“We wait,” Za’ya insists, unfazed as she spoons leaves into the teapot. “And we prepare. For the day when Ra’Ven will lead us to claim our homeland in the East.”
“Who’s Ra’Ven?” I put in, looking to Ciaran in question, the name seeming strangely familiar.
Everyone has gone silent, like they’ve collectively paused in their breathing. They cast dark, furtive glances around. Everyone except for Rivyr, who rolls his eyes.
“Their Blessed Savior,” the Elf sneers.
“He is the last surviving member of my people’s royal line,” Za’ya tells me, her chin held high, her words bright with passion. “And he is a great rune-sorcerer. The greatest ever, and blessed by Oo’na. He will lead my people to freedom and reclaim our ancestral sublands.” She shoots Rivyr a poignant look. “And he is going to provide refuge not just to the Smaragdalfar, but to the unwanted everywhere.”
An image of the wanted posting I saw in Valgard the day of my wandfasting comes to mind. That’s where I’ve heard the name—a Snake Elf named Ra’Ven. The postings are even present here in Verpacia now, and likely still in Valgard, although the picture of the Snake Elf on the posting has changed from an angry, slender boy to an intimidating young man.
“Nothing can stop the weapons he makes,” Za’ya crows.
Rivyr rolls his eyes again and leans in toward me. “Don’t spend too much time with this lot. They’ll draw you into one hopeless cause after another.”
“You should join with us, Rivyr’el Talonir,” Za’ya states with unassailable certainty. “To be heroic is your true purpose, yet you fight it so mightily.”
Rivyr’s voice turns velvet, his arm coming around me. “Sweet Za’ya,” he purrs, “the purpose of my life is to pick all the flowers I come upon.”
“Rivyr,” Ciaran says warningly.
I remember seeing Rivyr in the alley, pressed up so wantonly against that woman. Steel rises up within me and I cut my eyes towards him. “Get your arm off of me.”
Rivyr’s smile wavers. There’s a flash of bitterness in his eyes that quickly morphs to a chastised hurt. He nods and stiffly complies, pulling his arm from my shoulder and putting a respectful distance between us. He shoots me a sidelong apologetic look, and for a moment, I get an unguarded glimpse into eyes filled with glittering pain. Pain I recognize, which makes me regret speaking so harshly to him.
He’s an outcast, like me.
Just then, Na’bee runs in, shrieking with delight in Ishkart. I only understand the name “Rivyr’el!” in the flurry of foreign words.
Rivyr’s face lights up like the sun. His sharp edges fall away as he rises, his arms opening wide as Na’bee practically hurls himself at the Elf, almost pushing him over, the two of them laughing and hugging.
“I have something for you, young prince,” Rivyr happily reveals.
Na’bee’s eyes light up brightly with anticipation as he bounces up and down and lets loose a string of breathless Ishkart. Rivyr pulls a carved wooden, jointed toy from his cloak pocket—a beautifully wrought white stallion with an Alfsigr Elf in alabaster military garb on his back. Na’bee takes the toy into his hands and hugs it to his chest, exclaiming his happiness in a tangle of both Ishkart and the Common Tongue and hugging Rivyr once more.
“No, Rivyr’el,” Za’ya says, shaking her head, her expression tense and pained. “I know you are trying to be kind, but he cannot have this thing.”
I look to Za’ya, surprised by her rejection of a toy. Rivyr’s eyes narrow with irritation. “Well, it’s too late, Za’ya, since it’s a gift, and I’ve already given it to him.”
Za’ya’s eyes flash. “Thank you, Rivyr, but I said no.”
Tension descends upon the room, thick and volatile, as Rivyr and Za’ya launch into an argument in what sounds like Alfsigr as Na’bee looks on worriedly, clutching the toy to his chest. Finally, Za’ya gets up and stalks toward them, holding out her hand to Na’bee for the toy.
Na’bee frowns, lip quivering, and hands the toy to his mother, who promptly goes to the rune-stove, opens the door to the fire and casts the toy in, her eyes like lightning on Rivyr.
Rivyr looks to the fire for a moment, his jaw ticking, as if struggling to contain his anger. He gets hold of himself and forces a smile at Na’bee. “It’s no matter,” Rivyr says, beaming, though his expression seems hollow. “I got you two things, and that wasn’t even the best of it. I’ll bring the other by for you tomorrow. What do you think of that?”
