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Thanks again to Liter Knight for her careful editing!
Chapter 4
Ronan sat in the waiting room outside his father's private lounge. He glanced around nervously at the familiar surroundings. The walls were paneled in thick, dark wood but Ronan could always feel the heavy stone of the outer walls pressing in on him. The room was in the center of the Tower of the Sun, the great fortress his father had taken to open the Dawnpass and conquer the rich farmlands between the mountains and the river that the Vay had dubbed the New Frontier. Now that the Dawnpass was theirs, the river Belesin was the new boundary between the human lands and the lands of the Vay. The fortress allowed his father to hold the only mountain pass that led back east to the Brightlands, the human lands they had taken over a decade ago. This let his father control all the trade between the Brightlands and the New Frontier.
The tower had been minimally furnished when they moved in but his father was an avid art collector. Most savay stripped out the human decoration and furniture from their captured homes, giving it away as gifts to vay or selling them to the Khazad, but his father had filled the fortress with his vast collection of captured human art. The walls were covered in paintings of hunting scenes, celebrations, and landscapes. There were also sculptures and vases on pedestals scattered around the room. Many rich Vay imported furniture from the Oases but his father only had human furniture. The couch he sat on had once been in a lord's sitting room. It had a cushion of silk embroidered with gold thread in the strange bursting flower patterns the human lords enjoyed.
He knew Vay whispered behind his father's back that he kept human art because he wished he was human. It was true that his father enjoyed the aesthetics of human art, but anyone that really knew him understood the truth: the art was his father's trophies. Just as the savay displayed the banners and weapons of their defeated foes back in the waste, his father displayed the finest works of human artists, meant only for their lord's enjoyment, to remind him and everyone who came to his house of what he had accomplished.
The door to his father's lounge opened and his one of his housevay walked out.
"He will see you now," she said.
Ronan nodded and stood a little too fast and walked into the lounge. The housevay closed the door behind him.
His father lounged on another looted couch, one of several clustered around a low coffee table. This room was decorated with human art as well but it was all portraits and busts. Ronan knew all the men displayed in this room were dead. Most were of men his father had killed himself. Their portraits had been looted from their empty estates.
His father looked up as he entered.
"Ronan!"
Ronan smiled at the way his father said his name, somewhere between respect and exasperation. Only his father said his name that way.
"Hey dad," he replied, using the familiar address he only used in private.
"Here, sit," said his father, eschewing all formality now that they were alone.
Ronan sat at the couch across from him, taking him in and trying, as he always did, to assess his health. Balor Morda was a few inches shorter than his son. He was balding, with thin, wispy hair and a close cropped beard. The deep blue hair of his youth had faded to a dull olive and there was more white in it with each passing season.
Balor was dressed plainly, almost slovenly, in a sack-like blue cotton shirt and baggy brown pants he had owned for years. He had a broad face and a long beak-like nose. His skin was very pale, almost a chartreuse, but was covered in pine-dark spots and blemishes. His father was not an attractive savay, but he didn't try to compensate for his looks with dress and grooming. His slovenliness was a statement in itself; despite his looks, his wealth and power meant he could still have any vay he desired.
Despite the signs of his aging, his father still seemed young. There was a vitality to him, an animation that showed the strength of his mind and spirit even if his body was beginning to wear down. Ronan suspected his father would be around far longer than most Vay guessed. Or hoped.
His fathers blemished skin was a legacy of a pilgrimage to Telack Daig, the lonely mountain that acted as the tabernacle of the Giftgiver, when he had been chosen by the god to be one of the Gifted. The Giftgiver didn't have priests, but He always had three acolytes at any given time, the Gifted. The Gifted's sorcery was enhanced far beyond that of a normal savay but the god still demanded his price, even of his favored acolytes. Ever since his father had been Gifted, moles and blemishes had grown on his skin like fungus. His father had them removed every few years but more always grew in their place.
The Gifted claimed their god gave them no special knowledge or mission, and they had no authority beyond that of a particularly powerful sorcerer or warlord. The Gifted claimed the savay were already a perfect embodiment of the god's will and needed no other direction. They merely tried to be exemplars of what it meant to be a savay. The Gifted held a place of respect in Vay society but they were distrusted as well, just like the god they served. Ronan knew his father being one of the Gifted made him a figure of awe and fear for vay and savay alike, but to Ronan he had always just been his dad, with all that implied.
His father opened a box on the table. The inside was filled with cigars.
"Want one?"
"Sure."
The cigars were another human luxury his father had picked up. Vay traditionally smoked pipes and bowls but his father had adopted this human variant. The leaf from the Vay Oases was sweet and fruity, and the smoke could be taken into the lungs to create a mild relaxing effect. The tobacco used in cigars was far harsher than what Vay were used to, and would sear the lungs if inhaled. The cigar smoke was supposed to be held in the mouth, tasted, and then exhaled. His father would use the cigars as a display of dominance. Savay treating or socializing with his father would be offered a cigar only to gasp and choke when, not knowing any better, they took the burning smoke into their lungs. All the while his father would smirk and smoke his own cigar without any trouble. Just before Ronan came of age he had stolen some of his father's cigars to learn the trick of smoking them before taking the first one his father had offered him.
His father touched the end of his cigar with a finger and set it alight with a small tune, Ronan copied the tune and followed suit. They smoked together quietly for a minute. The harsh tobacco burned Ronan's mouth and left him parched. He hated his father's cigars but he never let it show.
"So how was your first patrol?" asked Balor.
"Eventful."
"Ha, I bet. Lots of lonely farmvay. They all need orcs to work those nice new fields."
"No. Well, yes there was that too. Though not while I was patrolling. They were all bound to Darragh."
"They all have women working for them, though."
"Sure," said Ronan, trying to hide his exasperation, "but that's not what I'm talking about. I got in a fight. A real one."
