Our escort clients, Darenia and Tameriel Bazerrian, end up being exactly what we expect. There’s just something about the siblings that screams I AM ELVISH in all-caps. They both hold themselves just so, and even though they are looking at three and a half days on the road, they are dressed formally, wearing plush velvet cloaks and vibrantly colored silk scarves over the perfectly tailored and exquisitely embroidered long-sleeved tunics that are popular in Gerai.
The two are twins and look extremely similar: heart-shaped faces, paper-pale skin, and copper-red hair elaborately twisted and pinned to the backs of their heads. Fortunately, though, they wear different colors: Darenia in shades of blue and Tameriel in grays.
Their open-air cart is simple but well-provisioned, driven by an older-looking elvish man in simple black clothing, and pulled by a pair of well-groomed, long-haired gray worker kyttles. As horses are extremely rare in Qeth, the very feline-looking kyttles fill in the gap—the creatures range in size from a Mastiff to a Clydesdale, are built more like cheetahs than house cats, and have multiple fluffy tails (typically three, but larger kyttles have as many as six).
Behind the cart, three short-haired riding kyttles follow, ridden by Flynt, Jonas, and Meg. Tyrus and I ride in the cart with the twins—Tyrus in the back while I, at the clients’ insistence, am in the plush passenger compartment with them.
When we all met at the North Gate, they both nodded crisply to the other members of my party, but otherwise didn’t seem to pay them a lot of mind. They did, however, insist on greeting me in the formal elvish style: a complex series of hand movements and sweeping motions that I had to apologize through because I still don’t have it down quite right. I was prepared for it to be an issue, but they actually seemed to find it cute, and they giggled behind gently raised hands as Darenia corrected my timings.
All-in-all, they continue to treat my party members with the type of dismissive attitude that we expected. They do not directly communicate with anyone but their driver and me, and they refuse to speak anything other than High Elvish—even though their driver seems to struggle with it, and I can (weirdly) hear their Qethi accents coming through. I think it’s meant to impress me while pointedly excluding the other members of my party, though Flynt disabused them of that notion early on by reflexively answering about our expected travel time.
I, however, am treated very differently as our clients seem almost desperate for my approval. They fawn over the length of my ears, suggesting they always wished theirs were longer, and comment regularly on my effortless grace, and how disaffected I seem about the expectations of others.
Along with complimenting nearly everything I do, they ask endless questions about how I find Qeth. They are extremely curious about my perspectives on elvish culture here—and how it compares to that across the seas (which I’m able to vaguely answer thanks to recent reading)—and they constantly quiz me about my journeys. They even violate elvish taboos by asking about my age, a question that’s accompanied by giggles and feigned shock over how daring they are to even think of asking such a thing.
It’s to the point where I’d suspect they were mocking me if it weren’t for overhearing them breathlessly buzzing about how big a blessing (not to mention a real mark of status) it is to have a Hunter Elf seeing them through this journey, and how they hope there will be a long queue at the city gate so more people can have the chance to see their association with me.
“I’m beginning to think this wasn’t necessarily our best idea,” I comment to the others as we gather in the tavern’s main hall for breakfast at the start of the second day.
We had made good enough time that we were able to reach the small settlement at the Western Road Junction just as the sun was dipping behind the mountains, something we all found encouraging. If we can keep up that pace, we should be able to hit similar settlements all along the route and avoid having to make camp. That would mean we won’t collect the bonus promised in case of overnight protection duty, but it would also make for an easier and more comfortable trip—especially given the nature of our clients.
“Why do you say that?” Jonas asks. “They adore you.”
“Yeah, well, that may be the problem. Or at least, it highlights my concern. I don’t think I’m going to blend quite the way I expected to.”
“You thought you were going to blend?” Tyrus arches his eyebrows. “You’re going to have to put on one of those ridiculous hats of yours if you hope to do anything like that. You know your people are…”
“A whole deal, yeah, I know. But I thought that would be less the case in an elvish city.”
