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They were far from the cliffs now, but Cera couldn’t get the image of that gaping maw out of her head. She wondered if the elves would be as composed if they crossed paths with one of those creatures in the dark of night.
"How much longer?" She asked, not caring if she invoked the ire of her companions. After a fortnight of sharing a carriage, the elven women did not hold the same ethereal sheen. They were not the mystical beings whose exploits filled the pages of epic tales. Perhaps elves like those existed, but these were normal women, only with pointed ears and an abundance of arrogance.
"We are nearly there, Princess."
The title was a mockery, though it had taken Cera a while to realize that. Initially, she'd been thrilled to be called a princess. It felt both fitting and terribly wrong.
No one in her lands would have ever called her a princess, even though her father had been the king. Any hope of attaining such a title had been negated by her mother, who had been the lowest sort of woman.
Born to a girl in a flea-ridden brothel—or so the queen mother was apt to recite—Cera's mother could not have received even the lowliest of titles. It did not matter that her mother had been snatched away within hours of being born, or that she’d been raised within the king's court. To put a title on a child cut from such foul cloth would have been the highest insult to the true nobles.
Cera had probably given more thought to the situation than any of the adults who had raised her mother. To them, Cera's mother had existed only to bear daughters. Cera and her older sister may have been sired by the king, but they were not princesses. They were pawns; resources to be used by the men that controlled their lives.
Even if the elven women mocked her by calling her 'princess,' Cera couldn't stamp down the flicker of hope within her. Despite the occasional barbed remark, the elves at least treated her with a semblance of respect. She knew no one in Esryia would treat her like an actual princess, but perhaps they would treat her like the human she was, rather than merely a broodmare for their high lord.
"It's so dark," Cera said, squinting at the black void that lay beyond the window. She could no longer see the shadow, or much of anything at all. It was as if they were passing through a cavern. "Where are all the houses?"
The women did not immediately respond. When they spoke, it was to one another, whispering in their obnoxiously beautiful, lilting elven language. The language they still believed that Cera could not understand.
"You may tell her," said the dark-haired one. Cera guessed she was the older of the two, although they both had the uncanny, ageless faces that were typical of all full-blooded elves. They looked as youthful as Cera, and as composed as women many times her age.
"But she could tell her people," said the one with hair like firelight. Her name was Maewyn, or at least, that was what the older woman called her. Neither had formally introduced themselves, despite Cera's early attempts to engage them in pleasantries.
"Use your head. Her feet will never again touch human lands. Nor will her missives."
It was easy for Cera to keep a straight face as she took in this information. It wasn't surprising. It had been thirteen years since her older sister Rimera had been sold to the Kytan king in exchange for a ship full of gold and a tenuous alliance. In the years since, Rimera had never once been able to write to Cera, nor Cera to her. She hadn't expected the elves, far more insular than any human race, to permit her to send out letters.
Not that she had anyone to write to.
"Viranhildr is right before us," said Maewyn, switching back to the Ateran language. "It is shielded from the eyes of outsiders, as have been all the towns and villages we have passed on our journey. One such as yourself could traverse our lands for ages without ever catching sight of our homes."
Cera squinted even harder, wondering if it was like the optical illusions in picture books. Now that she knew the capital city was before her, surely it would come into focus. But no, there was only murky darkness.
"Is it shielded from the eyes of dragons, as well?"
Although Maewyn had mocked her for believing the wyvern was a dragon, Cera hadn't failed to notice how uncomfortable the elves grew whenever the topic of dragons was broached.
She did her best to mention dragons whenever possible.
"We have no need to fear those beasts," Maewyn said. In the dull light of the lantern, Cera thought she saw color in the elf's pale cheeks.
"Of course not," Cera said with a small smile.
She was about to slip in a delicate jibe about The Draconic War when suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Before she could dismiss the feeling as a sudden chill, an intense discomfort gripped her. Quick as a lashing, every muscle in her body tensed, as if in anticipation of a blow.
It was no use trying to conceal her discomfort, though she made a feeble effort. Choking back a gasp, her back went rigid and she clamped her hands together in her lap. Her eyes darted between each of the elves, their calm countenance keeping Cera from fully panicking.
"There is...some sort of magic in the air," she said through the pinhole of her tightened throat.
"We are passing through the barrier," the older elf informed her. "You may feel discomfort, but it will pass."
A warded barrier.
A trickle of relief ran through her as she recognized what was happening. She'd read about the elven barriers in the tales of bounty hunters. They were the mirror opposite of the fabled fae barriers, which were said to drawinhapless mortals.
Elven barriers began by inciting a sense of mild discomfort, enough to make the average, superstitious human turn back. Once they got close to breaching the barrier, a sense of intense, almost paralytic wrongness would set in, such that only the bravest—or most foolhardy—mortal would dare press on.
Even knowing what it was, Cera soon wanted to claw at her own skin. There was a ringing in her ears and sweat beaded on her forehead. She kept her eyes fixed on the window, silently willing the carriage to make haste.
