Alkara lay in dappled sunlight on the forest floor. A partly eaten rabbit lay in the grasses next to her. The char on it graces its underside. Small bites mar the remaining raw flesh. Alkara hadn’t even caught this one. Guen had caught it for her. Alkara had been too miserable. And she doesn’t even know why.
All she knows is it’s Tharan’s fault.
Or something.
The herbs and materials for Guen had come by courier. Tharan hadn’t made an appearance. Alkara had had been bitterly disappointed.
Instead he’d had to stay for some Council Meetings. An important vote. Couldn’t get away. His neat scrawl had explained everything so clearly.
Whatever. Guen is back. That’s what’s important.
Isn’t it?
Her week with Guen in the forest draws to a close. They’d hunted together, climbed trees, and generally frolicked through the wood. Now she lay propped against a tree thinking about the panther nuzzled into her lap.
And still something nags the back of her mind. A shadow that darkens her mood.
Something’s not right.
It’s the answer to this dumb question. The one she’d been too afraid to ask him when she’d had the chance.
Why? Why does he keep getting involved?
He’d saved her life once. Twice now. With no real explanation. She’s just a client and not a very important one. It just doesn’t make any sense.
“My expertise serves the community and in your family I discovered a cause worthy of my attention.”
His words echo back to her. A cause worthy of his attention. So are they his charity case? Someone’s trying to set things right in Three Rivers and he… cares? And wants to help?
Not likely. But there aren’t exactly many options. What else could it be? Except, maybe… She shakes her head.
No, it can’t be that.
The exchanges they’d had bubble up in her mind. Over and over. Despite the two weeks that’d passed. That look in his eyes needles her through that gap of time.
She’d grabbed him harder than she’d meant to, but her temper had flared so suddenly. She’d needed to close his wound, or he was going to lose more blood. And he was already so pale. Why was he being so difficult?
That whole experience had been harrowing for Alkara. Even the memory of Tharan vomiting brings a lump to the back of her throat and saliva fills her mouth. She pushes the thought away. It had been all she could do to keep herself on task. She doesn’t like silence any more than most people, but the way it seemed to affect Tharan… it was like something had taken aim at his very soul.
And his grimace when Dre pulled on the bolt. It needed to come out, but the hurt etched on his face very nearly drove Alkara stop Dre. As insane as that would have been. Alkara frowns with the memory.
She had been desperate to make sure he was alright. Even if she had been pissed about a million other things. The thought empties her chest to leave a hollow spot.
And then he had captivated her with the look in his eyes. Not with fear or pain. It hadn’t even been alarm. Instead it was as though she were the one mesmerizing him. As though she were the only–
Nope. That’s crazy. He’s a hoity toity elf. I’m human. Even if there are some half-elves… it’s not like…
But he’d been alert! Like he could have stared all day!
Ridiculous! He’d been all spaced out from the pain. Or that alcohol Dre gave him, even if he had claimed it wasn’t strong enough. Dre had been so pleased that she’d gotten to ask him about it. She couldn’t wait to test her new ideas.
And that isn’t even the look that bothers Alkara the most.
It’s the hurt that had flashed in his eyes when she’d all but accused him of the racial superiority she’d encountered from most elves. Especially Doësin.
“Do you truly think so little of me?”
His words torment Alkara. As much as his eyes had pierced her, her insult had paralyzed him equally. He hadn’t feared bleeding out in the Depths so much as what she’d thought of him.
Or is she going completely insane?
Alkara groans. The thoughts circle over and over. On each pass she obsesses over some other detail. And then reevaluates her conclusions.
And then there’s the pull to see him again. She recounts her arrows, looking to justify another order. Or perhaps going in person to thank him. She couldn’t knock on his door ‘just to say hi,’ could she?
Alkara grabs her half-eaten rabbit by the legs. “Alright Guen, get up. Time to go.” They trudge toward the city. She’ll send Tharan a message. A tingling spreads down her arms at the thought. She’d agonized over the decision for days and having committed to it swells her heart.
