The three high elves rose, and made their way to the door. Toril was certain that there would be a final parting shot, but they merely filed out, their Dark Elf retinue following behind without a backwards look.
After a guard reported that the elves had in fact left, Magdalene rounded on Toril.
“Again?!” She snapped. “You caved to them! You practically bent over backwards for them!” She shouted.
“I bought us five years, Mag.” Toril replied. “As it stands now, we have no way of stopping them from walking into Stormheim and doing whatever they please. They’ve got numbers, they’ve got time, and they’ve got magic.”
He nudged Galen and pointed to a nondescript and somewhat battered metal box.
The man got up and picked up the box, grunting at the weight. He returned to the table, and set the box in front of Toril, who opened it carefully.
“What is that?” Magdalene asked in a weary, frustrated voice.
“Letters.” Toril replied, even as he began taking out stacks of papers. “Letters from an asshole.”
Magdalene gave him a confused, angry look while Galen remained standing.
“You want me to leave, Your Majesty?” He asked in a low voice.
“No, no.” Toril replied, shaking his head. “This involves you, too.”
Galen nodded as Toril sorted papers.
“There’s an asshole that hates the elves as much as I do.” Toril began, “and from time to time we exchange letters.” He paused, “Well, what really happens is that I write a letter, stick it in the box with some parchment, and then if I’m lucky he’ll write his own letters, and then I’ll have a couple of men retrieve them.”
“It was part of my arrangement with him. I at least wanted to stay in contact.”
Magdalene’s temper rose, but her voice cooled. “And is this ‘asshole’ the one that I think?” She asked crisply.
Toril eyed her askance, but shook his head. “Here are the letters about that, and his responses.”
He handed her a stack of papers. She looked through each one; Toril asked a lot of questions, but the answers were always cold and sterile. “Sheilah is doing well”, “Sheilah is fine,” and the last letter that mentioned Sheilah, the freshest one, the one most recent, “You should be proud of her.”
“You kept this from me?” Magdalene shouted at him. “All this time, and you never said a thing!”
“How could I?” He snapped back at her. “You haven’t-” He cut himself off. “Look. Galen.” He pointed at some papers with diagrams and pages of text. “This.”
Galen struggled over the letters. “This man’s handwriting is atrocious.” He complained. “But...” He nodded. “There are strategies here. Some of them are ... just impossible with what we have now. This... is a bit more realistic.”
He set another sheaf of documents down. “This wouldn’t work. This one... no. This would work if we had more people...” He shook his head. “A lot of these are fever dreams, Your Majesty. We’d need way more people than we have now.”
He tapped one. “This is... something we might be able to do in five years- assuming it worked.”
Toril nodded. “Get a group together and get started on it.”
Galen nodded and left the room.
“We’re going to try and fight them when they come knocking in five years.” Toril replied to Magdalene’s unasked question. “If we can get some of these ideas to work in a way that’s feasible to us... we could see the end of elven influence in five years. If we can’t, then... we’re going to be fighting for our lives... or living as slaves.” He sighed. “In the meantime, I’m going to go ahead with getting the bulk of our resources together for another try at the Silverlands. Not to colonize it, though: To act as a beachhead for our assault on the elves.”
Magdalene rolled her eyes. “You think we have troops enough to protect us and assault the elves?” She asked caustically. “You think we’ll have enough in five years?”
He shook his head. “We don’t. We won’t.” He admitted. “We’ll flood their lands with gnolls.”
Magdalene took a breath. “So it’s true.” she finally whispered.
Toril gave her a questioning look.
Magdalene relayed the story of Sheilah’s sister dying at the hands of the gnolls that Stormheim had introduced to the Redstone.
He grimaced. “Oh, I wish I hadn’t heard that.” He complained softly. “I have to apologize to her, somehow.” He slumped back in his chair and covered his face in his hands. “I didn’t know we’d sent gnolls into the Redstone. If we did, it makes sense. Now that I know, I wish we hadn’t, but...” he shook his head, face still covered. “We have to, this time. There’s no other way. We can’t protect ourselves and launch an offensive at the same time.”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
He leaned back and lowered his hands, his eyes still closed. “If I could have my way, I would load every ship we own with the damned things and land them on elven shores. I’d flood their cities. I’m so tired of elves, Mag. So tired.”
“I’m going to give the girls a few days to themselves.” Magdalene finally replied. “I don’t think I could look them in the eye right now.”
“Send them to Angelo Dardi, then.” He replied, a little color returning to him.
“The fencer?” Magdalene replied with a frown. “Shouldn’t we send her to Antonia? She teaches fencing to the women, too.”
Toril barked a dry laugh.“I’ve seen her hunt. Sheilah, that is. She’s a lot stronger than me. Galen, too. Angelo would teach her better. Anyway, I promised to have her taught. But make sure the elves are gone.” He let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “I don’t want them to know she’s here.”
