“So maybe you can be nicer to me, then? I am the one who prevented it.”
“No.”
He sighed. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not here to be your friend. Once we reach Alt Võina we’ll split, and we’ll never see each other again. There’s no need to be friends in the meantime.”
“Who said anything about being friends?”
She blushed. Had she imagined it? Back home, the others were kind to her, but she’d never had many friends. She was the heir to their clan and the only Suf’afir in the village. She’d had other priorities.
“I just don’t want us to stare daggers at each other,” Doran said. “Two weeks can be a long time when you don’t enjoy your company.”
She turned around to glare at him. “Alharys forbid, I’ll never enjoy yours.”
For a moment, Doran stared back at her. Then he burst into laughter. She wasn’t sure which annoyed her more.
“Little elfling, that’s not what I meant. But if you’re interested we can—”
“No.”
He didn’t back away. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested. Who’s Alharys?”
She scowled. “He’s our God of love and compassion.” Why had she told him that? Her gods were none of his business. The people of Ceidir were barbarians who still worshipped dragons, killed them because they thought it would gift them the dragons’ power and bring them closer to divinity, and feared magic; he wouldn’t understand the subtleties of her beliefs. “And don’t call me elfling. It’s offensive.”
“It is? That explains why that elf in Kuuldam slapped me!”
“Excuse me?”
He waved it off. “It was years ago, nothing important. I met this pretty elven girl at the docks and asked her if she wanted to spend the night in my bed. She slapped me. I thought she wasn’t interested, but now I know I insulted her.”
“I’d say she was insulted on both accounts.” Naavah Ora couldn’t help herself—she smiled a little. Just which hole had bred people like him? “That didn’t really happen, did it?”
“It did! I was pretty drunk though. Ancients, I didn’t even own a bed!”
Despite herself, she laughed.
Waiting sounds so simple, but it's among life's hardest duties. I can never decide if your short lives make it easier or harder. I felt like I was running out of time, but I’ve lived for hundreds of years.
I can’t imagine how rushed you must feel.
Chapter 14
840
840 couldn’t deny that Naavah Ora scared him a little. He wasn’t scared of the pain she could inflict on him, even if it was with magic, but he was scared of her outbursts. She hated him, hated the magic she thought he stood for. He’d never heard about the Elders wanting to destroy the world before. Naavah Ora was wrong; she had to be.
And Doran was too carefree. Danger didn’t put him off. Doran wasn’t stupid or careless. If anything, he knew exactly what he was doing. No way Doran hadn’t known about the dangers of the forest when he’d walked into it. So why had he done it? Was he that obsessed with treasure, or was he addicted to the thrill of danger?
840 wasn’t sure why he cared. Doran had saved him from being sacrificed, but he should feel anger at this, not relief. Maybe this was 840’s punishment for not dying. If it was, he wasn’t too upset about it. Naavah Ora scared him and Doran confused him, but it was nothing like the punishment the Elders would have carried out. He could put up with their bickering, with Naavah Ora’s cold glares and Doran’s questioning.
840 tried to suppress a smile and failed. Doran had called him Ginger. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard his nickname—or rather, he could, but he didn’t want to. He shouldn’t.
It’s all right, Ginger. This good man will take you to a village to be trained! Isn’t that exciting? There was a blank spot where his name should be, and Doran’s voice had replaced his mother’s. His mother who’d always called the things she was secretly worried about exciting so he wouldn’t be scared. She’d coddled him, had made him weak. Or had she tried to protect him?
He sighed. Pretending he didn’t want to remember his name—or the comfort of his mother’s warm voice, the smell of apple pie cooling by the window, the sight of the sorcerer’s lights high up in the sky, his mother’s lavender—made his head throb.
“Is something wrong?”
He hadn’t noticed Doran fall back again. Doran had caught up with Naavah Ora not long ago. The strangest thing was, 840 thought he’d heard her laugh shortly after. He hadn’t known she was capable of such a joyous sound, after the cold glares she shot him. The last laugh he’d heard before all this began was his mother’s, sweet as the summer breeze, but now it was like something inside his head blocked the memory.
“I’m fine.”
Doran wouldn’t understand. He looked like he’d been on his own for too long. Maybe they’d both been alone all this time. Maybe he’d been alone since the day they were robbed, and his mother sent him to the village.
“You don’t look fine. You look like you’re suffering.”
840 shrugged. “Naavah Ora’s grandmother healed my wounds as much as she could.”
“I don’t mean your physical scars. Have you lived in that village all your life?”
840 wanted to say yes, that they were his family and he missed them dearly, but he’d never been a good liar. He shook his head.
“You’re from Hjeva, aren’t you?”
840 froze. He hadn’t heard that name in a long time. Slowly, inside his mind, he tested the sound. Hjeva. Hje-va. His home. His real home. How could he ever have forgotten that name? Or had he known it this whole time, but his mind had forbidden him from accessing it like it blocked his mother’s laughter? His own name? It was right there, on the tip of his tongue. L—
No. He couldn’t. He felt sick from the effort, burning bile closing his throat.
“How did you know?”
Doran smiled. “Your red hair and pale skin. We don’t see many of you this side of the sea. How did you end up in the village?”
He couldn’t revisit that day.
“Why do you care?” The last time someone had cared, his father had still smelled like the sea, and his mother had still smelled of lavender. He felt faint and tried to hold onto something, anything, to steady himself, not realising it was Doran’s arm he was grabbing until it was too late.
“Steady, Ginger. Do you need to sit?”
But he was already sinking closer to the ground. Doran helped him, made sure he didn’t hit the ground too hard or scrape his knee. Why did it matter? 840 was used to injury. He could withstand a lot.
“Does that help?” Doran asked. 840 nodded, then shook his head. Did it? Should it?
“Thank you.” He hadn’t said those words and meant them in years. “I’m fine. Really.”
Naavah Ora raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with him?” He didn’t remember her waiting for them. All he knew was the ground under him and a terrible pressure in his head, like a rusty key struggling with a familiar lock.