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If Brevoy was not yet dead, it was already beyond saving.
Forged in the heat of dragon’s fire, Issia and Rostland were joined like iron and lead — soft in the striking, faithless in the cooling, and doomed to split at the grain. House Rogarvia had been vanished for a decade; the weld that held Brevoy together had long gone cold by the time the Aldori Swordlords set their plans in motion. Surtova’s regency carried the stink of an infected wound too far gone, the fever already beginning to take hold. The day Jamandi Aldori issued charters for the Stolen Lands was the day the disease in Brevoy became terminal. Future historians would mark it as the beginning of the end.
It was the 24th of Calistril, 4710 AR.
There were three grains of sand left.
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The great hall of Jamandi Aldori’s mansion gleamed like a sword in the sun. Candles burned in silver sconces, their light striking the polished floors like sparks along a whetstone. A plush red carpet ran the hall’s length, gold marks denoting the boundaries for duels. Tapestries of famous contests hung stiffly from the walls, each fold meticulously pressed sharp—the history of the Swordlords rendered in wool. At one end, a tapestry depicted Baron Sirian First losing his fortune to a bandit king; at the other, his triumphant return as Sirian Aldori and his founding of the Swordpact. Beneath this final tapestry, Jamandi Aldori has laid her banquet table, holding court over the ball like a blade sheathed in velvet.
Among the assembled guests, gestures and glances are weighed as carefully as swords in a duel. Laughter stabs, smiles cut. Every movement is a feint or a thrust, and any misstep might be seized upon to a rival's advantage, sure to echo long after the music has faded.
Trading the labyrinthine intrigues and power plays of Restov for the open road, the Greenbelt expedition company follows their path to fortune and glory south, making a right turn where the road approaches the bank of the Shrike River and heading west toward Oleg's Trading Post. Along the way, the cobbled highway gives way to a narrow dirt track marked on either side by ruts and grooves carved by hundreds of wagon wheels, and the neat farms and clustered settlements thin into stretches of untamed fields and low, wind-bent trees. Early spring hangs in the air—a biting wind that flutters loose hair and the edges of cloaks, patches of snow stubbornly clinging to shaded banks, and the occasional drizzle that soaks the road, turning it to mud. Birds call from leafless branches, and the low sun glints off puddles that ripple in the gusts, but for all the signs of life, the world feels sharp and tentative, as if it is only just waking from winter’s hold.
This is the first time since leaving Restov that the company can speak without measured courtesy, for the road demands no social finesse—only alertness to footing, wagons, and the rhythm of travel. Lanterns swing from the wagon’s posts, mud squelches under boots, and the scent of wet earth rises with each step. They will reach Oleg's before nightfall, so long as their journey continues without incident. Time would tell who they would be to each other when they finally arrive, and how the road was already beginning to shape that bonds that would see them through the trials yet to come.
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Lady Zsófia Dobós, Baroness of Candlemere, stood still on the edge of the hall, watching the Swordlords carefully. Her eye was especially drawn to the mansion's owner and host of this gathering, Jamandi Aldori. She had never before been this close to the woman who she believed to be her enemy, and as she wondered if she would ever be this close to her again she was doing her best to gain the measure of the noblewoman and famed duelist. As much as she would love to find a pretext to challenge her, both her father and her royal patron had cautioned Zsófia that doing so would be a grave risk to her mission. There were any number of ways that the lady of the manor could refuse and declare such a challenge improper, and it is likely that subsequently Zsófia would simply be ejected from the building, and perhaps her place in the chartered expedition contested. That is probably exactly what they want, she thought, smirking at the room with narrowed eyes. Thus, to spite them, she resolved to fight her instincts and avoid making a scene.
Yet she could not help watching Jamandi Aldori, and so she tried to make it look intentional, like watching another duelist's bout to learn their technique. After what seemed like hours, Zsófia crowed inwardly when she saw the lady flick her eyes in her direction, and she gleefully nodded towards her in a way that looked respectful but was just slow enough that they both knew it was sarcastic. Her elegant multicolored court outfit rustled as she stuck out her foot and she knew the glittering candlelight would make her shine like a rainbow. She thought she saw a look of irritation cross her host's face as she quickly turned her head away again. The elation she felt made her want to see it again. It felt like a triumph, albeit a petty one.
Fortunately, Lady Aldori had tasked another with organizing the expedition-- possibly to avoid having to interact with anyone she didn't want to interact with-- and Zsófia picked him out of the mess of courtiers hovering near the food. She almost crossed over to him, using fixing a plate as an excuse, but she stopped because she had been making a point to herself of not partaking of the banquet, despite her stomach occasionally rumbling. She did not want to feel she owed the Aldoris any courtesy, so that she knew her magnanimous behavior was her own choice. Instead, she looked around for other guests who seemed out of place, with the plan to introduce herself to them.
Zsófia trudges along behind the wagon and the animals, holding her head at a delicate, jaunty angle and blinking a lot. The great sense of shared camaraderie she felt at the private impromptu party last night had led her to drink much more than she should have, and she was feeling it keenly today. "Dear sweet Trillium," she murmured, "could you please play your traveling music just a bit more softly? I know I embarrassed myself terribly last night by singing along with you, but today my head is providing a thumping percussion accompaniment and I am hoping you can help me bring the volume down."
She winced as she knew she would soon have to talk about subjects she had managed to avoid the night before, now that they were no longer within range of the Swordlords' ever-vigilant ears. It-- is-- possible-- that they have ears among us nonetheless, she thought, cradling her head in her hands again, but now that we are on our own-- I think-- we-- must-- roll the dice. They all deserve to know-- at least some things-- about my purpose here. She sighed and began to prepare herself.
