and I nod in agreement. I learned that firsthand. People don’t seem to see slaves, so their tongues are looser and they say things they wouldn’t around other people. Part of how I managed to survive twelve years of enslavement was by listening to the ridiculous situations these people seemed to get themselves into.
“Are you going to tell me what she said?” he queries, after the silence between us stretches, an edge in his tone as he narrows his eyes. “You are asking a lot from me.”
He’s right, and I wish I had a better answer for him.
“Yes, I am.” Taking a deep breath, I look up at him, meeting his gaze. “All I know is that we are exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
He barks out a laugh, but there’s no humour behind it. His face twists in anger as he lowers the weapon and braces his hands against the workbench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the surface. With the furnace behind him, the red glow makes him look even more supernatural than usual as he leans towards me. It’s then that I remember who I’m talking to—an elf. The murderer of my kind.
“You believe that’s enough for me to put all my trust in you?” he spits, and I instinctively take a step back before something inside me hardens. No, I won’t back away from anyone ever again. The old me, 625, would cower away, but I am not her anymore. I am Clarissa, beloved of the Great Mother, and I’m stronger than they let me believe.
“It’s going to have to be,” I retort with a strength I didn’t know I had. “I’m not strong enough to break the spell on the other cuff yet,” I tell him honestly. I’m still not sure how I did it in the first place, but a deep exhaustion is creeping up on me. I know that if I tried to break the spell now, I would suffer for it and pay a price I’m not willing to pay. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” I say, remembering the carnage in the courtyard above us. I don’t know when the priests will bring me back here, but I’m sure they will, they enjoy my suffering too much to stop. “But I will be back, and when I am, I will have a plan to get us out of here.” My voice is absolute, sure, and I wish I was as certain about this as I sound.
He’s watching me intently, and after a few painfully quiet seconds, he nods in agreement. I release the breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding. He picks up his weapon once again, holding it up as he examines it, his brow pulled into a frown that is starting to become familiar.
“What kind of weapon is that?”
He looks at me with a blank expression, as if deciding whether or not to answer. “It’s a zecharthe.” The word is completely unknown to me, and as I try to speak it, the foreign word sticks on my tongue.
“Zech… Zereeef…”
I stop when I see the smallest upturn of his lip and realise he’s laughing at me. Snorting, I focus on the weapon as my cheeks tinge pink with my embarrassment. It’s silver in colour, the blade coming up and arching into a curve, the honed edge glistening in the light, and I just know it’s wickedly sharp. There are engravings on the flat of the blade, and I can’t help but admire how beautiful it is.
“Why do you make it so beautiful? Why add the carvings if it’s for your enemy?”
“The carvings have magic in them, the only magic these allow me.” He raises his wrist, indicating his cuffs. “I am forced to produce weapons to the best of my ability, I have no choice. It is how I was taught.”
This is the first mention of his own magic, and it makes me curious about his elven power works. Again, I’ve heard the stories, but I’ve never seen it or had anyone to ask about it before. I open my mouth to voice my questions, but I back out at the last second, choosing a safer topic instead. “Why a curved blade?”
“If you are proficient in this type of blade, it is deadly. Look.” He raises the weapon and, slowly, angles it towards me. I see how he would do it, the blade would easily slice through my throat.