"Oh, really? A few bandits took a potshot at you?"
"Not exactly."
Ronan started his story, encountering the rangers, how their ambush had been defeated, the taking of the prisoners, and their escape. He left out his failed attempt to entreaty Thala, of course. His father asked a few sharp questions about the rangers, their equipment and tactics. He seemed very interested in Idrhenil and Thala and asked for details of their dress and reactions that Ronan sweated to answer.
When he was done telling the tale his father sat back and rubbed his face with an open palm.
"Huh. You were right, you did have an eventful trip," he said.
Ronan nodded.
"So the Watchtower is finally waking up. Had to happen eventually, I suppose. To be honest I thought they would move sooner, but the Seneschal is a cautious one."
"You think this is the start of something?"
His dad gave him a look like he was being stupid.
"Yes, Ronan, I'd say so," said his father, a hint of contempt in his tone. "Although you might have managed to delay it. You taught them if they come across the river and try to start shit, all they're going to get is a bloody nose."
Ronan felt a surge of pride so strong he could barely breathe. Compliments from his father were few and far between.
"It is a shame you let the rangers get away, though. We could have extracted a lot of information out of them. And that girl would have made some good thraka."
Pride was quickly replaced by anxiety. Ronan kept it all from showing. Talking to his father was always like being tossed around like a ship in a storm, one moment praise and the next scorn. He had a lot of practice staying calm while he rode the waves.
"I thought it was important to keep Declan alive. For our alliance with the E'Allain," said Ronan.
"Would you have felt that way if I had let you keep the woman?"
His father casually guessing his deepest inner thoughts sent a spike of terror through Ronan. He failed to keep it off his face and his father snickered. Then he waved at Ronan with the burning tip of his cigar.
"I'm just teasing you. And you made the right call. There are plenty of other women. And Darragh's a softy so he would have been upset to lose a son. Even a fuckup like Declan. Captured by a woman, fuck."
Roman tried hard not to think about how close he had been to getting captured by Thala; he just nodded at the compliment.
"Thanks, dad."
Balor nodded and took a big pull of his cigar. He held it a minute, then tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air. Ronan thought for a moment about how to break his other piece of big news.
"I may have given up the prisoners but I did keep some of the equipment," said Ronan, "It's some pretty fancy stuff. I have enough left for a thraka or two."
"That's true, that's true. I'll buy it off you for a fair price. It is nice you've finally started earning some of your own wealth. But that's all that you got?"
"I ended up leaving most of it with Darragh."
His father gave him an irritated look, "I already sent him plenty of gifts."
"Not as gifts. As a dowry."
His father glanced at him sharply. Ronan kept himself calm by taking a pull of his cigar. The taste of ash and leather distracted him from his father's eyes. Finally, his father spoke.
"So, my little boy has finally grown up."
"I'm working on it," said Ronan, trying to stay confident. He didn't like the tone in his father's voice.
"You didn't think about asking me first?"
"I didn't think you'd object. The E'Allain are our allies."
"It's not like we need to make the alliance more secure," said Balor. "They need us a lot more than we need them."
Ronan swallowed. He hadn't thought about that.
"It... was kind of a spur of the moment thing," he said.
"Ah. Jumped in your bed? Gave you a litter and pouted her lips?"
Ronan clenched his jaw, "I'm not a child. She's not the first vay I've been with. I can tell she's special."
"Of course. I remember what it was like to be young. This is Maeve's girl?" Asked Balor.
Ronan nodded, realizing this was the real problem. His dad did a deep, closed mouthed laugh from his chest.
"Maeve, now there's a real piece of work. Did I ever tell you about when I met her?"
"I can't remember," said Ronan.
"Heh. God, she had just turned eighteen. Legs like..."
"Dad," said Ronan. His dad loved his stories. He'd go on forever if Ronan didn't stop him.
"Right. Anyways, a real piece of work. She must have loved you."
"Yeah we got along great."
"Ha! I can imagine the look when you stole her daughter out from under her. Feels like your dick's going to freeze off."
"I know the one," said Ronan. "She wasn't pleased, no. But after I saved her son's life she was a lot less hostile."
"Heh, I can see that. Darragh would have stuck her in the vay's house before the funeral pyre was cool. Maybe even cut her loose. Maeve's intolerable when she's not in charge. You sure you want to get involved with that? What's that human saying? About apples?"
"Deidre's not like that. She takes after her father. Still very pretty though."
"Ah. Honest? Friendly?
"Yup,"
"Rounder?"
Ronan felt his face heat. He really hoped it didn't show.
"Yeah."
Balor grunted and took another pull of this cigar. The ash from the tip fell on the table. The table was looted from a dead lord's sitting room. Now the finely varnished wood and gold leaf was covered in soot stains.
"Well, congratulations, son. I'm sure she's a wonderful vay. If she's Darragh and Maeve's, she's smart and tough. She'll run your house well. And your binding will send a message to the other septs that Sept Mordha is committed to protecting and expanding the New Frontier."
Ronan couldn't stop himself from sighing with relief. He knew his father was going to be upset he hadn't talked to him first but he hadn't expected so much hostility. He probably should have known when he saw Maeve's anger. His father held onto his grudges too.
"And you paid the dowry with your own money won in battle in a time of peace. That sends a message too; that the heir to Sept Mordha is a savay to be respected, that the sept will be in good hands when I'm gone."
Ronan pulled a big puff of his cigar into his mouth moving the smoke back and forth between his cheeks. The acrid smoke filled his mouth and it helped him fight the blush his father's compliment raised in him. He wouldn't ruin this moment by getting emotional. He blew out the smoke, it filled the air above the table.
"That'll be a long time from now," he said.
"I know, but it's still good that the other septs know it."
Balor trailed off and stared at one of the marble busts on the wall. Ronan followed his gaze. He wasn't sure which lord it had been. Just like his old vay, his father's dead enemies all blended together.
