Secrets

by Miranda Bailey

  Her white-blond hair fell free over her shoulders, its waves adorned with pearls and blue gems that caught the light of the magical light globes, and her eyes seemed almost to glow. Ellieth was accustomed to dressing in dark blue, to accentuate her color, but she now regretted that she did not dress in white more often. She looked luminous, a creature of snow, as magical as the Elven palace that surrounded her, with eyes that spoke of old magic.

  “Well,” her mother said at last, sounding pleased, “they won’t have seen something like this before.”

  She sounded satisfied, as proud as any mother to see her daughter be married, but Ellieth knew the woman well enough to hear the tremor of fear in her voice. Everything hung on this marriage. Everything.

  “They will treat me well, Mother.” She turned, clasping her mother’s hands in her own.

  “If they do not—”

  “They must.” Ellieth smiled her reassurance, hoping that her racing pulse did not give away her own fear. She thought, with some annoyance, that her mother should be comforting her and not the other way around, but she knew it must be difficult to see one’s child walk into the danger of a hostile court. “They need us,” Ellieth reminded her.

  It was true, although she feared that the fact made the Elves more resentful than anything else. They were a proud race. Elfhame—or whatever unpronounceable name they called it in Elvish— was guarded by warriors who wielded bows, staves, and swords with equal precision. For millennia, the Elves were the most feared fighting force on Earth. And for centuries, they existed with humans in an uneasy truce borne of mutual desperation. The Elves, if they so choose, could crush the human nations in a moment… if they had not needed their troops for the increasingly ruinous battle against the dragons.

  The war had raged between the two nations since before Ellieth’s family took the throne in the human lands. She wondered if the Elves were aware that it had been their armies who placed her family in the seat of power, however inadvertently—when King Savin IV of the Elvenkin had slain Darius, the last of the royal line. Ellieth’s great grandfather, an archduke, had been chosen as the successor.

  And now Ellieth was to marry Savin’s namesake, so that the humans could aid the Elves in a battle they now, to their shame, needed humans to help them fight. As necessary as her presence was, signaling military aid, Ellieth knew it might not be welcome. She had crept to her father’s door while he conversed with her mother, and so she had heard him repeat the slander they said against humans: weak, terrified little creatures. Too easily crushed to be worth the crown Prince’s hand in marriage.

  When Ellieth asked her mother, a bit desperately, if they should go through with the marriage, her mother had reminded her simply that with Savin’s goodwill, no one else could touch her. And so Ellieth, whose concerns the week before had been centered on grain prices and the other tedious business of learning to rule; now found herself with the task of enchanting an Elven Prince. She had spent the ride to the castle trying to forget that she did not think she could do it.

  “Do you think the Prince will be nice?” Ellieth’s younger sister asked softly, as if reading Ellieth’s mind.

  “Allina!” their mother said sharply.

  “I’m sorry.” Her sister’s eyes, a paler blue than Ellieth’s own, dropped down. Where Ellieth seemed born of extremes, pale as ice and yet with eyes like dusk, Allina was a copy of gold and aquamarine; her skin inclined to turn the color of honey in the sun, her hair as pure and glorious as liquid bronze, and her eyes shining the same clear blue as the waters around the human capital of Terrestra. Now she bit one rose-pink lip, flushing with shame.

  “Allina, don’t worry.” Ellieth reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her sister’s ear. “Prince Savin will—”

  A distant roar went up in the great hall outside, and Ellieth broke off. Their mother picked up her skirts, hastening over to peer through one of the carved screens that separated them from the throng, Elves and humans mixing in stilted politeness. From the cheer, Ellieth knew that Savin must have taken his place at the altar.

  “Ellieth.” Her sister’s voice was low, panicked. “It’s not too late to go back.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I’m scared,” Allina whispered. “The dragon—Ellieth, you were already here, but we saw it when we came to join you. It’s black as night, it blocks the sun with its wings. If it lays siege to Elfhame…”

  “The war will be over soon with our help,” Allina said, with more confidence than she felt.

