~ by ArgoForg ~
Bitter Introductions ~ The candle on the table in the study sputtered and went out as he watched, sending thin wisps of dull grey smoke wafting upward from the blackened wick. Eldrith watched the wisps rise and slowly dissipate, and the thought struck him that it looked very much like what he imagined newly departed souls would: rising, and then — when their ties to the world were broken — passing on into the next world. Intriguing. It was odd that he would even given thought to such things. Ordinarily, thoughts of the soul and the afterlife were too theologically esoteric for his tastes. He would ordinarily be happy to leave such musings to the priesthood, the bishopric, the Hierophant, and occupy himself with less spiritual interests — the Arts, for instance. His eyes swept over the darkened study and came to rest on the statue of Ahvielle once again, an end result of both Arts he ravenously pursued — the arcane and the capturing of beauty in sculpture. But as his gaze drew back to the thin trail of smoke from the candle, he began to realize that there was an interconnectedness to it all. Religion. Magic. Souls. Sculpture. Somehow they were tied together, as though a gossamer thread bound them. He wondered on that, although he could find no particular tie between them all. It had to be so— at least, the voice in his mind seemed to believe so, although it did not say in so many words. Eldrith did not particularly mind one way or the other. He mostly had trust in whatever the voice had to say; it had steered him in steady, sure directions so far. He could not often find fault with it. It had been two full months since he had first heard the voice, offering him his heart’s desire in exchange for the simplest of magical rituals, before disappearing into the ethers of memory. When he’d first heard it, he’d had doubts. Those doubts had risen, momentarily, to qualms, when the knowledge of the ritual had come to him— it was not one with which he was familiar, and sounded fairly involved. But he’d weighed the alternatives and the prospects, and decided his heart’s desire was worth it in the end. He’d locked himself in his laboratory, carefully drawn a large circle on the ground with chalk, and spread consecrated oil at its compass points. He then began placing the sixteen items he’d obtained around the outside of the circle, as instructed. And such an odd list of items it was— earth from a fresh grave, a lit candle, a token exchanged by lovers, a small sheaf of wheat, and a dagger, among other things. Not a solitary one was magical. What happened next was, however. He could not say otherwise. A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Your apprentice. The whisper in his mind remarked, and he knew it was right. He turned to the door of his study, considered to himself that up until about two months ago, he rarely kept the door closed, let alone locked. But that was somewhat to be expected now— especially since now, the voice had returned; begun guiding him, teaching him. He had no other name for it, not yet: just the voice. It was neither male nor female, and had been both surprisingly seductive and quick to both praise and anger. But it had never lied to him. It had promised him his heart’s desire, and had quickly shown that it meant to keep its promise. Eldrith made a small incantation, a gesture with his right hand. The magical lock on the door winked out of existence, and the door opened slowly, revealing Toria, who peered into the darkness of the study. “Master Eldrith?” She asked hesitantly, and even in the darkness, he could see how wide her soft blue eyes were at the lack of light in the room. There was no moonlight to illuminate the study— the sky outside was dark and starlit. He voiced another incantation, and the torches in their sconces flared to life. If Toria was startled by the sudden voice or the casting, she showed no sign— something that caused Eldrith to nod mentally in admiration. “I am here, apprentice.” He said, rising from his seat. Toria bowed low. He smelled cinnamon, rose petals and a hint of sulfur; she must have been practicing her own cantrips. A second glance confirmed it: her long hair was bound in a thick braid behind her, something she did when she was reading by candlelight. “I beg your pardon, Master. I hope I did not interrupt you.” “Only my thoughts.” Eldrith shrugged. “And they are often worth interruption.” The Prelate has answered. “A messenger arrived, Master; from the Prelate.” Toria said, a moment after the voice had already informed him. The apprentice folded her hands at the belt of her robes. “There was no written reply, I’m afraid. But Prelate Salden says he will make time to see you…” “Good.” Eldrith opened a cabinet on one wall, drew out