She stops at a courier post near Three Rivers. A certain glade calls to Alkara as a perfect meeting place. She scrawls out a short message with trembling hand, wondering if the tiny scritchings would be obvious.
A tall, pale-skinned woman attends the post’s counter. She takes Alkara’s five coronals and assures her the message will reach Tharan.
He’s just so lonely.
Alkara stands at the counter lost in thought before the clerk jars her from her reverie with a question. Alkara shakes her head. “No, thank you. I’m good.”
All that prestige and the fancy title, whatever it means. That he’s jealous of her relationship with Guen. That forlorn look…
It bothers her. The injustice of it fills her with mounting unease on her journey home. If he treats others the way he treats her family, he deserves to be happy.
Alkara considers joining forces with Leä. They could give attention to the parade of elves wandering into Tharan’s life. Maybe Uncle Iro could help find someone in Covarcht. He visits the elvish sector pretty regularly.
Alkara snorts, startling a few passerby. She may want to help Tharan, but Uncle Iro definitely wouldn’t care. She doubts he’d dedicate any time to something like this.
Did he actually think Tharan was part of the threat? Or was he playing at some long con? Could be either. Or both.
Alkara finally has to admit it to herself: she likes Tharan. A lot. Every now and then he’s obnoxious to deal with and kind of weird, but who isn’t? And he’d looked so relieved when she’d started telling stories about Guen. And she really enjoys his laugh. And he’d looked so happy when he’d woken up. Not sure she buys that “torturous” comment about his dreams though. You don’t wake up from a torturous dream looking like that.
Alkara reaches her front door and pauses. She sighs. She’s good at finding strays, that’s for sure. Strays and misfits and people who need a family. But… there just isn’t a place for him in theirs. Mostly because he’s hardly a stray. He’s established. Has his own life. Very important person. He isn’t going to leave all that behind to come live with them just because he’s lonely.
Alkara laughs and shakes her head before pushing her front door open. She’ll talk to Leä. They’ll figure something out.
Days pass. Surely Tharan would have his message delivered to her home. Alkara returns to the post after the seventh day. But Tharan hasn’t replied.
She goes back the next day and again no reply. And the ninth day. She waits and checks again on the tenth. Nothing.
Each visit agitates her. Her heart beats faster as she steps to the counter. Her mouth dries up when the clerk checks for a missive. And then her expression falters at the news.
Alkara checks again after a few days when returning from a patrol. Then again on her way out two days later. Weeks pass. She stops visiting quite so often.
A month passes and Alkara finds herself entering the courier post again. The clerk, Drizelle, smiles when she sees Alkara. Alkara waves and smiles but drops her gaze to the floor. Another customer haggles with Drizelle about the price of a delivery but agrees and departs.
Alkara steps forward, tapping her fingers against her thigh and places her other hand on the counter. “I don’t suppose there’s a message today?” A red tinge fills her cheeks.
Drizelle keeps smiling, but the muscles around her eyes soften. “I’ll look deary.” She examines a few letters in front before departing to the back room.
Alkara shifts her weight from one foot to the other. And again. Three times before Drizelle returns.
The clerk puts her hand over Alkara’s on the counter. “I couldn’t find anything for you. Or the other names you suggested.” Drizelle squeezes Alkara’s hand. “Do you think he’s going to reply? It’s been a while.”
Warmth churns in Alkara’s stomach. For a moment her throat closes up. She swallows. “Guess not.”
Thankfully she has plenty of work to distract her.
Iroshi leans back in his chair in the corner of their house. He scrutinizes the lot of his ‘kids.’ He’d been telling them of his investigation. Alkara nods along with his explanation, often in the wrong spots. He narrows his eyes for a moment before continuing.
“Long story short, the orphanage is a dead end.” Iroshi bites into his Hinterpear. Its mellow, chilled juices trickle out onto the corners of his mouth. “There were some odd letters, but not much else.” He hands a trio of parchments sealed with an odd design to Dre.