Na’bee rallies somewhat as Za’ya beckons to him. Unsure, Na’bee goes over to his parents, and Zeymir kneels down to his level and has a low conversation with him in Ishkart, patting him warmly on the shoulder. Na’bee nods and slowly loses his troubled expression.
“Say good-night to everyone,” Zeymir prods him kindly as he rises, his hand coming to Za’ya’s back.
Na’bee runs to Rivyr and the Elf embraces him warmly, his eyes closing momentarily.
A finger of cold remembrance traces down my spine. Nightfall. The search spell. I turn to Ciaran. “Won’t it be dark soon?”
“There’s about three more hours of daylight,” Ciaran tells me, the protective look in his emerald eyes and his ever-present steadiness reassuring me. “I’m watching, don’t worry.”
I turn, and suddenly Na’bee is before me, holding his arms out for a hug. I reach out and we embrace warmly.
“Good night, Sagellyn,” he says, hugging me close.
“Good night, Na’bee.” A sorrowful pang cuts through me. My sisters. What are they doing right now? What were they told about me?
Na’bee leaves, and Rivyr’s smile leaves with him. He faces down Za’ya, his eyes flashing. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
Za’ya’s outrage instantly rekindles. “You bring my child an Alfsigr Elf soldier as a toy? They enslave us, Rivyr’el.”
“It’s a toy, Za’ya,” Rivyr scoffs. “I’d bring him a Smaragdalfar toy to play with, but they don’t make toys like that.”
Her eyes catch fire. “And why is that? Why exactly is that, Rivyr’el?”
They launch into a fierce argument in Ishkart, occasionally lapsing into the Common Tongue. I sense this is just one part of a larger, ongoing clash of wills.
“Shall we wage war on the toy shop?” Rivyr’el cries, throwing up his hands. “Good use of your time, that is!” Frustrated, he pulls out his flask again.
“Oh, you think you are such the rebel.” Quick as a flash, Za’ya grabs his flask, unstoppers it, opens the woodstove and casts the spirits into the flames, the fire exploding outward. “This is not rebelling,” Za’ya seethes, letting the flask clatter the floor.
Rivyr’s silver eyes simmer with indignation. “Those were ten-year-old Keltic spirits.”
Za’ya ignores him and gestures at his tunic, her silver eyes hot with challenge. “You think putting on this colorful clothing is rebelling? You are no true rebel, Rivyr’el Talonir.”
Rivyr’s expression grows haughty, his tone now coldly dismissive. “You’re so bitter. All because my rune-sorcery can best yours. I could strike you down with three short moves, Za’ya Nyvor. And you know it.”
Za’ya gets right up in his face, unmoved and unintimidated by his height. “So, you’d strike me down? Rather than hear the truth? The truth about yourself?”
His sneer returns. “The truth? All right. Here is the truth, Za’ya. I do enjoy your cooking. And your bonfires. And your simple Snake Elf ways.”
Za’ya grows silent, sparks flying in her eyes. “I am going to forever pretend you did not just say that, Rivyr’el Talonir.” She stalks back to Zeymir, gesturing toward Rivyr and lapsing into passionate Smaragdalfar.
“Of course,” Rivyr grouses to me. “I’m winning our latest debate, so she switches to Low Alfsigr so I can’t understand what she’s saying.”
There’s a collective intake
of breath. Za’ya slowly turns, combat fire lighting her eyes.
“LOW Alfsigr?” Her voice is a wave of fury. “It is not LOW Alfsigr. It’s Smaragdalfar. An older language than yours by far, you sun-bleached fool!”
Rivyr stares at her, eyes wide with a shock that soon fades as he coughs out a derisive laugh. “Sun-bleached fool?”
“Get out,” Za’ya hisses at Rivyr. “Get out of my sight before I run a rune-blade through you.”
Rivyr’s face tightens into an incredulous grimace. “So you’re kicking me out now?” Misery slashes across his coldly handsome face.
I’m stunned. Arrogant Rivyr is suddenly the picture of vulnerability.
