Afanen’s entry line stretches past Alkara’s much shorter one back through the silent sentries of the forest. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other. Her rib reminds her of the now passing annoyance of its healing.
Three weeks of waiting had pestered Alkara into speeding up the process. Uncle Iro may disapprove, but Alkara wasn’t going to wait another three weeks. His smirk laughs at her from her memories.
“It’s just a cracked rib,” Alkara had protested.
Uncle Iro had raised a teasing eyebrow. “No, it was a cracked rib. Now it’s broken. So now you stay put. Rest.” His firm grip on her shoulder matched his tone.
So she had. But she had things to do. The idea of staying bed-bound any longer drove her to attune to Urdima’s spirit and push the process along. Occasional itching from the rib hardly changed that.
And on top of all that, the stupid tontorrem had eaten the mind-wiper.
At least it didn’t also eat Dre.
“Excuse me,” a stuffy elf with high collar tuts at Alkara in Grecian. “I believe you’ll find visitors must enter Afanen through the main gates.” Despite being shorter, he manages to look down his nose at Alkara.
Her slow exhale through her nostrils fills the silence for several reinforcing thoughts about how Tharan would be upset, it’s not polite to throw elves into the wood, or that Guen should not bite the seat from the elf’s trousers.
Alkara forces all of the disturbing thoughts down with a swallow. She sticks a smile to her face and turns to the elf. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course.” The elf pelts her with cordial rudeness. “Allow me to escort you.” Alkara very nearly almost slugs the elf in his stupid smile when he reaches for her elbow. He recoils with a gasp. “Your cat!”
Guen blinks at the elf and returns to licking her paw.
“Only just see her?” Alkara jabs a chuckle at the elf. “We’re fine, I’m in the right line.”
A few short exchanges pass between them. The elf providing a veiled insult regarding her position, both as a human and in line. Which Alkara disrupts with a toothy grin and repeat that she is, in fact, where she’s supposed to be.
That’s two, just a few more and it’ll be a normal visit.
Alkara sets her jaw and grits her teeth. After a couple deep breaths she counts in alternating languages. She tracks them from one hundred to zero under in breath.
Each step down toward zero brings a little relief to her irritation. Blowing up at someone before she’s in the city would delay her even more. If they even let her through.
Guen’s presence ruffles too many feathers as it is. Even with her immaculately well-groomed coat and the ribbon around her neck. She looks nicer than Alkara most of the time.
Alkara squeezes her nails into her palm. She continues with ‘seventy-seven’ in Grecian. ‘Seventy-six’ in the Copaishan style. Then Glohasis.
The Doësin women’s conversation edges into Alkara’s thoughts. They wait in front of Alkara, mostly ignoring her presence. Their dull comments thus far hadn’t surprised Alkara. But now they naggle her counting.
“The poor lass,” the elf with the purple tunic had begun. “Only a hundred and fifty years old.”
The other woman tuts in that quiet but struggled expression of Doësin sadness. That small puff of air steals Alkara’s count from her.
“The idea threatens our community.” A green sash wraps around the elf’s torso. Her voice dries the air, wringing the freshness from it. “Perhaps Orla’s mother will deign to explain to her the opportunities found with the [Sisters.]”
Purple Tunic nods but stands higher. “She must devote her honor to Doë, I agree.” She titters. “I suspect her skills will be found outside of the sisters, given her predicament.”
“A dreadful thing.” Green Sash’s slight tilt of the head imitates a Grecian hanging theirs. “They would find a place for her away from the children. We wouldn’t want there to be a fourth.” The awful implication builds in the widening silence.
“No.” Purple Tunic breaks the silence first. “You are, of course, correct.”
Green Sash swoops in with a humble denial, “You honor me greatly.”
“Providence would be served. Orla will not find another life-partner. She would find The Sisters a suitable sorority.”
A solemn quiet descends on them. Alkara, listening with spreading anger, breathes out. She’s not entirely sure what these women are talking about, but she can gather the judgmental condemnation of poor Orla.
Green Sash turns to Purple Tunic with a harmless frown, “Carlis is truly remarkable. His patience through Orla’s faults must be a gift from the Grandmaster.”
“He shan’t meet difficulties in finding a new life partner.”
Green Sash adds, “Maybe Evha.” A twinkle of mischief appears in her eye for a moment.