The alchemist takes the letters and turns them over in her hand. She furrows her brow during the examination. Dre scratches at the seal with a fingernail.
Iroshi smirks. He licks at his mouth. “Yes, they’re not wax. It’s some kind of congealed paste.” Iroshi settles back into his chair. “There’s some mystery organization calling themselves the Elevated Veil.” Iroshi finishes the sentence with an exaggerated flourish. “Pretentious.”
Chiron chuckles. Dre, of course, probes the seal with a metal rod. Alkara smiles with a faraway look.
What is the matter with this girl?
She’d sent her letter, but Tharan hadn’t responded. That’s the rub. And according to Al, they’d had a pretty meaningful conversation down in the Depths.
Wonder what the hold up is.
Iroshi tilts his head, staring at Alkara. “In any case, the guy that runs it is called Ven.”
Alkara clutches the blanket on her cot, “Ven?” She looks at Dre and Chiron. “Do you think… it’s the same guy?”
Iroshi raises his eyebrows. He encourages Alkara with a gentle hand motion.
Alkara nods with a tremble in her eyelids. She falters through the story of her encounter with Eryl.
Iroshi’s muscles tighten through each story beat. He grits his teeth and narrows his eyes. His breathing steadies into long, smooth breaths.
By the end, Alkara’s eyes glisten with unshed tears. She sniffs once.
Dreonna by now has set the letters aside. She speaks with a quiet tone just above a whisper, “A Doësin woman brought her home.”
A knot tightens around Iroshi’s stomach. He nods to Dre and Al. “It’s not a common name around here, could be the same person.” He reaches out to Alkara and squeezes her hand. The hardness in his expression flees and in its place a soft, warm bearing appears. “I’m sorry Al.”
I might have stopped it. Perhaps I should vet her companions more closely.
Iroshi lowers his gaze for a moment. “One letter mentioned a drop spot. There were empty barrels and food. Water.” Iroshi wrinkles his nose. “They had that same sweet but acrid smell to them.”
Dreonna frowns, “Smell?”
Iroshi shrugs. “It was a cherry wood but treated with something else. It wouldn’t do for ale or wine. Strange smell for barrels, eh?”
Alkara rouses, “What is?”
Iroshi arcs an eyebrow. “Bad cherry wood.”
Alkara blinks. “Bad cherry wood?” She looks back to Chiron. When she returns to Iroshi her eyes unfocus. She shakes her head. “The first woman who threatened me, told me Chiron was in trouble, she smelled like… like cherry wood, but something was off.” She looks away and toward the wall.
“Really?” Iroshi cocks his head and brings a hand up to rub his chin.
Chiron smiles in a mock imitation of humor, “So, what? Let’s just go knock on every Cooper’s door.” He straightens up and lifts his chin, putting on an air of courteousness, “‘Er, yes, do you make your barrels with a wood no one wants?'”
Iroshi smirks. “I don’t think that would find us what we want soon enough. So no.” He shakes his head. “The mortician didn’t talk. Wouldn’t talk. His resistance to… aggressive questioning was impressive. Damn shame.”
Chiron’s eyes widen. “So you did start that fire!” He grins at Dre. “I told you!”
Dreonna frowns. “You said the fire at the old millhouse was Uncle Iro as well. It was a knocked over lantern.”
Chiron grins. “Yeah, and who knocked over the lantern?” He peers at Iroshi from the corner of his eye.
Iroshi sighs. This exchange must be nipped in the bud. “Dre, any guesses about the seal?”
She turns back to Iroshi, the corner of her mouth pulled up. “It’s like ichor. I pulled a little off.” A tidy corner lay vacant from the seal. Dre lifts a wide-mouthed, metal spoon over candleflame. “There’s a waxy quality I can’t place. Some sort of additive.”
