Amorda started slightly. She was sitting on the curule chair before
her north-facing window, listening to the rain, and wool-gathering, lost in the
reflective haze that generally followed an energetic and informative
evening. As the evening had been
unusually energetic and informative, the haze seemed especially deep.
Roused, she glanced over her
shoulder. Reticia, her ancilla, was waiting expectantly by the
door. “No,” she said after a moment’s
consideration. “Not yet. But you can help me with these.” She ran a hand through her hair. She had dismantled most of her elaborate
coiffure before the evening’s amatory endeavours, but with her prospect waiting
outside the door, she hadn’t felt inclined to waste half a candle teasing out
the complicated lesser braids.
Anticipation always had a price, however, and now she would have to pay
it, in pain and torn tresses.
Reticia nodded, fumbling through one
of the traveling chests for the dreaded implements. Noting her mistress’ state of undress –
Amorda had donned a diaphanous silk bed-gown, but nothing else, and the damp
north wind whistling through the open window was raising goose-flesh on both women
– the girl asked, “Would you like a blanket?”
Her mistress shook her head
absently. “I like the breeze. I’m still a little flushed.”
“That’s the egeo for you,” the handmaiden agreed, falling to with brush and
comb. “Was it fruitful for you?”
“We’ll know in a nine-month, won’t
we?” Amorda quipped.
Reticia smiled without humour,
giving the brush a forceful tug.
Amorda winced. “Gently, please! By now, the whole city knows
I’ve tumbled a half-blood. It’s bad
enough I have to face their derision; I’d rather not do so pie-bald.”
“You’d lose less hair if you helped
a little,” the girl said primly.
“Besides, when did you start caring about ‘derision’?”
The lady sighed heavily. Bending the flux was the last thing she felt
like at that very moment. But without
it, her mane would be much the worse for wear come dawn. With a flick of her finger and a word, she
set the spell in motion. Her braids
undulated like a nest of serpents, rising and uncoiling themselves as Reticia
plied the hair-brush.
As the girl worked, Amorda heaved
another, perhaps overly theatrical, sigh.
“What is it?” Reticia asked, as her
mistress obviously expected.
“I’d rather lie a-bed this morning
than spend it kneeling on stone and listening to Shima drone on about Tioreth
and the Bargain.”
“Rejoice, therefore,” the maid
replied, sounding smug. “Thou’rt
reprieved. There’s no need to attend
upon the Duke.”
Amorda half spun in her seat. “Oh?
Has he suspended the Day’s observances?”
“No, but he won’t be there. According to the chamberlain’s office, he has
a different engagement.”
That made the lady sit bolt
upright. “What? What is it? He’s not leaving the city, is he?”
Reticia was grinning. “Only long enough to play the stallion for
his new mare.”
Amorda relaxed slightly. “Oh, that,” she said, relieved. “So he finally got up the nerve to pass the
rose and vessel to our darling princess, did he?”
“The way I heard it, the betrothal was her idea, not his.”
“Ah-hah! The egeo
strikes again!” The lady chuckled. “Although I doubt he put up much of a fight.”
“Apparently not,” the maid
clucked. “The ceremony’s this
morning. At the Mnemosynum.”
Amorda nodded. “No guests?”
“No invitations were issued,”
Reticia shrugged. “Probably just the attendants
the Law requires.”
“Shame,” Amorda murmured. “I’d’ve liked to have seen him wrapped up
again. It’s been a long time since Rykki
passed.”
“And it’s to be nuptia
bellum, too,” the girl added soberly.
Amorda’s eyebrows rose. “Truly?”
Reticia nodded.
“I heard Lallakentan give the orders.
He’ll be up the rest of the night honing their swords and polishing
their armour.”
“Sancte mater!” The lady nibbled on a shapely fingernail, her
mind racing. “That means Kaltas expects
war!” She spun around on the chair. “What else have you heard?”
“About that? Nothing,” Reticia replied. “Just the order: arms and armour for bride
and groom. Naught else.”
“He’s not mobilizing?
Your contact said nothing?”
“Nothing about a summons,” the maid frowned. “But remember, my lady, you only turned me
loose on the guards. They don’t hear
everything.” She grinned wickedly. “You should’ve sent me after Lallakentan. Or the Duke himself.”
“You couldn’t handle Lal,” Amorda laughed, giving the
woman a shove. “Much less Kaltas. He’s as tough and cunning as a greyling
bear. He’d eat you alive.”
“I like a challenge,” Reticia smiled. “It’s too late now, anyway. Too risky.
The princess is a terror; she’d mince me if I so much as glanced at
him.”
“Yes, our darling Duke’s forbidden fruit again. Another shame,” Amorda mused. Her own smile had vanished.
Reticia, as befitted her name, waited patiently. Finally, she asked, “No regrets about the
round-ear?”
“What, the animpro,
Joraz? No, not really.”
“He’s a fine specimen,” Reticia said slyly.
Amorda shrugged.
“It’s not an act of kindness to sunder a solemn vow, and doing so always
leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth.
I’d rather salute him for his fortitude, and admire him from afar.”
“Your loss, mistress,” the maid shrugged.
“Aye.”
After a long moment’s soul-searching, Amorda
sighed. “Mobilization or no, I’m still
going to have to report this. If Kaltas
of Eldisle oaths the Queen’s grand-child under arms, then he thinks there’s
going to be war, and the bird-catcher needs to know. And that right soon.”
“Yes,” the maid agreed, relieved that her mistress had
reached the same conclusion. “Shall I
fetch one of the scrolls?”
Amorda shook her head.
