“How do you know? How do you know so much about them?”
“Mother.”
Lira turned her face away. She wore her hair in a single plait, her dress woven in the classic lowlander style. She spoke without looking at him. “You will write the elven princess back. Accept her peace offering. If what you say is true, your reply will buy us time. Meanwhile, the council and I will convene to discuss our next move.”
It was the best Venick could have hoped for. Given their recent history, he wouldn’t have been surprised if his mother had dismissed his concerns outright. And writing Ellina back was the right political move. Venick could tally the reasons.
But he felt a wash of resentment. He didn’t want to write Ellina back. He didn’t want to imagine her reading his letter, or wonder if she would be as affected by the sight of his handwriting as he’d been by the sight of hers. He wanted to cut whatever ties still existed between them. To rinse himself clean of her.
Sometimes, Venick could almost understand the choice Ellina had made. Even now he could recall the grim purpose in her face whenever she spoke of duty to family and country. Like a yearning. Ellina had once saved Venick’s life in honor of her eldest sister’s memory. Had, more than once, risked her own life to do it. And she’d held hard to her laws, putting herself in danger in order not to break them, convinced that honor to her country was worth dying for.
Venick had hated that. But it had also somehow warmed him. Venick knew the impulse. He too risked himself when he shouldn’t. He too felt how the heart sometimes chooses its path against all reason.
He thought of his walk into Irek that morning, and how the townspeople had eyed him, clearly distrustful, but under orders to do Venick and the elves no harm. He thought of the highland woman in their camp whose name he didn’t know because she refused to tell him. He thought of her burned hands, and what his mother would say if she discovered he was hiding a highland fugitive when he was supposed to be proving his loyalty to the lowlands.
Venick saw that there were no good options.
He saw that even when he won, he lost.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll write the letter.”
???
The healer’s hut was located on the west edge of the city. It was a single-roomed shop that had once been situated at ground-level and now…wasn’t. The hut was halfway sunk into the marsh, having been built—for reasons Venick couldn’t fathom—in an area known for quicksand, and without the use of stilts.
Maybe the original builder hadn’t known about the quicksand. Maybe they’d been afraid of heights, or couldn’t afford better. Whatever the reason, the sight of the shop brought to mind a dead fish: a steaming pile of old bones and sagging flesh all stacked together and flopped in the sand.
It took Venick most of the walk there to get his mind off Ellina and the letter that was, at this very moment, winging its way back to her. Even then, by the time the hut came into view he wasn’t exactly clear-headed. His hand ached from squeezing it. His heart felt small and tight.
Venick found a man-high stick and stepped off the gravel path. He made his way through the marsh towards the healer’s hut, probing the earth as he went, testing each step before trusting it with his weight. He’d done this often as a boy, and even more often as a soldier. The healer—a middle-aged woman named Isha—was no physician, but she was skilled in herbcraft and offered things every soldier desired: remedies for pain or pleasure, tonics to boost strength or to ease nerves, and perhaps most importantly, discretion.
When Venick pushed through the narrow door and entered the stuffy little shop, however, it wasn’t Isha behind the counter, but an elderly man Venick had never met.
“I get that unhappy look all the time,” the man told Venick cheerfully. “If you’re looking for Isha, she’s gone. The constellations told her to pack her things and head north, so that’s where she went.”
Venick stared. Where Isha had been grimy, this man was impeccably clean. He worewhiteof all colors, which seemed impractical given the nature of his profession and the condition of his surroundings. And yet, the man was spotless. His grey hair was combed neatly back, his robes tied in a careful knot, his nails filed short and smooth. “She smoked too much jekkis, if you ask me,” the man continued. “Leaving because of thestars. What nonsense.” He pressed his hands flat against the counter. “My name’s Erol. You’re here for a salve, I presume. Something to ease stiff muscles?”
Venick followed Erol’s gaze to where he’d been unconsciously rubbing his hand.
“Not for me,” Venick replied. “But yes, a salve. Whatever is best to treat burn wounds.”
Erol peered over his glasses. “Cooking accident?”
“Something like that.”
“Interesting story from the firepit the other day. Did you hear? Four highlander prisoners went in, but only two bodies were found in the rubble.” A pause. “I seem to recall that it’s against our laws to aid a foreign enemy.”
“You’re not aiding a foreign enemy. You’re aiding me.”
“As I said.”
Venick held back a sigh. “I’ll pay you double.”
“It’s not about the money, lad.”
“Something more than money, then.”
“Oh?”