Iroshi nods and shrugs. “Take the seal. You’ll do more with it than me.” He moves to their dining area and begins setting out strips of dried meats, cheeses, and a few apples. “The letters are going to Ashworth. They’ll shut down the Dorsey home.”
Dreonna reaches up and rubs at a low spot on her neck. Her eyes flit to Iroshi and back to the floor.
Iroshi watches her for a few moments, a sad smile on his slips. He portions out the food in two piles.
One day she’ll be ready.
Chiron cracks a few knuckles. “Didn’t the Dorsey home director going missing? What was his name? Lord Ebertin or something?” He cocks an eyebrow at Iroshi. “Was that you Uncle?”
Iroshi chuckles. “Missing? Is that the rumor?”
Chiron nods.
Iroshi smirks, though a heaviness fills his chest. “Probably better. I suppose the corpse would be dreadful to see.”
Chiron fist pumps the air. He nudges Dre with an elbow, but she ignores him. He shrugs and whispers, “I knew it.” To no one in particular.
Iroshi bundles the food in dried Eshter leaves, keeping his eyes on the task and sparing Chiron no looks. When he finishes he sneaks a glance at Alkara, who still stares at the wall.
I’ll need to plan a trip to Afanen. When there’s time. Even if he is on some trip he should have responded.
“Oh, one last thing.” Iroshi crosses his arms. “Cato the Younger is leaving town. If you need information, go to the Older.” Iroshi packs the food into a pack. “He’s busy, but worth the wait. I don’t advise trusting any of the other Scriveners at this point.”
Alkara rouses herself again with a frown. “Cato is leaving? Why?”
A lopsided smile steals over Iroshi’s expression. He flashes a wink. “Because I told him to.”
Chiron raises both eyebrows. “Do you think he–?”
Iroshi shrugs. “He was… surprised to see me. Nearly burst into tears, the poor tyke.”
Iroshi shoulders the pack and beckons Alkara. “Come on Al, we have a patrol.”
Alkara blinks and furrows her brow. “Are you sure? We don’t really go on patrols anymore.”
Iroshi lifts her bow and holds it out to her. “I’m sure. Just the two of us. Let’s go.”
The duo pass through the city without words beyond short questions. Where are they patrolling? How long? What should they expect?
The ferry across the Grecian carries them in its slow, thoughtful manner. Guen curls up at the bow.
Out in the Wastes, they turn Urbound and pass out from the old Three Rivers ruins. The grey-packed dirt stretches out for leagues to Urbound toward Urdima’s Tree and Trueward.
Alkara starts with scans to the horizon, searching the trail they leave, and occasional indications of possible threats. After a few hours she falls to silent walking, looking mostly ahead a few paces.
Iroshi calls them to halt. “Let’s rest here. There’s shade under those trees.” They snack on some of the provisions Iroshi packed. Iroshi sets his jerky down and touches Alkara’s knee. “Alkara, this patrol isn’t a formality. We need to be attentive.”
Alkara scowls. “I know.” She pulls her braid around and fiddles with the end. “Guen’s paying attention for the both of us.” She drops her gaze to the ground.
Iroshi sighs. He lifts Alkara’s chin up and stares at her until she relents and meets his eyes. “He’s been called away.” He nods at her, urging her to accept. “There was a dispute and he went to resolve it. It’s the duty of his position. Part of it anyway. If you’re going to fall in love with Cimäudi Clag you need to understand what you’re getting yourself into.”
Alkara pulls back, eyes wide. “I– LOVE?!” She jumps to her feet. “I just wanted to see how he’s doing, okay?” Her eyes dart back and forth across the ground, “You saw him down there, it’s like he’d never been in a fight!”
She throws her hands up and paces under the branches. “Love… ridiculous… as if…”
Iroshi watches Alkara stamp across the cracked grey dirt. He swallows the chuckle that threatens to leap from his throat.
