Venick sensed it. He did not push, but said only, “You should go inside. Eat, rest. We’re sleeping here at the estate while we’re in the city. Someone should have already prepared a room for you.”
Ellina motioned with her hands.You, too. Eat, rest.
He gave a rueful smile. “There’s something I need to do first.”
SEVEN
Venick stepped into the prison. It was a small space, an exterior addition to the baron’s home that had not been built for the purpose of housing captives. Humans didn’t keep captives. At least, not for long. Had Venick left it up to his men, they would have beheaded this conjuror already, maybe burned the body. They’d spit into the flames and call it justice.
They’d have a right. Centuries ago during the purge, elves had done just that to human conjurors. They’d severed their heads and—in a move that seemed wholly unnecessary and blatantly sacrilegious—burned their bodies.
Families mourned. No bodies meant no funeral rites for the dead, no prayers or tombstones. Without proper burials, many believed their loved ones were forever doomed to haunt the earth. In an attempt to give peace to the deceased, makeshift cemeteries were erected over the burning sites, piles of stone stacked atop the ashes to prevent the spirits from wandering. Those graveyards could still be seen, a reminder of the massacres that had occurred there.
Not that humans needed reminding. Mass genocide had a way of sticking to the bones of people. Humans weren’t likely to forget the purge, and they sure as hell wouldn't forgive it, especially now that the Dark Army seemed intent on finishing what their ancestors had started. And yet, Venick couldn’t afford to let his soldiers have their justice. He wanted the conjuror kept alive.
He couldn’t question her if she was dead.
Venick let the door fall shut behind him. The prison was sparse; the floor done in grey tiles, iron bars drilled crooked over all the windows. No cells. Rather, the conjuror had been chained to the back wall, her hands pinioned out to the sides, her legs, neck, and arms all manacled to the stone. Venick’s own limbs gave a sympathetic pang. The binding was designed for discomfort.
Venick spoke in elvish. “I want to make a deal.”
The elf kept her head down so that her black hair veiled her face. Venick could just make out her thin mouth, her close-set eyes, the three golden earrings pierced into the top of her left ear. Not only had her hands been secured, but her fingers too, each digit bound to a metal rod—a necessary precaution. Southern conjuring relied on manual dexterity, the use of both hands and all ten fingers. If this elf could twitch even the smallest joint, she might still be able to weave power.
Venick pulled up a chair and sat, which put him below her eye level. “If you answer my questions,I will let you live.”
She looked down at him through her hair. “As if I would trust the word of a human.”
Venick was instantly gratified. He’d worried the conjuror might try to armor herself with silence. If she’d refused to speak, his task would have become much harder.
He said, “I am speaking your language.”
“We all know that elvish does not hold the value it once did.”
“Because of Ellina, you mean.”
“Your elven lover, yes.”
Venick ignored that jibe. The conjuror was attempting to bait him, to crack his composure so that he might make a mistake. An old elven trick. He kept his tone conversational. “Only northern conjurors can lie in elvish.”
“Of course you would say so.”
“It is true.”
The conjuror forced a laugh. It was a strange sound, strained, the kind of noise someone might make if they had never actually heard a laugh before, but had been told how it was supposed to sound. Her hair fell back to reveal more of her face, and Venick was surprised to see how young she was, young enough that she might still be called a fledgling.
“Man knows no truth,” she said, quoting a popular elven saying. It was a phrase Venick would happily never hear again. “But it does not matter.” She switched to mainlander. “I would not agree to your proposition, even if I believed that you would uphold your end.”
“Oh?”
“Do not be disappointed. We both know that with or without my help, you stand no chance against the Dark Army.”
Venick pretended to study the prison’s ceiling. “I can understand why you might believe so.”
His calm—mixed with the fact that he had both chosen a seat beneath her and taken his eyes off her—was beginning to have its desired effect. Venick was giving every indication that he did not consider this elf a threat, and it rankled.
“It is no mere belief,” she hissed. “You cannot win this war.”
“We won’t know for sure until it’s over.”
