The Adani Chronicles: Birthright

The days moved more slowly in Thaliondris, Ryn would think later. The wood elves were a peaceable folk, settled within their city and seemingly oblivious to many of the machinations in the rest of the world; it gave their home a heavy, steady aura that created weighted moments and wrung every possibility from them before letting them go. Minutes felt like hours, but far from bored, Ryn felt instead refreshed. It made a good night’s sleep feel like a week’s rest and, she was convinced, promoted healing within its citizens and guests. A mere two days after she reunited with Kota, they both were showing marked improvement and she was released from the Menders’ care. Her wounds had been healed the morning of her rescue, true, but she was still exhausted and famished enough that Master Áedán—she had learned that was the name of the stern old Master Healer who oversaw the Menders—felt the need to observe her recovery carefully for a short time, especially since they didn’t know exactly what had caused her original healing. Reluctantly, Ryn had agreed, her desire to be left alone warring against the ingrained impulse to follow Menders’ directions.

She found herself the fair morning of her release exploring the Healing House’s gardens. The early breeze tousled the scarf she’d been given for her head, and she shivered a little in the thin cotton breeches and shirt she wore—also borrowed. She would see about acquiring proper leather armor and underclothes in the next few days. Thaliondris was bound to play host to vendors who could help her.

A rather small lad approached her by the creek, where she sat enjoying the cheery sound of water rushing over stone. “Are you…the Lady with the Lynx?” he asked, deep-set lavender eyes standing out against skin so dark it was almost black. A small white feather was tattooed carefully in the very center of his forehead, but she could see no other marks; this one was very young and had little experience at his craft yet. He shifted his weight, gaze flicking between her and the rest of the courtyard, as though he expected to see Kota nearby.

Amused by his obvious fascination, Ryn smiled. “I am. Kota has not yet been dismissed by the Menders.”

The youngling stared, then remembered himself and bowed. “Right. Yes. My name is Faelar. I have instructions to see you to your room, miss.”

Ryn nodded. “Well then. Lead on, Master Faelar.” The boy smiled and trotted off, leading Ryn out the arched gate of the garden and into the city proper.

Well-traveled as she was, Ryn still struggled not to stare open-mouthed at her surroundings. She had never seen anything quite like this city; its beauty was legendary, but the tales paled in comparison to reality. White arches stood side by side to her right and left as they walked down the broad street; there were small shops everywhere selling spices, leather goods, armor, food, fabrics, trinkets, and some things Ryn had never even heard of. What structures weren’t made of alabaster stone seemed to be grown from the ubiquitous trees themselves; awnings and homes, balconies and bridges. As they approached what appeared to be the City Square, Ryn couldn’t suppress a gasp, which made Faelar turn back and grin proudly. In the midst of the large open courtyard there stood a magnificent tree, the largest Ryn had ever seen. The trunk was wide enough to live in, its thick boughs worn smooth by time. The wood was white as the stone the city was built upon, and the leaves were a rich blue-green that reminded Ryn of the single time she’d seen the sea as a child. Shade from the tree covered the entire square, turning the stone a dappled verdigris, and the laughs of children echoed as they played and climbed among the massive boughs, shouting challenges to climb the highest, or jump from branch to branch. Ryn’s eyes widened at the sight; the village she had lived in as a child would never have allowed such reckless behavior to take place in a public area, in broad daylight.

“The Lelaenis,” Faelar supplied helpfully, though he needn’t have. Ryn was no stranger to the legends of the Tree that had helped protect Thaliondris for generations. Rumor said it had been created by the greatest magic weavers ever to live, in the Age of Champions a thousand years ago, and planted in the midst of the valley. The Eloni City had grown around it in the centuries since. Ryn stared, awestruck, just letting herself take in the sight.

A pink-skinned Eloni lass caught her eye, waving wildly to her friends from fifty feet above ground. They cheered and began to chant something Ryn could not understand, but the intent became clear a moment later when the youngling grinned and launched herself into the air. She was aiming for the bough upon which her friends stood, it was obvious, but Ryn knew in an instant she wouldn’t make it—the jump hadn’t held enough power behind it, though it was definitely better than any human could have done. She threw herself forward, intending to position herself below where the child would inevitably fall, but with an impossible twist in midair, the little one managed to grab a bough much lower than she perhaps intended, but high enough off the ground to prevent hurting herself seriously. Her palms slammed into the smooth wood and held tight, somehow managing to grip despite the velocity of her fall, and the girl pulled herself up onto the lower branch to the raucous applause of her companions. Ryn shuddered out a relieved breath as the lass laughed and bowed at the attention.