“I overheard Kalena cautioning the Duke against flux-speaking and
flux-leaping. Both of the Colleges are
watching and listening. I’m afraid I’m
going to have to report this the old-fashioned way.” She shook her head ruefully. “Boot leather.”
Reticia looked mournfully around the suite. “I suppose you’ll want me to start packing,
then?”
“I’m afraid so, my dear.”
The maid pursed her lips, thinking. “I’ll send word to the harbour after matins.
Perhaps we can find a ship leaving sometime during the coming week…what
is it?”
Her mistress was smiling mischievously. “There’s a ship leaving tomorrow,” Amorda
laughed. “Kaltas had Lal purchase
passage on it for my young lupino and
his colleagues.” She clapped her hands in delight. “Why don’t you see if you can purchase
passage for us as well?”
Reticia burst out laughing. “You trollop!” she exclaimed. “Did the egeo
take you that hard? Didn’t you get
enough from your little lupino
tonight, that you need to chase him down for a re-match?”
“You were watching,” Amorda replied with a wink. “What do you think?”
The maid pursed her lips. “He did well enough, although he hadn’t much
in the way of technique,” she mused.
“But that’s hardly surprising in an amateur. Impressive stamina, though.”
“ ‘Stamina?’ Is that what you call it?” The lady snorted. “That cub went at me like Barraj at his
forge. I feel like a hammered
beefsteak. That’s more than half the
reason I want to go north by ship; I don’t think I’ll be able to sit a horse
for a fortnight.”
“That rough, was it?” Reticia laughed.
Amorda whistled appreciatively. “Human blood is good for something, I
guess. You should try it sometime.”
“Yes, I certainly should.” Reticia paused. “Why didn’t you ask him what his real name was? He gave you plenty of opportunity.”
“If you can manage to obtain tickets, I’ll have
another chance. He’ll tell me, given
time. Not that it matters a whit,”
Amorda added with a wink. “Names are easy
to find out. And everybody’s entitled to
a few secrets. Nec?”
“I certainly hope so,” the maid said fervently.
Amorda laughed.
“You got it all down, I trust?”
“All of it,” Reticia confirmed. “Three hands of pages full of you squeaking
and groaning like a rusty portcullis.
Waste of good parchment, if you ask me.”
“Operio!”
the lady snapped angrily, although her eyes were merry. “That boy was a veritable trove of
secrets. Tell me truly – did you get it
all?”
“Every grunt and titter,” the maid nodded. “I wish you could’ve made him speak more
slowly. My hand was cramping near the
end. But yes. As much of it as I could hear, anyway.”
“I’ll pen my own notes, and we’ll compare them later
this morning,” the lady promised. She
grinned suddenly. “I hope they’ll make
sense. My heart was still pounding, and
my head ringing like a gong when all of that chit-chat about the Digger’s Cup
was going on.”
“Yes, you looked a little shaky,” Reticia
replied. “I was hoping you’d cry mercy,
quit the field, and send in the reserve.”
She winked elaborately.
“Don’t think I didn’t consider it,” the lady
giggled. “I could’ve used a break, and
Hara knows that fallow field of yours could do with a thorough farrowing.”
The maid snorted through her grin. “Say heya!”
“I thought better of it, though,” Amorda
chuckled. “I’m all honey, but you’re a
little spicy for the untutored palate. I
didn’t want you to scare him off.”
“He nearly scared me
off with the camella,” Reticia
replied, whistling softly. “Cursed
Seven! When he took up the rose I half
expected him to drain the cup, smash it, and claim your hand on the spot.”
“I was a little worried myself,” Amorda said, shaking
her head in wonder at the narrowness of her escape. “I guess that’ll teach me to trifle with the
affections of people who don’t know civilized customs.”
Reticia put down the hair brush for a moment, grinning
quizzically. “What would you have done? If he’d
oathed you, I mean?”
The lady dropped a coy shrug. “The Law is the Law.”
“Really? You’d
mate a penniless adventurer? And
what…try to temper him to polite society?”
“ ‘Penniless’, forsooth,” the lady laughed. “I’m rich enough for the both of us. And you know I don’t give a donkey’s cock
about ‘society’.” She pursed her lips,
suddenly pensive. “But I could certainly
use a little more adventure in my life.”
“Whore! I say
thee whore, and whore again!” the maid exclaimed. “You are
following him!”
“Don’t blame me!” Amorda laughed, seizing the hair
brush and giving the girl a swat on the thigh with it. “Blame the egeo! And I’m not following him. We’re merely…travelling in the same
direction.”
Reticia rolled her eyes.
“It’s not the same thing!” Amorda cried. “Not at all!”
Reticia snorted derisively. “Of course, mistress. Not the same thing at all!” She paused, then asked, “Shall I arrange
adjoining cabins?”
“You always do, don’t you?”
“Not for us,” Reticia laughed. “I meant for you and your darling lupino!”
Amorda swatted her again.
♦♦♦
Hoofbeats thundered against the rain-slicked surface of the drawbridge. The sentry, tucked beneath an overhanging stone windowsill with a corner of his cloak pulled over his helmet crest as a makeshift awning, started momentarily, but relaxed when he recognized both horse and rider.
Normally at such an hour the portcullis would’ve been
down and locked, but the steady flow of coaches, carriages and litters
departing in the wake of the Feralis
had necessitated leaving it up. Not that
there were many threats to guard against.
Not in Joyous Light, on a rainy Winterdeep’s eve.
The rider, who was soaked to the
skin within minutes of pounding out of the gate, blessed the rain as a welcome
distraction. When her mount’s hooves
rattled onto the cobblestones of the high street, she paused momentarily, then
twitched her weight leftwards, directing the mare towards the seafront suburb
of Vecordium, and the crashing, wind-driven waves beyond.