  “And Savin—they say he’s a cold man. What if he…I mean, they say Elves…”

  “What do they say?” Ellieth raised an eyebrow as her sister flushed a deep red.

  “They say Elves have unnatural… appetites,” Allina whispered. Her blue eyes were wide.

  “Allina!” Ellieth put a hand over her mouth, horrified at the insinuation. Then, almost hysterical, she felt herself start to laugh. “Who have you been listening to, dock workers?”

  A giggle escaped her younger sister, and within moments, the two of them were laughing like schoolgirls, stopping only when their mother looked over at them in annoyance.

  “Calm yourself.” Her eyes flicked between the two of them. “I assure you that His Majesty will not take kindly to you two laughing while Ellieth marries his son.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Ellieth leaned forward to kiss her mother’s cheek.

  “It’s time.” Her mother’s face was pale, and she melted away into the shadows as the great double doors swung open.

  There was a moment of silence in the Banquet Hall as Ellieth stood framed by black marble, a beacon of white against the dark marble. And then, as she began to walk through the crowd, a roar of approval went up; humans delighted to see their Princess shining to her best advantage, calling blessings upon her, and the Elves murmuring congratulations, their dark eyes wide with surprise at this pale apparition. The crowd itself was a dizzying mix of the peaches and browns of humanity, and the blues and purples of the Elves. But all of them, she noted with a wave of relief, seemed to be cheering her. Relief coiled, warm, in her chest— until she noticed that there was only one man in the Hall who did not seem pleased to watch her advance across the black-and-gold floor.

  Unfortunately, that man was Prince Savin t’Lorien, Ellieth’s husband-to-be. Even more unfortunate, as she saw him with his face cold as stone, his expression unwelcoming in the extreme, she herself felt a flutter in her stomach, and her knees went weak. Savin t’Lorien, it so happened, was the most beautiful man, whether human or Elven, that Ellieth had ever seen.

  His hair was so black as to have a blue sheen to it, catching the eerie glow of the light globes that hovered above the altar. His wedding clothes; a suit of black velvet adorned with black pearls and embroidered with a black threat that seemed almost to glow, highlighted broad shoulders, strong arms, and narrow hips. And his face… Ellieth felt her lips part, and tried not to gape like a peasant girl. Even the skin, a purple-blue that made her eyes go wide, could not distract her from how beautiful this man was. High cheekbones and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, full lips she could only imagine pressed against her own, and black eyes large and long-lashed, were deep enough to drown in.

  Eyes that were now staring at her with all the warmth of a midwinter’s night. As Ellieth reached the altar, the Prince hesitated. Then his hand came up in a perfect gesture, palm up. Had he been a wind-up figurine made in the toyshops of Elfhame, he could not have been more mechanical. His eyes spoke duty, and the simplicity of his movements said that he would spend not a moment more on this marriage than he must.

  And yet, as she reached out, trembling, and put her hand in his, the jolt that passed between them was unmistakable. Ellieth nearly stumbled, and she saw Savin’s eyes flash, those full lips moving as if he might speak to her.

  The moment passed quickly. Something slammed down behind his eyes again— almost, she might say, dislike.

  How she got thro
ugh the wedding service; Ellieth did not know. She was so light-headed that she swayed, and the pressure of the Prince’s fingers on her own was so tight that she knew, just knew; he was furious with her. When they turned to lift their clasped hands, hearing the thunderous approval of the crowd, the Prince looked so cold that Ellieth could hardly force a pretty smile onto her own lips.

  It wasn’t her fault, she thought miserably. She had hardly been prepared for the service— for any of it. The marriage had been arranged so hastily that there was hardly time for her to make the journey to Elfhame; from the speed her guards had been instructed to bring her, she had wondered a few times if her presence was even necessary. A battle was brewing; everyone knew it, and Ellieth was just a pawn to cement a business deal. A pawn whom, if the Prince’s expression were to be believed, was more of an annoyance than anything else. Did he have a lover, then? Someone he had intended to marry before Ellieth was offered?

