“And what is it you want to live for?” Rianaire poked at Inney’s nose and the half-Drow bit at her finger, no longer interested in her own question.
“I do not know.”
“A good answer.” Rianaire clapped her mug on the table loudly and Inney tried to do the same even in her awkward lean, nearly spilling her cup. “I’ve decided! You’ll be an advisor to Eala. Officially. You will be written into our histories. And I hope that in that place, you will find what you need. That your hunger might be sated.”
Rianaire held her mug aloft at Gadaí who stared at her as though she’d just removed her own head and placed it on the table before she spoke. A wonderful face, and not the last she was like to see for such a decision. The mugs clacked together and Rianaire drank again from hers, setting it on the table after. The pieces had begun to come together well enough. Whatever came of the south, Spéirbaile would be prepared. No matter how many must be sent to exile, no matter how many puffed their faces and ran red with anger, she would see her people through the coming war.
U
Aile
Aile was beginning to believe that her horse was some sort of reincarnated old god. It never seemed to tire and drank only briefly when she brought it to streams. It kept itself at her back without fail any time she was off it to loose her bowels or make water. She considered, at first, that such a thing must be quite convenient. The thought disappeared the moment hot breath and then a cold nose hit her naked arse. She punched the animal in the nose and it cried out, but had kept its head at a distance from her nethers since, at least.
She was forced to rest just across the border to the river elf province. The night was quiet and the wood where she made camp was thin enough to see the tent and fire placed without any need to clear away underbrush. It would show the light of the fire at a distance but there was little worry in that as it would only burn a few hours. The tent would provide a respite and a chance to order her thoughts on what she meant to do. The Bastion City was the largest and seats of political interest were so often filled with gold and people who had a need to spend it on killing. It was a sound plan and Aile felt a nag in her mind to replace the money she’d spent in the desert.
The morning brought rustling outside of the tent. It took her out of her sleep and immediately set her heart to beating. It was her mount kicking at the ashes and wandering through the camp. An annoying way to be woken, one she had hoped to avoid for a single day, at least, by sleeping among the trees. There was nothing for it. Ciúinloch had been within her reach, but she preferred not to enter smaller cities at night if she could help it. It had a way of making guards uneasy and innkeepers equally so. Elf stories always seemed to stem from a fear of the dark and shadows and they seemed to suddenly believe all their stories to be true when a Drow came upon them at night. She considered for a moment as she readied her horse that there was an irony in her disdain at stories, a few of which, she may be the cause for. It was not beyond belief if the horsefolk had a quaint little name for her.
Ciúinloch was only two hours from her camp and she arrived about the time one would expect breakfast to begin. The walls were small, a few heads more than the guards who stood them, and the gate was ornate, made of wrought iron. Iron roses sat at the inside edges of the two sides of the gate. The gates themselves were open, enough to allow three abreast to pass through, or thereabouts.
A guard held up a hand at her as she came to the gate.
“Hail, Drow. Welcome to Ciúinloch. Rare to see your kind here. What brings you?”
“I make for Abhainnbaile.”
“Ah, even the Blackwood’s come curious about the war in the south, eh?”
Aile looked at the other guard, a sleepy man who seemed more interested in the dirt than her. “It would seem,” she said flatly, moving her eyes back to the guard beside her horse. “But I’ve ridden too long and I should like to eat and rest.”
“Heh, I can believe it. Just standin’ the gate all day does the legs in somethin’ fierce. Right, well, I’ll not bring down the wrath of the Blackwood.” He horked a stupid laugh at that. “On in with you. Plenty of what you’re after in there.” He walked back yawning.
Just after she’d passed she heard him again. “Mighty big horses in Drow lands. Bit odd, innit? Bein’ they’re so small and that.”
The words faded out behind her and the city opened up to her front. It was not a large place, one she’d been a few dozen times, years and years between each visit. It was a reliable enough city. That was the best compliment she could afford it. A boring city near a large lake full of boring elves who lived boring lives. She had never known trouble to come from Ciúinloch, only stupid questions and a sort of absent-minded friendliness that seemed to draw those stupid questions to her in greater numbers. It was, in a way, more bearable than the rural places and the far-flung ones where the questions had their place taken by fear, which was lovely, or open hostility, which often proved less so.
She found an
