Venick pulled a lace from the drawer.
Dourin huffed. “A lucky find.”
Venick sat on the storeroom’s bench and got to work unthreading the broken bootlace, centering the new one. Dourin regarded him. That feeling in Venick’s chest—tangled, briar-like—began to grow.
Venick said, “You really didn’t get any of my letters?”
“No.”
“I was starting to worry.” Venick kept his eyes on his task. “I mean, I thought the Elder might be intercepting them.”
“The Elder would not withhold something of mine.”
Venick heard Dourin’s tone. He glanced up, seemed to again see Dourin’s clothing. Though the elf’s outfit was not flashy, the stitching was tight and even, the embroidery done in the highland’s colorful style. Its quality was unmistakable.
Dourin said, “The Elder and I have come to an understanding.”
“He gifted you those clothes.”
“Yes.”
“And the horses.”
“The Elder has many resources,” Dourin replied. “I saved his life. In doing so, I won his life price. These are mere trinkets—so he says—compared to what he has gained.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Elder.”
Dourin shrugged. “The man may be stubborn, but he is not a heretic. A life price is binding. He would not risk offending the gods.”
“You don’t even believe in our gods.”
“What difference does that make?”
“None, I guess.”
“Yet you are upset.”
Venick finished tugging the leather laces through the boot’s eyelets. He pulled back the tongue, shoved in his foot. Though he couldn’t see them through his sock, he knew if he pushed down the fabric, there’d be a series of scars running crossways from ankle to heel—his souvenir for getting caught in a beartrap last summer. The wound hadn’t bothered Venick in ages, but he felt a pang at the thought of it, the phantom pain of an old injury. He remembered how blood loss from those gashes had rendered him delirious and how fever had set in, which quickly became more serious than the wound itself. Venick had skated near death that night; the black veil had been close enough to touch.
He said, in a voice that was more gravel than actual tones, “I thought you were gone.”
“You knew where I was.”
“I mean, gone forever.”
“Youmeandead.”
“We shouldn’t have left you,” Venick blurted, eyes flying up. “You were injured. Dying. We couldn’t transport you—it would have been too dangerous. I thought I’d taken enough precautions. Left soldiers to guard you. The healers. You were in good hands—”
“Venick.”
“But I shouldn’t have left.” The briar had outgrown Venick’s chest cavity. It ballooned against his ribs, drawing blood. “The Elder. He was furious. He could have done something to you. Even if not, you were hurt. Alone. We left youalone—”
“Venick.” Dourin pushed off the doorframe. “You only chose for yourself what I would have chosen for you. And for me. You owe me no apologies.”
Venick stood from the bench. “But I am sorry.”
“A sorry sight, surely.”