She turns back and glares at him, “And even if I did, he’s an elf! And if that weren’t bad enough, he’s some… what did you call it? Cimäudi Clag?” She sweeps her hand out in a wide arc. “Sounds like a fancy title. Like some Lord or Duke. As if he’d be interested in some lowly human like me.” She lowers her voice on “lowly” for effect. “Let’s finish this patrol!” She snatches her bag up and stalks Urbound.
Iroshi smiles and stuffs the last of the jerky into his mouth. The jerky stifles any laughter. He slings his pack and follows. Once he’s certain he won’t chuckle, he calls out, “Alkara, he caught feelings before you did. I’m not sure what spell you cast, but his heart’s yours whether you want it or not.”
She stops and stands still. When Iroshi catches up Alkara still has her hand in front of her, quivering. He places a hand on her shoulder.
Her voices shakes as she speaks, “But I… I can’t… we can’t… I couldn’t… do that to him. Leave him alone after… and that’s assuming you’re right and it… works out…”
“Mmm. Might want to ask him what he thinks about that. He seems a thoughtful fellow. Chances are it’s crossed his mind.” Iroshi’s face sobers, “And something else to consider: Doësin elves his age have usually taken a life partner by now, by about a hundred years if they’re moving slowly, yet he never has.”
Alkara drops her hands and turns to Iroshi. Her soft eyes harken back to her childhood. Flecks of some unknowable question flicker in her eyes. She takes one hesitant step toward Iroshi. “But… why me?” Her lip quivers with the question. It reflects their beginning, when she’d ask why he would want her to stay, instead of unloading her on someone else or the Dorsey orphanage.
Iroshi pulls her into a tight hug. “Oh, young one, you’ll have to ask him yourself. I’m barely a messenger in this play.” He pauses and Alkara sinks into the embrace. “Never forget your worth, Alkara. Many Doësin will try to deter you from this path. If you decide to pursue it, you will need to stay strong.” Alkara trembles against him. “Remember they’re concerned with his well-being and their clan. They will be mean, nasty even, and dissuade you any way they can.” Iroshi releases Alkara from the hug but holds her at the shoulders, looking directly into her eyes. “You must be certain that he’s worth the pursuit.”
Alkara looks down, and then slowly nods.
“Now come, let’s turn Sozzleward and finish this patrol.”
In his study, Tharan suppresses a sigh. He rolls his neck to ease the strain in his muscles. He sifts through another letter. The pile stares up at him from the desk. Dorië had sieved through the commission requests. The inquiries about Tharan’s health. Invitations. Offers of partnership. But still there are those matters that require Tharan’s attention.
Their method works. Generally. Tharan reviews and responds to those high profile items. His absence disrupts that orderly method. So a stack of near fifty messages awaits his attention.
Fortunately the process filters most of the undesirable requests. The commissions which would challenge his skill hide in that stack. Or an unusual invitation to a neighboring clan’s homeland for unresolved disputes.
His sister writes of the Reäsin antics she’s both endured and perpetrated. One incident involves a priest, three switches, and a sloth. Tharan smiles with some comfort knowing no one is in a position to notice.
He sets the letter down and leans back, giving himself a small reprieve. A small weight fits itself into his chest.
Perhaps its time to call upon Darika. Her sons and daughters get older all the time. I’ll need to find a few masks for Spotted Stranger.
Tharan smiles at the memories. The illusory magicks he’ll need will require a heavy purse.
The surprise jumps at him as he removes a plain grey envelope. Underneath, hasty, inelegant handwriting glares at him from the top of the stack.
Blood drains from Tharan’s face as he clutches for it. He pushes the stack half-over and the letter falls to the floor with some of its companions. Tharan’s heart skips a beat. “Dorië!”
The word sprang from his lips before Tharan could stifle it. Blood pounds in his ears. Tharan clenches his jaw at the sound of approaching footfalls. He stands and turns toward the door. As the footsteps draw nearer, Tharan tamps at the surging emotions.
