Chapter Text
Chapter One
It’s unseasonably warm within the contemplation garden, and the air carries the sharp tang of burning, battlefield smoke rather than hearthfire. Tyrael wrinkles his nose at the acrid odor, out of place among the green. He can’t see smoke, just the bloom of color from flowering trees and healthy grasses.
He’s sweating in his full-plate armor, the thick padding too much for the heat, the weight of his twisted hair heavy on the back of his neck. An insect lands on his nose. Another takes several nips at his ass. Somewhere, a child laughs. The leaves rustle.
Concentration eludes his grasp again. His fingers twitch on his knees. Wind rustles the branches of the tree overhead, making inconsistent shade and flickers of sunlight across his face.
He closes his eyes, breathes in and out, and chilly hands rest on his shoulders. The touch goes through the armor, settling on his bare skin. Long fingers curl over his clavicle, and a chilly exhale puffs along the curve of his right ear.
“Tyrael, my love,” Cyrillus murmurs, and a chill travels up Tyrael’s spine, goosepimples popping over his skin despite the heat. Pinesap joins the odor of burning, sweet and sultry in the breeze. “You are doing so very well.”
Tyrael clutches his folded knees, struggling to keep his focus. “Am I? You say as much, my lord, but you haven’t told me what it is you wish me to do.”
“Perhaps I test your patience.” Cyrillus’ fingers rap a gentle rhythm over Tyrael’s collar. “You must gather several artifacts for me, my favored.” His fingers slide further down Tyrael’s chest, a swath of chill against the burning heat, a path of icy sensation left in their wake.
Questions crowd the back of Tyrael’s tongue, but he swallows them down before giving them air. Cyrillus only reveals what he wants to reveal, and it’s not Tyrael’s place to question his design.
“Very well,” Tyrael says. Cyrillus’ weight lays along his back, more cold spreading outward, swallowing up the heat. “Where?”
“Jhune.” Cyrillus’ lips brush the back of his ear as his left hand slips upward, frigid fingers caressing Tyrael’s throat. “You’ll find the next artifact across the sea.”
Wait.
The next?
Tyrael opens his eyes. He floats on an island of memory in an ocean of blank nothing. He’s in the contemplation garden, curled in a patch of plush grass with enough insect activity to suggest that it’s real. But he knows it’s not.
Tyrael is not home. He’s not in Alduin, and he hasn’t been for half a year now.
He’s with Cyrillus.
“I don’t have an artifact,” Tyrael says to the air, to the weight of Cyrillus behind him, a weight he can feel, but a presence he can’t see. The stench of battlefire and old blood grows stronger, overpowering the sweet fragrance of mid-summer.
Cyrillus’ thumb rests on his bottom lip, then slides gently along the curve of it. “Haven’t you?”
“I–”
A blinding flash of light sears Tyrael’s vision. He winces, raising a hand to shield his eyes, and when he does, Cyrillus is gone, the black is gone. He startles awake, Rathi leaning over him, her head tilted with concern.
“Fuck, when you sleep, you sleep, don’t you?” she asks with two raised eyebrows, her hair moving in orange-fled flicks around her face. “I’ve been trying to wake you for two minutes.”
Tyrael blinks. Past her, the rest of their companions stare at him, Celeste with concern and the others with curiosity. Save Easton, who’s more interested in stamping out the fire. There’s already a fresh stack of wood gathered nearby, for the next traveler who might use this waycamp.
Tyrael pinches the bridge of his nose. “I must’ve been more tired than I thought,” he says. Exhaustion sits heavy on his shoulders still, or maybe that’s the fault of sleeping in his armor again.
“Uh-huh.” Rathi cocks her head, hair dulling to charcoal, then the stillness of black strands swept back from her forehead. “Nightmare?”
“Not quite.” Tyrael shifts, joints creaking in protest. He rolls his neck to ease the stiffness, and his spine releases several audible pops. He’s not made for camping in the wilds.