“If anything, it’s just going to make you stand out more,” Meg says around a bite of toast. “Hunter Elves are unusual elsewhere, but they’re actually meaningful somewhere like Gerai. Look on the bright side though—you probably won’t have to pay for a drink or meal the whole trip. People will be falling over you. Discreetly, of course, they are elves. But still.” She shrugs. “It’ll be funny.”
“I don’t think it’ll be funny,” I hiss, dropping my voice. “I have long ears; I’m not fronting a multi-continent stadium tour.”
“What’s a stadium?” Jonas asks, frowning.
Meg shrugs again. “I don’t know what to tell you, Keira. Your people are rare here and are, supposedly, the storied direct descendants of the First Elves. That type of mythology is going to garner curiosity and attention.”
I sigh heavily. “Cultural imaginaries are a bitch.” I glance over at Flynt who is scribbling something down in a small notebook with a stub of a rudimentary pencil. “What are you doing?”
He grins as he folds the notebook around the pencil and tucks it back into his pouch. “Whenever you say something I don’t understand, I try to make a note of it.”
“What? Why?”
“Why not?”
“It’s… odd.”
“Not as odd as some of the things you say,” Tyrus replies. “I’m still trying to figure out what a T-Rex is.”
“That’s an old one,” Flynt says.
Tyrus shrugs. “What can I say. It flummoxes me.”
“Flynt, why haven’t I ever seen you do it before?”
He chuckles. “I don’t know. I try not to be too obvious about it.”
“Have you been doing this all along?”
Flynt’s about to reply but cuts himself off as something catches his attention from over my shoulder. Tyrus follows his gaze and mutters a curse under his breath, and Meg bites back a burst of laughter, causing her to break into a coughing fit. I twist to look.
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
Our clients are settling at one of the empty tables and they’re… different. Their clothing is similar to yesterday’s, but it’s styled to make it look more casual: the high collars are unbuttoned and folded down, the sleeves are rolled up to their forearms, and they’re wearing their cloaks so that the plain lining shows instead of the rich velvet.
They also have their hair down and styled in something approximating loose curls, and they each wear jewelry on their ears that is designed to give the illusion of longer points—I’ve seen it before on some women walking around Oosal, but it still jars me a little.
They’re even holding themselves differently, moving with a self-conscious deliberateness that weirdly reminds me of my dad, so it must be meant as an imitation of me.
Meg clears her throat, her voice still scratchy from the coughing. “Keira. I can’t tell. Is this flattering or offensive?”
One of the siblings—I think it’s Tameriel, based on the gray clothing—grins and waves at me from across the hall. I offer a thin smile and a small wave back.
“Yeah. I don’t know. I’m going to try not to think about it.”
Flynt chuckles. “What do you suppose the odds are that they’ll also try to adopt your broader attitudes of acceptance toward diversity?”
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Tyrus cringes. “Hopefully not good. That would mean we’d actually have to talk to them.”
They don’t have to worry about that as our clients still show no interest in wider conversation. They spend most of the morning begging for stories from my home, so I end up giving in and reciting the main storyline from The Princess Bride, figuring it would at least vaguely translate—and I end up deeply amused when they interrupt in almost all the right places.
That takes us through to midday meal. I pick up the task of feeding and watering the kyttles, if only to buy myself a little bit of quiet time, before returning to the group.
“We were speaking,” Flynt says in High Elvish as I come to settle in the grass and accept my parchment-wrapped sandwich from Tyrus. “The road will wind to follow the river in a bell’s pace from here, and the woods are quite dense around it. There are many things that lurk within that may be of danger to us. I know you are enjoying your time riding with our hosts,” and he nods toward our clients, “but we would all be best served by having someone of your expertise as a more mobile scout.”
I meet his eyes. There’s a touch of humor there, but also a wariness. The middle portion of our journey is riskier than the rest: the river itself is rushing and perilous, and the woods at its banks and surrounding the road can conceal any manner of people, creatures, and otherwise. It’s exactly why travelers like our clients hire people like us for this journey. Inroads have been made over the years to clear it out, but regular patrols can only do so much—and sometimes, unfortunately, they’re as big of a problem as anything.
“You should take my mount,” he continues. “And I will ride with our dearest friends.”
