In Other Lands

  Well, he would worship at the temple of knowledge if the rest of the class would catch up with him and stop being so boring.

  The lesson Elliot already knew droned on. The trees shook fistfuls of leaves in the wind like impatient customers waving sheaves of crumpled bills, and the wind whooshed and rustled and carried no other sound.

  Until it did. Until Elliot heard, faint and far away, the sound of an elven horn.

  He’d imagined such sounds before, but he saw Myra’s head jerk up. She’d heard it too.

  Elliot’s desk and chair went crashing onto the floor, the desk before him and the chair behind.

  Mr Dustlaid was startled enough to shout.

  “Sit back down, Cadet Schafer!”

  Elliot considered this, said: “No,” and raced out the door. There was nobody in sight yet, no sign of armies in the fields or over the hills. Elliot went for the woods, which would screen sight, climbing over the rise of a hill as he went around the last few clusters of trees.

  He wanted to see them, expected to see them, and was yet not quite prepared for the sight of them, the small band of faraway figures, little more than black dots in the green. Elliot squinted, hand over his eyes to block out the glare of the sun, to make sure it was them: he saw Luke’s hair shining like a helm, and then knew that the figure standing farther off from the troop but closer to Luke than anyone else must be Serene.

  In another moment he was sure of it, and sure she had seen him. She began to run, faster than any human could, racing elven-fleet across the grass. Elliot ran down the hill toward her, stumbling as he went, lent speed by the slope and not caring if he fell.

  He fell into Serene’s arms. She flew at him and he stumbled into her, and her hands held on to the back of his shirt, clutched handfuls of it as if he were trying to get away. He wasn’t. He clung to her, felt her slim and strong and safe against him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and the sheltering dark veil of her hair. And he heard the sound of Luke’s panting and running footfalls, indrawn hesitant breath and hovering warmth. He grabbed hold of his jerkin and drew him in. Luke’s hand caught Elliot’s arm, and his free arm went around Serene’s waist, and Elliot could hear them all breathing, could almost hear their heartbeats, had proof they were both alive and returned and whole.

  Elliot lifted his head and looked into Serene’s eyes. Serene drew in a shaky breath, Elliot knew so as not to cry and be unwomanly, and said: “You’re taller.”

  “Am I?” Elliot asked. “I missed you.”

  Someone was going to cry, he was fairly sure, but then the war-training classes arrived on the scene, every boy and girl who had not been sent to war, all of the younger ones, and they rushed them. Elliot stepped out of the way basically in order to avoid getting trampled down as by wild horses. People were already chanting, the same refrain: “Sunborn, Sunborn!”

  “No,” Luke said loudly, and the boys paused in the very act of pulling him onto their shoulders. He offered Serene a hand, courtly as if he were helping her into a carriage. “Serene was with me every step of the way. I did nothing she did not do as well, and better. Serene too.”

  Serene took his hand. Boys swarmed around her too, lifted them both up high into the air. Their shouts seemed to echo off the sky.

  Elliot was left to trail behind. As he did, he thought about Luke talking about literary tropes—the fearless hero, the valiant heroine, and where did it all leave him? Sidekick: a horrible indignity, Elliot refused to accept it. And the other idea was some sort of lurking, jealous figure: an Iago, a pathetic pseudo-villain waiting in the wings to plot and bring the hero down. He wasn’t going to plot against Luke, who had dumb daffodil hair and said “tropez,” for God’s sake.

  Delia Winterchild had come back from the war. Her twin, Darius, had not. She trailed alongside Elliot, dragging her feet as the crowd raced triumphantly ahead. He looked at her and was almost ashamed that he was so glad his people had come home safe.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  “He was a brave soldier,” said Delia, squaring her shoulders as if that gave her some comfort. “And he’s lying in the ground while everyone cheers for the untouchable Sunborns.”

  Elliot reached for her hand. She looked surprised, but after a moment she let him. Her hand was chilly in his. They walked back to the camp together.

