“What are you?”
The creature laughed hard, sounding for all the world like a child. “Oh, gods preserve me. You are as direct as the rumors say. But I have been rude in my introduction. I am Salaar of the Faun. It seems we have slipped from the elven histories, if our prisoners are to be believed. Though, that is to be expected. The centaur have kept us across the strait for many thousands of years. And as you might have guessed,” he chuckled as he motioned to his body, “we are not well-suited to combat.”
“Then what is it you do?”
“You are currently a party to it. I prefer to say that we facilitate progress, though there are those who disagree. I am somewhat surprised. Given the satyr love of speech, I had expected Ilkea would have explained all about our people and our meeting.”
Aile looked over at Ilkea. The look on her face was still stern, perturbed. It almost seemed disgusted. “That one only seems to talk about the past.”
“Ah, yes. Not entirely a surprise. Ilkea is what the old elven tongue would call banphrionsa. A… hm.” He thought a second. “A Regent’s daughter. Though, it makes sense she did not mention her relations. The centaur did away with any hierarchy for the other races many thousands of years ago. Culture does not die so easily in the hearts of the conquered, though.”
“So what work do you have for me? And why a Drow?”
“Hm! Yes! The second question is a bit less simple an answer, but let us say that there is value in your cooperation. Take it on trust, though I doubt you will, that your death is not a part of my plans.” He took a deep drink of the wine. “The work is more simple. There is a satyr held in a prison in the White Wastes. He is of considerable value to our cause.”
Ilkea’s head raised when she heard him say the words. She seemed not to notice Aile watching her but still pointed her eyes toward the floor.
“He is old, but very capable. It is important that Ilkea be with you so that he understands that this is no trick. The pay, upon his safe arrival, will be ten such bags as that. And I will be glad for you to inspect the purity of each and every piece.”
She had heard of the prison, even seen it from a distance in her dealings with some of the elven raider bands. It was an old Regency seat that was built on an oasis. The groundwater had dried up thousands of years ago, but the keep still stood.
The faun drank deep of his wine again and looked to Aile. “I have further information about the prison if you require…”
“No. I know the place. We will leave in the morning.”
“Then you will require a tent!” He clapped again and the satyr returned. A few more words and the satyr went to see to their needs. “It will not be more than an hour. There is meat roasting and root vegetables. You are welcome to them, though I cannot say that they will suit your taste. Sadly, the spices the elves use are discarded when they are captured and I have not yet been able to procure any for my private collection. Their wines, however, are more readily appreciated.”
“I will manage.” Aile stood.
Salaar stood as well and walked with her toward the door. “I appreciate the tales of the Cursebringer all the more having had the pleasure of your company, I must say. I hope you sleep well and I wish you the blessing of the gods in your business.”
Aile left without a word and Ilkea was at her side again immediately.
“He speaks the elven tongue quite well,” Aile noted aloud.
She spat at the words as soon as Aile finished her sentence, her hate for the faun readily apparent. “He keeps prisoners and forces them to teach him their words. He has no honor. None of them do. Tiny worms.”
Aile could not bring herself to hate the idea as a method of learning a language. Centaur were harder to tie down, though it may work with a satyr. It was the thought of captive horsefolk that brought her mind to realize that there had been no centaur in the camp. There was little around that a scout camp would find to be of value, and there were far too many satyr for scouting to be likely without centaur oversight. Though, it seemed there was much she did not know with regard to the current state of the hippocamps. An entire race had escaped the notice of the elves, even.
Ilkea seemed restless. She looked at Aile often, for only a second, then forced herself to look away.
“What is it, satyr?”
“Do… do you wish to hear about the elder we are meant to rescue?”
“No.” She imagined the old satyr would speak for himself. And the thought of a florid explanation of every past deed he had committed was nearly the last thing she wanted.
The girl did not seem to accept that and started to protest. “But he was—”
“If there is more than one satyr at this elf prison, I will have you point him out to me. Otherwise, I do not care.”
Ilkea was disappointed at that, but it had done the trick. Through the overspiced meat and the strange, honey-and-spice-caked carrots and turnips, she said nothing. The only words she spoke were to the satyr that had attended Salaar. The tent was ready. Aile took the opportunity to be rid of the terrible smell and the terrible food. Ilkea followed and kept herself quiet.
On the way to the tent, a pair of satyr men called
