If I recall correctly, then your moondial dangerously skewed your sense of time, Elias,” Daphni mentioned, and not without dubiousness. “Reaching my mentor and finding the quickest and most efficient path to saving your life was hardly a priority for you. I had to keep you on task quite often--don’t you remember?” She gave him a nudge, accompanied by a playful smile. For all her antics likely drove him crazy--foregoing bedrest and risking her life to save that of another, who, at the time, hadn’t even wanted to be saved--they had certainly reached equal footing in terms of being unruly patients, by the time she had managed to lift his disease for him. “That said, I am not sure that comparing your sense of time then to the notion of time now will help the matter much. But… in a sense, I do understand what you are trying to say.”
Passing the rose bushes and meandering onward to a bed of wildflowers that had yet to bloom, the Sybaian healer wondered if it was true: that if she took the time to sit and watch the flora bud and come to bloom, that it would prolong her own compromised life. Counting the seconds, and savoring every one of them. “That’s precisely the reason why you did not find me in bed, when you returned from assessing the princess. Because I want to be aware of and savor each and every moment that I feel alive and well. Not without reason, of course; you won’t see me running into battle, anytime soon. Or ever again, probably.” She shrugged her shoulders, not feeling as that that was a particular loss to mourn.
“But… maybe this will help me reconnect, as you say. Come back into myself, instead of spreading my energies so far, and so thin. A new endeavour; a new focus.” Her hand dropped from his arm, instead finding his fingers, between which she wove her own. “It isn’t a guarantee, but there have been cases where having a child have bought the Sybaia more time; more life. I cannot attest to why, as I am not a mother, but… I know that it is possible. And it is a chance that I would like to take… with you.”
So startled by the intruding voice that she went momentarily rigid next to the Clematis healer, Daphni turned her attention to none other than Imogen. She had encountered her in this very place, earlier that morning, when the woman had told her the good news about brokering a deal with the king. She heard herself exhale audibly, but didn’t think to disengage her hand from Elias’s. After all, they had not discussed the evolution of their relationship as needing to be kept secret. And his brothers already seemed to be aware, making it just as likely that Imogen, too, was aware that they were more than just ‘colleagues’.
Letting the Kariji diplomat say her peace, Daphni listened without judgment to Imogen’s account and opinion of the clan of the Sybaia. These were all curiosities and concerns that she had heard before, particularly from those who sought to challenge the investment of the Sybaia in their craft; and, sadly, she did not have answers for them all. “The Sybaia, in fact, are not known for being prolific--or enduring. For whatever reason we developed such sensitive empathy, we have been dying for a very long time. Fewer and fewer of us remain every day; there are some who have indefinitely committed themselves to being mothers, choosing not to actively heal any longer, if only to keep Sybaian blood flowing… but even that is not a guarantee. Because a male child born to a Sybaian has never developed these abilities; only the females.
“As for our commitment to longevity… we have researched it. Not extensively, mind you, but there is a physiological nature to our untimely demise. Namely… stress.” An oddly vague and simple, yet decidedly logical answer, especially when she ventured to explain. “Everyone is prone to experiencing unimaginable stress from time to time. And even Elias, here, even the skeptic of my practice, would agree that stress is a direct adversary toward health and longevity. When a body experiences excessive amounts, nonstop, then it is constantly in a state of fight or flight. Imagine the wear and tear on organs, the disruptive sleep… everything is out of balance. But a normal being can often manage to temper such a condition. No one is truly under excessive amounts of stress all the time… except for us.”
In a way, it almost seemed absurd, at first glance. After all, how could someone as composed and tempered as Daphni possibly be under that extent of duress? She ventured to continue: “When we find the imbalances in a patient’s soul, that anguish they release has to go somewhere. We end up taking it on, to relieve them of the burden. What might feel temporarily traumatic for them, continues to linger for us. And like well-used machines, we eventually… burn out.” A humourless smile curled the corner of her mouth. “Some have called us martyrs. It isn’t an inaccurate parallel to draw. But we’ve committed ourselves to spending our short lives committed entirely to others, regardless. Some hope that in the next life, we might be awarded more time. For others… it is a nagging duty from which we cannot shy away.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Me? I will admit, it is an ever-fluctuating mix of both.”
Elias was not alone in thinking that what the Kariji woman offered was positively absurd. The difference was, Daphni had the poise not to call her crazy to her face. This was not a deception; at least, it didn’t seem that way. Either Imogen St. Rain was a master manipulator and deceiver, such that she was deceiving even herself, or she really thought that she could help… however farfetched it seemed.
“So, am I to assume that we are past the pretense, and you are aware I am dying?” She asked without so much as a subtle inflection of sarcasm in her voice; though, perhaps, a modicum of disappointment. Her condition was not one that she wished to put on display for the world to see; pity, frankly, perturbed her. “It is difficult for me to put faith in something that seems impossible, Imogen. But… Elias has declared I am forbidden to pass before my time. So, in that case, I am willing to hear what you have to say.”
Watching Vega disappear into the nearby stables, Sigrid furrowed her eyebrows out of concern. “I suppose she is right… that it isn’t over until her children are born. Though, isn’t that a concern that all mothers must face? That there is only so much impact they might have, only so much control? Not to mention…” Raising her hand, she rested it on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I may not know her Highness as well as you, but I was present, the other day, when she stormed out of the room. There was no mistaking the raw grief on her face, Haraldur; she was terrified and angry and sad. As anyone would be, knowing that their children’s lives were in danger. But I did not see any of that on her face, just now.”
Shrugging, she decided to let the matter drop. Pregnant women were known to have wildly fluctuating emotions, after all; the Dawn warrior decided it was irrational to take it personally. “Anyway… what you asked, earlier. About my sword…” She hesitated, wondering why she felt so inclined to indulge his curiosities--and suspicions. Perhaps she wanted him to trust her. To make this reconnection between the two of them worthwhile. “I cannot tell you that it isn’t something to worry about, because I worry about it constantly. There is a reason I keep it wrapped so thoroughly… it’s enchanted. And it’s been in possession of the Dawn Guard for centuries. I don’t want it; I never did. But it wants me, and now I’m stuck with it.”
Pain flickered in her pale eyes momentarily. She looked away before he could remark on it. “It’s caused me a lot of pain. I don’t really want to discuss it… but Alster knows. He was there. I’m not withholding from you for sinister reasons, but I only ask that you inquire after Alster for details, instead. I’ve already re-lived it too many times.”
They walked in silence, all the way back to her chambers, where Haraldur announced his departure. “Good luck to your meeting with his Majesty,” she bid him farewell with a nod. “And… I would like to talk again, before I depart. I imagine Alster is still going to need me. But… I would like it, if we did not become strangers, again.”
By the time the mercenary reached the young king, that afternoon, Caris had already spoken with his sister, albeit briefly. Vega’s demeanor had seemed a little on edge, but that defeated shadow he’d witnessed the last time he saw her had lifted from her eyes. There was more color to her face, more rhythm to her step… and while she had not mentioned anything about successfully closing her gate that had allowed death to maintain a grip on her, he knew that there must have been a positive outcome, of some sort. It therefore came as no surprise to find the warrior wearing an upbeat smile when he came knocking on the door to his study.
“Haraldur--just the person I was hoping to see. Please, come in.” The young monarch gestured forward, standing from his seat. When the mercenary came to take a seat across from him, he sat back down, folding his hands gracefully in front of him. Calluses had begun to form on his palms, a telltale sign that he’d been handling his sword again, and often. While he’d continued his casual knife-throwing with Haraldur, which he did enjoy, it was clear that the young king stilled shouldered the burden of inadequacy, in some sense. Even his muscle tone was more visible beneath his white tunic, suggesting he’d been engaging in rigorous exercise behind the scenes. So as not to feel so small; to be something a little bit more.
What was just as obvious was that he clearly wasn’t looking to flaunt it; in fact, he wore his clothes looser, as if to distract from the subtle changes. Like it was a dark secret that he did not want to open discuss. Obviously, the Festival of Equinox was not the only thing keeping him busy. “Rest assured, you are no longer threatened by the possibility of dressing as the Fool, for the Festival in a couple of days. But I had rather hoped you’d consider my proposition of embodying the Green Spirit. The costume is better suited for someone with a broad build, such as yourself, and it happens to be the most symbolic piece in the entire festival. And you’ll only be required to wear it on the final day.”
Before Haraldur could protest--which Caris obviously anticipated--he held up a hand. “Ah--but wait. There is more to it, than that. I don’t suppose that Vega told you she will be masquerading as the Wind, did she?” The look of bafflement on Haraldur’s face answered his question for him. Caris folded his hands and grinned. “You see, Eyraille is a kingdom that the Wind has always favoured; we are shielded by the mountains, so the winter does not bite our skin so harshly, yet those very gales are what carry our rocs, and our Skyknights. Wind is a part of every festival; and Vega made a promise to me long ago, that if she chose to pursue commanding the Skyknights, she would take the place of Wind for every festival, for as long as she is able.
“Personally, I thought it would be cute; to see Wind and Spring dance together. You don’t want to make her feel alone amongst those masquerading, do you?” He raised an eyebrow and sat back in his chair. “I think it would mean a lot to her. Of course, I cannot force you to do anything, but I do hope you’ll consider--and give me an answer by tonight. If we don’t have a Green Spirit, then the entire spirit of the festival will be compromised. Now,” He leaned forward, finally allowing Haraldur to get a word in. “What is it you came to discuss?”
Throughout Daphni's response, Elias, finding his proximity with Imogen too tight, stepped away from the woman with the large, engrossed eyes. Palms resting flat on her knees, she leaned forward, absorbing the conversation like a hungry dog waiting for its owners to drop any morsel of food they were eating. Her stare was unsettling; like black mirrors, he refused to look at them, in fear that his image would remain trapped inside, and the woman who had birthed him would walk away, content in the son that she'd recaptured. He curled a hand around his mouth and coughed, a habit of his, though he was no longer afflicted by the disease that almost took his life, and hadn't needed to clear his throat of any phlegm or react to dryness in the air.
"I can attest to Daphni's dissertation. I've done research on it, myself," Elias inputted, though did not meet the unblinking woman's gaze. "And though he would not be pleased to discover this, I have kept one Alster Rigas under close observation for the time I'd remained a fixture in Stella D'Mare. I watched as his body deteriorated under countless stresses. Already, he had been diagnosed with a delicate stomach condition since birth, and could only palate non-meats and other less complex foods--a common sight among those with his high-end caliber. His body is a receptacle to intense magic but he does not have the resistance to withstand the gradual wearing down of his physical state over time. I have taken this to conclude that magic is the culprit; even in a healthy person with a generous amount of resistances, the body ages and weakens, and can no longer fight the stress that magic exacerbates, and even instigates. As in the case of Alster Rigas, he lost his arm to generate more magic than his vessel could rightly handle; so it fell apart on him. While the Sybaian clan's empathetic magic chooses to behave differently, a similar principle applies. If one does not have the resistances to withstand magical deterioration, then the effects are as what you see with many of the Sybaia today."
"Exactly," Imogen said, nodding vigorously. "Resistance is the key to longevity. As you've no doubt observed, yourself, not every magic-user succumbs to their self-destructive demise. Since you've cited the Rigas family in your study, then I'm certain you've noted Rigases of old-age and brimming health, whose quintessence has little parallel. I've heard stories of Adalfieri Rigas, who has fit the model of health and potent endowment."
"Yes," he averred, "I am aware that many powerful magic-users go on to live full, rich lives, but that is all due to their birthright. The configuration of the stars, inheritance, a combination of factors all lead to having the ability to withstand the rigors of magic on the body."
"So then," Imogen spread her hands forward, curiously imploring, "why do most Sybaia consistently surrender to the breaking down of their bodies? One would assume that there would be a percentage of Sybaia hearty enough to utilize their gifts without risk of early termination. And yes, I heard it argued that, in a bid to preserve these empathetic gifts, the magic thinned out over time. Rather than allow it to die, or to cultivate it into better form, they foisted the impractialities of their tradition on every female member of the clan, without thought of how this gradual inculcation would exterminate the clan." She gave the Sybaian woman an apologetic look. "What you have, Daphni, is stale magic. Magic that has not been allowed to air, or grow from its outdated methods."
"What are you proposing then, Imogen?" He gave an impatient sigh.
"The most successful kind of magic is flexible. Compare a stately oak to a willow sapling. Which do you think would survive a storm?" She waited for Elias to answer, but he pursed his lips, far too reticent to kowtow to her narrative's whims. "The sapling will bend to the wind. Will follow its pathways. They are the push and pull. Like tides of the ocean, there is always a give and a take. Beings...were not meant to pull, and pull, and remain pulling, as the Sybaia have been trained to believe. That is not how nature works. Daphni," her hand stretched outward, as if to take hold of the dying woman, but at Elias's glower, thought better of the contact, "you are taking on burdens no physical body is apt to handle."
"I'm sorry, you said you could help," The Clematis healer balked. "You are giving a lecture, and it's one that's similar in scope to what I've told her, earlier. To draw from outside of oneself."
"Yes, but all of what we've discussed is but a piece of the broader solution." She sidled closer to Daphni, her feet shuffling together on the path. "You body has already been indoctrinated into this methodology. Not to mention, birthright has 'blessed' you, as with many of your clan, with low magic resistance. Even if you come to think of your body as synchronized with nature, that mindset may only buy you a few years. Short of isolating yourself in the mountains without another soul in sight, your empathetic magic will continue to affect you until the stress inevitably ends your life. So," she hesitated, as she finally reached her conclusive statement, "your best solution to a elongated life freely spent around people is to raise your resistance."
"And this is accomplished...how?"
"The hard way--intense discipline; retire from healing, and from society. Live a monastic lifestyle in reverence to nature, and heal gradually, from the earth. The easier way..." Imogen raised her arm, and pointed over the vast mountain range. "Mollengard."
When the confounding woman did not elaborate on her statement, Elias snapped his hands to his side. "So now is when you decide to remain uncharacteristically mum?!"
"Because it is an experimental procedure--done to create Forbanne soldiers. They have the technology to manufacture resistances so high, that it bars the effects of magic altogether--in or out. Which does mean that you could survive to old age, Daphni. At the expense of your healing ability."
"And you expect us to go traipsing into enemy territory and ask politely for the use of a secret technique used only on super-soldiers? That is the easier method?"
"We don't have to enter the country," came Imogen's quiet reply. "We need only to obtain the technology...which I would be more than happy to secure. For your future. And," she smiled, slyly, "for your child, should you have one. You saved Elias from imminent death, Daphni." This time, she did take the Sybaian's hand. "Such a deed does not go unrewarded. I'll find the formula, and I'll tweak it for better use; it doesn't have to be a tortuous process."
After seeing Sigrid to her chambers, Haraldur traveled down the corridors, distracting himself from his upcoming conversation with Caris by scouring the walls for signs of festive decorations. On every turn, he witnessed a new bauble hanging from the chandeliers, or crops of flowers propped on vases. He saw sculptures of glass, and wall hangings splashed with color. And, of course, he spotted his garlands, which rimmed the walls with the orderliness of soldiers at attention. As he appraised the fabric-spun triangles of ivy, he imagined donning an outfit consisting entirely of its greenery, as per Caris's wishes. Before all of Eyraille. The thought alone was usually enough to send him staring in the opposite direction, but this time, he gave consideration to the ridiculous role. The Green Spirit was representative of life, of growing things in the advent of Spring. Perhaps it was no coincidence that he, both as a child of spring and, once, as wielder of life magic, should assume the costume. Besides, with the success (as far as he knew) of Vega's procedure, he felt beholden to the avatar of Life, for granting him a reprieve from the tragedy he'd known all too well. In gratitude, and in appeasement to Fate...maybe he would wear the dratted thing.
It would make for quite the spectacle, were he to propose while embodying the Green Spirit. But that was only if Caris would agree.
When he arrived at the king's chambers, his palms were clammy, with fingers curling in ever-increasing patterns of tenseness. However, he maintained a coolness about his expression, a mainstay of his Forbanne years, though he did greet Caris with a smile boding good news. While he preferred to stand, he didn't argue when the boy-king requested that he sit across from him at the too-large table. In sinking to a height that was more in line with the king's own stature, he felt even smaller, both physically and in status, and he wondered if Caris enjoyed this room for the effect that it gave all who entered and were made to sit. Sit he did, but he could not relax, could not lean on the back-rest or spread his legs open. They jittered beneath the table in restless formation, opposing his facial serenity and his smooth, abiding voice.
In listening to the king detail his reasons for choosing Haraldur as the Green Spirit, including Vega's complement to him as the Wind, the idea didn't sound as abhorrent to him, versus days ago. Of course, he'd spent the walk hyping himself up for the inevitable, should Caris continue to force his costumed agenda onto him. The thought of her dressed in accord with the Festival's schema, ruffled with feathers, or with wind-blown leaves in her coppery hair, or in a mask, behind which the fierce set of her eyes, eyes which he would ascribe to Wind personified, would leer outwards with their roc-like precision, was enough to sell him on the idea. They would be a pair. Equal in their roles...equal in their union.
"On the grounds that the costume doesn't look too ridiculous," he paused, to shake his head with disbelief at himself, "I'll wear it. I'll be your Green Spirit. You'll have to instruct me on what I'm supposed to do. Don't let my stories of my very brief circus days fool you; I am no performer. But if the Wind and the Green Spirit are a match-set, then I wouldn't want to see anyone else playing the Green Spirit alongside her." He didn't care if his last words came off as jealous. To see another man take on the role in his stead, allowing himself proximity to the princess, and her attention...it would be counter to what he'd hoped to plan for that evening.
"So I'll do it," he confirmed. But I have a request of my own." He shuffled in the chair, trying and failing for comfort. "First, though, I'm here to report that Daphni and Alster Rigas were successful in their procedure last night. We managed," he amended; might as well give himself some credit, if it would increase his favor with the king, "I managed, by your advice, to convince Vega to undergo it. They traveled to the core of her soul, and closed her connection with death. The spirit of her roc has retreated, and she...she's better, now. More healthful. Her heartbeat is regular, her skin is warm to the touch. She's of this world, fully, again. That doesn't account for her grief over Aeriel," he drummed his curling hands on the table, "but that will take time. The children," he pried open a smile, "are...I'm going to believe that they're safe. They will be born, now. And that...does bring me to my request."
His fingers congregated, and wrung themselves together. He looked inordinately interested in them. "She's a few weeks in, already. I don't know the exact number, but it'll be a matter of months before she starts to show. Soon, the entire kingdom will know her secret, and that she conceived out of wedlock. It might not help as much," he flattened his palms to the table and stood from the chair, not able to maintain his sedentary position, "but it will still look better if we were married. As soon as possible. I'd...I'd like to ask that of you." Finally, he met the king's fierce blue eyes with his, green and determined. "I'd like your blessing to marry your sister. I told you that I'd never abandon her again, and I meant it. My loyalties will not be contested again. And if my marriage to her is an embarrassment to this kingdom, I'll take on a title. Whatever you want me to do." He bowed his head and saluted, fist to chest. "But I ask, humbly. I have nothing but my merit...and my love for her."
While she did not want to immediately dismiss this woman observations as tepid and facts that had already been long since considered, she couldn’t help but ponder the futile and despondent nature of her clan, now that light was being shed on Sybaian short-comings. It was different, voicing all of your concerns and the facts instead of merely pondering them. A decidedly active take, in lieu of a passive one. “It is true, that occasionally a resilient Sybaian is born. One who is gifted with the lifespan of any other living mortal, despite their gifts. But they are few and far between, and often, seen as a mere anomaly.” Daphni shook her head. “Whether it was by nature or selective breeding, I have never encountered a male born to a Sybaian who had possessed this gift… or curse, as many would refer to it. But, no, we haven’t taken many precautions to preserving our clan. As many see it, it is a fate that has long since been expected. To do what we can for the people who walk among the living, until the last of us burns out like a candle with no remaining wick… admittedly, I had never considered anything otherwise. Perhaps that makes me defeatist.”
‘Stale magic’ might have been an affront to some, the Sybaian healer couldn’t help but agree with Imogen, to a degree. Sybaian magic was not magic that grew and evolved; it never grew, only diminished. Never strengthened, only weakened. By definition, and the very prognosis of the clan’s future… it was a curse. “We do not know how this particular clan came to develop such abilities, either. Some insist it was the gift of a deity; others, the majority, in fact, say that we were instead, cursed. To help and care until we can do neither anymore, when our hearts cease to beat.”
Like Elias, Daphni couldn’t help but wish for Imogen to get to her point, as pointing out her imminent mortality did her no favors. When she began to explain her solution, the Sybaian healer listened intently. “Raise my resistance.” She parroted Imogen’s words as Elias simultaneously decried their folly. Her face betrayed nothing, neither excitement or disbelief; merely neutrality. “So you are suggesting that the Sybaia somehow find the means to become resistant of their own magic? To make the resilient the norm? I’m sorry, but even selective breeding for those who are hearty enough to endure… there are not enough of them to make it anywhere near a possibility. I’m sorry, Imogen; I know you mean well, but… I simply cannot grasp how this could be possible.”
And that was when she said the word: Mollengard. That, alone, was enough to make the compromised Sybaian healer feel faint; she clutched Elias’s arm to steady herself. “...are you suggesting to employ Mollengardls techniques--ones that they use on their Forbanne soldiers--to enhance magical resilience?” Now, she did not bother to hide from her voice just how ludicrous that sounded. “Mollengard does not take into consideration the safety of the Forbanne… or any of their soldiers. It is experimental because they do not care if they die in the process. Not to mention, many of these techniques are used on children… who inherently are more flexible, with bodies and minds able to adapt. How could this possibly work in our favor…?” Not to mention, at the expense of her ability to help people…?
Yet… this would not have been the firs selfish decision she had made, Daphni quickly realize. There had been a time when she had actually sought to hasten her descent into death; at which point Elias had given her the means to do so, at the expense of disowning her, entirely. Something had made her change her mind… a strange desire not to want to leave the Clematis healer alone. In comparison, this was minor. For should she survive, it was possible to practice other means of healing. Her reach into souls might be obliterated, but her reach to help people would not be.
Shifting on her feet, she met Imogen’s wide eyes, and that was when she understood. This went beyond the altruistic call to improve someone else’s situation. Her death meant yet another negative impact on Elias; and if a mother could not pave the way for her son to have the best possible life, one with love and children, then what were mothers for? She didn’t blame Imogen for it; didn’t even take offense, that it was not her life that mattered, but her life as it intertwined with Elias’s. After all, she wanted the very same things that he did.
“If you are willing to put yourself at risk to obtain this technology, and reform it in a way that permits it to be easier for a body to tolerate…” Daphni paused, and looked down at the woman’s hand. Already, she and Elias had determined to have a child, and she would need a body strong enough to endure childbirth, to be there for that child during its most formative years. Honestly… a dying woman had nothing to lose. “Then I am willing to try this method. Even if I am severed from my magic indefinitely, I will find ways to heal by other means.”
Looking to Elias, who still seemed skeptical and himself resistant to the radical solution, she let go of his arm to touch his face. “If it means I don’t have to leave you, and that we might successfully have a child together… then I would like to try.”
At Haraldur’s agreement to embody the character of the Green Spirit (honestly, he had thought it would be a much more arduous task to convince the unyielding man), the young King’s smile grew wide, and he all but slammed his hands down upon the table. “Excellent--you have made me so pleased to hear this, Haraldur. Honestly, I was putting all of my eggs into one basket, with you. I am not sure I would have found a suitable substitute, had you not agreed. Rest-assured, the costume itself is not nearly as ridiculous a that of the Fool’s; see for yourself.”