“You’re clenching your fist pretty hard,” Rathi points out as Celeste joins them, face pinched with worry that’s not dissimilar to a worried mother.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” his cousin asks, already reaching for his forehead with the back of her hand, intent on determining whether he has a fever.
Tyrael tilts his head away and lightly redirects her hand with the back of his wrist. “I’m fine,” he says, but the pain in his other palm makes it a lie. It’s in a tight fist, sure as Rathi said, and a short length of leather cord escapes from between his fingers.
Tyrael forces his fingers to loosen – which takes more effort than it ought – and his hand cramps. An arrowhead lies in his palm, though he doesn’t recognize what it’s been carved from. It’s cold to the touch, despite the heat of the morning, and the heat of his own hand. Tiny pinpricks seep blood where he’d gripped it too tightly.
The arrowhead is an oily black, glistening iridescent when it catches a shaft of morning light. It’s not the standard bodkin, but resembles more of a barbed, stylized heart. There’s something familiar about it, but Tyrael can’t place where he knows it from.
“Yeah, you look fine to me,” Rathi snorts.
“What is that?” Celeste asks, her round face pinched with thought. “I feel like I’ve seen it before.”
Tyrae turns the arrowhead in his fingers, thumb along the carved edge, sharp enough he nearly cuts himself. “Neither can I. It’s like the knowledge is there, but I can’t grab it.”
“Exactly,” Celeste says.
“It reeks,” Dakota offers from a few feet away, voice raised to be heard. The tsak frowns around his tusks as he packs up his bedroll, and tries in vain to convince Tempest to focus on putting away hers as well. “It bleeds old magic.”
“Gross,” Rathi says, wrinkling her nose. She straightens to her full height, good hand resting on her hip. “Where did it come from?”
Tyrael wraps the leather around the arrowhead and stows it in one of the smaller pouches attached to his leather belt. “Cyrillus.”
“It’s definitely arcane,” Celeste says, one hand resting on the medallion around her neck, the physical representation of her pact with Berenthus giving off a faint, aqua glow that reflects in her eyes. “Though we don’t know what kind,” she adds in a faintly hollow voice, as though Berenthus speaks through her.
He does that sometimes, more than Tyrael has heard another deity do with someone they’ve engaged in a pact. Oh, contracts with Zivati often result in the contracted surrendering some part of themselves to the Zivati to use, but gods are different. They’re pacted with so many mortals they rarely take interest in a singular mortal.
Tyrael’s not sure what ails Berenthus, and Celeste doesn’t know either, but since she’s happy, he hasn’t pushed too much. The pact was her choice.
“I don’t recognize the stone, and that’s a first for me.” Rathi scratches at the side of her nose. Zaniah born and raised, Rathi’s had a lifetime to recognize all kinds of minerals. At least, those grown in proximity to heat anyway. “What’s up with the gift?”
“If it can even be called a gift,” Dakota grumbles, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear. His disdain for the gods is well-documented. “Tempest, put your damn boot on for fuck’s sake.”
The mousling blinks sleepily, her hair wildly mussed around the droop of her large, rounded ears. She’s only got one boot on, the other sitting just out of reach from her lazy slump.
“It’s too early,” she complains around a jaw-cracking yawn. Mornings have never been Tempest’s favorite part of the day.
“It’s not a gift,” Tyrael says.
He unfolds his legs, which immediately assail him with pins and needles. He tries to stand, and it’s harder than it ought to be, even with the tree supporting him. Rathi rolls her eyes and grabs his hand, yanking him to his feet with brute force. Tyrael staggers back against the tree, using it to keep himself upright.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Rathi pats him on the shoulder and makes herself scarce, kicking Tempest’s boot within reach as she passes. Tempest’s brown eyes go liquid with gratitude.
“How is it not a gift?” Celeste asks.