She wanted – needed – to ride with
the wind. But galloping meant hurling
herself and her beast headlong into the night, tracing the forest paths at
speed; and Lusoria, the mare, lacked her eyes.
Even she, a daughter of the Third House blessed with extraordinary
vision, would have been hard-pressed to make out the trails at night, in a
pounding rainstorm.
It didn’t matter. There were other ways to achieve the same
objective; to quench the fire that throbbed within her, scorching her
conscience even as it warmed her vitals.
As they descended the steep slope
from the palace to the city’s western peninsula, she patted the creature on the
neck and, with sure, gentle pressure of her knees against the mare’s ribs,
slowed her frantic pace. Lusoria was
sure-footed; but slick cobbles were no laughing matter, and it would be poor
payback for her caution in eschewing the forest paths if her mount were to slip
and snap a fetlock on a city street.
The horse obediently checked its career, slipping
comfortably into a high-stepping trot.
The hammering rhythm was intoxicating, but it did nothing to ease either
her mind or her condition. The rider
murmured calming words to the animal, slowing the mare to a walk.
That gave her more than enough time
to pay attention to her surroundings.
The upper reaches of the high road were tightly packed with the
dwellings and amusements of the equine class, the near-nobility who fancied themselves
the equals of those who lived within the palace walls. She herself was a scion of that lot; folk who
were not wealthy, and who squandered what little wealth they had in a futile
effort to imitate their betters. She
hadn’t found it offensive so much as pathetic, and had longed for release, for
a different life; a chance to prove herself.
To earn her way into the glittering ranks of the nobilitae through effort and ability. To be judged by her talents and sacrifices,
rather than the heaviness of her purse, or her skill in ensnaring a rich
lifemate. And she had succeeded; after a
lifetime of training, blood, sleepless nights and ineradicable scars, she now
stood at the Duke’s side, foremost among his praetorii, a trusted and valued counsellor. It was a dream long held, and at long last,
realized.
And none of it explained what she
was doing riding towards the sea in the pre-dawn hours, in the heart of a
spring storm.
It had begun innocently enough. After the tussle at the Feralis had been settled, the wounded seen to, and the would-be
assassins secured, she had expected to be able to manage a night’s sleep,
assuaging such sentiments and urges as the day’s events had engendered in her
breast in the usual fashion. She’d been
a little surprised when Karrick – the shield-bearer for the warcaster Thanos,
to whom she had, before this night, paid little attention – had insisted,
quietly but firmly, on interrogating the prisoners. She’d stood by, expecting him to brutalize
the captives, and wondering whether she would have to intervene to rescue her
master’s honour; but to her surprise, he’d managed to elicit a veritable trove
of information, all without killing any of them (although his treatment of
Calperyso was likely to give her nightmares in the months to come). In fact, he’d astonished her by using
precious magic to heal the chief of the interlopers before questioning
him. That had been a greater portion of
grace than she would ever have accorded someone who’d just tried to murder
Kaltas.
Altogether, it had been a sophisticated and
informative performance by someone that she had written off as unworthy of her
attention; pleasant enough, perhaps, but little more than a simple thug. Deciding that she’d misjudged the man, she’d
invited him to continue the evening’s celebrations at the Guard’s senatio.
At the time, she’d given little thought to her motivations in doing so;
the wine she’d consumed, the heat of the dancing, the sudden rush of blood in
the Great Hall, the furtive scuttling about in the cellars, and the anguished
screams of young Calperyso had masked rather effectively the deeper desires
churning in her spirit. Had anyone
suggested that those desires had sparked her invitation, she would have
scoffed; but now, swaying from side to side as the rain obliterated her
coiffure and drenched her gown, and Lusoria picked her way cautiously down the
street towards the land-spit and the thundering sea, she wasn’t so certain.
Karrick had laughed with apparent pleasure upon
entering the senatio. When she’d asked him what he’d found so
amusing, he’d replied that there was at least one similarity between his own
army and the Duke’s - the sergeants always seemed to manage better
accommodations, better fare, and better drink than the officers did.
He’d been equally delighted (or at least, had feigned
delight) when she had introduced him to the establishment’s master, asking the
man’s permission to join the host for the evening.
The master – an elderly, hard-bitten elf with a pair
of long, jagged scars running from his right temple, down the side of his face,
and disappearing under the collar of his tunic – was hight Oldak of Spreading Wonders, centurio primus pilus – Sergeant of the First File, the senior
non-commissioned officer of the Joyous Light garrison. Oldak had immediately called for the barman,
standing his commander and her guest to large stoneware flagons of vinum munio – a fortified brew the taste
and strength of which had elicited an appreciative grin from Karrick. She’d considered warning him about its
legendary potency, but decided not to bother; among the many skills the man had
demonstrated over the past several hours, his capacity for liquor stood out.
When the first round had vanished, Oldak had called
for a second, then launched into an account of the Defence of the Priory – the
horrid, sanguinary struggle that had taken place at the crisis of the Battle of
Duncala, where the troops of Eldisle under Kaltas, with Sylloallen and
Lallakentan as his lieutenants, had held a crumbling temple for three days
against repeated assaults by the Hand’s armoured footmen. The elves had lost more than half their
number, but had inflicted horrendous casualties on the enemy. By the end of the third day, Kaltas and his
survivors had constructed a makeshift redoubt out of the armoured corpses left
by the Hand. Their victory, costly
though it had been, had become legendary; it had prevented the Hand cavalry
from turning the Vendicar’s flanks and rolling up the allied lines like a
carpet. Songs had been written about the
Priory; she even knew some of them.
And well I
should, she’d thought, toying with
her flagon. I was there, too.