“My lady?” Faelar was at her side almost instantly, clearly confused as to her reaction. “Are you well? Perhaps the Menders released you too soon?”

“No,” she interrupted him, puzzled. “I—that girl almost fell out of the tree, did you not see? I thought to help her, but—”

Faelar laughed, showing white teeth. “She would not have fallen. We seldom do.”

Ryn tried not to stare. “Your parents do not protest?”

The young Elon tilted his head, expression suddenly serious. “Would you protest your child learning to walk, my lady?”

Ryn had no answer to that, so she ceded the point with a nod. “I understand, I think.”

The boy smiled again and gestured her on. They moved north now, along a smaller road than the last, framed by branches and flowers. Faelar led her to an inn that was small but elegant, dark wood framing royal blue doors and shutters. Ryn breathed a sigh of relief; she had not walked this much in days and she was beginning to feel tired.

“Your companions chose this inn when you arrived,” Faelar explained. “Lady Naleti has seen to their every comfort.” He led her inside, waving to a matronly brown wood elf who was tending to the breakfast fire behind a long counter in the main room. Few inn patrons remained, breakfast was well and truly over by now, but two or three humans and a cheerful, hairy dwarf sipped rainbrush tea in the corner, laughing together. Faelar did not stop, but led Ryn to a room at the end of a sunny hall, brightly decorated with fresh blooms that scented the air. He bowed as he held open the door for her, standing aside as she went in. It was as lovely as her room in the Healing Wards had been, and more open—a balcony and large windows facing the south, high arches and soft drapes surrounding a feather bed, a small table, and comfortable-looking chairs near the fireplace. She smiled at Faelar, about to thank him once more, when her gaze landed on a thin dark shaft of hard wood leaning against one of the chairs, and she froze.

She bent beside it, going to her knees in the mossy carpet as she ran shaking fingers over the twisty, knotted head of her staff. An unfamiliar long bow of Blue Nutwood was there too, oiled and polished, accompanied by her leather quiver. Even the Y’rai knife Evin had given her had found its way back to her, tucked into its ill-fitting simple sheath. She had intended to make a specific one for it as soon as she had access to the leather. Ryn looked up at the young wood elf, who was grinning unabashedly at her reaction, boyish enthusiasm shining through as he explained, “Áed, the Lord of our City and brother to Mender Áedán, sent a group out to search for your gear when you first arrived, after you told him the nagrat had stolen it. They didn’t find your pack, and your bow was shattered, but the staff and quiver were being kept with the Hunt Chief, who’s dead now, and they repaired them for you and everything!”

Ryn laughed breathlessly as he chattered on, lifting her staff carefully, its weight and grip familiar in her hand. The things in her pack—clothes and salves and food and gold—that could all be replaced; but this....her echowood staff was one of a kind, and it was the only thing she carried to which she felt any real attachment.

She would never be able to repay Lord Áed this kindness.

She looked up at Faelar, who had fallen silent, watching her carefully with a big innocent smile. Laughing, she stood and bowed low to the lad. “Master Faelar, would you find out if it is possible for me to go thank Lord Áed personally? This gift is far too great to pass my gratitude through a messenger.”

Faelar nodded eagerly. “I shall! Meanwhile, is there anything else you require?”

Ryn shook her head. “No, thank you. I am well.”

Faelar bowed, visibly calming himself and restoring the tranquil dignity employed by his race as he walked out the door.

Ryn smiled at his efforts and turned her attention back to her weapons. “I can’t believe they got them back,” she murmured.

A few hours later, Ryn found herself standing at the elegant door that led to her clients’ rooms at the inn, holding a pair of shears she had borrowed from the Menders and shifting from foot to foot nervously. She reached up to knock but instead found her fingers working their way through the tattered mess of waves that had not long ago been a thick, beautiful head of hair.

Ryn wasn’t vain; she hadn’t time to be, living as she did. But Laendorians treasured their hair, even the men, wearing it long and loose whenever possible. There were traditions surrounding the cutting of hair, the disposal of it, and much of who a person was could be ascertained by their hair—rich or poor, tradesman or merchant, single or Promised or married, all written in the weave and style on one’s head. More to the point for Ryn, though; Mama had always said that a woman’s glory was her hair, and both she and Ryn had had the same dark loose curls. Of her many pleasant childhood memories, Ryn’s favorite was one very vivid one when Mama had let her braid her dark tresses, and then had given her one exactly the same, unsightly lumps and all. She had never felt closer to her Mother than she did at that moment, and to this day, she treasured the sense memory of thick, long waves running through tiny fumbling fingers.

