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It strikes me suddenly how little I know of him and his people—the Goddess-blessed Kin who adore nature, wield magic, and bargain with names and lives. And yet I know enough to be confident that Rupert is not a killer. If he fought to the death with the former owner of this blade, there must have been a good reason.
“He obtained the sword recently, I think,” Enthel murmurs. “If he’d possessed this blade for any length of time, he’d have taken it back to the sanctuary, and they would have hailed him as a hero and a lord of our people. It would be the one great feat he’s been looking for—a way to make them respect and accept him.” She lays gentle fingers on Lannau’s wrist. “Put it away, love, before you hurt someone.”
Reluctantly Lannau places her palm over the sword-tip, and after a moment’s hesitation, presses firmly. The sword shrinks back to the size of a needle, and she hands it to me.
“It reads the intent of the wielder,” she says. “If you’re using it for defense, it will cut and stab like any other blade. But if you wish it to shrink, it does.”
“Amazing.” Angling the pin, I cautiously twist the head of it and gasp as the sword appears in all its glory. As Lannau mentioned, when my fingers curl around the hilt, I can sense the weapon’s power. It is truly thrilling.
With a treasure like this in his hands, Rupert could have left Giltos. He could have departed for the sanctuary and claimed the approval of his father and the awe of the Elves.
But he didn’t. He returned to me.
“I’ve been wondering how I can persuade Rupert’s father to give me his true name,” I murmur, holding the sword nearer to the carriage window and admiring the play of light along the blade. “Maybe this will help. Rupert said his father vowed not to speak the name—”
“He vowed that? Before the goddess?” Lannau frowns, leaning forward. “You didn’t tell us that.”
“Yes, but I thought he could write it down for me, rather than speaking it aloud.”
“Well... that might work, depending on the wording of his original vow.” She leans back in her seat, mollified. “And yes—that sword will be most helpful in guaranteeing us safe passage into and out of the sanctuary.”
“They’ll take it from me?”
“Of course they will. It’s a priceless Elvish artifact, and it belongs with the Kin. But we can use it to win their goodwill.” Lannau nods, biting her lip. “We’ll say that you discovered the sword and wanted to deliver it to its rightful owners. You respect its cultural significance. We are your escorts, dedicated to ensuring the safe return of the sword. In gratitude, the Elders will offer you a boon, and you must word your request carefully.”
“Safe departure for me and for Bede, with our memories intact,” I say, “and Rupert’s true name. Do you know his father?”
“I met him once,” Enthel’s soft voice interposes. “He is the Prime Elder, Lord Argelos. Not his true name, of course, but his given name. He is as cold as ice in the dead of winter, and he hates humans more passionately than most Elves.”
“Yet he fucked one, apparently,” I point out.
“Perhaps that’s why he hates them.” Lannau fluffs her cloud of red curls. “Maybe Rahndek’s mother—sorry, Rupert’s mother—died, or rejected him, and his heartbreak incited the hatred.”
“Do most Elves hate humans?”
“Hate might be a strong word.” Lannau purses her lips. “I would say they dislike humans strongly. They view humans as careless with the earth, greedy for power and magic, cruel to each other, and chaotic in their society.”
They’re not wrong, Bede signs.
Pondering her words, I close the sword as Lannau did, insert the gold pin into the spine of the notebook again, and wedge it into my pocket, now fully aware of just how much value I’m carrying on my person.
I wish Rupert were here, so he could weigh in on the decisions I’m making. Not because I can’t make them—I’m used to making decisions alone—but because the only leverage I have comes from things that belong to him, either in whole or in part. The sword—our future child.
Would he approve the gift of our firstborn to this couple, as the price of finding the Sanctuary?
Would he agree to the exchange of the sword for our welcome into the Elvish haven, and our safe departure once our business is done?
Does he believe I’ve left him alone, abandoned him to rot and to suffer in the King’s grasp, while I run off and begin a new life on my own? Surely he knows I would never be so selfish. He must know I’ll be back for him, no matter what it takes. No matter the cost.
23
Days after the incident with the cursed spinning wheel, I still haven’t recovered. But the pain is less.
I’m not sure how many days have passed, or how close I came to death during that time. When they tortured Juliette, they gave me something to keep me alert; but once that wore off, I spent most of my time deeply unconscious or drowning in the most horrific of nightmares. I remember Lady Kessalif coming in to check on me a few times, arguing with someone else about my condition, and confessing that she might have drained me too far, that I might be irreparable.
Which would make me useless to the King, and therefore dispensable.
But on this day, I feel a little stronger. I don’t try to touch my magic—I’m not even sure it’s there. But when Lady Kessalif pops in to check on me and sees me propped on my pillows, sipping water, she brightens. “Feeling better?”
