Author: Shannon Messenger
Category: Childrens
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/shannon-messenger/page,16,43861-nightfall.html
“It would,” Sophie agreed, even if it was hard to imagine life ever being that simple again.
“At least talk to your sister about it,” Mr. Forkle encouraged Tam. “She’s worked so hard to master her talent, I’d hate to see her lose that hard-won hold.”
Tam nodded. “Would we have to move back home?”
“I see no reason why. Foxfire has no requirement about prodigies living specifically with their families. And it would make no difference to Tiergan.”
“You guys are living with Tiergan?” Sophie asked. “I thought Blur was going to be your guardian when you moved back to the Lost Cities.”
“That was our original plan,” Mr. Forkle said. “But Blur’s living situation has grown slightly complicated. And Tiergan realized that Wylie wouldn’t be needing his room now that he’s settled into the cabin with Prentice.”
“I didn’t have high hopes for living with a guy who spends half his time looking like a giant half-carved statue,” Tam admitted. “But Wylie’s room is more like three rooms, so we still have our own space. And Linh loves digging through his music.”
“Music?” Sophie repeated. The Lost Cities hadn’t seemed to be very musically oriented.
“The songs probably aren’t what you’re imagining,” Mr. Forkle told her. “Elvin composers tend to focus on ‘natural melodies.’ Elegant tapestries of natural sounds.”
“They’re very soothing,” Della said. “And Tam’s mother has composed some of my favorites. As has his grandmother.”
Biana stopped walking. “I don’t know why I never put it together that you guys are those Songs.”
“Wait—your last name is Song and your family makes . . . songs?” Sophie had to ask.
“Ugh, don’t even get me started,” Tam grumbled. “Our real family name is supposed to be Tong. But my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother started calling herself Lady Song, and when she registered her daughter, she put that as the surname—and it’s been passed down ever since. Stupid, right?”
“Eh, at least the name comes from your mom’s side,” Keefe told him. “Sencen comes from my dad. Can’t wait to ditch that one someday.”
“So then how do people decide which last name gets used?” Sophie asked.
“It’s up to each couple,” Della told her. “In my case, Vacker was such a legendary name that it was only natural for me to take Alden’s. But the Heks name is from Vika’s side of the family. It generally comes down to which name holds more distinction.”
“Or what message the couple is trying to send,” Mr. Forkle added. “I suspect Juline went with Dizznee because she wanted people to know she wasn’t ashamed of her husband, even if the matchmakers didn’t approve their marriage.”
All Sophie could say to that was “Huh.”
It never ceased to amaze her how much she still had to learn about elvin culture—and it was cool that they didn’t just pass down names arbitrarily. But she wondered how they’d feel if she kept her human last name. She couldn’t imagine letting the name go—assuming she ever got married, of course. For that, she’d have to go through the whole terrifying matchmaking process with its endless questionnaires, and lists of matches, and Winnowing Galas. It was enough to make her want to move back to the human world. Or stay fourteen forever.
Or wait—was she fifteen now?
The elves tracked age by something they called an Inception Date—a fact Sophie had only discovered a few months earlier, when she’d also learned she was nine months older than she’d once believed.
She was in the middle of counting how many weeks had passed since then when the river curved again, and the strangest contraption she’d ever seen came into view. It was as big as any of the other elvin mansions, resting on a huge silver barge with two giant steel paddlewheels mounted to the back. The house itself reminded her of Howl’s Moving Castle, with all the different metal structures smashed together and piled on top of each other. Some were gold and round, with porthole-size windows dotting the sides. Others were copper and square, with riveted metal shutters. A central pyramid-shaped tower was made of cut glass, surrounded by three chimneys spewing some sort of multicolored mist.
“I take it this isn’t what you were expecting?” Mr. Forkle asked.
They all shook their heads.
“One of the great follies of the elves,” Lady Cadence said, stepping out of a copse of trees. “We always want everything to be pretty.”
“There’s nothing wrong with favoring beauty,” Della argued.
