In the times he was free to do what he wanted, he wrote in his journal of his thoughts and concerns, putting down everything he was struggling with, even his thoughts of the King and his daughter. He tried to imagine the King’s thinking, to put himself in Arissen Belloruus’s frame of mind so that he could better understand. But it was a miserable failure, a process to find a justification for what he did not believe. All it did was further convince him that something was terribly wrong and needed righting.
He thought to speak of it to his parents more times than he could count, but he could not bring himself to do so. He knew that if he voiced his concerns to them, they would act on their feelings, just as he had, and take the matter directly to the King. That would invite a disaster for which Kirisin did not want to be responsible. His parents were already suspect after their efforts to move a colony of Elves to Paradise. The King would have no patience with an intrusion of this sort, particularly if he was hiding something. The best Kirisin could do for them in this situation was to leave them out of it.
He kept hoping Simralin would come home. He could tell his sister what had happened and know that she would offer a thoughtful response. That was her nature; she was not given to rash acts and emotional outbursts like the rest of his family. Simralin would think it all through; she would know what was needed.
But the days passed and Simralin did not come home, the King did not summon him, the Ellcrys did not speak to him, and his thoughts grew steadily darker and more distressed as he carried out his Chosen duties in mechanical fashion and waited futilely for something to happen.
“You seem like your head is somewhere else lately/’ Biat told him at one point, squatting down beside him as he worked on the flower beds. “Is that business with the Ellcrys still bothering you?”
Overhead, the sun was high in the sky, a blazing orb burning down on the Cintra. There had been no rain in weeks. Everything was drying up, Kirisin thought, including his secret hopes.
“I’ve just been wondering how Simralin is,” he replied.
“Better than most,” Biat smirked. “She’s the Tracker all the other Trackers wish they could be. Smart, beautiful, talented—everything you’re not.
Too bad for you.”
Too bad indeed, thought Kirisin as his friend wandered away.
For a long time, he did not visit the tree alone at night as he had for so long. Part of him wanted to, but part of him was afraid to face her. He didn’t know which prospect was worse—that she might not speak to him ever again or that she might, and no one would be there to see it or believe that it had happened.
Finally, he could stand it no longer. Six nights into his fruitless vigil, when he was sure the others were asleep, he went to visit her. It was a moonlit night, and he found his way without difficulty and stood before her as a supplicant might before a shrine. Her silvery bark shimmered brightly, and the reflection of the moonlight brought out the crimson color of her leaves in startling relief. He stared at her reverentially, trying to think what more he could do. He knew he had to do something. He knew he couldn’t wait any longer on the King or anyone else.
He walked up to her finally and placed the tips of his fingers on her smooth trunk. Speak to me, he thought. Tell me what to do.
But the Ellcrys did not respond, even though he waited a long time, speaking softly, telling her his thoughts, trying to break through the wall of her silence. If she heard what he was saying, if she even knew he was there, she gave no sign of it. When he had exhausted himself and his efforts had yielded him nothing, he gave it up and went off to sleep.
The following day was hot and dry, and as he worked in the gardens with the others, Kirisin felt the last of his patience slip away. It had been a week now since he had gone to Arissen Belloruus, and despite his resolve not to act in haste or frustration, he did. It was a precipitous act triggered by Erisha.
After days of ignoring him, he caught her looking at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. There was nothing overtly offensive about the act, nothing that should have set him off, but that was the effect it had.
He climbed to his feet, sweaty and tired and mad enough to eat the dirt he was digging up, and stalked over to where she was standing next to Raya, ostensibly instructing the other girl on the pruning of callisto vines. Erisha saw him coming, read what was mirrored on his face, and tried to move away. But he would have none of it. He went after her, caught up to her, and blocked her way.
“What’s the matter, Erisha?” he snapped, hands on hips, face flushed and taut. “Is your conscience bothering you, cousin? Is that why you are sneaking looks at me?”
She faced him down for a moment, then brushed quickly at her chestnut hair and turned away. “Grow up, Kirisin.”
He was back in front of her immediately, blocking her path. “How about this? I’ll grow up when you stop lying. That’s a reasonable trade, isn’t it?
Let’s start right now. You tell me the truth about your father, and I’ll start acting like an adult.”