22. Nineteen

There were two origin stories for elves. The first, and most popular among the religious, was that we were a people born in the Spine of the Gods, a mountain range far to the north, the offspring of Ygaldir, sky god, and Ontha, sea maiden. Their bloody battle culminated in Ygaldir impregnating his sister, their children cursed with mortality for the crime of incest. Such was the origin of elves.

But if you believed the Runecleavers, they were older than the Spine of the Gods, older than the sea, older than night and day. Life itself sprang from between some Runecleaver's legs. It would certainly explain why they all thought they had the sun shining out of their asses.

Rünhyll, the seat of their ancient ancestral home, was the jewel of the south, a city steeped in magic and tradition. If there was a city that could rival D'thallanar in the sheer number of pompous twats in power, it was Rünhyll. At least it was pretty to look at from a distance. Then again, so was a spiderweb.

The city sprang up on either side of the inlet, built on a mound of fertile, crescent-shaped hilltop. A quintet of ancient black pagodas towered like ominous figures at the center, the Runecleaver clan house. Well, that's what they called it. It was more like a military encampment inside those walls, with children as young as three training from dawn until dusk in the pursuit of magic. They were the second most powerful clan in the land, and no one had ever held power without their support. This was a house that toppled kings with a breath and birthed dynasties with a whisper.

It was the last place I wanted to be with a battered and bruised army bound for the capital.

We sailed ashore and found a party waiting to greet us. Not Vinolia Runecleaver herself, of course. The matron of Clan Runecleaver had much more important business to attend to than greeting her Primarch's son and her clan's heir. She sent her apologies, of course, but it was all bullshit. A backhanded insult meant to remind us that we were in her seat of power.

Instead, she sent Heskir and a dozen guards to greet an army. Heskir stood tall, his long yellow hair full of braids and his hand on his sword. Silver taps glowed on his wrists and hung from the circlet at the center of his forehead. He was what they called a Wild Mage, able to call upon roots, trees, and nature. It wasn't a particularly impressive power, especially compared to Katyr's elementalism, but he was famous for it.

Heskir eyed the fourteen longboats coming ashore, heavily laden with tired slaves and soldiers. "We thought there would be more of you."

"There were more of us," I replied, stepping out of the boat.

His eyes went disapprovingly to the slave, who was smart enough to avert his gaze to the ground. I felt myself bristle at the brazenly hungry way Heskir's eyes raked over him, as if there were a shortage of beddable men in his own city.

His attention went elsewhere though as soon as Katyr stepped off the longboat with a cold, "Cousin."

Heskir lowered himself into a proper bow. "My lord."

Unlike in other clans, the Runecleavers did not determine succession by blood. The strongest mage held power, and Katyr had that honor, second only to his grandmother, Vinolia. Katyr had been named the clan heir some time ago. That he was also one of Tarathiel's many illegitimate children did not matter.

"Rooms befitting the Primarch's heir are to be prepared at once," Katyr said with cool indifference.

Heskir straightened. "I shall have the north tower cleared."

"There's no need," I cut in. "The men will camp outside the city."

It was expected. If we marched an army into Rünhyll, it would cause tension and there would be clashes with the Runecleaver guard. Better to have them sail up the shore and make camp a short distance away. We would rejoin the main force after paying lip service to the Runecleavers, preferably as quickly as possible.

"We will need only enough space for the command staff and their attendants," Katyr announced.

"Very well. Would you like to send word to the Primarch?"

A loaded question. They had already sent word as soon as they spotted our longboats, likely hours ago. This whole charade was already tiresome.

However, Katyr nodded and said, "That would be prudent." He was good at playing the diplomat when it suited him. "Has Commander Niro returned from the northern campaign?"

The shadow of a smirk touched Heskir's lips. I immediately wanted to slap it off. "Your uncle returned from his campaign in the Yeutlands just two days ago. In fact, you've arrived just in time for his wedding."

Katyr couldn't stop himself from reacting, his face blanching. "His wedding?"

"You hadn't heard? He was given some barbarian girl from the north as a prize. A gift from the Primarch himself. The poor fool acts as if it's an honor to be wed to a Yeutland whore."

