Venick’s mind spun. He tried to recall what he knew about the northern elves and their county, which was only as much as Lorana had told him, butshewas southern and rarely talked about it. Venick knew that the north was huge, twice the span of the southlands and mainlands combined. He knew the queen ruled those lands and had for the last century. He knew her soldiers took their oaths when they were young—infants, by elven standards—and served for life. But he knew nothing of the queen’s daughters. Not how many she had, not the role they were meant to play.
“If Ellina is royalty,” Venick said, “that means, that would make her—”
“No,” Dourin cut him off impatiently. “She is the youngest of three, behind Miria and Farah. She has no place in the royal line.”
“She has third. Or do elves not count now, either?”
“She is legion.”
Which did make sense. Because Venick saw—clearly, painfully—what he hadn’t before. He remembered the cave, the city, the sewers. The southern elves had not just attacked Ellina. They hunted her. He thought it strange, even then. Senseless, that they might target a lone elf with such determination.I am a northern soldier, Ellina had said.I was caught in southern lands.
But that wasn’t all she was.
“Dourin.” Venick’s voice was low. Furious. He wasn’t aware of becoming furious, only that he was, and the bitter well of aggression was too big, suddenly, too strong. A moment. Two. Then, forcing it out: “What are the southern elves really after?”
Dourin nodded. “Ah, human. Nowthatis an excellent question.”
SIXTEEN
Ellina knew how to be silent. She knew how to step toe to heel, to avoid leaves and twigs and anything that wentsnaporcrunch. To use the trees, to hang on their branches, become weightless. She liked the feeling of weightlessness, the way she might swing from one branch to another, her strong grip, the easy hold. She imagined she was a spider in a web. She could slip unseen and unheard, could draw her weapon if she had to, silent, deadly.
She drew it now. The green glass made no sound as she pulled it from its sheath. She watched the moonlight turn the blade translucent and felt the brimming pleasure she always felt when she beheld elven weapons. They were precise. Perfectly balanced. Sleek, not a single ounce wasted on frivolous embellishment.
She edged the tip forward to peel back a branch, shifting her eyes to peer through the brush. The elven camp was not large. Ellina counted eight elves around the fire. She counted their weapons, the number of blades and bows and axes. She counted her breaths, steady, in and out. She counted her choices.
She could return to her camp. Could gather Venick and Dourin and come back to this place together. Could risk Dourin’s quick anger and Venick’s silence that waslikeanger. She imagined the way he would look at her if she told him what she planned, then a stab of guilt that she had not told him. Not this, or anything.
He would learn the truth eventually. It felt inevitable, as if the truth waited there, as if it was woven into the undercurrent of every word she spoke. It would be easy to misstep, to slip over the edge, to reveal her secrets without meaning to. One wrong word. One mistake.
She thought of other words spoken by mistake, the ones she revisited over and over.Because I trust him.She thought of the feel of those words, the ease of them. There had been no tightening of the chest, no lash of headache that came just before a lie in elvish.
And here, the stab in her gut that was guilt, but for another reason. Because Ellina suspected that Venick trusted her, too.
He should not. She lied. About her real purpose for saving him. About who she was, what she knew. The truth was like a gaping hole inside her, a wound that wouldn’t heal. She was wary of it. She was wary of what it would mean if she trusted him with it.
And she was wary ofhim, too, a little. She remembered the river in Kenath. Her panic, the shock of cold. How she had shivered from both. She had been determined, after, for him not to see. Not her fear, not her weakness. He saw both anyway. But he had not mocked her, not like Dourin or Raffan would have. He encouraged her. He offered toteach her.
Ellina shifted her sword into her other hand. The elves were busy around their fire. They did not sense her yet. She could leave, escape through the safety of the shadows, avoid the danger. It was what Venick would choose for her. What Dourin would.
Or she could enter the camp. She could announce herself and hope that these elves were wildings as they appeared. Ellina focused on their feathered necklaces, the pelts at their waists, bangles on their wrists and ankles that jingled softly as they moved. Wildings were clans of elves who lived in the south but were far removed from other colonies; a trulywildfaction. Not like the conjurors who hunted her. If Ellina was right, these wildings would have no political stake in the war. They would not wish her harm.
But if she was wrong…
Ellina had been surprised by how quickly the southern conjurors found her in the caves, then again in Kenath. She thought of that coup, how the elves had infiltrated the city’s guard. That sort of organized takeover should not have been possible, not fromthem. And it worried her. She worried how the southerners always seemed one step ahead. She was certain they had not shadow-caught her, but that meant they had spies. Message chains. Warriors standing by. Even if these wildings did not wish Ellina harm, the southerners were getting their information fromsomewhere. It was possible they might threaten the wildings for the knowledge they sought: information about Ellina, and her whereabouts, and her company.
But Ellina had questions of her own to ask. Questions these elves might know, likehow are the southerners gaining power?andwhere did the elves of Muralwood go?andwhat do you know about the queen’s lost daughter, Miria?
Ellina remembered her eldest sister and felt the way she always did when remembering Miria. The hitch of grief, a sharp stab under her ribs. The itch in her fingers to grab her sword andswing. And then the pain, the slow bloom of it in her heart. If she closed her eyes she could still see Miria’s smile, the quick laugh, the easy way she gave her love.
There had been a night in Evov. The moon hung low over the mountains, a sliver of white against velvety dark. Their mother had called all three sisters into her private chambers. She had chosen Miria’s bondmate, she said. He was due to arrive in a fortnight. There would be a celebration, then a bonding, and Miria would become queen. The ceremony was old tradition—and completely unexpected. Miria was young. Thequeenwas young. It should have been years before Miria filled that role. But for reasons Ellina would never understand, the queen did not want to wait.
Every queen has their time, their mother had said to Miria. And then, snapped in Ellina’s direction,There are no rules as to when, daughter. It is my choice to make.
The date was set. Miria would meet her bondmate. She would take the throne shortly after. Miria was silent through the announcement. After, she had nodded, and thanked their mother, and disappeared to her room.
Ellina’s knock was soft on her door. When Miria answered, her eyes were wide with tears.I cannot take the throne, Miria pleaded.It is not for me. It was never for me.
Ellina understood. Miria never wanted to be queen. She was different from most elves, wild and full of spirit. When they were little, it was Miria who teased Ellina for her seriousness, who begged her to come to the river or ride horses or hunt for berries. The first-daughter’s role was not meant for her. For Farah, maybe. Even Ellina might have grown into a queen. But not Miria.
