“And the Deceit of Elovyn is written in the language of deceit?” I puzzled it out. “So, it could be implying that Elovyn is lying, or just that the poem is a creation and not a true event?”
“Exactly, or,” he leaned back into the seat. “Could it be that the poet deceives the reader by recounting a true event, but implying it is not? The Deceit of Elovyn has kept scholars debating for centuries.”
I rose to empty the treasure into the hidden caves.
When I returned, he still had not taken up his book. He regarded me with a frown pulling his golden brows together. “What is your name, princess?” he asked.
“Liera,” I told him. “Well, it’s Diandreliera, but that’s a bit of a mouthful, and I don’t think anyone has ever called me by my full name.”
“Diandreliera,” he repeated, raisin