  Elliot didn’t know why he was bothering to think about roles and stories. Any of their stories could end, any of them could stop being a hero and be put in the cold ground at the very next battle. And Rachel Sunborn had said there would always be another war.

  The feast went on for a long time. Elliot had a place near the centre of the action, which he hadn’t asked for and didn’t want, and so he had to hear all the battle stories, over and over. There were songs and toasts, but worst of all were the stories. The one where Serene stood at the top of a cliff and Luke at the bottom, bow and sword at the ready, until their troop stopped their retreat, was the worst. Serene proudly showed a notch in one of her beautiful ears, and someone had one of Luke’s old shirts, with a tear and blood on it, which they waved like a flag.

  “Aren’t you proud?” asked Dale Wavechaser at one point, and everybody looked at Elliot.

  He understood that Luke and Serene were both very good at using weaponry, this had been made very clear to him, but he didn’t really see what there was to be so impressed with about that.

  Elliot made a face, and said finally, weakly: “Doesn’t really have anything to do with me.”

  Which wasn’t great, but wasn’t “No, not proud at all, and also if anyone tells another of these stories I think I might be sick.”

  “And then the treaty was signed and all our brave boys and girls could come home!” thundered General Lakelost, distracting people. Elliot was grateful. Captain Woodsinger, now Commander of the Border camp, had to get up and take a bow, and Elliot clapped along with everyone else.

  “Did you get a chance to see the treaty?” he asked Serene, leaning over to her under the cover of the noise.

  “Oh, well, no . . .,” said Serene. “Not yet.”

  “Uh, she’ll get around to it,” Luke said, his eyebrows raised. “She has more important things to think of right now.”

  “More important than the terms of the treaty that got the other side to agree to peace?” Elliot asked.

  “But of course they would have signed no matter what, after the beating we gave them,” Luke said, casting an approving eye around, and his scattered troop preened at his praise.

  “Oh, of course,” said Elliot. “Because the astonishing fact that some people got killed in a battle would definitely have stopped everyone in their tracks.”

  “Elliot,” said Serene. “I will of course be most interested to hear about such matters another time, but you have to be aware we almost died.”

  The hall was much more quiet than Elliot would have liked. Elliot felt like everyone was paying attention, weighing him in the balance, and finding him unworthy.

  “I am,” said Elliot. “Very.”

  “Treaties are important, just—”

  “Just not as important,” said Elliot quietly.

  The General reached across the table and tugged at Serene’s sleeve. Serene made an apologetic face at Elliot and turned to him. Elliot didn’t even know why he was surprised. Serene had always been a little more inclined to war than council, though brilliant at both: he just hadn’t wanted to see it. Now she had been away at the wars and knew viscerally that war was a matter of life or death. Now she was closer to Luke than she had ever been before; it was easy to see, even in the way they both reached for their cups in tandem. He didn’t know why he had expected Serene to be on his side.

  He got up from the table murmuring about the privy, abstracted a book and Swift’s latest letter from one of his many book hiding places, and went back to his cabin. Everyone was at the feast, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the annoying people he was forced to sleep with, and he could read prop
erly. Swift was an oddly excellent correspondent, and Elliot had to figure out where the next war would break out and how to stop it.

  Clearly, he had forgotten that his days of occasionally not having to deal with annoying people were over. He’d only just settled down on a pillow on the floor beside his bed and begun reading Swift’s latest, which began somewhat horrifyingly with “My dear little redheaded seeker after knowledge” but continued with a list of common troll phrases, when Luke came in the door.

  Elliot thought of several things to say, including “I see we need a refresher course in how to knock” and “It was so lovely and peaceful when you were gone,” but he didn’t particularly want to be accused of callous indifference to heroes who had almost died again. He said nothing.

  “Are you not coming back?” Luke asked. Elliot made a noncommittal gesture. “I know that parties aren’t much fun,” Luke went on. “But it’s a tribute to bravery and sacrifice.”