Tyrael dusts leaves and other bits of forest detritus from his cloak. “It’s part of the quest.” He fetches his shield, tucking it back into place against his back, and buckles his sword around his waist, the weight settling comfortably at his left side. “I’m to head to Jhune.”
“You’re in luck.” Easton dusts off his hands and slings his quiver into place across his back. There are dark circles under their guide’s eyes and given that he’s spent every night up in a tree, Tyrael’s not surprised he’s lacking for sleep. “We’re less than a day out from Udousk. You can charter a boat or a telecircle from there.”
Tyrael shrugs his pack into place and tightens his cloak back over his shoulders, drawing the long length of his braids from beneath the heavy fabric. “To Udousk it is then.”
Easton nods, focused on tightening his leather, fingerless gloves. “That is where we’ll part ways. I have no interest in Jhune.”
“You’ve done well as our guide,” Rathi says, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. Whether or not she notices him flinch, Tyrael can’t tell. Rathi and personal space are not well-acquainted. He suspects it is a clash of cultures. “We can’t ask for anything more than that.”
“I expect payment,” Easton calls after her, but Rathi is far too busy attempting to help Dakota get Tempest into something resembling motion. In the end, Dakota will end up carrying both the mousling and her belongings, but every morning, he tries waking her regardless.
Tyrael doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand them.
Of more concern is his own coin pouch. Heavy at the start of his journey, it is much lighter now. He has enough to give Easton what he was promised, but beyond that, Tyrael doesn’t know if he can afford a telecircle or the fares for boat chartering. He may very well be stuck.
Celeste moves in his peripheral vision, the wild puff of her curls hair pulled out of her face in deference to the early morning heat. “Are you all right?” she asks, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “You’re sweating.”
Tyrael touches the back of his neck, where he swears the remnants of an icy kiss linger. “Armor does much to protect, but little for comfort,” he lies. He tries to smile. “It’s like this always with Cyrillus. You know that.”
“I do. Which is why I asked.” She tucks her hands into the billowing sleeves of her blue robes, drawing the fabric tight across her shoulders. “What else did he want?”
“There are more to find.” He taps the pouch where he tucked the arrowhead, and even through his leather gloves, feels the chill of it. “Don’t ask me their purpose. You know he only shares what he wants to share.”
Celeste’s lips thin, like the words ‘I informed you thusly’ dance on her tongue, but she must bite them back because she asks, “Is there any way I can help?” instead.
Tyrael doesn’t want to accept the offer. This is meant to be his quest, taken alone, and while Celeste had invited herself along, he’s still meant to meet each challenge with his own skills and his own faith. This is the meaning of the pact he made with Cyrillus.
It doesn't matter what Tyrael actually wants, which is to go back home. He doesn’t want to cross an ocean and visit an entirely different continent. He doesn’t want to sleep on the ground, or eat meals with questionable ingredients, or sleep alone. He wants to be home, in bed with Elias, or caring for Cyrillus’ small temple. He wants his comfort and peace.
The pact sits within him like a lead weight, dragging him down. Tyrael has to keep up his end of the bargain. A god has placed his faith in Tyrael, and to reject a pact he accepted freely, would bring pain and ill omen into his life. Tyrael can afford neither. Besides, he doesn’t wish to be known as a pact-breaker.
“You already are,” Tyrael finally says. It’s better than outright refusal.
Celeste’s expression softens, the furrowed brow smoothing out. She sighs and says, “Try to remember you’re not alone, cousin. I’m here. Rathi’s here. I’m sure we can rely on Dakota and Tempest, too, when it comes down to it.”
Tyrael glances at the latter two, Tempest’s mouth open in a jaw-cracking yawn, fully booted though only one is tied, as the blade of her weapon digs into the dirt. She’s using it like a cane to keep herself upright. Dakota herds her forward, carrying both of their packs, the large tsak towering over the smaller mousling, who scratches at her belly and complains about hunger.
Tempest always complains about hunger. Tyrael has no idea where she fits all of that food.