Oldak had revelled in his tale, grinning ghoulishly
when Karrick asked him about his scars.
“When the footmen faltered,” the elf had explained, “the Hand priests
summoned all manner of horrors from the pit, sending them in after us, trying
to do what flesh, bone and steel couldn’t.”
The elderly warrior tapped his scars.
“That’s where I got these.”
“Odd sort of thing for a holy man to do,” Karrick had
observed blandly. “Maybe the Hand
weren’t a lot of jolly old buffers after all.”
“Yes, I remember thinking that myself,” their host had
laughed.
In addition to his obvious martial skills, Oldak was
an accomplished story-teller with a powerful, mellifluous voice, and the two
guests had hung on his every word. She
loved his stories, especially those about the wars with the Hand. She’d lost her parents at a young age to a
Hand incursion that had overrun her ancestral home in the north, and she
herself had played a part – albeit a small one – in the final battle, plying
her bow and wielding her court-blade in the forests not far from the Priory,
where the Duke and his comrades had stood back-to-back against the armoured
hordes. She still had that sword.
When the tale was done, Karrick had been unable to
restrain himself, pounding his fist on the table in a rapture of approval. Gratified, if a little appalled, by the
exuberance of the gesture, she had grasped his hand. Her intention – she was certain of this – had
merely been to quell his enthusiasm.
Karrick, however, had apparently interpreted the gesture
differently. He’d taken her small hand
in his enormous paw, favouring her with a wink and a gentle squeeze. Startled, she’d flushed and put both hands in
her lap.
Karrick had turned back to his host. “Did you at least get a citation for your
standard out of it?”
“Yes, and better than that,” Oldak had replied,
grinning. “The Vendicar himself rode
through our ranks and gave each of us a platinum sovereign from the
treasury. One with the old King’s face
on it. You know, the one the Hand
murdered, back when they first seized power.
What was his name?”
“Jakta. The
Second, I think,” Karrick had replied.
“That’s the one,” Oldak had agreed. “Remember him?”
“ ‘Fraid not,” Karrick had deadpanned. “It was a little before my time. He died about two hundred and fifty years
ago.”
Oldak had burst out laughing. “Right, right. Anyway, the Vendicar gave us all the coin,
and told us to have a drink on the Empire.”
“Did you?”
“Indeed we did,” the elderly elf had laughed, draining
his flagon and motioning to the barman.
“That much money buys a lot of wine, my friend.”
“Hunh,” Karrick had muttered. “I’d’ve thought you’d’ve kept it.”
“Oh, I did that, too,” Oldak had replied. “We all did.”
Loosening the ties holding his tunic together, he’d pulled the collar
aside, tapping a finger against his chest.
There was a round, indistinct scar roughly the size of a coin, directly
over the old elf’s heart. “Not all in
the same place, of course,” he’d added as an afterthought.
Karrick had leaned in for a closer look. In the centre of the scar was an indistinct,
head-shaped blob…and, in raised letters, the words SUCSIF MUIREPMI.
“ ‘Imperial Treasury’.
Bardan’s balls!” he’d whispered.
“How…”
“Heated’em in the fire and held’em there for a
five-count,” the elderly elf replied.
“Hurt like the Nine Hells. But
worth it. We got to have our wine, and
our memorial, too!”
The barman had arrived with a tray of filled
flagons. Karrick had reached for his
purse, but had tucked it away again when the grizzled elf scowled
fiercely. “Not in my mess, brother,”
Oldak had growled. “My guests don’t pay
here.”
She’d nodded her head gravely. Karrick had followed suit. “Honoured.”
With a grin, he’d added, “And sorry I missed it. The fight, I mean.”
“You want honour,” Oldak had replied with a matching
smile, “ask the Duke to show you his scar some time. He’s got one, too. On the forearm, I think.”
She had laughed at the shock on Karrick’s face. “Kaltas branded himself?” the warrior had
exclaimed. “With an Imperial sovereign?”
“How could he not, when the troops were lining up to
do the same?” Oldak had asked. “You’d be
amazed how many of us have this scar.”
Then, to her infinite embarrassment, Oldak had winked
at her. “Right, Captain?”
She’d flushed a deep, burning scarlet. The worst of it was that she didn’t know why
she was blushing – because Oldak had reminded her of an incident from her
past? Or because Karrick was eyeing her
speculatively, all too obviously wondering where her scar was?
They’d talked for another hour before Karrick had
stood, politely begging their host’s leave.
She’d stood with him, and after hand-grips and bows, the pair had left
Oldak to his kegs and wine-cups. They’d
departed the garrison halls together, climbing the twisting tower steps towards
the main body of the palace. Beneath a
portico, with the rain hammering against the flagstones of the courtyard, she’d
favoured the warrior with a brief nod, and sincere thanks for his company.
That – a quarter of an hour ago, now – was when he’d
stunned her speechless by suggesting that they spend what little was left of
the night in each other’s company.
The shore was near, now; the mare’s hooves were
smacking wetly into the sodden sand. The
sound made her shudder. The driving rain
had helped to sooth her distress somewhat, but it didn’t help her memory. She felt numb with shock.
The warrior’s exact words had escaped her; it was as if,
at the very instant his intentions had become clear, her mind had shut
down. She’d been frozen by the moment –
frozen with astonishment at being propositioned by a round-ear; frozen with
horror as she struggled to remember whether she had somehow slipped and given
him any indication of interest; and worst of all, frozen with appalled terror
at the sudden realization of how badly she wanted him.