a wine carafe. Ordinarily he disdained the drink, but he was feeling rather heady. Perhaps that was the voice’s doing as well. “How soon?” Toria shuffled her foot anxiously and kept her eyes on the floor, as though she’d found a particularly interesting pattern in the cracks. “In two weeks’ time.” The wine carafe dropped to the floor with a crash, pieces of fine crystal skittering across the stone floor. He whirled back to his apprentice, outraged, clenching his fists at his sides. “Two weeks! ” Eldrith repeated, his voice bubbling with fury. “That was the messenger’s words, Master,” she said quietly. She did not take a step back, although the sudden stain of red to her cheeks told Eldrith that she had never seen him so incensed and was ashamed to have any part in putting him in such a state, no matter how small. But it took a great force of will for Eldrith to see it; he could almost feel a red film coating his vision. Immortalize her. The voice suggested smoothly, as though sensing his rage. And then Prelate and his ridiculous heathen court. Leave his castle as silent and still as the Aeri’Colquet, as the people of Norford. Display them all, as you have your other works of art, and then there will be no one to stop your progress toward— No, he told himself flatly, turning so that Toria would not see the lividness of his face. As alluring as it could become, as many times as it had been right, sometimes the voice did not seem to bow to reason. He would not ’immortalize’ Toria; there was no reason for it. She was merely a messenger, after all. She was innocent of any wrongdoing. She had proved herself an apt student, and one of the few people whom he could trust. As for the Prelate, that was a bit of a different story. Eldrith’s rage continued to stew and boil as he thought of the skinny self-important man, telling his scribes in a whiny, nasal voice that Phelar’s disciple in Tyr’nyk was not to be bothered on the whim of a mage, certainly not in the middle of the night. Only common sense kept him from listening to the voice and transmuting the entire rose-marble castle and everyone inside to granite. And then, perhaps, shattering him— No. Not shatter. The voice was quick to point out, although it had lapsed into silence when he’d dismissed its idea of petrifying his apprentice and the Prelate’s castle. He almost imagined it sounded bitter at the reprimand. — but Eldrith knew that for the time being, the Prelate’s position and notoriety made him an unsafe target. Take away the Prelate, and the Bishops and Nobles and perhaps even the Hierophant himself would investigate, and perhaps even lay the blame at Eldrith’s feet. And while he did not like the clergy, Eldrith knew where the power in the land lay, and he was not ready to take on such power. At least, not yet. Eldrith slowly brought himself back under control, letting his ire cool, and pulled his hands into the sleeves of his robes. He couldn’t remember his temper getting the best of him in quite some time; the quick fires of anger had been slower to light beneath him the more youth passed into older age. Now forty-seven, Eldrith had left much of that temper behind him, along with the strong body of a young man. He turned. Toria’s face was still downturned, her eyelids lowered in shame, her cheeks still pink. Almost as though she knew what the voice had been thinking, knew that he would take her news badly. For a moment, he was taken aback by how fresh and youthful she looked compared to him, with the flush of pink in her cheeks, the luster of her neatly parted and plaited hair, the heart-shaped face. It had been a long while, he mused, since he thought of a still-mobile woman in such terms, let alone one so young. He laid a hand on the young apprentice’s shoulder. “I am sorry, app— ” He caught himself, and amended gently, “Toria. I am not angry at you, more at fate.” Toria looked up at him, soft blue eyes flickering uneasily. The rush of blood never left her cheeks; in fact, it intensified. Her voice betrayed her even more, a timid tone. “Master, may I speak freely?” Eldrith was brought up short by the question, but let his face relax into a well-meaning smile. “Of course. I’d like to think you always could.” She took an inordinate time responding to that, and still the words were flustered. “I… I have been worried, Master.” “Worried?” His eyebrows rose. She bit her lower lip. This was a subject she clearly did not wish to bring up. “You have spent so much of your time locked in your study or your laboratory, and except for the times that you leave the tower, it has been almost two months since you’ve asked for my assistance in any manner.” A long pause, then. “Have I done something wrong or disappointed you in some way, Master?” Eldrith forced himself