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Zsófia trudges along behind the wagon and the animals, holding her head at a delicate, jaunty angle and blinking a lot. The great sense of shared camaraderie she felt at the private impromptu party last night had led her to drink much more than she should have, and she was feeling it keenly today. "Dear sweet Trillium," she murmured, "could you please play your traveling music just a bit more softly? I know I embarrassed myself terribly last night by singing along with you, but today my head is providing a thumping percussion accompaniment and I am hoping you can help me bring the volume down."
She winced as she knew she would soon have to talk about subjects she had managed to avoid the night before, now that they were no longer within range of the Swordlords' ever-vigilant ears. It-- is-- possible-- that they have ears among us nonetheless, she thought, cradling her head in her hands again, but now that we are on our own-- I think-- we-- must-- roll the dice. They all deserve to know-- at least some things-- about my purpose here. She sighed and began to prepare herself.
As she had done the last few days, Zsófia is content to let others more fluent with the language of the wilderness take the lead, and to walk behind the cart and animals placidly. Truth be told she is growing tired of all the walking, though she finds that she doesn't mind the camping as much. Especially with how talkative several members of the expedition become as the night gets softer. She is pleased to realize that she wants to like them all-- even the elves, to whom she thought it would be difficult to relate. Ta Bayang still gives her pause, she admits, as an otherworldly creature made of magic and shadow. But Zsófia is willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.
Her thoughts wander backwards to the first day of their travel, when she still had a terrible headache from staying up carousing most of the night before. As determined as she had been to come clean with everyone about her political relationship with the Brevic king-regent and House Surtova once she was away from all the Swordlords and their near-certain spies listening at every corner, her delicate condition had made her more taciturn and quiet. Twice she had resolved to broach the subject as they set up bedrolls and prepared a meal together, but both times she had chickened out. No-- not chickened out, but decided that the moment was not right.
Her procrastination is now weighing heavily on her mind. She is running out of time, and she knows that if she is going to talk, it must be today. But while she chooses to wait to lay her own secrets bare, she realizes she has not sussed out her companions' loyalties at all. If one or more of them is a spy for the Swordlords, sharing her information with them is dangerous. She does not wish to cause the party strife or concern. She wants to trust them, and to earn their trust in return.
But on the other foot, she reasons, the group's political ties to Brevoy and Rostov are now four days away, and growing ever further. Mayhaps it doesn't matter to any of them from whence their allegiances came, so long as they are all united in their respect for their expedition and the charter that had been granted to them. Relations with other kingdoms is a problem for another day. She bites her thumbnail as she trudges on, racked with indecision.
Strike boldly, Zsófia! she thinks. No more maneuvering. It is time to thrust or put up my sword.
She clears her throat. "Listen, my friends, there is something I feel I should tell you all. But I am not quite sure how to begin. It has to do with my title-- perhaps some of you heard me introduced as the Baroness of Candlemere?"
The thought is a distraction; Ta Bayang is currently fighting an intense urge to flee the crowded space, on the brink of being overwhelmed by the multitude of sounds, scents, sights, and the cacophony of signals all clamouring for their attention. They had barely gotten used to things in this world being frustratingly more solid and less subject to their will, and after an eternity spent among colourless shadows even the mildest shade of brown was... intense.
Yes, it is true that Ta Bayang themself favours bright colours in their attire, but there is a sea of difference between making an intentional choice and being subjected to a deluge of hues and textures everywhere they look. The fey grimaces in discomfort as they shift the focus to the food-laden table - but that is another trap. The simple fare at the Medvyed table was perfect in that its blandness was comforting (except for the garlic!); here, Ta Bayang struggles to tell apart the food from the decoration, and there are so many unknown foodstuffs, each posing a deadly danger of flavour too intense to bear. Besides, how did one even eat some of these things? All the carefully drilled lessons in table etiquette and what all the different long shiny bits are for have taken flight from their mind as they stare at the platters heaped with curiously-shaped and curiously-coloured... food? It must be food, right?
The landscape of mostly grays, browns and whites is familiar and soothing - with the exception of the deep blue sky. Ta Bayang has stepped in all the possible puddles already as they stare upwards with insatiable wonder, even though it made their eyes water and brought dark red spots dancing in their vision. The black velvet doublet (only slightly moth-eaten) and the fine linen shirt they were wearing at the banquet have been exchanged for warm wools; the high collar of a flannel shirt peaks from underneath the knitted sleeveless sweater, the floppy tasseled cap is pulled low to the right above the eyes, and the knee-length coat flaps in the occasional gust of wind. Their long woolen scarf is currently wrapped around the neck of the black mare walking placidly behind Ta Bayang.
"Listen, my friends, there is something I feel I should tell you all. But I am not quite sure how to begin."
Beginnings were delicate things, this the fey knew well. Thus, they do their best to smile encouragingly at the human who is leading their group - although her next words leave Ta Bayang in the dark. They are vaguely aware that Candlemere is a place in the area towards which they are headed, but how could a person be a bareness...?
Oh. Oooooh! This must be that thing that some mortals struggle with, and about which the fey had overheard some whispers. When they wanted to have offspring, but could not conceive. Remembering the joy that her daughter had brought their mistress, Ta Bayang looks at Zsófia sympathetically. "I'm sorry. But you are still young, there may yet be hope."
