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“We know the one who called himself Rahndek,” says the pale woman with the auburn hair. “We called him Akos.”
Goddess help me, I will never remember all the names that man has used.
“The Half-Elf I speak of is so much more than his names,” I continue, “and that’s why I’ve come. The King of Darthage forced him to reveal his true name, and now holds him in sway. The King will force this Half-Elf, your kinsman, to do terrible magic for the Crown, and he will do cruel things to his body and soul, as well.”
My voice quivers, so I pause, letting silence settle in my heart. I focus on relaxing the parts of my body that are tensing up. Once I have taken five good, slow breaths, I say, “To free your kinsman, I need his true name. As I understand it, he can’t repeat his own name again until he is freed, so he can’t reveal it to me himself. And even if he could, I can’t get to him—not without a disguise. So I had no choice but to come here and ask for this secret… to ask for your mercy.”
“What of this heirloom?” says another Elder, a male with ebony skin and hair green as grass. “What is the cultural treasure you claim to be returning to us?”
“Akos discovered it recently. I’m not sure where he obtained it, but he would have wanted it returned to his people.” I reach into my pocket, draw out the notebook, and extract the gold pin from its spine.
“You’re so sure he would have brought it back?” The blue-eyed Elder’s lip curls slightly, the faintest hint of a sneer. “He would more likely have kept it or bartered it.”
“Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think,” I say smoothly.
Enthel shifts on her pillow, probably a hint for me to control my temper.
I hold up the golden pin, then twist its head to summon Axidor.
The moment the blade shoots out, five of the Elders rise from their seats. They move swiftly, and their faces don’t alter much, but they’re clearly startled.
The man with green hair strides forward, holding out his hands. “May I?”
“Of course.” I lay the sword across his palms.
He tests it, much like Lannau did, and pronounces, with a tone of stony calm, that it is indeed Axidor, blade of Liacan.
It’s so strange to me to see each member of the Elders go from relaxed, casual expressions to masks of utter stoicism.
The more stoic the visage, the deeper the feeling goes.
Which means everyone in this room is deeply affected by the return of the sword.
“In gratitude for the return of this, one of our most fabled historic items, we will grant you any boon within our power,” says the auburn-haired woman.
“I require nothing except to leave her with my friend, with our memories intact, carrying the knowledge of Akos’s true name—and a disguise that can get me into the court,” I add. “Since Akos assumed someone else’s identity when he infiltrated the palace, they’re sure to create safeguards to prevent that from happening again. My disguise would need to be a powerful one.”
“The gift of the name is beyond our power,” says the auburn-haired Elder. “That decision rests with his father alone, and his father has sworn by the goddess never to—”
“To speak the name aloud, I know.” I regret the interruption a second later, but I’ve already done it, so I may as well forge ahead. “I thought perhaps you could write it down.” I’m talking directly to Lord Argelos now. I’m absolutely certain he’s Rupert’s father, not only because of the resemblance, but because everyone else in the room seems to be carefully avoiding eye contact with him.
The blue-eyed Elder shakes his head. “Did the boy tell you that? He got it wrong, as usual. When I named him, I vowed to the goddess that I would neither speak it aloud nor write it down. I know the dangers of a true name to a Half-Elf. Do you think I’m a fool, that I would leave such a loophole?” He speaks with perfect evenness of tone, not a trace of anger. Which means he must be very, very angry with me. “I warned my son about the risks, over and over. How did the King convince him to give up his name?”
“He tortured me,” I reply.
“You?” The Elder’s eyes narrow slightly. “And what are you to my son?”
I take a deep breath, and erase every hint of emotion from my face, my tone. “I love him, and he loves me in return.”
For a long moment I fear I’ve done wrong in suppressing what I feel. It seems so counterintuitive, so wrong to conceal it.
But the woman crocheting with silver thread scrutinizes my face for a moment, then nods and says, “You do us honor by sublimating your emotions. It’s a difficult task for humans, and yet you care so deeply for this Half-Elf that you are willing to reverse everything that feels natural to you, as a human. You want very badly to convince us of your love for him.”
“Yes.” I keep my tone flat, my face impassive, except for a tiny tremor of my lower lip. I can’t control that bit, no matter how hard I try.
“Be at ease, Juliette,” says the Elder, continuing to crochet even as she watches me. “We believe that you care for this man. Why else would you travel so far, through the Riddenwold, risking the loss of your life and memories? Why else would you yield this treasure into our hands?” She gestures to the sword.
Rupert’s father speaks again, his voice as cold as stone. “He loved you enough to give up his name to a human ruler?”