  Obviously Luke was very proud of all his bravery and sacrifice and enjoying being showered in glory. Elliot failed to see why he had to participate, but he didn’t say so.

  “This is just like you,” said Luke. “Are you seriously going off to sulk over nobody wanting to talk about your dumb treaty? I know you think violence is a stupid last resort, but it was our only resort, and we did well. And you might not want to hear about anything we did, but other people do. People died, and you should show a little respect. And shut up about how unnecessary and useless war is for one night.”

  “I hope you’re enjoying your fight with Imaginary Elliot,” said Elliot. “Because I haven’t said a word since you came in.”

  “Well, why are you being so quiet?”

  “I can’t believe you just asked me that question. Are you aware that nobody in the history of time has ever asked me that question?” Elliot demanded. “Has it struck you that you are being a little hard to please right now, loser?”

  “What,” said Luke, and suddenly looked confused. “Are you trying?”

  Elliot had to admit that probably, from the outside, leaving a party early in a huff and then administering the silent treatment did not seem like he was trying especially hard. He considered Luke. He looked a little older than when Elliot had seen him last, and a lot more tired.

  “I am a bit,” Elliot said eventually. “I’m glad you’re both not dead, and I don’t want to fight.”

  “Oh,” said Luke. “Okay.”

  That seemed to be that. Luke stopped his righteous looming and came to sit on Elliot’s bed.

  “What are you doing, then? Who’s the letter from?”

  “Serene’s cousin Swift,” said Elliot. “She’s teaching me troll.”

  “You’re penpals with Serene’s cousin?”

  “She’s a very nice lady, and she says she gets lonely out on patrol, on the long, cold nights.” Elliot stopped and frowned. “Actually, now I say that out loud it sounds like something I should report to my chaperone. But I don’t have a chaperone, and besides I’m really getting a handle on troll vocabulary.”

  “So you haven’t changed, then,” said Luke, who was sort of drooping with tiredness like a sad dandelion.

  “I’ve been told I’m taller.”

  “Still kind of titchy,” observed Luke, which was offensive, and then put his head down on the pillow.

  “Get up and go back to your celebration, you lump,” said Elliot.

  The one eye Elliot could see rolled. “I thought you were trying to be nice.”

  Elliot gave up on being nice. “Ugh, you’re the worst, leave and never come back.”

  Luke fell asleep instead. After about six minutes, there came a knock.

  “Who is that rapping on my chamber door,” Elliot murmured to himself. “What elf could it be? And when shall I read my letter? Nevermore. Come in, Serene!”

  She came in, looking a little abashed to be in a gentleman’s bedchamber.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, and came to sit on the bed. “I had to stop and have a look at a treaty.”

  Elliot almost hated himself for being so pathetic, but knew he was glowing just the same. “Yeah?”

  “It’s pretty good,” Serene told him, in her measured way. “I love the bit about the trolls cooperating on farming in the south fields in exchange for help with mining equipment.”

  Elliot shrugged modestly instead of saying “Oh baby, talk treaties to me.” “Well.”

  “How’d you do it?” asked Serene, lying down next to Luke, who stirred and slid his arm around her, with what even Elliot could tell was the ease of familiarity and long loving habit.

  “I poisoned Captain Whiteleaf,” Elliot announced proudly.

  Luke opened his one visible eye. “No,” he said. “No poisoning captains. ’m drawing a line.”

  “I poisoned him, and I got the general super drunk,” Elliot boasted in a rush.

  “That was very enterprising,” said beautiful Serene, who always understood him, or at least understood him better than anyone else. She shut her eyes.

  “Okay, no, guys, now I’m drawing a line,” said Elliot. “This is my bed. I have boundaries. I have a personal bubble. Get off. Go away. I’m serious.”