to clamp his jaw shut. “No. No, of course not.” “I’d prayed to Phelar that wasn’t the case.” She slumped visibly in relief. The voice in his head found that humorous for some reason. It chuckled lightly, caressing the insides of his skull. He paid it no mind. “Toria, I had no intention of interrupting your own work for mine— ” As if sensing that this was a moment for candor, she drew herself up and interposed. “Master. I gladly accept that as a term of my apprenticeship. If it were the only… oddity… I’d noticed in the last couple months, I wouldn’t think about it twice. “But you just haven’t seemed like yourself recently. You rarely visit the markets anymore. You’ve closed off the basement. You… you’ve sent a message to the Prelate asking for a meeting. Master, your last words of the Prelate before that message were, ’If he were to drown in a shipwreck, I would shed a tear for the sea forced to swallow his detestable corpse.’ Please pardon my saying so, but you just have me at a loss.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, and in looking away, cast a glance at the statue of Ahvielle. Her cheeks gained a red tinge again at the display of nudity, even caught in an alabaster medium, as it often did when she came to the study and saw the statue. He glanced over at the elfmaiden, trapped endlessly in that pose of abject fear, and was surprised to catch himself frowning somewhat as he considered. Toria had some indication of his love for sculpture— she couldn’t very well live in the tower and not know. But he wasn’t sure that he wanted her to know much more than she already did. He didn’t know if she realized yet that Ahvielle was once flesh-and-blood. And he wasn’t sure he wanted her to know, or worse, learn and then draw the conclusion that he was doing that same thing on a much larger scale. So he spread his hands and forced a chuckle. “Sometimes, I’ll admit, I even have myself at a loss, Toria. But I assure you, I’m fine. I closed off the basement for a project of my own, and I have matters of religious significance to discuss with the Prelate. Nothing more.” He hated the thought of lying to her. Toria was a devoted apprentice, an earnest pupil, and someone who didn’t often pry into personal matters: in short, a girl he’d never needed to lie to before. And judging from the questioning furrow of her eyebrows, it was a good thing he didn’t need to— he was obviously not terribly good at it. He made small talk after that, keeping resolutely clear of the subject of his current ’project’. She didn’t question him further about it, thankfully, and departed for her own chambers shortly thereafter, leaving him to mire in guilt over lying to her and wonder if she was more right than she knew. Was he changing? Was his love of capturing beauty beginning to override him, was it controlling him, making him forget common sense? It was only when Eldrith considered that question deeply and glanced again at the statue of the elfmaiden that a thought came to him, and he wasn’t at all sure if it came to him on his own accord or if the voice was again tempting him. If so, it had gone beyond simple words and started to place visions in his mind. He saw Toria, her face turning up to him, her blue, guiltless eyes growing wide. He saw her hands move up— perhaps to protect herself, perhaps in supplication— and then they just stopped there, rigid, unmoving. A voiceless entreaty remained poised on her lips as they ceased moving as well, and then the color drained from them and the rest of her face. Her pink cheeks surrendered to the cold, pale yellowish-white of alabaster. Her brown hair followed suit, becoming cold, stiff; strands of it fused together until there were no longer separate hairs, just a mass of ashen stone with lightly grooved indications of where singular strands had been. The warm blue was gone from her eyes, its color melting away like ice on a hot day, until there was nothing left, like a pair of white rounded pebbles set into her face. And what’s more, he knew without looking that the same thing was happening beneath the rough material of her robes, trapping the curve of her young breasts in alabaster, fixing her soft legs in the hardness of stone. And then she was a statue, eerily similar in pose to the wild elfmaiden Ahvielle. Bad enough was that vision, and the fact that it caused his heart to thud heavy in his chest and his breath to come fast. But above and beyond that were the words that interposed themselves over the image: Is there such a thing as too high a price, if it gets us what we truly love? And she especially hated the way the brown-haired one kept gawking at her with anxious eyes, as though he expected her to break free and catch him on fire. She hated the firm set of his jaw, his all-too human smell of sweat and steel, the manner he wore his hair tied back, the way light flickered in his brown eyes. She hated his rough hands, grasping her to turn her over to face him, as he flicked glances between her face and that of his robed companion. If she could move— if she hadn’t been so stupid as to come near their camp— she would have broken his fingers for touching her. She’d only approached the humans after two days of hunting on the plain had afforded her nothing— not even a hare!