Sparks raced over the taps on Katyr's wrists and ankles as he let his temper flare.

I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. "It has been a long, difficult journey, Heskir. Perhaps the family gossip can wait?"

"Yes, of course." Heskir dipped his head in acknowledgement and turned. "We shall escort you to the clan house at once."

The Runecleaver clan house, like all clan houses, was obscenely large. Every clan had their patron tree, a symbol adopted to represent the longevity of their clan and planted in the public courtyard. The Runecleavers had chosen the blood maple, a rare and ancient breed of tree with fire red leaves. Its bark was soft and easy to shape, but the sap was toxic. One drop could rob a man of his senses. Two would render him comatose, and three was certain death. They grew this treacherous tree proudly as a symbol of their house.

The interior balcony of my rooms overlooked the blood maple. From where I stood, it appeared there had been many cuts made in the tree of late.

We had been greeted by the castalin, a young Runecleaver named Faelyn, whom I had never met before. He was old enough to be drafted on campaign, but his soft demeanor and smooth, delicate fingers said he was the sort to be passed over for such things, favoring ledgers, books, and the like. He was pleasant, if a bit starry-eyed, but knew when to stop talking, a trait more Runecleavers should adopt.

After a brief rest in the room and a quick bath, I had the slave dress me and sent word to Niro. To anyone else, the note would look like congratulations on his impending nuptials, but it was written in code. He would know I wanted a meeting. Unsurprisingly, he didn't send a reply.

Evening came, and we were expected in the courtyard to give our congratulations and gifts to the bride and groom. We hadn't brought gifts with us for that purpose, but it would be an offense to arrive empty-handed. I selected my gift for Niro and his bride with careful thought, and we descended.

Torches had been lit all around the courtyard. Throngs of elves stood about in small pockets, everyone with a drink in their hand and malice in their hearts. Weddings were a grand event anywhere in the elven lands, but among the Runecleavers, they were even bigger, with celebrations often lasting for days on either side. Tonight was the Shirla, or Groom's Night, the evening in which the friends and family of the groom gathered to advise him on marital affairs. In any other household, the event would have been treated as an excuse to drink and have lewd celebrations, but not the Runecleavers, who faced such events with startling seriousness.

The air in the courtyard was heavy as we approached. Niro, who was fifteen years my senior, sat beneath the blood oak in his finest silk garments, his hair almost completely braided. He was a war hero who had served my father faithfully for many years. He was older, but not so old as to be wrinkled and past his prime. No one would look at him and think him a grandfather, but he was well past the years when a man was expected to have a wife and children.

Next to him sat a mere child who couldn't have been more than fourteen. Yet she wore the crown, the veil, and the many dots of white face paint that marked her as Niro's bride to be. Her silk skirts of many colors were spread out around her. On a woman, they would have looked grand, but on a child, they only served to make her look smaller. She was far too young to be wed to anyone, least of all an elf who was likely as old as her own father. I couldn't tell if it was supposed to be an insult or a reward. It was difficult to say with my father, who was surely behind this.

I approached where they were seated, the slave at my side with my gift, and made to kneel.

"Ruith." Niro rose and took my hand, pulling me back to my feet. There was genuine warmth in his eyes and in his voice as he squeezed my fingers. "You should kneel to no one, least of all to me. I'm glad to see you here, my friend. How long has it been?"

"Too long," I replied. Far too long if my father is marrying his best general off to children. "I have a gift."

I gestured to the slave, who had gone down to one knee and now seemed confused about what to do. When he realized we were waiting on him, he lowered his head again and held out the sword I'd given him to present to Niro. A week ago, I never would have trusted the slave with a sword, even one tied closed. I still didn't trust him entirely.

Niro's eyes widened, and he picked up the sword carefully. Many eyes drifted to where we stood, the air growing tense. Such a gift could have many meanings. Bjorin of Wolfsrun had given his brother Thorvid a sword at his Shirla. The gift had famously kicked off three generations of civil war. Yet it was also a common gift given by kings to their most loyal bannermen in the old days. Whether the sword was an insult or an honor depended entirely upon the context. I hoped Niro would read it for what it was.

