Forcing Miria to the throne early was not reasonable. Banishing the entire human race to the mainlands was not reasonable.
Ellina kept her expression neutral, even as her thoughts began to stir. Only recently had Ellina learned that the border was not her mother’s idea, but that of Rishiana’s sister, an elf named Ara. Most elven queens began producing heirs immediately after their initiation, but Rishiana wanted to wait. Yet this had been around the time of the hundred childless years, and Ara—concerned by the example their queen was setting, and about the future of their race—began pressuring Rishiana to make changes.
By all accounts, Rishiana had listened. She became pregnant with her first daughter. She invoked laws to bolster their population. She drew the border between the elflands and the mainlands, thereby separating humans from elves and encouraging intraspecies couplings, which resulted in more elven offspring.
Yet the sisters had argued anyway. Their final fight—one concerning Ellina’s father, an elf who had died when Ellina was young—was so terrible that it had become nearly legendary. The matters that stood between them could not be resolved, and eventually, Ara moved away.
This, like many aspects of the story, had never made sense to Ellina. Why would Ara leave when she had Rishiana’s compliance? Why abandon her highborn position after having won everything she wanted?
Unless there was some other reason for the fight. A reason that could help explain why, years later, Rishiana had seemed unduly hurried to push Miria to the throne…
Ellina felt it again—that strange sense of coming unraveled, as if she was picking at a knot. She remembered the conjuror’s words in Igor. She remembered their mother’s hard, lovely face, so much like Farah’s. So unlike Ellina’s.
There are things you do not know about your mother. Things she never wanted to tell you.
“I like you better this way,” Farah mused. “Unable to speak. I can see your mind spinning, but I must say, I am glad to deny you any final words.” She snapped her eyes to Raffan and Balid. “Kill her.”
???
Venick froze for one dumbfounded moment as he stared at the undead elf, and the undead elf seemed to stare back at him.
His first coherent thought was,fire.
His second thought was,no.
He couldn’t set fire to these woods, not without risking the death of his own soldiers. Venick envisioned it: the way flames would catch on the barren trees, jumping from branch to branch, creating a canopy of red. The fire would spread. Smoke would strangle the air. Elves and men would break formation, trampling each other in their rush to escape the blaze.
The dead elf lifted a slow hand to the arrow in her eye. She yanked the arrow free with a wetpop.Gore from the hollow socket splattered Venick’s face.
She raised the arrow like a dagger, and came for him.
???
Balid moved. Everything about him promised violence: the set of his jaw, the rapacious twist of his hands. Raffan released the stallions’ reins. Farah’s smile grew teeth.
Ellina began to retreat. As she watched Balid close the distance between them, old memories brushed against her consciousness. She could feel them expand, like a ravine yawning beneath her. One wrong step and she would tumble into their depths.
She took a deep breath. Forced the memories back. Ellina reminded herself that it was full daylight. Balid would be clumsy with his power, slower, more likely to misstep. She reminded herself that she had asked for this, had asked Venick to trust her, and he had, even when trusting her had proved disastrous in the past. She wanted to be worthy of his trust. She wanted to be worthy of her own desires.
She nocked an arrow, holding the bow down by her thigh as she matched Balid step for step, circling. Balid’s fingers curled. His eyelids drooped. Yet there was a pause, and in that pause, Ellina realized she was right—itdidtake him longer to summon his power in the full light of day, and the extra effort left him momentarily occupied.
An opening.
Ellina rushed forward. She released her arrow without breaking stride, pulled a dagger from her waistband. Her speed and the unexpected connection of these maneuvers caught Balid off guard. He blinked his eyes open, dropping the conjuring to dodge the assault. One step, skip and spin. Eyes narrowed now, elbows bent, long robes catching the breeze. Ellina had never understood why conjurors preferred soft cloth over armor, their own hands over weapons, particularly when they had no direct way of killing an opponent with magic. It was overconfidence, maybe, a haughty superiority. They were tricksters, using light and shadow to confuse their foes, blinding them or distracting them until someone else came in with a blade—
As Raffan was doing now. His green glass sword made a peelinghissas he rushed forward, four quick steps that brought him within striking distance. Ellina raised her bow overhead on instinct, caught his downswing. Saved herself from being speared, barely, but nearly cleaved her bow in two. Ellina cringed and released her hold on the weapon, which was now firmly lodged into Raffan’s sword.
Everyone’s eyes were on her mistake. They had forgotten, maybe, that Ellina still had a dagger in her other hand. They did not anticipate her next move, how she did not dwell on the loss of one weapon, but swiftly changed strategies, hurling her dagger at Farah.
At the final second, Balid was there yet again, lifting a hand to block the blow. This was not conjuring—it was simple, bodily shielding. The dagger caught him in the wrist, carving a red slash. He gave a strange, muffled croak.
“No,” Farah cried.
Ellina floated back out of range. Raffan succeeded in dislodging her bow from his sword as Balid doubled over, hugging his wound. He lifted his face and made that noise again, his lips parting in a gurgled moan. That was when Ellina saw.
He had no tongue.
The truth vibrated from the crown of her head all the way to her toes. Balid, who had muted her, was a mute himself.
