29
Achilles Murchison edged his way down a gangplank over literally nothing but air. He clung to its brass guardrail with one white-knuckled hand, keeping the other free for spells (just in case). Falcon lay… hung… hovered… at dock right behind him, objectively no more stable than the rattling gangplank or creaking high-altitude pier, but a lot more familiar.
“Physics,” he muttered. “Ever heard of it? Anyone? No? Didn’t think so.”
Yeah, so… Big-rank Not-Jonn had already reached the wooden pier. He stood there now; arms folded, waiting for Murchison. (Goals.) Not looking down, ignoring the updrafts that shrilled past from too far below, the wizard finally side-shuffled off one spindly surface and onto the other.
“What this place needs, is a frickin’ tutorial,” he gasped, more to himself than that scowling old sailor.
“Are y’ going t’ be able t’ walk, Wizard?” growled Not-Jonn. “Should I carry you?”
Murchison shook his head no, emphatically.
“Nuh-uh,” he said. “So, you’ve got me, but then who’s got you? How do I know you won’t slip or (by the way, we’re being watched, just saying) that you won’t get into a fight or get drunk and just drop me?”
Not-Jonn snorted.
“If I dropped you, it’d be over the side, on purpose,” he shot back, visibly spinning his faerie pockets. “Keep movin’, Wizard. The less you look down, the better y’ll like it. (Who’s watchin’ us?)”
Murchison spread his awareness, or something like that. Put his mind out of its nice, cozy skull, as wildly unsupported as Falcon. Searching.
“Umm… three of them, definitely focused this way, or at least pretty keen on the airship.”
Falcon had done its best to reconfigure after coming apart in midair and then taking in some of the junk-storm. Still looked like a sleek and fast little cutter, though.
“Hunh,” grunted Not-Jonn, whose bushy black eyebrows did not match his bristling, iron-grey hair. “I’ll make sure the cap’n knows. Keep a mage eye on ‘em as long as you can, Wizard. We’ll fetch our supplies and that double-strength water, then hurry straight back. Wonder who’s watchin’, and why?”
Murchison shrugged helplessly, scratching his beard. Those spies could be anyone, he figured. The “feds” were actively searching for Arvendahl’s ships… criminal types might be looking to boost a new ride… or that crazy sword could be luring one of its possible wielders. Whatever, it didn’t seem likely to Murchison that the locals had come out to offer them mai-tais and leis.
“On it,” nodded the wizard. He summoned a pair of mage-orbs then sent them off, wobbling and clutching the rail as their dizzying swoop brought on vertigo. Hated looking though extra eyes that way, never seeming to get the hang of mental “split-screen”. Needing sustenance, Murchison spelled up another attempt at iced coffee, but it slipped from his grasp and fell over the edge. Wouldn’t have tasted right anyway, he thought sadly, watching cup, ice and nutritious brown fluid drop out of sight. Then, sensing motion, he whispered,
“Umm… I guess they spotted the mage-orbs. They’re backing off, now. Heading for that tumble-down building, there.”
“Good,” said his grizzled companion. “Keep Falcon under surveillance, Wizard. Conn’s aboard with one a them paladins, but there’s no such thing as too safe or too careful in a cesspit like Low-town.”
“Uh-huh. Hey…” gasped Murchison, as Big Rank turned to stomp off. “Can I ask a question?”
“No,” snapped the half-elf, not even turning around.
“Cool. Thanks! Doing it anyway,” said Murchison, side-stepping faster.
“Y’r a wizard,” grumped Not-Jonn, spitting over the rail. “Ain’t never known one of you able t’ keep his mouth shut.”
Murchison nodded, bobbing his head spasmodically.
“Yeah. Love that. Real cool and all, but, uh… Why “Not-Jonn”? I mean, why not “Fred” or “Hilbert” or “P-Elfie”? Calling yourself “Not-Jonn” pretty much guarantees that everyone’s gonna think: Oh, he’s definitely Jonn.”
The half-elf paused to glare at him.
“Cause that ain’t my name, Wizard. When it come time t’ sign up, Cap’n Varric wrote down who I wasn’t, ‘stead a pressin’ fer stuff I needed t’ leave in the past. I been “Not-Jonn No Name Given” fer years now, and I aim t’ stay that way.”
“Cool! Cool, cool, cool,” agreed Murchison, needing to talk. To not look down. To most of all get off of that rickety, mile-high lacework of tottering boards. “So, uh… about that double-strength water…”
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Back at Starloft, not quite meanwhile, Lady Alfea turned to regard the family transport gate. It was of ancient stone-giant origin, attuned to those of the Tarandahl line. Katina could use it, or Zara. Bean, even, if she’d known how… but not Alfea. At least, not like this.