"The thing is, son, there's a bit of a complication."
Ronan turned back to his father. He held on to his father's compliments in order to remain calm.
"Oh?"
"I had something to tell you as well. This patrol showed everyone you've grown up, become a savay. It seemed like a good time for you to start your own household, so I've arranged a binding for you."
Ronan blinked, totally thrown. He tried to cover his anxiety by taking a puff of his cigar, but he was distracted and took some of the smoke into his lungs. He started coughing and choking, gasping as the smoke burned him. He closed his eyes and gripped the table, trying to get back his equilibrium. When Ronan opened his eyes again his father was staring at him, a familiar smirk in his face. He pushed down his embarrassment.
"That's very generous of you but I don't have enough for a second dowry," said Ronan.
"Oh stop it. You and your pride. You get it from your mother."
It took all of Ronan's reserve not to gawk. His father was one of the proudest Vay he had ever met.
"I'll cover the dowry," continued Balor. "You earned the money to cover your first. That should be enough for your pride. And where were you planning on living with the lovely Deidre?"
"I... thought we'd take one of the abandoned houses in the city."
"The good ones are all taken. And what about furnishings? Servants?
"Ummm..."
"Uh huh. I'm sure your new vay will love living in a burned out ruin. Bind the vay I've found for you and I'll get you a place with enough room for both of your new vay and enough money to keep a daughter of Maeve happy."
"No, dad, I don't want to take..."
"Don't be so uptight. This is for the sept. The binding is for an alliance."
"With who?" asked Ronan.
"The Cam'Teren."
Ronan blinked in surprise. The Cam'Teren were another one of the great septs in the alliance that had originally conquered the Brightlands. Their chief savay, Old Morgan, had a reputation as a great warleader and tactician. After the conquest, the Cam'Teren had taken some of the best land on the shores of the Sea of Joy and the Beata river and built a fleet of boats, becoming a trading sept.
"The Cam'Teren? What for? And I thought you hated Old Morgan."
"Of course not. I don't hate anybody. He was one of my big rivals back in the day but I always respected him. And we have a lot to offer each other. More goods come through the Dawnpass every day and the Cam'Teren want in on it. And Old Morgan's getting tired of sitting on his estate, counting silver and scales. He and I are cooking something up."
Ronan sat up straighter. This was the first time his father had discussed a new campaign with him.
"Something like what?"
"I don't want to say too much about it right now. It's not a done deal yet; we need to get another of the big septs on board first. But we're laying the groundwork so I'm sending Kayleigh to be bound to his son and he's sending his favorite vay's daughter to be bound to you."
"You're sending him Kayleigh? This must be important," said Ronan.
Kayleigh was his father's current favorite daughter. Tall, beautiful, imperious, with sky blue hair that turned every savay's head. She had the sharp tongue and lightning quick wit most of his father's daughters had. Ronan was sure she'd have Young Morgan wrapped around her finger in a week.
"It is, so don't screw it up. Old Morgan says I'm too old for his sweet little girl," his dad snorted in derision. "So I'm going to need you to seal the alliance."
"I don't know, dad. I feel like that's a lot to take on all at once. And it's not really fair to Deidre."
"If you don't take Morgan's girl, I'll have to give her to Fergus."
Ronan gagged and it wasn't from the cigar. Fergus was his younger brother. He was not a subtle savay and had made it clear he wanted to supplant Ronan as their father's heir. His younger brother starting his own household at the same time as him would be horribly embarrassing. And everyone would interpret it as his father favoring Fergus. It would undermine his own position.
His dad smiled and licked the corner of his mouth, "Yeah, that's what I thought. So no more whining. Take the money, bind the vay."
Ronan took a breath, thinking fast. He hated to take gifts from his father, but the prospect of having his own house, moving out of his rooms in the fortress and into his own space was very tempting. And he knew his father was right; Deidre would appreciate a nice house of her own, away from the chaos of his father's house. And if he didn't agree, it would lower him in his father's eyes, increase the risk of Fergus supplanting him.
"Alright," said Ronan, feeling a strange sense of defeat, "alright."
"That's my boy."
Ronan took a puff of his cigar to try and gather his wits. Things were moving very fast all of a sudden.
"What's her name? Any idea what she's like?"
"Ciara, or maybe it's Clioda," said Balor.
"Dad, come on."
"I'm just kidding. It's definitely Ciara. And no, I don't know much about her. Old Morgan just said she's too sweet for me. I know she's a healer."
"That's a little weird," said Ronan. Healing was a respectable craft but it tended to be pursued by vay of more modest means. Vay from wealthier septs expecting to be bound for an alliance tended to be scholars or artists, crafts that only a wealthy house could afford to support.
"Yeah I know. But it thought you might like that. What with your mom and all."
Ronan nodded, his mother had been a healer and with his hidden talent it was a Craft he was familiar with. Ronan was honestly not sure if his father knew he could lifetune. It was the kind of thing his father would keep silent about until he needed to use it as leverage.
"When do I meet her?" asked Ronan.
"At the binding ceremony. Her parents don't want you to see her before."
"What? Why?"
Balor gave Ronan another long look, the one he used when he thought his son was being dense.
"It's probably because she's ugly, Ronan."
"Dad!"
"What? It explains why she became a healer. It doesn't matter. It's just for the alliance. Just bend her over and you don't have to look at her. As long as you put a litter or two in her you never have to talk to her or even see her. You'll have Deidre to keep you happy and Ciara can earn you money with her craft that you can use to keep Deidre happy. It works out for everyone. And if you really can't stand her you can probably unbind her in a couple years and foist her off on Fergus."
Ronan opened his mouth to protest but his father cut him off.
"The Cam'Teren get here in a week. I already set up a nice house on the edge of town. Plenty of room for your new vay and some women."
"Dad you shouldn't have..."