“I’d agree if you’d used the word ‘enjoying,’ ” Lady Cadence told her, smoothing the strand of long raven hair that had broken free from her tight braid. Paired with her buttoned-up-to-the-neck black shirt and starched black pants, she almost looked like she was wearing a military uniform. “But favoring it gives beauty value—and therein lies the folly. Why is something valuable simply because it appeals to our senses? What good does that really do, in the grand scheme of things? My home may not have shimmering halls or sculpted gardens, but it allowed me to carve out a life between two drastically different worlds. And yet when you look at it, all you see are its quirks and oddities, and whether you realize it or not, you condemn it for them. I’ve often wondered if our kind would be so mistrustful of the ogres if we found them more physically appealing.”
“I don’t know,” Keefe jumped in. “We like Gigantor, here, and he’s pretty funny-looking.”
Sandor rolled his eyes. “Ask any of my people, and you’ll find no complaints about my appearance.”
“Or we could ask Grizel,” Biana suggested.
She clearly meant it as a joke, but it was too close to the truth—and Sandor’s red-flushed cheeks gave him away.
“You and Grizel?” Biana squealed. “Aaaah—that’s the cutest thing ever! How long have you been together?”
“Since the attack at Havenfield,” Sophie said when Sandor was too busy scowling.
Keefe reeled on her. “YOU KNEW GIGANTOR HAD A GIRLFRIEND AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?”
“I think Sandor’s ready for us to change the subject,” Della noted.
“Indeed, I’ve never seen a goblin blush,” Lady Cadence said, with a bigger smile than Sophie had ever seen her have. “Though you’ve also proven my point. What some admire, others may not—and neither side is wrong. We should all be challenging ourselves to keep an open mind.”
“Is it okay if we have a closed nose?” Keefe asked. “Because I’m picking up a pretty strong stink of curdleroots—or are we supposed to find the value in that too?”
“No,” Lady Cadence told him, motioning for everyone to follow her. “The plants are useful for my research. But the aroma is universally odious.”
She led them up a rickety ramp and onto the gently rocking deck of Riverdrift, heading for the glass pyramid portion of the houseboat, which turned out to be . . . empty.
“It’s best to sit when bartering, don’t you think?” Lady Cadence asked, snapping her fingers and making an enormous table and nine throne-size chairs appear in the center of the room. A second snap conjured up a fancy porcelain tea service with nine fragile teacups. Whatever was in the teapot smelled warm and citrusy—but when she poured, the liquid was sludgy and green.
“Don’t be fooled by your eyes,” Lady Cadence said, handing the first slime-filled cup to Sophie. “This is one of my favorite ogre treats.”
“I’ll pass,” Sandor and Woltzer said in unison.
“Your loss.” She made two of the cups disappear.
Mr. Forkle sipped bravely from the cup she handed him, and nodded his approval. “Hopefully your barter will be equally appealing.”
Lady Cadence took a long draw of her tea. “I think you’ll find my terms more than fair, considering what you’re asking.”
“But we haven’t even told you what we need,” Biana pointed out. She sniffed her cup before taking a sip. “Oh, it’s actually good, guys—you should try it.”
Sophie,
Keefe, and Tam reluctantly took her advice. And Biana was right. It tasted kind of like a warm strawberry-lemonade milkshake—a little weird, but not unpleasant. Even Della didn’t seem to mind it.
“There can only be one reason you would come to me for help,” Lady Cadence told them. “You want something from the ogres—either a meeting with King Dimitar, or for me to ask him to give you something.”
“Or both,” Mr. Forkle said, taking another sip.
One of Lady Cadence’s eyebrows shot up. “That is a very large order.”
“It gets larger.” Mr. Forkle explained about the message they had to deliver from Lady Gisela, and the starstone they needed to recover, and how time was of the absolute essence to rescue Sophie’s human parents.
“Dude, I don’t think you know how to negotiate,” Keefe told him, spinning his cup on the table and somehow managing not to spill it. “You’re supposed to undersell.”
“This won’t be a negotiation,” Mr. Forkle corrected. “I’ve no doubt Lady Cadence decided what she wanted before she agreed to meet.”