Darenia doesn’t quite succeed in concealing a small wince at that, but both siblings nod quietly in support of the idea anyway.
I glance over my shoulder at the kyttles, who are happily, peacefully chewing on their food as they lounge in the grass. They’re typically very easy-going animals and, unlike the cats they resemble, tend to be responsive and easily trained (so I’m told, anyway). This is good given that they’re omnivores and could be killing machines if they really wanted to be.
I haven’t needed to ride one yet. I’m curious about it, sure, I used to ride horses all the time as a kid, but I don’t know how well that experience will actually translate, and I’m not all that enthusiastic about my first try being in front of everyone like this. At least that rank in [Ride] I took a couple levels ago will actually prove worthwhile. Hopefully.
I don’t really have a lot of choice but to agree, so I nod and we all finish our meals fairly quickly before we pack everything back up. I smile slightly at Flynt while he climbs up into the wagon, and I move over to the kyttle called Heddy. She’s white and gray, about the size of a Quarter Horse, and although her coat is short-haired and sleek, she has tufts on the tips of her ears like a Maine Coon.
She looks at me in a slow blink as I approach, and she gently headbutts me so I scritch behind her ears. I wasn’t quite ready for the rolling low purr, but probably should have been. She crouches so I can get into the saddle and settle before she stretches up to her feet and I rein her over toward Meg and Jonas, each on their own mounts. It’s a little like riding a horse—but also, entirely different as the kyttle moves much more gracefully, prowling forward with a silent sure-footedness.
“First ride?” Meg asks, reining her calico-colored mount up alongside me.
“That obvious?”
She shrugs. “Only in that you look like a little kid at a fair.”
“In a bad way?”
“Just in a joyous way.”
I laugh a little. “I guess I’m just reveling a little in the merger of my inner cat lady with my inner horse girl.”
Meg grins and looks like she’s about to say something before she stops herself and shakes her head. “They’re easy creatures when you get used to them. But very smart. Don’t let them get away with anything or they’ll identify you as an easy mark and expect it every time.”
“Noted. I am going to ride up ahead and do the scout thing. I’ll circle back periodically.”
“Don’t get too far.”
“I won’t. But I have a sense that Heddy here could sprint if she needed to.”
“Sure, but could you hold on is the question. They don’t run so much as bound.”
I picture it and nod. “Also noted.”
I trot up ahead. The weather is lovely, edging more toward summer every day, and the air has all but lost the spring crispness that it’s carried for most of the time I’ve been in Qeth. The sun is downright warm. It’s not quite enough to lose my cloak altogether, but it’s getting there. A light breeze pulls at my hair, and a natural quiet settles over me as I get ahead of the cart and the larger kyttles pulling it.
It takes half a bell or so before the sounds of rushing water begin to prick my ears, and not too much longer before I can see the river to my right—sometimes in plain view, and sometimes obscured by dense trees. A thick canopy slowly begins to grow up over the road, and it reminds me of some country lanes in New England: thick with foliage and the sense that there are few people actually around.
We do pass the occasional travelers, mostly small groups about our size, all headed in the opposite direction. Interactions are few and a little wary. The path is apparently more frequented during the dry summer months and in the fall, when the foliage thins out. This time of year, many tend to take the longer route along the merchant’s road, which is wider and more heavily traveled, though it takes more than twice as long.
We’re a few bells past our meal and not far out from the Mid-Journey Tollhouse where we expect to spend the night (and that, as the name suggests, reflects the halfway point between Gerai and Oosal) when my ears prick, and the intuition starts to buzz electrically at the back of my neck and over my scalp. Heddy’s ears perk up, too, and begin to twitch around, though I’m not sure if it’s because of something she’s hearing or if it’s because of my increased tension.
It’s hard to tell what’s triggering it, but I’m certain that there’s something out there, watching us. I slow Heddy up a little bit, and she crouches down very slightly, ears flicking forward as she looks up. I follow her gaze into the canopy, but don’t see anything before her left ear angles toward the woods.
It’s possible that we’re each freaking the other out right now, but the unease the crawls down my spine makes me doubt we’re that lucky.