She couldn’t remember what she’d said instead. She couldn’t remember, in fact, whether she’d
said anything at all. She could only
remember fleeing, sprinting blindly across the courtyard; the light and
straw-smell of the stables, the comforting musk of the horses, the hot, hard
warmth of Lusoria’s spine against her, and the stinging lash of the rain
against her cheeks. She hadn’t been
running from Karrick; of that much, at least, she was certain. He hadn’t so much as moved to touch her. She had been running from…something else.
At the water’s edge, the mare slowed. She squeezed her thighs together, signalling
a halt. The mare stood stock-still as
the rider threw herself over the horse’s flank, sinking ankle-deep into the
sodden earth. Her light shoes were poor
footwear to pit against sand and surf, and she kicked them impatiently off
before clenching her teeth and wading into the breakers.
Eldisle was the southernmost stretch of the Homelands,
and the Sunlit Sea
She needed that chill, needed it desperately, to
quench the fire that the day – and the night – had kindled within her. Bracing herself against the hammering roar of
the breakers, she waded forward, forcing her way against the press of the waves
until she stood waist-deep. The crashing
white-tops broke against her, inundating her completely.
The icy slap of the waves made the rain feel like a
lover’s kiss. The freezing chill
helped. In less than a minute she was
blue-faced and gasping with the cold, the muscles of her legs knotting, her
feet going numb. She struggled back to
the shore, and gasped again as the wind pierced her drenched gown, plastering
her hair against her skull. The
counter-irritant was effective; the heat had been quenched. Temporarily, at least.
Stumbling back up the beach, she found a high dune
topped with scrubby salt-grass and collapsed gratefully into the hollow behind
it. She was immediately coated with
fine, gritty sand, but at least the drift blocked most of the wind. To her relief, Lusoria followed her, and when
the elf-woman dropped to the sand, the mare followed suit, her chestnut bulk
serving as an additional wind-break. She
leaned against the horse’s heaving flanks, grateful for the warmth and the
placid companionship.
Her mind was clear now; the fire was not gone, but it
was banked, at least for a while. She
could recognize now, without confusion or rancour, the fact that she might have
enjoyed a different companionship, a different warmth, if only she had had the
courage to accept Karrick’s gallantly inept proposal. And now that her mind was clear she knew,
too, why she had refused.
He couldn’t have known. There were few taboos in elven society,
particularly among the wanton hedonists of the Third House, and the higher one
rose among those august ranks, the fewer taboos there were. No act, it seemed, was beyond the pale, no
topic unmentionable. Except for one. One thing only, that was hinted at obliquely,
but never spoken of. The egeo.
She did not know whether it was a blessing or a
curse. She had asked Alorestes, once; a
long time ago, a century and more, she had fallen enamoured of the young
priest, and had approached him after a ceremony of farewell at the Lucum, her colour high, and her ardour
clear in her eyes. She’d wanted him,
wanted him desperately – and in her youth and innocence, she’d thought that
what called to her, what had aroused her desire, had been his high brow, his
noble carriage, his gentle speech, and his serene, calming presence. She’d waited until the other attendees at the
funeral had departed, and then she had all but thrown herself at the man.
To his credit, as befitted a servant of the Protector,
Alorestes had invited her to a seat on the sward, and had – red-faced, but speaking
softly and clearly – explained the egeo
to her.
It wasn’t her fault; she was an orphan. Her parents had been slain in a raid by the
Hand Knights against the farms near Arx Eos, the scene of some of the bitterest
of the fighting during the heyday of the Theocracy. They had been gone to wind before she had
seen forty summers. She had been rescued
by soldiers, raised by soldiers, fed and cared for by soldiers, and trained by
soldiers. Soldiers had celebrated her saltatio limenis with her, and when it
was over, she had donned their cuirass and joined their ranks, serving
alongside them with energy and distinction.
She’d had a thousand fathers…but no mother. She hadn’t even learned what to do with her
hair until she’d entered the Duke’s service two centuries past; she’d simply
hacked enough of it off to keep it out of her eyes. An appalled Alrykkian had immediately taken
her in hand, struggling manfully to forge a lady out of the rough ore of an
orphaned warrior-child. But even the
Duchess’ surrogate mothering assumed too much; she assumed that the girl had
been taught what every elf-child is taught at an early age: to be wary of the egeo mortis; to recognize it, when it
came; and to know when to yield to it…and when to run.
In the traveling tongue, it had no name, because the
elves never spoke of it to outsiders.
The dwarves, in their passionless way, attributed its effects to the
elves’ unruly, chaotic nature; and if the halflings had a word for it, they
hadn’t revealed it to anyone. The only
other creatures in all Anuru who knew what the egeo was were the dragons, who suffered from a form of it
themselves. They called it kematian nafsu – the death-lust. And they were equally reticent to speak about
it with those who did not share their passions or their needs.
Healers, magi and priests alike speculated about its
origins, but even the wisest acknowledged that they were only guessing. Alorestes had done his best to draw some sort
of sense out of the disparate theories.
“It is a divine blessing,” he’d said, sitting next to
her on the grass of the Lucum,
companionable and comforting, but taking all too obvious care not to touch
her. “But, like most gifts of the
Powers, it is also a curse.”
“It’s Hara’s punishment,” she’d muttered. Her hands had been shaking, she remembered,
her breath coming in hitching gasps.
“No,” Alorestes had corrected gently. “Neither he, nor the Holy Mother, had
anything to do with it. At least, I
don’t think they did. It is a deeper
force that calls to you; one not so powerful, perhaps, but far more insidious
and persistent than the Anari.
He’d waved a hand at the surrounding rampart of
trees. “It is the green.”
“The green?” she’d asked. “How could…I mean, isn’t that just the plants
and such?”