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He didn't know what to think about this effort to colonize- they were calling it an effort to spread civilization to the wilderness, but Mal couldn't help but call a spade a spade- the Stolen Lands but he didn't mind getting more resources out to people who could use the help. Izettin had lost half his harvest to the rot and could use fresh seed for planting. And new tools were always valuable- Oleg could only supply so much, and if your scythe blade broke you couldn't always afford to wait two or three weeks for a special order from Restov. And Mal had to be as honest with himself as he was with everyone else- if this was going to happen, he wanted to be a part of it, to steer it the right way.
Speaking of which, he smiled as he spotted Ezvanki on the far side of the room. Whie Mal wasn't a follower of Old Deadeye hiself, he and the good priest had a lot of the same ideas about being a good neighbor and helping people. Mal had even helped the High Priest fix a roof right here in Restov once.
Malylev made his way through the crowd, careful not to bump anyone with his mug of ale as he wove past. Luckily he was taller than most and could see over most of the crowd's heads, making it easier to maneuver. He wasn't much of a hand with a dueling sword and didn't intend to make a mortal enemy of anyone today. "Father Ezvanki! Good to see you. Has Erastil blessed this expedition out into the Stolen Lands?"
Ezvanki’s smile widened the moment Malylev called out, genuine pleasure shining in his keen eyes. He reached out and clasped Malylev’s arm in a strong grip- a laborer’s handshake, full of warmth and certainty.
“Malylev! If Erastil has a mind on our doings, I like to think he’s watching with a carpenter’s eye—checking the quality before approving the work,” Ezvanki said, laughter bubbling in his voice. “I hope we build something sturdy, not just in timber or stone, but in community.”
He leaned in, his tone more confidential, though his manner stayed cheerful. “I see you here, and I had some hope we might. I hear the wilds out there aren’t easily tamed by sword or even by charter. We'll need good sense, good hands, and honest hearts— those are what make a frontier fit for families.” He nodded toward Mal’s mug. “Best bring that fortitude with you. I suspect there are roofs to mend or hearts in need waiting out there in the Stolen Lands.”
His eyes twinkled with mischief. “And are you going on this journey, Malylev? Or did you just come for the fine ale and stiff company?”
Mal chuckled. It was hard not to when talking to the High Priest. He was a good soul, someone Malylev was sure had the best interests of his flock at heart. Those people were rare these days, and even more rare in a position of influence like this. He nodded. "I am, though good ale was a not inconsiderable inducement. Out in the west it's hard to get anything that's not fit to strip paint. That or water. Even harder to find a good woman to spend time with."
Even though Mal always told the truth, that was more than he had meant to reveal. Out in the Stolen Lands he hadn't seen a single woman who wasn't married (or clearly taken, in Svetlana's case) or a maneater in over a year. And then she was married off before Malylev even managed to get back around for a second visit. One resource he was looking forward to for himself was eligible single women.
"I know you aren't leaving Restov, Father, but are you sending any acolytes with us? We could use the help."
Ezvanki’s laughter came readily and warmly, drawing a few passing glances from the more uptight guests. He gave Malylev’s arm a companionable squeeze, offering camaraderie as if they stood by a campfire, not beneath chandeliers.
“Ah, out where the wind breaks harder than the bread, a good ale and good company do become the greatest luxuries,” he mused, still smiling. “And patience— the rarest commodity of all, I sometimes think.”
He grew a touch more serious, meeting Malylev’s gaze with the clear, honest look of a man used to speaking hard truths with kindness. “Truth be told, I’m not sending any acolytes with you this time. The city’s got needs of its own that can’t be left wanting, and most are city-bred besides. Useful here, but green as spring shoots for all the wild is concerned.”
Ezvanki’s tone was gentle, yet carried a quiet pride. “But you won’t go without the blessings— and prayers— of our hearth. Every dawn I’ll lift a word to Old Deadeye for your company’s safety and wisdom. And should you find trouble too great, or loss too keen, remember how to come back and ask for help. That’s what Erastil’s path is; not the journey, but the knowing you’ve somewhere to return to.”
He offered a small, crooked grin. “You won’t lack for new neighbors out there— every man and woman you meet, for good or ill, is shaping that wilderness with you. So make allies, mend what you can, and sow kindness. The wild may take many things, but it cannot take from us what we give freely.”
Father Keegh leaned in, conspiratorially: “If you find yourself in desperate straits for decent ale or a civil word, Mal, send me a message. I’ll send the best we’ve got with the next supply wagon—and maybe a bit of advice besides, though you don’t seem much in need of it.” Ezvanki tipped his head, warmth in his eyes. “Go well, and bring us tales worth repeating. The city will be eager to see what sort of frontier you return to us.”
Malylev knew Jack was far better at spotting trouble or weather on the horizon but he couldn't help but be up front. He was glad to be on his way back to the Stolen Lands, enjoying the fresh air that didn't stink of too many bodies all crushed in next to each other, and looking forward to seeing some familiar faces. Plus he had told Ebrar he'd look in on them to check on Feyza's cough.
He looked back over his shoulder at Zsofia's throat clearing, slowing Milha a bit to let her know he wasn't directly leading her anymore so she would keep her eyes on the ground. The tall, blonde haired young man's weatherbeaten face made him look older than he actually was but the creases at the corners of his eyes just told strangers that he smiled often.
Oh. Oooooh! This must be that thing that some mortals struggle with, and about which the fey had overheard some whispers. When they wanted to have offspring, but could not conceive. Remembering the joy that her daughter had brought their mistress, Ta Bayang looks at Zsófia sympathetically. "I'm sorry. But you are still young, there may yet be hope."
Mal chuckled, not really understanding what Ta Bayang was talking about. He nodded at Zsófia, though, indicating he wasn't laughing at her. "I did hear that, Lady. I thought it was someone making a joke in poor taste, the Stolen Lands being wild and all."