Magdalene finally allowed herself to slump in her seat. She idly flicked through the letters Toril had sent to Davian. They were all diplomatic, but edged with a desire for friendly relations, as well as asking after Sheilah and her well-being.
Davian’s replies were very simple, the sentences only a few words each. His handwriting was atrocious as well; she could see the same mistakes Sheilah made. There was also no room for flexibility of interpretation. From one perspective it seemed as though Davian was coldly rebuffing everything Toril suggested, but there was also a second interpretation: Davian simply didn’t know how to interpret those loosely-addressed phrases.
“I wonder if I should write to him.” Magdalene murmured thoughtfully.
“Who? Davian?” Toril asked. He waved his hand, his eyes still closed. “Give it up. He’s unfailingly blunt, and probably wouldn’t care what you wrote him.”
Magdalene raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we should let Sheilah write a letter-” She began, but Toril sat upright and glared at her cooly.
“No. His role is over as her guardian, and Sheilah is our daughter. I forbid it. I don’t want to give her any opportunity or excuse to leave.” His reply was flat and cold. It made sense, even to her. Still, the idea persisted.
“His handwriting is as atrocious as hers.” Magdalene complained.
“Really? You never showed me her work, Mag.” Toril complained, and then got up. “I feel terrible. I’m going to have the doctor give me a tonic and have a nap.”
Magdalene gave him a disappointed frown. If he had one of the tonics the doctor prescribed, then he wouldn’t be able to indulge in their newly-rediscovered intimacy. When she brought it up, he froze, one hand on the doorframe.
“I- uhh,” He turned back to face her, and closed the door behind him. “I hadn’t- I didn’t think-” He tried, and then he gave her a sheepish smile. “Then should we, uhhh, before I take the tonic?” He asked.
“At this time of day?!” She immediately rebutted. “How shameless!” She got up and crossed the room and took his hand. “I don’t recall marrying a man so shameless.” She argued, but began leading him to their shared apartments.
“Well, I remember marrying a very bold and assertive woman, who wouldn’t back down from any challenge placed in front of her.” He replied kindly.
“And I remember marrying a man who was just as bold and challenging.” She replied with a sharp look.
His grip on her hand firmed, and he adjusted his pace so that he walked side-by-side with her, and he gave her a grin, a ghost of the old daring, challenging smile he used to wear, even when surrounded by his betters.
*****
Sheilah frowned over the sheet of parchment she was working on. “I don’t understand why I can’t simply ask for what I want.” She complained to Fialla, who was concentrating in the same way.
Andrea had set for them a task: write her a letter, asking for lunch. If the letter was appropriate for one of her station, then Andrea would serve lunch. They were now three hours into the exercise and Sheilah began entertaining the idea of asking for dinner, instead.
“This is entirely too complicated. Why is a letter even required?” Fialla complained. “She’s standing right there. Just tell her to serve lunch.”
“The exercise is important, because there are going to be many times where it’s important to properly request things from those beneath you. If you ‘simply ask’, it’s seen as a ‘demand’, and that’s considered very rude. You want to show that, despite them being lower of station than you, you respect them and the work they do in your name.”
The two gave each other baffled looks, despite hearing similar explanations from Andrea as they struggled.
Sheilah wanted to give up, but Fialla was still trying, so that meant she needed to keep trying, as well.
“Did they not do such things in the Redstone?” Andrea asked curiously.
Fialla opened her mouth, but then shut it abruptly. Sheilah looked up at Andrea and took a breath and let it out slowly.
She thought about it from a Dragon’s perspective. At first she wanted to instinctively respond that it was completely different- the clans didn’t have servants, and most people were capable of doing everything themselves.
The Dragons were the de facto leaders over the other clans because they were Dragons, but despite being the Tyrant Clan, they didn’t behave like tyrants. There was a complex system of favors and counter-favors and mutual agreements and accords.
Politics in the Redstone were complicated.
Sheilah drew a new sheet of parchment towards her and, struggling with her knowledge of the Stormheim tongue and her grasp of their alphabet, she began composing.
After she was finished, she drew a stylized Tyrant mark, added the First Blood mark, and then her personal mark, followed beneath in struggling, stilted lettering, her name, Sheilah Stormheim.
She folded the paper into thirds, and proffered it to Andrea, who accepted it.
“I’ll forgive the lack of envelope and wax seal, this time.” Andrea smirked as she accepted the letter.
She read over the letter, and her lips quirked.
“It’s hardly legible, but you pass.” Andrea decided. “I’ll have lunch brought to the dining hall.”
Fialla glared at Sheilah. “What did you do? How did you do it?” She demanded.
Sheilah passed the letter she’d “sent” to Andrea. “Redstone politics are complicated.” Sheilah reminded Fialla in Redstone. Fialla grimaced, and then read.
“Your handwriting is terrible.” Fialla complained.
“So is yours.” Sheilah shot back. Fialla made a face at her, and then turned towards the direction of the apartment doors.
“Your mother’s here.”