Caris stood from his chair and knelt to open a chest that had been tucked under his desk. When he stood, it was in accompaniment with a set of billowing, green robes. Decals of ivy and tiny flowers had been embroidered or sewn onto the emerald and forest green silk and velour, with metallic copper and dark bronze threads in the hem of the sleeves and the bottom of the robe, delicately paying homage to tree roots. And, as an ornate accessory to crown the coming of spring, was a circlet, cold in color and in the shape of vines, with bejeweled green leaves woven throughout. Though it could be argued that the attire leaned slightly toward being gaudy, it was no more outrageous than the attire Vega and Caris donned at court.True to the young king’s word, it was most certainly less ridiculous than the Fool’s costume.
“Rest assured, my friend, no acting is required. Simply bring your good mood and an armful of ivy wreaths; throw them at the people who seem to be enjoying themselves the most, and those whose mood has something to be desired; Spring’s blessing, and all. If you don’t mind, I’ll have you try it on, and we can make some last-minute adjustments, if need be.”
Caris carefully folded the robes and placed them on the table before him, with the circlet resting atop, as the mercenary ventured to propose an ultimatum. His hand stilled atop the fabric, and he looked up at Haraldur. There was no jest in his green eyes; he was serious. “You mean it. You are fully prepared to commit to marrying my sister? And all that entails? Because you must be aware, Haraldur, that this would not only tie you to Vega; it would tie you to Eyraille, indefinitely. You would be Eyraillian, then, and it would be your home. You would be expected to represent and to embody it just as much as Vega does. I suppose, what I am trying to explain, is that this will not merely be a change in your marital status--it will warrant a shift in your identity. Are you really prepared to make that commitment? Even if it means,” he grinned slyly, “that I would then be your king, as well?”
The mercenary didn’t bat an eyelash. And, frankly, that did take him by surprise. He had known Haraldur as being someone so intent on identifying himself as ‘other’ and ‘not good enough’, it didn’t occur to him that even marriage to Vega would change that. And yet, marriage to Vega along with the imminent arrival of not one, but two children… Perhaps that was enough to make a man reconsider his place.
Blowing air from between his lips, Caris took a seat again. “If this is what you want--and only if this decision is not solely because of the children, but because you care enough for my sister to spend the rest of your life with her… then I confer onto you my blessing to ask for her hand in marriage.” He folded his hands in front of him, and for a moment, appeared solemn. “How can I refuse you, when you are the reason my sister is still alive? And that she fully belongs to the living? But as an act of your loyalty to this kingdom--you will don this costume. And you will celebrate, with us. After all, it seems we have ample reason for celebration.”
The two royal siblings had not been exaggerating when they’d informed Haraldur, and the visitors, that the entire kingdom expressed their joy for the coming of spring. For on the dawn of the Festival’s first day, not a soul could step outside the palace without hearing a cacophony of music and laughter, and could not go without smelling the hearty aroma of special street foods that the vendors were cooking, all the way at the heart of the city proper. Even Vega, who had been acting suspiciously bitter towards one of their guests (namely, the Dawn warrior) could not help but put her jealousy, and her sadness at Aeriel’s departure aside, long enough to bask in the jubilation. The palace was bedecked in garlands and flowers, and musicians had set up in the budding courtyard, where early in the morning, people had already begun to drink and to dance. This was just the beginning of the five-day-long celebration, and it was a much needed reprieve from the stressors of war, for everyone in the kingdom.
“No sleeping in today,” she informed Haraldur, kissing him awake. She was already dressed in the royal, Eyraillaian colors of bright cobalt and silver, a gown that hugged her body in all of the right ways--one that she would soon not be able to get away with wearing, when her stomach grew to accommodate the life inside of her. “Get dressed and prepare to celebrate; hurry, now! You won’t want to miss the vendors’ food in the city proper. It is all prepared and eaten solely during Equinox, so if you miss out, it will be another year before you have another chance.”
With only a little convincing, she managed to coax Haraldur out of bed, and into an outfit she had chosen for him; one that complemented her own, with dark cobalt trousers and a silver-grey tunic lined with a brighter cobalt. Relatively modest, even in keeping with the colour scheme, but she knew how uncomfortable he would be in something more garish. “I like the way you look in Eyraillian colours,” she commented, reaching up to straighten the collar of his tunic, and bid him to follow her into the hallway.
No sooner had they left the comfort of their chambers that the two encounter some of their guests. Alster and Sigrid were seemingly headed in the same direction, the former looking well-rested and relaxed, likely as a result of the routine pain management treatment he’d just undergone. When Sigrid lifted her eyes to find Haraldur, she couldn’t help but smile. “Haraldur--good morning. You look well.” The Dawn warrior greeted him, with a clap on the shoulder. “Are you heading out to experience the festivities? So too were Alster and I; why don’t we all go together? You Highness,” she averted her attention to the princess who, to her chagrin, looked less than enthused to see her. “Perhaps you’d help us navigate the festivities? I’d like to know what not to miss.”
Vega’s response was not one that she--or likely any of them--expected. “For starters,” she began, her voice a careful monotone, “I wouldn’t show up to the festivities, dressed as you are. Everyone will either be donning Eyraillian colors, or the earthy shades of spring. Your tunic will stick out like a sore thumb. I can have a gown found for you, if you’d like.”
“A gown? With all due respect, your Highness,” Sigrid tried to hide a grimace at the notion, “I am much more comfortable in trousers and a tunic. Though, if my attire doesn’t suffice, perhaps I might don something similar to Haraldur’s attire?”
She’d play her game, Sigrid decided. If wearing the right colors was what it would take to get on the princess’s good side, then she would happily oblige. Except, her compromise only seemed to further irk her… “I’m sure you aware that I, too, am a warrior, Sigrid. Just like you, I occupy a position predominantly dominated by men. Yet even I am not ‘too good’ to don a gown. But, the choice is yours.” She dismissed the issue with a hand gesture. “However, that must stay behind. There will be no threat of weapons during festivities.” She was, of course, referring to Gaolithe.
The Dawn warrior froze, then, unsure of how to react. What to say. “This… it’s unsafe. And important… I am hesitant to leave it behind, lest your serving staff accidentally lay hands upon it. The weapon is enchanted, your Highness… it cannot touch any hands save for my own.”
Vega frowned, not fully comprehending the danger. Then again, no one really could, without witnessing what Gaolithe was capable of. “Leave it in my chambers,” she said at last, opening the door as an invitation. “The serving staff have learned that it is best to ask before tending to my suit, since Haraldur has arrived. No one will lay hands upon your weapon.” It required no stretch of the imagination to ponder why the serving staff had decided it best not to walk in, unannounced; considering her intimacy with Haraldur had been frequent enough to defy the odds of conceiving children in such a short period of time.
But the princess left it at that, and continued down the hallway without another word. The last time Vega had given her the cold shoulder, Sigrid had not taken it to heart. But this had seemed decidedly personal; singling her out for her attire, which, while ordinary and not really in the spirit of spring, was not inappropriate. “What… am I missing something?” She asked either Alster or Haraldur, whomever was listening. “I’ll admit, I am not familiar with Eyraillian customs, but… she is herself a warrior, like she said. It did not occur to me that this would be a problem… although, it is reasonable to expect weapons to be left behind.” Removing Gaolithe and its sheath from her back, she carefully placed it inside the door of Vega’s chamber, and off to the side, where it would not fall or be touched accidentally. “Why don’t the two of you go on ahead. I’ll see if I can find something more appropriate to wear to the festival.”
He had indulged his mother's insane ramblings, had stood before her on the pathway when he easily could have wandered on past her with all the attention that he reserved for the many trees in the garden. He didn't, because he was under the (mistaken) impression that she had something worthy to say. She presented her arguments with intelligent, albeit long-winded expatiation, but it proved she was well-versed in the subjects of magic and healing. It was enough for him to ponder where she had learned what took him many years of research to confirm. The mysteries of Imogen St. Rain continued to stack into a burial mound of secrets, and by her enigmatic expression, she didn't seem willing to share how she knew what she knew. It didn't matter; because what she proposed was ludicrous.
In response to Daphni's tightening of his hand, he squeezed it reassuringly as if to say; It's only talk. We don't have to entertain this barmy woman a minute longer.
"So," he dragged out the word, not even knowing where to begin, "even if you should, against all probability, obtain the formula, which I imagine is in a heavily fortified vault somewhere remote and undisclosed, what then? I'm assuming the process to molest one's magic is endlessly painful and acts counter to nature."
"Once acquired, there should be little trouble. Mollengard uses the fundamentals of alchemy to transition from one state to another: magic to resistance. It's similar in scope to the ritual that healers of the Clematis Order undergo when they earn their abilities; you weren't born with magic, Elias. It was gifted to you by your, ah, God," she scrunched her nose as if she smelled something sour. "If one can receive magic that was not originally innate, then one can excise it from an innate host, or change its make-up into another form, like resistance, for example. Yes, it's certainly more challenging, and risky, but it can be done."
"And," his hand stiffened in Daphni's hold, "how are you to accomplish the restructuring of this formula?"
Her mysterious smile widened. "I'm an alchemist."
Elias released Daphni's hand. Unbidden, he veered closer to Imogen, his eyes trying not to betray their wide-eyed..respect. "...This whole time?"
"It wasn't with singular purpose that I was residing in St. Thorne." She said with a half-laugh. "What is the matter with receiving a little education?"
"You could have taught me..." but he trailed away and pressed his lips together until they turned white. There was no point in railing off irrational what-ifs. They couldn't turn back to his childhood and rectify the situation. Couldn't bond over mutual interests during his more formative years, before he'd grown into an embittered, jaded man who would have died before meeting Imogen, if not for Daphni. There was no future for them. The days when her presence would have mattered to him...were over.
Imogen opened her mouth to speak, but Elias waved her into silence. "Whatever you have to say, it's inconsequential now. If you think you can acquire this formula, then by all means...do so." He twisted towards Daphni when she stroked his cheek. Eyes softening, he nodded. "We'll try. If there's a chance of saving you...then it will be well worth it."
When Caris unfurled the costume and laid it flat on the table, Haraldur almost balked. Never in his days was he offered to don such an extravagant garb. Even if the gems weaved into the circlet were not precious but merely cut glass (not like he could tell the difference), it was easily the most expensive series of clothing ever aimed in his direction. He ran his fingers over the sheen of threading, the flower buds, the grouping of leaves all bunched around the ruff of the collar, and his nod was one of pale resignation. "You say this is better than the Fool's costume," he stated, in level-toned disbelief. "...Far be it for me to disagree. It's not like I'm acquainted with the 'nuances' of royal fashion. Though," he tilted his head to see if it seemed less odious from another angle; it wasn't, "it's not like I can change my mind now."
Especially when he wanted to get on the king's good side for his following request. A request which had been received...and accepted.
He shouldn't have been surprised, but he couldn't help but respond with an incredulous look...which he quickly shielded with a confident nod. There was no use prescribing to the belief that he was unworthy of Vega's hand in marriage. Despite his lowly status and the slavish years under Mollengard's tortuous rule, he'd proven himself to stand before Eyraille's king and seize his future--as Caris had taught him to do. For his efforts in securing the refugees from Mollengard, and assuring the return of Vega's life...he deserved recognition, in the form of acceptance. Caris, through his consent, had voiced as much. He was welcome to marry, welcome into the family...welcome to a home. Eyraille would be his refuge. It would be made official. He'd be a citizen, a designation not even Mollengard granted him, despite his loyalty to their banner.
To express his gratitude in full, he dipped his head into an even deeper bow. "I'll trust you won't take advantage of my loyalties," he said, lifting his chin to give the young man a smirk. "Lest I tell Vega." But he dropped the smile as he sobered back into an upright position. "I am ready to commit. I've already entwined myself to your country and to your cause. I'm Eyraillian in all but name. But I fully accept the responsibility; not only for my children and not only for Vega. This country has treated me well. With kindness and a respect I've never experienced elsewhere. It's...truly been a home, and that's not something I take for granted. So, I am at your service, your Majesty. I'll celebrate. And I'll wear the costume. I'll prove it to you now." He picked up the folded robes and the circlet from the table. "By modeling these fine accouterments. For your endless amusement, no doubt."
The next morning, Haraldur awoke to savory and sweet aromas wafting in through the vents of his and Vega's shared chambers. He didn't know what plenitude of foods he was smelling, but he knew, for certain, that he needed to investigate these epicurean curiosities. And when he opened his eyes, it was to the Skyknight reaching over for a good morning kiss. At her proximity, he was able to account for part of the aroma that had caught in his nose. She had dabbed her neck with a sweet-smelling perfume. It reminded him of honeysuckle and morning dew. When she tried to pull away, he latched on to her waist and wedged his nose into her clavicle, sniffing. "Well, that's new," he remarked, releasing her from his grasp. "Since when do you--"
He paused, when he was afforded a good look at her. She was dressed in a form-fitting gown of a vivacious blue, hugging her so tightly, it appeared as a second skin. He followed the contours, from her bust, which looked larger than he remembered, to the sensual pop of her hips, with a wideness that he attributed to her pregnancy, though nothing yet was showing. He stared for a good while before lumbering out of bed and scooping her into his arms, running hands over her shoulders, waist, and her abdomen.
"At first I was looking forward to eating at the vendors'," he whispered, licking at her lips. "Now, I just want to eat you. You look...radiant."
Unfortunately, they didn't have time to fool around. Once Vega herded him from the bed, she presented an outfit that'd been tailored to his broad-shouldered measurements. The modesty of the ensemble passed his inspection, and he allowed her to dress him in it, a lingering process of hands and hot, passing breaths that tickled the back of his neck with desire. She was so warm. Colored in shades of life and in beauty. And he wanted her...badly.
"Mm...do you like me in your colors because it's a mark of your property?" He winked, brushing past her as he moved to the wash basin for a last minute shave. Though he'd always maintained a medium stubble or a beard, the festival occasioned a clean look. After all, if he was to embody the Green Spirit, he figured he'd look less like he'd been living in the woods, and more like he'd transcended the concept of facial hair. With one sweep of his hand over his chestnut locks, he turned to Vega and nodded. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, with mirth in his eyes. "Men are notorious for that, aren't they?"
As they left their chambers and headed down the hall, they met with Sigrid and Alster, who were also en route to the festivities. "Alster. Sigrid. Good morning." He dipped his head at first, but upon the Dawn Warrior's shoulder clap, he couldn't help but return it with similar gusto, and a grin to match. "I'm on the prowl for the best food stands. You're more than welcome to help me look. And to eat."
However much they were enjoying each other's company, there was one person who did not. Vega, with thinly-veiled hostility, singled out Sigrid on minor offenses such as proper attire, and forcefully suggested she wear a gown, against her own wishes. Haraldur, with a sidelong glance, frowned at Vega. "Is she required to wear a gown?" he asked, with genuine curiosity. "The festival doesn't seem so restrictive that one can't wear what's comfortable, as long as the colors are right."
The Skyknight relented, but only a touch, and then she was off on another nitpick. A justified one, but Haraldur understood Sigrid's apprehension to part with a weapon that, by her admission, was dangerous.
"I can confirm the validity of Sigrid's claims," Alster offered, in an attempt to appease whatever tensions were building between the two female warriors. "She's inherited the weapon by a happenstance that some would call Divine Providence. It will kill whosoever touches it. I've seen it with my own eyes; it's safest with Sigrid." But as Vega seemed adamant with the decision that she part with the dangerous weapon, Alster nodded with a sigh. "I'll cast a shield around Gaolithe, Sigrid, in case any of the serving staff should enter and take notice of the weapon."
But Vega was gone before he even finished his statement. Haraldur, brow furrowing, called after the irate princess, but she ignored them all as she disappeared around the corner, her heeled footfalls echoing far and away from them. "I...I'm sorry about that," he said, turning back to Sigrid and Alster, who both wore befuddled expressions.
"I'm not wearing the appropriate colors, either." Alster observed the sleeves of his tunic, which were teal, trimmed with gold. "It's the only nice outfit I had packed with me. But she didn't say a word about it to me."
"And she knows I'm carrying weapons with me," Haraldur added, kicking at the heel of his boot, and pointing to his sleeve to indicate the concealed blades. "So I don't see why..." Suddenly, it all made sense to him. "She has a problem with you, Sigrid," he said, realization dawning on his face. "I think...she sees you as a threat. It's not unfounded. I might have...done something to cause a backlash in her, if it's making her react to see me talk to another woman. Technically, we had parted ways, but at the time, I did seek the company of...someone else," he said, avoiding Alster's gaze.
"It was Tivia. I know," the Rigas caster replied, with no implied emotions of disgust or anger. He was matter-of-fact; non-judgmental. "She told me. She also told me that Vega had attacked her until she was bloody and broken."
Haraldur flinched and nodded.
"Then her resentment makes sense, in that context. Does she know?" He waved a hand between Haraldur and Sigrid. "About your relations?"
"No. Even I don't know how we're related," he looked to Sigrid, guiltily. "And I am a little hesitant to mention Tivia to Vega, as she is the one who shed light on our past connections. My...prior trysts might still be a sore point with her. No; it is still a sore point, if she's treating you with contempt just by associating with me. But this shouldn't be a problem for long." He lowered his voice, conspiratorially. "I'm going to ask for her hand in marriage, on the last day of the festival. I've been given permission by the king."
At this news, Alster brightened. "You are?" A wide grin spread across his lips. "My proposal to Elespeth was so impromptu. I had nothing planned; I was bedridden and a wreck. What I would have given for this perfect opportunity you've been afforded. I'm sure she'll say yes; there would be little reason for her not to. Do you have a ring for her?"
Haraldur scratched the back of his neck. "I plan to look for one today. There's bound to be some jewelers selling their wares. I don't have much money, but--"
"--Not an issue." Alster rested a steel hand over his change-purse. "I have plenty. And an eye for authenticity. I'll make sure they're not hawking you glass and paste."
And before Haraldur could protest, Alster followed Sigrid into Vega's chambers, where she had set Gaolithe in an unassuming corner of the room. "I'll cast that shield spell now, Sigrid, while you change. Maybe I'll change, too. Then," he looked back to Haraldur, who was beset with lines of trepidation, over the prospect of ring shopping, "we'll all go together, and find you the perfect ring. Oh! I could enchant it, too. A protection charm, or," he thumbed his chin in thought, "or one for luck. Prosperity for the kingdom. Hm. I could also do one for a healthy childbirth..."
It was precisely because Alster, too, was not exactly dressed to fit the festival, that Sigrid saw fit to look more deeply into the princess’s thinly-veiled transgressions toward her. At first, she had thought she was breaking some unspoken rule relating to Eyraillian customs, which wouldn’t have surprised her considering she so seldom left Braighdath to experience other cultures. But that was clearly not the case, and such her hostility warranted further introspection. Fortunately, both Haraldur and Alster had input to help fill in the blanks.
And then, it all clicked. “Oh… of course. I am such a fool.” The Dawn warrior couldn’t help but tilt her head back and laugh. “Jealousy. Women can be so prone to it; and I imagine with children on the way, her Highness is particularly sensitive about her ‘property’--no offense of course, Haraldur, but she’s got some grip on you. Though it seems to me that you don’t mind.”
Already, she felt particularly lighter with the clarification. Haraldur even went to shed further light on it, briefing on his time apart with… with Tivia. That was when the Dawn warrior’s smile faded. “I see… well, in that case, I don’t blame her Highness. I can only imagine how it would make me feel to see my lover associating with another person, after knowing they had been with someone else during a brief time apart. And we have been rather friendly… though certainly not for the reasons she thinks. Not if there is a possibility that the two of us are related.” Pausing at Vega’s door, she went on, “And Tivia… did mention you with an air of affection. Though she seems to have transferred her feelings onto the necromancer, it would not surprise me if your time together still lingers on her mind…”
Confused at Alster’s sudden ‘cease and desist’ look that he shot her at mentioning the necromancer (for she wasn’t entirely aware of just how deep Haraldur’s hatred ran for the man), she lifted her shoulders in a shrug, and instead refocused on the second bit of good news that the mercenary cared to share in two days. Like Alster, Sigrid’s face lit up with a smile. “You’re proposing at the height of the festival? My, Haraldur, you did not strike me as being such a romantic.” She couldn’t help but tease with a broad smile. “That sounds about as perfect as any woman could wish for. Her Highness will be thrilled, I have no doubt--and it will be enough to placate her suspicions and perhaps lighten her passive-aggressive tendencies towards me, if your union is sealed with a ring. Speaking of… I have an idea. Wait here while I find something to wear.”
Briefly returning to her chamber, where she caught up with one of the serving staff and requested a change in attire. Moments later, the elder maid returned with fabric folded in her arms, and the Dawn warrior was quick to shed her tunic and trousers for a shirt that much resembled Haraldur’s, and a dark pair of leggings. On her way back to meet with her comrades, she hastily pulled her platinum locks into a French braid. “Well, I am certainly taking a gamble daring to dress like you,” she mentioned to Haraldur, with a half-smile, “but not even a princess of this kingdom can make me don a gown. I certainly won’t be earning any points, but… I think I know how I can allay her jealousy and suspicion towards me. I might just have the right words in mind. So, here is my idea.”
Taking each man by the arm, the trio continued down the hallway in Vega’s wake, though the princess was nowhere to be found. “Let me take care of Vega. I’ll play the tourist and have her show me around; if she insists on looking for you, I’ll be sure to steer her in the wrong direction. Meanwhile, the two of you can go shopping for a ring, and we can all reconvene later. Don’t worry, I am willing to bet you the money in my pocket that I’ll have made a friend of her by the end of the day.”
Given that Vega didn’t seem inclined to give Sigrid the time of day, it seemed like a risky endeavour, but the Dawn warrior seemed confident in her ability to sway the princess to give her a chance. As the trio made for the exit, Vega was awaiting them--or, rather, awaiting Haraldur, and maybe Alster. She did not deign to make eye contact with Sigrid. “I was wondering if I’d have to go on without you,” she said to the mercenary, with a half-smile. “I’m starving; let’s go find the vendors.”
“Your Highness; might I have a word?” Sigrid asked before Haraldur could respond. Before Vega could refuse her, the Dawn warrior closed in, invading her space, cupped her hand around her mouth to whisper something in her ear. In the span of a minute, the Eyraillian princess’s expression evolved from stern and contempt, to what could only be described as surprised and bewildered. When Sigrid pulled away, Vega was at a loss for words.
“I…” A blush bloomed on her cheeks and spread to her neck. "That is…”
“I’d appreciate your company, if you’d be willing to point out the highlights of the festival to me.” Sigrid went on, saving Vega from an embarrassing moment of wordlessness. When the princess didn’t reply, she took her arm, but not forcibly. “I spend the majority of my time in Braighdath among men. Would you humour me with the opportunity to spend time with a woman, for once? We can catch up to them later.”
The Skyknight commander only offered a small nod, still looking confused beyond the expanse of her cognitive capacity. Winking at Haraldur and Alster over her shoulder, she led the princess outside, and they parted ways.
The closer one wandered toward the city proper, with its shops promenades, the thicker became the aroma of sweet and savoury delicacies in the air, and the louder the music and laughter. It was only around breakfast time, and already the streets were packed tighter than the supplies Sigrid and Alster had forced into individual sacks during their travels. There certainly would be no movement without willfully invading any given person’s personal space, and it was easy enough to lose someone in the crowd. Many store fronts appeared to be closed in honour of the holiday, and instead shop owners and vendors took to the sides of the streets to sell their finest wears. Anything, from foods to clothes to textiles and weaponry, jewelry, toys, decorations and accessories, anything could be found at the heart of the city, today.