Niro held up the sword, studying it closely. "This is your sword, is it not?"

"It is," I agreed.

Slowly, Niro lowered the sword. He glanced back at his child bride before regarding me again. "Walk with me and advise me?"

I nodded once.

We left the foot of the blood oak, slowly, quietly, abandoning the crowded courtyard and all the heavy looks for the outer walkways of the north tower. The slave trailed behind at a distance that would give us some privacy, but so that he was close enough to respond should I need him. Wood creaked beneath our feet as we walked, the music and conversation of the courtyard a distant hum.

"The girl was not my choice," Niro said at length. "She's Kudai's niece."

Kudai was the northern warlord who sought to liberate the Yeutlands from my father and D'thallanar. He was the grandson of the man who bent the knee, bowing to one of the last kings. There had been skirmishes in the north ever since, with the northerners never fully accepting their subjugation.

I looked over at Niro, who now looked more tired than before. "Tarathiel thinks marrying you to the royal family will bring the Yeuts in line?"

Niro snorted. "If he believes that, he's a fool. No, she's a hostage. The girl was dear to Kudai. This will spark more fighting in the north, but it is also an opportunity." He halted, facing me. "There are still many fierce fighters in Kudai's rebel army. If someone were to return the girl—untouched—to her uncle, he might find himself in a position to ask a boon."

"That seems unlikely, considering you are to be wed."

Niro's face hardened. "I have never, nor will I ever, bed a child, Ruith."

The rumors were old and cruel. There had been accusations for years that Katyr and Niro were closer than an uncle and his dear nephew should be, stories whispered in the belly of the Hall of Wisdom of the scandal it would be. Not because they were two men, or even because they were family. People would turn a blind eye to both those things if Katyr were not the heir to the Runecleaver clan and Niro were not a war hero. Instead, they whispered that unseemly things had happened between them since Katyr was a boy, that Niro had groomed him from a young age to his side in an attempt to get control of his clan away from Vinolia.

The rumors were unfounded. I was sure of it. They were close, but not lovers. Katyr wouldn't be so foolish, and Niro wouldn't. Even if it was true—and I was certain it wasn't—Niro's honor was unquestionable. I'd never believe him guilty of pederasty.

"I don't believe the rumors," I said. "But there will be expectations, Niro. You'll be expected to wed the girl, and you know what that means."

"Yes," he said, making a face. "I'm expected to bed her with an audience to confirm the deed was done. Normally, that duty would fall to Vinolia, but your timely return has presented an opportunity. I originally meant to stall until I could get a message to you, but now that you're here…"

I frowned. "The Runecleavers don't hold my word in high regard, Niro. You know that. I cannot serve as your witness without there being doubts."

"No one would dare openly doubt your testimony." He looked at me pleadingly. "And you alone outrank Vinolia to claim the honor. If you refuse, I fear I may be forced into dishonor."

It was a trap, not an insult that my father had saddled Niro with. My stomach soured. "He knows," I said halting. "Tarathiel knows we've been speaking. That's why he's put you in this situation."

"Almost certainly," Niro agreed and shook his head. "No matter what I do, I play my hand. If I refuse the girl, it is treason. He ordered me to obey. If I refuse to bed her, the marriage is void, and it's an insult to my Primarch. Not only that, but a confirmation of the vile rumors about my nephew and I. There would be a trial of public opinion. My reputation would be ruined."

"He expected you to come to me, and in doing so, betray your loyalty to me over him."

Niro gripped the railing, looking down into the quiet street. "What other choice do I have? The alternative is to choose death over dishonor. Perhaps that would be better, but then who would lead the Broken Blades?"

I considered my options carefully. With this one move, Tarathiel would expose one of my greatest assets, something I had hoped to keep secret until much later. He would call Niro's loyalty into question, thereby confirming what he surely already suspected: I meant to betray him and take the throne in D'thallanar for myself.

But the alternative was worse. If I refused to protect my plans, Niro would be forced to deflower the poor girl while Vinolia watched and then Kudai's neice would be useless to me. I was trading one hidden piece for another. I could only hope Kudai would be appreciative enough of my efforts to preserve his beloved niece's honor that he would give me his best warriors.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. "It would be my honor to serve as your witness, Niro."