When she’d lost everything and run, Ryn’s hair was the one piece of Mama she’d still had. She cared for it meticulously, even on the road, even though her line of work dictated it be braided and tucked away most of the time.

And those monsters had taken it from her, ripped out of her very skin the thing that kept Mama close.

She’d been unwilling to admit it even to herself until she was safely wrapped in bed in Thaliondris, but the destruction of her hair had been, emotionally at least, the worst of the torture inflicted by the nagrat. Her hand shook as she forced it to knock. She wanted to run, she realized; she did not want to ask her new friends to do this, to let them see how it affected her…but it had to be done, and there was no one here she trusted—

“Ryn! You’re up! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Evin’s cheer greeted her as he threw the door open, obviously pleased to see her. She managed an answering smile, but it was a tiny one. Brandt appeared on the other side of the room, entering from the small garden outside, and Evin waved her in. She stepped inside and looked at them each in turn, trying to gather her courage. Evin’s brow furrowed a little in concern.

“It’s my hair,” she began before he could ask, hands clenched tightly at her sides. “It needs to be cut. I can’t, and Kota is…well, wholly unequipped…to help me in this. Obviously, I cannot let one of the Eloni do it.” She tightened her jaw, then forced herself to loosen it. “Will you help me?”

“Why ask us?” Brandt asked from beside his brother. His gaze was expectant, not suspicious or angry, and Ryn suddenly understood that he didn’t know she’d been raised in Laendor. Given her complexion, that was…unsurprising. She took a deep breath, fingers curling reflexively at her side. She missed Kota.

“You’re men of Laendor, are you not?”

“We are.”

“I think what my brother means to ask,” Evin cut in, “is why you are opposed to the Eloni handling your hair. Surely there is a shearer here more qualified to handle it than we are, and we know that Southdalers do not hold their hair in the same esteem as Laendorians—”

“I lived north of Sannfold until I was fourteen,” Ryn said quickly. It was more information than she liked to give about herself, but if she wanted them to cut her hair, she needed to convince them of what it meant. “I was raised Laendorian.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Evin smiled. “Good enough for me,” he responded, reaching for the shears. Ryn handed them over and turned to face the wide mirror above the chest of drawers.

Evin began combing through the ragged strands slowly, murmuring the rites as he sought out the shortest pieces. Ryn knew he would only cut what he absolutely had to. Brandt stood and assisted where necessary. For the next half hour, Evin snipped and brushed, gently removing the uneven, destroyed pieces of her hair and placing them on the night table nearby for proper disposal. Thankfully, the spots the nagrat had pulled out to the roots were few and small, Ryn had noticed in the mirror that morning; nothing a couple of well-placed braids wouldn’t cover up nicely. Ryn stood as still as she could, convinced after a while her legs might fold from shaking so much. Eventually, mercifully, Evin declared the work done and gave Ryn a small smile. She looked at herself critically in the mirror: the style fell a little past her jaw, curls framing her face. ’Twas short, for a woman of Laendor, but she was an unconventional one anyhow. After a few moments, she nodded her approval and turned.

“Thank you,” she murmured earnestly, looking both brothers in the eye, “I could not have done that myself.”

Evin smiled, and Brandt squeezed her arm. “It’s actually rather becoming on you,” he said kindly.

She shifted uncomfortably and nodded. “Thank you, again. I should…go.” She fled before either of them could think of a reason she ought to stay, feeling far too vulnerable.

She wandered the inn’s garden for most of the afternoon feeling sorry for herself. Eventually she grew tired of ranting about the unfairness of it all inside her head and forced herself to go eat with her friends. The food was delicious, and the brothers seemed in good spirits, which helped sweeten her sour mood. Relating the story of her salvaged weaponry to them resulted in the proper amount of awe and pleased exclamation, as well. “The Lord Áed is rather famous for his generosity and kindness,” Brandt said with a smile. “It makes him a most welcome ally and royal visitor—or so I have heard.” The man looked almost annoyed at how freely he had spoken, and Ryn stifled a grin.

They thought they were very clever, these two, but she knew how to put puzzle pieces together, and she was beginning to be really glad the nagrat had snatched her rather than either one of her clients. For it was clear that while they may not have been the royal princes Râza was looking for, they were very definitely more important than they let on, and she would’ve been unsurprised to learn they were close to the Royal Family. And while she had no particular home in Laendor and was an invisible, unknown wanderer, she had been raised with a healthy respect for the country of her birth and would happily do any good she could for it.

