Читать книгу Element. Flame of Elisar онлайн

Elcha and I resemble each other, just like two people related – olive skin, dark and slightly raised eyebrows, and plush lips. The only thing that is different is the eyes. My sister has them bright green, the color of emerald, while I have an iris that features a rare turquoise shade, which offers a sharp contrast to my red curls.

The appearance was somewhat unusual for the World of Water, yet rather common for the Highlands. Here, unlike the rest of the world, all types of redheads prevailed, so my sister and myself never stood out of the crowd.

In the south, just like in the capital, Highlanders were often called “the Saarts”, which

could be roughly translated from Ancient something like “burning” or “flamy”. And there, down in the south, it did not always sound like a compliment…

Survival takes warmth in a cold winter, while through a hot summer it is coolness that saves. That made locals respect the kind of magic that could offer them a comfortable life. Southern Elses appreciated the Ice Water skills, whereas the northern ones valued Burning. And people developed numerous fables and tales about it, and even more, beyond any imagination. Women of the South mocked those from the North, getting something similar in return; and even men would not miss a chance to crack a joke.

By the way, there was no man in our family; nor were there any plans to get one. And it was not just a common decision but rather mine. First, all the suitors were not very much of suitors – between hay and grass, if I may put it that way, and second, the typical custom in Elisar was for the woman to go to her husband’s house after the wedding, and I just couldn’t leave my Mammy and sister alone.

As for Nargara, she would reject any courtship inevitably keeping men at bay, even though she did accept gifts from them. As for sister, she was still a little girl, seen by boys as a friend and an accomplice in all sorts of dirty tricks and mischief, rather than someone to fall in love with.

The wind was still howling in my ears as I rushed past a pillar with a sign reading “Great Master Blacksmith Truvle” and featuring an arrow showing the way. I had hardly stopped and let the time go its conventional pace when the door to the shop opened with the “Great Master Blacksmith” appearing in the doorway, wearing an apron all black with smoke, a wrinkled shirt, his face and hair all wet. He must have just chilled himself with a bucket of ice-cold water, which he always did.