Vega had been right about the dress code, as well. Those who were not sporting royal Eyraille’s blue and silver were clothed in all shades of green, jewel-toned to earthy. It was an excuse to dress up, to put on make-up, and to flaunt gifts and privileges, to celebrate prosperity and the wealth of life and new possibilities that accompanied spring. That said, Alster, with his bright teal did not exactly clash, as it resonated on the same spectrum as the emerald greens mixed among the denizens in the crowd. For that reason alone, it was almost a shame that Sigrid had decided to change to placate Vega’s whims; the dark indigo of her tunic would have served as a beacon to locate Vega, and ascertain she was not nearby while Haraldur was purchasing her ring.
The mercenary and Rigas caster had only just managed to make their way to the edge of the crowd, with Haraldur straining to look over people’s heads to assess where it was best to start, when a familiar presence made itself known.
“Haraldur--I am truly overjoyed to see that you’ve decided to willingly partake in the festival’s activities.” Caris stood behind them, and offered a wide grin. Though he was dressed in decidedly royal attire, it boasted of even less finery than Vega’s gown. His tunic was simple and hung loose around his form as if it were a size too big, the only accent causing it to stand out from Haraldur’s attire being the Eyraillian’s insignia--a pair of roc wings, embroidered in silver--joining to connect his collar on either side. It was almost as if Caris wanted to blend in. For someone who so reluctantly wore the burden of his royal title, it wasn’t such a farfetched notion. “And--Alster, is it? I hope you find some joy and entertainment in this celebration of Equinox. Although, I am curious as to why my sister isn’t playing your tour guide… I thought I saw her in the company of that blonde she-warrior. I thought for sure that the two of you would be adhered to one-another’s side.”
Clarification dawned on the young monarch as soon as they explained their task--and why Vega was not present for it, and instead was occupying her time with the most unlikely of people; namely, Sigrid. “I see. Well, if it means anything, I can save you some time. Come with me--and try not to get lost or disengaged. The crowds will be at their most wild today, and the final day of the festival.”
He didn’t wait for a response before pushing ahead, through the opportune gaps between peoples’ bodies, expecting the mercenary and the Rigas caster to follow. Caris led them down the streets and promenades, past the tantalizing aromas wafting from the food vendors, none at which he allowed Haraldur or Alster to pause and grab a bite. That could wait for later. After walking several blocks, and turning so many corners that it would take nothing less of a miracle for the two foreigners to find their way back to the palace on their own, the king finally stopped at a booth that shone with gold, silver, bronze and jewels. Yet, compared to the other jewelers they had passed, all to whom Caris paid little to no heed, there was a certain modesty to this particular artisan’s wears. Unlike the bejeweled bangles, earrings, and brooches that covered the other displays, this particular vendor’s skill lay in the metalwork. Each and every piece was crafted with a delicate theme: necklaces that resembled vines of ivy, earrings that imitated the images of swans and butterflies. Bracelets that resembled serpents swallowing their own tail, and some that were formed as delicately as if they’d been woven from golden or silver lace.
The king offered a nod to the elderly vendor, who offered a shallow bow in turn. “This is Tolfrid--in my opinion, one of Eyraille’s most skilled jewelers. None of his pieces are alike, and while my sister is not particularly an aficionado when it comes to jewelry, there has never been a piece of his that she has not liked. This is where I suggest you find what you are looking for. And, speaking of…” Reaching into his pocket, the young King produced a small pouch full of coins, which he hurriedly placed in Haraldur’s hand before the mercenary could object. “This is not an act of charity; I simply know that there is no possible way you will be able to afford any of this, otherwise. And,” he lowered his voice, so that it was barely above a whisper, “if you are going to propose to my sister, then you are damned well going to do right by it.”
Stepping away, he offered the jeweler a parting wave, and nodded at the mercenary and his magical companion. “Now, you’ll have to forgive me, but I must continue to make my rounds to oversee how things are unfolding. Do yourselves a favor and go and try some of the food. One of the vendors just a few blocks away bakes pastries with the most aromatic herbs and spices, both savoury and sweet. You’ll only ever find them during Equinox.”
Caris took his leave, then, leaving Haraldur to look over the artisan’s wears and decide which would be best for Vega. As he took his time looking, contemplating, and discussing options with the jeweler, another familiar face came into view, and laid a hand upon Alster’s shoulder. “Alster Rigas. Of all of the people gathered in the city proper, today, I did not think that I would be so lucky as to run into you.” Grandmother Alta smiled. Her long, silken white tresses were woven through with flowers and ivy, in celebration of the coming of spring. Despite her age, it really was fair to say that she had aged well, with that distinguished appearance and straightness of the shoulders that seemingly all Rigases were gifted with. “How are you enjoying the festival? It is a lot to take in, but even I see fit to leave the safety of my beloved library to parktake. Oh, which reminds me…”
Gently resting her hand upon his arm, she gestured to a gazebo near one of the ornate fountains at the heart of the city, where it looked as though a tiny theatre was being set up. “There are daily puppet shows for the children throughout the week of the festival. Usually, I narrate them, read from tomes of fairy and folktales, but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind lending an old woman a hand? These eyes are not getting any younger.” She chuckled. “That is, of course, unless you have other plans. I will not be offended if you feel you must decline.”
Confused by the pure amusement by which Sigrid reacted to Vega's jealousy, Haraldur responded with a polite chuckle. "Yes, I suppose," he offered, pulling a wrinkle from the tunic that the princess practically threw on him. "I used to mind her...intensity. She doggedly pursued me, despite the amount of times I rejected her. I kept telling myself I wasn't ready to move on from the memory of my late wife. But...I gave in. So now she can do whatever she wants with me. Though," he looked at one of his hanged garlands from across the hallway, "I can't guarantee it'll be without complaint."
His lighthearted talk of his relationship with Vega turned dark, however, at mention of the necromancer. "She...what?!" The sudden boom of his voice carried down the vast hollows of the hallway. "Why would she...he must have manipulated her. What is he having her do?!"
"Trust me, Haraldur, if I thought that Vitali was harming her in any way, I'd have put a stop to it." Alster's voice was low and calm, in an attempt to walk the mercenary into a more relaxed state. "I have many reasons to abhor the necromancer, as you know. But their relationship has built up organically. He is not using her. She...can see the good in him, and he has not taken advantage in any way."
He snorted. "What good, I wonder?" But whatever Alster had said (or how he said it), seemed to work. Haraldur's stance loosened, and he was more receptive to their talk about his upcoming proposal and the ring he was looking to find.
"It just happened that way," he muttered, almost defensive. "I'm not one for grandiose acts of love. I'd rather do it in a quiet space, after a meal or in the middle of a stroll. But I'm using this platform as a statement. I know I'm proposing to a princess, so my actions must be worthy of royalty. I need the support of the people. They'll be jolly with drink and dancing, and I'll be dressed as the Green Spirit. There will be little objection if the Green Spirit asks the Wind for her hand. And," he sighed, low and long, "his Majesty will love the spectacle."
When Sigrid returned after excusing herself to change, Alster had just emerged from Vega's room, nodding his approval at her new outfit. "Now it'll be only me who stands out. I look like the ocean when everyone else will look like a forest," he said, with a shy tug of his lips. "By the way, I cast a shield around your sword. Nobody will be able to touch it. Let me know when you need to fetch it, and I'll disperse the spell."
After they were all ready to go, the trio made their way down the corridor. Haraldur looked with uncertainty at the Dawn Warrior, whose reassurances over Vega were almost too confident. What could she say that would change her mind about the foreigner who took an inordinate interest in him, her lover?
As they made their way to the entrance that would lead them outside the palace, Vega had, indeed, waited for him. "I wanted to make sure Sigrid was properly dressed, as per your instruction," Haraldur replied, waving his arms towards the Dawn Warrior, who was attired in Eyraille's colors, sans gown. But before she had time to voice her disapproval, Sigrid stepped forward and whispered something into Vega's ear. The transition of extremes that passed over her face could only be described as comical. Within moments, the two were heading out the door, leaving Haraldur and Alster to stew in the aftermath.
Haraldur, looking just as bewildered as Vega, stared after their retreating forms. "...What did she tell her?"
Alster, meanwhile, was smiling knowingly. "Oh, I think I know what."
When they stepped outside the palace doors, they didn't wander for long before they were caught amongst a mass of humanity. Many of Eyraille's denizens, dressed in shades of green or in the standard's colors of cobalt and silver, pushed their way into the fray like salmon swimming upstream, while others stopped like immoveable rocks in that same stream, gawking at the multitude of tents, and scents, and goods. The stalls, themselves, festooned with garlands, or Eyraillian flags, dotted the landscape from the top of the thoroughfare, where he and Alster stood, all the way down to the bottom of the hill. Though he was used to close quarters, having spent much of his time in military encampments, it was a sensory overload for the mercenary, who preferred mountains and forests to crowds and festivities. But even the ever-present mountains appeared so far away and out of his reach. Escaping to any quiet corner was futile.
Alster, too, seemed somewhat uncomfortable with the busy crowd, but he adjusted to the environment with a swiftness that Haraldur envied. "Stella D'Mare was once a city of festivals," he said, loud enough for the mercenary to hear. "I'm reminded of it. One of their largest events of the year. No matter where you go, celebrations operate similarly." He observed his surroundings, like a puzzle that needed unraveling. "So if we go in that direction..."
But they weren't left to navigate the daunting landscape for long. Caris had materialized from the crowd beside them, offering good tidings and his guidance.
"I'm glad someone is overjoyed," Haraldur said, hiding his distaste beneath layers of the crowd's collective volume. "It's definitely," he searched his vocabulary for the "right" word, "...festive."
"A festival that's an envy to other kingdoms, I'm sure," Alster said, with a quick bow to the king. "We don't really have seasons as you know them to be in Stella D'Mare, so our reason for celebrating isn't very...structured. So I'm honored to be part of your celebration of the Equinox."
After detailing the reasons they'd been separated from their "tour guide," the king gladly took up the role for them, at least as far as searching for the proper jewelers' tent. As they weaved through the dense crowd, Haraldur, with his stature and height, hadn't much trouble following Caris's expert clip. Alster, far smaller, and encumbered by his arm (which he would not use as a battering ram), almost lost them on several occasions--until he shot a spark of magic at the mercenary's broad back. It clung to his tunic like a burr made entirely of light, and acted like a small beacon for him to follow.
At last, they reached their destination, a smaller booth that was tucked away from the main drag. Though it was in a quieter locale, it was no less busy, as many festival-goers wormed their way into gaps around the booth. Again, owing to his stature, it was easy to ram himself into a space, which paved an opening for both Caris and Alster, beside him. Now that he was given an unobstructed view of the wares, what glittered on display was, even to his non-aesthetic eye, beautifully crafted. Like snail trails on the over-side of autumn leaves, the veins of mushrooms beneath the noon sun, or the patterns on a butterfly's wings, each bauble, neck-piece, and ring reflected nature as he had so intimately known it, in his travels.
"I suppose this will do," he told Caris, underplaying how well the king had led them to a gold-mine, of a sort. "It's more than adequate." But his tune had changed when he was introduced to the jeweler, himself. "Tolfrid," he bowed his head to the elderly man. "You really captured the nature in these pieces. What sorts of rings do you have for sale?" As the jeweler complied, and set a box of filigree bands before him, Caris reached for Haraldur's hand, and dumped a pouch brimming with coin into his possession. He tried not to pale at the exorbitant amount of money, or what it meant for Eyraille's king to provide the sum. It meant...that there was no turning back for him.
"I," he looked to Alster, who responded with a shrug, "I'll accept your coin, only because I'm afraid of what you'll do to me if I decline."
Bidding the king farewell, Haraldur turned back to the jeweler and to the box of rings, which all glinted with their own personal touch. It took only minutes for him to find the perfect design. It was a band of gold, weaved through with silver tendrils that formed into roc wings. In the center was beset a rose-gold flower bud, within which rested a small, blue stone.
"That's a good find," Alster inputted, from his vantage point. "Wings represent resurrection. Flower buds--birth, and new beginnings. That stone is a sapphire, a sacred gem of hope and protection. It all seems to fit with the history and the union that you two share."
"Then it's the one I'll get," Haraldur said, handing it over to the jeweler, all while hoping he guessed Vega's size correctly. As he discussed payment with Tolfrid, Alster felt a firm tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, his face broke out into a grin.
"Grandmother!" He drew her into a hug with his good arm. "It's been...I know I saw you only yesterday but I didn't think it would be this soon before I saw you again. Eyraille's fashions really favor you." He pointed to her accents of flowers and ivy, and compared it to his ocean-teal tunic, which was in keeping with the Rigas aesthetic. "People can smell 'foreign' on me," he said, with a laugh. "We haven't been out long, and..." he leaned into Alta's ear, and whispered, "Haraldur is buying Vega a ring."
Haraldur, who completed his purchase (which had been packed into a wooden box, a work of art all on its own), joined up with Alster and Grandmother Alta. Both were standing just shy of the jeweler's booth, and speaking to each other candidly. "Ah. Grandmother Alta." He bowed his head at the matronly librarian. "It's nice to see you up and about, though I don't know how you endure these crowds. I see you've met Alster. He's the reason for Vega's fortunate turn in health."
"It was the least I could do," Alster said, cheeks tingeing pink. "...But color me surprised when I walked into the palace library, only to find another Rigas. Eyraille's been harboring a treasure this whole time."
At mention of the puppet show, Alster's cheeks deepened in color. "Y-you...want me? I," he chuckled nervously, "don't know the structure of your show, and I don't think I can engage a crowd of children, but...I'm more than happy to help."
Haraldur, who didn't know where else to go, had followed Grandmother Alta and Alster to the gazebo on the hill, but not before stopping at one of the food vendors, to purchase pastries of Eyraillian renown. When he caught up with the two Rigases, he offered them two that he bought as extras. He'd already consumed his, a savory pocket of flaky, buttery crust, stuffed with herbs mixed in a spicy paste. Alster accepted the pastry, considering it for a moment. "I haven't tried to eat something so rich, even though I haven't had any issues with my stomach. Not since..." He trailed off, forcing away his dark admittances. "No, it shouldn't be a problem." Taking a bite, he remarked on the flavor, the complex notes, and the spice, which tickled his nose, though not unpleasantly. Though he hadn't planned to eat the entire pastry, it was gone in minutes.
Upon entering the gazebo, Haraldur took note of the children. Some were a young as infants, mere babes swaddled in their mothers' arms, while others were old enough to run around the long rows of benches, giving chase, until their parents commanded they stop. A few had their faces painted with flowers and vines, others with masks decorated with roc feathers. As he watched the display and envisioned the day when he would need to chase his children into their seats, a small figure sidled next to him.
"Enginn!?"
Haraldur blinked and regarded the child beside him. No; she was a young woman, her strawberry blonde hair pinned up into curls, and wrapped in vines.
"Thora?"
The girl took him into a hug, which only reached his waist. "I didn't think I'd find you here. Especially not at a puppet show." She laughed, a high-pitched bubble. "You'd be holed away somewhere, or eating, at the very least."
Haraldur surreptitiously wiped the stray crumbs from his mouth. "I would be, but her Highness dragged me out of my shell. Though to her whereabouts," he shrugged, "who knows?" He gestured over to Alster, who was following Grandmother Alta up on the stage. "I'm here to...support?"
"Well, you better stay with us, so it looks like you're not so lost," Thora said, taking his arm and forcing him to a bench in the corner. "It's time you met the rest of us, anyway." She jutted out her bottom lip in a pout. "Like you said you would."
Haraldur reached the bench just as the curtains rose, and the show started. Grandmother Alta and Alster sat together in chairs, an overlarge book spread across their laps. The elder Rigas introduced her "assistant" to the children. He waved to them with his prosthetic hand, to which the children responded with remarks of awe. As the puppet show began, the Rigases took turns reading the material. Despite Alster's unfamiliarity with the text, he paused in the appropriate places, read the words with clear, crisp enthusiasm, and even changed his voice to fit each character role. It was a story about the origin of rocs. Leftover wisps of clouds would blow over the mountains. Wind was not very careful, and carelessly spread her messes all across the sky. The Green Spirit, in his sheltered valley, watched the wisps collect over his portion of sky, which would form into storms so great and raucous, that in his annoyance, he gave them wings, and life, and returned them to Wind. She had enjoyed the "gift" so much, that she rode forth on the first roc mount to thank him personally. With his creation of the rocs, he had unintentionally given her transport across all territories. Since then, she, and the rocs of his passive-aggressive creation, never left his once quiet, stagnant valley. The wind had blown ever since.
As the cloth puppets reenacted this myth, bouncing around the fabric stage in the green ivy of the Spirit, the autumn leaves of Wind, and the golden wings of the Roc, something extra was added to end of the show...something that wasn't made by puppet-craft. After the cloth actors took a bow, a faint, golden light rose from the stage, formulating into a brilliant bird of roc design. As it arched its wide wings over the stage, it took flight, spinning around its captive audience. In mid-ascent, it exploded, raining down pinpricks of multi-hued light, which all disappeared as they touched the ground, or landed in the outstretched hands of children.
When all had faded to normal, Alster lowered his still-sparkling hand, and looked to Grandmother Alta, smiling innocently. "I...ah...couldn't resist."
It wasn’t without a hint of amusement that Grandmother Alta returned the eager Rigas boy’s hug, heartened by his enthusiasm. In the centuries that she had been alive, no one had ever exhibited such joy just to be in her presence… it was an alien feeling, albeit a pleasant one. To be wanted. “Why, you flatter me, Alster. Although a few ivy vines and flowers are not enough to reverse centuries’ worth of aging,” she chuckled, releasing him. “And now is a good a time as any to be perceived as foreign. You’ll only ever find Eyraille this easy-going and accepting during spring’s Equinox and winter’s Solstice, while everyone is high on celebration. Now, what have you been up to, thus far? Have you tried any of the holiday-exclusive treats that the vendors are selling?”
That was when Alster let her in on their conspiracy, indicating Haraldur, who was still busy negotiating with the jeweler. Alta’s face and smile radiated joy. “A proposal. On the eve of the festival’s final day… that sounds terribly romantic.” She commented, her voice soft and dreamy. “And fitting, for her Highness. I have heard tell that Haraldur will be donning the costume of the Green Spirit, this year; Vega has always masqueraded as the Wind, since she sought to become Commander of the Skyknights. I imagine witnessing Spring ask for the Wind’s hand in marriage will be an Equinox eve for the kingdom to remember.” No matter the various and sundry ways that the scene played out in her head, the Rigas woman knew that nothing would compare to the way it would unfold organically in just a few nights’ time.
“Ah, and speaking of…” The librarian and archivist directed her warm smile at Haraldur as he approached, a beautiful, ornate box in hand, which she eyed curiously. “Is this your first purchase of the day? Alster has informed me that you have some special plans, for the final night of the Festival… ah, rest assured, I will not breathe a word of it. I am too excited for it to happen to spoil the surprise.”
Curiously, she hadn’t asked after Vega’s health, nor the health of the children. But it was not out of lack of interest or negligence; just like she had suspected Vega’s pregnancy before even the princess herself had been aware of it, Alta simply had an uncanny way of just knowing. “Yes. Alster happened upon my library, yesterday. It has been quite some time, myself, since I’ve seen another Rigas… and I am not at all surprised that you were able to help Vega.” She gently squeezed Alster’s shoulder. “I know a nice young man when I see one. Already, you are everything that I wish the Rigases embodied.
“Now, speaking of the princess…” The Rigas woman arched an eyebrow in Haraldur’s direction, her pale gaze inquisitive and sparkling. “Was I right from the beginning? Is it twins?” At the look of astonishment that befell the mercenary, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Rest assured, Haraldur, I am not clairvoyant; her Highness eventually confided in me, not long after you found out for yourself. Though I would have put my money on the fact that she was carrying twins. There was just something in the air, about her.”
And with the air cleared of any prior tensions they’d experienced in the past week--namely, Vega and her childrens’ health--Alta returned to the moment at hand. “Make my words, the only thing required is the ability to read aloud,” she tried to assure Alster. “Believe me, the children’s attention will predominantly be on the puppets, and not on the story. Really, our voices are merely to embellish what they are watching. They will be plenty engaged. Come--I’ll point you in the direction of something tasty on the way. Haraldur,” she smiled at mercenary, “you are more than welcome to join us.”
The promise of something good to eat was all the motivation Haraldur needed. While Alta and Alster headed toward the gazebo, helping to set up what was left of the puppet theatre, the mercenary had wandered off to try some of the aforementioned pastries that Caris had pointed out, and kindly brought one for Alster and the librarian, as well. “Ah--lucky you. This flavour is usually the first to sell out, early every afternoon.” The Rigas woman commented, gracefully accepting the pastry, and said to Alster, “They are a little on the rich side, but not nearly enough to upset the stomach. Hurry, have your fill; the show will start in ten minutes.”
Gradually, children and parents congregated to the space before the gazebo, taking a seat upon the ground. Many were younger in age; babies, toddlers, and tots only waist-high who had difficulty sitting patiently, but a few older children, including young teenagers, hovered nearby, trying to pretend they weren’t interested in what was taking place. As soon as the puppeteers were ready, and the curtains pulled back, even those children couldn’t feign disinterest anymore, and eagerly awaited the show to start.
Giving the crowd a warm welcome, Alta introduced Alster as her ‘special guest from away’. and that he would be her assistant today, before she began to read from the heavy tome of folktales and fairy stories she’d selected specially for this occasion. Like she had mentioned, the children were primarily captivated with the beautifully crafted puppets, some made of cloth, yet others delicately carved out of wood, and some half the size of a living person! The rocs had real roc feathers adhered to them, giving such a realistic appearance that many of the children yearned to reach out and touch.
As soon as Alster realized the spotlight wouldn’t directly settle on him, he seemed much more willing to participate, at which point Alta handed off the tome to him--and he did beautifully. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the Rigas caster was a natural, and the children responded well to his narration. When at last the story, some twenty minutes later, drew to a close, he did not simply shut the book and wait for applause; no, just as Alta had suspected, he dared to take it further. The ethereal form of a roc, one made of pure light, materialized and took to the air from the stage, stealing the children’s breath away and exploding into thousands of tiny sparkles that rained upon them. The cheering and joy was almost deafening, as tiny fingers and hands reached up to catch the glittering particles of light, all which vanished upon contact.
It went without saying that the show was a success--and one that would be remembered.
“Well, now, look at what you’ve done. Raising the bar, and setting a new standard for these bi-annual shows.” The librarian tsked and shook her head. “I am too out of touch with my glamour and illusion magic that I highly doubt I can replicate what you just pulled. You may be required to return in time for Equinox next year--and perhaps, Solstice, before that.” She grinned, shaking her head. “Thank you for your help, Alster. I am confident that this is all the children will be talking about, tonight. That said, if you find yourself idle for any other afternoon this week… I won’t say no to more help.”
As they helped the puppeteers dismantle the theatre for the day, a child would occasionally venture to touch or ask after Alster’s prosthetic arm, wondering if it was the source of the magic he had used, which would be followed by hasty apologies from embarrassed parents. But he took it fairly well, letting them touch the smooth metal and indulging their curiosity, until the adults ushered them away, reminding the children it was impolite to draw attention to such things. While he might well have been perceived as a foreigner, there was no shadow of doubt that he was already well-accepted, here.
Just as they were finishing up, and the puppets were tucked safely away for the remainder of the day, two familiar figures approached the now-deserted seating area. “There is talk of a roc made of pure light, highlighting the climax of the folktale that was presented, today.” Vega remarked, looking pointedly at Alster with a smile on her face. Evidently, her mood had shifted significantly since that morning. “I wonder whom I have to thank for that. If Eyraille wasn’t accepting of magic before, it most certainly will be, now.”
“You have Alster to thank for that, of course, your Highness.” Grandmother Alta informed her. “I’ve informed him that he may well be required to return, for setting the bar so high. The children will never be satisfied again, without such embellishments.”