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It does not require a vastly inquisitive spirit to recognize that the sort of gathering currently being held at Lady Aldori’s mansion always attracts an interesting range of persons: bored or (perhaps and) scheming aristocrats keeping a wary eye on rivals’ doings, the poor functionaries who actually have to try to see their way to everything going smoothly, preening bravos or loutish thugs angling for attention or carried in the wake of their betters, and a smattering of surprises.
One of the last, in a slender cascade of silks the colour of an afternoon sky in midwinter, sits quietly on one of the chairs lining either side of the hall, after having taken a turn about the room to inspect the tapestries with an expert eye. Apparently satisfied, while waiting for things to begin, she keeps herself busy with a bundle of somewhat less extravagant stuff (midnight blue, almost black) arranged for her to work at some careful silver embroidery on the bodice of a set of robes, pointed ears alert to the conversations around her and gaze lifting occasionally to follow movements around the room.
She is fairly confident, after having made herself useful and spent time enough dropping increasingly brazen hints in the right ears, that she will not be disappointed today. Nonetheless, neither Lady Aldori nor Lord Varn has said anything. She can’t blame them: she wouldn’t either, in their place. Something else needles at her instead, tugging at her attention like a kink in her thread. She doesn’t grudge the need to acknowledge acquaintances as they pass by, nor her few friends that are in attendance (some have allegiances that strongly encourage their absence, but she’s spotted Seraph this morning at least, representing the Lebedas from a cadet branch), and she’s used to some tittering behind her back about her accented Taldane and whispers that the local eminences tolerate her because it allows them to boast that they’ve caught the attention of the elves, but this is different. She can’t quite put her finger on it yet, but while it’s unnerving, she doubts that there’s imminent danger of a scene, or worse. The only thing to do is to keep one’s eyes open, especially as…
“Madame Silver Dawn?” A page interrupts her thoughts and stitches. The young person’s brow is furrowed with the awareness that it is an odd locution in the common tongue, but it is as close to correct as it’s going to get, and her addressee appreciates it. “Milord Varn has a moment, if you would like that word.”
As she has for the duration of the journey so far, Silver Dawn perches primly on the wagon winding its way to the expedition’s point of entry to the “Stolen Lands,” occupying herself with her stitching when the weather permits, and a book – for reading, or for sketching the passing scenery – when it is too cold to curl fingers around anything much smaller than a pencil. The unspoken but unmistakeable message is that she will ride a horse of her own when she has to and not a moment before. She is, at least, in what passes for practical travelling garb with her, and past misadventures aside, it seems as if she needn’t have expected to be ambushed by bandits at any moment. Still, with every jolt from the rough track, that sends her bobbing like a ship’s figurehead, she does wonder if there might not have been a river route, even as she knows that skirting the edge of Rostland proper has its advantages for their patrons. Nonsense, really, but that only shows how much need there is for someone to keep an eye on it.
Silver Dawn looks up as the murmur of conversation pitches higher to include the whole group. Zsófia seems a bit nervous, and the ilverani wonders what might be worrying her, remembering, with sympathy, how the young Brevic noblewoman showed up rather the worse for wear on the day everyone set off. That thought reminds her of how she spent the Feast of Vigour herself, a fortnight ago: evidently, with much more restraint, she recalls, a bit smugly. But that’s by the by, and Silver Dawn nods at Zsófia’s reference to her titulature. She’s about to confess that Candlemere is little more than a name to her – there’s a ruin, isn’t there? – when Ta Bayang chimes in with a remark that raises Silver Dawn’s brow archly.
Surely not. They can’t possibly be suggesting what I think they are. Unless I’ve missed some hints that I should certainly like to think that I would not, the elf muses. The only sensible thing to do is to let Zsófia deal with that, and one thing at a time.
Mal chuckled, not really understanding what Ta Bayang was talking about. He nodded at Zsófia, though, indicating he wasn't laughing at her. "I did hear that, Lady. I thought it was someone making a joke in poor taste, the Stolen Lands being wild and all."
She smiles encouragingly, “I have heard that too, now that you mention it. Pray continue, Lady Candlemere.”
Jack stands at the edge of the banquet hall, vibrant green orbs that were his eyes scanning everything and everyone who entered his view. An elaborate dance carried itself out before him, patterns of introductions and boasts and little nods and gestures that refected a complex social pecking order he had little interest in. He had signed up to explore a wilderness, but the comforting wilderness of the woods where you might merely be devoured by wolves. This was a different wilderness, a chaos of pageantry where the wolves circled but their attack would be no merciful breaking of the neck, but part of plottings and mating dances and resource gatherings all intertwined and impossible to disentangle.
Jack understood he did not understand the dance he watched well, unlike the broad shouldered bald human who stood next to him, whose painfully loud proclamations of his relationship to Lord Thus and Such and investments in that mining company indicated he was trying to participate in the dance and stumbling mightily. None of his peers would hear him boast, so he tormented Jack with an endless rambling stream of incomprehensible inanity. Jack struggled for reasons he couldn't name to find a way to move away from him, fearing upsetting some deeper imbalance in the scene.
But his own sharp eyes brought him an escape, though coming with a sting of panic, an electric shiver down the back of his neck. Something moving behind a statue, then a curtain, near the person identified as their host, Jamandi Aldori.