Dakota shoves a bag of wanderer’s mix into her hands, but her face scrunches up with disappointment. “It’s not enough,” she declares after shoving a handful into her mouth.
“You’ll get more later,” Dakota says. “Tie your boot.”
“I have my doubts,” Tyrael says. Their newest companions can be trusted to fight should they be attacked, but whether they are reliable, Tyrael is not so sure. Tempest is easily distracted, and Dakota’s disdain for gods and their pacts means he may balk at a religious quest.
They travel together now for convenience sake. Whether that will continue to Jhune and beyond, all the places Cyrillus directs, Tyrael does not know.
Celeste manages a smile now. “I don’t,” she says, though Tyrael doesn’t know where her faith in strangers comes from. She pats Tyrael on a shoulder pauldron, her enchanted ring clicking against the thick metal. “Take heart. Now that we have a better idea of where you’re going, maybe that means we’ll be getting you back to Elias sooner.”
She is not wrong.
Before, they had been heading southward, each of Cyrillus’ directions remaining vague and open to interpretation. The arrival of the arrowhead and the knowledge they are to seek other arcane artifacts are the most concrete information they’ve received thus far.
Tyrael casts a final look at the waycamp, checking for odds and ends any one of his companions might have left behind, but the ground is swept clear, fresh firewood neatly stacked, and the firepit itself cold and dead. There will be no backtracking for forgotten underthings this time.
How in the world Tempest had forgotten her smallclothes, Tyrael does not know. They hadn’t stopped to bathe, and she’d never changed her clothes. It is a mystery he is reluctant to pursue, so he now takes it upon himself to check behind everyone.
“I hope so,” Tyrael says, and tugs the hood of his cloak up over his head. For no other reason than he is tired of picking bits of leaf and twig from his braids. “We need to get going. I don’t want to spend another night in the wilderness.”
Celeste chuckles. “Such the pampered princess you are,” she teases, and Tyrael bites back on a sharp retort.
He doesn’t have the energy for another juvenile exchange of words. He’d best save it for the march. He’ll need every breath.
“To Udousk!” Rathi shouts from the front of the haggard line, pointing cheerfully in a southward direction until Easton rolls his eyes and pushes her wrist in an arc a little further to the right.
~
Tempest rubs sleep from her eyes and tosses another handful of wanderer’s mix into her mouth. Why do these people always want to start marching at the ass-crack of dawn? Haven’t they ever heard of sleeping in? These trail rations don’t count as breakfast either. They should have had a big pot of porridge or some biscuits or bacon.
Fuck, she could really use some back right now.
She sneaks a glance at Dakota, hoping to convince him to give her something tasty from his pouch, but he’s not paying her any attention. He’s staring at Tyrael like Tyrael’s an enemy-in-disguise. Dakota’s gray eyes are dark, his lips set in a scowl that shows off a bit too much tusk, something he’s usually careful to keep tucked away when they’re in mixed company.
Whatever thing Tyrael woke up holding has really got Dakota all twisted up inside.
“What’s wrong with you?” Tempest asks.
Dakota’s working too hard to glower at Tyrael’s back to give her an answer. The lines in his forehead get deeper and deeper as his eyes get narrower. He’s lost all focus on the coin he was idling flicking across his knuckles, and now he’s gripping it like he’s trying to squeeze the copper into liquid.
Sheesh.
Tempest pokes him in the side, right below his ribcage. “Oi!”
Dakota startles so hard he drops the copper to the ground, and Tempest quickly picks it up, shoving the coin into her pocket. Coin is coin!
“What?” he demands in a tone too-sharp for what was a playful jab. Usually he only sounds like that when she’s making a nuisance of herself in a public area.
Tempest tilts her head in Tyrael’s direction and crams another handful of mix into her mouth, crunching down on walnuts and something chewy. Dried sourberry maybe. “You’re staring.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Liar.” She snorts and pokes him again, before he can squirm out of reach. Dakota moves fast for a big guy, all six and a half feet of him, even if that is pretty short for a tsak. “What the fuck is up with that?”
