The offering was accepted and, following Akashia, the tribal patriarch led the way into Telhami’s hut. Pavek considered moving closer. The memory of Rokka slipping a handful of gold coins into a salt sack at the customhouse had flitted across his mind’s eye. He wondered what the Moonracers might offer in trade for gold. They had the look of true nomads who ranged over the entire Tablelands, not merely the environs of a single city-state. The sort of elves—truth to tell—that made Urik’s templars nervous when their flags appeared in the elven market, selling their knowledge of the outside world along with ordinary contraband.
Then he added the thought of Escrissar’s threat to spread Laq to the other city-states, and he did move closer to the hut, only to find himself in a stand-off with an elf with a metal-tipped spear half again her height.
“You’re new here,” she said, narrowing her eyes and turning the statement into an insult.
Elves had very keen eyes and memories for outsiders. Pavek didn’t bother answering. Or sticking around. He retreated to the edge of village, where the young elves and Ruari had also retreated, now that their competition had expanded to include javelin-hurling and an acrobatic contest in which two youths ran full-tilt at each other until one dropped to his knees and the other attempted to avoid a collision by leaping over his shoulders. Once again, Ruari played the loser’s part, always trying leap when he should have ducked.
Everybody had a blind spot. Ruari’s futile ambition to be an elf blinded him to the strengths he did possess. If he’d stuck one hand up while he was bent over and grabbed an elven ankle as it soared overhead, he’d’ve had one bruised elf who wasn’t going to leap or run for a while.
A half-elf had the strength, and Ruari’s escapade with the kivit musk demonstrated that he had the necessary malice. But if there’d been a tout standing near to make the odds, Pavek would’ve bet that Ruari would continue to leap and fall until his face was a bloody pulp. He’d seen it on the practice fields, when a templar grew too attached to some exotic weapon or style and ignored the simple things that would keep him alive.
Sometimes people were only interested in what they couldn’t have: a flashy obsidian sword instead of a serviceable flint-studded club. A graceful, acrobatic leap instead of a ground-hugging tuck-and-roll…
Druidry instead of something simpler, something for which he was better-suited?
Yohan was in Telhami’s hut, making decisions, so were some of the peasant farmers. A man could be important here even if he wasn’t a druid. If he’d wanted to be important. But Pavek wanted spellcraft. Whether it was in the templar archives or in a druid’s grove, magic was all that he lived for, all that made his life worth living. He’d cheat everywhere else, if he had to, but not there. He memorized those scrolls down to the smears and inkblots. When Telhami said Seek the guardian, he held nothing back. He’d master magic on magic’s terms, not his own.
The same way Ruari played elven games.
Games that Ruari could never win.
Magic that he could never master?
Pavek stared into his ale-mug, telling himself that the brew was like broy and led a drinking man into the quagmires of his mind, places he’d never willingly go sober, or drunk on some more reputable liquor. Never mind that his post-hammering peers were red-faced and happy, or that a second barrel had been tapped and euphoria was spreading. For him honey-ale was the same as broy, and he emptied his mug into the roots of the nearest tree.
An offering, perhaps, to the guardian. A prayer that he was not as foolish as that half-wit scum, Ruari who leapt short again, and landed in a groaning sprawl of arms and legs.
If the honey-ale was truly like broy, a few hours should see him clear of its melancholy. He could wait until his head was clear before he let another thought wander between his ears. The sounds of Quraite, from bargaining traders to Ruari stumbling and the distant drone of a grazing kanks lulled him into a pleasant, muzzy mindlessness.
* * *
“Pavek? Pavek—what’s wrong?”
Nothing, he thought, but the thought got lost in the dark on its way to his tongue. The sky was brilliant red when he opened his eyes, and filled with bobbing, faintly green spheres the size of the setting sun. That was Akashia kneeling beside him, her