840 was proud of his skills, but he’d never tested them in a real fight. He had killed disloyal servants when the Elders demanded it, but they’d been unarmed and dressed in rags. For all he knew, his skills were worthless in a real fight against real enemies wearing armor and carrying sharp weapons.
The elf didn’t seem to mind. She surprised him as much as anything that had happened since the stranger stumbled in on their ceremony.
“Those are useful skills to have. It’s good to know how to defend yourself. Can you hunt?”
He shook his head. The Elders had always sent priests who knew how to use a bow.
“Ah, no matter. I expect your friend has survived this long for a reason. How old are you?”
“I’m eighteen.”
She took in his features, examined his hands, and gave him a pat on the back. “I’m sure he’ll be able to find you an apprenticeship somewhere. You could learn a trade, make a life for yourself.”
When he looked at his hands, the cuts were gone.
“You’ve got enough scars for your age,” she said. “You don’t need any more.”
In the village, his wounds were left alone and had only been treated to stop infection. No one had ever healed his injuries just because he’d hurt himself.
Here, love. Let me see to your scraped knee. His Ma’s gentle voice. The soothing scent of lavender.
He couldn’t remember her. The boy he’d been was dead, and he needed to stay dead. His Lord was testing his resolve and 840 would be a warrior, not a weak child.
But the scent of lavender filled his mind now, and he couldn’t shake it off.
I’m not a vengeful god, but as long as I get my revenge on this occasion, I’ll be a happy elf.
Why, you ask?
The people I love most have suffered and suffer still because I was tricked. We all have our limits, right?
Chapter 9
Doran
Doran woke to the singing of birds and the clattering of plates in the next room. Time he got out of this place.
Perhaps he’d return to Dìrlein. Or maybe Kwenjande. The women and men were beautiful that far south, and he’d get better prices for everything he’d found in the ruins. He could drop by Ash on the way, if the idiot hadn’t got himself killed yet. It’d be nice to see a friendly face for a change.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake, dear. Can you talk?”
The elven woman who had questioned him before walked over and sat on the bed beside him.
“I—” Doran coughed, but it was more from the dryness in his throat than from pain. Whatever magic she’d worked on him had done its job frighteningly well. “Yes. Thank you.”
She smiled, making her appear younger still. He hadn’t met many elves but knew they aged differently to humans. Her smile retained all the youth her body had lost.
“Good. What’s your name, young man?”
Doran frowned. He hated to be called young man. He wasn’t a child. Ancients, he’d been growing a beard just to look older.
“Doran.”
“And why were you brought to my small village in the back of a cart, unconscious and poisoned?”
It was a fair question. “I was exploring the forests to the north when a demon attacked me.” It sounded outright ridiculous, but the woman didn’t laugh and her smile was gone. She took him seriously. Perhaps this kind of thing was normal here.
“And what were you doing in the Verdaan forest? There’s nothing there, only ruins and memories.”
He knew that now, but he still hoped the relics he’d found would prove them both wrong. “It wasn’t my plan, but the villagers told me there was treasure in the forest.”
“And they didn’t mention the dryads, I take it?” The way she said dryads—with a smile on her lips and a chuckle in her voice—annoyed him. They had nearly killed him; he failed to see the fun in that.
“What are they?”
A shadow fell over her bright eyes. “They worship demons. They must have hoped that by sending you into the forest, they’d appease their false Gods and gain their favour.”
“I meant the demons that poisoned me.”
The elf looked tired—so tired, in fact, that she finally looked her age.
“Some of them were us once. A long time ago—” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. What does matter is what you brought here with you.”
“I don’t know who he is. I ran into him when I fled the forest.” The hairs on his arms lifted. He’d seen some dark things since he’d started travelling—half of them in Vaska and some of them in Z’rasie—but sacrificing adolescents topped it all. Not even his own people desired blood that much, and Ceidir lived for the hunt.
“He was injured when you arrived.”
“Chanting cultists were cutting him up when I ran into him.”
“I see. And what were you planning on doing, young Doran?”
Find someone interested in taking him off my hands when I reach Alt Võina, just like the relics. “I was going to take him to Alt Võina. He deserves better.”
The elf nodded. “We can agree on that. But I wasn’t asking about the boy. I was asking about the things in your backpack.”
“The relics?” His eyes darted to his leather pouch resting on a chair—close enough to see it, too far out of his reach. “I found them in some old ruin. I don’t think they’ll be worth much, but—”
“Give them to me. They won’t fetch you much gold on the market, but here—they are priceless to us.”
“Priceless, you say?” He was good at haggling, and he’d nearly lost his life bringing them here. He wasn’t going to just give them away.
“Give them to me, I say. Consider them payment for my saving your life. Or is that not worth as much?”
He scowled. “I nearly died for those!”
His life wasn’t worth the dirt on his boots, but he wasn’t about to discuss that with her.
“And the only reason you didn’t is because I healed you.”
“Ancients.” He couldn’t argue with that. He owed her, and there wasn’t much he hated more than owing favours.
“Do we have a deal?” The old elf smiled, a sparkle of her youth back in her eyes.
“Yes, fine. Take them.” It was about time he left and never returned to this corner of the world. He sat up and slid his feet out from under the covers onto the floor.
“Before you go, I have a favour to ask.”
“Haven’t you asked enough already?”
“Hear an old woman out, would you? Ora, dear, come in here for a moment.”
The girl who’d helped him drink before entered the room. She looked like the old woman in every respect, save for her age. For all Doran knew she was hundreds of years old, but he was sure she was as young as she looked. There was something naïve about her that older people with more experience lacked.
“Grandmother?”
“It’s time you saw the world, dear. This young man is about to leave. You should go with him.”
“What?” They spoke as one, but the old elf didn’t seem concerned. If anything she looked like she was enjoying herself.