Sigrid, who still accompanied Vega, meanwhile made eye contact with Haraldur--who flashed her a glimpse of the small, ornate box, containing the ring he’d purchased. The Dawn warrior’s lips tugged into a wide grin, and she nodded her understanding that the deed was done. “Well, that sounds phenomenal. I’m rather sad we missed it. Though, I did catch wind of an archery competition taking place later in the evening. The bow isn’t my weapon of choice, but I do fancy myself a rather capable hunter. I think I’d like to try my skill.”
“If my poor memory serves me right, that should take place at the training grounds, just after dinner.” Alta offered. “Though perhaps you can confirm, your Highness? I myself have never taken part--for obvious reasons.”
Strangely, Vega seemed uncomfortable about the topic. She shifted her weight and shrugged her shoulders, suddenly taking an interest in the ground. “I’m not sure, entirely. I don’t oversee the archery competition; that is Caris’s place, typically.”
The Dawn warrior’s grin widened, and she leaned in, whispering not-so-softly in a conspiratorial tone, “I’ve challenged her Highness to the competition, you see. I proposed a rather innocent bet--frankly, one where I have more to lose than she does. I think she is afraid of failure.”
“I’ve already told you the bow isn’t my weapon,” Vega retorted with a sour expression. “And I make no claim to even be good with one. It is only recently that myself and my Skyknights have endeavoured to adapt to taking archery to the air, as an alternative to take down long-range enemies.”
“Of course, your Highness. I completely understand. You know your strengths best; there is no shame in stepping down before anticipating defeat. Some would say it is the rational thing to do.”
Sigrid officially hit a nerve, in that Vega Sorde was not one to shy away from a challenge--or let it be insinuated that she would lose. Fire flashed in her azure eyes. “You’d be surprised what I can accomplish when I am motivated.”
“Excellent. So, I will see you at the training grounds before supper.” The Dawn warrior smirked, before noting that some of the puppeteers looked as though they needed some help transporting the heavy, wooden theatre to storage, and went to offer to lend a hand.
At the look of curiosity and confusion on Haraldur and Alster’s faces, Vega sullenly ventured to explain, knowing that they would end up asking sooner or later, anyway. “She wanted to bet that if she were to lose, she’ll wear a gown for the remainder of the festival. And if I lose… then I owe her a dance, on the final night.” Her cheeks flushed as red as her hair, as she went on to clarify. “Sigrid called me on my… behaviour. I’m not proud to admit it, but I was jealous of how close she seemed to be drawn to you, Haraldur. She informed me that she… romantically, prefers the company of women. And now she won’t let me live it down.”
Scratching the back of her neck, she added, “I suppose it is no less than I deserve… I’ve been unreasonably rude to her because I thought she was making advances on you. Evidently, I’ve become more sensitive to jealousy, with this pregnancy.” Vega sighed and offered Haraldur an apologetic smile. “She said that you and she are possibly related… I am happy that you’ve found family, related or not.”
Egged on by Thora's insistent hand, Haraldur joined with the small contingent of children and their parents, hoping he could hunker down on the bench with none the wiser. But if not for the young woman's animated introduction, then he suspected a few of them would have recognized him by sight. Some of the parents were those he'd ferried across Eyraille's mountains as recently as six years ago, and as far back as ten. Yet, they greeted him as if he'd never disappeared, as if he were a constant among the villagers. They each offered him a sliver of what would have awaited him, had he returned to Eyraille, as promised. It was, as he expected, a bittersweet reunion, steeped with regret and apologies brimming unspoken on his lips. Sensing what he was about to say, they silenced him with stern glares and violent pats on the back, looking to beat the remorse out of him.
As a collective hush fell on the crowd, and the red curtains rose in readiness for the show, Haraldur, sitting among old companions, was truly thankful for his company. Though the events of the festival thus far had overwhelmed him to the point where he wanted to retire early that evening, he would not forget his fortunate combination of fateful encounters and unrelenting acceptance that had ladled him like the wreaths he was tasked to throw as the Green Spirit. In a matter of days, Vega had returned fully to the land of the living, with their unborn children alive and no longer threatened, a woman, who might bear a relation with him, had arrived out of nowhere, and Caris voiced his approval for Vega's hand, and as an official citizen of Eyraille. Never in all his life did luck seek to bless him with an ardor that was seemingly in response to all the neglect and torment of his past. He only wished it would last forever.
It will, he reminded himself. If you keep believing that what's before you, and what's ahead of you, is your destiny. This is what's been awaiting you all this time.
At the start of the puppet show, Alster was apprehensive. He wasn't, after all, the first person people thought to ask about entertaining children. In fact, his exposure to them was very limited, in his long life. While the Rigas household spaced their years of conception in accordance to celestial bodies and the pool of magic from which each blood-relation shared in birthright, there existed a few young faces. His long years of exile, however, prevented him from their acquaintance, and now, parents wouldn't let him anywhere near. Serpent Bane did not inspire confidence in those who knew of his unclean deeds.
Therefore, it was with a burst of nervous energy that he'd started reading. The words stumbled from his lips, hurried and slurred, and his cadence was disjointed, uncertain. But to his surprise, it did not last for the duration of the show. Whether through Grandmother Alta's unwavering faith in him, or the anonymity of being consigned as a background fixture while the real entertainment was in the foreground of the stage, he relaxed, and came to enjoy reading aloud. Soon, he relished in the folktales, immersing himself to such an extent that he began to embody the characters, disguising his voice to fit the archetype. High-pitched and smooth, low and gruff, reedy or lofty, he peppered such textures throughout. And when Grandmother Alta relinquished the text to him, something approaching pride swelled in him. Did she approve of his storytelling techniques? Was he performing according to her expectations? No, he thought, as the puppet show concluded and the children shouted their enjoyment. I can do better. I can always do better.
Before he could think to analyze the delicate state of magic in Eyraille and the implications of commanding it in a flashy show of bravado, his hand was outstretched, and he was weaving light into a complexity of shapes, which fused together into the recognized shape of a glittering roc. Despite the looks of unmitigated glee and delight, even as the children tried to catch the leftover sparks like fireflies on a summer's eve, his smile, which was initially triumphant, took on a furrowed apology.
"I'm sorry," he turned to Grandmother Alta. "I didn't mean to upstage the puppet show, or you. I just--" I just wanted your approval.
Half-expecting to receive a reprimand, or the dismissive "show-off," passing over the kindly woman's lips, she appeared...pleased with him. "I got ahead of myself, I will admit," he said beneath the deafening applause. "But if you're satisfied with my er, addition to the show, I'll gladly help out for the other remaining days."
Before he stood from his chair to welcome the hyperactive children who were clambering to meet the "magic-man," as he heard some calling him, he gave the woman a wistful little simper. "Do you really believe I embody what you wish to see in a Rigas?"
But his words were drowned by the stampede of curious tots who all shouted questions at him in rapidfire succession. Some of the braver ones stepped forward to inquire about his arm. "No; I can do magic in this hand, too," he said, and a small butterfly appeared in his flesh and blood hand, a blue and purple-colored sight that darted away and dispersed into a similar cloud of sparks. "I use magic to move this arm. See?" He lifted the metal contraption, then lowered it, a mistake he later came to regret, when a few strong-armed boys had yanked a little too hard on the prosthesis. He hid his flinch, but could not hide the intense pain that twisted his features. "All right," he stood from his crouching position, removing his arm from their purview. "That's enough for today."
Luckily, Haraldur met with him from the audience, followed soon after by Sigrid and Vega. By then, the children had skittered away, bounding over to the next activity, no doubt. "That was my doing," Alster said, with the sheepish rubbing of the back of his neck. "Should have thought it through. Now I've gone and made myself too noticeable."
"You know," Haraldur observed, "those children were taken by your every word, Alster. Have you considered fatherhood for yourself?"
A loud burst of a laugh bleated from the Rigas caster. "Me, a father? Not likely. I can't even take care of myself." His laughter faded as he gave it more solemn contemplation. "Even if I wanted a child, with all that's happening with Stella D'Mare...it's not the right time. I don't know when it would ever be."
"Understandable," Haraldur said, and moved on to conversation with Sigrid and Vega. When the Skyknight wasn't looking, he flashed to Sigrid a view of the ring box, which he kept hidden in a side pouch attached to his belt. "What's this about an archery competition, now?"
As he listened to their banter, the eventual reveal of Sigrid's sexuality, and the stakes the two had agreed upon, Haraldur's eyebrow piqued, intrigued. "Well, we can't have that," he said, crossing his arms at Sigrid in mock jealousy. "Are you trying to steal her away for yourself? I don't think so. Vega," he uncrossed his arms, and transferred them around her waist, "you're not allowed to lose. I'll help you train. If I could instruct your Skyknights to hit a moving target, then I think I can get you to hit the bullseye on an immobile hay bale. Besides," his mouth plied into a grin, "I'd like to see Sigrid in a gown." I'd rather see the two of you dance, he thought, but he figured Vega needed somebody to stand firmly on her side.
By then, the Dawn Warrior had wandered off to lend her aid to the deconstruction of the puppet show. Alster would have offered, as an apology for his unplanned magical antics, but his arm was throbbing and he was already cradling it carefully to his chest. "I think I remember Tivia mentioning that you and Sigrid are cousins." When Vega's curious eyes caught Alster's gaze, he nodded, to clarify. "The reason Sigrid joined me in Eyraille was because Tivia had a vision of a childhood shared with Haraldur. If not for her seer's knowledge...who knows if the two would have known to reconnect? And there's been family-related surprises for me, upon arrival." He smiled over at Grandmother Alta.
"It's been a much-needed reprieve for us all," Haraldur agreed, though he didn't look well-rested. On the contrary, he was harried of face, though it was the type of exhaustion that arose from too much activity, and from what was to come--on the festival's final day. "So I will meet you at the training grounds, an hour before the competition is to take place." Haraldur nudged Vega's elbow. "But for now, I'm meeting up with some of the refugees from the village. I bumped into Thora and a few others during the show, and the adults invited me to go get drinks at the nearby taverns. So, granted I am not sloshed to sin," he stepped back from Vega and grinned, "I'll see you later."
Upon his departure, Alster leaned against one foot as a counterbalance for his weighty arm. "He's been quite popular, today," he said, with a smile. "I imagine you've been, too. But if you can spare the time, perhaps we can catch up." He rested an arm on Grandmother Alta's shoulder, in part to keep his failing balance in check, and in part to include her in their trio. "You're more than welcome to join, Grandmother Alta. I don't suppose the two of you know if I can find Atvanian-grade weapons, or of similar caliber? I want to buy Elespeth a nice gift, but she isn't one for jewelry. Or finery. Or frankly, anything I have any conceivable knowledge of."
An hour before the archery competition, Haraldur sought out Vega in the training grounds. Other contestants had shown up to practice beforehand, and the sounds of arrows whizzing and plunking into the targets filled the large space with a dull din. She'd acquired a relatively sheltered corner that was closest to the overhang of the armory, and though she'd changed out of her gown to more suitable clothes for archery, he was able to spot her flame-sculpted hair instantly, despite his impaired...everything.
"Vega!" He called out to her, half in hobble, half in swagger. He leaned forward and gave her a quick, but sloppy kiss on the cheek. "So I have no idea how it happened, but they...they found a way to drink the piss out of me!" He slapped her shoulder, almost knocking her off balance in the process. "But I never...never forgot my appointment." He jabbed a finger towards the dusty ground. "Here. To help you win. I still have it in me to shoot through a target. I'll show you." Before she could protest, he picked up a bow, nocked an arrow, aimed it at the target, and released his hold on the string. It sailed through the air and landed in the center of the target. A bullseye...in the hay bale across from them.
"Well," he barked a laugh, "I didn't lie. I shot through a target. Not yours, but...you gotta admit, that's still impressive."
“I would be more than happy to give my poor eyes a rest from reading, if you’ll continue to help me with the puppet shows.” Grandmother Alta assured Aster, with a warm and thankful smile. “Really, you should not apologize for the power you have. It heartens me to know that it resides within someone as responsible as yourself. Plus,” she arched an eyebrow, “considering you’ve raised the standard, and I cannot for the life of me replicate what you showed the children today, I would say it is nothing less of your duty to continue to give them what they want to see. That is the price of being great; everyone will want a piece of it.”
Sigrid, meanwhile, was thoroughly enjoying the extent of Vega’s embarrassment and discomfort--in the most innocent and friendly of ways, of course. “And here Vega thought she should be worried; though if anyone should be, then surely it would have to be you, Haraldur.” The Dawn warrior playfully smacked his arm with the back of her hand. “Vega, you’ll have to tell us which of the two of us is the better dancer. I look forward to stealing you away for a song.”
“You are either far too confident in your skills, or you are underestimating me far more than you should!” Vega called after the blonde she-warrior as she walked away to assist Alster and the elderly librarian, already warm and red in the cheeks. She pressed her lips together and turned back to Haraldur, her lips pressed into a thin line. “And just why are you intent on seeing Sigrid in a gown? For her humiliation, of for your pleasure?” But she dropped the serious facade almost as soon as it painted itself on her features, and added, “I am pregnant with twins; it is only a matter of time before things start to get very uncomfortable for me. So I reserve the right to this jealousy, however irrational it might be. That said… I wouldn’t mind a little bit of help, considering we face off this evening.”
At Alster’s additional input, at which he mentioned Tivia, a muscle in Vega’s jaw jumped. Certainly, she felt remorse for what she had done to the seer, especially when the woman had been trying to make amends, but… they were not friends. She wasn’t certain that they ever would be, at least not anytime soon, and just hearing her name was enough to stroke the deep-seated anger with which she had yet to part. “It figures that Tivia would have something to do with it,” she muttered, folding her arms. “But… I am happy that the two of you have found each other. Sigrid is a powerful ally; the Dawn Guard are revered as honorable warriors. And,” she offered Alster a soft smile, “I think your coming here has revived something in Grandmother Alta. She would never tell you she is lonely, but books can only keep you company for so long…”
Standing on her toes to kiss Haraldur’s cheek, Vega smiled. “Don’t get too drunk. I need all the help can get not to lose to that ambitious blonde.”
As he wandered off, the Skyknight reconvened with Alster and Grandmother Alta, now that the theatre and puppets were safely stored away for the day. “As much as I am sure Elespeth would appreciate weapons, there really isn’t anything particularly romantic about them. But I am certain we can find her something nice. Grandmother,” she turned to the matronly librarian. “You’ve more world experience than the lot of us. What does one buy a she-warrior? Perhaps that sounds strange coming from me, but I can only attest to what I like.”
“I’m afraid you are asking the wrong person, my dear. I might be old as the ages, but I’ve spent the majority of my years with books, not with people.” Alta shook her head. “Although, I think you are overseeing the obvious candidate for such an answer.”
She was, of course, referring to Sigrid, who had been standing off to the side, watching a juggler as the conversation unfolded--after all, she wasn’t about to assume she was invited on the mission to buy something for someone she did not know. But when Grandmother Alta singled her out exclusively, she looked back to the trio. “Believe it or not, I am not very well versed in buying gifts for a significant other--I’ve never had one.” She mentioned, raising an eyebrow. “But I know that gifts in general have the greatest impact when they are meaningful to a person in some way. I do not know your Elespeth,” she said to Alster, “but I imagine she does not suffer any shortage of weapons, the way you describe her. Try to think deeper than that.”
“You’re engaged to her.” Vega added, after a moment of enlightenment. “You’ve already sealed your promise with a ring--I saw it when we visited Stella D’Mare briefly. Perhaps find her something to further that promise. Something for your wedding, for her to wear, or anything to symbolize it. She misses you terribly, Alster.” She recalled how defeated and alone the Atvanain warrior had admitted to feeling; how she had seriously contemplated coming back with her to Eyraille, if only to be among friends. “Find her something that reminds her of you; or the two of you, together.
“Well, Sigrid, perhaps you are good for something, after all.” She said to the Dawn warrior with a smirk. “Sound advice for someone who has never been in a relationship. Did you…” She hesitated, and sighed. It was only fair to offer… “Did you want to come with us?”
To her partial relief, Sigrid shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, your Highness, but I think I’ll take some time to brush up on my archery skills. I’m a rather competitive bastard, and I don’t like to lose.” She threw a sweet smile over her shoulder at Vega. “See you at the competition?”
The Eyraillian princess groaned low in her chest, and pressed her palm to her forehead. “I think I’m in trouble.”
Some time after she and Alta had aided Alster in finding something suitable for his fiance, Vega changed into something more suitable for the archery competition, before heading over to the training grounds to meet Haraldur. Her first clue as to the mercenary’s state of sobriety was the fact that he was late, when it the past she’d known him for being punctual. And his arrival, when he finally showed up, only confirmed what she’d feared.
“Oh, no.” She sighed, watching as he picked up and notched an arrow in the bow… and missed the target entirely, hitting a hay bale, instead. “You are not going to be of any help to me at all. I’ve as good as lost this.”
“What? Is that my sister, giving up so easily?” Caris sidled around the corner, arms folded. “I heard you were enrolling in the competition, but I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw it. Since when do you fancy yourself an archer?”
“I don’t. I’m only doing this so as not to lose a bet.” She grumbled, neglecting to mention that she was too damned competitive to turn down a challenge--even one she was sure she might lose.
The young king raised his eyebrows. “Well, then I’ll certainly be interested in seeing this. And, it is nice to see you’ve come to embrace the spirit of celebration, Haraldur.” He chuckled, clapping the mercenary on the shoulder. “Enjoy it while you can, because I’ll have you know, I will not have a drunk Green Spirit on the final night of the festival. Well, good luck to you, sister--in case you think you’ll need it.”
As Caris wandered off to take prime seating, as he’d be calling eliminations among the thirty-plus competitors as competition failed and dwindled, a familiar blonde spotted Vega and Haraldur, and made her way over to them, a bow already hanging from her shoulder.
“So glad you lived up to your word, your Highness. I’m rather excited about this.” Sigrid teased, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. And, solely because Haraldur was there to hear it, she was as bold to ask the princess, “Think you can spare a kiss for good luck?”
“I think not.” Vega muttered, flat and without amusement.
“Understandable. Well, what if I were to give you one?” And before Vega could protest, Sigrid placed a chaste kiss on her cheek--and pivoted out of her reach, before the Skyknight could strike her. “You are a lucky man, Haraldur.” She laughed, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “It is rare to find so fiery a woman with such beauty.”
Watching with a light air of contempt as Sigrid went to retrieve her number for the competition, Vega pressed her lips together and squared her shoulders, heat creeping into her cheeks and coloring them red. “I will not lose to her,” was all she said, before taking up her place in the competition.
It was a simple process of elimination. The competitors were to fire arrows at targets, with those who were the furthest from the bullseye being eliminated, one by one. As thirty-six dwindled to twenty-five, and twenty-five to fifteen, Vega felt her confidence rise. Both she and Sigrid were still part of the competition, and their aim appeared to be relatively similar. It all had to do with just how well or how poorly everyone else did in comparison to them… but still, a handful were more experienced archers than the two of them. And finally, much to Vega’s disappointment, she was eliminated at ten contestants left. The only solace she took was that Sigrid was eliminated at four contestants, not even ranking in the top three… but it wasn’t much of a victory, considering how hard she had lost.
Following the competition (at which, to Vega’s pride, one of her Skyknights had taken third place), she and her companions--Sigrid included--decided to purchase some more of the delicious vendor’s food before the stalls closed for the evening, and partook in an informal picnic dinner atop a grassy hill. And that was where argument ensued.
“It is null and void, if neither of us won.” Vega was insisting, almost too heated from the debate to eat the savoury meat, decadent pastries, fruit and cheeses before her. “Neither of us even placed in the top three.”
“True. But that still does not negate the fact that I made it further than you. And this bet wasn’t referring to the whole competition; just the two of us.” Sigrid sweetly disagreed, popping a grape into her mouth. “When all is said and done, I still beat you--so I win the bet. Though if you do insist on saying that the both of us lost--then wouldn’t that mean we both have to uphold out end of the bargain? Regardless,” she winked, “you’d still owe me a dance.”
Vega wrinkled her nose, and looked to the others for support. “You agree with me, right? If neither of us even placed, then shouldn’t the ‘bet’ fall through the cracks?”
“Ah, semantics. The bane of our words.” Grandmother Alta chuckled, folding a napkin on her lap. “Here is my take on it. Since neither of you specified that ‘winning’ entailed placing in the top three… I would say it still stands to reason, your Highness, that Sigrid did beat you, fair and square, which makes her the winner.”
“A vote. I want a vote on this.” The Skyknight commander declared, narrowing her eyes at the two who had not yet spoken up. “Bear in mind I am pregnant and cranky, and I’m not afraid to use that to my advantage.”
The Dawn warrior snorted. “Well that’s cheating, if ever I’ve seen it. Perhaps it would be only fair to get his Majesty in on this, consider he was the one judging the competition. I am curious as to what he would have to say.”
“You are a rogue and a scoundrel.” Vega complained, her shoulders sinking. She knew exactly where Caris would place his vote.
"Everyone and everything wants a piece of it," Alster mused, raising his prosthetic arm for emphasis, in spite of the pangs that bit into his flesh. "Including my own magic. It was eating me away, for a time. So I know that feeling all too well. The price of power. It's part of why I'm so eager to share it; because if I do," he paused in his packing of the delicate wooden roc puppet, "maybe I won't be so alone. But then people accuse you of standing out, of showing off, and they alienate you anyway. It's hard to see myself as anything other than a receptacle. Something hollow, which only hums to life when the magic sings through my bones. I know this belief doesn't hold true now; not with people like Elespeth able to see past my magic and birthright. Evenso, I know that I still have trouble identifying myself in any other way. I am my magic. So what I'm saying is," he pressed out his gloom with a firm smile, "I'm obligated to give those children a celestial spectacle, so no need to worry."
Haraldur, who was standing opposite Grandmother Alta and Alster on the stage, could only watch the heated exchange of the two she-warriors as he, helpless to escape, was lodged between the blonde and the red-head. "Oh, I'm rightly concerned," he said, with an unconvincing drawl. "Do I have to duel you for this dishonor, Sigrid? Don't let our draw from yesterday fool you; I'll have your face in the dirt before our swords even cross paths. I'll show you how to dance."
But his transparent and facetious threats went unanswered as the Dawn Warrior wandered off in favor of puppet-packing duty. She relieved Alster, who, nodding in gratitude, hauled himself to his feet and rejoined Vega and Haraldur at the lee side of the stage. He arrived in time to hear the mercenary utter, "No; she's my apparent relation, and she favors the company of woman. What pleasure can I even...are you honestly still jealous of her? She's right, you know; I have actual reason to be worried. Are you going to run away with her after the festival?" He shook his head in disapproval, though his eyes shone in a playful light.
The playfulness, however, dampened, at Alster's mention of the star-seer, whose insights Haraldur could not condemn. Even if she was in league with the necromancer, she'd cared enough to inform his kin, possibly his only living family member, about his existence. And for that, he could not share in Vega's rancor over the young Rigas woman, who he, shamefully, had used for his own selfish needs. Knowing his stance would be seen as controversial, he sighed, and voiced his defense anyway. "She did me a favor," he said, with a gentleness that revealed the care he still felt for the troubled caster. "It was through her clairvoyance that I've been reunited with family, so I can't begrudge her this opportunity she's given me."
In response, Alster coughed and promptly redirected the subject. Vega's jaw was grinding with repeated mention of the Rigas who'd slighted her. Had he known her reaction would be so severe, he wouldn't have mentioned her at all. "I think she's revived something in me, too," he began, chancing a smile in Grandmother Alta's direction. "Hope for the future. I want to build her the home she never had in Stella D'Mare. Though I can't force her to come with me, I'm loathe to leave her alone, especially after she's lost her sons and her husband. Please visit her often, when I'm gone." His eyes saddened as he looked to the ground. "Who knows when I'll have the chance to return?"
