He began teaching Ellina everything he knew. He wanted to leave nothing out.
???
When Venick was strong enough to walk, he was escorted back to his prison-suite. This was done under the watchful eye of the palaceeondghi, who commented that the human had been lucky to survive. The elf didn’t sound entirely pleased.
Venick was unbothered. His suite was a prison, but it was one he had chosen, and at least the suite had windows.
???
Venick and Ellina fell into a routine.
In the mornings, Ellina would meet Venick in his rooms for lessons. They pulled the writing desk off the wall, scattered books and maps across its wooden surface as they discussed the southerners, the army, the coming war. During those times, Venick could almost forget that he was a prisoner. Could pretend, for a little while, that he was allowed in this city, that he waswantedthere.
A wasted sentiment.
But it became harder to believe that, the more time he spent with Ellina. It felt good to teach. To have a purpose. To be needed, if not exactly wanted. And the north did need him. This became apparent as their lessons wore on, heads bent close, him explaining what the north needed to know while at the same time wondering how he could ever explaineverything.
In the afternoons Ellina would leave and Venick would browse the books on his own. He inhaled the scent of dry parchment, ran a finger along their spines, some so old he feared they would crumble at his touch. He touched them anyway, pulling them closer to study their contents. Most were written in mainlander, though a few displayed elven glyphs. A mix of hand-written and printed. A mix of cursive and block font, black ink and blue ink and rare red. As Venick shifted through them one evening, he came upon a book he had not noticed before. He felt mounting anticipation as he read the spine.
A compendium of elven queens.
He drew it out of the pile. The binding was loose, the lacquer cover peeling, pages well-worn. The elflands were thousands of years old, and as Venick flipped through he saw each queen of centuries past had been entered here, their faces drawn in painstaking detail. Sometimes, a description was added under the image. Almost always, miniature etches of the queen’s bondmate and children—no less detailed—accompanied her on the page.
Venick found Rishiana easily; hers was the final and most recent entry. The queen’s likeness stared back at him. She had sharp eyes, delicate brows, a pointed chin. And below her…
His heart stumbled. Lorana. Her picture was there, painted in crisp little lines, all the details he thought he had forgotten. Venick traced her image with a light thumb. Waited for the pain, the fury and anger and sorrow that always accompanied thoughts of Lorana. But it didn’t come.
Surprised, Venick?
Confused, more like. But then, maybe he shouldn’t be, because he had felt this in himself, hadn’t he? The way his grief had slowly changed, burned low, crowded out by other emotions that flared bigger, brighter…
His eyes drifted to Ellina’s image next. His fingers followed, brushing the ridges where the paint had dried thick. He didn’t stop to examine the feelingsherimage invoked. Moved his eyes instead to Farah, then to the short paragraph written in the margin.
Venick almost didn’t notice the fifth picture on the page. It had been sketched in pencil—hastily, uncolored. It was, Venick realized, Rishiana’s bondmate. His image was so faded that Venick could not get a sense of the elf’s true features. Merely a ghost of a face. The record bore no name.
Venick’s curiosity piqued. He’d wondered about Ellina’s father. Venick had never heard anyone mention Rishiana’s bondmate. Had never heard anyonenotmention him, either, the way sensitive topics are sometimes avoided. But now Venick wondered, who was Ellina’s father? And where was he now?
Sudden movement in the doorway pulled Venick from those thoughts. He looked up to find that he was no longer alone.
“Hello, human,” Raffan said from where he stood in the room’s arched entry.
Venick shot to his feet, hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Not his knife, not his sword. Hell and damn, not even his curtain rod, little help as it had been. Venick’s outstretched hand made a fist as Raffan stepped forward into better light. No missinghisweapons: a sword at each hip, another slung across his back. Daggers, likely, hidden under the clothing. “Ellina comes here so frequently,” Raffan drawled. “I wanted to seewhatcould possibly be drawing her attention.”
Venick understood the accusation. He was rigid, went more rigid still. “What do you want?”
“Answers.”
“Don’t have any of those.”
“No? I hear you speak elvish.”
Venick let out a laugh. It sounded strained. It was the irony, he thought. The irony was going to strangle him. “Last I remember, you were on Farah’s side. You think I can lie in elvish.”
Raffan’s answering smile was manufactured; a twitch of a mouth that rarely made the gesture. “Then maybe we can agree. I will tell the truth if you do. What? You do not want tobargain?” Raffan tutted. “You certainly did not seem to mind bargaining with Ellina.”
Raffan was at the desk now. All that separated them, a few slices of wood. He set his hands on the surface. His eyes dipped to Venick’s injured hip and his smile changed, became chiseled. “You are lucky to be alive. Humans are easy to kill, and our city wants you dead.”
Stupid. It was utterly stupid to rise to Raffan’s bait. To speak at all. But the words were already in Venick’s mouth, angry and alive, and he couldn’t have stopped them if he’d tried. “I don’t know about that. Your bondmate seems to want me here.”