“How very astute of you,” Lady Cadence said, downing the rest of her tea. “Though the things I want shouldn’t pose too much of a challenge.”
Mr. Forkle leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
“Okay, first: I want you to let me mentor a session on ogres at Foxfire—one that all prodigies are required to attend in order to come to a proper understanding of their ways.”
“And what makes you think I have the power to grant that?” Mr. Forkle asked.
She stood and paced to the farthest corner of the pyramid. “It’s funny—everyone still calls me Lady Cadence. Have you noticed that? It’s honestly how I still think of myself. But technically my title is Master Cadence. I was appointed as the Beacon of the Silver Tower to replace Master Leto when he was appointed as principal of Foxfire. And the funny thing about being Beacon is that there’s actually very little for me to do. So I’ve taken to exploring the tower, and I found something rather interesting on the roof. Do you know what’s up there?”
“Isn’t it a greenhouse?” Biana asked.
“Mostly, yes. There’s a huge glass bubble where the prodigies grow their splendors for the Opening Ceremonies. But off to the side, tucked behind all the gardening tools is a rickety shed that looked forgotten. I climbed through all the clutter to investigate, and it seems someone used it as another greenhouse. The soil in the troughs looked freshly churned, so I dredged it, to make sure my prodigies hadn’t been harvesting anything dangerous.” Her eyes locked with Mr. Forkle’s. “Someone was growing ruckleberries.”
Sophie barely managed not to squeak.
Mr. Forkle merely smiled. “If you have something to say, Cadence, say it.”
“In front of everyone?”
“Why not? They already know I’m sometimes Magnate Leto.”
“Well then,” she said, smoothing her shirt and trying to recover, “I suppose that makes things simpler. I hope the fact that I haven’t shared my discovery makes it easier for you to see the value of my other demand. If you want my help with King Dimitar, I want to know that we’re truly on the same side. So, you have to let me join the Black Swan.”
Twenty-three
I WAS UNDER the impression that you weren’t a fan of our order,” Mr. Forkle said, finishing the last of his sludgy tea.
Lady Cadence sauntered back to the table and snapped her fingers, making a glowing silver orb appear in the center. Sophie hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten until her eyes squinted at the sudden brightness.
“I could be a very big fan,” Lady Cadence said, “if you widened your vision to ensure it wasn’t limited to the elves.”
“Fixing the problems in our world will benefit all species,” Mr. Forkle assured her. “Just as all are currently struggling because of the Neverseen’s divisiveness.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I had a feeling it wasn’t.” Mr. Forkle reached up to rub his temples. “Am I to assume you’re suggesting an ogre–Black Swan alliance?”
“A temporary one, yes. Dimitar still has his heart set on his new course of isolation—and in some ways, it’s not a bad plan. The ogres have made some unfortunate mistakes. It will be better for them to keep to themselves while their capital is rebuilt, and the other species they’ve harmed take time to cool off.”
“Those of us who’ve had our loved ones aurified in our Hall of Heroes will never cool off !” Sandor snapped.
“And Dimitar’s actions weren’t mistakes. They were acts of war!” Woltzer added.
“Mostly they were wrong—which Dimitar is beginning to see.” Lady Cadence poured herself a second cup, and refilled Mr. Forkle’s. “I don’t expect any of you to be friends. But like it or not, we share this planet. If we want to achieve real peace, we’re going to need to work together.”
“Ogres don’t want peace,” Sandor argued.
“Some might say the same of goblins. Tell me this, if the ogres were to vanish, would I no longer see a sword at your side and pockets full of throwing-stars?”
“Ogres aren’t the only threat,” Woltzer reminded her.
“Some of them aren’t a threat at all. Which is why an alliance could be to our advantage.”
“And Dimitar’s on board with this?” Mr. Forkle asked. “He made it unmistakably clear at the Summit that he wanted zero contact with our kind.”
“But he does trust me,” Lady Cadence reminded him. “Following my advice spared his people further tragedy. It also nearly cost me my life—something Dimitar does not take lightly. The ogre rebels who attacked Havenfield were there for me.”