Grandmother Alta was soon to join them, at which point Haraldur bid them all farewell and took off into the crowd beyond the hill. "I know they're not romantic," Alster said, hurriedly, in relation to Elespeth's gift, "but my idea of romantic is...well, I'm afraid it's too excessive for her. She'll claim she won't want anything but...me," he blushed, "which I'm sure she means with all her heart. I'm the same way. Though, that doesn't mean I should abstain from offering her gifts. I thought, at least, that a weapon would be...practical. Perhaps a matching dagger." He gave a one-sided shrug. "But I'm sorely out of my element, here."
Fortunately, with Sigrid and Vega bouncing ideas off each other, he wasn't at a loss for long. "I miss her, too," he said, hugging his steel limb as though it could supplement her absence. "I'm glad you lent me the resonance stone, though; we've reconnected, and I plan to speak with her again tonight. It isn't long, now. I'll return to her, with my promise in tact. Nothing else I'll give her will be adequate, but," he turned to the dense overgrowth of booths and tents, "I'm willing to try."
He ended up purchasing her a tiara, all the while laughing about how it represented his excessive nature to a T. Despite what it betokened, it was a modest circlet, silver in color, and arrayed with small, sculpted stars. In its center glowed a light-blue stone, elongated like the tail of his namesake, a celestial body that was, on closer inspection, two bodies, existing as one. Together, they dominated the night sky--and soon, they would rise again, at the height of Stella D'Mare's rose-bloom. He and Elespeth...would rise. "Is it tacky?" He asked Vega and Grandmother Alta, second-guessing his gift. "You'd tell me if it was tacky, right? I mean, she doesn't have to wear it for the wedding; I don't want to choose her wardrobe. That's a very Rigas-like thing to do." He looked to Grandmother Alta guiltily. "Do I revoke my title as your long wished-for Rigas?"
Hours later, after Alster and Grandmother Alta found themselves seats in the audience for the upcoming archery competition, Haraldur was still laughing at his arrow-shooting folly. "Maybe it's not suited for a competition, but I've been on the front lines drunk before, and I lived. This is not a battle, and you're sober, so you're not going to die if you can't beat her," he said, nodding along to his most-wise words of encouragement and perseverance in the face of assured defeat. "But I'm on your side--except if you end up eloping with Sigrid. Because if you do that," he gave her a roguish smirk, "I'll marry Caris. The man will be lonely and in need of comfort. And yes, I did implant that nightmare in your head. You're welcome."
Speaking of the Eyraillian king, the younger Sorde sibling appeared from behind them, with his own choice words to say on Vega's upcoming performance. He returned Caris's enthusiastic shoulder slap with one of his own. "Now you can't accuse me of not celebrating," he said, with the proud straightening of his shoulders. "And relax. My Green Spirit will be wholesome, and full of good cheer, and wreaths, which I will throw straight and true."
After Caris's departure, Haraldur passed the bow to Vega and was about to leave for the stands, when Sigrid strode toward them...and planted a kiss on the flustered woman's cheek. "She really has it in for you," he said, amused by the strangely erotic rivalry between the two. "I think she gave you bad luck; here, I'll remedy that." In the same place, he kissed her; a quick peck, so not to alarm any curious contestants who no doubt wondered of the princess and her lewd relationships. "Good luck." With a wink, he disappeared into the crowd.
The competition unwound as Haraldur had expected. While he did not know Sigrid beyond a day, he was also aware that Vega, while decent with a bow, wasn't aiding her cause with her self-defeat. Sure enough, the Skyknight fell out of the top ten remaining archers, leaving only Sigrid to fight her way to the coveted top three placing. She did not advance beyond the number four position, but it was an impressive effort, nonetheless. By the competition's end, Haraldur, who had sobered up a little, hung an arm around Sigrid's shoulders in congratulations. "Good show, Sorenson. These talents run in the family, for certain."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the companions all hiked to the top of the hill, which afforded them a view of the festival below, all bedecked with lanterns filtered in shades of blue and green. Like an avenue of stars, or a glowing stream, the wide arc of its influence had reached them with enough light to spare. But to further aid Grandmother Alta and her failing eyesight, Alster had cast several balls of etherea at strategic corners of the blanket on which they all sat, acting as candles, without the messiness of dripping wax or accidental burnings. As he nibbled his decadent pastry, (which to his relief hadn't triggered a reaction in his sensitive stomach), he quietly listened to the ongoing debate about the archery competition, a moot point that hadn't yet been resolved.
"I suppose you won't let me stay neutral?" Alster asked, with a placating smile. At Vega's glare, his smile wavered. "I thought not. Since there were no other witnesses to hear when the initial bet was drawn, or the exact wording that Sigrid used, I only have your testimonies to go by. So on that end, the evidence is inconclusive. But, if we look at it from a ranking standpoint, technically," he hesitated, "Sigrid advanced further than you, Vega."
"Not looking good for you," Haraldur tsked, before taking a bite out of his sweet-meat pastry. "Sigrid won, Vega. But I will appeal to your pregnancy needs, and rub your feet tonight."
"Are you priming her feet for the dance?"
"What? No. Of course not." Haraldur chuckled, leaning forward to squeeze Veg'as hand. "But if you are going to dance with Sigrid, you might as well be free of bunion pain."
"If this was going to be such a hotly-contested bet, the two of you should have written up a contract." Alster awkwardly cleaned his hand by holding a napkin with his steel fingers. "Then you could have stipulated the terms of the agreement, and the details thereto. For example--is it a dance of Sigrid's choosing, or of Vega's? If the latter, then Vega can choose the quadrille, since it's more group-oriented. Less contact than your standard waltz. But what I'd like to know," he looked from Sigrid, to Haraldur, "are the two of you acquainted with ballroom dancing?"
"Not at all," Haraldur said, with a nervous shake of the head.
"Hm...that might be a problem if the Green Spirit can't dance. Well," he sat back on his heels, "I'm not as sure-footed as I used to be," he stared at his dead weight of an arm, "but surely, I or someone else can teach you before the final day of the festival."
“Have you all turned against me?” Vega groaned, the look of a sore loser written all over her face. Not only had she lost a competition in front of all of her kingdom, but the consequences would be just as embarrassing, if not more so. “This is ridiculous. Have you ever stopped to think what my people will be thinking when they see me dancing with someone other than Haraldur? Especially when…” She sighed, and looked down at her stomach. “It’s only a matter of time before they find out I’m pregnant with his children? I feel I’ve already garnered quite a reputation on my own, without your help, Sigrid.”
“I wouldn’t worry so much, your Highness. It isn’t uncommon for a man to butt in and ask someone else’s partner for a dance.” Sigrid picked off a piece of a sweet pastry and popped it into her mouth. “I already dress like a man. If you like, I’ll even wear my hair up. From a distance, it will look like some lovelorn, hopeless suitor is merely seeking a dance with a woman he can never have. And, as the victor,” she grinned, “I call a dance for just the two of us. You are welcome to try to argue on it, but I’ll go easier on you if you don’t.” She accentuated that claim with a wink.
At the mention of ballroom dancing, the Skyknight looked up and smiled at Haraldur. “Looks like you are going to have to learn--and fast. I’ll tell you what, Sigrid. If, by the final night of the festival, you have learned to ballroom dance as well as any noble--then you can have your dance. I won’t even protest.”
The Dawn warrior’s blue eyes lit up. “I do like a challenge.” She grinned, and raised an eyebrow at Haraldur. “You hear that, Haraldur? Looks like I’ll be getting a dance from your Lady, afterall. And I’m willing to wager I’ll be better at it than you. Better watch out; she might not be able to resist me.”
“Are you quite finished, Dawn warrior?” Vega asked, her face deadpan and unimpressed. “We don’t need a third-wheel, thank you.”
“Are you so sure about that?” Sigrid asked, relishing the blush that crept into Vega’s cheeks. Frankly, the fact that the princess was so easily flustered was the reason for her endless amusement. She just couldn’t help herself. “Well, if not, then…” She leaned in briefly to say something in the princess’s ear. Whatever it was, Sigrid’s eyes widened, and she promptly pushed her away.
“That is quite enough from you.”
“I am not wrong--think about it.” Sigrid smiled slyly, and shrugged her shoulders. “But I’ll back down. For now.” Getting to her feet, along with the others as their meal came to a close, she flashes Haraldur a distinctly feline look, before murmuring so only he could hear, “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
Grandmother Alta chuckled and nudged Alster, before standing. “Looks like you’ll be busy this week, between helping with the puppet shows and teaching a couple of warriors how to ballroom dance.” She chuckled. “Be careful you do not spread yourself too thin, young man.”
Later that evening, after everyone retired following a long and fulfilling day, Vega was happy to find herself back in her chambers for room to breathe. After bidding Sigrid to hastily retrieve her sword, which, as promised, had been left entirely untouched (thanks to Alster’s spell of protection on it, no doubt), she was quick to close the door. For a while, she said little to Haraldur as she stoked a fire in the fireplace, and drew herself a warm bath, and the mercenary rightfully saw fit not to bother her, after all of the flack she’d taken from his ‘cousin’ that day.
But after he’d settled in, and she finally returned from her bath, the Eyraillian princess was not ready to retire to sleep, as he’d thought--far from it, in fact. When Vega rounded the corner, she was not clad in her typical silken nightgown; in fact, she wasn’t clad in much, at all, save for lacy, white and silver negligee that cupped her breasts and stretched across her hips. She hardly allowed Haraldur a moment to take her all in, before she presented him with an order: “Take off your clothes.”
She rounded the bed, copper hair hanging in more defined curls around her shoulders, still damp from the bath, and a sultry look of determination twinkling in her cerulean eyes. “You said you’d cater to my pregnant whims; well, I don’t know what it is about being pregnant that makes me want you more, and more often… but I do. So, indulge me.” Despite his compliance, the princess impatiently climbed onto the bed and bunched the hem of his tunic in her fists to help him out of it. “I’ve had to put up with your relentless ‘cousin’ all day. Even if I don’t have a reason to be jealous of her… I still want to make it clear as to why you won’t want to have eyes for anyone else. And,” she paused, a faint hint of color creeping into her face. Such was the misfortune of having regular blood flow circulate her body; she once again wore her emotions on her face, as plainly as the clothes on her body. “I want to reaffirm my own preferences, for myself. Maybe then, Sigrid will lay off.”
Vega was not taking no for an answer, and fortunately, Haraldur did not seem to mind. They made love with vigor, again and again, late into the night, until the two of them were too exhausted to fight sleep. When morning light assaulted her closed eyes, the princess begrudgingly sat up, and groaned. “Haraldur--get up. We’ve overslept. Hurry, put something on. I’m starving, and if my favorite foods have already sold out, you may be putting up with a grouchy princess yet again.”
A crowd had already begun to gather, some out of curiosity, and others in anticipation, outside two large caravans that had been parked just beyond the city square: the festival’s ‘main stage’, for all intents and purposes. Tall posts, high-wires, and silken ribbons had been erected overnight, not unlike what one would find at a circus, all which promised a good deal of entertainment to come. At last, when enough eyes had gathered, some already aware of what was to come, and others wanting to see for themselves, a young woman emerged from one of the caravans. She was of a slight build and average height, chestnut hair pulled into a ponytail, and clad in a form-fitting gown of glittering gold with an alarmingly short skirt, which was about the only thing that did not cling to her like a second skin. Her eyelids were also painted with the same shade of gold, and heavily lined with dark kohl, a dash of sparkle on her cheekbones. She took in the crowd with a welcoming smile, and spread her arms wide.
“Ah, good morning, Eyraille. I trust you’ve been enjoying your joyous celebration, thus far?” The audience clapped and cheered in response, and her smile grew. “Excellent, so glad to hear it. And you’ll be even more thrilled to hear that my friends and I intend to embellish your holiday with even more excitement.”
Meanwhile, Daphni and Elias, who had been taking in the sights and activities of Eyraille’s celebration of Equinox, came to a halt at the sight of the crowd. Recognition dawned on Daphni’s face, and she gently tugged the Clematis healer’s arm. “I’ve seen them before--these performers are exquisite.” She said with a smile. “Do you mind if we watch, a moment?”
The two found a spot within the crowd where they could both see the golden-glad woman rile up excitement in the crowd. The performer went on. “Admittedly, this is not our first visit to Eyraille, as some of you already know--why yes, I do see some familiar faces, and I have a darn good memory for them.” She tapped one of her temples with two fingers. “But for those of you with whom we are not yet acquainted, allow me to introduce myself. I--”
The woman was interrupted, suddenly, by the sound of a small explosion, followed by coloured smoke rising a few feet to her right. Of course, to all who were familiar with the troupe, it was merely part of an act, but she made a good show of acting startled, nonetheless. “Well, that was abrupt.” She remarked and shook her head. “As I was saying, my name is--” And another colourful explosion took place to her left. Again, she jumped, and heaved a dramatic sigh. “Now, this is just getting silly. Once again, you can call me--”
This time, the explosion was much larger, and took place in front of her, enough for the green smoke to completely block out the performer. When it cleared, a tall, somewhat lanky man had appeared, a smirk plastered on his face. “Trying to steal the show already, Briery? How rude of you.”
With an exaggerated eye-roll, Briery shook her head and sighed again. “All right, all right. Might I present to you--since he is so insistent to have the spotlight--Rycen, the Illusionist. Here to fulfill your desire to see a man eat fire, vanish into thin air, and pull impossible objects out from his sleeve--and, possibly, elsewhere.” The adults in the crowd chuckled at the humor, but Rycen, who knelt near a child toward the front of the audience, pulled a single, silver coin from behind the young boy’s ear. The child’s eyes went wide, as the magician placed the heavy piece of metal into his hand, to keep.
“Elsewhere? You mean like that, Briery?”
“Sure. Whatever you say, Rycen.” The gold-clad woman shook her head with a grin. “But that’s enough of you; shoo, you’ve had your time in the spotlight. Now, the next person I’d like to present, well… that is, if I can find him… Has anyone seen Lautim?”
No sooner did she mention the name that another man exited one of the caravans--a man who was easily twice the size and girth of any man of above-average stature, all height and muscle, which he was not afraid to show. The woman was practically swallowed by his shadow, as she made a show of looking everywhere except behind her. “Honestly, he is so hard to find, I lose him all the time! None of you good ladies in the audience have happened to see a man roughly twice the size and girth of your husbands, have you? Funny, how he can blend in so easily…”
She let out a small yelp, when the man behind her--one who easily possessed giant’s blood--scooped her up with one arm and set her on his shoulder. Children in the crowd shrieked and cheered. “Well--I suppose that answers my question!” She laughed, and called down to them. “Meet Lautim, the strongest--and possibly largest--man you will ever see. Fellows, feel free to test your strength against him, but I warn those of you with fragile egos, it will not end well. Thank you, Lautim.”
The giant didn’t say a single word, from the moment of his entrance, to the moment he carefully placed the golden woman back onto the ground. “And, if you are looking for a sweet melody to titillate your senses, it is my pleasure to present to you Cwenha, our resident siren.” Last to emerge from the caravans was a girl, smaller and seemingly younger than the gold-clad woman, fair and with pure white hair pulled back into a tight braid. She was clad in gauzy silver, from head to foot, and her pale, luminous eyes took in the audience. “During our stay, you will also see her accompanying myself, Lautim, and Rycen in all of our acts. She is truly a jack of all trades, and talented in everything she can do. Well, I suppose that leaves one final introduction.”
Stepping forward, the golden-clad woman finally bowed. “My name is Briery Frealy, and some of you already know our lot as the Missing Links. Myself, you’ll find me everywhere; on the ground, where I prefer to dance, or in the sky, on tightline, trapeze, and aerial silks, and anywhere else my troupe might need me. I speak for everyone when I say it is a pleasure to make your acquaintances, all of you.”
The quartet took a united bow, at the clapping and cheering of the crowd, which had doubled in size since Briery had stepped out. “Today, you will find us apart, all doing our own things, but this evening, we have prepared collective performances that we promise you will never forget. You won’t want to miss it. I hope to see each and every one of you there; after all, the more energy we have to draw from, the better we are. But for now, I thank you for your time.”
After one more bow, the troupe all seemed to set off in different directions to perform individually; Rycen, who took his sleight of hand to the town square, Lautim, who was prepared to receive challenges at the training grounds, and Cwenha, who would occupy the gazebo before and after the puppet shows, that day. Briery was the only one who stayed put, setting up in a small tent that had been established near one of the caravans.
“Let’s go, tonight.” Daphni urged Elias, gently taking his arm. “They are a superbly tight-knit troupe, and they never fail to put on a good show. I am willing to bet that it will even draw a smile out of you.” She couldn’t help but tease.
“So you are familiar with us?” Briery, who was only a few yards away and could not help but overhear, offered a smile. “Many thanks for your glowing account of our shows. I hope we do not disappoint.”
Daphni offered the girl a nod. “This is not your first time in Eyraille, I take it?”
“No; in fact, our troupe has been requested to return every year, for this very festival, for the past four years. It is always most certainly worth our while; we’ll never turn it down. Would either or both of you be interested in a reading?” The golden-clad woman presented a deck of cards with gilded edges from a nearby pouch, and began to shuffle. “Full disclaimer, I am neither a seer nor psychic. But my cards have also never been wrong.”
Despite Elias’s obvious skepticism, the Sybaian healer smiled. “How much for a reading?”
“For a couple of healers? It’ll cost you nothing but your attendance at our show tonight. In fact, I’ll be insulted if you try to offer me money.” Cards expertly mixed between her hands, she clarified, “It is thanks to healers that I am able to travel with my troupe and perform, or be useful to them at all. Instead of finding myself confined to bed and managing pain for two weeks out of the month, I’ve now managed to reduce it to one. Which means more time on my feet, and more money to be made for our troupe. So.” She fanned out the cards, face down, on the small, collapsible table in front of her. “Which one of you shall I read, first?”
"Better at it?" With that, Haraldur shrugged, and returned to his meal, taking a few lazy bites of food. "Maybe you will, maybe you won't. I'm not like Vega, Sigrid. I'm unaffected by a challenge." But in his practiced nonchalance, Alster caught a flash of fire in his mossy stone eyes. "Because I'll win without any contest." In response, the Dawn Warrior again whispered something into Vega's ears, which, for the second time that day, stirred a flustered reaction from her eyes and cheeks. "Again with the whispers? What are you saying this time? That you're actually a man, too?" Despite himself, a knot of annoyance appeared between his brow. Sigrid was beginning to go too far. "We'll see about that," he muttered back, with a suspicious frown.
"I like the busywork," Alster replied to Grandmother Alta. As if to prove his point, he began to clean up after everyone finished their meal. "So I propose our first lesson tomorrow, after the puppet show. Find us a vacant room at the palace, Vega. And Sigrid, bring your needles and solution." He twitched in phantom pain, his arm stinging with the very idea of tomorrow. "I'll be playing the woman. Plenty of twirling is involved. And," he rubbed at his torn flesh, "it's going to hurt."
When at last they retired for the evening, Haraldur immediately took to the bed, lying across the covers on his stomach. The alcohol, which was flushing out of his system, had outfitted him with layers of exhaustion. It piled up on him with every passing hour. Too comfortable to change out of his festival colors, he kicked his boots to the floor, and was about to close his eyes and drift off into much-deserved slumber...until instinct commanded he open his eyes and look to his left.
With a groan, he obeyed, lifting his head from the pillow and shifting his position towards the source of his sensory curiosity. When he descried Vega, dressed in laces so dainty, they could come apart with his teeth, he sat up, like a dog on command. And thus, he was given his order: Take off your clothes.
His bone-weary mind tried to comply with the efficiency of an obedient soldier, but his sluggish movements rattled the impatience of his ornery and lascivious lover, who crawled on top of him and pulled off his tunic and trousers quicker than he'd ever seen clothes get disrobed. "Yes, ma'am," he said, shrugging out of the remains of the clinging fabric, until he too was naked. Though he'd rather sleep, Vega's proposition was far from a sour alternative, and in her bothered state, he was afraid that if he denied her, she'd have her way with him, regardless. Besides, a little sex before bed was the best remedy for a relaxing slumber.
"If this is what you need to assert that I 'stay in my place,'" he planted a kiss on the pulsing veins on her hot, flushed neck, "then you'll have me, tonight. I'll walk around blindfolded from now until the last day, if that's your wish. And," his face pulled into a smirk, "far be it from me to stop you from proving to me that your preferences are purely of the male sex. I don't lose in this arrangement, though," he whispered in his ear, "you will let me sleep, after this. Or sleep in."
But after they made love the first time, Vega did not relent, and he found it hard to resist--especially when she kept mentioning what her pregnancy "wanted." They continued for hours into the night, until he, his resources finally depleted, fell face first into the pillow, and did not awaken until late morning.
The sounds of Vega's insistent cries moaned him into half-wakefulness. Only mildly aware of the goings on in their shared chambers, he gave a bleary nod and slowly planted his feet on the floor. "As you wish," he droned, too spent to fight her strong-willed desire--and too indebted to ever deny her the required sustenance for her pregnant belly. He stood up and lumbered over to the wash basin, where he gave himself a quick sponge bath. "I'll go on ahead, if you need time to dress. What foods do you want? I'll guarantee that you get them all, by royal decree of Sir Vega Sorde."
If attendance for the Equinox Festival was not compulsory, Elias would have been holed up in the library, researching his own methods for extending Daphni's life. He'd take in the welcome solitude, content in knowing that he was spared from the clamor and chaos that chattered outside like a roosting murder of crows, all caws and claws and mayhem. Alas, Fortune would not favor the modest desires of a simple healer, for, were it not for Daphni's continuous badgering, then certainly, it would be the incessant pounding of Myron and Felix's fists on their door.
After he could stand it not a minute longer, he swung open the door, hoping he'd whack one of them in the face with its swift push forward...but no such luck. They dodged before he could even graze one of their overly jutting noses. "What do you want?" Elias growled.
"We heard that someone doesn't want to partake in the festival," Felix said, looking over the Clematis healer's outfit, which was defiantly dressed in red. "Have any idea who that might be?"
Elias affixed the crooked brooch on his jerkin, huffing his frustration at having to explain anything to his bullheaded brothers. "I am a healer of the cloth. My choice of color is not a choice, but obligatory, as stated by the strictures of my Order. I wear red, and my brooch in plain sight, so that anyone in need of healing will be able to spot me in a crowd, with ease. And yes, I will be in that crowd. As Daphni gently reminded me moments before your cacophonous arrival, people will require my services. So your...'welcoming committee,'" he gestured at the two, who were wearing matching blue and silver tunics, "is unnecessary. Go forth and enjoy the sundry and gluttonous wonders of your promised land."
Myron and Felix laughed in unison as they, also in unison, trapped him in the middle of their muscular bulk, throwing arms around his shoulders. "Not going to escape our influence that easily, little brother," Myron smirked as they strong-armed him out from the threshold. "It's been years since we've caught up. You mean to tell me you don't want to spend time in our darling company?"
"You wound me, Eli." Felix bemoaned, faking a catch in his throat. "I require healing."
"And the only antidote is if you join us outside." As they continued to push their protesting brother down the hallway, Myron turned his head to Daphni and winked at her. "C'mon then, Daph. We'll need you nearby, in case he gets any ideas and tries to flee."
"I will remember this," Elias groaned, "when the two of you are bleeding on the floor and screaming in agony. I'll hear your cries and ignore them."
"No you won't," Felix said in a singsong voice. "Because you love us."
"So much love," Elias deadpanned. "Surely, it will kill me."
By the endless mercy of the Eight-Colored God, Myron and Felix did not accompany them through the crowded festival for long. Catching wind of the soon to start jousting tournament, they noisily announced their departure. But as they wandered off, they promised to return--"soon."