Niro turned and clapped my shoulder. "Thank you, Ruith. I am eternally in your debt."

"The wedding will be tomorrow night," I said to the slave kneeling behind me, a pose he did not like. It didn't suit him to kneel, but he did it because I expected it. I tried not to put any more meaning to it than that. "You'll be expected to serve me at the high table. It's considered an honor."

I turned and a flutter of something needful flew through my chest. It was one thing to know he was kneeling and another to see it. He wasn't made to do it, and anyone who looked upon him performing the act would know that it was wrong. It was like seeing a wolf give its neck to a lamb. His eyes remained fixed coolly on the wooden floor, knees folded on the mat, hands resting, palms up, on strong thighs. Ready to serve.

Ready to serve me into an early grave, no doubt.

"Afterward, I have agreed to serve as the groom's witness," I continued. "I will accompany Niro and his new wife to their bedchamber to witness the coupling. You will wait for me in the courtyard. Don't speak to anyone. The Runecleavers are masters of delivering gifts with one hand and a blade with the other. We are all in danger here."

He started to lift his eyes and then remembered he shouldn't. It was a struggle for him to keep to protocol, and almost a pitiable offense when he managed it.

I reached for his chin, refusing to acknowledge how threading my fingers through the rough edges of his beard felt so right. He lifted his face.

"You have done very well. I believe that you've earned a reward."

His eyes widened, and he pulled away.

I laughed. "No, not a reward like last time. I think you made it clear you'd rather take a good lashing than lie with someone, which I don't understand. But it isn't a reward if you don't like it, is it?" I gestured for him to rise with two fingers and when he did, I gave him his chalk and slate. "I am going to have Vinolia Runecleaver look at your collar. If there is anyone in the land that knows how to undo it, it is her. I'm sure she'll have a high price for her services, but we will negotiate that as we come to it."

A good slave would have thanked me. He was not a very good slave.

Instead, he wrote a single word on his slate and underlined it thrice.

I frowned at the nonsensical combination of letters. They had no meaning. "That is not a word."

He shook his head and reached out as if to touch me, but stopped short, his fingers hovering over my chest. Casual touch was forbidden. Instead, he pointed. It was a rude gesture, but without words, his options were limited. He pointed at me, scratched my name quickly on the slate above the other nonsense he'd written. Then he tapped his chest and underlined the nonsense word more frantically. Desperate brown eyes sought out mine.

"It's your name," I realized and snatched the slate away. I had promised him he could tell me once we came ashore. I just hadn't realized he'd be so desperate to make it known. Studying the script, I sounded out the foreign combination. "Elindar. Your name is Elindar?"

He shook his head and opened his mouth, but there was no sound. I was mispronouncing it and he had no way to correct me. No way but one.

Calloused, trembling fingers reached toward my face, but he pulled back again, turning to his slate to write. "Let me touch your lips."

Not a question; a demand. Bold.

My heart pounded in my chest. I should deny him. If I gave him this one liberty, he might take others. On the eve of a formal banquet with the Runecleavers, and in the house of my enemy, I could not afford to be seen as weak and in the thrall of a human slave.

Let me touch your lips.

Like he was demanding a piece of cheese and not something I wouldn't have allowed my own blood to do, let alone a foreign captive. One who had tried to kill me, no less.

I nodded and leaned in closer. "Show me." A demand for a demand.

His fingers were calloused and coated in chalk. My eyes fixed on his lips as he spoke his name without sound. I watched him expertly shape his name in his mouth, watched his tongue wrap deftly around it, watched him claim it and give it to me thrice. Elindir, Elindir, Elindir. He showed me the shape of his lips, manipulating mine to match.

"Your name is Elindir," I whispered against warm skin. "You are Elindir of Ostovan."

His fingers fell away. He shook his head, erased the slate furiously, and wrote something new, shoving it roughly at me. "I belong to you now, not Ostovan."

It was written with malice, but by the time I read it, all the sharp edges of it had worn away. There was only a roundabout declaration that made something in my blood sing. Elindir was mine.

And he hated me for it.