She supposed saving the Royal Family’s especial friends from torture at the hands of the barbaric nagrat should count for something. Grinning a little at the thought, Ryn studied the outdoor eatery in which they sat. The table and chairs surrounding them looked, as she’d noticed all Eloni furniture did, as though it had been grown rather than built. That is, each appeared to be one solid piece of young wood, in every shade of brown she’d ever seen; but there were no planks, no fasteners, nothing to imply a crafter’s touch had even been required. They just looked to have grown into the shape of oaken chairs and tables, and in other places, birch beds and maple stools and chestnut cubbies in which to place one’s belongings. It was really quite stunning, and she wondered endlessly about the process behind such crafting.

But her thoughts were interrupted when her gaze unexpectedly met another’s. An old man, tanned and leathery—definitely not a wood elf—watched her from across the clearing. She supposed he thought himself surreptitious, for he held before him a tattered scroll and was pretending to read; but she felt his eyes on her the moment she looked away.

Not so odd, really, seeing a man in an Eloni city; she supposed he could be a fellow traveler. At any rate, he was likely little threat; the man looked as though he’d have a hard time wrestling a hare, much less her and two full-grown men, so she put him out of her mind and suggested a walk.

They spent the next couple of days visiting Kota in the Healing Wards and exploring Thaliondris together. The city offered many wonders to behold: the Hall of Heroes with its great marble walls and delicate etchings, the greatest champions of Adan carved out of smooth black fire-glass, their eyes inset with sapphires; Aleth Falls on the north end of the valley, a stunning waterfall that offered a breathtaking vista from the peak of its cliff; and the caverns beneath, dripping with natural crystals that caught the light of strategically placed torches, reflecting it to and fro and coloring the rough stone every hue of the rainbow. The old man didn’t enter Ryn’s thoughts again.

“Evin, help me!”

The shout cut through the noise of battle around him and caused him to spin round madly, looking for its source, clothes and skin catching painfully on the needled plants around him.

“Uncle? Uncle, where are you?”

He could see little through the thick black fog that covered this entire blighted landscape. Nothing was familiar here; it was all brown and dead and nubs of foreign plants that possessed more thorns than seemed strictly necessary. He could hear fighting all around him, but could identify nothing, save that one voice.

“Over here, lad, hurry!” he heard from his left. He turned, and the mist cleared so he could see Eirik beset upon by six of the tallest Val’gren he had ever seen. They were terrifying, all; possessed of the deadly elegance intrinsic to their people, masters with slender blades they took great care to poison. Evin darted toward Eirik quickly, but stopped when a cry drew his gaze away; a voice he knew better than even his own.

His gaze landed on a golden head not far from where he had skidded to a halt; Brandt was battling the chiefest of the Val’gren himself, an impossibly large robed figure with spiraled scars winding elegantly over every inch of exposed skin.

Something was seriously wrong; his brother wasn’t using one of his axes, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side as he dodged the Val’gren’s blows sluggishly. Blood streamed from a head wound that was clearly making the young heir dizzy and fracturing his concentration, and with a bloodcurdling war cry, the monster kicked his brother in the chest, sending him toppling and skidding backward.

Evin bellowed a challenge as he changed direction, his only focus being Brandt. Again, Uncle’s thunderous voice cut through his rage:

“Evin! I need you!”

He didn’t hesitate—there was no time—but he did look up to see one of the Val’gren drive its sword deep into his uncle’s chest. The young prince choked, and his legs gave out beneath him, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

No.

No. It could not be. The raw scream that stung his throat drove it home: the King was dying, dead, and it was his fault.

Forcibly, he tore his gaze from his uncle to focus on Brandt again; he had to reach his brother before he went to meet Uncle in the afterworld before his time. A gasping whimper escaped Evin’s throat as he stumbled to his feet, equal parts grief and desperation. The chief Val’gren was closing in on Brandt, who seemed to be having trouble staying conscious and was scooting backward as fast as his clearly-broken arm would allow. A smile crossed the monster’s terrifyingly familiar face, and he lifted his bloodstained sword high over his head, ready to run Brandt through.

Evin wasn’t close enough, he’d never make it.

He put on a burst of speed, but his legs were mired in bloody mud that had come from nowhere. He couldn’t move.

The Val’gren Chief looked up, locked his gaze on Evin’s, and the younger brother’s heart stopped short in his chest. It was his own face, eyes blood-red instead of their normal brandy-gold, but his face nonetheless. Not-Evin smiled at him and brought the blade down; the Prince saw Brandt’s feeble attempt to block it, saw....

