The footsteps of the two warriors made muffled thuds on the buckskins and furs that lined floors of the hallway. Puffs of warm breath dissipating into the cold morning air signaled the end of Fomhar’s harvest. Soon the people would be favoring thicker tunics and fur hats to stave off the biting temperature. Through the windows of the hall, the warriors watched servants hauling chopped wood into large sheds to stock up for the season of Faur that follows. In the trees whose roots were coated in frost, the nests of game and song birds sat emptied as their owners left to pursue warmer Southern climes.
The elder of the two warriors, Eimear Bothair led her nephew, Sloane in an uneasy silence. She had received a dreaded summons to the residence of her liege. Sloane moved with the measured steps that had been drilled in his head since his youth. However, it was clear on his face he was looking forward to the meeting. It was his first time being in the presence of their liege.
Eimear sighed softly at her nephew’s youthful energy. Their destination was not something worthy of celebration. The ominous air hung thick, choking their lungs with the looming pressure of anticipation.
“What-“
“Shh!”
Sloane attempted to speak but Eimear quickly moved to silence them before words could form. Her arm smacked his chest making a small thud and an equally small grunt passed his lips. Sloane nodded in disappointed understanding.
Eimear knew, despite the lecturing and the drilling and the studying that Sloane did not truly understand. In a place like this, careless words would certainly be memorized and passed on to unnecessary ears. Every syllable, every intonation may one day become a knife that slits your throat.
But, she had no choice but to bring him. Sloane would one day take up her mantle and lead in her stead and he needed experience before taking the reins on his own. The illogical nature of youth needed to be constantly curbed and tempered into responsibility.
Armed guards stood before large ornate double doors. The younger warrior took a moment to marvel at the engravings depicting the story of Killik providing mankind with the secrets of power. While a scene such as this was painted with ubiquity over the realms of Strettia, there were few that could rival the captivating energy that radiated off of the piece before him.
Holy eagles flocked above the wizened winged spirit god while the major tribes of humanity knelt humbly before him. Their wrists wept the blood that would elevate their species to supremacy over the continent. Gold and silver inlays highlighted the vibrant hues of the paints creating a view that danced on the border of realism and mysticism. If one closed their eyes they could hear the wind whistling through the trees and the distant screeches of the birds.
Eimear’s focus always drifted towards the background of the painting. Woven within the fields and the trees and the sky stood a lone woman. There was nothing discernable about her. Her face was barren of features, her body obscured by flora. All that she possessed was a lone red scarf that gently fluttered in the breeze.
The depiction always unsettled her. It bore the sharp cut lines of an addition to the original piece. It was one of the few clues that allowed one to obtain a deeper understanding of the one who commissioned it, yet, she felt repulsed by the idea of knowing them in that way.
The guards, familiar with the woman lowered their heads in recognition, however, they looked quizzically at her younger counterpart.
“He is aware of the extra visitor,” Eimear announced brusquely. “He is the future of the Bothair.”
Those few words were all the guards had required. With that, the double doors were pushed open to reveal the room within.
Considering the decadence of the entryway, it would come as a surprise to any first time visitor that the interior of the room was far more austere. There was very little in the way of art or decoration within the room as though what was originally inside had been stripped away and discarded. The only furniture was a bed of imported wood and a desk with an accompanying chair.
Whatever little art present in the room was a far cry from the contemporary works of the artists of Jervin and had a feel that the average person would not identify. As opposed to the blues and greens and grays that the Strettian nobility favored, this room was full of bright reds and oranges.
At the desk was an older man of medium build, his back to the two visitors. His hands moved fastidiously over an unseen object. He wielded a small set of shears that precisely trimmed what was set before it.
It was not fully clear as to whether he had noticed the presence of these guests. He had made no moves to acknowledge them nor did he hasten his task. Sloane looked at his aunt with eyes that questioned what to do next. Eimear, who had made no efforts to gain the man’s attention, did not react to Sloane’s gaze. Realizing that guidance would not be provided, Sloane mimicked the posture of Eimear.
A fireplace crackled with intensity giving the room far more warmth than could be found in the hall. The man continued to ignore his visitors while he finished his work. His movements were slow and deliberate. He opened the shears to make another adjustment to his work but stopped.
“Eimear Bothair,” the man spoke with a calm tenor that somehow demanded attention.
Eimear immediately lowered her head and got down on her knees. Her forehead pressed against the floor. Sloane quickly followed suit.
“You’ve summoned me, my liege,” Eimear replied.
She stared at the floor beneath her. She heard the sound of shuffling. The chair moved and footsteps approached the two. She did not look up from her position. It was the first rule that her predecessor taught her, one taught with harsh words and lashes.
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“I have,” the man confirmed. “But first, introduce me to this one.”
“I-” Sloane started his introduction but Eimear immediately talked over him.
“This is Sloane, my nephew, and the man that you will one day give orders to.”
Once she had finished, Eimear shot Sloane a glare reprimanding him for speaking out of turn. However, it didn’t seem that her liege had noticed. If he had, then he miraculously didn’t feel the need to bring it up.
“Pleased to meet you, Sloane,” the man said politely. His voice sharp and measured like his shears. “I’d like to ask you a question. Who is your favorite hero from the old tales of the Uprising?”
Sloane darted a surprised glance over to the elder Bothair, urging for direction. Eimear tried to mouth back, but was cut off.
“No need to be nervous. I’m simply trying to understand you better. You are free to speak your mind without restraint,” the man cajoled.
“Well, it would have to be Ogaro the Ampoli or Rilleon of Jerv. Ogaro’s bold act of rebellion sparked the freedom from those that stood upon us and Rilleon is the man whose descendants would found our nation,” Sloane replied with deep uncertainty, fearing that the obvious answer was the incorrect one.