— and hunger and desperation had overruled her common sense. The smell of cooking meat on an open flame had driven her near the point of madness and made her ignore the less obvious smell of humans and their steel. An Ash’ani would never had done such a thing, she thought bitterly, even if they had been starving for a week. An Ash’ani would have laughed at her idiocy and her blundering. An Ash’ani would have killed the human that even now continued to stare at her; she would have put an arrow through his heart in one clean, sure shot. But Calendra hadn’t. Even before he’d stumbled and fallen at her feet, when she’d figured him to be a true threat rather than a buffoon, she hadn’t loosed her arrow. Even now, she wasn’t sure why— momentary fear at his humanness, the fact she’d never before killed anything but game, worries for how the other humans would react— but she hadn’t released the bowstring. Instead, she’d merely stared at him, meeting his eyes as solidly as her quaking stomach would allow, and then turned to flee. His voice caught her again, although it was neither the word itself nor the harsh sound of it spoken from his throat. It was the fact that she had been able to understand what he’d said. She had turned back to him, and actually considered asking if she’d heard him correctly. But when she looked at him, she could only see the old human with the beard that had slain her village, and she could feel her blood boil anew. And then, the human woman spoke and to her surprise, Calendra could no longer move. She felt her arms drop to her sides, her hands open and release her bow, her legs set themselves together. Just as she was about to murmur a surprised question when she felt her jaw stiffen, and her eyes could no longer move, and she thought for a long, horrible moment that Tanille’s fate had become her own, and she would spend the rest of eternity as a statue of stone. That thought had persisted until she had fallen over and saw her dirty fawn-colored hair spill before her eyes. And until the woman had explained the ’hold’ spell that she’d cast on Calendra. So she would not be a stone statue, at least… although in effect, she might well have been, for as much as she could move. Calendra felt her spirit become— oddly— both buoyed and gloomed by that. Certainly, she had no wish to give up her life. But it might have been better had she ended like her oath-sister. Then she might have died like a warrior; she would have been spared capture, spared of hearing their voices and being unable to answer. Soon enough, she was standing again—the young human had lifted her with those rough, calloused hands and faced her toward their camp, like some macabre totem— as the rest of the humans began to make their way over from the firelight. They, like the brown-eyed man, were staring at her from afar with undisguised gazes, as if she was a caged bird for their amusement. Yet none did so as often or as noticeably as he. She could see it when he passed in front of her eyes; she did not think he attempted to hide it. But she couldn’t do anything about it; not yet. She could not grab him by the throat and tell him to quit staring at her, or ask him irritably if she had something growing from her face that engrossed him so. And so Calendra merely remained there, unmoving, staring, seething silently as she waited for the other humans to come close, to point, to humiliate her further. The big man kept flicking a perturbed glance up to the magical light, hanging in mid-air like a miniature sun. He squinted and smoothed his mustache— a sign he was not pleased, and glanced at the captive woman. Then he shrugged his large shoulders and began scowling anew. “Couldn’t tell ya. Eide’mera, do we really need this blasted light?” Mera glanced at him irritably, but kept quiet for a moment, choosing to glance up at the light and exhale rather than blistering him for using her full name. She’d told him numerous times, Tyler knew, not to use her given name, but Steingard either always forgot or— more likely— ignored her remonstrations. Then she eyed him. “The spell will end soon enough, Steingard. Would you rather berate the Goddess for her kind blessings?” Steingard stroked his mustache again, bushy black eyebrows lowering beneath short