Dakota tucks his tusks behind his lips. His shoulders creep up to his ears, giving him an awkward hunch. “Gods always have their own agendas,” he mutters.
“Everyone knows that,” Tempest says. She’s not much for worship or pacts or contracts herself, but even she knows that gods help themselves before they help any mortals.
“I’m not sure Tyrael does,” Dakota says, but he stops glaring at the other man’s back and slows his pace, putting some distance between them and the others. “But that’s his problem. Not ours.”
Isn’t it though? Since they’re traveling with Tyrael? Tempest knows Dakota always has a burr up his ass about deities. He barely lets Celeste help him, and gives Tyrael a side-eye if Celeste is out of juice. He tends to glare at their divine symbols, too.
It has something to do with his brother, though Tempest doesn’t know the details. It took her ages to gain his trust enough to learn that he’s from Collier, and he had a brother he loves a lot. Loved a lot. Mathias is dead somehow. Dakota’s stingy with the hows and whys.
“Are you saying we shouldn’t go with them to Jhune?” Tempest asks.
Dakota drags a hand through his dark hair, pushing it out of his forehead only for it to immediately flop back into place. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He gives her a sidelong glance. “What do you want to do?”
She empties the rest of the wanderer’s mix into her mouth and says, “I haven’t been bored since we started traveling with them.” She swings her glaive from one shoulder to the other. “Also, we weren’t actually doing anything better.”
Dakota frowns, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. “I’m not keen on risking my life for a god.”
“Me neither.” Tempest’s calves ache. They’ve been climbing uphill for what seems like ages. Shouldn’t ports be down? “I’ll go where you go. If being with Tyrael scares you, then we’ll just go somewhere else.”
“It doesn’t–” Dakota bites off whatever he was going to say and pulls at his collar, tugging the leather cord of whatever necklace he keeps tucked away there. “Let me think about it.”
Tempest sighs. “You think too much,” she says, poking him in the side, though this time he’s ready for it, and she misses her target. “You gotta learn how to rely on your instincts.”
“You’re falling behind, Tempest!”
Rathi’s voice has the unique ability to carry no matter where they are. Tempest thinks it’s because she’s used to giving orders, but Dakota says it’s because she uses magic to amplify her voice. Either way, she’s always the one shouting when everyone needs to hear something.
She’s at the head of the group now, and everyone else is a few dozen yards ahead. They’re all standing at the top of the incline, but only Rathi’s looking back toward Dakota and Tempest, waving her one good arm in a wild sweep, as if they’d miss a six-foot pyrolin with flaming hair in the middle of all the trees.
“Come on!” Rathi shouts again. “We’re here!”
Excitement bursts in Tempest’s lungs. “Really!?” She leaps forward, leaving Dakota behind, and scrambles up the last bit of incline.
She squirms between Rathi and Celeste and bursts out of the treeline, looking down into a shallow valley awash with swaying grasses and the occasional tree. The vastness of the Cerulean Sea stretches into the distance, glittering in the sunlight, a clash of blue sky and blue water on the horizon. And there, spread out along the shore, is Port Udousk.
Tempest doesn’t bother with cities much, preferring villages and towns, the smaller the better. Anything that feels like home. It’s hard for a lone mousling in a big city – she tends to get trampled. Dakota’s not fond of big cities either, which is all the more reason to avoid them.
Port Udousk has got to be the biggest city Tempest has ever seen. Huge blocky buildings made of a pale sandstone barely peek over Udousk’s protective wall, itself a shimmering magic force stretching between guard towers easily thirty feet high. A massive pair of gates are flung open to welcome the day’s travelers, and they are bracketed to either side with a pair of towers, easily the tallest of the wall. Colorful flags just from the apex, fluttering in the late afternoon breeze.
