Elaire has spent her life seeking an approval she'll never earn. When one of the Moontouched elves must be sent as tithe to their fiercest enemies, Elaire is chosen as sacrificial bride... and as shadowed assassin. But where the stories of paint her...
Lord Olric of the Veiled Moon had been one of those voices, though his mate shook her head. He placed his hand on her wrist, but she shook away his touch and countered in quiet argument. "It has been done before."
Lady Ellora did not know the loss of a child, but she knew the shame of never having one. She knew the worth of a Moontouched child. If Ellora would suggest sacrificing one of their own, the rest would surely follow.
If Lady Ivayne had been human, she might have scoffed. Instead, in the first light of morning, she burned with gentle fury. "It has not been done for centuries. Our ancestors sat at this same table and swore to never again participate in such barbaric cruelty. We cannot offer one of our own as tribute to an archaic tithe."
Though fear's tight fingers curled around her heart, Elaire almost smiled. That was the beauty of the matter, wasn't it?
She was not one of them.
Not really.
Elaire might pass for a Moontouched elf at a distance, but with Lady Ivayne seated next to her, the differences were obvious. They might both possess the silvery hair of all Moontouched elves, but Elaire's did not gleam in the starlight, did not burn with the dawn. Her eyes were not the deep sapphire or dark violet prized by her people, but a dull blue that bordered on gray. Her height was ungainly instead of willowy; the bulk and hardiness of her mother's side fouled any effort she might have made towards gracefulness. Her skin was too pink. Her ears, too round.
She tucked an lock of escaped hair behind said ear and lingered at its tapered point.
Half-Moontouched elf was enough to condemn her, but not enough to save her.
"This is not the same decision that plagued our ancestors."
"Is it not? We are discussing send a girl into the dragon pit for a tenuous peace."
"Can we even trust them? How do we know they'd honor the treaty?"
"They want our silver. To ask for more is insult."
"It is hardly sacrifice to—"
"To what? Send one of our girls to the hands of a butcher?"
"You speak of Aramil? What is the difference between beasts? They are all monsters. Why should it matter which of them claims the tithe?"
They argued with quiet intensity.
No one dared look at Elaire.
She could not help but watch them all, the faces of her executioners. It was not easy. There was nothing as lovely as a Moontouched elf in darkness, but the shadow cast from the pale branches above them did little to soften the growing sunlight. The unforgiving morning cast their faces into harsh and foreign planes. Their skin shifted towards gray instead of ivory, their eyes darkened to pitch, their hair burned iron in place of gentle silver. The day could not steal their beauty, not entirely, but it left them with a sharp and vicious one.
Even so, she could not look away. It was not their horrifying, inhuman beauty that entranced her, but the strange fluidity with which they condemned her. They argued in intricate balance that was punctuated by subtle theatrics—a sigh, a shudder, a hand against the table—and yet, Elaire realized, it was not argument at all. The council countered and twisted and parried, but, like dancers, they flowed in harmony, commanded by a music Elaire could not hear. Discordant notes of history and precedent, the worth of one life among hundreds, the treachery of their enemies... became a single melody. How a girl might be chosen? How might they be most fair?
The High Lord of the Silverlight raised a hand. He was the most difficult to watch. His seat, alone, stood in direct sunlight, and his beauty had become sharp and cruel. Shadowed below the hard angles of his brow, the indigo of his eyes had become black, impossible to read.
The monstrous composer of her destiny.
His voice, however, held the cool, unaffected inflection it always possessed.
"I've heard your words. Though we stand with precedent, we also find ourselves in new territory. The Tahj'ri ask for tribute, yes, but not as their ancestors once claimed sacrifice."
"High Lord," Lady Ivayne began. "You cannot mean to—"
Her voice quieted at his stare.
"I cannot mean to what? To do what we have done for centuries? To make uncertain peace with our enemies?" Elaire couldn't breathe. Fire bloomed in her chest, consuming her air, stealing her voice. She could barely hear anything other than the frantic drum of her heart. Run. Run. Run, it seemed to cry. Yet she was frozen. She had known that it was coming. This was the moment. This was the terrible crescendo of the deadly music she could not hear. "I would not ask anyone to sacrifice a child if I were not willing to do the same."
The High Lord of the Silverlight turned to her.
"What say you, Lady Elaire? Do you accept?"
Finally, as if they had all not spent the deliberation avoiding her eye, the council turned to her. Their pitch dark eyes pierced past her wavering attempt at stoicism. She knew they saw the white of her knuckles, the perspiration building at her lip, the thrill of the pulse in her neck. She had never felt more human, trapped in their unfeeling black stare.
Elaire swallowed the molten fear that had taken her voice hostage. It scraped against her throat as it sank to the pit of her stomach. In the company of her petrified worries and doubts, this new fear would be comfortable there. It would do the same as all the aches and heartbreaks and disappointments before it: become hardened and weathered and worn with time. Elaire swallowed again. Not with fear, but with the stubborn determination to subdue the prick of hot tears in her eyes. This one wouldn't take long to become stone, she promised herself.
"Of course, father."
She was hardly the first girl to be sacrificed to a dragon.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