black hair that was starting to gain the first slight hints of grey— he was a good ten summers older than Rochelle, who was the next oldest of the Circle of Daggers, and at least twice as experienced as Tyler. He’d been called Steingard, the old dog of war, in one of the towns Tyler went for supplies, and Tyler stoutly believed ’dog of war’ applied far more than ’old’. He was built like a sturdy house and showed no sign of age when he fought or talked: he was stone-faced, square-jawed, blunt and gruff, and looked like he may well be so for the next forty years without effort. “I’d like to think the goddess would prefer we not be seen for miles by orocs and goblyn alike.” He said gruffly; the scowl was still firmly there, like a cleft in the stone of his face. Light laughter tittered from off to his side, and stepping from the shadows as though spawned by them came Nina, already clad in her dark-dyed hose and cloak. She drew back the cloak’s hood and hem, let her straw-colored curls fall down around her face and frame her impish smile, and then walked over near Tyler, facing away so the young man would not miss the way the cloak did not hide her profile. Her breasts were well-sized for her age; they stretched taut the laces of her close-fitting blouson. She was attractive and knew it— a dangerous combination for a thief. Her laughter faded into a bemused chuckle. “Orocs and goblyn-kin? Heel, you old war-dog. They won’t attack with magical light burning, right, Jessa?” “Hm?” The brunette magus asked, distractedly. “Orocs. Goblyn-kin.” Nina said, not bothering to hide a petulant frown. She didn’t like it when she wasn’t the center of attention, and right now she obviously wasn’t. “They won’t attack us just because of the light, right?” Jessamine had been gazing closely at the immobile woman, but at the thief’s question, she glanced up at the gathered Circle, and stood. She considered her words carefully, as she often did, all the while brushing the dust from her fine clothes— a sky blue short-sleeved chemise tucked neatly into her tightly-belted night-blue skirts. Though a magus, she scorned the robes and rune-embroidered gowns of most of her profession, instead choosing to wear some of the finest outfits imported from Amersk and Coastway. She flatly refused to travel without a pack horse, because she regularly brought along several changes of clothes and items. Jessamine’s father was a magus of some repute, one who not only had money, but didn’t mind doling it out to his daughter. Tyler would have thought her spoiled rotten from the start, except for the plain and simple fact that she was usually less candid about her opinions than Nina, more cautious than Mera, and more studied than the three warrior sorts put together. Behind the long, sometimes stylishly-plaited brown hair, still-youthful face and fashionable dresses lay a competent and often times insightful young magus— as knowledgeable in her own studies as Nina or Rochelle were street-smart, or Mera was about her Goddess. All that even though she had just recently passed twenty years. Jessamine looked at the young thief, her hazel eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she tapped her chin with a slim finger. “You’re probably right. Oroc and Goblyn alike tend to view magic with distrust, even fear. That’s what Hathaway says in his Compendiums, anyway.” “Who am I to question Hathaway?” Steingard groused. “So what do you make of her?” Jessamine’s hazel eyes shone in the magical light. “Mera said it, Steingard. She’s an Aeris. Incredible. I’ve only seen a few, but never this close. And never in such primitive garb. I think her arrows are stone-tipped.” Rochelle brazenly held a finger near the point of the woman’s ear, still smiling. “So she’s a savage, then?” “Could we not call her a savage or say she’s primitive?” Tyler muttered, sotto voce. “I mean, she can still hear and see us.” “So in other words, she probably realizes you’ve been sitting here staring at her like a hungry puppy.” Nina chided in a murmured voice. Her eyes flickered with amusement, light dancing in the grey pools. “I was not— ” Tyler started, hissing, only to find that he was still looking at the Aeris-woman. He resolutely turned his head and glanced straight at Nina, although he could feel the heat rise in his cheeks. “I was not staring at her like that.” At his blush, Nina’s smirk turned triumphant. “Quit sputtering cow dung, Silverhorn. If you were an artist, you could sketch her navel from memory.” “Both of you, stop.” Mera said quietly. “There are more important matters to consider. Jessamine, the way I’ve read it, the Aeris removed themselves from humankind, and pretty much have stayed separate, with little to no contact with us. Does that match the stories you