  She pressed her lips together, feeling tears come to her eyes. This was a marriage of convenience, she told herself. It was only to aid in a single battle— a last strike. Her necessity to Savin would last only as long as the dragons still fought… and then she would remain only because her own people feared what might happen when the war was over. She had been told, in hushed whispers, that though the Elves needed her only for a very short time, humanity needed her for all her life; she was to charm the Prince, and bear a child to become his heir. She was to ensure the safety of Terrestra.

  Small chance of that, she thought. Ellieth looked over the crowd. She should be pleased. The party was thus far an incredible success, humans and Elves at last beginning to celebrate with one another as liquor loosened inhibitions and lent a warm glow to the surroundings. One Elf after another came to the altar to offer her their fealty, children shyly telling her that she was beautiful, ladies offering the services of their tailors and gentlemen congratulating Savin heartily on this ethereal bride. The court, it seemed, was Ellieth’s to command.

  She could not say the same of her husband. The man hardly looked at her, his fingers tapping on his thigh impatiently. He seemed desperate to be anywhere else, and as the clinking of glasses began, humans whispering to their Elven counterparts just what this custom entailed, Ellieth saw Savin’s jaw tighten.

  She lifted her chin, suddenly furious. She was not to be made a fool of. Shining her most radiant smile on the throngs below, Ellieth raised her hand in a royal wave, and then turned to sweep a deep curtsy at her new husband. Her smile never wavered, but her eyes, as she came up, carried a challenge— and did she see the hint of a smile as he noted it?

  But he only clasped her hand in both of his, pressing his lips to her fingers, each in turn, and— turning her hand over— the tender skin of her wrist. The Elves, scandalized by public kisses, murmured their approval of the Prince’s restraint, and the Humans twittered at the romantic gesture. Ellieth swayed, the softness of his lips a perfect counterpart to the bolt of energy that shot through her.

  “My Lord…” She managed as he stood.

  “My Lady.” His eyes came up, chillingly cold once more. And then he turned on his heel and left his own wedding celebration, leaving Ellieth to stand alone before the crowd assembled.

  2

  “And he didn’t even come back?” Allina demanded.

  “No,” Ellieth responded tonelessly. “He didn’t come back.”

  “You’re only making your sister feel worse,” their mother said sharply.

  Ellieth sighed and went to the window, staring out at the gorgeous valley that was spread out below them. The Elves had tamed it all, from the precise clusters of trees to the perfectly manicured gardens of iris and roses and tulips, all somehow growing together in an explosion of color.

  It should have been a wonderful day, and Ellieth only wanted to bury her face in her hands and sob. Diplomatic urgency, she wanted to say— if she failed to charm her husband, she was leaving humanity open to another Elven war, and she could not allow that to happen. There was so much pressure on her, and there had been no time to acclimate to the changing of her fortunes. Her former betrothed, the Archduke of Ferredh, had looked almost as shell-shocked as she had last night; persuaded by Ellieth’s mother to withdraw his marriage proposal, he now stood as one of the most eligible bachelors in Terrestra… with the throne no longer within his grasp.

  And Ellieth faced a marriage not with a young man she had known since their shared childhood, but with a man three centuries old—who seemed to hate her. There had been no time to consult with Ellieth to gain her consent, and she could only assume that the same applied to Savin— whose father was still locked in the war chamber with Ellieth’s father, both too busy even to attend the marriage of their children.

  This was not how she had imagined her wedding, she thought, biting her lip, and the thought made her feel like a child. Surely she was old enough not to expect true love from her marriage.

  But her husband, her mind whispered, had not even shown her basic courtesy.

  The door chimed, and Ellieth’s heart leaped. She whirled— and hoped that her face did not fall too obviously when she saw not her husband, but another Elf, his black hair in an elaborate set of braids and his clothing a deep blue that set off his skin to perfection.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he said, bowing deeply. His smile was warm. “Prince Dorel t’Lorien, at your service.”