Dorië enters and bows low and respectful. The bow sinks deeper than his usual salute. He rises and his eyes widen. A small twitch at Dorië’s mouth hints at some held back word.
A tremble plucks its way up Tharan’s back. He pushes at it mentally but fails to quell the tremor. He squeezes his lips together and digs a nail into his palm. Tharan takes several deep breathes. He closes his eyes and wills himself to tamp the anger. He forces his mouth into a smile and opens his eyes.
But the fury swirls inside him as a raging tornado.
Dorië bows again, shorter this time. “Master Tharan, how may I assist?”
Tharan tilts his head down once before scooping the letter from the clutter he’d created. “Why was this letter kept here and not sent to me?” He turns the letter to Dorië. The assistant’s eyes scan the letter.
Down. Further. Further.
There.
Dorië frowns at the letter. “A letter from Miss Alkara? I believed it was another request for more arrows.” A small pause. “Is it urgent?”
Tharan’s eyelid twitches. “This matter requires my immediate attention. And here it is between requests for my presence and scultpures. For nearly a month.” Tharan winces at the pain in his palm.
Not enough. Contain yourself.
Dorië swallows and bows again. “This is abnormal, but I am to blame. You have my deepest apologies Master Tharan.” He rises and sets his gaze on Tharan’s. “What can I do to remedy the issue?”
Tharan unclenches his hand. He turns back to the pile of strewn letters. Dorië does not deserve such treatment. He had not communicated to Dorie properly. But he can address that now, at least. A spike of pain hits the back of Tharan’s throat. “Please treat all correspondence with Miss Alkara with the highest priority.”
Dorië’s voice hits a higher register. “The highest, Master Tharan?”
With further difficulty, Tharan reigns in his impatience. Normally, he values Dorie’s thoroughness and propensity for complete understanding very highly. At the moment, he really would prefer that Dorië keep quiet and do as he is told.
Hypocrite. Well done. What a fine paragon you are.
Tharan steadies his eyes and the tremble in the lids. “The highest. If this situation is salvageable, we will discuss precisely why.”
Dorië gives the slightest of head nods. “I understand Master Tharan. It will be done.”
“Excellent.” Tharan turns back to his desk and sits. “I will compose the response, please attend me.” The Bell Keeper pulls a fresh parchment leaf out and begins scribbling.
Half a chime later Tharan reviews his message. Short, conciliatory, and, Tharan hopes, meaningful. He stands with the letter, lips pressed together. “The fastest courier. They should await her response before returning.”
Dorie bows, taking the letter, “I understand.”
“Good.” Tharan raises a tentative hand but drops it back to his side. “Thank you, Dorië.”
Dorië takes the letter and brings it to a table for sealing. “It is my honor, Master Tharan.” He departs without another word.
The front door closes with a thud. Tharan sighs and his shoulders droop. He pulls himself to his feet and to the door of his office, clutching Alkara’s letter. With another deep breath he composes himself back to his full height.
He exits and travels to his quarters, nodding at the Paladin in attendance at his foyer. Leä doesn’t make an appearance but still Tharan acts the part until he secures himself alone in his room.
He slumps into a plush chair at his window and presses his face into his shaky hands. Ragged breaths are all he musters.
Is it too late? Had he missed his chance? All because he had not thought to alert Dorië to the importance of any letters Alkara might send?
Tharan looks the letter over once more, eyes sweeping across the words. Would she forgive him? Her temper rages so.
Tell her or leave her alone. The words echo from the Depths.
He had not told her. So he had kept his word to Dreonna. He would leave her sister alone. The circumstances would prove more beneficial to all parties.
He sneers. More beneficial? Or easier?
He had convinced himself that she would forget him quickly enough. Her exploits in Three Rivers sometimes reach the ears of the Doësin. Now something of a local hero to Three Rivers, a beautiful young woman like her would never be lacking in offers of partnership. Another suitor would find their way to her heart. A human with temperament to match her fiery attitude.
But the letter… what does it mean? How soon will the reply come? Afanen’s fastest courier is here.