"And don't think we won't find you!" called out Myron's fading voice as he and his brother disappeared into the soup of humanity. "You're a beacon to behold, Eli! Red and bold!"
"Oh thank God they're gone," Elias said, sighing in relief. "Let's put some space between them in case they change their minds and decide to join the tournament and insist I be their medic. I really will leave them bleeding on the ground. ...For as long as I can ensure they won't die. I know my oaths." He offered his arm to Daphni. "Though my oaths don't stop me from making the recovery process a long and painful one."
After about a half an hour of mingling through the festival and taking the least populated side-streets (as he couldn't imagine the toll it was taking on Daphni, to withstand thousands of large emotional moods), she bid him to stop. He looked, unimpressed, at the caravans before them, between which an impromptu stage of plank-boards was set up. A young woman stood at its center, bedazzling in gold, and bedaubed in glitter and kohl. "Mmm. I'd love nothing more than to watch a group of charlatans bounding about," he said, derisively. "Lead the way to an advantageous spot, and I'll withstand the onslaught."
They found an opening in the crowd through which they squeezed. It allowed them an unobstructed view of the stage, the young woman (who seemed to be the ringleader), and the predictable series of "mishaps" that such circus troupes loved to exploit. He stood there, unmoved by the energetic dialogue, unshaken by the colorful explosions, and unimpressed by the cast of colorful characters, who paraded themselves on the stage.
"Is this your idea of entertainment?" He whispered to Daphni. "Why watch an illusionist when we have magic, and know people who can make objects actually disappear?"
St. Thorne was, despite its religiosity, an intellectual city, concerned by the how of things, rather than the glory of ignorance. Circus performers, therefore, did not amuse any masses aside from the uneducated, who knew little about the smoke and mirrors act; or if they did, seemed not to care about the trickery. The initiated, however, called performers out on their hokum, and often accused traveling troupes of heresy, for their baseless art was done to stupefy audiences, and take advantage of ignorance--a severe affront to the purity of Intellectualism. Shortly after the accusations, the St. Thorne family passed an ordinance, banning the arrival of any traveling troupes. It was the first of such bans, and would soon cinch St. Thorne, in the eyes of its neighbors, as the Hermit City. Their ever-increasing suspicions of the outside world, while not unfounded, considering the hostile Kariji, were ultimately the downfall of the fortress island on the lake. Their fear of everyone not Thornian had alienated them from allies, who were more than willing to help the besieged city-state from falling apart.
But now, it was too late. St. Thorne had imploded, and despite Imogen's claims, belonged now to the Kariji people.
Once the performers had dispersed to cause their havoc on unsuspecting festival-goers (and likely to empty their pockets), Elias pointed his feet towards the clearing of the crowd, more than ready to leave and go elsewhere. Even if it was to the jousting tournament. "I doubt they will," Elias countered, his "smile," upside-down and determined to stay in its position.
Before he could express his "No," to his chagrin, they attracted the attention of the ringleader, who floated over to them, uninvited. He gave a polite nod of recognition, but said nothing else (so not to dampen Daphni's enjoyment of the event). But once this Briery mentioned a "card reading," he could not help but visibly balk. "No, I am not," he said, with an unyielding crossing of his arms. And he was about to leave it at that, and walk away (with or without Daphni), but at mention of the cost (which was free), he turned around, his skeptical brow shooting upward. "Free? Is this a ploy? I know how you 'performers' operate. Lure us into a large crowd, plant shills in the audience, distract us with dancing lights and acrobatics--and lighten our pockets. So...no. I am not interested, even if I did believe your story about your love of healers." He touched Daphni's shoulder. "Let's go. I heard about a merchant of rare herbs, who claims he's concocted a life-enhancing elixir. Though I'm certain he's a fraud."
“A ploy? Not in the least. While I cannot speak for the nature of my profession as a while--you will always have a few bad apples to ruin the fun for everyone--but I can tell you with confidence that my troupe works very hard for the coin that they earn.” Briery said, without missing a beat. She continued to expertly shuffle the tarot cards in her hands. “Now, as I said, it would cost you your attendance at our show, this evening. In the hopes that we will impress you enough that you might mention us to friends, who will then tell their friends, and so on. The only way we can make ourselves known is through word of mouth, ideally. And the more people who attend, the more money we will make. So, there you have it--my full transparency. But… I will not take offense at your attitude.”
Looking up from her shuffling, she arched a brow in Elias’s direction. “You are a Clematis healer, hailing from St. Thorne, are you not? My troupe and I have traveled far and wide, but never to your fair home. They won’t have the likes of us “charlatans”, touting “fake magic” and “preying on the ignorant”.” She snorted, and shook her head, the golden glitter on her cheeks catching the sunlight. “We’ve been popular in Eyraille for a few years, due to the fact that magic--real magic, that is--is something relatively new to them. They’re still impressed by our innocent sleight of hand, especially the children. But we are more--so much more than just that.
“Lautim, for example, has rare giant heritage. Height and strength that cannot be faked. It can make for a real show, watching the local ‘manly men’ think they can face off against him and win.” She chuckled, her slight shoulders shaking. “The joke is on them, though. He is perhaps the gentlest person I have ever met. And mute; has never spoken a word, in all of the years I’ve known him. Not a clue why. And Cwenha--now, if you have a spare moment in your day, I do recommend you go to hear her sing. Voice of an angel, and a stage presence that far surpasses her age and height. There is no faking that talent, either. Myself, I’ve trained for years in dance and aerial arts--and these, I guarantee, cannot be learned overnight. I started when I was only eight years old, and I think the effort and experience shows. Now, Rycen, on the other hand…” Briery grinned and shook her head. “I’ve no defense, for him. Purely an illusionist, albeit a talented one. Amazing with children, too. The point is, Clematis, we are not all solely about trickery. There is rhyme and reason to our shows, and our end goal is to entertain, and to make the audience’s attendance worthwhile for them. Perhaps this is something that St. Thorne will one day come to realize, when it gets it head out of its ass.
“Until then, we will frequent the places where we are welcome. And I’ll have you know, it certainly is not profitable to rob the places and people who welcome you.” She snorted again. “People are not fools--even the ones who are entertained by Rycen’s sleight of hand. They would catch on, eventually, and we’d lose our audience. But that’s enough about us: here.” She picked up her cards, and presented them to Daphni in a fan. “Pick three. Whichever ones call to you--one at a time.”
Intrigued, Daphni did so, picking one card after another and handing them to Briery. But before she could hear the performer’s assessment of the cards, Elias, sufficiently offended and having had enough was already beginning to walk away. Shooting Briery an apologetic look, she turned to walk after him, but froze at the woman’s words when they were only yards away: “Are you trying to have children?”
Understandably, both she and Elias were taken aback, enough that they halted, and turned to see the spread the Briery had before her. One card, the first in the sequence, depicted a man and a woman each holding a single cup, their arms joined. The next was of a woman sitting upon what looked to be a wooden throne, with a visibly pregnant belly. The third, a skeleton in black armor rode upon a dark horse, carrying a flag. Trepidation stirred in her stomach, at the sight of that last card. “We… have discussed it,” Daphni admitted. It was not something she’d have mentioned so freely, especially to a stranger, particularly given that Elias was a decidedly private man in his affairs and pursuits. But it was difficult to deny what was plainly lain out before Briery’s trained eyes. “With all due respect, if this outlook is… I’m sorry. I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Are you intimidated by this?” Briery held up the last card, depicting the skeleton upon a horse. “Don’t be. This is a fairly positive spread--let me explain. Death very rarely indicates actual demise. This is a card that signifies the ending of one chapter, and the beginning of a another. Now, were this to show up sooner in the spread, I might see it as a reason to be concerned. But looking at the first two cards--a strong union and partnership,” she pointed to the Two of Cups, “followed by fertility and feminine strength… this story is far too happy for a despondent ending. Their message rings too clear, and not a single one sits at an inverse. These preceding cards would be very different, I think, if Death were to indicate the end of something so beautiful. But, here--pull one more card, for good measure. A clarifier, of sorts.”
Daphni hesitated, but had already become too invested in Briery’s reading… and, admittedly, was in need of some reassurance. She reached for one last card, and turned it upright. The card depicted a naked baby, smiling with joy, the sun shining behind it. Briery grinned. “I don’t even need to interpret this one for you. And I’m guessing it will be a boy.” The performer leaned back on her elbows, and picked up the Death card again. “What I will say, given that you drew this card before drawing the Sun, is that you’ll be experiencing a drastic change, of sorts, before you’ll see your desires to fruition. And it might very well be frightening, or uncomfortable, but it will be necessary. And there is nothing here that indicates it is something you cannot handle.” Pushing back from her table, she offered Daphni, who looked as though she’d begun to tear up, a warm smile. “Three out of four of those cards are Major Arcana; destiny cards, forces that work beyond our control. You can make your own destiny, but once it is there--it is there.”
Gathering her cards back into a neat pile, Briery proceeded to shuffle them again. “Oh--and that merchant peddling ‘rare herbs’? I guarantee he is a fraud. Claims that white sage is the cure for everything. But,” she arched an eyebrow at the Clematis healer, “why take a ‘swindler’s’ word for it? Your money is your own to waste a you will.”
“You’re being honest.” Daphni’s eyes were still on the deck of cards in the entertainer’s hand. “You aren’t just telling me what I want to hear. That reading… you truly believe all of it?”
“Really, now, take me as a charlatan if you insist, but a fool?” Briery shook her head. “I know better than to lie to a Sybaian healer. Like I said, I am not a seer, and I cannot see the future. But I know this deck of cards better than a best friend. They haven’t let me down yet. As much as I enjoy being the bearer of good news, it is also my duty to caution people about the bad, as well. Now, more cards and further readings certainly lend more detail and insight into a situation, but based the the four cards that I had to work with, I see no reason to believe that the two of you will not be parents, together. And as someone who cannot have children,” her expression sobered, and she met Daphni’s eyes. “That is not something that I would ever deign to lie about.”
It was so difficult, yet so enticing to want to hinge hope on a spread of cards with arbitrary pictures. Nonetheless, it made Daphni’s heart swell with hope--that there still might be a future, for her. One with room for a child… “You mentioned you suffer from a condition,” Daphni mentioned, eager to avert the subject at hand. “What is it, exactly?”
“Well, now. That is something I cannot tell you--because I don’t know. Nor do the dozens of healers I have seen, over the years.” Her smile did not reach her eyes, as she continued to shuffle. Something to do with her hands, Daphni quickly picked up on. To alleviate the gravity of the topic. “Nobody can quite seem to diagnose it or put a name to it. Whatever it is, it lands me bedridden for the week of my monthly cycle, and several healers have affirmed that it is likely I’m infertile from it; or, at least, unable to ever carry a child to term. Imagine the general discomfort of menstruation; the cramps and the aches and occasional nausea. Now, imagine that intensified, tenfold--with the addition of being stabbed in the abdomen, relentlessly, over and over.”
Briery paused in her shuffling, and at last put her cards down. “I’ve suffered it since puberty. For years, it left me bedridden for two weeks of the month; the week before as well as during my cycle. It made travel and planning shows very difficult, and because of it, my troupe and I were barely scraping by. Fortunately, over the years, I finally found a healer that was able to craft me a tonic to at least make it slightly more manageable. Enough to reduce inflammation, so that I’m still functional the week before I bleed. Enough that now we can travel, and plan our shows with relatively less stress.”
Noting the look of horror on Daphni’s face, she attempted to alleviate it with a smile. “Really, it isn’t as great an issue as it used to be. I’m useless for 5 to 7 days out of the month; sometimes, I suffer a flare-up at random when I push myself too hard for too long. But I’ve been able to find healers willing to replicate the tonic when I need it.” She raised her eyebrows and folded her arms. “So, no; I was not exaggerating my appreciation for people like you.”
“All those healers, you say you’ve consulted… and none have been able to cure you?” Daphni asked quietly. “I wish there was a way I could help; unfortunately, the Sybaia specialize in injury and wounds more than disease. But have you sought healers who are magically adept?”
“I have, in fact. The trouble is, it is difficult to cure what you cannot diagnose, and to diagnose what you do not understand,” Briery explained. “The healer who crafted me my tonic was a good listener; didn’t dismiss my symptoms as typical for menstruation, and didn’t write me off as a hysterical woman, like many others. He deduced that inflammation is at least part of the culprit, and that keeping it at bay would reduce the intensity and frequency of my symptoms. He was right. Sadly, I have not encountered him again.”
Daphni nodded her understanding. “I am sorry for what you must have had to go through--what you still go through. But that you are able to manage your condition and still perform the feats that you do… I am truly in awe. I saw you once before, a few years ago, when my clan was needed in Ilandria. I never would have guessed you were in anything but perfect form.”
Briery smiled wide. “Now, that is perhaps the most genuine compliment I’ve ever received--thank you, Sybaia. It tells me that I’m doing my job well.”
“You can call me Daphni,” the Sybaian healer said. “And this is Elias. Forgive him his skeptical nature, but St. Thorne really isn’t welcoming to traveling entertainers such as yourselves, as you already know.” He is a product of his environment, was the unspoken message, to spare the already irate Clematis healer his feelings.
“Believe me, if we took offense to every skeptic who challenged us, we’d have given up long ago.” The gold-clad woman smiled, and fanned out her cards again. “How about it, Elias? Care for a reading… or are you too afraid of what I’ll find out?” Her brown eyes twinkled with mischief and amusement. “Rest assured, what I read for my clients is strictly confidential. Not even my troupe catches wind of it, and we live in very close quarters, as you can plainly see.”
As the charlatan named Briery went into unnecessary detail about the members of her money-swindling troupe, Elias shook his head and proceeded to walk in the direction of the peddler who they both affirmed was fraudulent in his sales. It was a conclusion he'd already reached, himself, and yet the woman gave him the smug smile of a martyr, comfortable in her knowledge that he would disregard all her words as untrustworthy. It nearly drove him to open his mouth and lay his grievances unto her, but he understood his irrational temper, spurred on by past events, and found the best course of action was to remove himself from the source of aggravation. He didn't wander far, however, when the glittering ringleader mentioned children, as per the heathenish cards she carried. Whirling around on his heels, he returned to her makeshift table, which looked suspiciously like a burglar's keister.
"Cold reading," he said, planting his hands on his hips. "You saw how I touched her shoulder, so you assumed we were a couple. No wedding rings on our fingers, so we are early into our relationship. Childless couples who are in want of one have a certain bearing to them, if the experienced eye knows what to look for. Last, you watched her expression to see the change cross over her eyes. Then, came the confirmation you were desiring. It's all a trick, Daphni. The cards," he pointed to the spread, "can be interpreted in every combination that fits the narrative of the gullible mark. The story writes itself. This is not a science, or a discipline like magic. It's educated guessing." He tsked at Briery. "Say what you will about St. Thorne, but we do not deign to dabble in parlor tricks and trifles that do not have a bearing in solid evidence, or noble philosophical pursuit. Your 'fortune-telling' does not predict the tides of destiny any more than my arsehole can."
At the end of his diatribe, he lapsed into annoyed silence, as the charlatan went on to ladle the reading with hopeful hints of a future that sounded too idealistic, coming from a stranger's mouth. If only he could believe the fantasy that she spouted. How he'd love to take comfort in Daphni's eventual well-being, the elongation of her life, the success of her birth, the blue, luminous eyes of his son...The cards and their meanings flashed as after-images behind his eyes. The Sun, a giggling baby, new beginnings, the entwined cups of a happy, fulfilled couple...
All drivel. Only God could see the future. Only He could tell a querent, were the querent so lucky to make contact with the divine, if his path was ordained by the One. Any other being who claimed to hold destiny in their hands was misguided or malicious. But hearing as Daphni confirmed that the card-dealer was honest, insofar as she was a convert to the idolatrous thinking that she bandied about like a pocket-sized shrine, then she was poor and foolish, indeed.
And in pain.
It was when she explained her condition that he perked up, not out of sick pleasure, but in genuine interest. While the act of fortune-telling was ambiguous, easy to debunk, and steeped with controversy among the pious Thornians, he knew enough of his practice to note that, through the details of her medical history, she was telling the truth.
"I've had women complain of a similar pain," he said, his tight-fisted stance loosening up, as he adopted the role of a Clematis healer, and not as Elias, the once St. Rain with a chip on his shoulder (albeit, a well-reasoned chip). "Many other healers and physicians, who are men, often do misdiagnose a condition such as yours, due to inconclusive evidence. They will write in reports, 'patient complains of severe menstruation,' and will not explore the diagnosis further, despite the patient's recurring complaints. Women's anatomy is very much a mystery to healers who are assured in their outdated texts that write about the female reproductive system in its connection to the moon. The moon fluctuates, waxes and wanes, appears bigger and smaller depending on the season, or the rotation of the planets. This is the reason for Anomalous Menstrual Chronicity, which is what some have penned it as. In other words, the condition is as nebulous as the moon, and thus, can't be managed."
"Well," his shook his head, in obvious disgust over his fellow peers, "I am not so quick to under-diagnose, despite the little research that has been collected on the subject. And as a healer specializing in pathology, it is my duty to delve deeper than some would dare or care to. Though, I am relieved that at least one healer seems to have done his job. It renews my faith in a community brimming with more dunderheads and charlatans than every circus in the world. But only marginally. So," he sighed, and eyed her affected area, "I will take a look at you. And if you tell me the ingredients of your tonic, I will brew you enough to last you a good while. Much as I don't approve of your vocation, or your cavorting with unsavory divination methods, it's not in my creed to deny anyone service. Tonight," he stared distastefully at her caravan, "after your show, since I know Daphni very much wants to see it and I will be dragged along against my will anyway, I'll take with me my medical bag. On the grounds that we do not have to spare even a copper coin for your show. It will cost me money to brew your tonic, as is."
Once the ringleader had agreed to his terms, he nodded, and was about to leave for the third time since meeting her, when she shuffled her cards in his direction. He rolled his eyes, but grunted an affirmative. "Very well, false prophet. Let's see how well you've come to know me, and if I can call you out on your half-truths."
That evening, Elias returned to the caravan site, medical bag in hand. Accompanying him was Daphni...and Myron and Felix. He honestly thought the brothers would pucker their faces at mention of a circus troupe, themselves preferring tourneys, boxing matches, and the occasional play, but their enthusiasm for that evening's entertainment shouldn't have surprised him. Even among Thornian society, the quad was always defying convention, loudly proclaiming their preferences to contentious subject matter, half in rebellion, half out of curiosity. They were beloved icons among the populace, and were always eager to push their celebrity, exploring the extent by which they could buck the establishment. All things considered, they'd done well for themselves, and their outrageous views and beliefs went without much investigation. They were not spies, but little did the constables know that they needed only look to the garden on the hill, at the quiet woman with the dark eyes who planted flowers all day. In the end, the brothers had unknowingly worked in league with Imogen as natural-born blowhards. The perfect misdirection. Ironic that today, they should so willingly aid in the former spy's unattainable antics.
You had better deliver on one-such antic of yours, Imogen, he thought, tightly curling his fingers over his bag. Though your word is doubtful. You were made to disappoint.
As they gathered with the eager crowd, a familiar voice called to him.
"Elias! Over here."
Turning his head to the direction of the voice, he saw a steel-slick arm waving in the air. "Alster," he said, once the Rigas caster caught up to him.
"Elias. And...hello, Daphni," he smiled at the Sybaian healer. "How are you faring?" He caught the eyes of the two towering brothers, "I don't think I've met the two of you, before. Are you Elias's family, who Daphni has mentioned?"
"Myron and Felix, accomplished brothers. At your service," they bowed in synchronistic fashion.
"This is Alster Rigas," Elias presented the friendly caster to the duo. "He has the makings of a skilled healer, though he has a long way ahead of him."
"I hope that means you won't become dreadfully boring, in your pursuits," Felix yawned.
"Or 'cursed' with intellect, which is just another way of saying cantankerous."
"Crotchety."
"Dour, ill-humored, and all around...vinegary. And I mean it," Myron lowered his voice, but pointed to Elias, "he smells like vinegar."
"I occasionally use it in tonics. Is that a sin?" He glared at the unrelenting twins. "Do you want me to sell you to the circus? You'd make quite the menagerie. The two buffoons; good for a laugh, nothing more, nothing less."
"Aw. Eli thinks we're funny," Felix fawned, clasping his hand to his chest.
Elias ignored them. "Why are you attending this performance, Alster? I didn't think watching fake magic would appeal to you."
"I don't see it as magic, no," he said, returning his aching arm to its sling. Despite Sigrid's treatment from earlier, it was still aching from the compromised angles it was subject to, during his grueling ballroom dancing lessons. "But it's not any less impressive. It's all about timing, ingenuity, manipulation of an entire crowd, and precise sleight of hand. There is an art to the act, even if it's mainly reviled due to its associations with thievery and such. But I can appreciate the staging, the lighting, and the acting." At Elias's disdainful snort, Alster added, "Besides, there are other performances aside from the Illusionist. I was fortunate to see, rather, hear, the siren's song after the puppet show, today. It...she," he blushed and stared at his feet, "spoke to my soul. Moved me so profoundly, I was almost late to my appointment to teach Haraldur and Sigrid how to dance. I know I've heard-tell the power of the siren's song, and maybe I'm too easily swayed by beautiful music, but maybe there's also some truth to her designation as 'siren.' Also," he chattered on, "I'm looking forward to seeing the trapeze and the aerial silks. They're always a sight to watch." He tilted his head at the Clematis healer, curious. "If I may ask, why are you here? You don't seem too enthused about attending."
"It was under Daphni's suggestion, initially," he gave her a long-suffering smile. "But from there, my reasons have since evolved. We discovered that the ringleader suffers a painful condition during and preceding her menses. I have volunteered to see to her state, after the show. You are more than welcome to join, if you'd like--because I know you will invite yourself, regardless of what I say."
Alster, shamefaced, smiled helplessly. "I'm predictable, aren't I?"
"Just a touch. But," he sighed, "you've shown your merit in past healings, so your presence is not extraneous."
On one hand, it had been Briery’s intention to get in good with this couple of healers, for a myriad of reasons. Primarily, one never knew when someone would be willing to lend a hand, unsolicited, and gods knew she could use all the help she could get. Furthermore, it wasn’t every healer she encountered who was willing to concoct her tonic for her. But as far as these two went, the woman curious and the man taking a steadfast cynical approach to everything she and her troupe stood for, she hadn’t anticipated that either of them would be so quick, as to lend their support.
“By all means, I’d be much obliged for any help you might offer, Clematis,” she told him, and not without an air of surprise. “Although, not to share in your pessimism, but I am not sure there is much you can do for me. Others have also tried, in earnest, and come up empty handed. But if you are offering to craft my tonic…”
Temporarily putting her cards aside, Briery knelt, reaching into another small sack beneath the table. When she stood again, she presented a small, glass vial stopped with a cork. The dark liquid inside of it filled it perhaps a fifth of the way, and by the faded (albeit, still legible) writing on a piece of paper stuck to the cork with a pin, it was obvious that the bottle was reached for, frequently. “This is my last bottle. Just so you can understand how great an act of trust this is to give it to you in good faith, and not for the pleasure of making my life more difficult, because you disagree with what I do. You call us out for being dishonest, but let me tell you, nothing amounts to the dishonesty of someone who says they will help you, only to find out that had been the opposite of their intention, all along.”
“Are you saying that… healers have turned their back on you?” Daphni’s jaw dropped, aghast. The very thought of such a breach of ethics made her feel livid. “Intentionally hoping that you do not recover? How… how are you able to trust so easily, then? You barely know either of us…”
“Because I cannot afford to be fussy; and I have to take my chances.” Briery shrugged, as she relinquished the vial. “I need to believe that the majority aren’t inclined to screw me over; and the majority aren’t. Anyway, you seem honest enough; so, don’t prove me wrong.” She grinned, and picked up her cards again. “Now, let’s see what the future holds for you. Pick three cards, in any order.”