The last comment throws a burning brand on the fire of disgust Alkara had been building. “Wait! What?! He abandons her, but he can have a new partner and she can’t?”
Green Sash and Purple Tunic turn to her. The ruffles of cloth indicate they aren’t the only ones. Porcelain expressions from elves further ahead turn toward Alkara, peering between the would-be match-makers.
Purple Tunic expression leaks the barest hint of disdain. “It is an auspicious occasion to make your acquaintance.” If eyes could dissect, Purple Tunic’s would be faster than Dre’s hands. “I am called Orirse.”
“Yeah, fine,” Alkara barks as Green Sash begins to introduce herself. “Let’s not haggle over names. Did you mean what you said?”
Green Sash tuts. “Of course.” She exchanges an unhealthy expression of agreement with Purple Tunic. “She has failed us and her duty.”
Purple Tunic nods along. “Even if he wanted to stay with her, he shirks his duty to do so. I would have left after the first one.”
Something wiggly worms its way into Alkara’s gut. “First one?”
“Yes, this is her third miscarriage.” Purple Tunic shakes her head. “It’s a miscarriage of honor is what it really is. I suspect he won’t recover from the indignity.”
“I…” A great weight pulls at Alkara.
Green Sash nods with sympathetic urgency, making Alkara feel worse. “I can’t imagine how tormented he must be. Doubtless others have tried to convince him to Scaith.”
The word struggles to give meaning to Alkara’s unfamiliar ears. She narrows her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“To part with another. After the first loss he might have left without attachment, if he wanted. The partnership died in her womb.”
Purple Tunic sighs, “If only my Fidelma were older. She’ll provide a gaggle to whomever partners her.”
Alkara stands with mouth agape. Minor eye twitches and clenched fists convey murderous intent.
Green Sash sniffs, “I don’t expect a Grecian to understand. Least of all a girl.”
Purple Tunic frowns. “What are you doing in this line anyway?” She nods to Guen with a knowing look. “You want to be in that one.”
These people are insufferable!
“No,” Alkara says through gritted teeth. “Not that you care, but I’m here to visit your Bell Keeper.”
Joy surges in Alkara’s brain as she awaits the women’s reactions, and deflates like the air gullet of a flying frog. They watch with what might only be described tepid interest.
“Indeed?” Purple Tunic smiles. “Are you and your animal an entertainment troupe?”
Alkara crosses her arms. “Believe it or not, he’s my suitor.”
The women clench their mouths to avoid laughing but fail miserably. Each laughs with their own style of fashionable etiquette. They turn from Alkara to close their conversation.
After a few more entrants, Purple Tunic and Green Sash speak with the gate guard. They finish with a proclamation toward Alkara. “Treat this one with due deference. She’s courting the Cimäudi Clag.” They snicker on their way into the city.
Alkara scowls as she continues forward to the gate guard. She braces herself for the usual additional security she always receives.
The gate guard takes the visas and scrutinizes them with aid of the light. She inspects Tharan’s official seal as a raven might view a shiny coin. The guard hands the visa back to Alkara. “Exotic animals must be leashed or caged.”
Alkara unfurls the visa again, “Does this look like a pet visa to you?”
The guard stares at Alkara. Without glancing at the visa, “No… it does not.” The guard’s expression could curdle milk. “Wait here please. Dorregh, I will return presently.”
Alkara rolls her eyes. The gate guard strides toward one of the towers next to the gates.
What now?
Alkara strives to keep in mind that even with this extra annoyance, she’s getting into the city faster than she would otherwise. The guards don’t give her enough time to be properly irritated.
Four walk toward her in a diamond formation, the gate guard leads them. A golden leaf emblem displays itself on one of their tabards. Must be the gate captain.
The captain flicks her eyes up and down Alkara before removing her helm. Thick elf locks splay across her shoulder. “I am Captain Roislemh. We have questions for you. Please come with us.”
Alkara follows the captain. Her hand twitches as she resists placing it on her component pouch. “Is there a problem?” The remaining two guards fall in behind her. Guen stalks next to her without comment.
“No, miss. We have our processes and need to ensure our inquiries are resolved satisfactorily. There is no problem.” She opens a small door inside the gate for Alkara to enter. “Please have a seat.”
