Chapter 2

And so it was that in the fifth year of Drishar, King of Thasia, there were three sorcerers, all elderkin; Xiahesh of the bright elves, Crothshev of the dark elves, and Daleen of the forest elves, and they beheld a new star in the sky, which gleamed at the tail of the dragon constellation, and the star went out before them and lead them to the place where the child was to be born. 

-Book Law and Promises

“After he came back, he went to the top of a mountain and ascended.”

“Ascended?”

“I guess he kind of like . . . flew away?”

“Where did he go?”

“I’m not sure. Back to Heaven, I think. But supposedly he’s going to come back.”

“Why did he leave in the first place then?”

“I guess he had things to take care of in Heaven?”

“Maybe he missed his father.”

“Yeah . . . Maybe.”

We reached the front doors of the barrak, two eight foot tall monstrosities with the guild’s cryptic moon sigil carved at the center. I waited for Sareash to open it, as usual. I could have opened it if I wanted to, but Sareash was much stronger and she usually did it for us. It would take me way longer to open. I would look lame. She looked cool when she used her super strength to throw the doors open like an action hero.

It was late afternoon, so the barrak wasn’t fully crowded yet, but it was by no means empty either. Ten or so hunters were sitting around the fire, probably sharing stories of their kills, or their failures. Something smelled like cinnamon . . . well, not exactly like cinnamon, but something a little bit like cinnamon? 

Graggi Nucolt, the red bearded dwarf from Ek-Klek, was sitting at the front table, swishing his drink around. He nodded politely at us, then gestured for us to sit and drink with him. We ignored him. He pretty much always wanted to sit and drink.

But the welcoming committee wasted no time. Drathe came at us quickly, flanked by Rinbah, a pretty faced forest elf girl with dark skin like mine. “Cardinal, Temeriah, just the pair of love-fish I was looking for.” They don’t have love birds here. Apparently they have fish instead.

Drathe was out of her normal attire, wearing something like a black, silk nightgown with gold flowers on it. It was . . . very low cut. I tried not to transfix. I was with Sareash. But it was hard. It was just hard not to look. 

I shifted my eyes to Rinbah, who shyly turned away. 

“Happy Feasteve to you both.” Drathe said, “Are you two going to be here for tarip?”

“Tarip?” I asked. Everyone in the barrak knew I was from Homule. I didn’t know anything about tradition, even though I wasn’t really from Homule. I hope I never meet anyone who’s actually from Homule. That would be weird. 

“What is tarip?” Sareash, also known as Temeriah Alccor, surprised me by asking.

“Right, you two are new to this, strangers. Join us tonight around the hearth. Big sister Drathe will show you the ways of the world.”

Rinbah looked at Drathe with disappointment, “It’s not weird like that, but I don’t recommend you do it. I don’t recommend anyone do it. Come and drink with us, but leave the suicides to Drathe and the Hard Boys.” 

The Hard Boys were a gang of gruff and tough human hunters who prided themselves on their muscles and the strength of their armor. Their name was hilarious to me, but that joke didn’t translate apparently. Homule humor.

“So this is like some kind of hunter feast tradition?” Sareash lit up again. Whenever she learned something new that excited her, she was Princess Jasmine on a magic carpet singing “A whole new world.”

“Of course! It’s Feasteve! Did you think we didn’t celebrate the holidays? What are we, Jorites?”

The answer was apparently no. I guessed jorites were people who didn’t like holidays. Maybe they were grinches. No. That’s stupid. Sure, elves lived here, but not grinches.

“I have an extra swira.” Drathe said to Sareash, “If you don’t have one.”

Then I sinned and imagined Sareash wearing what Drathe was wearing. I was in danger of becoming a Hard Boy myself. 

“Memuenta probably has an extra too, I can send him up after you.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but it seemed like it was probably some ceremonial Feast Eve garment. I silently accepted. 

What if I tried to explain The Grinch? That would be nuts, right?

I went upstairs and waited for a man to come to my room and dress me. Sometimes I felt like a child here in Laskmeer. I needed so much assistance because I knew so little. Can I really form meaningful bonds with people if I’m always being taken care of like this? 

In my mind, I replayed today’s battle with the terror beetle, and there I was, thinking and scheming and rationing out every move and every word of each spell, while Sareash blew around like the wind, smiting like holy lightning.

Can love last with such a difference in abilities? A power gap? I mean, she’s taller than me.

I decided that, since it was Space Dragon Christmas, it would be best not to fixate, but that didn’t fix my mood. Memuenta noticed when he came in. He was a kind, quiet man with long black hair. He was so pretty he almost looked like a girl. 

He read my face immediately. 

“You seem troubled, Bird.” (Drathe had taken to occasionally calling me Bird, and Memuenta followed) “Is it because you miss the Feast in Homule?”

Though the two of us spent a lot of time together, relatively speaking, we didn’t talk a lot . . . he didn’t talk a lot. Drathe usually spoke before he could, or spoke for him. She spoke enough for all of us.

“Maybe. I don’t think about Homule a lot. I mean, I’m glad you’re all including me, but something feels off.” 

“You don’t think about your home?”

“No. Not really.”
He said, “Hmmm.” 

I stood up and took my cloak off. We stared at each other for a second. Somehow it was weird for me to get changed around him. People in Laskmeer were definitely less sensitive about their bodies, but having Memuenta stand there and stare at me shirtless like a deer in headlights felt weird. “I guess I wonder how you all manage to celebrate and feel peaceful, with all the death and disease you face all year round.”

Memuenta presented me with the swira, it was a kind of loose fitting, low cut tunic, dark green with an orange sash and a sort of sheer orange trim. It was a simple piece of clothing, but well tailored.

“I think I would say, that’s why we celebrate. Our lives are hard, and we need to celebrate, if only to frighten away the spirit of sorrow.” That was a bleak statement, but it made sense, and his face didn’t change as he said it. He was still just as calm as ever. 

“Right. Escapism.” I tried to feel it, but it didn’t stick. I still felt haunted. 

Then I watched him change. It was not homoerotic at all. 

His swira was maroon with white trim and a white sash. It was looser than mine, baring his slender but muscular chest. 

Once we were both dressed, we went down together to join the festivities.