His cheeks heated, and he almost regretted offering. But then he remembered her facing the water in Kenath, and the southern elves, and her fear. His resolve hardened. “Will you think about it, at least?”
She was afraid. Venick could see how the very thought of water made her nervous. But she was practical, too. Elves feared water, but if she could conquer that fear it would be to her advantage. It might even save her life.
He watched her consider it. She stared at the pond and regained control of her expression, the fear rolled up and wiped away. Her face was once again a slate: blank, empty.
In the mainlands, humans told stories about elves. Venick had grown up with those stories. As a child, he had begged for them. His mother would sit him on her lap and weave fantastical tales of elves, as if they didn’t walk and breathe on the other side of the border. In all the stories, elves were imagined to be wild creatures who sang and danced and drank endlessly. Some were said to be like sirens, passionate and loud. Some like fairies, magical, full of endless laughter.
Venick stared at Ellina and couldn’t help but smile at the truth.
“What is funny?” she asked.
He nodded at her empty expression. “You, acting like that’s hiding anything.”
He pretended not to notice her mask slip. Pretended not to see the small twist of her mouth, which was better, so much better than stone-cold nothing. Pretended not to care whatshewas smiling about. He turned around and walked on and left it at that.
THIRTEEN
Dusk seemed to come early that night, shadows stretching dark fingers through the forest, shading the world grey. Venick watched those shadows and thought of the southerners. They had seen no sign of the conjurors since leaving the city the prior night. Venick knew that Tarrith-Mour was still days away, that the danger wasn’t over yet. He knew that he couldn’t rely on his eyes and ears to show him everything, that they might nottrulybe safe.
But he dared to hope.
He was alone for the time. Dourin had reappeared long enough to announce that he would take the night watch before disappearing back into the trees and out of sight. Ellina was out of sight, too. She had started off in her own direction, but when Venick made to follow she’d shot a look over her shoulder.Stay here, she had said.
Wherever you’re going, I’ll come.
I would really rather you not. Her brow had arched sardonically.
She left, and Venick didn’t follow. He understood the need for privacy. It was something he wanted for himself. He thought again of the southern shadows, and it occurred to him that even though they’d seen no trace of those elves, he felt watched.
He trudged in the opposite direction, undressing to wash his clothes in a nearby stream. The movement warmed him, but it felt good. The water clouded, then cleared. He rung out the fabric as best he could, then slid back into it. The damp cloth clung to his skin.
He walked back to where they’d made camp. The sky darkened. Venick looked up through the forest canopy and imagined he could see the sky, thewholesky, like he could from Irek. He imagined how he might peer over the ocean, find patterns in the stars. He felt the sudden wrench of homesickness.
He thought of his mother. She had not been not old when he made her a widow. He could see her sitting in her favorite chair by the fire. It had been a happy place, made happy by his mother’s love. That love: broken now. Warped, cast away. He saw the tears on her cheeks, rattling sobs as she watched her son kill her husband. Then, empty eyes. A blank stare, like she didn’t know him, like she had no son and Venick was a murdering stranger.
Redemption was an option only offered to soldiers. Perhaps it was a way for his country to repay men for their service. Or perhaps it was simply because dead men cannot fight, and the military understands that exile and execution are a waste of a good battling body. Venick knew it was a soldier’s task to choose his own redemption sacrifice, yet when Venick thought of the night he’d murdered his father, he felt a deep river of fear. Maybe therewasno sacrifice large enough, no gesture grand enough to absolve him in his mother’s eyes.
Venick loosed his hunting knife from his belt as he walked. He studied the plain handle, the filigree on the blade. It had been a gift from his mother. He remembered his surprise at that breaking of tradition. The father was supposed to gift his son his first knife, but on his sixteenth nameday his mother had woken him at dawn and pushed the heavy bundle of wrapped cloth into his hands.This belonged to my father, she’d said as he unwrapped it to reveal the weapon beneath.He bore no sons of his own. He was ashamed to bear only daughters. But now I have a son, and you are of his blood. He would want you to have it.
Venick studied the scratched steel, dried blood at its base. The handle, cracked and faded. He had not taken good care of this knife. It had not taken good care of him, either.
Maybe it’s returning the favor.
He wondered if there was some unexamined part of him that still tied his mother to this knife. That he did not take care of it because he had not taken care of her. Because it was pointless to polish something he meant to betray.
Or maybe it was misplaced defiance. That this knife was a link to his old life and he wanted to sever that link.
Maybe it was simple laziness, and the knife meant nothing to him.
He decided it wouldn’t hurt to oil it. Sharpen it. Maybe Ellina had a whetstone. Maybe he would return to the creek and find a rock that would do the job. He turned around, intending to look.
But then, a sound.
Venick paused. Listened. A voice. Low notes. They lifted into the air, light and sweet.
Music. Someone was singing.
Ellina.