"Don't. You already agreed so no more whining. Besides, if you want to make your own way you'll get the chance soon enough."
Ronan's anxiety instantly guttered.
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see. What Morgan and I are cooking up is going to make us all rich. Richer. Do this for me now and you'll get your cut. You'll win so much wealth you'll never need support from me again."
A raid. It could only mean his father and Old Morgan were putting a raid together. A big one. He'd get another chance to prove himself. To become the savay he was meant to be.
"A-alright," said Ronan. He felt dizzy, the cigar smoke and the sheer force of his father's presence were making him lightheaded.
Balor took a long final pull of his cigar. The tip lit orange and burned down to a stub. He blew out the smoke towards Ronan this time, and his son was momentarily blinded. When Ronan's vision cleared Balor Morda was smiling at him. His teeth were stained brown from tobacco ash.
"That's my boy."
...
Thala sat with Idra in his father's office. She glanced around nervously. The walls were paneled in thick dark wood but Thala could always feel the heavy stone of the outer walls pressing in on her. They were at the center of the Watchtower. It was both the capital of Sandegard and the great fortress that guarded the human kingdoms further west from the Orcs that had poured out of the Great Waste. The Watchtower used to be miles from the threatened borders of Sandegard and all the lands between the city and the Dawnpass had been managed by the Seneschals of the Watchtower, including the farm where Thala grew up. Now the river Belesin was the new boundary between the kingdoms of Men and the lands of the Orcs. Even though the border was much closer than it used to be, the Watchtower was one of the mightiest fortresses humans had ever constructed. And even if the Orcs were now on their doorstep, it was hard for Thala to believe the fortress-city could ever fall.
Idra shifted nervously next to her. He was pale and sweating. They had made it back to the city yesterday after two weeks of hard travel. They had left the rest of the rangers at Cirineliath, the fortress that guarded the great bridge across the Belesin, and continued on to the capital alone. Idra had sent a telegraph ahead giving a short report but now it was time to give a full reckoning to his father. Idra looked almost like he'd rather be in an orc's cookpot right now.
"It will be alright," she said to him.
Idra jumped and looked over at her like he had forgotten she was there.
"How?" he asked.
"We're alive. There's always a chance to turn things around while you're alive."
"I'm not sure if my father will view my survival positively."
"Don't be ridiculous," said Thala. "The only thing your father cares about more than the kingdom is his precious bloodline. Which, unless there's something you're not telling me, is you."
Idra snorted.
"Besides, I have one more trick up my sleeve," said Thala.
"Oh gods what is it this time?"
"If there's one thing I've learned in the last month it's the importance of surprise."
Idea shook his head and laughed.
The door to his father's study chamber opened and a manservant approached.
"He will see you now," he said.
Idra got to his feet a little too quickly. Thala managed to maintain a little more poise. She knew she disappointed Idra's father with her very existence so she never worried about pleasing him. It was a lost cause.
They followed the manservant through the door. The room beyond was large and was an office and war room combined. There was a large, neat desk with a small set of filing cabinets on one side of the room and the other held a large table with a detailed map of Sandegard and what used to be Haradon before the Orcs had conquered it. There were scattered groups of chairs and tables around the rest of the room for smaller groups to have private discussion. A telegraph was tucked in another corner. It was quiet now, there was no operator on duty, but its very presence was a testament to the wealth and power of the man waiting for them. Telegraphs were still a relatively new invention of the mage guilds from the kingdoms further west, and they were still rare and expensive in Sandegard.
Idra's father was standing by the enormous map table. Angthalon Thalrion, known as the Iron Seneschal, was an older man, his blond hair gone to white, but he still held himself erect and his blue eyes were clear and piercing. He had been a handsome man in his youth and there were still traces of it in his smooth face and strong jaw. He was dressed richly, in a black velvet robe open to reveal a black silk shirt with his house symbol in gold thread. Thala noticed Angthalon always dressed as the king he was never allowed to be.
Angthalon watched them as they approached, eyes going back and forth. Thala saw the Seneschal's eyes narrow the first time he looked at her but that was the only change in his expression. She and Idra stopped across the table from him and he took them in for a moment longer. Just long enough to make them uncomfortable.
"Report," he said, his voice clipped and inflectionless.
Idra swallowed but he stood at attention and gave a detailed and mostly accurate report of the failed ambush and their escape. Only leaving out Ronan taking her to the field the first night and what had happened when he brought her back. Thinking of that night made Thala's gorge rise. The humiliation still hadn't faded and thinking of it always made her nauseous.
When Idra finished his father looked at them expressionless for a moment.
"I suppose it could have gone worse."
Idra seemed to shrink in on himself.
"Do you know what your mistake was?" asked Angthalon.
"We didn't make a mistake," said Thala. "The fault was with the concealment spells the magi provided. We were assured we would be undetectable."
Angthalon looked away from his son and his ice blue eyes locked on Thala. She met his gaze steadily, refusing to flinch. She had stared down worse.
"Incorrect. You should have retreated as soon as you became aware of the second sorcerer. It was an unknown variable that wasn't accounted for in your plan. You had the flexibility to retreat and reassess, but you rushed in haphazardly and it led to your failure."
"The second sorcerer wouldn't have made a difference if our concealment magic had worked as intended. And there was reason to be bold, the second sorcerer was a prime target."
Angthalon gave her a sharp look.
"Explain."
Idra was looking at her too. She had kept this from him. She hadn't wanted to worry him at the time but now it was time to play the card.
"The second sorcerer was the son of the Sorcerer King."
Both father and son froze. Everyone in Sandegard knew and feared the Sorcerer King. The Sorcerer King had led the army that had taken the Dawnpass, his burning eye banner displayed at the center of the orcish lines. He had used his sorcery to break the Watchtower's lines and shatter the walls of the Dawntower. Now his banner flew over the Dawntower and the Men of Sandegard referred to it as the Witchtower. All of Sandegard held its breath, fearing the day the Sorcerer King would march again.