“No!” he shouted as he woke with a start, sitting up in bed and not remembering how he got there, trembling and sweating.

Brandt stirred slightly nearby, lifting his head heavily from the pillow. “All’s well, brother,” the elder murmured, words slurred with drowsiness. “’Twas just a dream. Go back to sleep.” Then he flopped back, instantly unconscious again.

Evin stared at him, trying to catch his breath; he studied the lines of Brandt’s face, listened to his brother’s steady breathing an arm’s length away, hoping it would lull him back into sleep as it normally did when the nightmares intruded.

This morning, it did not.

After a few moments, Evin sighed and gently disentangled himself from the soft blankets. Despite his unease, he couldn’t help but grin a little at the sight a sleeping Brandt made; expression soft, mouth open slightly as he snored a bit, hair completely askew. It tumbled over the pillow and his normally-stern face, a piece of it rising and falling with his deep breaths.

Ferocious warrior, indeed.

Evin reached over and pushed the hair from his brother’s face more gently than he would have had the man been awake, then dressed as silently as possible and left the room. Perhaps some fresh air would do him good.

It was early; just before dawn. The gray light of morning would soon give way to gold and pink. The birds were already singing cheerfully, and a few folks were up and about, some smiling and calling greetings as he walked by. He responded with a smile for each one, enjoying the morning and the burgeoning energy as the city slowly awoke.

His reverie was interrupted when he suddenly recognized the figure just ahead of him.

Ryn was walking briskly, Kota trotting beside her; the lynx moved smoothly, almost as if he’d never been injured. It was quite a feat, to go from death’s door to such good health in the eight days they’d been here, and Evin credited the Eloni Menders as much as he did the lynx’s refusal to go quietly. It was a trait the Cat shared with his mistress, Evin figured, thinking of the torture Ryn had endured not so long ago herself. This morning, their guide had her new bow and quiver slung over her cape, and carried her staff with easy familiarity. Armed as she was, he couldn’t help but notice how relaxed she seemed—it appeared a week in Thaliondris had been good to her as well as her companion. He cocked his head, wondering what she was doing out here this early, headed for the city gates.

He briefly considered just following her and staying out of sight, until he remembered the very thorough lashing he’d received during a survival game with her and Brandt the day before. The game had involved two teams—Brandt and him versus Ryn and Kota, an arrangement which they both had protested until she insisted—each one with a scrap of cloth, a pennant, to protect. The goal of the game was to acquire the other team’s standard and bring it back to your own side—but also not to lose your own at the same time. While Brandt had tried to overcome the lynx, who’d been left to protect his team pennant and somehow understood at least that aspect of the game, Ryn had taken a different tack with Evin’s flag. She had sneaked around, staying out of sight in the trees. Even though he’d been watching for her, he hadn’t expected the knife that landed point down in the dirt at his feet—not nearly close enough to hurt him, just close enough to bait him. Scowling, he’d charged into the undergrowth to confront her, remembering that hand-to-hand combat was not a strength of hers; but by the time he reached where the knife had come from, she was gone.

Or so he had thought.

She dropped from a branch overhead and had him trussed up faster than he imagined possible, and that’s how Evin had learned the hard way to look up into the trees as well as around the ground, when hunting one such as Ryn. With him out of commission and Brandt distracted by a fierce and intelligent animal, Ryn had stolen their pennant and made her way back to her own, thus winning the game. The day had gone to Ryn and Kota; a fate made worse by the fact that even his dear brother couldn’t help but laugh when they all trooped over to untie Evin.

Traitor.

Regardless, Evin decided that sneaking up on anyone who could so easily dispatch him if she desired was probably not an effective way to retain all his body parts, not to mention his dignity, so he called out loudly, “Going somewhere?”

The lass turned and regarded him with a coy smile that made something in his chest hitch pleasantly. “Perhaps.”

Intrigued, he followed her out a quiet wooden gate and into the valley. She looked at the sky, then broke into a gentle trot, bearing a bit west, headed up the ridge, massive lynx at her heels. Once they reached about three-quarters of the way to the top, she picked a rocky outcropping and sat down facing east, pulling her bow and quiver over her head and setting them at her side with the staff. When he caught up, she patted the spot of rock next to her, motioning for him to join her. He sat as well, finally figuring out what she was doing up here. Kota bounded off, chasing a moth.