Two chairs face each other from across a desk. A single, closed, solitary door leads further into the tower. The gate captain occupies the chair furthest from the door, leaving the other for Alkara. Splayed across the desk, her visas glare at her with reproach.
Well. At least they haven’t destroyed them. Yet.
“Now, Miss…” the captain flicks her eyes down at the visa, “Alkara.” The name hangs in the air, thickening. “Miss Alkara of Three Rivers. Tell me about your visit today.”
Alkara shrugs, “I haven’t had one yet.”
Guen curls into a large ball at Alkara’s feet.
The captain regards Alkara with an icy glare. “Of course. What business do you have in Afanen?”
“Your Bell Keeper.”
“Is that so?” She inspects Alkara’s visas. As she sets each aside she tsks. “How do you know her?”
Alkara scowls. “He invited me.”
“I understand.” The gate captain’s smooth voice coats the inside of Alkara’s ears like film. “Tell me about the invitation. Are others invited? Where will the event take place? What else?”
“Just me,” Alkara rolls her eyes. “Probably at his house. Not an event.”
The captain narrows her eyes, staying silent for some time. “Why has the Bell Keeper invited you.”
Alkara shrinks into herself. Something about the way the captain said ‘why’ fills her with anxious thoughts. “He’s my suitor. We’re courting. Whatever you want to call it.”
The captain’s expression keeps the composure that the other women had not. Even so, disbelief tinges her voice, “You’re courting the Cimäudi Clag.”
“Courting. Fine. Yes.” Alkara grunts.
“Interesting.” The captain scans the visas, taking them in hand and turning them to different angles. “Who else do you know in Afanen?”
Alkara shakes her head with exasperation. “I guess… There’s his attendant guy? His name is Dorië. And a housemaid woman called Lëa.”
“His?”
“Tharan’s. Is this going to to be much longer?” Alkara looks to the closed door. A subdued disquiet settles on her.
The captain sets a small dial of blue dust on the desk. “No, we’re nearly finished.” The captain sweeps bits of the dust across a visa with a small brush. “Aside from Master Tharan and his people, do you know anyone else?”
Alkara’s shoulders sag. “Some of the guards. The tavernkeeper I used to go to. I wouldn’t really say I know them. It’s not like we exchange letters.”
The gate captain holds a flame near the blue powder. Flame dances across the dust and consumes all of it. The captain frowns at what must be the lack of a blemish on the visa. She sets it aside. “How did you come to work for Diarmuid?”
Who the fuck?
Alkara gives the captain’s scrutiny a confused shrug. “Never heard of them.”
“I see. These are remarkable.” The captain waves a visa in Alkara’s direction. “Very fine craftsmanship.”
“I guess.”
“Who forged them?”
Alkara recoils, “Forged? Tharan gave them to me!”
“Let’s not continue this charade longer than its due.” The captain stands and plants her hands on the desk, leaning forward. “Where did you buy them?”
“Kavanja’s dirty paws! You’re not listening.” Alkara slams her fist on the table.
The captain releases the table. Her expression softens, “I understand it’s difficult when you have to backpedal. Let us discuss things further.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. Guen! Stop being so damn calm.”
The panther sulks to the room’s corner and once more abandons Alkara to reality.
“We can still part peacefully. Just tell me about your plans.” The captain holds her hands palm up to Alkara as one might try to corral a spooked horse.
“I planned to spend time with Tharan before I had to go home.” Alkara’s voice drips with suffocated resignation. They’ll never listen.
“Of course. Let’s get you to him.” The captain’s smile could challenge a politician’s for insincerity. “We can start with an easy one. Who are your contacts?”
Alkara grits her teeth, “This is ridiculous.” She huffs like the air in her lungs was poison. “I don’t have contacts. I know Tharan and his assistants, like I said. He got the visas and stamped them. Look,” Alkara points to her necklace. “Tharan crafted this too. Or did my contact give it to me?”
The captain peers at the necklace. “Did he?”
Alkara throws her hands up. “Urdima’s Grace!” She grabs her bag and rummages through it.
The captain steps forward and clamps a hand around Alkara’s wrist. “What are you doing?”
Alkara snatches her hand away to a chorus of low growls from Guen. “There’s a note from Tharan. About the necklace.” A slow bubble of anger begins simmers in her stomach. “Written in case some fool thought it looked a little too nice. So maybe you should read it and let me go. Then Tharan won’t know you kept me in here for no reason.”