A steady stream of people and wagons and borses flow in one side of the gate and out the other, with armed guards standing nearby, their armor reflecting the midday sun. The salty sea air hits Tempest, and she inhales, greedily filling her lungs.
She could see the ocean from the great spire of Stonepeak, but never this close, and not this side. Stonepeak looks out on the Saffron Sea, and it’s far too cold for any kind of wading, with a rocky shore that’s unfit for bare feet. Whereas the sand stretching out to either side of Port Udousk looks smooth and golden. She wants to tear off her boots and go running across it.
In fact, there’s nothing stopping her, is there?
“Well, no use in staring,” Tempest declares as she spins around, her hands spread wide. She winks at the entire group. “Last one there has to buy the first round!”
She takes off with a whoop of glee, sprinting down the gentle slope and toward the massive gates. Grass slaps at her knees. Bees buzz angrily as she disturbs them from afternoon lunch, but the wind is in her hair, and the sky is clear.
A few shouts and a lot more grumbling from behind carry on the wind. Tempest glances over her shoulder and laughs. She puts on a burst of speed. Rathi’s taken her up on the challenge, and so has Celeste, lagging a little behind. Everyone else is being too stodgy about it, but that just means the last one to saunter through the gates will have to hand over their coin.
Sheesh.
Everyone needs to learn to live a little.
They’re on an adventure!
~
“--to be legitimate, someone has to actually accept the challenge,” Tyrael repeats for what must be the third time since they paid their entry fee and were allowed into Port Udousk.
“Tyrael, for the love of the gods, give it a rest,” Celeste sighs and rubs at her temples, trying to stave off what must be a giant of a migraine.
Rathi spins and walks backward without losing a single bit of momentum. “The minute you started running with the rest of us, you agreed to the challenge. Quit being a sore loser.”
Tyrael flushes and tugs at the loop of his cloak, trying to get more air to his bare skin. He must be sweltering inside the heavy padding and heavier armor. “I’m merely pointing out–”
“That you lost and you’re not happy about it. We know,” Rathi whirls back around, immediately side-stepping a passing stranger wandering across her path. She’s grinning, and she can’t help it.
Rathi has seen no less than a half-dozen ports since she arrived in the mundane realm of Polaris, and every one of them has been unique. Port Udousk is a city of squares, she decides. Square buildings, square cobblestones, square flags. All of the buildings are made of a beige sandstone unfamiliar to her, either mined or magically produced from the local beaches. It has a fascinating texture.
Some enterprising artisan has applied heat to the sandstone, making it glassy in places, so the buildings are a gorgeous mix of rough rock and smooth glass. Windchimes hang from nearly every eave, and as the wind surges down the walkways it creates a cacophony of music.
Rathi can’t get enough of it.
“You do know where you’re going, don’t you, Easton?” Tyrael asks, because he’s not happy if he’s not bitching apparently.
Rathi has no idea why Tyrael’s god, this Cyrillus, thought Tyrael was the best choice for this quest. Oh, he’s loyal and focused and determined, but also, he wants to be home. Not traveling. Not sleeping on the ground. Not eating questionable meats at roadside taverns. Not–
Well, the list goes on.
He’s a good man. Rathi thinks he could even be an entertaining one, if he wasn’t so damned heartsick. She can’t fathom loving someone that much.
Well, to each their own.
“We’re in the city now. You can go look for yourself if you want,” Easton snaps like he’s two seconds from decking Tyrael.
Their guide looks a little peaked in the midday sun, sweating dripping down the sides of his face and his fair skin flushed a deep red. He keeps to the side of the walkways and darts from awning to awning when possible as if he’s allergic to the sun. He tries to make it look casual, but Rathi’s noticed the constant long strides to get out of the sun.
Sheesh. If Easton thinks this is hot, he’d have never survived Cinder Mountain. This is a cool breeze compared to the volcanic heat of Rathi’s home.
