Venick was not ready to die.
He lied about this often. To himself, to others. It was easy to believe a man like Venick did not fear death. He was tall, broad. A fighter. Built to die bravely, in battle maybe, or during the hunt. Venick battled and hunted often enough, but he always emerged the victor. He was sword-touched, people said. God-touched, too. Venick didn't believe it. If the gods were watching him, he wouldn't be where he was now: with his foot caught in a bear trap, the pain so bright it snagged his breath, turned his mind sharp and hot.
And the bear.
She was nursing. It was late in the season for it, but Venick knew the signs. Her cubs were nowhere to be seen, perhaps hidden deeper in the forest, lost somewhere in the thick brush. Not that it was any comfort. The snap of the trap had frightened the bear, but it was Venick's knife that made her angry. There, stuck in her shoulder. It missed her throat by mere inches.
If the gods had been watching him, they might have steadied his hand. Might have helped him see through the pain, helped him ignore the smell of blood around him as he hurled his knife in a desperate attempt to live.
They hadn't. The knife missed its mark. It riled the bear instead, her teeth barring in a sharp grin. Hell and damn. Maybe the bear was the god's blessing. Maybe this was their mercy, to give him a quick death rather than let him bleed out slowly. Venick let out a laugh that sounded nothing like a laugh. He dug his nails into gritty forest earth. His bones felt tight and wrong. His whole body did, as if he was made of his injury, his entire being condensed into sharp iron prongs dug through boot and flesh. And a panic, too, that ran even deeper.
The bear reared and Venick was suddenly glad for the pain, the way it fuzzed things. It would be easier to die with a hazy mind. Easier to forget that way. He didn't want to remember all the things he had yet to do. All the things he had done.
Memories came anyway, a tide of them all at once. The bay where he had spent his boyhood, where his mother still lived. The ocean, the salty smell of it. Later, the crags where he had been exiled. Those mountains, their rocky caves and keening winds. The feel of his toes over the edge, wondering if a banished life was worth living, imagining what it would be to jump. But there was no one to lie to on those cliffs, no one to pretend to be brave for.
No one who cared whether he lived or died.
He had chosen life. Chose it again and again, every day since. And now.
The bear roared. Lifted a massive paw to swipe. Venick's eyes locked on the curved claws and he felt the first pulse of fear, true fear, the kind that warned of certain pain.
Certain death, you mean. Death. But Venick was not ready to die.
The bear clawed the air and Venick ducked, then scrambled backwards. The trap dug deeper. Reeking gods. He imagined the clansmen finding his body, the humiliation of that. Caught in a bear trap. Killed by the bear. His cheeks heated even as he knew the people of the mountain would not think to look for him in these forests. He doubted they would come looking at all.
Venick was not a clansman, would never be a clansman, no matter how many years he had lived and slept among those people. He was a lowlander, raised in a little city by the sea—and an outlaw, wanted for murder.
Murder. The word never failed to bring bile to his throat, a horrible twist in his gut at the reminder of everything he had loved and lost. The people of the mountain didn't know it. They didn't ask who Venick had been or what he had done. He was an outsider. That was explanation enough. Ever since the day he stumbled upon their camp and begged for refuge, they tolerated him, but he would never be one of them. They would sooner launch a hunt for one of their missing goats.
But then, a noise Venick recognized. He froze. Listened.
A hiss on air.
A thud.
An arrow, right through the bear's eye.
The force of it jerked her head and she stumbled, then fell. Leaves scattered, breezing over Venick's boots as he stared, shocked. A moment passed, then another. The bear lay motionless. Dead.
Venick should have felt relief. He should have stood one-legged and greeted his savior, offered his life's price, whatever that was worth. Maybe asked for a hand out of the bear trap, and did they have anything to stitch up a wound while they were at it? Except at that moment he spotted the arrow —green glass shaft, currigon feathers for the fletching—and he knew he had not been saved.
That was an elven arrow.
Reeking gods.
They came quickly, five, six in all, fully armored and armed. They were like ghosts with their milky skin, their moon-white hair, except ghosts did not carry weapons, ghosts did not glare with golden eyes. Venick remained motionless on the ground, thinking himself the hunter and they the skittish prey. If he moved too quickly they might startle. Might strike out of fear.