He did so, and handed them to her, one at a time. The first card depicted a young man standing before a horse, looking warily out at the world as he held a sword; that card was reversed. It was followed by one depicting a woman sitting upon a throne, her shoulders squared and confident as she held a sword upright. Finally, an image of four decorated, wooden posts dominated the foreground, with a castle far behind them. Briery raised her eyebrows. “Well, now, this is interesting. This fellow, the Page of Swords, is a wary one--which can be a good thing. But the card is reversed, and that tells me that something about the energy must be addressed, for it has been skewed. And this woman, right here, the Queen of Swords; she is a righteous and ambitious woman, who sets out to finish what she has started. And this last card, here, signifies reprieve from a trying time, or even a celebration.”
Placing her finger upon the Queen card, Briery looked up at Daphni, studying her face. “No; you are certainly not of the suit of Swords. This represents someone else. Another strong, female presence. Could be a mother. But, here is the moral of this story.” Briery looked at Elias again, and picked up the reversed Page. “This, good sir, is undoubtedly you. Now, none of these cards are within the Major Arcana, so what that tells me is that this is all very apt to change, depending on your disposition. There is the possibility of a favourable outcome, within your reach, but it all depends on where you stand, and what or whom you are willing to believe. And much of it, I think, has to do with your relationship to this woman.” She put down the other two cards and picked up the Queen card. “She can be a powerful ally, if you choose to see her as such.”
Placing the card back down, Briery pressed her hands upon the table. “I know you’ll accuse me of being to vague, but I am not going to assume anything about you that I don’t know. You likely understand the significance of this spread more than I do, as to how it applies to your life; so take it for what you will. Oh, and as for my tonic…”
Brierly gathered her cards and began to shuffle again. “Let me know the cost, and I will cover it, with interest, for your trouble. I am not a charity case and would rather not be seen as one. I’d rather the both of you come to know me as Briery Frealy, dancer and acrobat--not hopeless patient. So, then.” Her lips drew into a grin. “I look forward to seeing you, this evening. Come prepared to be amazed.”
“Are you sure you won’t be in need if your tonic today?” The Sybaian healer asked her, looking concerned.
Briery only smiled. “No, I should be fine. I took a dose this morning, and my insides shouldn’t be wreaking havoc on me again until next week--mercifully, after the festival of Equinox has come to a close, and we move on toward the city of Braighdath.” She assured her. “Kind of you to ask, though. Anyway, it was nice chatting with you both. And I will see you at our show, later.”
As Daphni and Elias took their leave, and other curious onlookers stepped up to have their cards read, the Sybaian healer touched his arm warmly. “That was kind of you, to offer to help her.” She smiled. “Even if you only did it out of duty… imagine how you could change her life if you helped to find a solution to her pain. And, even if you have difficulty reconciling this troupe’s way of life, imagine the feats she performs despite her pain. As far as I’m concerned, that form of willpower is magic, in and of itself.”
True to their word, the Sybaian and Clematis healer ventured toward the ever-growing crowd after the sun had set. The stage had changed a bit, with a trapeze having been added along with the tightwire. Admittedly, Daphni was excited to for what was to come, although Elias was decidedly less enthused, especially when his brothers accompanied. No sooner had they found a place with a decent view (or, while she did; Elias and his brothers were too busy getting at one another), that she spotted a familiar face in the crowd, and waved them over. “Alster--how nice to see you, here.” The Sybaia healer smiled. “And I am well. This is…”
Myron and Felix relieved her of the responsibility to introduce themselves, and as she’d expected, the banter continued between them and their younger brother. This was something that wasn’t going to change anytime soon, she realized; best to just let it happen so that it might work itself out. “Have you seen them perform before?” She asked Alster, who at least seemed fairly enamored of the small, white-haired girl’s singing voice. “They really do put on a good show. We did not have a chance to stop and watch their ‘siren’s’ performance, but for such a small girl, her voice carries far and true. We caught parts of her performance, all the way from the town square. Remarkable, isn’t she?”
Elias, ever fixed on the single thing that interested him, was quick to inform Alster of what he’d learned about the ringleader of this troupe--the golden-clad woman, and Daphni couldn’t help but furrow her brows. “Confidentiality, Elias.” She chided him gently. “That woman divulged in us in good faith. I have a feeling that her intent was not to spread awareness of her condition to everyone in the audience. Although…” The Sybaian healer sighed and looked to Alster. “If he should blab to anyone, it might as well be you, Alster. I am all but useless to her, for a number a reasons; even if it were safe for my own health to use my practice toward curing her, it would be a process that took place over time… which neither of us has to spare, unfortunately. Sybaian healing is best suited to bodily injury and psychological wounds, not diseases. Between yourself and Elias, perhaps you can help the poor girl.”
“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen!” And speaking of the devil herself, Briery Frealy emerged from one of the large caravans, still bedecked in gold, though she had touched up her make-up to add glitter to her exposed arms and legs. The nearby lanterns and torches made her shimmer like the sun. Behind her, the siren, the illusionist, and the giant followed, all of them shimmering where skin was exposed, just like her. “It warms my heart to see you all here, tonight. For those of you who are not yet acquainted with us, or who missed our introductions this morning, I present to you, in order: Cwenha, siren extraordinaire and budding acrobat; Rycen, master illusionist, and eater of swords and fire, if you are lucky. And, finally, Lautim, strongest man alive--unless anyone cares to disprove this?” Naturally, no one rose to the challenge.
“And myself, Briery Frealy, dancer and aficionado of the aerial arts. Together, we are the Missing Links, and do we have a show in store for you.” After a round of cheering and applause, the ringleader picked up a baton, with cloth wrapped at either end of it. “First, I’d like to address the age-old advice that is ‘don’t play with fire’. And I have to agree, it can be dangerous. But, when you know what you’re doing… it can be quite fun.” With a mischievous smile, Briery wandered over to one of the torches lining the stage, and lit both ends of it, such that the baton itself turned into a double-sided torch.
The ringleader then launched into a bare-footed dance, both graceful and dangerous, as she expertly spun the baton over and under herself, throwing it into the air and catching it effortlessly. Her movements were fluid and practiced, just as mesmerizing to watch as Cwenha’s singing was to hear. When Rycen loudly announced that it was ‘too easy’ and thus, time to ‘up the ante’, he lit another baton and tossed it in her direction--which she caught effortlessly, and worked well into her practiced routine. After some time, Cwenha stepped in, and the dance became a duet, with the two of them passing the batons between themselves, not once slipping up. The routine was seamless and mesmerizing to the very last moment, when the two women each caught a baton in their hands--entirely unscathed by the fire--and curtsied.
“You have to admit, that is impressive,” Daphni nudged Elias, who stood with his arms folded, trying hard not to enjoy the performance.
Rycen took both flaming batons and extinguished them in a bucket of water at the side of the stage, as the cheering and applause died down. “Thank you, Ladies and Gentleman--and thank you, Cwenha, such an asset to our troupe. But, I will admit, I tend to get bored with my feet on the ground, as I am sure the roc-loving nation of Eyraille can understand.” Clapping and cheering followed her well-thought acknowledgement, and she grinned. “So if you don’t mind, I’d rather take my act a little higher. Lautim, if you please?”
Just like earlier, the giant lifted Briery with one hand high in the air, until her feet firmly on the platform just before the tightwire. Waving down at the crowd, the ringleader called, “Anyone with a fear of heights--well, I’m afraid you might find this hard to watch.” And then, without another word, she stepped out onto the tightline, arms spread for balance, but otherwise she made it look exceedingly easy. A few times, for show, she made it look as though she were about to fall, but of course, righted herself right away as she made her way across the rope. Finally, she stopped, about midway--and she let herself fall. Gasps and screams rose from the crowd for a split second, before she expertly grabbed ahold of the silk ribbons dangling from the center of the tightwire. All part of the act, of course.
“You can stop holding your breaths, now!” Briery teased the audience, before continuing her aerial routine on the silks. The aerial artist gracefully twisted and untwisted herself in the colorful ribbons, hanging upside down with only a single foot wrapped in one of the silks, swinging and twirling until she grabbed a hold of both silks and was doing somersaults in the air. Gradually, she made a graceful descent to the ground, using the silks as her medium, and ultimately landed on her two feet.
“Still not impressed?” Daphni teased Elias, gently elbowing him in the ribs. “You cannot call fraud on that kind of talent.”
But that was when Briery paused; did not immediately take a bow as the crowd roared with applause. The acrobat took a moment to seemingly collect herself, to straighten her shoulders, and become aware of her breathing. Not something that was obvious to the untrained eye, but it did not escape Daphni. Nor did it appear to escape the notice of her troupe, whose eyes were suddenly all on her.
“Thank you, Ladies and Gentleman. But, it can get quite lonely, up in the air, by myself. Cwenha,” she theatrically extended a hand to the girl clad in silver to complement her gold. “Care to join me?”
The girl with a siren’s voice did not hesitate to take her hand, but quickly pulled her in to whisper something in her ear. Briery paused again and whispered something back. It all happened so quickly that it hardly took away from the show itself, and Lautim once again took one girl in each arm, this time lifting them to the trapeze.
“Something feels… wrong.” Daphni murmured, gently squeezing Elias’s arm. “I can’t say what--and there are too many people, too many emotions to make sense of it. But the girl in silver looks… concerned.” It was a feeling she might have brushed off, had they not found an ideal vantage point at the front of the stage. Close enough to the performers that their auras were not entirely a blur. Her eyes followed Briery all the way up the top of the trapeze. “I’m not sure she’s all right…”
While he'd never admit it aloud, the charlatan and her reading had reduced him to a more somber, taciturn mood for the rest of the day. Of course, he had his choice words to say, after Briery had completed her mutually agreed upon "vague" reading, pointing out that a Queen, of course, represented a woman of power. A matriarch, a head of the family, and therefore, "mother," was not a stretch of a conclusion. Many people had mothers, alive or dead. Reconciliation could occur either at the graveside, or, were they still alive, through contact--should proximity allow. With his "flawless" logical conclusion still humming on his tongue, he backed away from her table, tonic bottle in hand, and thanked her for the "quaint and hilarious" entertainment.
After his departure, his self-assured steps of a man who "thwarted" a charlatan fell into an uneven shuffle. With Daphni nearby, it was impossible to mask his disposition, which was already flammable and high-strung from before their encounter with Briery, but had worsened into levels beyond tempering. Knowing that he would be unpleasant company for the duration of the afternoon, he apologized to Daphni and retired early to his quarters on the pretense of preparing his tonic. Once inside the tomb-like chambers in the palace, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared unfixedly at the amber-colored tonic bottle in his steady hand. Now that he was alone, he allowed himself to sink into thoughts of Imogen. Whether it was because a small, irrational side of him was in agreement of Briery's "assessment" (he still refused to call it divination, and if he was to admit any iota of effectiveness, he certainly wouldn't call it fortune-telling, either), or whether she had simply hit a sore point, it had taken a greater hold on him than he wanted to admit.
"Imogen," he said aloud, then experimented with a different word. "Mother. No," he shook away the visceral twisting of his stomach muscles. Purely psychosomatic, he thought. Sympathy pains towards the circus performer--though that was something he'd never admit to feeling, either. Especially not to Daphni. The Queen of Swords. Favorable outcome. Within his reach. But what was a favorable outcome? Surrendering to her will? Accepting her into his life, despite the years of neglect and abandonment that she was so quick to justify? So quick to excuse but not to apologize? She expected him to forgive her. Painted herself alone as the victim, despite what she had done to her own son. But he had so refused to flaunt his pain, or give it room to surface where all would bear witness. It was irrational to fling his emotions around so recklessly. Childish. And it would affect Daphni.
In the safety of his chambers, alone and unsupervised, he allowed himself to feel it all, irrationality be damned. Resentment, anger, guilt, longing, sorrow...everything. The solitude comforted him, gave him the environment to grieve without judgment, and without harming Daphni. It wasn't enough, but it would have to do. For, he'd never ask the Sybaian healer...to heal the tumor that was hardening from within himself, in layers of bitterness and vitriol.
After his moment of quiet inner-turmoil, he spent the rest of the day researching the ingredients that comprised the tonic. It would take some time to correctly identify and extract the exact components that were mixed to formulate the concoction, but he had created similar mixtures, himself, and even had ideas on how to improve the formula. He'd just written down the core herbal components when Daphni returned with his brothers in tow. Packing Briery's tonic in his medical bag in case she needed to take another draught before or after the performance, he followed the small entourage into the cool night air, having kept silent until Myron and Felix inevitably decided to provoke responses out of him, which persisted even after Alster joined their party. As he continued to ignore the hulking redheads behind him, he returned Daphni's chastisement with a furrowed expression of his own.
"I know how confidentiality works, Daphni," he said, in an exasperated grumble. "Alster is a colleague, from our time in Stella D'Mare when I needed an assistant, and you were absent. Confidential cases are shared among other healers, despite the hierarchy of experience that's often set in place. And they," he thumbed over to his brothers, who were looking out over the heads of the gathering audience, "stopped paying attention the moment I said 'condition.'" And as if to prove his point, neither brother responded to his overt mention of them and their quickly wandering focus.
Seeing as the subject of...himself, had caused some tension and the arguing of semantics, Alster ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. "I...didn't think I was knowledgeable enough to be referred to as a colleague, but--"
"--Yes," he all but snapped. "It's one of the reasons you were sought and brought so quickly to Eyraille. So--"
Before he could berate Daphni for her berating of him (albeit it was minuscule compared to his reaction), the audience quieted, and the woman herself appeared on the stage. Elias rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest, a stance he would adopt for the duration of the performance, of that he had no doubt.
Indeed, he had watched the proceedings on stage with a straight face and a statuesque pose, betraying not a sliver of emotion on his face, although...he derived some enjoyment out of the fire act. Alster had been correct in that it was reliant on trust, timing, and exhaustive routine, which as a healer, he could appreciate. Only, it disappointed him to see such wasted talent focus on the frivolities of circus-life. Their dead-set dedication and discipline would have been welcomed into the healing community, or in any useful field of work. It was why self-proclaimed outcasts ran away to the circus. They were layabouts and rakes, motivated into creative ingenuity by the promise of quick, and often illegally-obtained, coin.
There was no hope for them.
Meanwhile, Alster, who had relocated to Daphni's side, watched with a delighted smile on his face, though his eyes were tracking Cwenha's movements almost exclusively. What are you doing!? he yelled at himself. You have a fiancee!
It's harmless, he shot back, but, worried at his impropriety, forced himself to concentrate on Briery, instead.
"It's beautiful," he whispered to Daphni, as if speaking louder would ruin the spellbinding effect of the twirling, dancing flames. "I've tried, and failed, to cast fire spells that would appear even half as fluid as their coordinated exchange."
"It's superfluous," Elias harrumphed. He followed up with the one somewhat positive note he deigned to say. "What wasted potential."
After the torches were extinguished into a bucket of water on the stage, Briery transitioned into the next part of her act, which had taken her up on the highwire. Lifted to the top by her overlarge companion, she waltzed along on the thin wire, a feat that made Alster's earlier dancing on terra firma appear clunky and awkward, (but with his unwieldy arm, any earthbound creature could outshine him and his teetering balance.)
Though he was aware that it was all part of the performance, he flinched when she fell off the wire, even as she grabbed hold of the silks draping from the center of the stage. Throughout her series of tangling and disentangling spins, which pivoted her into a series of somersaults, Elias muttered in retort to Daphni. "The circus as a gathered unit is fraudulent. But, I have not condemned all individual components. Nor have I denied the talent that comprises a performance of this caliber. It is merely channeled into a dubious and unethical 'vocation,' that serves no practical purpose aside from mindless, cheap entertainment."
But his treatise on the immorality and trifles of circus-performers had petered into silence when he observed how the newly-grounded ringleader crumpled into herself. It was a marginal amount, but her shoulders, arms, and knees all collected toward her stomach for that brief, minute pause. In a blink, it was over, and she was attending to her delighted audience with a beaming smile and no indication of malaise.
Then, came Daphni's additional observations: the passing concern on the silver woman's face--which Alster also confirmed. "The siren girl...I thought it was just me, but she does look worried, you're right. That quick exchange. She's not happy about whatever is happening."
"The ringleader seemed in want to clutch her stomach. Her muscles tensed toward the center," Elias added, finally breaking the unmoveable cross position of his arms. "I believe she is having an inflammatory response, right now."
As Alster watched Briery and Cwenha's relocation to the trapeze, his good hand rose to chest level and his palm pointed forward--a reflex in response to danger. It was always best to poise a hand for casting, and to prepare a spell in case of disaster. "If she falls, and the strong-man doesn't catch her, I may be able to secure her if I react fast enough."
"These circus performers have failsafes in place. Or if not, they should," Elias said, with a flippancy that wasn't entirely genuine. "We'll just have to watch her carefully until the end of the show. I have her tonic in my bag. If we can reach her before the end, more the better, but a tonic is not instantaneous in its relief. I'm afraid we'll have to wait until it's over."
“It isn’t just the silver-clad girl--look, the other two of them, as well.” Daphni mentioned the illusionist and the strong man, both whom continued to smile and attend the audience, yet all the while keeping one eye on the trapeze act. “They’re watching, carefully. This has happened before… they know what to look for.”
But even with all of those fail-safes in place, watching this trapeze act take place was no easy feat, and not without trepidation that went above and beyond such a daring act. As soon as both women were at their respectful trapeze, they pushed off the platforms and spun toward one another. And… it was as if nothing was the matter with their ring leader, at all. Both women, in flashes of complementary silver and gold, flipped and spun through the air, switching places and hanging from the trapeze by the crook of a single leg. Their synchronicity was on par, perfectly mirroring one another’s movements, except for the points in the routine where they supported one-another’s weight.
Daphni had to admit, that had Briery not confided in her about her condition… as an audience member, she never would have known. And if that wasn’t strength, then she didn’t know what is.
The routine, in the end, was flawless. By the very end, the two women finished by jumping from the trapeze onto the single silk ribbon which hung from the center of the tightline. Consecutively, with Cwenha first, and Briery just seconds after her, the two women propelled upside-down and sideways down the silks, until they handed on their feet. Cwenha lept off, knees bent, and landed in an impressive standing position before opening her arms to present herself to the audience. Briery landed in a kneeling position, upon one knee, her now free arm tightly clutching her abdomen for only a second. Then she straightened and, like Cwenha, spread her arms before taking a bow with her trapeze partner, all smiles and stage presence. Though it did not go unnoticed to Daphni that she seemed to look paler than before, such that the gold and glitter on her skin appeared darker.
“To my flawless partner and jack-of-all-trades!” Briery beamed, strategically turning the attention on Cwenha. “There is nothing this girl cannot do. Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen!”
And that was when the transition took place. Lautim stepped in front of Briery, effectively stealing her spotlight, making to dismantle the trapeze, tightline, and silk ribbons, which evidently wouldn’t be needed for the remainder of the show. When he stepped away, Briery was nowhere to be seen.
The Sybaian healer pressed her lips together, concerned. “She won’t be back, not for this show,” she murmured sadly. But the troupe--she had to admit, their act was tight. Enough that they could roll with the punches when their ringleader and star acrobat out of commission. Enough that they had endless aces up their sleeves, and the ability to put on a good show. “Let’s wait it out… it will draw too much attention if we head for those caravans while the audience is still here.”
“How typical. She chastises me for showing off, yet it is perfectly okay to flaunt her peacock feathers.” Rycen took the stage, bedecked in a glittering forest-green suit. “I think I’ve earned my right to be a little--flashy.” And to emphasize his terrible pun, tiny firecrackers went off around his feet; perfectly placed, perfectly timed. The children in the crowd cheered. “The women in this troupe aren’t the only ones with talent. Care to see what I mean?”
From then on, the remainder of the show belonged to Rycen and Lautim. The former pulled out all the stops in his illusionist act, from expert knife throwing, to pulling objects out of impossible places, to making Cwenha ‘disappear’ from a box, and re-emerge in the middle of the audience. Lautim’s bit was shorter, but no less impressive. After pulling people from the audience to confirm the authenticity of the large bricks piled toward the back of the stage (one such audience member being Alster, whom Cwenha chose at random, not bothering to ask permission before taking his good arm and hauling him toward the bricks), Rycen invited anyone capable of using a hammer to attempt to smash the bricks with it. (And, mercifully, Cwenha let Alster return to the audience before the burly men with something to prove took the stage). Some of them managed to put a tiny crack in the solid stone; many couldn’t even make a dent.
And then Lautim completely emasculated each and every one of them by taking his fist, and cutting down the middle of the bricks with three swift punches. His knuckles were hardly more than a little bit scraped.
Despite Briery’s absence, the audience enjoyed the remainder of the show, and it ended with a roaring applause, along with Rycen’s special effects, which illuminated the stage area with light and smoke. The remaining members of the troupe took a bow, as flowers were thrown in their direction; particularly Cwenha’s. Evidently, Alster’s was not the only heart the beautiful young singer and acrobat had woman, that night.
“Thank you, Ladies and Gentleman. It has been a pleasure to see your smiles and hear your applause, tonight!” Rycen declared, closing out. “If you enjoyed what you saw, considering leaving a donation, so that the Missing Links might continue to do what we love. No two of our shows are ever the same; we hope to see you again, tomorrow evening!”
And that was that. Some audience members with young children hastily threw a few coins their way, into hats, and carted off their progeny to put them to bed. Others stayed to engage the performers, particularly Rycen and Cwenha (the latter whose hat filled the fastest, though that was far from a surprise). She had to politely dismiss each and every amorous man who tried to engage her for a little too long, and it was only with Lautim and his intimidating presence nearby that many got the message to keep their hands off.
“I wonder how often this happens,” Daphni mused aloud, watching as the three compiled their earnings and made to dismantle their set, for the evening. “That she cannot finish a show… She said her condition should not be bothering her, right about now. I wonder what triggered it…”
When the crowd had died down to almost nothing, and the performers were readying to reconvene at their caravans, Daphni followed suit at Elias’s insistence that they check up on the currently incapacitated ringleader. Only one of the caravans looked to be illuminated from the inside, so it was obvious as to where Briery had retreated. But neither of them got close enough to the door before their path was blocked by the enormous mass of Lautim’s body. Arms folded, the giant barred their way--and likely, not without good reason. They could only imagine the types of fans the troupe had to put up with, particularly the fans of the women. The Sybaian healer pleaded her case, nonetheless.
“I’m sorry; we don’t mean to intrude,” she apologized benignly, offering a smile. “We are healers; we spoke to your ringleader, earlier. She divulged her… condition. We told her we could come by, after the show.”
But the giant didn’t budge, nor did a hint of expression flicker on his stoic face. Evidently, he was not so easily convinced. She added, for clarification, “Elias, here, replicated several doses of the tonic she requires. We can show you, if you’d like.”
Still, Lautim hesitated; but after a moment’s thought, he lightly rapped one of his enormous knuckles on the caravan door. Shortly after, Cwenha answered it, and eyed the trio suspiciously. “I’m sorry, but there will be no autograph signing, right now. Come back tomorrow night.” Before she could close the door, however, the giant pointed to Elias’s medical bag, as the Clematis healer presented one of of the brand new vials of the tonic he’d promised. Understanding shone in Cwenha’s pale, luminous eyes. She pressed her heart-shaped lips together. “Wait here.”
The singer and acrobat disappeared back inside the caravan, and closed the door behind her. It was a handful of minutes before she returned, and swung the door wide, allowing them entry. “Come inside.”
