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I try not to imagine what the King might be making him do.
I have his name, but I can’t leave yet. I need the spell they’re crafting, the disguise to hide me so I can get back into the Royal City, into the palace.
So while I wait, I must keep busy, or I will shatter into a thousand shards, and I very much doubt I’d be able to put myself back together.
The house I woke up in is apparently one of the primary gathering places of the settlement. It’s a long, narrow building built on a ledge the Elves chiseled out of the cliff. I’m told that when the water in the Gorge is highest, it comes right up to the windows of the lowest level.
I’m enraptured with the building’s kitchens—bustling spaces whose baskets and bins overflow with the freshest produce, while the cabinets are stocked with a broad variety of spices, including many I’ve never seen. Rupert’s father brought me down here after we’d waited for several minutes to be sure he wasn’t going to die. Apparently the goddess conceded the loophole and didn’t consider signing the name to be a breach of his vow—for which I thanked her in a silent prayer as he led me to the kitchens and left me with a solemn admonishment to enjoy myself.
The Elves’ kitchen is far more peaceful than a human kitchen with the same number of workers could ever be. The Elves are so even-tempered, so considerate, and they move smoothly between and around each other, exchanging pleasant words, concise requests, or compliments on the progress of the meal.
Several of the Elves working around me are using magic alongside their culinary skills. I’m surrounded by self-stirring batter, vegetables that chop or dice themselves, and ovens that reach the proper temperature with the quick recitation of an Elvish rhyming couplet.
I’m limited to my own expertise, but I don’t mind. I’m just glad to be doing what I love. When I’m thinking of ingredients, quantities, and embellishments, I can’t be torturing myself with anxiety about Rupert.
Whatever happens to him, we will deal with it somehow. He can heal from anything—I can help him heal. But he can’t die. He can’t. He must stay alive and wait for me—hold on, darling, hold on—
Gritting my teeth, I seize the bowl of ground cinnamon and sprinkle a generous amount into the batter, along with orange zest, a bit of orange juice, and some mashed banana. I’m making a big batch of hearty, flavorful breads—perhaps more like cakes, because I plan to add a sugary glaze. They’re going to be fucking delicious.
I work for hours, only pausing to visit the bathroom. I have no idea what the fertility cycles of Elvish women are like, but I’m pleased to find high-quality period supplies tucked into a basket near the sink, so I help myself before washing my hands with a sweetly-scented bar of soap and returning to the kitchen.
As I’m glazing the last loaf, more Elves enter the kitchen to carry all the food out to the tables in the dining hall. A few of them take the platters holding my cakes, and I hurry to put the last one on a plate and add a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar and a sprig of orange peel for garnish before trooping out of the kitchen along with them.
Like all the rooms in this place, the dining hall is long and narrow by necessity, following the shape of the ledge on which it is built. The windows on one side face the cliff and a strip of garden, while the windows on the opposite side overlook the river, now swathed in the glimmering purple shadows of evening. Vines twine along the inner walls of the dining room and drip from the ceiling, blooming with plump spheres of golden light.
The Elves settle into place along the tables. I’ve never seen so many hues of skin and hair, so many colorful glowing eyes, like living gemstones. They laugh, smile, and jest like humans would, because these are shallow emotions, befitting a merry feast. But some of the older Elves are quiet, deeply moved by the return of Axidor, celebrating their joy deep inside. Their silence is a testament to the intensity of their feelings.
After asking around, I’m able to locate Bede, Lannau, and Enthel. I slide into a spot next to Bede and say, without preamble, “Isn’t it strange to think that in the human world, a gathering like this would get louder as people became merrier? But here, by the end of the night, it might become completely silent.”
It all depends on how the Elves react to wine, she signs, with a smirk. Do their emotions remain shallow, or do they deepen?
“I suppose we’ll find out,” I whisper, then fall silent as three of the Elders rise. Each recites a short poem of welcome and thanks, enunciated in pleasant tones, with a delicate hint of emotion. The Elves recognize the end of each composition by pressing their pointer fingers together and touching the center of their foreheads with the tips of those steepled fingers.
Then everyone begins to feast.
Throughout the evening more Elves recite poetry—some with magical results, others merely for the joy of rhythm. Some of it is in Elventongue, but others perform in Arcspeech as well. I’m not sure what differentiates the standard poems from actual spells—perhaps the intent of the speaker, whether or not they are purposefully tapping into their magical energy to make something happen—or perhaps there’s a different cadence used for magic.
I could learn so much here. But the culture would be a difficult adjustment, and I doubt Rupert would ever want to return—perhaps for a visit, but not for good.
I can’t help thinking of the dream I shared with him, the vision of a possible future for the two of us. I laid my heart bare to him then, with all the foolishness of a love that began too quickly, and might end far too soon.
No… no, I can’t think about this now—I need to repress these thoughts, these emotions. I need to pretend I’m alright, and eat cake.
Determinedly I fill my plate, taking a slice of my own loaf cake as well. It turned out perfectly—just the right amount of spice versus fruity richness. But although I can tell it’s delicious, I can’t manage more than a couple bites of that or any other dish. So eventually I stop trying, and I sit stiffly with my hands in my lap. Bede has been struggling with her food, and she eventually gives up as well.
To her credit, the auburn-haired Elder notices and comes to us quietly, leading us from the feast chamber back to the room where I recovered earlier today.
“I’m sorry we weren’t better company,” I tell her.
“No apologies needed,” she says soothingly. “Your guides are in their element. They will entertain us on your behalf. I’ve never seen two Elves behave more like humans. Rest well.” With a slight smile, she gives us a half-bow and glides from the room, closing the door.
The world beyond the windows is the frosty white of waterfalls, the silvered ebony of rocky cliffs, the shimmer of moonlit leaves and the black glimmer of the river. I stand there, drinking in the monochromatic beauty of the Sanctuary, long after Bede has gone to sleep.
Tomorrow they will have my disguise ready for me—a spell, a relic, a tonic—I have no idea what it will be, but hopefully it will be my shield as I return to the palace, deliver the King’s doom, and free Rupert. I’m dreading the journey back through the Riddenwold, back across the countryside, through the outskirts of Giltos and into its maze of streets. I dread passing through the palace gates again, standing in the King’s presence again, risking everything again. But it never crosses my mind to leave Rupert to his fate. That was never an option.
Real love doesn’t abandon. It rescues, heals, and cherishes.
And it waits.