"Excuse me," Jack muttered to the bald man, gripping his arm briefly in some terse form of farewell. He dived across the room, just barely avoiding tripping a servant carrying a tray laden with goblets. Sliding past guests and Aldori herself, he grabbed a curtain--to find a slender woman hiding behind. At first he thought even child or half long, but no merely petite and old enough to know what she was doing. She reacted swiftly -- stomping on Jack's foot -- and fleeing before many people had even seen the interchange between the two. A guard obstructed Jack's view of where the woman went, though he wasn't sure if the guard had seen and was following. He shook his pained foot, and then stumbled as he nearly kicked the nearest person to him in doing so: Zsofia, to whom he muttered an apology."She... She stomped my foot. Did you see her?"
Jack has not spoken much to the group yet but had, at least made it clear he should take point to stay alert. So he glared, not for the first time, at Mal for pushing up to the front, and quietly urged Rocco to move ahead with a clock of the tongue. The bay gelding issued a recalcitrant whinny, apparently liking walking next to someone else for once. He was summoning a question to Mal, perhaps to ask him at least to take watch while he was moving ahead of the group, when Zsofia had called their attention from behind them.
He replied, bluntly, perhaps, but simply out of a direct curiosity: "Yes. But I do not know what it means. To us. Out here." Was she expecting special treatment? Or was she taking this elsewhere?
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Prodding back at whatever’s poking at her subconscious, Silver Dawn sets aside her work too, for a moment, to go find Maegar Varn. She promises the page an unfilched cup of something nice to keep an eye on her project while she has that word, knowing that she’s adding one more thing for the young person to worry about as the folk keeping the gathering on track try to handle the crowd.
Threading her way through the press of people, the elven lady finds Varn in a lull in conversation with a cluster of comparatively rough-looking men. Himself cleans up more nicely, but if she remembers the gossip in the circles she moves in, the word is mercenary. As the group adjusts itself to make room for her, the two exchange an open-minded but overtly assessing glance. In what is politely referred to as ‘his prime,’ she concludes, though it’s so hard to tell with humans, isn’t it? Turn away for a moment, and the years have blasted them, if not buried.
What Varn thinks of the young elf is suggested as he acknowledges her briefly and, if politely, inaccurately, “Dame Silver. I am glad that we were able to find a moment.”
After only a few of the usual formalities, he gets briskly to the point, “I understand you have some ideas about what’s to be found in the Nomen Heights. About some of the ruins, and the reports of poisonous stones.”
She nods. “From what I’ve heard, I’m sure they’re Koloran. Although, to be perfectly honest, I sailed down from the Nyvyrd, rather than struggle over the mountains, and it was Lady Tess-Iubharr who wrote to me about the interesting ores to be found there. If any inscriptions have turned up from –”
“Let me be equally frank, Silver,” Varn interrupts, his gaze travelling over her again. “It’s fascinating, I’m sure, but right now, I need a proper alchemist, and I’ve found tailors and weavers already. It’s not spoiling things this morning to let you know that I don’t need a lady specializing in history and fancy work.”
He must sense his own audacity, because he does try to soften the blow. “That said, while it’s not my place to say more, I think you won’t find today entirely disappointing. I should introduce you –”
The pair’s stroll through the hall during their conversation has obviously not been without direction, but before Silver Dawn can take in much more than elegant court dress and a daring hairstyle, she narrowly avoids a collision with another person, who dodges around the other lady, muttering an apologetic, "She... She stomped my foot. Did you see her?"
“See who?” Silver Dawn asks, responding to a hint of an Elven accent and sympathizing with the outrage.
“ – to Zsófia Dobós, the Baroness of Candlemere,” Varn concludes simulataneously, lips twitching as if resisting the impulse to add, Kinsman of yours? as bronze-skinned aiudeen and pale ilverani manage not to crash into one another.
Jack blinks at the pale elf."A woman. Human, about five feet tall. Hiding in the curtains. I spotted her and she ran off."
Zsófia narrowed her eyes at Jack, apparently calculating whether or not his approach was some kind of threat, and her neck whipped to the side as she spotted Varn and Silver Dawn moving closer along the edge of the wall. She only caught the end of Varn's introduction, but she heard enough to recognize her title, and she bowed her head in acknowledgement. "I apologize, gentles, but I do not remember your names. A failing of the dueling grounds, for my head is full of lists of future and past opponents, which I am reasonably sure you are not. Would you do me the honor of enlightening me?"
She turned to Jack and cocked her head, her long multicolored ribbons glittering and spiraling gently in the candlelight. "There is no offense taken," she said, "for you did not kick me. A woman, you say? I did not see her. Perhaps it was one of the Aldori family's spies? Your eyes are particularly sharp, it sounds like. They would have to be, to catch such machinations within this nest of vipers." She lifted her chin defiantly.
Momentarily perplexed by Ta Bayang's statement, Zsófia gives the fetchling a strange look. Then she nods to Malylev and Jack, slowing down to acknowledge her as they all travel. She scratches the nape of her neck, and sighs. "Candlemere is located within the Stolen Lands, and was once the county seat of the Narlmarches, technically making me a marchioness. I was given the title by the king-regent of Brevoy as a favor to my father, who is... well, a good friend of his. I do not know much about the estate, but part of my reason for joining this expedition is that I want to scout and secure the lands and thus prove my claim. But it is a delicate political situation, for it means I am somewhat beholden to the Dragon Throne, personally. Our charter comes from the Swordlords, but by including me in the party, it is tacitly endorsed by Brevoy as well." She looks around at the group, which has slowed almost to a stop as she talks. "It may be that Rostland does not want us to succeed in carving out our new kingdom, for as I understand it, these charters are meant to create neighboring countries that will act as a check on Brevic authority and potential allies to the Aldori cause. I am not that. I am sorry I could not say as much where there were so many listening ears hiding in the curtains." She smirks cheekily at Jack. "I welcome your thoughts," she adds, trying her best to sound sincere.