Except Venick was not the hunter here, and these elves were certainly not the prey. They surrounded him, a perfect circle. Or maybe a six-pointed star. Venick knew elves liked stars better, and liked circles not at all. They may not believe in gods, but every race had their superstitions. He touched the thin silver chain around his neck and thought of his own.
Concentrate, Venick.
On what? Their lean bodies perfectly honed for fighting? Their swords and seaxes forged in green glass that never chipped, never dulled? Venick met their eyes and felt the stirring of some old anger buried long inside him.
He was in their lands. No matter why. It didn't matter why. They didn't care that Venick could not count on the clansmen to share the meat of the iziri goats they herded, that he had no choice but to hunt on his own. They didn't care that aside from those herds, food in the mountains was scarce, that winter came early there, and so each season Venick was forced to go farther and farther south to hunt. They didn't care that south for Venick meant home, or that he was banished from returning home, so he must either hunt in the elf lands or starve. Men were not allowed in these forests. They would kill him for it.
And indeed, the center elf gave the order.
"Ynnis." Kill it.
It'd been years since Venick had heard the language of elves. Once, he'd thought that language beautiful. Not anymore. Not now as he translated the word, the insult. Not kill him. Kill it.
Venick was nothing to them. No better than the bear.
The single female of the group nocked another arrow and pulled her bow tight. And again, the fear of certain death, the shower of memories. Again, the cliff. The wind tickled his cheeks. He peered over the edge and saw the drop yawn wide. He felt the hollow swoop of his stomach as he stumbled backwards, gasping, heart pounding and still very much alive.
No. Venick was not ready to die at all.
"Wait," he choked out in mainlander, his native language. "Don't."
"You are in our lands," the male said in the same language. Though most humans could not speak elvish, all elves knew mainlander. "The penalty is death."
"I didn't know."
"Liar."
But Venick's mind was spinning now. He had not expected them to pause, to reply. Either he had stumbled upon a benevolent group of elves—Not likely—or they had cause to hesitate. But why?
"A reason," Venick forced himself to say. He spoke past the dry mouth, past the pain in his leg that had run from hot to cold. "There's a reason I crossed the border. I was sent to Evov."
Had he not spent time around elves, Venick would not have known to look for their earrings, to spot the small golden loops that marked this group as northern. He would not have chosen Evov for that reason. Indeed, he would not even know about Evov. But Venick had spent time around elves. Had loved an elf, once. Be honest now.
And so he knew that Evov was a little elven city nestled deep in the heart of the north, and that it was hidden, so difficult to find that its very existence was a rumor. He knew it was where elves mined green glass and raised their young, who were both precious and rare. He knew it was where the queen went during times of war.
He watched the elves stiffen. The change was subtle. A slight shift in posture, the sharpening of their gazes. Even for all his knowledge of their race, he might have missed it. But Venick was desperate, was ready to find meaning wherever he could, and so he watched the elves become still and translated it.
The queen was in Evov.
The elves were again at war.
And these elves were northerners in southern lands, enemy territory. So they did have cause to hesitate. Venick could be important. Oh, they might still kill him, but not right away, not until they knew for certain who he was and what he knew. Venick's pulse beat a double rhythm, his courage swelling with this new knowledge. If he played this right, he might survive yet.
The female of the group stepped forward. She didn't ask him who sent you to Evov? or what business do you have there? Asked him instead, "How do you know of this place?"
Typical, for an elf to worry over secrets first.
"My mission is important to the queen," Venick said.
"The queen."
"Yes."
"And you expect us to take you to her?"
"No." Calmly, because that could lead nowhere good. Venick smoothed his expression, trying to match their stillness. It was impossible how still an elf could hold herself. Even without one foot stuck in a trap, Venick couldn't hope for an ounce of that control. And with the foot. Well. "I just expect you not to kill me."
She hesitated.
"Ellina," the male said. "You cannot tell me you believe him."
She clicked her teeth, an elven sign of impatience. "Ivisha," she replied, switching from mainlander to elvish. "I do not." She didn't realize Venick understood, though. Few humans did.
"But we will not kill him."
"He is a liar. And in our lands."
"He knows about Evov."
"He will not, once he is dead."
"Who told him about that city?" She became stony. "What else does he know?"