Looping her around, we meet back with the others, who are plodding quietly along. The instant the other kyttles see Heddy’s anxiety, they mirror her energy, ears perking up and on an instant swivel. My party reacts similarly, everyone sitting up a little straighter and surveying the area with new attention.
“What did you see?” Meg asks.
“I don’t know. There’s something, though. I think we’re being stalked.” Our clients look at me wide-eyed, but I try to offer a small smile of reassurance. “I’m not very worried. The fact we haven’t seen it means that whatever it is knows we’re not easy prey.” I don’t know if that’s true, but it sounds right, and the clients seem to appreciate that answer even though they stay on edge. “That said, we should reinforce that idea. We need to stay on our guard, and maybe pick up the pace a little bit.”
The kyttles already seem to be on that page as the cart gracefully speeds up. Flynt begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the faint tattoos on his forearms that help him channel his magic. Jonas likewise takes off his gloves and tucks them into the pocket of his coat. Meg was already set, of course, her sword able to be pulled at a moment’s notice, and she even has a short bow fastened to her saddle just in case. I take a moment to pull open the [Map] function and drop a [Pin] at our location, just in case.
The rest of the journey is tense, and that feeling of being tracked doesn’t let up until past dusk, when the trees break to reveal a very small village with maybe a dozen structures all told. It’s clear though that it is very much a drive-by town, like those that periodically dot long stretches of highway in the southwestern U.S.
While it’s not exactly a hopping place, there are magical lanterns glowing around the outskirts and along the roadway, and many of the buildings emit warm light through their windows. We can also clearly see the sky for the first time in a while, which has only the barest remnants of sunset colors streaking through it as the stars are starting to brighten.
The tollhouse and inn stands in the center of the village and is the largest building there: four levels, with a pair of stables in the back as well as hitching posts out front. There’s a booth set up on either side of the road between which a thick rope is strung, barring the way pending payment of the toll. No one’s in either booth right now, though.
At the sounds of our arrival, a large, male human in worker’s clothes comes out from behind the tollhouse, and strikes up a conversation with the driver, who sets about securing stabling and storage for the night. We help our clients down, carry their belongings, and take charge of setting up our lodgings.
The place isn’t as empty as I expected it to be given how few people we saw on the road itself. It’s nowhere near as packed as the Wide Sky typically is, but the pub-like common area boasts several groups of people talking amongst themselves over drinks and early meals. Some look like they’ve just come off the road, others look like they’ve been here a little while longer, and some might even be locals (though probably not many given how small the village is).
Jonas uses his charm to arrange the rooms, which is fairly straight-forward. The benefit of traveling in the off-season is that, just like at the last stop, there are enough accommodations available that we don’t have to worry about any awkward sharing situations.
Tyrus and Meg help our clients and their belongings up to their evening’s quarters. I put in food and drink orders for us and make sure our clients’ meals will get sent up to them, which the part-orkish woman behind the bar seems to feel is a pretty normal request—she even jokes about elvish peculiarities before catching herself and seeming to be a little surprised (and very relieved) when I laugh. Jonas and Flynt set about securing a table for our party.
It is a natural breakdown of responsibilities. It fits with everyone’s temperaments and worked absolutely fine last night. We don’t think anything about it, and there isn’t even conversation—we just kind of go about our tasks, doing what needs to be done.
The bartender gathers all our drinks on a tray for me and promises the food will be out soon (though she’s clearly not sure what to make of my inquiry about cookies). I don’t think anything about the raised voices coming from a corner of the room—that’s the sort of thing that happens in places like this, and it’s rarely that big of a deal. It’s even less likely to be something I want to get involved with.
I thank her as I lift the tray of drinks, and I turn just in time to see a half-elvish man who’s built like a college linebacker shove Flynt hard enough that he falls back into a table. This is quickly followed by Jonas, of all people, punching the stranger—who is backed by a trio of unhappy-looking adventurer types—in the jaw. A red [1] and a black [2] float into the air where it connects, which seems about right if we’re being honest.
Then all hell breaks loose.