Should I add that I expect to inherit "all the lands of the Shrike river?" she wonders. No, I suppose it does not matter, except to provide legitimacy to a claim upon the lands if they are contested. Better to hold the details of her father's true identity in reserve. And she is still nervous about revealing too many secrets before she knows very much about her companions.
Momentarily perplexed by Ta Bayang's statement, Zsófia gives the fetchling a strange look. Then she nods to Malylev and Jack, slowing down to acknowledge her as they all travel. She scratches the nape of her neck, and sighs. "Candlemere is located within the Stolen Lands, and was once the county seat of the Narlmarches, technically making me a marchioness. I was given the title by the king-regent of Brevoy as a favor to my father, who is... well, a good friend of his. I do not know much about the estate, but part of my reason for joining this expedition is that I want to scout and secure the lands and thus prove my claim. But it is a delicate political situation, for it means I am somewhat beholden to the Dragon Throne, personally. Our charter comes from the Swordlords, but by including me in the party, it is tacitly endorsed by Brevoy as well." She smirks cheekily at Jack. "I welcome your thoughts," she adds, trying her best to sound sincere.
Malylev glances at Jack before looking back at Zsófia. "Have you ever been to the Stolen Lands before, lady?" He makes a broad gesture with one hand, encompassing all of the south and west. "The people out there don't recognize any lords. They're mostly hunters and trappers and small subsistence farmers just trying to survive from winter to winter. There's barely anyone to support a lord, much less an estate out on Candlemere Island." He shrugs. "I don't know what the Surtovas told you or your father but at best you've been given "control"," he makes a gesture with his hands to indicate the irony of the word "of an independent River Kingdom in the making."
"At worst?" The blonde, bearded man nods at her. "It's a set up designed to fail and embarrass the Swordlords. Either way, it doesn't sound good for you. Or us."
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The wintry young elf bobs slightly in courteous acknowledgement of Zsófia’s greeting, though compared to the grace of the duelist and the elven gentleman beside her, it’s just a bit wobbly as she combines the movement with peering in the direction the latter was heading, trying for a glimpse of the woman he spotted, all while choosing her words carefully.
“Mostly everyone here calls me Silver Dawn. I wouldn’t dream of asking too many tongues to twist over my native,” she says, her own accent pitching her Taldane with a bit more of a softly rolling range that betrays the influence of Iobarian on top of Elven.
“Did anyone else see her, or should we let someone know?” Silver Dawn returns to the topic at hand, brow furrowed in concern. She’s obviously too innocent to rate the assembled quite at vipers, or perhaps too detached, as a foreigner. They could never! And that goes double for dragons, she thinks.
“I’ll see to it,” Varn announces with a frown, abruptly taking his leave with a tight nod and tighter set to his jaw, leaving Silver Dawn and Jack to fend for themselves with the lady – Oh dear. Have I blundered into a swordlord / loyalist split? the thought flashes across the snowcaster’s mind. The morning has just gotten so much more interesting, even without mysterious lurkers behind curtains. Maegar is living up to his promises so far.
“I would think,” Silver Dawn says guilelessly , “that the Aldori could have their people in plain sight, rather than stuffing someone behind the drapery. Lord Varn will inform the guards, I’m sure, so maybe the best we can do is … keep our eyes open?”
Her own glance flickers across the hall to find Lady Aldori, as she tries to gauge whether everyone’s attention will shortly be called for. Could it be a distraction? If so, by whom? To what end?
From her shaky perch on the wagon as it bumps along the track, the improbable ilverani listens to Zsófia’s – revelation? announcement? It’s too much of a surprise, and too complicated, for Silver Dawn to even have to worry about schooling her expression.
She knows what Zsófia means (she thinks), but the idea of being “somewhat” beholden to someone strikes her as an amusing way of putting it, as is the question of the regency. From what she’s been able to gather of Brevoy, even if she is an outsider, that’s giving far more credit to the Surtovas than anyone else she’s ever met. Is the king, or regent, or whatever, really that much more committed to the Baroness of Candlemere's success than are the Swordlords? Or are all their backers willing to wait quietly to see what advantage might come their way, without necessarily grieving if the adventurers come to an unfortunate end?
The thought twists her stomach, so far from her own home. Surely Belenis would grieve. She would. In any case, Malylev’s forthright reservations cut across her thoughts, and she remembers that the outspoken hermit is an alienated aristocrat as he assesses the situation more candidly than she would dare, yet. She does wonder what she’s got herself into, as civilization – or Rostland, at least – recedes further over the horizon with each turn of the wagon’s wheels.
"I don't know what the Surtovas told you or your father but at best you've been given "control"," he makes a gesture with his hands to indicate the irony of the word "of an independent River Kingdom in the making."
"At worst?" The blonde, bearded man nods at her. "It's a set up designed to fail and embarrass the Swordlords. Either way, it doesn't sound good for you. Or us."
“So, nomads, small-holders, and a half-dozen of us? And bandits, I suppose, and river pirates? Monsters, deeper in the woods? As you have probably all gathered,” Silver Dawn says self-deprecatingly, the lilt of her accent underlining her foreignness as she shrugs with somewhat exaggerated casualness, “I have little interest in the affairs of western kings as such. At least, modern ones. But, in the interests of candour…”
She hesitates for a moment, but continues, “My concerns are mostly with the forests much further to the west and south, and wherever else the relics of my people – of all elves –” (she strives to include Jack and Trillium) “and others’ from ages past are to be found. My fealty is to my liege in … Fangard, I think you would call it, and through her to our queen among the ilverani there, but they have no interests on this side of the mountains that they've deigned to share with me. I will probably return home long before the century is out, unless we find something truly remarkable beyond your lands, Lady Candlemere. Only, I will say, Lady Aldori and her friends received me kindly as a visiting scholar, and I would not wish to be ungrateful. Given our situation, as Malylev so aptly described it, might it be best not to burn any bridges before we have to?”
