

“We’re in the front row,” I say. “Every desk can see the lecture well.”

“I don’t like this angle,” he insists.

I’m going to kill him.

Not wanting to cause any more of a scene, I grit my teeth. “Fine.”

By the time we’ve settled into our new seats—me squarely between the two elves—Dr. Infix has begun his lecture on howto identify cultural crossover via abnormal morphemes. I slide out my notebook and pen, ready to take notes. As I do, Daerios’s knee brushes mine.

I freeze. When I glance over at him, he stares forward as if nothing happened. My eyes dart down to my notebook, where I blindly copy down what Dr. Infix is saying:the remnants of Proto-Turkic in Azerbaijani, such as good God Sheila how many times have I told you not to…

It’s only halfway through the sentence that I realize I’m now writing down Dr. Infix berating our TA.

My pen jerks back from the page, and before I can cross out the words, I hear a snort to my left. When I look at Berendir, his eyes are forward, but a suppressed smirk plays at his lips.

I tear the paper out of my notebook, ball it up, and toss it at the side of his face.

Like an unexpected breeze, Daerios starts appearing everywhere I go on campus. On the river during my afternoon walk. In the booth beside mine at Starbucks. In Cabot Library as I read Mohsin Hamid or Gabriel García Márquez, a tall plastic cup of cold brew from Clover in my hand, drinking until the words start to quiver. I’ll start up Weeks Bridge, or glance up from a page, and there he is—out for his own walk, ordering his own drink.

I never approach him. I don’t have to. Every time, he walks right up to me and asks the same thing. “May I join you?”

Impeccable manners, for a raging asshole.

I’m still spying on the final clubs, of course. It’s the only part of my routine Daerios hasn’t yet infiltrated. Every Tuesday andThursday, I dress in all black, salute Cara on my way out the door, and slip off into the night.

For the past few weeks, I’ve spied on no one but the Ikarith. Not the Rui, or the Kavië, or the Kiilis—a word that meanssnowfallin English, which makes sense, as it is the headquarters of the Snow Elves. They may be brilliant, but no one said they were creative.

I used to rotate between the clubs, to keep my search as wide as possible, but now, I find myself drawn only to Linden Street. I tell myself it’s because they’re the only club who has given me any real information in the last year. I refuse to admit that there might be any other reason. I refuse to admit that I go to hear one certain voice.

In the daylight, I don’t bother saying no to his requests to join me anymore. Instead, as he sits in the armchair next to mine, cozied up against my favorite window of Cabot, I eye his steaming paper tea cup and ask, “Do elves not drink coffee?”

“Not particularly.”

“No coffee beans on Elaërion?”

“No, there are. But we are taught that coffee races the heart and unsteadies the hand.” He holds up his left and turns it in the air. “Good bowmanship requires steady hands.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t use a bow.” I hold up my half-empty cold brew and shake it twice. “Because I wouldn’t graduate without coffee.”

My eyes flit out to the rest of the library, and there they are—the sea of now-familiar eyes that follow Daerios and me wherever we go. The shock and confusion at seeing an elf and a human in casual conversation.

“What are you looking at?” he asks.

Daerios never seems to notice all the eyes. Maybe he’s pretending. Or maybe, as a prince, human fascination is the only life he’s ever known.

“Nothing,” I say. Then I stick out the oil-black cup of cold brew. “Here. Try it.”