Of the two caravans, this one--much smaller, and more colorfully decorated--clearly belonged to the women. This was no surprise, of course, considering that the other, almost twice as large, was still a tight squeeze for Lautim, who likely couldn’t stand in it. A variety of glittering body suits and gauzy costumes hung from racks installed along the ceiling, and pots of face paint and make-up and brushes were scattered along various surfaces. Toward the back was a set of bunk beds, each with its own multicolored privacy curtain to pull across the sides.
Cwenha made her way toward the bunk beds, and pulled open the curtain of the lowermost bunk. “You’ve got company.”
Curled up on the bunk bed, white-knuckled as she clutched a pillow to her chest, was Briery. The ringleader had yet to change out of her stage clothes, still clad in skin-tight gold, her eyes still glimmering with the same shade of gold and lined carefully with kohl, exposed skin still shimmering from the loose glitter. She lay on her back, pillows stacked underneath her knees, and beneath the dip of her back to take pressure and weight off of that area, and a skin full of hot water sat against her lower abdomen. Gone was the invincible act that she’d put on for the audience, not an hour before; she looked helpless. And vaguely annoyed.
“I said to pay them for the tonic; that is all,” she told Cwenha, who took a seat on one of the faux-velvet settees, arms crossed against her chest, her cherubic face contorted in annoyance in its own right. It didn’t take long to become clear that this had been an act of defiance, on the singer’s part.
“You lied to me.” Cwenha accused her flatly. “You made us all a promise; if your pain is a six, you don’t take to the air. If it’s seven or above, you don’t perform at all..”
“I didn’t lie; it wasn’t a seven when the show began. Not even a six. I was fine.”
“And just before we took the trapeze? After your solo act?”
Briery didn’t answer. Cwenha snorted. “Like I thought.”
“You weren’t in any danger, Cwenha,” the ringleader tried, in vain, to placate the younger girl. “You know I wouldn’t let you fall. Neither would Lautim.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about. What if Lautim did not make it in time? He’s strong, and tall, but slow as molasses. You shouldn’t have been up there!”
The ringleader sighed, her voice strained from whatever agony she was already in. “It was the first show… I had to finish. You know the first show is the most crucial: ‘If you can’t impress ‘em then, they won’t come back again’.” Turning her attention to the small group of healers--only two whom she recognized--Briery sighed. “Apologies for wasting your time, but the painkillers aren’t working, tonight, and I can’t say I’d be a very cooperative patient. Cwenha will pay you for the tonics on your way out. Thank you for coming, by the way.”
Daphni furrowed her eyebrows ever so slightly. She had to keep her distance--she could feel the pain emanating from the performer’s aura--but Alster and Elias weren’t sensitive the way she was. “On the contrary, I think this is the best time for us to be, here. What better people to have around when you are at your worst?”
“What she said,” Cwenha agreed, rubbing her temples. Silver glitter came away on her fingertips. “Just let them help you. This shouldn’t even be happening right now; you’re not due for any flare-ups until next week.”
“I know.” Briery said quietly, her annoyance suddenly turning despondent. “The tonics… don’t work the way they used to. Losing their potency… the healer who crafted it for me said that this would happen; it was just a matter of time. That I’ve gotten some semblance of control over it for four years is quite lucky, I think…”
“Then we think of more solutions. They are out there, it is just a matter of finding them.” The young singer insisted, turning her tired gaze to the trio of healers. “Do you think you can help her? Be honest; don’t get our hopes up for nothing.”
Sure enough, when Alster and Elias watched the strong-man and Illusionist, they, too, were keeping their attention on the trapeze act up above. Regardless of the attentiveness of the troupe, Alster couldn't lower his arm to relax. It remained that way for the entirety of the performance, and for the first time since the show had begun, his eyes were only on Briery. At any indication of falling, his fingers would twitch, but to his awe, she swung and tumbled through the air without incident. Throughout their routine of derring-do, the inflamed flesh above his prosthesis throbbed and squeezed with a pain so tight, he was forced to close his eyes and place a cooling palm on the affected area. Was he simply reacting to what the ringleader undoubtedly felt, but in his usual, persistent place?
Finally, the two acrobats vaulted themselves to the stage via silks, both landing in audience-approved poses (if their wild applause was anything to infer). But he saw the ringleader's arm reach in to comfort her abdomen just before presenting her bow, and retreating from the stage. Alster's tense shoulders slumped in relief, and his good arm allowed itself to lower to his side.
"She, and they, are at least taking her condition seriously enough," Alster said, as the Illusionist took to the newly reformed stage.
"If she had experienced her first flare-up after she descended from the silks, then I feel no sympathy for her decision to take on the trapeze," Elias said, his arms returning to their cross over his chest. "Her crew was giving her the opportunity to bow-out early. The onus is on her for not looking after her health."
"Shouldn't we check on her now?" Alster asked Daphni. "Look after the problem at the earliest sign of detection?"
"No, Daphni is right," Elias shook his head sadly at the ridiculous man on stage, with his horrendous jokes and garish pyrotechnics display. "Besides, we're sufficiently packed into this crowd. We're unable to leave without detection. She will be fine," he reassured the Rigas caster. "She's been battling this pain ever since puberty. She is more than capable of waiting until her precious seasonal debut comes to its inevitable terminus."
Alster nodded, but his eyes were still pinched with concern. But following Daphni and Elias's lead, he remained in the crowd, and tried to enjoy the rest of the show. Little did he know that the troupe themselves would force him into enjoyment. Cwenha, the silver-clad cherub of his conflicted attentions, had reached to him and yanked him to the stage (thankfully, with his good arm). The contact alone was enough to render his entire face a glowing-red. Doing as the angelic girl had suggested, he checked the structural integrity of the bricks and gave his nod of approval. And, as quickly as he'd been selected, he returned to his position in the crowd, heart hammering in his throat.
"Don't tell Elespeth," Elias said, with a knowing smirk on his usually stoic face.
"What...what do you mean?" Alster straightened his posture and preoccupied himself with pulling the wrinkles from his tunic.
"I may not be a Sybaian healer, but you're very easy to read."
"I'm not...It's not..." His desperate eyes looked to Daphni for an appeal. "It's not like that!"
But his teasing of the Rigas caster was short-lived, as he continued to watch the show. Though, it was less that he was watching it more than he was counting down the minutes until all the tomfoolery would at last cease.
In opposition to the Clematis healer, Alster was making a point to chatter to Daphni about all performers other than Cwenha. "I don't believe I've seen anyone wielding as much physical strength as Lautim. He must be of giant heritage. He might have a generous amount of magic resistance, as well. I've heard that giants are not only physically capable, but that their endurance transcends the typical, tangible fare. He'd do well performing in magically-populated areas. He could ask the audience to lob fireballs at his chest and watch their surprise when they fizzles to nothing. Of course," he glanced at Rycen, who was taking his final bow, along with the rest of the troupe, sans Briery, "the Illusionist would not do well in those same magically-rife locales. Maybe that's why we don't really see too many circuses of this make travel down to Stella D'Mare. Magic adepts aren't too keen on colored smoke bombs and firecrackers. But, for that very reason, they'd be hugely popular in Tadasun."
The audience was roaring with delight, all hoots and foot stomps and hand slapping. Elias did not uncross his arms, and Alster, who couldn't clap, made the effort of sliding his good hand against his steel hand, for the sake of solidarity. He also dropped a gold sovereign into the hat on stage, a preposterous amount that took Elias aback.
"Save your money for rebuilding your city, Alster," he said, not with some level of disgust.
"It's not as much as you think," he said, defensively. "All D'Marian coin looks like you could finance an entire parade on the backing of just one gold bit."
"You're not fooling me." He lifted his medical bag from where it sat, at his feet, for far too long, considering the unrelenting length of the performance. "If you remember, I've been living in Stella D'Mare for the past several years."
"It's Rigas coin," he remedied, but Elias remained unconvinced.
As they waited for the crowd to disperse, with Alster seemingly disheartened by the long line to see Cwenha, ("You'll be seeing her later," seethed Elias), the Clematis healer tucked his bag under his arm and bounced from one foot to another. "I am not liable to wait here all evening, Daphni. Look," he waved a hand behind him, where Myron and Felix had mysteriously vanished. "Even my own brothers have abandoned me here. While they have the attention span of a peanut, that's beside the point." The stage had since been cleared of people, including the performers and a sizeable chunk of the crowd. And as the lanterns affixed to the poles overhead were doused by men with long metal rods, Elias, without waiting for either Daphni or Alster, wandered over to the caravans, which were fanned out behind the stage.
When the trio reached the only lit caravan, they were predictably met with resistance in the form of the impregnable strong-man blocking entry inside. Allowing Daphni to do all the talking, Elias opened his bag and pulled out two bottles of tonic: the original, and his experimental formula. This seemed to placate both Lautim and Cwenha, (who Alster did not meet with eye contact, preferring to stand behind the two healers). After some deliberation from inside, the circus performers opened the door and welcomed the three of them into the caravan.
Once inside, which was a snug fit for five people, let alone the two that it housed, they all kept behind Cwenha, who moved aside the privacy curtain to reveal Briery in a significantly less glamorous curtain-reveal than her presence on stage would suggest. Scrunched up in her bottom bunk, her breathing labored and her body again centered towards her lower abdomen, she was the picture of suffering. Though, it did not stop her from arguing their presence in the caravan at all. Setting his medical bag with a loud clank on the floor, Elias, who was in no mood to navigate one's stubborn pride, nodded his agreement to the silver-clad girl, who currently spoke the most sense and was therefore the more responsible party to address.
"I cannot speak for the intricacies of running a 'business' on the road, but I can vouch for my two decades' worth of treating patients," he began, taking the two tonic bottles into his hands. "What your ringleader pulled out there was irresponsible. But I also know that people will neglect their health in pursuit of some greater purpose or necessity, whether that be financial security, soldiering on the front-lines of war, or tossing about like a band of gypsies. I cannot expect people to be so conscientious when desperation grips them; otherwise, I would have nothing with which to occupy my time. No one would require a healer. But just because I understand does not mean I condone such reckless acts, especially when you," he turned to Briery, "were granted more than enough of an opportunity to retreat before your stint on the trapeze. Listen to your party; otherwise, no healer, no matter how gifted, will be unable to spare you from your own self-inflicted pain. That is my lecture; take it however you will."
With light-footed steps, he approached Briery near her bunk, keeping all sudden vibrations to a minimum, for the sake of her condition. "I have here two tonics. The one in which you gave me, and the one that I have made. It is not the final product, for I hadn't much time to brew one better. But this tonic," he waved the one that he had created, "is based on the one I used to take for myself. My herbal concoctions differ from the original, because I anticipated that your body was building an immunity to its effects. And if you do not trust my tinkering of a 'tried and true' combination, despite its dwindling potency, and despite my stance on your 'lifestyle,' may you take comfort in this anecdote."
Lowering both tonic bottles upon her bedside table, he placed one now available hand to his chest. "I suffered from a terminal pulmonary affliction. A consumptive disease, a common phenomena with no known cure. For five years, I managed my condition with tonic after tonic of waning effectiveness. I was dogged in my research of anti-inflammatory herbs and oil extractions, assured that I would one day discover a cure. I did not, but somebody else did." He glanced sidelong at Daphni, but did not linger on her for long. "My point is that I am well-aware of the endless trial and error that comes with managing a condition such as yours. As such, I've dabbled in chemistry and herbology, and I daresay I've perfected a tonic of this nature--one of many that I would take to eliminate the oft painful side effects of my condition. So," he slid his version towards her, on the table, "do let me know how your body responds to it, and I will brew you more of its like."
"I could use a bit of that, myself," Alster muttered from behind them all. When everyone turned to look at him, he dipped his head in apology and rubbed the reddened skin on his right arm, for emphasis. "Didn't mean to interrupt. My name is Alster Rigas, and I'm," he hesitated for a second, "Elias's colleague. He shared with me the basics of your condition, Briery. If you allow me, I may be able to have a look, well, inside, with my magic. It will feel invasive, and I can't guarantee it won't hurt, but if we know what's taking form in your abdomen, we may be able to better treat and specify your ailment. But," he gave a sympathetic smile, "I understand if you don't want to undergo such a procedure right now. From one pain-sufferer to another, I know that foremost, we just want it to go away. No matter how it's done."
"Keep in mind, we will have to investigate before you leave for Eyraille," Elias said. "Ideally, it will be when you are as pain-free as possible. So let us see how the tonic takes, first. Then, we'll proceed from there."
Briery didn’t react to Elias’s reprimand of her decision to go on while she was in pain. She had already justified it for herself; and by the sounds of the crowd cheering, which she had heard all the way from her safe little bunk at the back of the caravan, the trapeze act had been well worth the pain. Even if it rendered her useless for the rest of the show, she had gotten her act in, which was all that mattered, regardless that she missed taking a final bow with the entirety of her troupe. “It was necessary,” was all she said to that, ignoring the deep furrow of Cwenha’s brow. “I don’t regret anything. These flare-ups occur, regardless of what I am doing with my body. The best that I can do is try to work through them; otherwise the quality and integrity of our shows would be compromised.”
When at first, being presented with the tonics did not inspire much hope in the ringleader’s eyes, that changed when the Clematis healer explained that he had tweaked it; that he’d had the good sense to anticipate just what she had said. That she’d grown too tolerant of the original formula, which would explain the increased frequency of her abdominal flare-ups. Picking up the new tonic from the bedside table, she was quick to unscrew the top, and dropped a dosage onto her tongue, desperate for relief to take place as fast as possible--if it took place at all. “That does reassure me, a little. Particularly if you tested the make of this formula, yourself, she mentioned, placing the small, glass bottle carefully back onto her bedside table, with mildly trembling fingers. “Although… I am right to think that this is only a temporary solution, aren’t I? That it will happen again. I’ll just keep growing tolerant to different formulations at higher doses, until any and all potential for them to help will be null and void…”
It was Cwenha who seemed to perk up, when Alster came forth to introduce himself, his skills, and how he might be of use. “That is exactly what we need; to know precisely what is going on below the surface,” she chimed in, looking pointedly at Briery. “And they’re right. We’re leaving Eyraille in five days’ time; if we want them to be able to help, we shouldn’t put it off too long. Let him see what he can do.”
The look on Briery’s face, the way it contorted into a grimace at Alster’s mention of the words ‘invasive’ and ‘hurt’ said enough about the agony she was already experiencing. The ringleader clutched her pillow more tightly to her chest. “I appreciate the offer more than I can rightfully express, right now,” she began, apology in her warm, brown eyes, “but I am only able to manage the pain enough to speak at the moment in time because of my position, because I am not moving, and because no one is touching me. If the new formulation of my tonic will do anything for me, then I’ll know in a couple of hours, though by then it will be into the morning. Maybe… it might be best if you could return tomorrow. I realize I am not in a position to be choosey, but I am afraid I might not be able to tolerate any interference, magical or otherwise…”
It wasn’t ideal, and like Cwenha, Briery wished that she could have answers now; but she had already defied the outcry of her body once, that night. She couldn’t do it again; not so soon. The young singer at least seemed to recognize this, and she sighed, her shoulders drooping a bit. “Would you come back in the morning?” She asked them, looking at Alster in particular, who had sympathized that the ringleader might not be able to tolerate much, if any, bodily interference at the moment. “We’ve another show, tomorrow night; and every night, up until the end of the festival. Any help is welcome. Anything that will allow us to pull of trapeze and aerial acts without worrying about someone’s body seizing up.” She looked pointedly at Briery, evidently holding a grudge. The ringleader sighed.
“If I apologize, will that be enough?”
“No. Because I know you’d do it again, in a heartbeat, without hesitation.”
She had her, there. “...you’re not wrong,” Briery confessed and shook her head slowly, the glitter on her face catching in the light of the lanterns lit along the ceilings of the caravan. Her face flickered from Alster’s to Elias’s, and back again. “Tomorrow… would be best. If I can get this flare-up under control, I’ll let you do anything you see necessary to see further into my condition. You have my word.”
“That is entirely understandable. Of course we can return in the morning.” Daphni said, speaking for the three of them. Elias might have been impatient, as he’d come prepared to do what he needed to do now, but at least Alster seemed to understand that chronic pain was something that needed to be dealt with, with delicacy and compassion. Though Briery was easily taller than Cwenha, her younger counterpart, she seemed so much smaller, her form crumpled and diminutive on her bed. “Try to get some rest, tonight. If you’re still in pain in some hours, try turning on your side for a little while; it will keep gravity from weighing on your abdomen.”
Briery offered a faint smile. “I didn’t even consider that, but it makes perfect sense. Thank you for the advice...”
Before they could be dismissed, the Sybaian healer decided to ask, “I apologize if this is getting too personal--and there are a lot of ears in this small caravan, but… Is this as bad as it gets? Just the pain and discomfort? You said earlier that you weren’t due to have your condition flare up until next week, which I assume is the beginning of your cycle. How much worse does it get, then?”
“No need to apologize; I live in very close quarters with my troupe. There’s no such thing as real privacy for me.” Briery hazarded a smile, but it faded as soon as it was there. “I wish I could say that this, what you see, is as bad as it gets. But next week… there will be no performing, to say the least.”
“That really is the least.” Cwenha murmured, her gaze flat and seeming lost. “She can’t even leave the caravan, unaccompanied, because she loses too much blood. It makes her weak and unstable. And that is if she can get out of bed, at all.”
Briery said nothing to that, because she couldn’t deny any of it. “Nonetheless, even if this tonic of yours only addresses the pain, then I will take that much. Anything to be less of a burden to my troupe. But… and I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’d much rather continue this discussion tomorrow.” The ringleader pressed her face into her pillow, wearing the expression of someone desperately waiting for a moment--or longer--to pass. “I’m not fit for much discussion, right now…”
By the time Cwenha led the trio out of the cramped little caravan, the ‘main stage’ had entirely cleared, every audience member having long since gone home. She handed Elias a small bag of coins before he could wander off. “For the tonics. Your help is much appreciated, even if she’s not in much of a mood to accept it, right now. I’m sorry you wasted your time.”
“It wasn’t a waste of time, at all. In fact, it’s helpful to see the extent to which someone suffers at their worst, if we want to find a means to help them.” Daphni told her gently. “Now… I realize that this opinion might not earn a popular vote, but given what we have learned, tonight… I think you should consider keeping your troupe in Eyraille, for next week. Alster may not be here, as he has important business in Stella D’Mare, but Elias and I are a fixture here in this kingdom until further notice. We could help; maybe find more long-term solutions, if menstruation takes such a toll on your ringleader’s body.”
It appeared as though Cwenha was ready to refuse before the Sybaian healer was finished speaking. She shook her head, hair as white as starlight falling down her shoulders and back. “That’s impossible, I’m afraid, for a number of reasons. Not only would Briery outright refuse, but with good reason; we need to move on. We’re due to travel south of Eyraille for the next week, to perform at some clusters of villages. It might not be comfortable, but it’s best that we travel during the times she is completely out of commission. It is easier to plan our shows around that. And we need the money; do you have any idea how much food it takes to keep Lautim sated for a day?” Her pert mouth tugged into a grin. “But we appreciate your consult for the time that we’re here. We’ll try to make that time count.”
As they wandered back to the palace, only feeling slightly more optimistic than beforehand, Briery felt nonetheless lighter than before. Admittedly, it had to do, in part, because of that card reading; one that fulfilled her wishes, and her hopes, and made her feel as though hoping was neither foolish nor impossible. She carried the feeling with her, as they retired to their chambers that evening, a rare pop of energy in her step. “I know it was far from your cup of tea. But thank you for accompanying me, today,” she told the Clematis healer, with a genuine smile. “I think I understand now why Eyraille places such stock and energy into this festival. It radiates good vibes in the atmosphere. Everyone is so… elevated. It has been quite some time since I’ve been surrounded by auras, glowing to such an extent.”
But Elias’s aura… She’d noticed the change in its shape and colour since Briery had read his cards that morning. Something had unsettled him; and she was more than willing to bet it had something to do with Imogen. But the Sybaian healer knew better than to mention that woman’s name unless the Clematis healer brought it up, first. Despite the evolution of their relationship--which, within a matter of a few weeks, had almost comically gone from tense colleagues to discussing plans to have a baby together--there were still some topics better left out of idle conversation.
So she did not bring up the woman’s name. Instead, she merely offered, “You know, if ever you are feeling bothered by something, I am happy to lend an ear. The Sybaia do not always need to go searching around someone’s soul to help them, especially if the matter is not urgent.”
But that was all she said on the matter; it was late, and he wasn’t in a particularly receptive mood for prying. “Just keep that in mind,” she said. “For those times when you’d rather not dwell on your thoughts alone.”
As promised, they returned to Briery’s caravan the next morning when the sun was up. This time, it was the ringleader herself who answered the door. “Good morning.” She greeted, with a smile and a spring in her step. As if, roughly twelve hours before, she had not been bedridden in agonizing pain. “Please come in. If either of you are tea drinkers, I’ve some freshly boiled water and brand new tea leaves purchased from one of the vendors, yesterday.”
She held the door as they stepped inside. Cwenha wasn’t anywhere to be found, this morning, but her silver skin-tight apparel was neatly folded on her bed. Apparently she was taking the opportunity to explore some of the festival without being immediately recognizable. Briery, too, had yet to don her trademark gold. Her face was bare of make-up, and she’d donned a dark tunic that fell to her knees, looking large enough to fit a man, but no leggings clad her bare legs. Daphni couldn’t blame her for wanting to dress comfortably, after the agony she’d endured the night before.
“Sorry for the lack for the lack of room. We work with what we’ve got,” Briery apologized half-heartedly, moving some costumes and pots of make-up aside in case they wanted to take a seat on one of two settees at either side of the caravan.
“You’re looking well today, Briery,” Daphni commented with a smile, thinking this a positive indicator. The night before, she’d struggled just to be in the acrobat’s presence, for all the pain she’d been in. “How are you faring, today?”
“Just fine, actually. Couldn’t be better.” The ringleader smiled. There were no dark circles beneath her eyes; she must have gotten some sleep, after all. “A few hours after you left, that tonic began to take effect. I think I actually got a full night’s sleep without waking up to discomfort. Whatever you did to change the formula,” she said to Elias, “keep doing it. If it can buy me a few more years before I become too tolerant of it again, then that’s the most I can hope for.”
Daphni certainly hoped that was not the most she could hope for… To that, she mentioned, “If we are able to take a closer look, and better understand what it happening to you, we might be able to devise a more permanent solution.”
“I won’t argue that. I’d love to know what it’s like to live a full thirty days without being bedridden.” Briery commented. “I might not have been in the mood or state to cooperate last night, but now, do whatever you need to do. All suggestions, I’ll take into consideration.”
At Briery’s inquiry over the new tonic and its lasting potency, Elias nodded his affirmative. “I’m afraid so. Soon, your body will develop a tolerance to this tonic, just as it has with the one you’ve been taking these last few years. As was the case with me, I was ever-cycling through new remedies and complementary replacements. To use a term you’d understand,” he smiled without humor, “it’s a juggling act. Unfortunately, I cannot give you a proper diagnosis without examining you, so I will withhold my speculations on your condition until then.” He lifted his medical bag from the floor of the caravan, brushing off the offending clots of gold and silver glitter that had clung to the polished leather surface—to no avail. He hid his disgust poorly, with pursed lips and a distasteful shake of his head.
“In the morning, then. I’ll come calling again, and we’ll analyze the state of your well-being. If you are in the same level of pain, then it will be your prerogative should you decide to take to the stage, though I’ll reiterate that it is something I do not condone. So do be careful.” He clipped his bag shut, though now the offending glitter had transferred to his hands. “This is an epidemic,” he muttered, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and diligently wiping at his hands. “What unholy substance is this made of?”
