Chapter 16: The Yellow Rose
"Wait a minute," I said later, arms folded tight. "I'm not going back to Rovena. There's nothing left for me there."
The Queen was serious about sailing north. The elders were serious too.
Too serious.
One of them said it plainly: the Queen would only reach the northern coast if she took Rowanda, Obara, and me.
"And it's a fifty-three day journey," I added. "Fifty-three days eating raw fish and onions. No. I'm not going."
One elder's gaze sharpened.
"You are," he said, "if you wish to reach Hekhenden alive."
I scoffed. "You lied to your Queen for fifty years. Why should I believe anything you say?"
The elder muttered something in a language I didn't understand.
The world blinked.
Suddenly I was back in Prince Aaron's castle, standing on a bucket with a rope around my neck. My arms were burning. My hands were numb. My throat was tight.
Someone kicked the bucket.
I dropped.
The rope bit.
My lungs clawed for air.
Then the world blinked again.
I was back in the room with the elders.
My heart hammered like it wanted to escape my ribs.
I could still feel the rope's ghost on my neck.
"Right," I said hoarsely, adjusting my sword belt like I'd always planned to. "I think I can endure raw fish and onions for fifty-three days. Let's go."
Rowanda and Obara didn't move.
Rowanda stared at me. "You can go north if you want. Me? I'm going back to Ilana."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "You went on an adventure to make a fortune and you're going home with no penny."
Rowanda's eyes narrowed.
I kept going, because sometimes the truth is the only weapon you have.
"You won't marry any lord or rich man," I said. "The arenas in Ilana pay you less than the money I make from the armoury. Everyone expects you to return with gold."
Rowanda's jaw tightened.
"And Rovena may have no slaves," I added, softer, "but there are a hundred easier ways to make money there than Ilana."
Rowanda looked at Obara.
Obara looked away like she didn't want to admit it.
Then both of them picked up their bags.
"Fine," Rowanda said. "Let's hope you're right."
"Believe me," I said, trying to sound confident. "Knights in Rovena would pay a fortune for Dwarven work."
I turned to the Queen and smiled like a boy who hadn't been almost hanged two heartbeats ago.
"So how are we getting there, my lady?"
"With a ship," Queen Est'Chamali said. "The Yellow Rose is almost ready."
I noticed the pin on her sky-blue dress—yellow, delicate.
I leaned forward, squinting.
"Is that a yellow rose?" My jaw dropped. "I thought they were a myth!"
The Queen blushed.
"This one has survived sixty-three years," she said. "It doesn't look as beautiful as it did then, but it still looks good."
That wasn't what I heard.
"Not as beautiful?" I repeated. "What do you mean? It looks like it came fresh from a garden!"
"The yellow rose remains fresh as long as there is love between the lovers," the Queen said.
Then her face settled into something older.
"Now there is no time to waste. We go."
We followed her through the High Forests toward the river.
The walk was long. The elves had no horses.
I didn't blame them—horses would break their legs on these roots and slopes.
The Queen asked about Rovena, and I told her everything I knew.
Or everything my grandfather had told me.
As we walked, I realized how many elves lived in those trees.
Homes above the branches. Under roots. Inside trunks. Everywhere.
You wouldn't know until they came out to watch their Queen leave.
We reached the river.
Wider than any I'd swum.
And there, waiting like a dream, were ships.
Pure white. Green. Silver. Gold.
The Yellow Rose was white with silver and gold lining, long and slender. Its sails were white too, with a yellow rose painted in the center like a promise.
As I settled on deck, a young elf girl approached me.
No greeting. No smile.
Straight to the point.
"So you're Leno?"
"Yes," I said. "And who are you?"
"I'm Quiri," she said. "Commander Qirim is my father."
That explained her confidence.
"He told me you sang of the yellow rose in its true tongue," she continued. "The Oldleaf Tongue."
I kept my face neutral, but inside I was already adjusting.
Oldleaf Tongue.
A proper name made it feel more real.
"Could you sing it for me?" Quiri asked, voice suddenly softer.
Soft enough that my chest did something annoying.
I cleared my throat.
"I'll make you a wager," I said. "I'll sing you every song I know in Oldleaf Tongue…"
Her eyes widened with interest.
"…and you teach me your Elven tongue."
"Agreed," Quiri said immediately, showing all her teeth.
Then she pulled a lyre from her back like she'd been carrying it the whole time and I'd been too blind to notice.
I smiled.
My grandfather had a lyre like that.
When I was six, he taught me to play it.
I took the lyre and began.
Starting with the song of the Yellow Rose.
My grandfather used to say I would make an awful bard.
The elves didn't care.
They listened like it mattered.
The Yellow Rose slid downriver so smoothly I felt like I was still on land.
No other ships troubled us until the river met the ocean.
Rowanda and Obara played a game with watermelons and knives. I noticed Obara was using my knife and decided, for once, to let her enjoy it.
"Are you a bard?" one elf asked after my last song.
"Nope," I said. "I'm a blacksmith."
Quiri snatched my hand and stared at it.
"Liar," she said. "These are no blacksmith hands. Your hands are as fine as a maid's hands."
I smiled despite myself, thinking of Ashirai.
A close friend had once told me the same thing.
"I'm not lying," I said. "I'm a blacksmith."
Quiri tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle.
"Then you must be a sorcerer," she said. "I can sense a strange aura around you."
"A sorcerer?" I laughed, too quickly. "Me? Don't be ridiculous."
I started playing a tune, pretending I didn't hear her.
But the thought stayed.
Like a nail you can't see until it starts hurting.