"How long have you been driving?" Driving was an English word, since the nearest Elvish words implied horses and reins.
"Nae hae." No years. The full saying was Kaetat nae hae, literally "Count no years" but actually meant "too many years to count" — a common expression among elves; it could mean as few as ten years or as many as a thousand. After a thousand, it changed to Nae hou, or roughly, "too many millennia to count." In this case, however, Nae hae had to be less than twenty years, since that was when the elves were introduced to modern technology with Pittsburgh's arrival.
"The Rolls were part of the treaty," Pony explained. "It required that the EIA provide quality cars for ze domou ani's use. All of his guard learned, as did husepavua and ze domou ani, though not all enjoy doing it."
"Do you?"
"Very much. Domou lets me race, although husepavua says it is reckless."
She directed him onto the McKees Rocks Bridge. The morning sun was dazzling on the river below. "Who is husepavua?"
"Lifted Sparrow By Wind."
The name sounded familiar, but it took her a moment to place it; Sparrow had been the stunningly beautiful high-caste elf at the hospice. Pony had mentioned her once or twice the night before, calling her just Sparrow.
"Is Sparrow… Windwolf's wife?"
He looked at her with utter surprise on his face, reinforcing her impression that he was fairly young. "No, domi! They are not even lovers."
Oh, good. Pony was giving her amazingly direct answers, something she hadn't thought possible for elves. Perhaps it had to do with his willingness to obey her—had Windwolf told him to do so? Or was it an offshoot of being young? "How old are you, Pony?"
"I turned a hundred this year."
While that seemed really old to her, she knew that elves didn't start into puberty until their late twenties and weren't considered adults until their hundredth birthday. In a weird, twisted way, she and Pony were age-equals, although she suspected that he was much more experienced than she could hope to be.
"Is this the place?" Pony asked, pulling to a stop beside Tooloo's seedy storefront. To conserve heat in the winter, the old half-elf had replaced the plate glass with salvaged glass blocks. Somehow, though, she'd tinted the blocks, so the wall of glass became a stained-glass mosaic on a six-inch-square scale. Typical of elfin artwork, the picture was too large for a human to easily grasp. If one stood in the kitchenette and looked through the entire length of the shop, one could see that the squares formed a tree branch, sun shafting through the leaves, with the swell of a ripe apple dangling underneath. From the outside, though, one only saw the salvaged block and the muted colors in a seemingly random pattern—keeping the store's secrets just as the storekeeper kept hers.
The only nod toward advertising the store's function was painted under the length of the windows: Bread, Butter, Eggs, Fish, Fowl, Honey, Pittsburgh Internet Access, Milk, Spellcasting, Telephone, Translations, Video Rentals. Of the words that could be translated into Elvish, the rune followed the English word. It mattered much to Tinker that she could remember standing in hot summer sun as the cicadas droned loudly, carefully painting in the English traced onto the wall by Tooloo's graceful hand.
"Yes, this is it." Tinker slid out.
She hadn't considered Tooloo's reaction to her transformation. When the old half-elf saw her, Tooloo let out a banshee cry and caught Tinker by both ears. "Look at what that monster did to my dear little wee one! He's killed you."
"Ow! Ow! Stop that!" Tinker smacked Tooloo's hands away. "That hurt! And I'm not dead."
"My wee one was human, growing up in a flash of quicksilver. Dirty Skin Clan scum." Tooloo spat.
"Windwolf is Wind Clan." Tinker rubbed the soreness from her ears.
"All domana are Skin Clan bastards," Tooloo snapped.
Tinker winced and glanced to Pony. Thankfully, the exchange had been in English, but Pony obviously had picked up Windwolf's name and was listening intently. "Don't insult him, Tooloo. Besides, if you'd just warned me, I might have been able to avoid this."
"I told you the fire was hot! I told you that it burns! I told you to be careful. So don't cry that I never told you it could burn down the house. I warned you that Windwolf would be the end of you, and see, I told you and there it is."
"You have told me nothing." She went and got a basket, angry now but determined to keep her calm. "Knowledge is not cryptic warnings, indistinguishable from utter nonsense. 'All domana are Skin Clan bastards. What the hell does that mean? I've never heard of the Skin Clan."
"There wasn't a need for you to know if you'd just stayed away from Windwolf. I know humans; if it's ancient history, it doesn't pertain, so I would have been wasting breath to explain a war that happened before the fall of Babylon."
Tinker picked up a crock of honey, intending to put it into her basket. "Well, tell me now."
"Too late now." Tooloo stalked away, flapping her hands over her head as if to swat away questions. "Done is done!"
Tinker barely refrained from flinging the crock at Tooloo's retreating backside. "Tooloo, for once just tell me, damn it! Who knows what mess I might get into because you've kept me ignorant?"
Tooloo scowled at her. "I have things to do. Cows to milk. Chickens to feed. Eggs to gather."
"Well, you don't feed chickens with your mouth. I'll help you, and you can tell me what I need to know." Besides, Tinker had to keep Pony out from under Lain's feet for a full two hours.
Tooloo sulked but went to the store's front door, flipped the «Open» sign to «Closed» and threw the dead bolt, muttering all the while.
Tooloo lived in the one big back room of the store, a house done at miniature scale with changes in the flooring to indicate where walls should be. Mosaic tile delineated the kitchenette. The two wing chairs of the living room sat on gleaming cherry-wood planks. The floor around Tooloo's fantastically odd bed was strewn with warg skins. Tinker had spent countless hours on the floor, from studying the dragon shown coiled on the kitchenette's tile to building forts under the bed. She thought she knew it well.
Entering the room, Tinker discovered she didn't know it completely.
It felt like stepping into a pool of invisible warmth. No. There was movement, a slow current to it, heading east to west. She stopped, surprised, looking down at the wood. It did more than gleam. It shimmered as if heat roiled the air between her toes and her eyes. As she studied the floor, an odd, pleasant sensation crept up her legs until her whole body felt strangely light.
Even odder was the change in Tooloo's bed. The pale yellow wood seemed at once sharper and brighter, almost surreal, like someone had overlain computer graphics onto reality.
Pony followed Tinker's gaze, and grunted in surprise. "Dragon bones."
"Yes, dragon bones," Tooloo snapped, wrapping her braid loosely around her neck like a scarf of thick, silver cording. "That's how I survived on Earth all these centuries. Silly beast died without the magic, but its very bones stored massive amounts that slowly leaked off. Every night I slept in that bed, nae hou, aging only when I strayed away from it. I was tempted to burn it after the Pathway reopened, but waste not, want not, as the humans say. There were times I grew so depressed that I wouldn't stir out of it for months on end."
"Why is the floor so weird?" Tinker asked Tooloo, but the half-elf had stepped out the back, so she turned instead to Pony. "Can you feel that?"