“We can find the port well enough, but we’ve no idea where the telecircle platform is,” Celeste says. She’s sweating in the heat, too. Like Tyrael, she’s wearing far too many layers, but she’s enduring the discomfort with more poise. “Ignore Tyrael. He can go his own way if he wants. We’ll follow you.”
Easton shields his eyes from the blistering sun and scans the rooftops. “There,” he says, pointing toward their left. “The building with the dome roof.”
Ah. The only round building in the city. It should be easy enough to find, especially since it’s quite plain compared to the other constructions around it. Even from a distance, Rathi can tell there are no glassy surfaces or elaborate designs etched into the beige sandstone. Imagine having all that area to decorate and choosing to be plain instead.
Some arcanists have no sense of style. Not like this shop just to Rathi’s right. Scarves hang from every available surface, a massive array of bright colors and bold patterns, the sort Father would love.
Rathi veers to the right, fingering one of the scarves. It’s silk and woven in a pattern of abstract triangles and shades of purple.
“I’ll inquire about their rates.” Tyrael pushes through their friends with irritation writ into the furrow of his brow. “The rest of you can entertain yourselves.” He sweeps his hand in a gesture that encompasses the entirety of the bustling walkway, crowded with cart vendors and shoppers.
Not that it needs to be said.
Tempest is several vendors back, tail twitching impatiently as she waits to be handed some bacon-wrapped delight, Dakota hovering behind her and glaring at anyone who drifts too close. Celeste’s gravitating toward a stand offering soaps and creams made from goat’s milk. And if Rathi squints, she can just make out Easton, slumped in the shadows. He’s retreated to an alleyway, perpetual frown present.
“Go on,” Celeste says, taking the last couple of steps toward the stand. “We’ll wait here.”
Rathi peeks at Tyrael and grins. He looks disappointed, standing alone in the middle of the bustling crowd, like he can’t believe Celeste didn’t volunteer to accompany him. For someone who spends an unbelievable amount of time grumbling that she came uninvited, he can barely function without her by his side.
He doesn’t get moving until someone nudges him out of the way, because he’s blocking the middle of the walkway like a fool. He looks at Celeste again, but she’s got a brick of soap in each hand, scenting first one then the other. So Tyrael turns and trudges in the direction Easton pointed, his polished armor flashing anyone standing at the wrong angle right across the eyes.
Anyone like Rathi.
She winces and turns back to the scarves. She doesn’t know how Tyrael isn’t melting into a puddle. He’s wearing the most clothing and armor out of everyone, including the ridiculous cape of his. But of all the things Tyrael’s complained about, the heat is not one of them. And Tyrael rarely misses an opportunity to complain.
Could it be the arrowhead? Rathi had only been an armswidth away, but she’d felt the chill radiating from it. Maybe it’s keeping Tyrael cool now. She very much doubts Cyrillus sent it so Tyrael could be comfortable in the hot weather. Cyrillus is definitely not the sort of god to care about the comfort of his pacted, if the fact he sent Tyrael on this quest is any indication.
Tsch. Gods are so damn selfish.
Good thing I am not a god, Firenya purrs at the back of Rathi’s mind, her presence coiling around Rathi, intangible and invisible. I am better than those silly things.
“Yes, you are,” Rathi murmurs and fingers a scarf with a simple braided pattern of magenta and olive. This fabric is rougher, thick and woolen. Father would like the color, but not the fabric.
She moves on to another, the fabric cool and smooth, like dragging her fingertips over a still pool of water. It whispers against her skin, bright shades of orchid braided through with gold-tinted thread.
Now this will make Father smile.
Will you go with them across the sea? Firenya asks.
“I’ve never been to Jhune.” Rathi draws the purple-and-gold shawl from the rack, measuring its length with her hands. Oh, it’s perfect.
She smiles at the gentleman behind the counter. “I’ll take this one.”
He grins at her with a mouth missing several teeth, though their stubby tusks remain in pristine condition – half-tsak then, like Dakota. “Two gold, friend.”