know?” The magus touched her chin again and slowly nodded. “With a few exceptions, yes. I gather they prefer it that way. They find humans to be… uncultured and barbaric.” “Oh, yeah. We’re the uncultured ones.” Nina crossed her arms over her chest and glanced at the unmoving woman in hide clothing, with wild hair and a quiver full of stone-headed arrows. “Snotty bastards.” Rochelle smirked in agreement. Tyler felt a twinge of sympathy for the Aeris maiden, who could do no more than simply stand there— still as a stone, with her hands at her sides and that look of surprise still frozen to her face— and listen to the taunts. Thankfully, Mera cut in again. “My point is, why would one come to a group of humans? It makes no sense. Why come to us?” “That’s one answer I don’t have,” Jessamine said, shrugging offhandedly. “Only one person does have it,” Tyler said. He found his gaze wandering back to that one person, as if on its own volition. “And she won’t be too responsive.” Rochelle pointed out. “For now,” Mera nodded. “The spell won’t last long.” “What do we do until then?” Tyler asked. He wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of Rochelle and Nina batting forth insults about the woman with her in plain hearing. “We could post a guard here until the spell ends…” “No.” Steingard’s austere face remained fixed in a scowl. But it lessened, from a scowl of aggravation to one of resolve. “I’m not going to leave anyone here by themselves. We take her to camp.” “Maybe she’ll warm to some food and a fire.” Mera suggested. “Sure,” Nina added, teasingly jabbing a finger into Tyler’s chest. “If she can keep anything in her stomach while Ty’s staring holes in her skull.” Tyler would have denied that, except for the fact that he caught himself looking at the woman again. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be living this down with Nina anytime soon. She would have stayed in the forests of the Aeri’colquet indefinitely, but for the fact that memories and fears had overwhelmed her. She’d seen the black-robed human behind every tree, in every shadow, heard his whispered words in the wind rustling through the leaves of the hannock trees and the branches of the spring elms. She’d slept little, ate next to nothing, and often awoke shivering with remembered dreams. It was as if the comforting place she’d known all her life had suddenly become haunted by spirits that taunted her night and day. Had she stayed there, she likely would have wasted away to nothing. Thankfully, she’d found the strength to leave, telling herself that it was only temporary. And gradually, the dreams had died, even if the memories that spawned them remained burned into her mind. But her mental ease had led to a dawning realization of her physical needs. Food became more scarce once she left the forests, and her undernourished body couldn’t sustain the strength for the long chases that sometimes accompanied hunting game — especially in the plains, where the prey’s vision was not so impaired by trees. Over the next few weeks, she managed to find small game here and there, hares and gophers and snakes. If she’d had the slightest idea how to fish, she would have spent weeks at some of the ponds and streams she’d passed, hoping to spear a freshwater trout, like she’d had on occasion at home. As it was, however, most often she was lucky to chance upon small wild berries or edible roots in some of the scrubs. Once, she had even humbled herself to digging for grubs. It was that or go hungry. Over the last two days, anything would have been welcome. But the weather was unseasonably dry and her strength had flagged while hunting a range wolf. Calendra thought she might have gotten a touch of fever after the chilly nights sleeping in dewy grass. Otherwise she would have never been so maddened by the smell of cooking meat. And she never would have gotten into the situation she was in. The spell was beginning to wear off now; she could start to feel the thousand pinpricks of her legs wakening bit by bit. Her eyes felt as though they’d been dragged through the camp dust of a hot summer day. She blinked twice, heard the brown haired man’s voice as he stepped into her field of vision: “Mera, she’s coming out of it.” And then he stepped closer, spoke directly to her. “Are you all right?” Movement came back to her in bits and pieces. Her arms tensed, then loosened, and she slowly flexed her fingers. She felt herself drift back from the pose she’d been trapped in— standing almost on the toes of her feet— to a more easeful one, back to her heels, and slowly took in a breath. Then her eyes narrowed slightly; she could not help it. The way his eyes had taken her in, constantly scrutinizing her, reminded her uncomfortably of the way the Aeri’colquet