The male paused. He tilted his elegant face. "You think he is a spy for the south."
"Yes."
Venick blinked. His courage slipped away. An enemy spy?
"We cannot take any prisoners."
"I am not asking to take him prisoner, Raffan."
Raffan made a noise, frustrated. "An interrogation? You cannot torture a dead man, and this one is as good as. Look at that foot, Ellina."
"A bargain, then."
"Ah, as you are making with me now?"
Ellina clicked her teeth again, but seemed to glean something from the exchange that Venick had not. Permission, he assumed, as she turned back to face him. She didn't take another step forward, didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. She had his full attention.
"Who sent you to Evov?" she asked in mainlander. "What is your mission?"
"The queen is in danger." A guess. "I have information regarding your war."
A lie.
"I do not believe you."
"That doesn't change the truth." It was unwise to bring up that word. Truth. Elves hated it as much as they hated circles. They would hate it more that he might have it when they did not. Venick watched the female's anger hollow her. He knew what she would say before the words were out.
"Man knows no truth—"
"—and cannot be trusted." He finished the elven saying and tried for a smile. It came out a grimace. "Let me prove my honesty."
"You cannot."
"Then leave me. Let fate take things from here." Not that he believed in fate, but the words sounded genuine enough. The pain in his leg even thinned his voice, made it sincere. A nice touch.
"Fate is not—" but she faltered.
That was odd. Elves rarely stumbled over their words. "You cannot prove your honesty," Ellina said instead, "because you speak the language of men."
Venick understood her meaning. Men lied, but it was impossible to lie in elvish. Neither humans nor elves could break the rules of that language, the ancient binding that forced the speaker to tell the truth.
Venick knew too well the way it was with elvish. To attempt to lie was to come up short, the words stuck, hovering just out of mind's reach. Try harder and face a pounding headache. Harder than that: suffocation.
It was the reason Venick continued to talk in mainlander, continued to play on their ignorance. If they discovered he knew their language, they would force him to speak in elvish, and then he would have no choice but to admit the truth: that he was not a messenger, not anyone who mattered, that he'd crossed the border illegally for no better reason than that he was hungry—starving—and the elflands were his best chance at a decent hunt.
This silver thread of a lie he was weaving would unravel, and then he would have no hope at all.
"You want me to prove myself in your language," Venick hedged.
"You do not speak our language."
"No." Another lie. And an idea. "You could teach me," he said, and ignored the way she recoiled. As if the thought of teaching a man their language was repulsive.
"You are a man."
But she weighed him. She seemed to consider what he might know, the difficulty of the task. Venick again felt that spark of hope, because he saw it clearly: a way out. No matter that learning a language took months, years, and she would be a fool for agreeing to teach him. If only she agreed to try, it would buy him time to form a real plan. To escape.
"Enough, Ellina," Raffan said. He stepped between them. "He is stalling, and we are out of time."
But at that moment came another noise Venick recognized. One that made his insides sink, his whole body harden to stone. Those were wanewolf howls. Alerted to the smell of blood, no doubt. His blood, which stained the leaves around where he lay, pooling up to his fingers, thick and wet.
"We go," said Raffan, and motioned for his comrades to sheath their weapons.
"The trap," Venick said, and hated the desperation in his voice. "Please. Help me out."
"We will—how did you put it?—let fate take things from here," Raffan replied. They turned to leave.
All but Ellina. She stood frozen. Her golden eyes met his. It was foolish for her to hesitate. Foolish, for her to ignore her leader's command. And anyway, Venick was a dead man. If the wolves didn't get him, fever and rot would.
Look at that foot, the male had said. He is as good as dead. But.
But. If they couldn't help him, maybe they would give him the mercy of a quick death. Venick's eyes went to her arrows, the blood-red currigon feathers. She followed his gaze and understood.
She nocked an arrow and pointed it at him.
So this was it. Venick blinked and tried to feel glad. An arrow to the heart. Not a bad way to die. Better than the alternative, which howled again, closer now.
Venick looked up into the canopy. He saw the afternoon light filter through the trees. The leaves glowed, their veins thrown into perfect relief.
He heard the twang of the bowstring. The whiz of the arrow. It hit the trap's spring, which shattered and released.
His foot came free.