“The trees,” he’d replied, glancing at the verdant
canopy overhead. “The grass beneath
us. The sky above. The hawk overhead, the fish in that stream,
the great predators, the least prey. The
earth we touch, the water we drink, the air we breathe…it is all one. It is the Unity you feel, Kova, bearing down
upon you, driving you to this. It is kesatuan.”
“How can the Unity make me…make me…” She hadn’t been able to finish the question.
Alorestes had smiled. “One of our failings as children
of Hara,” he’d replied, “is our lamentable propensity for
self-extermination. We kill each other,
Kova, with terrible abandon. More than
once in our past, we have come close to dying out as a race. I believe, as some others do, that the egeo is the green’s answer to that.
“We live long, and reproduce all too slowly. The green…feels this. Laments it.
The green knows that every one of us who passes is one fewer to carry on
our race. And so…it has taken steps to
deal with the problem.”
“What ‘steps’?”
“Death sparks desire in us,” he’d said, colouring
slightly despite his calm. “It is not
passion, nor is it love; those are emotions, products of the mind. The egeo
is something deeper. It is a product of
the jiwa, the divine spark within us
– that small piece of the soul that came from the green, and that must someday
return to the unity of kesatuan as
our bodies return to the earth. The
drive it induces is stern, demanding…difficult to deny.
“When many of us fall,” he’d continued, “the rest must
make up the loss. The heat rises within
us, and we seek each other out. Or…or
any suitable mate who may be to hand. Kesatuan does not care for our
individual circumstances. It does not
heed your wants or desires. Only the
whole matters.”
“So it’s just heat,” she’d said bitterly. “Like rams and sheep, or hounds and bitches.”
“Why is that bad?” he’d shrugged. “They are our cousins, are they not? Made by the Holy Mother’s touch, before ever
we were formed. Don’t dismiss out of
hand the deep connection that all living things share. Their need, though, is not like ours; theirs
comes from the way they were made. From
Bræa. Ours is a gift of the unity. We feel it, and fight it; our wilder cousins,
the torvae – they feel it, and
embrace it. Perhaps they are wiser.
“The egeo
runs so deep within us that any proof of mortality can summon it. The merest ceremony of remembrance can bring
it to the fore. As it did, in you,
today.
“You must learn to recognize it, Kova, and deal with
it.” He’d laughed then, trying to infuse
the situation with a modicum of humour.
“As you now know, it can strike at the most inappropriate of times.”
It did, and it had.
She’d seen it, felt it, herself.
In heated, surreptitious grappling after a long and fruitful stag
hunt. In the flushed faces, roving eyes
and restless feet at otherwise dignified funerals. Worse, it struck in the aftermath of battles;
she’d witnessed countless furtive couples sneaking off in the ruins of Duncala
to placate the driving need implanted in them by the ruthless hand of
nature. Often, she had been able to
suppress the urge, or distract it through other activity; occasionally, she’d
been forced to take other measures to satisfy its remorseless call. In all her later life, she’d never once
succumbed.
“Don’t the humans suffer this?” she’d asked Alorestes.
His reply had been a shrug. “I don’t know,” he’d said. “But I doubt it. This blessing – and yes, I call it that, for
it has sustained our race, despite terrible trials – this blessing is a gift of
the Forest Mother. The humans – and the
dwarves and halflings, for that matter – do not feel the green within them as
deeply as we do. They are not part of kesatuan.”
“Perhaps I should envy them,” she’d muttered.
“You don’t mean that,” he’d said, shocked.
But she had
meant it. Why should she be a slave to
desires imposed by the impersonal force of nature? Why should the green play her folk like
puppets, mingling, with such cold indiscrimination, the end of life with an
undeniable lust for its generation?
Humans were fortunate not to suffer this. She still felt as she had so many long years
ago, when Alorestes’ soft voice had done nothing to slow the hammering of her
lifebeat, or slake the desire burning deep within her.
She had
meant it. And squatting now in a dip
behind a sand dune, shivering and huddled for warmth against Lusoria’s
comforting bulk, she still meant
it. With all of her heart.
♦♦♦
The rain had ended, and dawn was in
the air - a cool, clear dawn, bright with the promise of sunshine. The land-breeze was petering out and the
sea-breeze not yet begun; the airs were muddled and still, and Valaista soared
amongst them like an icon of life and power.
By some trick of the light, her iron-grey hide was virtually invisible
against the fading night; she was like a hole in the darkness, visible only
when she chanced to occlude a peeking star.
And unless she snapped her pinions, she was as silent as those self-same
stars. Gliding comfortably, she streaked
in perfect silence. She even essayed
holding her breath for a moment, to stay the small, sibilant hiss of the air
across her fangs, soaring in perfect silence.
She was hungry. The fare at the Duke’s feast had been
plentiful, lavish even, but she found elven cuisine trying. She was not made for berries and fruits,
tree-gifts and earth-roots; even when she walked in the First House form she
had chosen, she craved flesh. She had
already made the error of indulging her desires at table; the appalled stares
of her seat-mates as she tore into a roast had taught her a valuable lesson,
and she had determined that, henceforth, she would play the lady whilst in
elf-shape, and strangle her blood-lust until she could hunt in her natural
form.
She had advised Thanos of her
decision, and had been gratified when he had praised her reasoning and her
discretion. There was something pleasing
in working one’s way through a problem.
The fact that she had managed to descry the correct solution to a
situation involving Kindred social conventions was especially pleasurable. Draconic conduct came naturally to her; it
was, so to speak, in her blood. But
those whose shape she took...
She shook her heavy, triangular
head, hissing a sigh between razor-edged fangs.
Dogs were easier; badgers even. But
the Kindred were a puzzle. The elves
especially. They had rules, but they
obeyed them so seldom that she wondered why they existed at all. Indeed, they seemed to be observed only in
the breaking of them.