The transformed Quetzali sighed. Shifted the baby around to a better position for sleep, tucking Pudgy into the crook of her other arm with gentle kisses for both of her warm little burdens. She felt frustrated and maybe a little upset at being packed off like this. Van had meant well, and he didn’t know any better, having been stripped of all memory of Alfea’s battle with Skyland… of her true form and nature. He probably thought that his wife had just hung in the demon’s claws, screaming. That Alfea was utterly helpless.
Worse, she couldn’t correct that misjudgment. Couldn’t just dart from the family transport chamber and back to the battlefield, either. Not without throwing away Firelord’s boon and her marriage to the handsomest, sweetest, kindest, most lunk-headed idiot boy ever to crash his way into a heart.
The nursemaid leaned nearer, reaching for Bean. Alfea handed her over, sighing aloud.
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“You were in love, Katina?” she asked, as the cooing redhead took Bean.
“Yes, Milady,” replied Katina, looking up with a smile. “Still am. Back on the Blessed Isles… Well, all that I’ve got t’ do is perform my task here, then go back to Epona. Seems there are ways through time, Milady. Tunnels, like. But I c’n only pick one. That’s the trouble.”
Alfea pursed her lips, considering.
“What is this task?” she inquired (curious and maybe a little alarmed).
Katina shrugged. Very gently, so as not to wake little Bean.
“I wasn’t told, Milady. The misty ones said that I’d know when the time came, is all… but it’s nothing evil or mischievous, Lady Alfea, my word on it! Just something that no one but me c’n accomplish, when the time’s right.”
“Hmm…” Alfea began. Would have tried a small spell of enlightenment, but then Zara, Mirielle and Pretty One came tumbling in through the transport gate, squealing and laughing. With them… less antic… was Elmaris the Rogue.
Alfea welcomed and sorted the girls; seeming gentle, vapid and sweet, though her mind raced in a hundred directions. Her own experience at the Blessed Isles had been similarly prophetic: “Prepare for battle and loss,” the voices had whispered, adding, “War comes, and speedily.”
Very well, let it come, Alfea decided, lifting her chin. There were some things she was prepared to give up. Her place in the heavens, her status… even her true shape and power. Not Van, though. Not her husband or baby… or Pudgy, either (still held in the crook of one arm and licking her face). Elmaris came forward, once she’d got the girls settled down.
“At your esteemed and eternal service,” he said to her, juggling a pair of daggers by their points to keep the little ones happy. “Protection, entertainment, light breaking and entering… whatever the situation demands. Say the word, it is done.”
He was slender and quick, with dark hair, a narrow fox-face and very tall, pointed ears. Elmaris was a close friend of her husband’s brother, and utterly trustworthy in all things concerning Lerendar’s family.
Alfea smiled back, inclining her head. Playing her part, she said,
“Thank you, Elmaris. We shall feel so much safer with you here.”
The saucy rogue winked at her.
“Safety is literally my middle name, Fair One. Elmaris ‘Safety’ Quick-to-leave-town, that’s your humble, devoted servant.”
Alfea laughed, causing Pudgy to bark and jerk his curled little tail.
“I have no need of servants, Elmaris,” she said, nuzzling her sweet, squash-faced pup. “But I am glad of a friend. Two friends,” she amended, turning her smile on Katina (perhaps the best-loved by her husband, of all his female kin).
“Us, too, Lady Fee!” chimed wee Zara, plucking at Alfea’s skirt. “We’re your friends, too, and we hafta protect the empress! That’s Bean! She’s gonna be our best friend and our leader. They said so!”
Alfea stroked the dark curls from Zara’s face.
“Of course, little sorceress!” she smiled. “And no better friends could Bean have! Empress Bean, though…” Alfea shook her head, smiling. Then, “Come, everyone. Let us go to the upper garden and call for tea. We shall have a party and try to think of a better reigning name for this sleepy young monarch.”
“Ooh!” squealed Mirielle, as the group bounced, walked or stalked through the grand archway. “I know! She could be Empress Janielle!”
“Or Empress Bright-Tooth,” suggested Pretty One, shyly.
“Eww! No! Yuck!” shouted Zara. “Mine’s better. She’ll be… listen… listen! She’ll be Empress Jelly-Girl!”
“I’d prefer Empress Quick-with-her-wits-and-her-blade,” cut in Elmaris, patiently herding small girls. (No easy task, when said scamplings could misty-step and hurl magic-missiles.)
