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Must I beg?“Please.”
Arn solved the problem in characteristic fashion, snatching the thing with her free hand and pushing it toward the Elder’s chest. “It is an ill deed to refuse avolva’s gift,” she hissed. “Have you no manners at all?”
He did take the sphere, perhaps sensing she would throw it if he demurred. “Is this some southron custom?” Perhaps he was startled, for he looked to Eol, who shrugged.
“None I know of.” The Northern captain studied me for a long moment and turned to Efain, who still lingered in the doorway, though his ribs no longer heaved. It put Eol’s back to Arneior, and I could not decide whether he considered her little threat or could not bear to look upon me, useless as I was. “Well done, my friend.”
“Babbling away in weirdling-speech.” Arneior addressed a point over Aeredh’s head, and her hand tightened upon her spear. “It seems a lying tongue, to suit them.”
You forget I speak it as well, Arn.Or perhaps she did not, but I was too weary to care. “Let them say what they will.” My voice was a bare husk of itself, and my hands were empty in my lap. Even my sleeves were damp. “As long as they leave us in peace; I’m weary.”
I could not help it. A tired child will whine, and that is what I felt like.
“’Tis worth more than my father’s entire treasury, save perhaps the necklace given to Lithielle.” Aeredh’s hand tightened upon the glass goblet, yet he cradled thetaivvanpalloin the other gently. “I shall hold this for you, my ladyalkuine. And we shall withdraw so you may rest.”
The urge to howlfishguts, just take the shitstained thing awaywas sudden, overpowering. I denied it, shutting my eyes again. I could not bear to look at its alien gleaming now. At least they left with no more speech, southron or otherwise, and Arn let out a soft but exceedingly obscene term no other warrior of Dun Rithell would have dared utter in my presence.
“Finally.” She descended upon me to set all right, much as Astrid or Albeig would have. “You’re soaked. Come, to the water-room.” Her fingers bit my arm as I swayed. She meant no harm; the movement simply surprised her. “What is it? Shall I call them back?”
“Gods, no,” I whispered. “The water-room. Yes. I…” How could I explain this? “Arn, that thing…”
“Beautiful,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But you will have to train so it does not do this to you. Just like a weighted practice-axe.”
If only it were so simple. “Elderseidhr, Arn.” I found my legs would support me, but only just. “And yet it…” I could not even explain.
So far from home, and at the mercy of these men who had no intention of letting us return—and I had just been shown, in the most visceral way possible, that I was infant-weak even compared to their toys. I was no longer Dun Rithell’s pride, the first fullvolvain generations and elementalist to boot. Caelgor and his brother might have sent us south with a blessing and escort, had I not managed to crack the fishgutting silver egg.
It had nearly killed me.
Half done is worse than not done at all, Idra often said, and like all such lessons, it did not sink below the skin into full knowing until I had failed.
Dread News
Before the door a shadow appeared
The guards quick-slain, the Mere
Fouled by a scaled length. A rush,
A slithering, a rasp-choked cry,
And then Nithraen knew. The bridge had
Betrayed them, as the Crownless warned…
—Daerith the Younger,The Rape of Nithraen
Our remaining time in that Elder city was short, though we did not know it. I did not even dream that last bright night we spent in the bedstead’s stone embrace; I could have blamed my exhaustion or the taste-shifting winterwine, brought in graceful silver pitchers by a somber Soren and all-but-scowling Efain, who clearly considered us troublesome.
At least they refrained from sharp words with my shieldmaid, merely left us to our meal. Soren gave me a long look, as if judging whether or not to speak—then caught Arneior’s eye, and hurriedly retreated.
When I awakened, I could not tell if it was morn or eve. A deep hush pervaded the street, though the strange Elder orb-light did not alter. Even the breeze stilled; no whisper of moving branch or thread of song reached us. No visitor braved our doorstep, and the remaining winterwine tasted of sweetened oatcakes my mother made to celebrate her children’s naming-days.
I wished to weep, but the tears would not come. I was dry as summer-dust upon the trade-road outside my father’s hall.
That morning—or so we thought it was, the constant orb-light was disorienting indeed—we were both somewhat out of sorts. The silence was vast, as if we were the only living things remaining in the cavern; Arneior’s practice in the middle of the largest room given to our use made far more noise than the rest of the entire warren.
My second-best dress of heartsblood wool was alreadyseidhr-clean and dry, packed in my trunk, and I paced before the archway to the balcony in my grey traveling-gown, almost wringing my hands. My shieldmaid could swing her spear to rid herself of an ill mood, but I could not run along the riverbank or venture into copse or pasture seeking the same relief.