"How do you know this?" demanded Angthalon.
"Deduction. The second sorcerer had the burning eye sewn into his jacket, I overheard from discussions with Declan.... The original target, that his father was a powerful lord among the orcs, and his sorcery was far more powerful than a normal sa... sorcerer, just like his father."
"This is mere conjecture."
"What other conclusion would you draw?"
Angthalon looked at her for a long moment.
"You didn't know his identity when you decided to go through with the ambush."
"We didn't know our concealing magic would fail either. We made a decision based on the information at hand and it turned out to be the correct one. Capturing the sorcerer... prince would have been a massive boon for the war."
"The sorcerer prince. I like that. Perhaps you should compose a song about him."
"Perhaps when he's dead," said Thala.
Thala could feel Idra staring at her but Thala didn't look. She had a feeling she wouldn't like his expression.
Angthalon looked back and forth between the two of them. His gaze settled on his son.
"She is bold, isn't she?"
"She is. But she has the skill to support it. I'm only standing here today because of her."
"Yes, I thought you mad or besotted when you allowed a woman to join the rangers, but in this your judgment has proven correct. She has shown herself quite capable and merit should always be rewarded. I can not grant her land and title, that authority is held only by the Lost King..." Angthalon grimaced in irritation, "... but our family has a modest estate in the countryside of Lostad Teled. It is hers, in thanks for preserving what I hold most dear."
Shock ran through Thala. She had arrived in the City a penniless refugee and had barely survived as a musician in the lower districts. Angthalon had suddenly elevated her to the landed gentry. She was a woman of means, even if it was only crumbs from his table.
Despite her good fortune, Thala felt a sense of unease. Angthalon's gratitude seemed genuine but he was a calculating man. This felt like a trap. But she swallowed her misgivings and bowed her head.
"Thank you, my lord."
She shared a glance at Idra. He was smiling at her but he looked uneasy too. He knew his father too well to trust this gift.
"You are welcome but it is only what you deserve," said Angthalon. "Boldness and talent are a rare combination. And you are correct; there was a time for caution and it is rapidly coming to an end."
"What do you mean?" asked Idra.
"It is time to take an aggressive stance against the Orc threat once again. The army is finally back to full strength. I plan to retake the Dawnpass next spring."
Thala tried to keep her excitement under control. Reclaiming her family's lands and punishing the Orcs that had taken her family from her was her fondest wish, but she remembered what had happened the last time the Iron Seneschal sent an army to the Dawnpass.
"We can't," said Idra, "The last time we fought the Orcs in the Dawnpass was a catastrophe and now they hold the fortress itself."
"Delay is to the advantage of the enemy. The Orcs breed like rats and their savagery requires no training. If we sit and wait they'll pour out of the Dawnpass and overwhelm us. This time we won't fail. I've purchased advanced artillery from the Khazad and we will bolster our available forces with a new ally."
"What ally?"
"I am concluding negotiations with the Earl of Calenardhon."
"The Calen? They're barely civilized," said Idra.
"Don't let your prejudices rule you. The Earl's niece is of marriageable age and they have the finest cavalry of the westlands. An alliance with the Calen will give us the strength to liberate our lost lands."
"Who is going to marry her?"
Anghalon stared at his son steadily. Thala felt a hole open in her gut. She always thought it was strange you felt a broken heart in your stomach.
It took a moment longer for Idra to understand. He went pale and swallowed.
"No."
His father's expression didn't change at all but it felt like the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"No?" asked the Seneschal. His voice was very soft.
"I'm not marrying some outlander barbarian."
"The Calen were loyal subjects before the loss of the King's line. And my understanding is your future bride is quite the scholar. She has actually lived in the kingdom the last three years, pursuing her studies."
Idra swallowed, "My duties as captain of the rangers don't allow me..."
"Your duty is to your house and your country," said the Seneschal. "Any of your band of brigands and cutthroats can burn a few farms, only you can bring me the army I need to win back our lands. Only you can secure our family's future."
Thala's head felt like it was full of wool, her body felt cold. She felt like she should be angry or despairing, but she just felt resigned. She had always known Idra was just another person she was going to lose.
"Besides, you can leave your post with the rangers secure in the knowledge that they are in capable hands," said Angthalon, turning to look at Thala.
This time it took a moment for Thala to understand. She marveled at the trap even as she hated Angthalon for springing it. He was using her hard earned rewards as a bribe for his son, elevating her to absolve Idra of his guilt for abandoning her, and hoping she'd abandon him in return for wealth and status.
"I thought you hated me," she said, she hated how sullen she sounded.
Angthalon smiled in response. It looked alien on his face.
"I could never hate a tool that performs its function so admirably."
Thala gritted her teeth. She held back a retort that might have gotten her a trip to the headsman's block.
Idra didn't react at all to his father's words. He was staring into the middle distance blank faced and lost in his thoughts. Angthalon's mouth twisted in irritation.
"You will return to Cirineliath and oversee the transfer of authority to the ranger's new commander. Then you will return here. Your new bride insists on concluding her studies before the wedding but she will arrive here in one month's time for the signing of the engagement contract. I anticipate a late fall wedding. I'll expect you to have your first child on the way by the time we march next spring."
...
Ronan stood in his father's hall, waiting for his new vay to come to him to be bound. He was trying very hard to remain calm. He kept reminding himself he had just been on a patrol and every vay had been very impressed with him, so he had nothing to worry about. Also, he had been in a fight where Men were trying to kill him, so this should be easy by comparison.
