Or better yet, we have lost our traditions around them.
He says something lyrical in elvish to his guard, and they smile in response. The same elf who opened the door retrieves the pouch from my grip unceremoniously.
Then the king holds out his massive hand. The sleeves of his tunic come to a tapered point on the back of his palm, and his bejeweled fingers point toward me.
"They told me you would escort me to the wedding. I am ready when you are," he says sharply.
I stare at his offering a moment longer, wondering exactly how I am meant to take his arm. Do I put my hand atop the king’s? Would I thread my fingers through his?
Maldita sea, I curse in my mind.Not enough time to read.
He shifts impatiently, causing his sleek, metallic silk to rustle, and I reach out, weaving my hand through the crook of his elbow. His brows draw together, and I'm sure I've made a mistake, but then a slight curve of his mouth causes the tension to ease. He places his hand over mine. Though perfectly smooth, his skin has a waxy, unyielding quality, like varnished timber.
"Exceptionally soft flesh, though you’ve got so manyunfortunate sunspots,” he says in the common tongue. Then he says something I can't make out in elvish.
I look up at him, feeling sheepish again, and cursing my lack of time to learn more about him and his languages. Of course the elves wouldn’t like marks. They are… perfect.
We start to move, but I feel more uneasy than ever.
“Do you think me soft because I am not cut from the living wood?" I ask, trying to draw upon the knowledge I had gleaned from the scrolls.
He looks down at me sharply. "How do you, a human, know anything about that?"
I bite my lips together. He sounds like Lord Vann. But I was not ignorant because of my birth. I took the chances as they were awarded to me and excelled in the areas where I was allowed to blossom.
Without letting the irritation leak in, I smile.
"I very much love to read," I say.
He makes an approving sound this time.
"The humans I have encountered do not possess such an affinity for the written word,” he smiles to himself. "Or perhaps, thecarvedword.”
An apparent jab against the enduares, but I maintain my calm.
“They use ink and write into scrolls. It’s a nice language, enduar.”
He nods thoughtfully.
“Are all humans so forward?” he asks after.
A small trickle of sweat slides down my back. I don't like feeling like every inch of me is open to his scrutiny.
“No, My King, we are quite varied. In form and personality,” I respond.
He nods again.
“It isyourcustom to be forward,” he observes.
His tone isn’t cruel, but it grates against my nerves. It’s almost exactly what Daniel had drilled into me day after day—that I was annoying.
“Perhaps I shall be forward as well,” he says, stretching his lipsinto the first grin I’ve seen from his people. His teeth are blunt, like a human’s, with notable regular canines, unlike the enduares.
My stomach drops. Before I can respond, he says.
“I have not seen other humans in the giant court covered in so many interesting marked patterns. Were you forced to work in the sun?”
Measuring my breath, I say, “No. I weave, My King. This is a mere misfortune of my blood.”