He held the gun, which was heavy for something so small. Celaeno had said they did not work, which was lucky. Elliot would have thought a gun would work, if a music box did. He wondered: If someone tried more old-fashioned guns, might they work? He could suggest some of the Border guard who could cross take different weapons over, and try them.
Or he could not suggest that. He was the only one he knew of doing experiments with technology past the Border. He could let the instruments of death alone, for a while, until he was absolutely sure they were needed.
He handed the gun to Celaeno.
“Get every one of these to a forge,” he said. “Melt them down.”
“Hey!” said the man, desperate not to be left with winged horrors. “Hey, where are you going?”
Elliot turned around, boots crunching on the fallen leaves, and looked down at him.
“I have to talk to some people,” Elliot replied, “who are more important than you.”
Celaeno took him to the trolls, who seemed startled but pleased that the Border guard still sought an alliance with them rather than continuing the hostilities the trolls had begun. Their captain spoke human, but seemed amused by Elliot’s clumsy trollish.
They set up tables and wrote out two new treaties, one between the harpies and the trolls, and one between the humans and the trolls, right away. Commander Woodsinger came up to them at some point, standing at Elliot’s shoulder and reading over the parchments spread across the table. She did not comment on the treaties, but she had her seal out, ready to sign.
“I feel the tension between our peoples is simply due to a lack of communication. I’m so glad our two species will be learning more about each other and reaching a beautiful understanding together,” said Elliot, looking up at the troll captain through his eyelashes.
“You’re not really my type,” said the troll. “No offence.”
There was an awkward pause. Then Commander Woodsinger burst out laughing, in the middle of negotiations, with people who had been a hostile force less than an hour before.
“I’m glad my humiliation brings you so much joy,” Elliot hissed.
Commander Woodsinger rested a hand on his shoulder. “So am I, Cadet.”
Trolls tended to be more literal than humans, and less deceptive, or at least not deceptive in the ways Elliot was used to. Flirting was definitely out, especially the kind of flirting Elliot employed with the elves. All the trolls thought it was weird.
They liked Commander Woodsinger, though. Elliot was going to have to learn to be more stoic.
The peace talks went on, through the tattered remnants of the day and throughout the night. At one point Elliot looked up, startled, to see they were affixing torches into wrought-iron holders on the nearby trees. Under the warm light he saw, different from all the shadows and branches and bones, a curve of wings and a glint of rich gold.
It was Luke. He was sitting on a tree stump, and had made no effort to attract Elliot’s attention. He showed no sign of restlessness. He was just waiting.
Elliot did not feel in any way prepared for Luke Sunborn, exhausted after another triumphant battle, waiting patiently until Elliot was done with peace talks.
So when Elliot was done, Elliot went to him and illicitly commandeered the commander’s tent for a nap. His judgement might have been impaired by exhaustion.
In the commander’s tent Luke asked him, after a blatant rejection, two kisses, and less than one day, if Elliot was serious about them. And instead of pointing and laughing, Elliot said that he was.
Elliot agreed to be in a committed relationship.
It was very possible that Elliot should be committed.
The trolls were staying awhile with the harpies, to re-confirm their centuries-old alliance. The elves agreed to accompany the humans back to the Border camp, guarding the human hostages. There was some debate about what to do with them.
“Do not execute them,” Elliot said urgently over breakfast. “Do not execute anyone. Please induce magic amnesia so they can only recall this land as a dream.”
“For the last time, nobody can do that,” Commander Woodsinger told him.
The captain of the trolls, whose name was Wfscv’dshfcdz, which translated to “Majestic Eagles Circle the Luminescent Quarry,” raised his or her craggy eyebrows. “That boy seems sweet, but a little simple,” he or she remarked in trollish to his or her second-in-command.
Elliot diplomatically pretended not to understand.
“We could sell them as slaves to the dwarves,” suggested Celaeno, and everybody glared at her. She lifted her wings in surrender. “I was just trying to help.”
Nobody wanted to hear about the Geneva Conventions. While Elliot was trying to explain them, Serene strolled over with Golden on her arm. Elliot was deeply relieved to see them, but distressed by the fresh wound on Golden’s face. That looked like it would scar.
Golden’s head was held high. He seemed to care as little about scars as Louise Sunborn did.
“Before we do anything with the humans from across the Border, we need to find out more from them,” Serene said. “With luck, this expedition was all the humans who might prove a threat to us, but if they have confederates over the wall, we should know about it.”
Even if this particular group had been stopped, there would always be humans who had access to the Borderlands and there would always be children who knew the truth, and would remember.
The Borderlands had to be ready for them.
“I suggest we take them back to the prisons in the Border camp, and send daily reports on the information we gather,” Serene continued.
Golden regarded her proudly. “Some of the boys in my finishing school say that all that matters about a woman is that she be a doughty warrior,” he observed. “Not me. A woman of little intelligence would be no challenge at all.”
“Hi, I’m Elliot,” said Elliot, reaching across the table to take his hand. “I’m very intelligent, and I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“I am Golden. I’ve heard a great deal about you from my betrothed,” Golden told him, with perfect finishing-school politeness and an unreadable expression on his face.