Roislemh pulls her hand away. “Let’s see it.”
Alkara sighs. She pulls the wrinkled letter from her bag and, with a grimace at its poor condition, gives it to the captain.
Roislemh flattens the note out the desk and gives it a quick read. “This has all been illuminating but I have other duties to attend.”
“So… we’re done?”
The gate captain smiles with a rueful sadness. “We are. I’ll come speak to you again in the morning. Maybe you’ll have answers.”
The statement hits Alkara like 200 pounds of cat. She slumps into the chair, almost falling off, as her jaw drops. “What?”
Roislemh beckons to the closed door. Two armored and, more alarming, armed soldiers enter with weapons drawn. Alkara has enough time to push herself to her feet before they grab her.
Guen snarls. She shimmies once into a ready position.
“Call it off.” The guard captain’s voice fills the room, louder than she’d been before. “We would prefer not to dispatch it.”
“It?!” Burning ire fills Alkara’s chest. “Guenwyvar will stand down because we are choosing to spare your lives.”
Roislemh stares unblinking with the countenance of a statue. “Remove her weapons and that necklace. Search her for other stolen goods or contraband.”
Alkara allows the soldiers to lead her from the interrogation but throws one last retort. “And because I have a feeling that Tharan would disapprove if we killed you. Though you may wish we had once he hears about this.”
“Put the cat in its own cell.”
The soldiers say nothing as they place Alkara in her cell. A small stool accompanies the cell’s straw mat as the only furnishings. The female guard waits outside the cell.
Alkara clenches her hands as the male guard takes her pack. Next he unties the quiver and hands it to the soldier outside the cell. Alkara stares at her jailer with small crinkles shaping her flaring nostrils.
He takes her bow and jabs one end into the ground. A small bend releases the tension and he unstrings it.
“What [the hell] man, be careful!” Alkara shouts at his faceplate. She fixes her gaze on the wall, breathing heavily. That burning sensation works its way down her arms and legs in streams.
“It’ll be over soon.” The guard says in Grecian, despite Alkara’s use of Glohasis. A glimmer of a smile appears within his helmet.
Alkara closes her eyes for a moment until she feels his hand at her boot sheath. Which ignites that burn into a raging fire.
Alkara looks down at the crouching guard pulling on Uncle Iro’s dagger and kicks his face. His head collides with the cell’s bars.
The second guard rushes into the cell with a truncheon, jabbing with it thanks to the enclosed space.
Alkara twists away as she grabs the female guard’s wrist. She pulls the guard into the cell and slams her knee into the woman’s stomach.
The first guard supports himself on one hand, struggling for balance.
Alkara stomps down, crushing his fingers under her boot.
The female guard gasps but grabs at Alkara’s waist and arms. They scuffle, each trying to gain an advantage.
Alkara grunts and slams her head into the woman’s helmet. As the guard recoils, Alkara shoves her thumb into the woman’s mouth and hooks it into her cheek.
The female guard grabs at Alkara’s hand, trying to prise it from her mouth.
The male gains his footing, rubbing at the sore hand. He slams his truncheon toward Alkara’s side.
Alkara catches the truncheon-wielder’s hand and chomps down on his flesh.
He yelps. Flesh rips when he snatches his hand away.
The female guard twists Alkara’s hand around her back and pushes upward. “STOP!”
Alkara throws her body to the right, hurling the guard into the hall. She snarls at the man and bares her teeth.
He draws a dagger and tests his grip with a bloody hand.
The female guard grunts, grabbing at Alkara’s arm again.
Alkara glares at the man. A pit of fire fills her chest. She lets go of the female guard and launches herself at the other.
They fall to the ground in a heap. Alkara takes the man’s hand and drives the dagger into his thigh.
He kicks and pulls away, blade still embedded in his leg.
The female guard falls onto Alkara back and drives her to the ground. She struggles to get hold of Alkara’s flailing limbs.
Alkara twists under the woman and bucks her into the cell bars. She scrambles onto the guard and jams her throat against the bars. The woman gags with the blow.
The man struggles to his feet. Blood drips from his wounds. He sags under the weight of pain and reaches toward Alkara with his good hand.
Alkara spins on him and punches him in the throat. She huffs in the corridor, staring down at the bruised bodies of the guards.
