“Alright,” Venick said. Then again, “Alright. You don’t have to answer. But I want you to know that you’re safe here. We’re not going to hurt you.”
He started to move away, but paused when his gaze fell, as if for the first time, to her black eye. Puffy skin, discolored, a mottled bruise forming up across her nose. Something about it nudged his mind, unsettling his thoughts in a way that he didn’t understand…until he remembered.
She was hurt, Rahven had said about Ellina.It was her wrists. They were bruised.
She fought in the stateroom battle,Venick had replied.Many elves were hurt.
Except, bruised wrists were an odd injury for battle. In fact, Venick could think of only one reason someone might suffer an injury like that…
A hot summer day in the southern forests. Ellina’s slender wrists outheld, a coarse rope, the knot used to bind them. Venick’s own hands restrained, blood roaring, knees pressed into the dirt.
The memory punctured, it went deeper. Venick’s fury. The tight clench of helplessness. How he’d been forced to watch as Ellina’s comrades turned her around and ripped open her shirt and tied her hands to a tree. A whip was set in Raffan’s grip. The lashes were red, and wept down her back.
She was not allowed to leave the palace, Rahven had said.We were supposed to report to Farah if she attempted to escape.
Escape. Like she was a prisoner.
As this last thought occurred to him, Venick recognized its danger. He squinted up into the cloudless sky and told himself to stop. He needed to bring himself back tothismoment, to the here and now, before his mind began playing its favorite twisted game, inventing scenarios in which Ellina was not a traitor, and he was not betrayed. Venick had renounced her, he reminded himself. He didn’t trust her. Remember the balcony. Remember how she had looked standing beside that conjuror, with their black uniforms and black hair and pale skin. A unified front.
Orwerethey? Venick couldn’t help it, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking what he was thinking. He saw the highland woman, who refused to answer his questions for fear of retaliation. How she glanced up at him, anxious and angry. He thought of Ellina on the balcony, and how she’d looked at the conjuror in just that same way.
What if Ellina had been afraid too?
What ifshecouldn’t answer his questions plainly because she was afraid of theconjuror’sretaliation?
Venick ran both hands through his hair. Gripped and held tight. He’d never known anyone who could lie like Ellina, but that was just the problem—she was a liar. He didn’t trust her to tell him the truth. He didn’t trust himself to see her truths clearly. He could only guess at what he didn’t know, but guessing about Ellina had served him badly in the past.
The highland woman was staring at him. Venick saw himself as she must see him: pale, seemingly ill. She must have misinterpreted his unease, or else wanted to do something to wipe that look off his face, because she spoke for the first time. “My name’s Harmon.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Venick focused his attention. The ground seemed to settle again. “Harmon.” He tested the name. Gave a nod. “I’m Venick.”
TWENTY-TWO
Livila surprised Ellina with a knock on her bedroom door. A light tap, the rap of a half-closed fist. She held a package in her hands. “A gift,” Livila said. Ellina moved to let the elf in and accepted the package. It was hard, wrapped in plain cloth. Ellina knew what it was even before she pulled away the wrapping to reveal what lay underneath.
A dagger. The scabbard was simple yet sturdy, the metal ferrule sharp enough to do damage. Ellina turned the weapon over in her hands, appreciating its weight, its size, the tight seams. A fine make.
She pulled the blade free. Simple green glass, double-edged, a sharply tapered point. Either the gifter knew Ellina’s preferences, or had guessed well. The dagger was exactly the kind of weapon she would have chosen for herself. “But who…?”
“Raffan,” Livila supplied.
Ellina frowned, turning the dagger over in her hands. She was puzzling through the gift when Livila spoke again. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make faces.”
Ellina smoothed her features. “A bad habit.” She returned the blade to its scabbard. “You say Raffan gave this to you?”
“Yes.”
“And he told you to give it to me?”
“Yes.”