The sun had not yet risen over the mountains, but the light said it was only just below them now. The clouds, as he expected, had exploded in a riot of color—gold and pink and purple splashed across a jewel-blue sky, reflecting off the snow-capped peaks and turning the mountains a magnificent cobalt. The birdsong and cool morning air only added to the effect, and Evin had to smile; early morning was his favorite time of day.

Ryn pulled a sealed mug from her satchel and passed it to him after taking a sip. There was rainbrush tea inside, strong and sweet, the smell adding to the perfection of the moment. Reflecting his own sentiments, she leaned back on her elbows and sighed. “Dawn is beautiful,” she confided quietly, as if afraid speaking would shatter the euphoria.

Evin grinned, letting the beauty of the sky soothe away what remained of his nightmare. “You hate mornings.”

Ryn stared at him for a moment, then conceded with a small smile of her own. “But the dawn is still beautiful.”

They watched in silence then, as the light grew stronger and the first bright rays of the sun peeked over the mountains, blinding and warm. Evin closed his eyes and let the heat bathe his face, relishing this moment, lazily basking in how peaceful it all felt.

“Ryn?” he asked suddenly, opening his eyes to find her staring quietly at the epic vista around them. Her face glowed in the early morning light, ruddy and freckled. Her features seemed smoother somehow, the tension she normally carried around her eyes and mouth nowhere to be found. It was a tranquil expression, one he hadn’t seen her wear before; it struck him, in that moment, how much he wanted to not only see it more, but maybe be the reason for it.

“Yes?”

“You said you were from a town north of Sannfold. When did you leave?”

She paused, picking at a short stem of grass, then gave him a deliberately careless shrug. “Twelve years ago. After Talos and Ma died.”

He waited for her to elaborate, but she sat quietly, squinting against the bright morning light as she watched a nearby bird hop from tree to tree. Evin wondered if this was the right time to ask, if she would answer him or stonewall him as before, if he would damage all the progress he’d made with her thus far, but he asked anyway after a moment’s consideration.

“You’ve been on the road since then?”

Ryn met his eyes, looking very serious. “Yes.”

Evin was unsurprised by the answer, though he found himself oddly concerned by it. “That does not bother you?”

“Does what not bother me?”

Evin wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs, trying to ask this without chasing her away. “Not...belonging anywhere.”

Ryn’s eyebrows popped up in sudden understanding. She appeared to consider the question before answering slowly, “No, I don’t think so. It’s not as bad as it sounds; I have made a role for myself, in spite of everything, and I am quite happy with it. Besides,” her expression turned almost teasing, playful. “It’s a decent life; I can go where I please and never have to deal with rude neighbors sticking their nose in my business.” She held his gaze seriously, finishing with conviction. “It’s not a bad life, Evin.”

He wasn’t quite convinced. “Forgive me, but isn’t it rather....lonely?”

“Sometimes,” she answered quietly. She tossed the blade of grass away. “There are worse things than loneliness.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged.

Something in how he said it got her attention. She stared at him, baffled. “What would you know of loneliness?”

It was asked without malice or bitterness; simply a question based upon the false assumption that because he was wealthy and powerful, his life was easy. Evin kicked himself for letting the conversation take this turn. It wasn’t what he’d intended to talk about. “Let’s just say Brandt has always been the more...acceptable of our mother’s sons. In nearly every way.”

Ryn looked completely bewildered. “What?”

He sighed. “You know, he’s the consummate pr—erm, Laendorian warrior; excels in melees with blades, is exceptionally good in the forge, loves metal and stone and earth, has that very impressive golden beard.”

Ryn looked mystified. “And you’re...not? The ‘consummate Laendorian warrior’, I mean?”

He averted his gaze. “Not by any means,” he replied. “I’m good with a sword but better with a bow, at hunting, tracking. I love being outside, am useless in the forge—I’m much better with detail work; leather working, etching, carving—and couldn’t grow a proper beard if I wanted to. Not that I would want to, it’d just get in the way when I shoot.” He snorted. “More Eloni than Laendorian, it’s been said.” Actually, worse had been said, whispered behind his back, though it hadn’t prevented him hearing it too many times to count.

More Val’gren than Laendorian. Monster mutt.

He shrugged when she just stared at him, disbelieving. “Believe me; I’ve had plenty of time to accept it.”

Ryn looked distinctly uncomfortable; sympathy obviously warring with something less generous—anger, perhaps? “Such folk as say that kind of nonsense clearly don’t know you.”

She turned back to the dawn, and they sat there until the sun shone fully on the valley.