His father's hall used to be where the fortress's human lord held court when Men held the fortress. Now his father used it for public events, like dance performances and artists' salons, and to hold court to settle conflicts over property and crimes between Vay that were under his jurisdiction. The walls were the plain grey stone of the fortress, giving the room an oppressive air. The only decorations were the banners of the septs allied with Sept Mordha that lined the walls: The white horse of the E'Allain, the crossed axes of the Baogalon, the harp and tree of the Therinin. His father had the burning ship banner of the Cam'Teren ready to be raised once the binding ceremony was completed. Ronan stood next to his father, they were just in front of the chair his father used as his seat. The chair was originally the seat of the human lords who had ruled the fortress, carved in dark wood and gilded gold. On the wall behind the seat was the banner of Sept Mordha, the everburning eye on a field of blue.
Then the door to the hall was opened by his father's thraka and the binding party from Sept Cam'Teren entered. He vaguely registered Ciara's mother, father, and a few favored sisters and friends, but he ignored them all and sought her out. When he found her he blinked in complete surprise and his breath caught. Ciara, his first bound vay, was a bright, clear turquoise. Blue skinned vay were rare, only one a thousand, maybe rarer, and it was considered a sign of exotic beauty. Blue skinned vay were highly sought after by savay. A blue skinned vay born into a wealthy sept was a prize beyond measure. Even those born to a poorer sept always apprenticed for their crafts at one of the wealthier septs and became artists, scholars, and head housevay.
Ronan looked at his new blue skinned vay and couldn't believe his fortune, even without her blue skin she was very pretty. Other than a slightly large nose she had delicate features, big orange eyes the same color as his, and long, wavy, blueberry hair. She was dressed finely, showing off the wealth of her sept, in a dress of white silk from the oases with the shine of high quality. The dress was embroidered in the branching spiral pattern the Vay used for decoration and to display their sept and lineage. The thread used to declare her lineage of sept Cam'Teren was pure gold thread. The dress showed off a frame that was slender for a vay but also wide flaring hips that he found very attractive. Ronan had to fight not to start giving off Allure. The prospect of having such a beautiful vay in his household was making his palms wet and his mouth dry.
Then his father leaned over and whispered in his ear.
"Don't get too excited. If she looks like that and they didn't want you to meet her, there's something really wrong with her. From the look of it she's one of those modern vay."
Ronan realized his father was right. He looked Ciara over again and saw that she was terrified. She looked like she was walking to her execution. Ronan knew there was a growing trend among vay his age to reject being bound to a savay at all. They remained unbound or bound themselves to other vay. They would whelp with septless savay to avoid any sort of obligation to them.
Ronan realized Ciara's parents must have forced her into this binding just as he had been, but she was far more reluctant than him. Ronan could understand her fear. As he had discovered recently, people tended to judge him based on his father's reputation, and she had a lot more to lose from a bad binding than he did. Her parents must have been afraid her unwillingness to be bound would make him call off the binding and were trying to force it through before either of them could object.
As the Cam'Teren approached, Ronan looked over Ciara's parents, the Vay responsible for putting them both in this awful situation. Old Morgan was a tall savay, over six feet, with a hard lantern jaw and a lanky frame. He looked completely unconcerned with his daughter's obvious distress. Her mother shared her daughter's refined features and wide hips, though not her blue skin. The mother's hair was cut shockingly short for a vay, cropped behind her ears. Ronan saw that she was holding her daughter's forearm, guiding and pressing her forward.
As the Cam'Teren reached his father's seat, they stopped and Ciara stepped forward, visibly gathering herself. Ronan hesitated a moment, not sure if he should go through with the binding if Ciara was so obviously unwilling, but then his father grunted and he stepped forward without thinking. When they reached each other Ciara put out her hands, one facing up and the other down. Ronan reached out and grasped the underside of her wrists, and she mirrored him. Ciara's mother stepped to one side of them and his father to the other. They each began to bind their hands together with thin leather cords. Ciara avoided his eyes the whole time. Sometimes a vay and savay would recite poetry or a short prepared speech proclaiming their feelings for each other while being bound, but it wasn't expected and given the circumstances neither of them were inclined. It didn't help that Ciara's mother was glaring daggers at his father over their joined hands, and he was returning her glare with his customary smirk.
Once they were bound together Ciara gathered herself before beginning to recite the binding words. Her voice quavered at first and then gained strength.
"I, Vayné Ciara Moira Cam'Teren, offer myself to sa'vay Ronan Balor Mordha. The strength of my craft is at his command and the... the fruits of my body are his to claim. I will be his and his alone, there will be no other in my eyes."
Ciara's hands felt very warm where they clasped Ronan's wrists. He felt a writer's callus on her left pointer finger. Ronan was shocked at how firm his voice was as he recited the response.
"I, Sa'vay Ronan Balor Mordha, gladly accept the Vayné's generous offer. I vow to defend and support her with all the strength of my song and the wealth of my house, that we both may prosper."
With the ritual words complete, Ronan leaned forward to kiss his new vay. Ciara bowed her head so he kissed her forehead. Vay with more of a relationship could get quite passionate, especially if the savay had been releasing Allure while their hands were being bound, but Ronan could not have produced Allure to save his life and neither of them were feeling particularly passionate.
After the kiss their parents quickly cut the cords. Ciara's mother with a knife and his father with a small tune. The cords would be saved and woven into bracelets for them to wear. A vay was expected to wear hers and a savay wearing a vay's binding cord was a sign of favor.
When the cords fell away they let go of each other. Ronan could still feel the warmth of her hands after they let go and he enjoyed it until it faded. When the cords were cut, Ciara quickly turned her back to him and walked away and her mother followed. They walked back to the group of vay that had escorted her and when they reached it one of the younger women gave Ciara a consoling hug. Ronan looked at his father, who was giving him the wide eyed look he used when he thought someone was being stupid and was laughing at them silently. Ronan wasn't clear if it was him or Ciara he was laughing at. Then his father turned to Old Morgan and Ronan joined him.
"Morgan."
"Balor."