Elliot was not sure if Golden was judging the floozy, or jealous of Serene’s former paramour, or simply reserved. Golden was the one Serene had wanted, always, and was much better-looking than Elliot.
If Golden needed reassurance, Elliot did not know how to provide it.
“Um,” Luke said, suddenly hovering. “Hi.”
Elliot had not seen him since the early morning, when the commander had kicked them out of her tent and carried Luke off to archery practise. The lives of those in warrior training were not their own.
He glanced up at Luke, then back at the breakfast table. “Hi.”
There was an air of nervous tension about Luke. Elliot wondered if Luke had already realized what a mistake he had made.
“So . . . hi,” said Luke.
“Hi,” Elliot repeated, with maybe a tiny edge of laughter.
Luke bowed his head hastily down to Elliot’s and kissed him. The only warning was a bright flicker in Elliot’s vision, and then Luke’s mouth on his, a warm dry press of lips. Elliot was caught off guard, but he fastened his fingers in the shoulder of Luke’s shirt and kissed him properly, the way Luke should be kissed in the golden early morning: slow, almost lazy and yet not lazy at all, with the radiance of the sun filtering through Elliot’s half-closed eyelids, spreading lines of light against the dark.
“Cadet Sunborn,” said Commander Woodsinger. “Have the other cadets dismantled their tents? I left you supervising, you may recall.”
Luke straightened up. The rest of the morning flooded back.
“Of course, Commander,” he said, and Elliot narrowed his eyes in the commader’s direction. As if Luke were going to forget his responsibilities. “The cadets are ready to march at your word.”
“See to it that they are in formation, then return to bid farewell to your
aunt,” said Commander Woodsinger.
Luke saluted and left. Elliot looked after him as he went: even the tips of Luke’s ears were red.
He looked back at the people assembled around the breakfast table. The commander’s expression was amused. Celaeno seemed moved by young love. The troll captain and his or her second were eating plum stones and appeared entirely uninterested in Elliot’s love life, which was how things should be.
Serene’s mouth had fallen open, for the second time in two days. Elliot made a face at her.
“This must be very startling to you, my dove,” said Serene, clearing her throat and turning to her betrothed.
“Not really,” said Golden. “Do you think all the boys do in finishing school is embroidery? La, the very idea!” He patted Serene’s hand. “Women are such blockheads.”
He favored Elliot with a bright smile.
Elliot smiled back.
“I thought you said no when Luke asked you out,” Serene hissed.
“Well,” Elliot said uncomfortably. “I mean, I did. I mean, I knew he didn’t really mean it, so we agreed it was best. Didn’t we?”
“Didn’t really mean it? I thought we were agreeing it was best that you let him down easy!”
“Me?” said Elliot. “Let Luke down easy? I’m sorry. I just need to confirm the people we’re discussing, here.”
“Didn’t really mean it,” Serene said again. “What about Luke strikes you as insincere exactly?”
“I wasn’t insulting Luke.”
“That’s not the point. The point was that I thought you didn’t like him that way.”
Serene stared at him, her eyes agate and accusing, and Elliot realized she was worried he would break Luke’s heart. He did not know what he had done to make Serene, of all people, think he was a heartless playboy.
Elliot scowled at her. “Why would you think that?”
“You refer to him as ‘loser’ more often than you call him by his given name,” Serene said. “You regularly criticize his intelligence and his mode of behavior. You told me you thought you were allergic to his face. You asked if there were any herbal remedies!”
“So?” said Elliot. “So what? I don’t get what you’re trying to say.”
He got up abruptly from the table, almost pushing it away from him, and walked away into the trees. He did not go into the battlefield, but he walked until he found a bank where he could sit and put his face in his hands.
He was terrible at feelings. He had never practised them, for long years in his father’s house, and he was like one of the kids in warrior training who hit themselves over the head with their own bows. He’d got it wrong. He’d got it all wrong this time, and he was sure he would get it all wrong again in the future.
Of course Luke, who thought of the world in terms of codes of honor and lived life like he was in a story, had not thought about spiting Dale. Of course he had at least not consciously thought about how little choice there was, for someone who exclusively liked boys, at the Border camp. Of course he did not have a casual crush.
Of course instead Luke would romanticize an attachment he had to someone he knew and trusted.
Of course, Luke thought he was in love.
Elliot was going to mess this up so intensely and comprehensively.
None of this was Luke’s fault, not his mistake or Elliot’s own remorseless hunger for love. Elliot could not fit into some storybook idea of love, could not be an agreeable partner slotting into someone’s life like Dale would have been. Elliot should try not to hurt Luke, even though he did not see any way around it, any way to escape from the disaster Elliot could see coming: how he would ask too much from Luke, shatter all his illusions, ruin everything.
Elliot lifted his head. The sun shone through the tree branches and cast patterns of light and shade on his palms. He forced his fingers to uncurl, as they had curled on Luke’s shirt, and let shadows slide through his empty hands.
Maybe if he broke it to Luke gently. Maybe if Luke lost his romantic illusions soon.
On the march home, Elliot paired off with Luke, the same way Serene was pairing off with Golden.