“How can you be so sure?” Sophie asked. Dimitar had implied the same thing when she saw him at the Peace Summit—but he didn’t have any proof.
“I can be sure,” Lady Cadence said, setting down her tea, “because Dimitar’s soldiers caught the ogre who got away.”
Chairs crashed to the floor as Sandor and Woltzer jumped to their feet.
“You’re sure it was him?” Sandor asked.
“Yes. He had the scar across his chest from Brielle’s final attack. And he tried to fall on his sword to spare himself the punishment for treason.”
“Then why hasn’t he been handed over to our queen?” Woltzer demanded.
Lady Cadence swallowed hard, her complexion turning as green as her sludgy beverage. “Because . . . he did not survive Dimitar’s interrogation.”
Several cups spilled as Sandor’s fist pounded against the table. “That vengeance belonged to my people!”
“Vengeance is a fool’s mission.” Lady Cadence conjured a napkin and mopped up the sticky mess. “It does nothing to right any of the wrongs.”
“And yet Dimitar had no problem claiming the vengeance for himself,” Woltzer reminded her.
“Vengeance was not his goal. He was attempting to send a message to his people about the consequences of rebellion—and while I find his method grotesque, I can understand why he was impelled to take the matter so seriously. Before the prisoner succumbed, he confessed that at least a dozen ogres have left Ravagog and sworn fealty to the Neverseen. They saw our mighty castle fall by Fintan’s hand and see it as proof that he’ll deliver on his grandiose plans.”
“And I’m assuming the prisoner didn’t mention what any of those plans are?” Della asked.
“Just the same ramblings about letting the ogres take back the resources that are currently being squandered on humans, and granting them the freedom to expand their territories. But now the rebels think Dimitar has lost the nerve to fight for his people—and they blame me for weakening his mind with my elvin reasoning.”
“But . . . the Neverseen are elves too,” Biana reminded her.
“Exactly. That’s the treachery of greed. Everything stops being about logic and becomes a simple matter of who tells you what you most want to hear. And Fintan is a master at pouring sugar in people’s ears—though he doesn’t deserve all the
credit. This rebellion is rooted in mistakes that our society has made for centuries.”
“How can you be certain that all of this isn’t a ploy to cover the fact that the ogres are violating their new treaty?” Sandor asked. “These rebels might not be rebels at all.”
“That could even be why Dimitar refused to hand over Brielle’s killer,” Woltzer added, “knowing my queen would drag the truth out of him.”
“I realize that such reasoning fits neatly within the box you choose to place the ogres in. But the only truths to be gleaned from the prisoner were the facts I’ve already shared—and I can swear to that because I was there.” Her arms trembled slightly, and she pulled her hands into her lap. “Dimitar offered me a chance to face my intended murderer before he was condemned, promising that if I found any proof of the ogre’s innocence, his life would be spared. So . . . I went. And Dimitar made it clear to the warrior that I was his only hope of salvation. And yet . . .”
She cleared her throat, reaching up to fiddle with her Markchain pendant.
“I lived with the ogres for years. I’ve seen them at their very best and their absolute worst. And I’ve never seen anything like him. The things he shouted—the horrors he chose to suffer . . . no one could fake that level of pure, poisonous hatred. Doubt me if you want. But keep in mind that the mark of most extremists is that they resist change, claiming they’re trying to protect something they fear they’re about to lose. Sound like anyone in this room?”
“Now we’re extremists?” Woltzer asked.
“Good intentions can be just as extreme as bad ones,” Lady Cadence told him. “Don’t let yourselves make that mistake. We need Dimitar as our ally. Neither the Black Swan, nor the Council, nor even the goblins are prepared for a threat of this magnitude. And before you go claiming otherwise,” she told Sandor, “let’s not forget that you’ve recently recovered from numerous serious injuries caused by one ogre working with the Neverseen.”
“He threw me off a mountain,” Sandor protested, “while I was weakened by the lack of oxygen.”
“I’m not doubting your abilities as a warrior. I guarantee Fintan chose that mountain because he knew the conditions would leave you at a disadvantage.”