"Very nice ceremony. That's quite a vay you've brought us."
Morgan looked over his shoulder and his daughter, who was being consoled by her mother, then shook his head slightly and turned back to them.
"Yeah, well, what can I say? Vay will be vay. Do you have anything to drink?"
"Oh yeah, I've tapped the casks. The humans left some great stuff in the basement."
"Good."
The two older savay started walking towards the long table that had been set up for the feast. Ronan quickly followed so that he wouldn't be left standing awkwardly alone at his own binding ceremony. Vay binding ceremonies were traditionally short, followed by a long feast. Normally the two newly bound Vay would be seated at one end of the table with their parents or closest allies, but when they were seated, Ronan found that the vay and savay had been seated at opposite ends of the table. The unusual seating arrangement made Ronan grit his teeth. It was one thing to keep them apart before the ceremony, but this was getting absurd. His new bound vay must truly despise him. Ronan sat, fuming, as the food was served. The Vay being bound were expected to eat as much as possible at their binding ceremony to build up food to feed the litter they'd make that night. But Ronan noticed Ciara barely touched her food, and it was ruining his appetite.
Ronan finally began to relax as he started talking with the savay over dinner because the savay didn't treat Ciara's reluctance to be bound as unusual or awkward. A lot of the savay seated around him were older and had grown up back when raiding between septs was more common, so they were used to binding ceremonies where the vay wasn't happy with her new savay. They quickly fell into a conversation about Ronan's patrol and his fight with the Watchtower rangers. His father's savay had all heard the story already, but Old Morgan's bound savay were suitably impressed. Morgan's lands were on the other side of Dawnpass and the Vay had held them for years. There were still scattered pockets of human bandits and a few human lords hiding in the countryside, but fights with humans in the Brightlands were rarer every year. Ronan felt a surge of pride at the envy in the older savays' voices as he described his fight with the well-equipped rangers. When he was done with his tale, Old Morgan took a swig of the wine his father had brought up from the sellar and turned to Balor.
"Have you heard about any other Watchtower raiding parties from the septs farther south on the frontier?" asked Old Morgan.
Balor shook his head, "No, Darragh's lands are the closest to the Great Bridge. It's a straight shot to the bridge fortress, so they'd hit him first."
"Mmm, they'll probably think twice about it after the welcome your boy gave them," said Old Morgan.
"Yeah, that's what I said."
"Still, it's probably not going to delay them for long," said Old Morgan.
"We should bring it up at the next Assembly," said Balor. "It's not going to be enough to push the Calleck into getting off their asses, but it'll get the easterners talking, set things up for later."
Old Morgan grunted and nodded, "Does this change our plans?"
"I don't think so. I'm going to be sending more savay Darragh's way to help hold things down until we get things started on our end. Once we do, the Watchtower will probably have their hands full on their side of the river."
"Why will they have their hands full?" asked Ronan.
Old Morgan and Balor looked at each other and Old Morgan raised his eyebrows.
"It has to do with that opportunity I mentioned," said Balor. "Let it go for now. It's not a sure thing yet and I don't want the wrong Vay to find out."
Ronan nodded, stuffing some more food in his mouth. He wasn't even disappointed they were keeping him in the dark. It had to be a raid across the river, and he would get to go. Other than that the details didn't really matter.
"Sa'vay Ronan," said a vay's voice behind him.
He turned to see Ciara's mother, Moira, looking down at him. She looked very determined.
"May I speak to you?"
Ronan felt a flash of irritation. The tone in Moira's voice made it sound like she thought she was stepping into a raptor den, not speaking to a new member of her family.
"Of course. I believe it is traditional for the family to congratulate the groom."
Moira blinked and he heard his father snort. Ronan stood and walked away from the table, forcing Moira to follow him. They moved off to one side of the room. When they got there they saw one of Old Morgan's bound savay was speaking quietly to one of the woman servers. He had his hand in hers and was rubbing his thumb over her wrist. The woman was looking up at the older savay, her face flushed and her breathing deep. When the savay saw them approach he headed for one of the side doors, leading the girl by the hand.
When they were alone Moira turned to him. Ronan just waited for her to speak. The silence stretched uncomfortably long.
"I... apologize for the awkwardness of the ceremony," said Moira.
"I appreciate the apology, but it seems to me any awkwardness could have been avoided simply by allowing Ciara and I to meet before our binding. In the past, Vay may have been bound sight unseen but this is the twenty-first century."
"I truly am sorry. I love my daughter very much but the current... awkwardness made me realize my affection has led me to shelter her. I know she can be difficult but she has a good heart. I ask that you be patient with her."
Ronan rubbed his eyes, trying to keep his irritation under control. Moira was speaking in vague platitudes, continuing the deception that she seemed to think was necessary. Ronan couldn't see the point of it anymore. The binding had already been done.
"May I speak candidly, Vayné?"
Moira looked angry, but she nodded.
"It's clear Ciara did not wish to be bound to me and that we were kept apart so that her reluctance had no chance of interfering with your plans. If me or my father had requested another vay to seal our septs' alliance it would lower your status in your household."
"My only concern is my daughter's wellbeing," said Moira, anger thrumming in her voice.
"I'm sure. I don't know whether I'm more frustrated by your disregard for your daughter's wishes or your lack of faith in my own character. Do you truly think your daughter would find me that unappealing? It seems only fair that I have the chance to win her over."
"There are things you don't know. My daughter is headstrong and doesn't know what's best for herself. She wouldn't give herself the chance to..."
"Your respect for your daughter and myself is truly inspiring. Forcing us both into a binding you assume will make us miserable without even giving us the chance to try and reach some kind of accord."
Talking to Moira, who he suspected was the real architect of this situation, pushed Ronan's temper to the surface. He was so angry he felt lightheaded, dissociated from his own body. He suddenly couldn't stand being with these people one minute longer, whose only desire seemed to be making him and Ciara as miserable as possible.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Vayné. I'm going to take my leave, I've had my fill of the food and the company and I'm sure your daughter is eager for her first litter."