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"Regards, Silver Dawn," Zsófia said cordially, "And well met." She noted that Varn did not identify himself, and quirked an eyebrow. When he hastily departed, she smirked ruefully to herself. Ah, a creature especially wary of venomous bites, she thought. But Aldori vipers and Surtovan vipers have equally powerful jaws, and differ primarily by geography. Still, perhaps I should have minded my words much more carefully. I fear that I will get no further conversation from that one.
She shook her head and turned back to the brewing concern. "As it is said in Issia as well as Rostland: it is better to have two blades, one hidden and one plain. I would not be surprised if it is much the same here as it is in New Stetven. We would do well, all of us, to guard our tongues." Curious, she asked Silver Dawn, "Who was that who introduced us?"
Zsófia laughs, nodding to Malylev. "I hold no illusions concerning the enthusiasm or number of my presumed subjects and vassals, my friend. These heavy titles I carry are mostly for Brevoy's hungry maw to chew upon, not to feed those who live here on the frontier. My relationship with House Surtova may benefit us in the long run, but for now it seems like more of a liability. In any case, since what I bring to our endeavor is less on the practical sensible pioneering gumption end of the pitch and more on the looming dangerous political trouble side, I felt you all deserved to know the lay of the land, at least from my perspective."
She scrunches up her nose as she realizes she will probably have to address her relationship with the Swordlords. "I fear that bridge is fallen and burnt already, Silver Dawn. The Aldoris and I, ah, are not on as good terms," she admits diplomatically. "I think we are unlikely to receive any further goodwill from them going forward. I have what I think are very good reasons for my dislike, which I do not like to discuss, and I have never cared to learn why they have never respected me." She huffs a haughty breath through her nostrils and closes her eyes, then opens them again. "So it may be that we will be glad of the king-regent's favor if it becomes necessary for us to negotiate with Brevoy over matters of state."
A vertical crease between the eyebrows signals Ta Bayang's deep concentration as the fey attempts to keep track of the conversation around them. The names and titles are like mountain peaks rising above a sea of cloud - the lay of the land below is obscured and they feel uncertain about how it all relates to them. But the mention of forests is a familiar, firm haven.
"If there is room in your new realm for preserving those forests unspoiled, you have my support. The affairs of human rulers do not concern me, and I do not have any allegiance to any of them. I merely wish to explore these lands and learn of any tales or legends concerning my kind." They tip their head towards Silver Dawn in an acknowledgement of a somewhat shared scholarly goal, then turn to Malylev in an abrupt change of subject. "You've been living here for a while, yes? Any interesting local delicacies you've tried? Tasty herbs, especially."
Jack nods at Zsofia, in thanks to the compliment on the sharp eyes. He looks down at himself, indicating the jacket he wears: the closest thing to formal wear, a militia jacket marked with a symbol of Brevoy. "I am a watchman, a scout. The locals call me Jack."
He nods too, to Silver Dawn. "Indeed, I don't understand why the hosts would hide people in the walls? I just hope she had not meant to hurt someone."
Jack slows his horse slightly to listen to the conversation.
"I too find politics tiring." Jack found it took him so long to understand the machinations of local politicians, someone dies and everything changes. "But I understand what we do may affect what happens in the region. Still, I am here to answer the call to explore. And ..." He pauses, considering what he is willing to share so far. This is probably the most Jack has spoken since you all went on the road together, apart from when he had specific opinions on how to hook up the wagon to the cart-horses pulling them.
"Well, I seek information on something. An artifact or reliquary called 'Briar.' But I will not let my personal interests interfere with our working together."
Rocco huffs, apparently adding his own opinion to Jack's statement.
Ah, Issia. Of course. It occurs to Silver Dawn that it might be well to get a better sense of the great families of Brevoy, if Varn’s vague hint was meant to suggest that she has indeed been favoured with an opportunity to join in an expedition to the hinterlands abutting the nation’s southern border. Back home there were enough others around that keeping track of such things wasn’t part of her duties, but here she’ll have to fend for herself, and it’s becoming clear that while it may be early days, others are interesting themselves in the Stolen Lands rather beyond just letting any old adventurers go haring off. In any case, she makes a mental note to try to place House Dobós on her map of current affairs later.
She smiles with playful mock dismay at Zsófia’s question. “Oh dear, I’m sure he’d be heartbroken not to be recognized, though it is good of him to be so earnest in making sure nothing’s amiss. And he is, I understand, rather a creature of Rostland, here. Maegar Varn.”
“I gather,” she stretches the syllables out quietly, conspiratorially, “if certain parties are to be trusted, that the Stolen Lands are to be divided, for practical purposes, and he’s been offered a charter to explore the Nomen in particular. He seems decent enough, but much more practical than I can manage.”
Silver Dawn’s eyes flicker, perhaps unfortunately, to Jack at just that moment. A cousin who uses a soubriquet, even beyond our lands and customs. Interesting. She continues, cheerfully, “Very much a swordsman, rather than a needle. Which is nonetheless perhaps a relief to some of us: there are so many duelists here today! I would ask if we all have an eye, or a hope, on a particular turn of events today, but I would hate to pry. I’m sure the heralds are about to call for all our attention momentarily, in any case.”
