“Humans aren’t that bad, if you’re any indicator,” she said. “Pity there’s not more of you. I could see myself interested.”
“Ears aren’t too round?”
“Not at all.”
“Makes sense. I pegged you as dwarf-inclined, and humans have a bit more substance than, say, elves.”
“Gods, elves.”
“They’re not too bad to look at, though.”
“It all goes to orcpiss soon as they open those pretty mouths.”
“Elf words are words better left unspoken,” Sorrows said. He lifted his glass to his lips, let the liquid wash against them and roll back into the glass. “What about goblins?”
Davrosh sipped at her drink. “Were some in Tam that caught my eye.”
“You could come back with me. Maybe meet a few.”
“And what, warm your bed on the long road east? I told you, you’re not my type.”
“As a friend, not a lover. For support. I’ll need to tell Fen about Mig.”
“Fen Costenatti. Gods. I didn’t even think about him.”
“He and Mig were close.”
“I know. I saw it.”
“Twins.”
Davrosh leaned back, blew out her cheeks. “I hate that elf whore.”
“Mig deserved better,” Sorrows said.
“Better than you. That’s for shunning sure.”
Sorrows grabbed the bottle, filled Davrosh’s glass. Lifted his own.
“To Mig,” he said.
Davrosh raised her glass. “To Mig.”
They drank, set their glasses down, Davrosh poured. Sorrows leaned back, kept his hand on his glass, swirled its contents, spilled a bit onto the table. He moved the glass back and forth, watched the whiskey gather and bead. Stared at the spots of lamplight reflected in the droplets. Thought of moonlight dancing in Mig’s eyes.
“Maybe she deserved someone more like you,” he said. Waited, watched.
Davrosh stared at him for a breath, then another.
“Maybe,” she said. “Did she fancy females then?”
“I never asked,” Sorrows said. “But she’s a goblin.”
“I suppose so. Gods, she was beautiful.”
“She was.”
“No matter. Her eyes never left you.”
Sorrows swirled his glass some more, spilled some more.
“Daughters are known to take lovers on occasion, male or female.”
“I don’t even like sharing my bacon. And who are you to explain dwarf culture to me? Me? Gods. You might be half elf yourself.”
“Just an observation, one friend to another. And I thought you’d be using my name now. I have two. Either would do.”
“I don’t know that I’d call us friends. But if we were, you’d still be orchole to me.”
“Sounds like I don’t have much say in the matter.”
“None.”
“I wonder what the Archmage would say about it.”
“Illdrael?” Davrosh asked. “Don’t imagine she’d care.”
“You ever meet her?”
“Oh, sure. A number of times. She shows up whenever we receive commendations. Shook my hand when I made Master.”
“What’s she like?”
“Old,” Davrosh said. She grinned. “Older than the stones, as the saying goes. Reminds me a bit of Archmage Tu’Ell Eldrake in Godscry. But that could just be the wrinkles and white hair. What is it about elves and refusing to go back to their gods?”
“They’re convinced they make the world a better place.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“Right.”
Davrosh sipped, frowned, gestured. “You’re spilling more whiskey than you’re drinking.”
Sorrows held up his hand, noticeably lopsided. “It’s the finger. Takes some getting used to.”
“Gods, sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s already started to grow back.”
He pointed and she looked, lifting her eyebrows. “Shunning hells, I wouldn’t have believed it without seeing it with my own eyes. That’s some powerful magic.”
“I’d hoped to meet Illdrael. A healer can speed the process up significantly. Heard she was a good one.”
“The best I’ve met,” Davrosh said. “Haven’t seen her for months, though. You must’ve scared her away.”
“Keep an elf away? That’d be a rare and useful gift, wouldn’t it?”
Davrosh laughed, sipped at her whiskey. Sorrows lifted his own glass and drank slow. He’d asked what he needed, and she’d told him everything he already knew or suspected. Confirmation wasn’t as exciting as revelation, but it was useful. A portion of his mind had been wasted considering what-if scenarios. That portion could now be put to work on other things. He and Davrosh continued talking, and the conversation turned to less pragmatic, more enjoyable topics.
But the previously engaged portion of his mind started thinking of steel and lust and people who go unnoticed. Two hours more he spent talking to Davrosh, and he thought about those unnoticed people the entire time.
✽✽✽
WHY ARE YOU here? The dance will continue for hours. Nisha Davrosh won’t retire to her bedroom until well past midnight. The great hall is filled with guests. The mage guards stalk the perimeter. And though he hasn’t arrived, the human will show. He is as inevitable as a storm on the horizon. He will not suffer another Zvilna Gorsham to weigh upon his conscience. He will do what he can to protect. He will be vigilant. Determined. Resourceful. The half-born will be with him, less resourceful, more watchful. You should’ve waited. You should’ve stayed away. But you didn’t. And now you’re wondering why? Why are you here?
The question nags at you, pulling at the edges of your thoughts like a child worrying at a loose thread. You walk the great hall. People smile, laugh. The musicians play in slow, swaying movements. You imagine the sound. You imagine the smells of roast boar and bread; ale and mulled wine; wood smoke and mincemeat pies. Nisha Davrosh is radiant in a gown colored like flame, strips of orange and red and yellow. Ochre and crimson and gold. Her hair is braided, tied in silver thread. Her mask is winter ivy and roses. Your eyes linger on her as you walk past. She is strong, full of life. The perfect end to your time in Hammerfell. Perhaps you wanted to see her once more, happy, without worry. Perhaps you sought comfort in knowing her final hours were spent among family and