  Savin’s younger brother. Ellieth dipped into a curtsy, hoping that her own smile did not betray her uncertainty. Had she met Dorel last night? There had been so many new faces…

  “Good morning, Your Highness.” She came up without wobbling, proud of the steadiness of her voice. He did not need to know that she had been on the brink of tears before his arrival. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “A most… delicate… matter, I am afraid.” He looked gravely over at Ellieth’s mother and sister, bowing to them as well. “Might I ask for a few moments of privacy?”

  “Of course,” Ellieth’s mother said smoothly. She steered Allina out of the room, one hand tight on her younger daughter’s shoulder as the girl looked over her shoulder, wide-eyed, at Dorel.

  Ellieth could understand her fascination. Dorel was the very picture of masculinity, as tall and well-muscled as his brother, his eyes and full mouth an echo of Savin’s. His smile was easy and open, if his eyes were grave.

  “Your Royal Highness, I must apologize. I fear I bear bad news.”

  “Oh?” Ellieth tried to keep her voice light. “Do not apologize, Your Highness.”

  “Ah, how can I not? This is not the sort of thing one should be telling a bride on the day after her wedding.” His forehead furrowed, and he looked away from her for a moment. “I fear… I fear my brother has departed.”

  “Departed?” Ellieth blinked. The words hit her like a wave, and yet she could not seem to make sense of them. “What do you mean, departed?”

  “He has left the court for the mountain retreat of E’lessiell.” Dorel’s words were soft, his black eyes kind. “My Lady— Your Highness— I am so sorry.”

  Ellieth turned away, her heart pounding. Shame was burning in her cheeks, and she could feel tears pricking at her eyes. She wiped them away angrily, furious that her brother-in-law should see such a thing.

  Brother-in-law. He was not even that, not yet. Until the marriage was consummated, she was nothing to the t’Lorien family— a pawn without a Prince.

  There was a faint stirring of hope. Perhaps Dorel did not know. After all, who would? Everyone had clustered in the Hall last night, drinking and dancing. Would anyone realize that Savin had never come back to Ellieth’s suite of rooms?

  “Why has he gone?” Ellieth asked. She focused her eyes on the mountains at the far end of the valley, snow-capped and rising into a perpetual haze of clouds. Sunlight played on their slopes.

  “He did not say, Your Highness. I truly regret that I was not able to persuade him to stay. I followed him from the ceremony,”
Dorel said softly. “But he said he had business to attend to.” When Ellieth froze, she thought she heard him move closer. “Your Highness… I am sure he will return soon. The court says—”

  “The court knows?”

  Horror.

  “My Lady, it is impossible to keep secrets here.” The touch of humor in his voice made her feel like a child. “There is always someone who stands to profit by telling stories. There were those who bet their fortunes that you would enchant my elder brother.”

  “And those who bet against it,” Ellieth said quietly. She knew how courts worked; why had she thought that Elfhame would be any different?

  “For sport alone, I assure you,” Dorel said. He moved to stand at her side, and she saw him smile down at her before she looked away hastily. His voice was soft. “Who could believe that even a man as cold as my brother would not be enchanted by such a lovely bride?”

  “Thank you.” His kindness was too much. Ellieth’s fingers curled into fists on the windowsill. She did not say that she was a laughingstock. Etiquette would force him to deny it, but they both knew that it was true. Worse, she was a liability, and laughingstock or no; she had only one course of action available to her. “Would you call my servants, please?”

  “My Lady, come to the wedding breakfast with the court.” He turned and took one of her hands in his own. “Surely my brother will return before long, but until then the t’Loriens shall do all in their power to make sure you are amused and adored and the toast of the court.” He raised one eyebrow. “May I suggest something in white? Truly, it makes you look radiant.”

  Ellieth blushed at his regard. She had never been told that Elves were so free with their affections— and from Savin’s comportment, she would never have expected.

  “I’m afraid I cannot,” she said, withdrawing her hand from Dorel’s. This was most inappropriate; she was sure, and more to the point; she had no intentions at all of appearing in front of the court to be mocked. “I must go to E’lessiell.”