Two more guards burst into the corridor. Visors down, truncheons in hand, ready to fight.
Without thinking, Alkara rushes the newcomers. They trade blows, but with surprise no longer on Alkara’s side, she falters before long. A final blow to the back of her head brings her to her knees. She blinks and falls forward into darkness.
Cold water drenches her. She jerks away from it but the damage had been done. She shivers and strains to remember. Blurred memories of them taking her belt sheath and component pouches muddle about. She curls further in on herself as she almost feels their hands crawling over her body again, the hazy memory of their search bringing fresh feelings of violation and shame.
They’d thrown her into a cell and locked it while she’d struggled to stay conscious. A chirurgeon stitches the wounds of the one guard. Another treats the female with an odorous poultice.
Guen lay in another cell, ears perked and snarling as guards pass her cell. One carries another bucket and walks toward Alkara with a smile on his face.
Alkara raises an arm in a useless effort to block a second bucket of water. She glares from her newformed puddle at the lock-headed elf who’d drenched her.
The elf’s lip curls at the corner of her mouth. “At least we won’t have to endure your stench as we wait for the magister.”
Alkara trembles. Her teeth chatter out as she huffs out, “Tharan… I want to see Tharan.”
“Yes, we’ll summon the Cimäudi Clag presently.” The guard watches her with a kind of patient humor seasoned with incredulity. “He won’t tarry long with his betrothed locked away.”
A second guard taps Guen’s bars with her truncheon. “How about you? Shall we call upon Councilman Aodhgán’s alligator? We wouldn’t want Master Greima to worry.”
They chuckle together.
“Enough.” Captain Roislemh had returned. She stands out of Alkara’s sight just near the entrance to the cells. “Alkara, you’ll await judgment until the morn. Doë be adamant.” Only the soft click of the door announces the captain’s departure.
The chirurgeons finish with their patients and pack away the various implements of their craft. The guards give Alkara one last, pitying look shaded with anger and pain.
Alkara sits on the cold, damp stone of her unadorned cell. Guen pads over to her cell bars and lay against them. The corridor separating them may as well be leagues across. Still, Alkara lays against the bars and stretches her hand toward the panther. A few moments pass before Guen’s paw grazes Alkara’s fingertips.
Alkara sighs and waits. Pain throbs at her forehead where she connected with the helmet. The chirurgeons had decided not to treat the small cuts she’d received in the struggle for the dagger. They itch at intervals through the hours crawling by.
Will they send for Tharan? What if he’s out of the city? I don’t want to talk to the judge by myself…
Alkara sighs again, pushing out the negativity to bring her attention to the present. It works for a moment. Her understanding of Doësin law could be piled into something just shorter than a sheaf of parchment. Even laying down she finds a way to slump.
They’re going to hang me… if what they allow for a miscarriage is any indication, I won’t be getting out of this. Unless Tharan shows up.
Forged visas and stolen jewelry must warrant a heavy punishment. Alkara snorts. They may accuse her of stealing the bow, too.
Just some crazy fanatic who steals Tharan’s shit. That’s me.
Hunger begins to gnaw at her like a rabid wolf with a bone. No food brought by apologetic guards appears. Instead more disappointment finds its way into the cell.
When they do arrive, the helmeted guards ask a few questions, nod despite Alkara remaining silent, and depart. They seemed pleased she hadn’t responded.
Should have figured out some way of telling Tharan I was coming. He’d sort this all out.
Her thoughts spiral into the darkening gloom of the cell corridor. Guen had shifted and withdrawn her paw. Alkara had done the same, aching at the shoulder from stretching for so long.
Alkara’s thoughts dwell on a bowl of cold gruel she’d once been served in the midst of an interrogation. The entire scene had been staged but Alkara confidently assessed that they had gotten the gruel from a stockade or the Duke’s dungeon. She never did learn how they had cooked such a lumpy, gritty, mushy porridge.
Now she’d trade near anything for a bowl.
Alkara pulls her senses in. Surely there’s a mouse in this tower. They’re probably lousy with them. She focuses on scrabbling and the telltale snuffling of whiskers brushing floor and walls.
But instead, approaching steps pull her focus. Someone strides toward the cell corridor with purpose. The door swings open and hits the bars on an outer cell, followed by a short, sharp inhale.
“Miss Alkara!”