Moira closed her eyes as if he had actually struck her. Ronan felt a small amount of guilt but it was buried under a glacier of cold anger. Without another word, Ronan turned and walked back toward the table and up to Ciara. She had been talking and laughing with a group of four vay who might have been sisters or just close friends. Her laughter lit her face and she had a wide, generous mouth that gave her a beautiful smile. Ronan tried to get his anger under control as he walked up to her.
"My Vayné, should we take our leave?"
He must have failed because the laughter died off and all the joy drained from Ciara's face.
"Yes, my Sa'vay."
She stood and the other vay stood with her. Each of the vay she had been speaking to gave her a hug. Each hug was a little too long and a little too hard and Ronan had to fight not to grind his teeth. He was tired of everyone treating him like a monster.
Chairs scraped behind Ronan and when he turned everyone at the table was standing to see them off. He looked to the other end of the table and saw his father with a familiar smirk. Ronan ignored it and turned back to Ciara and held out a hand, which she took. Everyone watched them as they exited his father's hall. He saw Ciara glance back and followed her gaze to her mother. She watched them with her arms folded as they reached the door.
His father had let him borrow a carriage to take them to their new house, driven by a woman carriage driver. They spent the first few minutes in the carriage in complete silence. Ronan had absolutely no idea what to say to his new vay and she didn't seem inclined to offer any suggestions. He looked out the window and glanced at her occasionally. She kept her eyes on the carriage floor. Eventually thought of something that might break the miles thick ice between them.
"Are you a scholar as well as a healer?" he asked.
She jerked her head towards him, eyes wide with surprise, "What?"
"I know healing is your craft but do you also do some scholarship?"
"Did my mother tell you that?"
"No. I felt the callus on your finger when we were bound. I know it's common among scholarvay."
She looked at him for a moment and swallowed.
"Yes, I trained as a scholar, actually, but I changed my craft to healing when I was fifteen."
"Ah, but you still do some scholarship as well?"
Nodded quickly.
"What is your area of study?"
"Mushrooms."
Ronan blinked. Pit mushrooms were were another Gift from the Giftgiver. They could grow from anything and were so nutritious a Vay could live off them alone. But like all the Giftgiver's Gifts they had a flaw; they tasted horrible to vay, savay, and thraka. Only orcs and pregnant vay enjoyed the taste of pit mushrooms. Every Vay household had a mushroom pit where they dumped their scraps, offal, and carcasses. The mushrooms that sprouted from the waste were the orcs' primary diet.
"I see. Are you trying to make them taste better?" asked Ronan.
"No."
Ronan waited for Ciara to offer more explanation but she went back to looking at the floor. After a moment, Ronan despaired and looked out the window, watching the cold grey buildings pass by. He couldn't believe he was here right now, in this carriage with this vay who obviously hated and feared him, when a week ago he had been in Deirdre's arms and had whelped with a half dozen women. Silently he wondered if he could convince his father to go back on patrol, maybe even to another sept. He couldn't imagine living alone in a house with this vay.
After what felt like an eternity the carriage stopped and the door opened. It had been opened by one of the servants Ciara had brought with her from her sept. She was a middle aged woman with thick brown hair that looked like she had spent decades wrangling unruly daughters. Ronan exited the carriage and held out his hand for Ciara. When she took his hand her grip was hot and sweaty. He escorted her by the hand up to the house and through the front door. As Ciara walked past her servant she gave her a desperate, pleading look and Ronan saw the servant's mouth tighten in response.
Ronan led Ciara through the front hall. The house had been a rich merchant's manor before his father took the city. The front hall was rich yet stark, with white marble floors and bare white walls except for a large woven banner displaying the burning eye of Mordha. Silently Ronan cursed himself for not decorating more. The house looked cold and inhospitable.
"I apologize for the lack of furnishings. I wanted you to have a say in the decoration."
Ciara didn't reply. After a moment Ronan led her up the stairs, their footfalls echoing ominously. The house had an open air design where instead of an upstairs hall the second floor was open to the front hall. He led her around the balcony to the master bedroom. The bedroom had more furnishings, at least. A few tapestries from the Vay oases, an Enemy general's mask, a nice big mirror, and, most important of all, a big four poster bed of dark, carved wood.
Ciara stopped when she saw the bed, squared her shoulders, and walked towards it. She sat on it, facing him, looking up at him with wide, fearful eyes.
He stood in front of her and held out his hands. She looked at them a moment, took a deep breath, and put her hands in his, palms up.
"What is your name, beautiful one?" he asked
"Ciara Moira Cam'Teren," she said. Her voice quavered a little as she said her sept name. He realized after they laid together, her sept name would officially change to Mordha.
"Ciara, a beautiful name. As beautiful as you are. Will you lay with me tonight?"
Ciara looked up at him and didn't say anything. She opened her mouth and then closed it. She was frozen, paralyzed like a deer looking at the point of a knife. Ronan had no idea what to do. This had never happened before. Without a yes or no, he didn't know how to proceed with the entreaty. He waited an uncomfortably long time for his vay to say something, anything. Finally he decided to treat her silence as a denial.
"Please, Ciara. Your skin is like... it's like..."
Ronan trailed off. He realized he was rubbing Ciara's palms with his thumbs but he was giving off no Allure at all. She was so obviously scared of him, so clearly would rather be anywhere else, that no matter how beautiful she was he couldn't feel any arousal. His glands were as dry as the Waste.
He stopped rubbing her palms and just held them. He stared into her bright, terrified orange eyes for a moment, then let go of her hands. Quietly he went and opened the bedroom door.
"Your room is the next door on the hall... balcony."
She stared at him for a moment then stood, she silently walked past him and out the door.
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