sometimes did. As if reminding her that she was different. She was not true-born. She would never be a full-blooded Colquet, not like Tanille and her parents and so many others. And here, like there, she was different. An oddity. She was not human— not that she would ever wish to be one— and thus she was a thing of ridicule. His concerned voice could not hide the truth of that from her. “I have been forced to stand like a tree while you discuss me as though I am not here,” Calendra said, trying to keep the chill and the venom from her voice and not at all succeeding. “If this is what you mean by ’all right,’ then yes, I am.” He averted his brown eyes— brown eyes that made her silently boil as she remembered Tanille’s soft ones, now cold and pale— from her gaze almost immediately. A point scored, she thought, although the look of guilt on him was a bittersweet victory. It didn’t erase the fact that she was surrounded, more or less, by humans. The same race of the man who condemned her village and her friends to be lifeless stone. Another one spoke up as she twisted her neck this way and that— ostensibly exercising it after so long spent looking straight forward, but also determining the positions of her captors. “That was my doing,” said the woman. She had long sunlight-blonde hair and was dressed in an unassuming robe, which immediately made Calendra suspicious. But her robe was light, not dark— somewhere between white and sky blue. And her face was set into a well-meaning, perhaps somewhat embarrassed, smile. “I apologize for that. I was afraid you might hurt Tyler, or worse, call to your companions. I did not mean to harm you.” “I have no companions. I came alone.” Calendra said quietly. She’d strongly considered using the bluff, but she did not think it would do her any good. Surely they would have searched… and besides, the woman had mentioned food while Calendra was held motionless. That worried her; perhaps thoughts of hunger were making made her less guarded than usual. Calendra scolded herself and twisted her neck again, trying to forget her empty stomach. The large warrior and the brown-haired woman were to her left, huddled by the fire, and behind her was the lady warrior and the dark-cloaked woman who had shared laughter at her expense. The one called Tyler and this one— she believed she had heard her respond to Eide’mera— were before her. That left her right side free… Yet she didn’t move, merely glanced at each of the humans in turn. Unlike Tyler, none of the others looked away. “I’m sorry. Manners. I am Eide’mera, but please feel free to call me Mera.” The blonde indicated herself with a hand. “We are called the Circle of the Dagger.” “I am Calendra Two-Wolves.” She responded, coolly. She would offer no more than that, she decided: her name, and only for the sake of talk. She would tell them nothing of her lineage, of her tribe, of the tragedy that befell them at the human’s hand. Nothing. “Are you hungry?” Mera asked after a short, thoughtful pause. Calendra’s resolve almost istantly became like smoke in a strong wind; her stern gaze washed away in the tide of sudden hopefulness. It was as though the human woman had read her mind. It appalled Calendra how close she was to fainting with relief— she literally had to force herself to keep her legs from faltering and a placid, unconcerned expression on her face The big, greying warrior stood up and motioned to her, holding a long, thick branch that had been carefully cleaned of bark and then blackened by the fire. And on it— giving off a smell that caused her mouth to water and her stomach to growl its desire— was the crisped haunch of a hare. She felt herself salivate like a maddened wolf on the hunt. “It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it.” The man said. His stony face never creased into a smile; his mustache did not so much as quiver in amusement. Instead, he merely stood aside, handed her the spit and indicated a stone in the grass she could seat herself on. Calendra could not help but push aside the lack of emotion on his face, the fact that he was human, and the fact that she was still trapped. Her attention was completely drawn by the cooked rabbit, the smell of spices, the need to fill her belly on something so satisfying. She only remembered to give the man a belated bow of thanks before she seated herself on the stone and began to eat as though the small hunk of burned animal were a succulent, tender Col’quet feast and not tough, heavily spiced meat. She tore into the meat, forgetting her manners, ripping into the blackened skin with her fingers and teeth. Her manners weren’t alone. She momentarily forgot her surroundings, forgot her fears; forgot everything except how empty her stomach had been and how wonderful