There was a long, chilling pause as the man mulled over the answer. Eimear had answered the same way long ago. However, her liege’s mood was different today. His fluid personality brought her fear towards the eventual response.
“A fine answer, one that any loyal Strettian would be proud to state,” he finally remarked, allowing the tension to lighten.
“W-what about yours?” Sloane spoke in an attempt to be cordial.
Eimear shot him a harsh look for speaking out of turn once again. She had taught him numerous times not to speak out of turn and never to ask unnecessary questions. Worry stemming from the realization of his error washed over the young man’s face like a splash of cold water.
“It’s only courtesy to answer a question you’ve asked of another. In my case I would have to choose Jin.”
“Of the Flaming Blood clan?” Sloane responded incredulously.
He was showing too much impertinence. Eimear considered appealing to her patron but she knew his displeasure wouldn’t be dispelled so easily if it appeared. However, it seemed today that her liege was feeling quite lenient.
“It’s understandable that you give that reaction. Admittedly, Jin’s contributions in the story of the Uprising are not notable as his rise occurred after the major battles were fought. However, he is a truly remarkable individual who formed Xanbo and the Ember Court all within his lifetime. All other nations required generations to finally unify but Jin subjugated a massive population of diverse fire tribes in only a couple decades. Isn’t that fascinating? Doesn’t it make you wonder how he did it?” The man’s voice grew more animated and filled with a youthful vigor as he spoke of his hero.
Neither warrior responded. Sloane out of fear that he would make one blunder too many and Eimear out of confusion that this was the first time her liege had spoken in this way. Their inaction allowed the atmosphere in the room to deflate. A chill passed over the two of them, and suddenly, an escape towards the hallway felt like a necessity.
“Back to the matter at hand,” the man said coolly as he paced back and forth. “I’ve consulted the seer and she says an unprotected eaglet is about to hatch during this Killicia. It has been some time since I was last able to obtain one. I need you to recover it for me. The creature must be recovered alive. Do you understand?”
Sloane shot over a quizzical look but it was ignored by his subtly grimacing aunt.
These were the worst orders. It was what she feared when she received such orders so late in the cycle. She would be temporarily stripped of her humanity. Her clan reduced to hunting dogs for her liege, forced to scour the realm in pursuit of prey.
“Where is the nest?” Eimear questioned emotionlessly.
“Follow the flight of the birds and you will find it.” The man dropped a scroll with a wax seal in front of the woman. “I have sent word to the local nobility. Arrangements have already been made for you to conclude this bloodlessly.”
“And what of its plumage?” Eimear asked, hoping to divine more information about her quarry.
“You will have to find the right one yourself. The appearance was not unveiled to me,” her liege answered plainly.
“It will be done,” Eimear replied.
“Do not let it escape your grasp, Bothair,” The man warned with a click his tongue and the woman dropped lower. “Otherwise you might find that it will remember you when it grows up. But you already know that, don’t you?”
Eimear didn’t respond. She could feel the questioning eyes of Sloane upon her. She would need to teach him what it truly meant to be a Bothair and, with it, all the shame.
“You may leave.”
Sloane moved to get up but Eimear roughly grabbed him and pulled him back onto the ground. They kneeled silently for a moment until she heard the sounds of footsteps return to the desk and the shifting of the chair. Only when the soft sound of the shears began did she rise to her feet and turn for the door. A sharp tap on the wood swung the doors open.
In the hallway, Eimear quietly sighed in relief after departing the room. She glanced over at Sloane who walked briskly towards the exit, his discomfort palpable. No matter how well she tried to prepare him for the encounter, there was only so much that could be done. Perhaps now that he’s been exposed, it will be easier to teach the proper etiquette moving forward.
They silently departed the estate and approached the stables to recover their horses. The attendant bowed and brought the proper animals forward. With a silent thanks, both warriors mounted their horses and rode back the way they came.
It wasn’t until they had created a comfortable distance from the estate did either try to speak.
“You made numerous errors during that meeting,” Eimear reprimanded and Sloane looked away. “You did us both a dishonor there with how you acted.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Eimear,” was all he could muster.
“It is fine for today but please in the future pay more attention to what I tell you,” Eimear replied, stressing every word in the hopes that it would breach Sloane’s foolish skull. “It will help you navigate in the future when I am no longer there to accompany you. I can guarantee you that our liege will not be so magnanimous all the time.”
Sloane didn’t answer these comments and instead opted to let the criticism wash over him without much in the way of fighting back.
Satisfied that he understood her words, Eimear’s voice grew solemn. “I’d like to apologize to you, Sloane.”
He shot her a curious look but did not answer.
“This order will not be a pleasant one nor is it one that can be refused,” Eimear explained. “You will be forced to act in ways unbecoming of our standing, unbecoming of our species. Succeed in this, maintain who you are, and you will lead the future of our clan.”
“I’m not comfortable potentially harming a religious animal,” Sloane admitted. “But if it is what our patron calls for, is it something that we can refuse? Wouldn’t the druids still protest?”
Eimear sighed and shook her head. “I see you’ve failed to read between the lines on this order. Soon you will understand just how low our clan has fallen.”
“So what do we do now?” Sloane questioned, flashes of worry running over his face.
Eimear Bothair gazed at the scroll in her hands ordained with the seal of the winged lion. How much longer will the folly of her ancestors continue to bind her clan to this man? The thought of letting her prey escape to spite her patron crossed her mind but she forcefully squashed that line of thought from her head. The man in the estate behind her would know immediately and it would not be just her facing the consequences.
“Rally the warriors. We ride south.”