Tharan chuckles, but the sound doesn’t influence his expression. He looks out the window. The muscles around his eyes sag. Out there on Urda a doleful chord strikes.
Has whatever fire she felt exhausted its fuel? She will not want to meet… not after all this time. Plus whatever number of days a message will eat up. The fastest courier would arrive in moments.
Tharan flexes his fist. He swallows and drops his hand from the Bell at his chest.
No.
That method would abuse their trust. Not to mention solidifying any objection Alkara has nurtured through these last weeks.
Tharan rubs his forehead. He stands and moves to his wardrobe. He desires the forge. Its clean, bright fire would burn off the chaff of his thoughts. He exchanges his formal attire for a light tunic, heavy apron, and gloves.
The journey to his forge requires less performance. Tharan clears his mind by the time he stands at the hearth. He builds a small square tower of wood.
He rubs thumb to forefinger in a circle, hearing the Primal Sound in its friction. A spark flies from his finger to the wood, setting it alight. As Tharan stares into the building fire he pleads with the Grand Master.
Please. Just one more chance.
Please.
Alkara lounges on her cot with a book in her lap. Distractions spoil her attempts to read it. The few days since the patrol had swept through without incident. Guen, now fed, lazes at the end of the makeshift bed. Alkara smiles at the panther before reading to the page.
‘Of the causes of the greatest calamity, Averines were the worst. Their spined–’
A knock at the door drags her attention away. Alkara rolls her eyes and answers the door. A blue-hued Doësin with tight braids stands before her. A curved blade rests naked against the elf’s thigh. Though travel-worn, her clothing exudes quality. Small gemstones shine from sockets in the woman’s breastplate.
Alkara raises her eyebrows. Her lifebeat ratchets up a notch. “Can I help you?” Alkara attempts in elvish, though she suspects her pronunciation was off.
The Doësin smiles without humor. “Good afternoon. Is there a Miss Alkara at this…” the elf looks past Alkara, “Residence?”
Alkara sets her brow and pulls her bottom lip tight against the top. “I–” She shakes her head. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m Alkara.” Guen pushes against Alkara’s thigh with her shoulder.
The elven woman looks Alkara over from feet to head, pausing at the panther. “I see.” The woman nods. “Master Tharan returned from duties which demanded his attention and wishes to convey his deepest apologies for a delayed response.” The woman bows low, but pulls back when her face nears Guen. She rises once more, bluish skin paler than before. “He has instructed I await your response.” The courier holds a sealed envelope to Alkara.
Alkara turns her head away but keeps her eyes on the elf. She reaches one slow hand to the letter. Inside, the strong, even hand-writing from Tharan agrees to meeting Alkara in the glade. She need only tell Nëren the hour and day of the meeting and Tharan would be there.
Alkara scratches out a reply under Tharan’s request, attempting to smooth out her spiky runes. Next to Tharan’s they appear like thorns. Alkara frowns but folds the envelope and seals it.
Nëren bows after taking the envelope and departs from the doorstep.
Alkara closes the door and turns before falling back into it. She closes her eyes. Her lifebeat quickens its tempo. Alkara grins from ear to ear. She walks across the room with a jaunt in her step. Tingles flush down her arms.
Alkara picks her book up and flips to where she left off. How she’ll manage to read now is beyond her. She furrows her brow and stares at the words.
‘…Averines were the worst. Their spined forearms are said to have cloven men in two. With a single–’
A louder knock echoes through the house. Alkara throws the book across the room. “Urdima’s feathered skirts!” She stalks across the room and throws the door open. A short man in brown tunic stands wide-eyed at the door. “What?!”
The man swallows. “I… um… Rook Charlotte requests that you come with me.” He looks down the road. “She has a job for you. It’s urgent.”
Alkara rolls her neck with eyes closed. “No. I’m sorry, you’re fine. One moment.” She dashes back for her gear and bow. “Let’s go.”