She’d asked Joraz about it a few
days earlier; his answer had been obscure, but she’d managed to work her way
through it. He’d told her that the
difference was one of perspective, of how one’s society saw itself in the
world. The dwarves, he’d said, made rules to facilitate community life in tight
quarters, and to ensure their survival in a hostile environment, where the
efforts of everyone were needed to secure the well-being of all. The elves, by contrast, made rules to provide
a framework and reason for rule-breaking; the elven spirit was such that
rebellion was natural, an unavoidable urge.
But chaos could not exist without order, and every elf needed something
to rebel against.
“That makes no sense,” she’d
objected.
“Wait ‘till you’ve been here
awhile,” he’d laughed. “You’ll
understand.”
The halflings, he’d added with a
smile, took the elves’ proclivity for casual mayhem a step further; they lived
in a perpetual state of chaos, and made rules to add the spice of law-breaking
to their natural proclivity for deception and larceny.
“What of men?” she’d asked, her
curiosity fired by his disquisition.
He’d turned suddenly sorrowful and
grim. “Men make rules,” he’d said sadly,
“to slow their drive for domination. The
law simply offers them another battlefield, a distraction from swords and bloodshed. It helps to dilute and diffuse their
energies, and give the rest of the Kindred a fighting chance.”
That also had made absolutely no
sense to her. To leave something as
fundamental as social order to chance or to individual racial preferences seemed
an act of madness. Law, to her rigid,
highly ordered draconic mind, was a natural excrescence of life itself, as much
a necessity as air or water. “Somebody
ought to take you people in hand,” she’d said bluntly.
“Who?”
“All of you. The Kindred. You need order. You need to be ruled,” she’d insisted.
“For our own good, I suppose,” Joraz
had said without expression.
“Precisely.”
His face took on a distant, sad
look. “It’s been tried.”
Contemplating the nature of laws and
law-breaking was all well and good; but the sky was lightening, and she was
ravenous. She’d spent part of the
evening nibbling half-heartedly at a plate of unidentifiable greens, and during
the dancing, had come within an inch of dining on one of the young noblemen
who’d dared to tread on her toe. The
fool had had the temerity to compliment her on how light she was on her feet.
When she’d replied, in all honesty, that it was due to the fact that she hadn’t
had a decent meal in two days, he’d laughed like the brainless dilettante he
was. Somehow she’d managed to restrain
her temper, confining her response to stomping, with all of her considerable
strength, on his foot in turn. She’d
painted a sweet smile on her face as he limped off the floor. The result, however, much to her dismay, was
that she had subsequently been deluged by scores of would-be terpsichoreans.
She was a terrible dancer; but the young men, entranced by her beauty, seemed
endlessly willing to laugh off her clumsy stumbling. At least the dancing had distracted her from
her growling stomach.
The dawn, she decided, was a far
better companion; and the wind (echoing an adage first expressed by an ancient
draconic sage) a far better lover. She
wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it certainly sounded poetic, and the
sentiment matched her mood precisely.
She looked down, and bared her fangs
in delight. Far below, there was a flash
of white amid the trees. The tail of a
deer, perhaps, or some lesser creature.
She banked immediately to the right, tucking her forelegs in to minimize
drag, and curving her short, heavy neck under her body for a better look.
The flash appeared again, and then
again, as if the creature was bobbing around in the underbrush, perhaps rooting
around for a meal of its own. Valaista snorted
happily. She took careful aim, spotting
the site and marking it by trees and the long, sinuous line of a nearby
creek. Then she folded her wings, and
dove.
There was a trick to silence in the
dive; she had learned to keep her scaled lips clenched tight over her fangs, muting
the eerie, terrifying whistle that normally announced the approach of a
stooping dragon, and caused enemies to flee or cower in terror. With her maw clamped shut, it was different;
the only sound she made was the unavoidable result of the whirling rush of wind
over her scales, claws and ailleles.
Her aim was flawless. Head extended and wings raked carefully back,
she penetrated the forest canopy like a bolt from a ballista, piercing the
heavy foliage with scarcely a rustle. Perfect! she exulted. The deer would never hear her coming. Extending her talons, she -
-
it wasn’t a deer -
- snapped out her right forelimb,
awkwardly snagging a tree branch, pivoting around it like a top and slamming
into the trunk with jarring force. Her
claw slipped on the damp bark, and she plummeted the last few paces to the
forest floor.
For a mercy, she landed on a drift
of rain-softened leaves. The impact
drove the breath from her body, but she was uninjured. Struggling to her hindlegs, she tested her
wings carefully, and was relieved to discover that she hadn’t sprung a joint.
“Valaista?”
She spun on her heel-spikes. She knew that voice. It had come from...
Bending her neck, she stuck her head
carefully around the tree. Her eyes, already wide with shock, fairly gaped, and
her jaw dropped open in astonishment.
It was Kaltas, the Duke. More surprisingly, he was unclothed.
More surprisingly still, he appeared to be lying atop
the royal princess, Myaszæron, who was similarly attired. Or rather, not attired.
The Duke was gaping at her. “Valaistanaulata? That’s you, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she rumbled,
still astonished beyond measure. “I’m
sorry. I meant, ‘It is, your grace’,”
she added belatedly, as Thanos had taught her.
Kaltas flushed at the formality of
the address, and how it highlighted the awkwardness of the situation.
Valaista turned her eyes to the
princess. “Greet the dawn, Highness,”
she said with growing confidence, adding the traditional draconic salutation as
a personal touch. Noticing that the
princess was lying on her back and was, as a consequence, regarding her
upside-down, Valaista rotated her head on her neck until their perspectives
matched.