Za’ya takes a deep, shaky breath, glaring at him. “I am kicking you out for tonight, Rivyr’el. Not permanently, because you are my friend. And because I believe a noble thing exists within you that you do not yet see. But right now, I am furious with you, Rivyr’el Talonir. You must go.”
The Elf nods stiffly at Za’ya. He looks to me, all levity gone, hard bitterness back in his expression. “We have more in common than you think, Gardnerian.” His voice breaks with emotion. “Even if you despise me, our lot is the same.”
For a brief moment, his anguish is laid bare. And I recognize the fierce loneliness in his eyes.
“I don’t despise you,” I tell him, and am surprised to find I mean it, upset as I am over his treatment of Za’ya.
He blinks at me, seemingly caught off guard, then shoots a hurt look at Za’ya, grabs up his bow and quiver and takes his leave, slamming the upstairs door behind him.
The tension in the room leaves with him.
“Why do you put up with him if he bothers you so?” Zeymir asks Za’ya as he pours the tea.
Za’ya closes her eyes and takes a long, shaky breath, as if to calm herself. She opens her eyes and looks to Zeymir. “He is only nineteen. And he is more than what he thinks he is.”
Zeymir shakes his head. “He’s a child of privilege. He’ll never change.”
She shoots him a poignant look. “Like you never changed?”
They launch into a low conversation that’s a combination of Ishkart and Smaragdalfar. It’s dizzying, how they can all switch and combine and meld languages.
Suddenly, I’m feeling very isolated here. An outsider, removed from their history with each other.
I turn to Ciaran. He has one leg propped up, his arm resting on his knee as he watches me intently. His protective focus on me is comforting, and it quickly diffuses some of the tension built up inside me from witnessing Rivyr’el and Za’ya spar so intensely. I suddenly realize how much I like and appreciate Ciaran’s quiet manner.
“Are you friends with Rivyr’el?” I ask him.
He looks down at the table, his focus momentarily drawing inward. “I am. As much as he’ll let anyone be friends with him.” He looks back over at me. “He’s had a rough time of it. Don’t let his bravado fool you.”
I think of the pained vulnerability in Rivyr’el’s silver eyes that momentarily broke through and nod in understanding. Then I hold Ciaran’s emerald stare for a moment, his magic drawing me in. “Can I stay in your room again tonight?”
He nods and gives me a searching look. “It’s the safest place for now.”
With all those runic wards. More protective wards than anywhere else in this dwelling. “Is it true that you’re a rune-sorcerer?” I ask him.
His open expression becomes inscrutable. “Yes.”
I wonder at this. I’ve never heard of a Kelt with rune-sorcery, but perhaps he has mixed ancestry. Except he doesn’t look Noi or Alfsigr or Ishkart or Smaragdalfar, and only the Fae can glamour. So...how is it that he has so much rune-sorcery inside him? And why am I so drawn in by it?
“My light magery is drawn to your power,” I admit, flushing a bit as I relax into his magical pull. It feels like a caress along my affinity lines, drawing me in toward him and heightening my color sensitivity, the hues of everything in the room brightening.
“I know,” he says, his voice throaty, as if he’s momentarily giving in to the pull as well. “I feel it, too. It’s strong.”
My flush deepens. It is strong—so strong that I have to resist the urge to move closer to him. “Is your rune-sorcery warded? Inside yourself? Like Rivyr warded mine?”
He nods, the green light in his eyes intensifying.
I study him closely. “I wonder...what it would be like to be around you if Rivyr hadn’t warded me.”
Ciaran’s mouth quirks into the suggestion of a grin. “Dangerous. It’s good he warded you.”
My eyes widen a bit at this. So it’s true. He’s as powerful as I suspect.
I suddenly remember what else Rivyr said about Ciaran. “Are you truly a revolutionary?” I’ve heard Father describe revolutionaries as dangerous criminals and killers, and he’s talked about their Resistance in cautionary tones, always followed by Father reassuring Mother Eliss that the Resistance is always easily crushed every time it rears its head against the Gardnerians and the Alfsigr.
Ciaran’s eyes fill with unshakable conviction. “Yes, Sagellyn. I am.”
Sweet Ancient One, he is. He’s part of the Resistance.
Ciaran remains quiet for a protracted moment, but when his words come, they’re low and certain. “You’re a revolutionary, too.”
I tense my brow at him in confusion.
