When we reached Dirva’s apartment, Vathorem kicked Dor and I out. He cited privacy, questions for Dirva, a desire to catch up. I am sure that’s the case, but I think he also wanted to discuss me without me there to eavesdrop. In any case, Vathorem took the packs from the young elf and shut the door behind him. We stood awkwardly on the other side of it. The young man held out his hand to me. “Shaliondor da Alama. Call me Dor.”

“Ariah Lirat’Mochai.”

“Vath says you’re a shaper?”

I jerked my hand back. I let out a strangled laugh and glanced around at the street below. No one was there, but that didn’t mean no one had heard him.

“Are you all right?”

“Have you spent much time with Semadrans?” I asked him. I switched to Athenorkos.

He shook his head.

“But you speak Semadran?”

“Vath taught me.” He pulled his long red hair over one shoulder and looked out at the street. “It’s a long story. You were saying?”

“We don’t ask that about each other.”

“Ask what?”

“About the gifts. About magic. We don’t. And I…those here don’t know that I am a shaper.”

His eyes widened. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“It’s all right.” We stared at each other for a moment. He had an intensity, a burning curiosity in him. “Are you a shaper?”

He laughed. It was a bright, unfettered laugh. “I guess it’s not rude to ask me, eh? No. No, I’m no shaper. Red ones are rare.” I glanced at the closed door. I heard laughter inside. “Falo has been so excited for this trip,” he said. “He missed him, your man. They write, but it’s not the same.”

“Falo?”

“It means godfather,” said Dor.

“I know. Vathorem is your godfather?” I asked. Dor grinned; he beamed with pride. He nodded. It struck me as odd, a shaper serving as a parent. Parenting seemed a much more forbidding task for the most sensitive among us. “Would you mind terribly, and I honestly do not mean to be rude, but would you mind terribly if I asked why you were here? Vathorem came for the wedding…”

“And for you.”

“And for me. Would you mind if I asked why he brought you with him?”