Myaszæron tittered somewhat
frantically. “Salve, amicula,” she managed in strangled tones.
“Does the day see you well?”
the dragon continued, using the elven form that Thanos had taught her.
“Very well,” the princess whispered,
flushing mightily. “Ah…very well
indeed.”
Glancing around the glade, Valaista
noted, with no little relief, that the pair’s garments, along with their arms
and armour, were piled rather haphazardly near the tree-trunk. That resolved one worry; evidently, they had
doffed their garb voluntarily, rather than at the behest of some assailant. “Are you not cold?” the dragon asked
conversationally.
“A little,” the princess
admitted. Both she and the Duke remained
still, apparently paralyzed by the novelty of the situation.
“His Grace doubtless makes an
adequate blanket, though, I suppose,” Valaista continued, wondering why
they hadn’t brought one with them. The
forest floor was soft enough, but damp.
And there were roots, and stones, and thorny plants to contend with.
Myaszæron choked back a giggle. “As blankets go, he’s a little boney,” she snickered.
Without taking his eyes from their
visitor, Kaltas surreptitiously reached down and pinched her in a vulnerable
spot. She smothered a squeal.
Valaista finished her inspection of
the glade, then turned back to the couple.
Remembering her manners, she said, “I beg your pardon. Forgive my intrusion. I will wait.
Please, continue...whatever it was that you were doing. Unless you are finished?”
The two elves exchanged an inscrutable glance.
The dragon blinked.
What were they doing, anyway? “Are you
finished?” she asked.
“Yes,” Kaltas said emphatically.
“No,” the princess said at the same
moment.
“Yes,” the Duke insisted.
“No!”
Kaltas sighed and put a hand over
the elf-woman’s mouth. Looking up at
Valaista, he said firmly, “We’re finished.”
He removed his hand.
“Oh, for...” Myaszæron rolled her eyes. “Yes.” She sounded terribly put out.
Valaista looked from one to the
other, thoroughly baffled. “I beg
your pardon, your Highness, your Grace, but I must ask...what in the Shells are
you doing?”
Kaltas looked dismayed. He glanced down at Myaszæron, who
shrugged. To Valaista, he said,
“We’re...ah...newly mated. Er...lifemated,
actually.”
“Oh!” the dragon
expostulated. She reared back on her
hind legs and extended her wings. “Oh! I understand!
My congratulations! May the stars
and the Lantern shine upon your union!”
The two elves sighed with
simultaneous relief.
“Thank you,” the princess said, all
sincerity.
“This, then, is your method of
joining,” Valaista continued expectantly.
Myaszæron flushed anew.
“Er....”
“One of them,” Kaltas chuckled,
desperately suppressing a grin.
Myaszæron poked him.
“There are more?”
The Duke chortled helplessly, tears
streaming down his face. “Oh, most
assuredly! Many more!”
The princess ground her teeth.
“Would you demonstrate, please?”
Valaista asked politely.
Kaltas couldn’t help himself. He exploded in gales of uncontrollable
laughter.
The dragon glanced down at the
princess, twisting her head again for a better view. “Why is he laughing?”
“What he means to say is ‘no’,”
Myaszæron said with a tightly forced smile of her own. “No demonstrations, I’m afraid. They are not...it is not customary for us.”
Valaista looked crestfallen. “Oh.”
Her aspect was so regretful that
Myaszæron couldn’t bring herself to feel angry or upset. “I’m sorry, my friend,” she said. “I know your kind dance the Trepudio in the open skies, and join
where all can see. But we elves...we
generally do not do this before an audience.”
Kaltas, his chuckling under control
once again, said, “That’s not true, my love. I heard that, at the Palace, the
Queen’s eldest daughter, your aunty Cæfalys, in front of the whole court, once
took on a quartet of - “
The princess poked him in the ribs again.
Undeterred, he continued, “And
anyway, there’s a first time for –”
She punched him in the stomach. Hard.
And she knew how.
Kaltas winced and gasped for
breath. “Hara Sophus, woman! Be
gentle! I’m twice your age!”
Feeling somewhat left out of the
conversation, Valaista piped up. “Difference
in age between mates is laudable. Among
my folk, younger females often seek out and mate with older males, valuing
their experience and sagacity.”
“Hah!” Kaltas exclaimed. “See?
‘Experience and sagacity’!”
“They do so,” the dragon
continued remorselessly, “in hopes that strong children will make up
for their elderly mate’s gradual senescence and decrepitude as he slips
inevitably towards the Twilight.”
Myaszæron smiled sweetly up at her
new husband. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you through your senescence and
decrepitude, my darling.”
“How kind,” Kaltas growled. “ ‘My darling’.”
“I am glad for you both,”
Valaista said firmly. “My
heart dances for you.” She
stared down at the princess. Her eyes
narrowed. “I sense that the mating was
successful. Am I correct?”
Kaltas glanced down at Myaszæron,
whose eyes were wide with panic. “It
certainly was for me,” he said, grinning.
“How about you, dear heart? I’m
not sure, but I’d flatter myself that you succeeded...what, four, maybe
five ti...OW! OW!”
“You need to stop talking now, 'dear
heart',” the princess hissed through clenched teeth.
Confused beyond all reason, the
young dragon glanced from one elf to the other and back again. “May I ask a final question?” she
said plaintively.
Myaszæron sighed. “Of course, child. What is it?”
“When are you likely to clutch?”
Kaltas’ eyes widened. He glanced down at his new lifemate. “That one was for you, love. Though I confess, I’m a little curious
myself.”
The princess’ only response was a
welter of inarticulate gargling.
♦♦♦