  They lay curled around each other like two leaves in the forest, and about as responsive to demands. Elliot looked at them, so comfortable and close, and felt a jealous pang that wanted to turn to fury or despair. He’d always known where this situation would wind up, he supposed, if he was honest with himself. He knew how life worked. He could call Luke a loser as often as he wanted, but that didn’t make it true.

  Elliot sighed and opened his book. It had a map on it that he wanted to refer to.

  After he memorised the map, he looked back at them, legs tangled, their slow breathing in sync. Luke was filthy, Elliot noted disapprovingly, and even Serene looked slightly disarranged. Elves did not seem to get as smudgy as humans. They did not look like heroes but like sleepy, dirty children. Elliot felt like a little kid himself, confused and helpless, not able to deal with the world at all. Their heads were leaning together on his pillow, the gold and the dark, ruffled and mingling. Elliot felt like he should maybe smooth them or something.

  There was a noise at the threshold. Elliot snatched his hand back. Rachel Sunborn stood at the door. She was in jewels, with her hair neatly braided, and looked as magnificent as she had battle-stained in the rain.

  “Hi there,” she said. “I was wondering where you’d all got to.”

  “I’m here,” Elliot told her, perhaps unnecessarily. “They stole my bed. They have perfectly good beds of their own.”

  Rachel seemed unmoved by her son’s thieving ways. “Little rascals, all tuckered out. And what are you up to?”

  “I’ve decided to put an end to all war,” Elliot announced.

  Rachel blinked. “That might take a while.”

  “I know. I probably won’t be done by the time we’re out of school,” said Elliot. “That’s why I figured I should get started right away.”

  Rachel threw back her head and laughed. “That’s good thinking. Well, me and my man and Lou have to get going. There’s clean-up to be done.” Elliot understood that by “clean-up” she meant more killing, and not cleaning up at all. But she leaned over him in the candlelight and looked at him so kindly. “Tell my boy to take care of himself. See you this summer, funny face?”

  “I don’t know,” Elliot said awkwardly.

  Rachel tweaked his nose and departed. “See you there.”

  As the door banged shut behind her, Elliot glanced to the others, wondering if the noise had woken them. He saw Luke had his eyes open, watching the door. There was a certain expression on his face which made Elliot remember that he must have watched his mother leave to go somewhere dangerous hundreds of times.

  “You can come if you want,” Luke said. “We’re having a big thing. I mean, whatever.”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” murmured Luke. He sighed and turn
ed his face into the pillow, covered with Serene’s dark hair. He burrowed against her, and she said something indistinct with Luke’s name in it, and they both fell back asleep.

  Elliot felt a little Iago-ish, but mainly he was so terribly glad they were alive. And the school year was almost over, with so much work left to be done. He turned back to his books.

  Elliot was meant to go to Luke’s in late summer, so he could go straight back to camp with the others. That meant spending a lot of time with his father beforehand. He tried to call the kids up the street, Tom and Susan, but they were off backpacking with their friends through the countryside. He left a message saying he’d join them, if they thought that would be fun, but he didn’t expect a call back. He started hanging out a lot at an old music shop called Joe’s, run by Joe himself, a grizzled old guy who talked a lot about his nephew who might come to visit him soon and played Elliot vinyl records. He was clearly as lonely as Elliot was.

  Elliot bought a lot of old radios, even ones that played tapes, which he thought were hilarious and quaint. He went searching the shops and found a cracked camera that filtered out real paper photos with a whirring sound a little while after you’d taken them. He’d noticed it was the most modern stuff that did worst at the Border. His heart cried out for a proper phone, but the situation called for experimentation.

  He came home late from the record shop one day and almost collided with his father going to bed. His father looked at him. He seemed very mildly startled, as if at a near-stranger whose existence he had forgotten, encountered unexpectedly in the street.

  “Getting quite tall, aren’t you,” he said, with a faint note of accusation.

  Elliot held on to his tape deck and tried to smile.

  “I suppose,” he said. His father slipped softly and silently by him, like a ghost whose haunting of this house had been only briefly disturbed.