“You walked away from oppression,” he says. “Turned your back on everything you’ve ever known, and at great personal risk. That was a revolutionary act.”
I turn this over in my mind, stunned by the idea. “What are you fighting for?” I ask him. I’ve been told that revolutionaries are a pack of thieves, out to destroy the Magedom and steal our land—all of them criminals bent on smuggling spirits, pit dragons, illegal elixirs, weapons and dangerous refugees across our borders.
He’s silent for a bit, his gaze steady on me. “Nothing is as you probably think it is. The Smaragdalfar aren’t criminals or depraved beasts. They’re like Za’ya, and they’re being imprisoned underground by the Alfsigr Elves as laborers in the mines. Even children as young as Na’bee are given lumenstone quotas, and if they don’t meet them, they’re beaten and sometimes killed. That’s what I’m fighting for. For freedom.”
His words throw everything I’ve ever been told by my parents completely off-kilter. But now that I’ve met all of them—especially now that I’ve met Za’ya—I’m inclined to believe the shocking things he’s telling me.
“You’re right,” I tell him, disturbed by it all, “that’s not what I’ve been told.”
“Of course you haven’t. The Mage Guard is helping to enslave the Smaragdalfar.” There’s a jaded look in his emerald eyes as this new information rocks my world. “The Gardnerians are aligned with the Alfsigr militarily because the Gardnerian Guilds benefit from access to the mines.”
I think of how Za’ya cast the Alfsigr toy into the fire, the pain on her face as she argued with Rivyr’el, and I begin to understand.
“The Resistance isn’t made up of debauched criminals,” he says, seeming to read the spark of troubled awareness in my expression. “We’re fighting for a new world, where everyone can be free. No matter what culture. Or race. Or religion.” There’s a sudden, seditious fire in his eyes. “At least, that’s what I’m fighting for.”
Freedom. I look down at my fasting lines. What would it be like to live in a place where everyone is free?
“When you talk about everyone,” I ask him haltingly, “do you mean Gardnerians, too?”
The hard resolve in his eyes doesn’t waver. “Yes. Even Gardnerians. If they could accept every group as equal.”
Could that even be possible? Everyone together instead of so rigidly separate? Together—like Za’ya, Zeymir, Wyla, Ciaran and Na’bee are here? It’s possible for them, which means it might be p
ossible for more people.
I lean in toward him, feeling suddenly lit-up by the explosive thought. “Tell me about your ideas.”
We spend the next few hours talking, right up to the edge of nightfall, about the politics of the Realm and the strengthening Smaragdalfar Resistance. We talk about how the Mage Guard is massing on the Keltanian and Lupine borders, threatening an invasion if they don’t turn over large swaths of borderland to the Magedom and the Alfsigr. He tells me about the increasing flow of desperate Urisk, Elfhollen, Smaragdalfar and Fae refugees out of the Western Realm.
And we talk about the Resistance—and their goals to build something better.
A fierce light shining in his eyes, Ciaran tells me of his desire to help the Smaragdalfar Elves build a new land in the Eastern sublands with a new type of rule, and with the ability to defend themselves against the Gardnerians and the Alfsigr and their allies.
I feel like someone is walking into my darkened world and firing up a million lanterns all at once. No one has ever talked to me like this, as if the workings of power are something I have the right to dissect. And it’s a heady idea, that change could be possible. But...what if there could be a place where everyone could be free and together? A place for Za’ya and Na’bee and Zeymir and Wyla?
And a place with no wandfasting. Maybe even a place for a Gardnerian running from her family and her fasting.
The odds are insurmountable, but still, just the idea of it is like a beautiful, fragile, winged thing.
“I want a different world, too,” I tell him, glancing at my fastmarked hands. When I look back up at him, the sudden empathy in his emerald eyes is a palpable thing.
And it strikes me-he’s so completely different from the young man my parents bound me to. I look down again at my hands as frustration claws at me.
Why did they have to bind me to Tobias?
I’m suddenly distraught and desperately wishing that I could strip the fastlines from my skin.
But I’m trapped—I could run to the other side of Erthia and jump clear into the Resistance, like Ciaran, but I’ll never really be free.
And I’ll never get to choose who I want to love.
Light Mage (The Black Witch Chronicles) Page 15