They did reach the high garden in time for tea. It was a grand, sunny afternoon, as Alfea poured out, more names were thought up, and the wind-sprites bore word of her brave, foolish husband.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Back at Seahaven, in a certain opulent, silken pavilion, the great ones had met to agree on a treaty. The matter was touchy, as the fate of two realms hung in the balance. Ocean and land. Averna and Karandun. Sea-elves and First Born.
…And because neither quite trusted the other. Prince Nalderick spoke for the high-elves, empowered by left-hand protocol to make any promise he deemed necessary. That he had other motives… saving Sheraza among them… was his own business. As far as the rest were concerned, he was here to make certain that powerful life spells prevented Arvendahl’s death. That was important, because the warg-son’s last-magic curse would strike, the instant that Arvendahl fully, completely died.
Lady Solara was present, along with the Tarandahl high lord, Galadin. Also, Meli-something-or-other, upon whom he’d shoved off Milardin. A cleric of Oberyn, and Ilirian’s heirs rounded out his side.
Representing the sea-elves was one Andorin Kalistiel, a prince of the untainted blood, blah, blah, blah. He was quite a respectable diplomat, for a short, scrappy fellow with icy-white skin and gills. Drove a surprisingly hard bargain.
“We must have your unbreakable vow,” insisted the sea-prince, “that never again shall the land rise up to strike at the ocean. There must be blood-oath and life-bond… an exchange of hostages… against anyone else like this,” Andorin indicated Arvendahl’s severed head, “gaining power in Karandun.”
Problem, that, because no one could figure out quite how to ensure that it never happened again. They sat at an ornate wood table, Nalderick at one end, Andorin at the other. That the gods were present was obvious. Lord Galadin sparked faintly, speaking in a voice too deep for one elf. Swirls of petals and ice crystals drifted among them, borne on a sea-wind that made all the lanterns sway and the silken pavilion rattle like dice.
No pressure at all, for one’s very first stab at diplomacy. Nalderick cleared his throat.
“That seems like a reasonable request,” he admitted. “Yet… hostages cannot prevent war, unless you claim one from each noble house in Karandun, while providing…”
The prince stopped short when a bit of his armor dropped off. Just a pearl ornament; part of the “dragon in glory” emblem that covered his breastplate. Grunting in puzzlement, Nalderick started to reach for the vexatious thing, but it rolled away from him, crossing the table to Andorin’s place.
The sea-elf extended a partly-webbed hand, into which the pearl quite suddenly… jumped. Next it turned into a girl, becoming Nalderick’s pest of a sister, Genevera. Like himself, she had long, light brown hair and green eyes. Not at all like her startled brother, she didn’t belong here (and surely knew that).
“Genna!” he snapped, clamping a privacy spell on the treaty pavilion. If their father was watching… as he almost certainly was… he’d have maybe caught just a glimpse of Genevera. This mess could yet be sorted. “What are you doing here?!”
“Solving your problem, Dickie. Or did you intend to sit here droning on about rules all day? Everyone knows that the best way to seal treaties is a wedding, dummy!”
She was an absolute brat, but a shape-changing sorceress, too. Dressed in leather armor and armed with a short sword, she’d clearly come here to shake matters up. Wonderful.
At the other end of the table, Andorin rose to his feet, surprised to find himself holding hands with a young and very determined princess. Genevera turned to face him squarely, straightened her shoulders and said,
“I think that we’d better get married to seal this treaty forever, don’t you? I have lands of my own. I’m a princess of Karandun and… I’ve never forgotten you. I remember that great big harp, and your spell-singing.”
“Llyroc,” said Andorin, starting to smile, his gills slowly shutting again. “A harp of legend, formed of those who first reigned here. I remember as well, Princess. You threw your comb at me. But… surely such a decision is too important to make in haste. Surely you would wish more time to consider. I am… not highly esteemed in Averna.”
But Genevera shook her head, scowling fiercely.
“I’ve had my whole life to hang onto those memories, Prince. I know what I know, and that I was going to find you again, no matter what. I’m a princess. I’d be married off to some moldy old lord to widen Karandun’s borders. Or, I can make my own decision, right here in front of my brother and everyone else. It’s made. I choose you.”
The pavilion fell silent as elves, gods, clerics and witnesses… even the wind… waited to hear his response. Then, very simply, Andorin pulled Genevera close, drawing his purple cloak across to cover her shoulders, as well.
“I accept your offer,” he said. “I will marry you, Princess of Karandun, though I have little to offer but song and my moldy old blood.”
She stifled a giggle. Ducked her head against Andorin’s shoulder, releasing all of that scraped-up courage and tension at once.
That’s how the treaty got settled. How peace was ensured between elven realms, for a very long time.