“I’ve been wanting a chance to talk to you.”
“Yeah?” Luke asked. “I, um, I wanted to—talk to you too.”
Elliot’s heart sank. He did not know if he could do this.
“Well met, Elliot of the riverstone eyes,” said a voice behind them. “Give you good morrow, Luke of the golden locks.”
Swift-Arrows-in-the-Chaos-of-Battle, Serene’s cousin. Normally Elliot would have been delighted to behold her auburn beauty.
“Hi, Swift,” he said, and kissed her cheek. Luke muttered something incomprehensible.
“I heard you fought as bravely as any woman in the battle last eve,” Swift told Luke generously.
“Oh, thanks,” said Luke.
Hardly anyone noticed Luke’s sarcastic voice, and Swift was immune to any sarcasm at all. She beamed at him.
“You deserve praise, my dear boy. Now, forgive me for my forwardness, I have heard the happy news that you two are involved in—some sort of liasion.”
“Oh my God,” said Luke.
Elliot, who was slightly more used to Swift, grasped Luke’s wrist in a gesture of silent support.
“Many congratulations, or whatever it is you say when that sort of irregular thing occurs,” Swift continued. “Some women say that the idea of two men together, while appealing, is a little ludicrous. I mean, really, what is the point? Some say.”
“Are we there yet?” said Elliot in a hollow voice.
“Foolish boy, we only left the Forest moments ago.” Swift chuckled indulgently. “Of course, though I am but a rough soldier, I do not espouse such narrow-minded ideas. However, if you ever did feel inclined to invite a woman to your bed-sports, I would be honored to be the woman selected.”
Elliot removed his hand from Luke’s arm as if it had become a column of living flame. He did not dare look at Luke, and could not exactly explain to Swift that Luke was what Swift would probably call a maiden.
“Thanks for the offer,” he said. “Very kind. I’m thinking maybe no.”
“You can go to hell,” said Luke.
“I’m thinking a firm no,” said Elliot.
Swift did not take offence. She smiled, eyebrows raised. Elliot imagined she thought Luke was being feisty. “I should perhaps not have mentioned this matter in the springtime of your boyish dreams,” she admitted. “But I am usually posted far from the Border camp, and if the wish came upon one of you for a strong woman, I desired you to know my feelings.”
“And now we know,” said Elliot. “And alas we cannot unknow.”
“You are a saucy, redheaded creature,” said Swift, which horrific statement Elliot absorbed in silence. “And well, we all know what they say about the Sunborns.”
“Really,” said Luke in a tight voice.
Elliot watched them, staring over the gulf that was their cultural divide—Luke not wanting to hit a girl, and Swift obviously not considering being hit by a boy was an option.
“Oh yes,” Swift chuckled. “Gregory Sunborn lived with the elves for many years, and there were rumors of wealthy men as well as women warriors rich with the spoils of battle. Gregory had visits from kinsmen and kinswomen, too. Not that the Sunborns need to prove their fame. The whole Borderlands speak of the Sunborns, the laughing warriors, singing through battle and dancing through fire, the lovers who ride away. Why, your own mother, rogue that she was, dallied with a harpy.”
“Don’t talk about my mother,” said Luke in a low and menacing voice.
Elliot coughed. “We’re coming up against a cultural difference here! Swift, imagine if someone implied your father was free with his favors—which I am sure he is not.”
“Of course he is not!” Swift snapped. “I am not saying anything the whole world does not know. The Sunborns—”
“I don’t want to hear any more of what you think about the Sunborns.”
Luke did something close to snarling, a predatory bird’s cry and a hiss tangled together in his voice. “I don’t sing. And I don’t dance. And I don’t want anyone else.”
Elliot felt a lot of things in that moment, but fiercest of all was the pity he felt for Luke, at how much Elliot was going to let him down.
“What, not ever?” asked Swift. “That’s going to get boring.”
She sounded, in that moment, like Rachel or Louise Sunborn. Or Michael, or Gregory. Swift had not been wrong about the Sunborns. They were all going to be baffled, and when it did not work out, none of them would be surprised.
Elliot could not correct her. She was right.
They were plunged into an awkward silence, when fortunately Serene and Golden joined them and Swift could no longer talk about such matters in front of a chaste young gentleman.
Golden surveyed the group and began to talk to Elliot about what he might do to control his hair situation. Elliot was aware he was “making conversation,” and he thought that elven finishing schools were marvelous. Also he appreciated the tips. He was always searching for some way to control the hair situation.
As their little troop drew near the camp, Elliot saw there were people waiting for them, and if Elliot was any judge, they were ready to hear about Luke Sunborn’s latest victory and cheer.
“I like it,” Luke said in an abrupt whisper.
“The camp?” Elliot asked. “I have a certain sentimental attachment by this time, too.”
Luke’s expression of discomfort was replaced by a different expression and one with which Elliot was more familiar. He looked annoyed. “Your hair. Don’t do anything to it. I like your hair.” Luke paused. “Though I’m not sure why, because it is a situation that has got entirely out of control.”
Elliot grinned.
At the gates of the camp, Elliot said, in a low voice: “Can I come to your cabin later?”