Livila did not work in the kitchens, so Ellina was left to wait—a quiet body amidst the rush—while someone went to fetch her. The young elf emerged looking ruffled, as if she had been woken from sleep. Which, Ellina reminded herself, she probably had been. It was the middle of the night.
“Cessena?Is something the matter?” Livila became more alert. “Did something happen with—?”
Ellina pulled the young elf into a corner of the kitchens where they could speak more privately. “I need to ask you something. Not about the palace tunnels.” She took a breath. “You said your father left the city. That Farah ordered it.”
Livila rubbed her eyes. “Yes.”
“I want to know why. What task did the queen assign him?”
“I do not know. He did not say.”
“He must have saidsomething.”
“No.” Livila’s face pinched. “Why? Has something happened to him?”
“No, nothing like that. But—did he tell you where he was going?”
“He did not, though…he writes to me. He speaks of warm weather. Maybe he is somewhere in the south?”
Irek was to the south. Ellina’s heart seemed to shrink. “What did your father do? You said he was a servant. What was his duty?”
“He was a chronicler.”
A storyteller. Unassuming, good with details.
“When did you last see him?” Ellina asked. “When did Farah send him away?”
“I do not remember, exactly.”
“Please, try to think.”
“I know, I am. But I still do not understand…”
“Did anything significant happen on the day that he left?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Are you certain?”
“Well…”
“Yes?”
“It was at the start of autumn. The same day the human returned to the city.”
Ellina sucked in a breath. “Livila.” She dreaded the question. “What is your father’s name?”
“Oh.” The young elf blinked again. “It is Rahven.”
TWENTY-THREE
Venick thumbed his frosted mug. The ale was bitter and cold, darker than he was used to drinking, but good. He brought the mug to his lips again.
Around the tavern men and women worked and drank. Here, a man tuning a lyre. There, a woman polishing a table. And there, another sweeping the floor. None of these lowlanders were employed here, save the barkeep, but this was the way it was done in Irek. The tavern was a common area, the hearth of the city, and it was everyone’s duty to help keep their home.
If anything was out of place, it was the few elves mingling there, their unblemished skin at odds with the rough wooden walls, and with the humans, who were bearded and grease-stained and ruddy. The elves hung around the tavern’s edges, talking softly, mostly keeping to themselves. Rahven was among them, as was Branton, both of whom had come at Venick’s request. He wanted the elves to—well, if not to mingle with the humans, then at least to grow more comfortable sharing space. At present, men and elves sat at separate tables, happy to ignore each other. But no one had yet drawn a weapon. No threats had been made, no insults muttered under breaths. It was better than he’d expected. And a start.
Venick drained the last of his mug and was just pushing away from the table when Dourin stalked into the tavern, looking murderous. “Dourin?”