Silver Dawn considers Zsófia’s clarification, which poses quite a needle to thread. Fortunately, the young embroiderer is very much in the habit of keeping several ready at all times. Interesting projects always call for it, after all. She nods thoughtfully. “Thank you telling us. For what it’s worth, which is unlikely to be much, if ever it seems desirable to reach out in that direction, in the most distant, at-one-remove sort of way, and you think I might help, please let me know. As I’m sure Miss Anstarza will agree, students of history are all too well-placed to see what trouble even a slender hope might avoid.”
She ends quietly, her thoughts clearly on losses distant in both space and time, striking realms and single, humble hearts. After a moment, she laughs, picking up from Jack’s unexpected loquacity, such as it is, and Ta Bayang’s redirection of the conversation with Malylev, “I hope that, if we can, you will ask us for help too, Jack. It certainly seems that we have our share of thorny problems ahead of us.”
“What say you, Malylev? Apart from herbs thorny or tasty, might we inquire of colourful? I only dabble in dyeing, but I suspect a regular supply of silks in all the colours one might wish is not to be relied upon where we’re going. And it might be a start towards more practical alchemy, in which, it has been brought to my attention, I am sorely lacking.”
Zsófia laughs, nodding to Malylev. "I hold no illusions concerning the enthusiasm or number of my presumed subjects and vassals, my friend. These heavy titles I carry are mostly for Brevoy's hungry maw to chew upon, not to feed those who live here on the frontier. My relationship with House Surtova may benefit us in the long run, but for now it seems like more of a liability. In any case, since what I bring to our endeavor is less on the practical sensible pioneering gumption end of the pitch and more on the looming dangerous political trouble side, I felt you all deserved to know the lay of the land, at least from my perspective."
She scrunches up her nose as she realizes she will probably have to address her relationship with the Swordlords. "I fear that bridge is fallen and burnt already, Silver Dawn. The Aldoris and I, ah, are not on as good terms," she admits diplomatically. ""I think we are unlikely to receive any further goodwill from them going forward. I have what I think are very good reasons for my dislike, which I do not like to discuss, and I have never cared to learn why they have never respected me." She huffs a haughty breath through her nostrils and closes her eyes, then opens them again. "So it may be that we will be glad of the king-regent's favor if it becomes necessary for us to negotiate with Brevoy over matters of state."
Malylev shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. The Swordlords I've met tend to have a practical streak, at least when it comes to the idea of Rostlandic independence. I wouldn't count out help from that quarter yet. If we're successful, at least. If we're not then we'll probably just be forgotten and never talked about again." The weatherbeaten young man laughs and shakes his head. "Can't say I'd mind that, except for the fact I'd probably be dead."
"If there is room in your new realm for preserving those forests unspoiled, you have my support. The affairs of human rulers do not concern me, and I do not have any allegiance to any of them. I merely wish to explore these lands and learn of any tales or legends concerning my kind." They tip their head towards Silver Dawn in an acknowledgement of a somewhat shared scholarly goal, then turn to Malylev in an abrupt change of subject. "You've been living here for a while, yes? Any interesting local delicacies you've tried? Tasty herbs, especially."
Mal looks over at Jack. "Hmm. What do you think, Jack? Parsley, dill, chives- all those grow here natively but I'm sure you know those. Marjoram, maybe, for one you haven't tried? Good with garlic in soup or flavoring meat. And caraway makes the best bread. People up here tend to make hearty soups, savory meats, and lots of potatoes. Lots of garlic."
"I too find politics tiring." Jack found it took him so long to understand the machinations of local politicians, someone dies and everything changes. "But I understand what we do may affect what happens in the region. Still, I am here to answer the call to explore. And ..." He pauses, considering what he is willing to share so far. This is probably the most Jack has spoken since you all went on the road together, apart from when he had specific opinions on how to hook up the wagon to the cart-horses pulling them.
"Well, I seek information on something. An artifact or reliquary called 'Briar.' But I will not let my personal interests interfere with our working together."
Rocco huffs, apparently adding his own opinion to Jack's statement.
The blonde human chuckles. "I'm not much interested in politics, either," which was odd since Mal had been talking about it so adroitly, "but you picked the wrong group if you didn't want to have to deal with politics, bud." Mal gestures vaguely, generally indicating Restov and Brevoy all around them. "No matter what we do it's going to piss off somebody powerful, probably with an army or at least a few dozen thugs to send our way. So we'd better make friends and allies down here if we want to keep our heads on our shoulders."
“What say you, Malylev? Apart from herbs thorny or tasty, might we inquire of colourful? I only dabble in dyeing, but I suspect a regular supply of silks in all the colours one might wish is not to be relied upon where we’re going. And it might be a start towards more practical alchemy, in which, it has been brought to my attention, I am sorely lacking.”
Malylev whistles. "I don't know much about that, to be honest." He looks at Jack. "Do you, Jack?" The human shakes his head and purses his lips, thinking. "I know onion skins can cause a stain if you boil enough of them- brown and purple or red? And the inner bark of a birch tree can get you yellow. Or brown again. Sorrel, I think, can do red." He looks plaintively over at the elf explorer, a good natured smile on his friendly face. "Help me out here, Jack."
He hadn't added anything about why he was on the expedition. Was that by chance or design? The young man just seemed to be a happy go lucky sort out to help out whoever he came across. If Ta Bayang had thought she recognized him from Stoneclimb this cheerful fellow might not align with her memories of Lord Manolescu's lost heir. That young man had been quiet, serious, and seemingly overburdened with the weight of being heir to House Manolescu. Malylev here barely seemed to have a care in the world.