it felt to fill it. For a time, she even forgot her captors were the hated humans. “She’s hungry,” Tyler said, quietly. His eyes pried themselves from her with effort. “You’re a fountain of useful information, Tyler.” Rochelle grated. Her dark eyes rolled skyward and she shook her head. Then she glanced back at Calendra. “She’s dead-set on not saying anything. You can see it when she looks at us. But there’s hate in her eyes… I don’t know if she hates us in particular or just humans on the whole. But it’s there.” Steingard nodded. “You’ve seen that look before, too?” Rochelle grinned ferally. “I’ve had that look before.” “Maybe she’ll be less averse to speaking up with us showing her some common decency.” Mera suggested. “She was obviously hungry, and we offered her food. Maybe if we let her sleep in the camp, talk to her less like an outsider…” Rochelle made a small, disbelieving noise. “Then maybe we’ll get a stone dagger between the ribs for all our kindness.” “No.” Tyler glanced at the warrior woman, his eyebrows flaring. “She could have killed me before and didn’t. I was every bit as helpless then as we would be lying down in camp.” “So she didn’t release an arrow on you.” Rochelle scoffed. “What about the hundred times she killed you with her eyes afterward? I know you didn’t miss that— you’ve barely looked away from her.” “I’ve… just never seen anything like her before.” Tyler started, then lapsed into sullen silence. He hadn’t missed that. It had struck him almost as deeply as her arrow would have, and he couldn’t figure out why. He’d thought she was exotic-looking; different, surely, than any woman he’d ever seen. But he hadn’t been prepared for the fiery glances she shot him, as though she would like to see him impaled. “He does have a valid point, Steingard.” Mera spoke up, bless her. “Calendra had every chance to kill him and didn’t. Shouldn’t that count for something?” Steingard stroked his jaw, thoughtfully. “And we’ve done the same for her. We could have killed her while she was held by your spell.” Tyler glanced up. He could still feel the heat in his cheeks from Rochelle’s telling shot. “If she realizes that, she knows we don’t mean her any harm.” “And maybe she’ll open up to us.” Mera continued the hammer blows. “At the very least, maybe we’ll learn something besides her name.” Steingard looked from the three to the young brown-haired woman, who had been watching Calendra quietly and saying nothing. Pensive, as the magus often was. “Jessamine?” He asked. She turned. Her voice was slow to rise, as if she were still thinking as she spoke. “I for one want to know what would bring any Aeris so close to a camp of humans after years of self-imposed isolation.” “Probably a runaway,” Rochelle said. Jessamine shrugged her slim shoulders. “If she is just a runaway, we may learn nothing. But I haven’t heard of such a thing— especially not one running off to find a group of humans— and if she has hate in her eyes, as you said, she wasn’t expecting to find us. Whatever knowledge we might gain from her is worth the risk, in my opinion.” She looked up at Steingard. “Unless you disagree.” Tyler glanced at the older man, as well. Steingard’s age and experience made him someone he often looked to for final say-so, even though the older man’s gruffness often was at odds with some of the other Dagger-mates. Steingard smoothed his mustache once, twice with his fingers, considering. “All right. We’ll offer her space in our camp tonight. But double the watches between us. Two people up at all times, and one of them isn’t her. If she does anything, I want to know about it. Tyler, you and I will scout before we rest up. If the Aeris wasn’t alone, we aren’t going to be ambushed tonight.” Tyler returned with Steingard, and reported that he’d found nothing amiss, and no signs that anything might have been lying in wait for them. Steingard assigned double watches, keeping two people awake at all times, as he’d suggested. Mera and Rochelle drew first watch, and Tyler slowly let the bloodrush of the night’s rigors fade from him, lying on his side in the bedroll. Gradually, he fell prey to the darkness of the night and the quiet around camp, and he fell asleep with the image of Calendra burned into his head. And as she talked to Mera, Calendra realized just how tired and worn her own body was. When the offer was made for her to remain in the camp overnight, she accepted with a surprising lack of hostility. But she could not force herself to get to sleep; not yet, not in the midst of the humans. Neither of them realized that in the darkest part of the night— just before the first light of dawn— despite Tyler and Steingard’s searches, an ambush would come anyway. †‡†
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