It seems a little overpriced, but then, what would Rathi know? Handing over coin for purchases is still unusual to her. It is not the way things work in Cinder Mountain. She pushes two gold into the man’s hand and folds the shawl carefully into her pouch.
Father adores pretty things. He likes to joke that it’s because he’s Mother’s pretty object, the trophy husband she wears on her arm for all things political.
“If I’m to see the world, I might as well see it all,” Rathi says as she turns away from the vendor and scans the crowd for the others. Tempest and Dakota, in particular, have wandering hands and sticky fingers.
We must watch the Warden’s Champion, Firenya murmurs, fingers tapping along Rathi’s shoulder as if in a bid for her full attention. There is a reason they whisper traitor when the Warden graces an immortal’s lips.
“I know.” Rathi flows into the crowd and scans the nearest vendors for something else to catch her eye. “Tyrael is a good kid. I want to keep him that way.”
Firenya laughs and drags intangible fingers through Rathi’s hair, molding the flickering flame into a playful swoop. Ever the protector, my empress apparent?
“It’s great practice for when I return to the throne.” A flash of silver catches her eye, and Rathi slows as she spies a stand with rows upon rows of ear jewelry glittering in the late afternoon sun. A gift for Mother perhaps?
And a wonderful Empress you’ll be. We’ll rule together, yes?
“That was the agreement,” Rathi murmurs.
Excellent, Firenya purrs, and the waves of her delight turn Rathi’s hair hot-blue before it cools back to embers.
Rathi grins and peruses the jeweler’s offerings, her attention returning again and again to the ear cuffs, designed for a more pointed ear, much like the proprietor theirself. The jade-hued individual must be aqualyn, given the gentle gill slats neatly tucked beneath their long, tapered ears. Or they could be a seamer, suffering on land and in the heat for a chance to sell their wares, but Rathi doubts it.
One pair of cuffs has milky gems set in a silverish metal. Sea pearls, perhaps. A rare find in the Cinder Mountain. Mother will love them, though she’ll be immediately suspicious. Rathi rarely bothers to bring her gifts. She and Mother do not get along as well as Rathi and her father. They are too much alike, Father says.
Still.
They’ll have to work together in the future. Once Rathi returns home and is ready to undertake the training of her official duties, she will be spending a lot of time with Mother. A small gift goes a long way toward ensuring that future partnership will run smoothly.
She buys the ear cuffs, tucking them alongside Father’s scarf. She checks the others – Easton, lightly dozing in an alley while Dakota and Tempest are in yet another line for a food vendor. No trouble to be found there so Rathi darts across the walkway to join Celeste. She hasn’t moved in all this time, still caught by the soaps and oils and fragrances.
Celeste has gnawed her bottom lip to swollen, one hand squeezing the handle of her mace as she often does when she’s anxious, the other turning a stoppered bottle over and over in her hands.
“Find anything you like?” Rathi asks as she slips in next to Celeste.
The other woman visibly startles, clutching at her chest with a breathed, “Mercy!” which is too cute for words. Honestly, a lot about Celeste is too cute for words, from her big, brown eyes and her strong jaw to her smooth dark skin and her barely-tamed mass of thick, black curls.
“Oops. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Rathi bumps Celeste with her shoulder, though she doesn’t move Celeste an inch. She’s a lot stronger than she looks, given that she wears the robes of an acolyte devoted to protection. “Find anything good?”
Celeste returns the bottle to the shelf with great care, her fingertip lingering on the tear-drop shaped cork. “Oh, lots.”
“What did you get?”
Celeste tucks her hand back into the pocket of her robes as if she shouldn’t have allowed herself to touch. “Nothing.” She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth before letting it free, giving Rathi a guilty look. “It’s awfully self-indulgent, don’t you think?”
Rathi blinks. “Isn’t that the point?”
“Yes, but my coin could be spent on more useful things, right?” Celeste asks, and there’s something to the way she says it, as if she’s repeating a lecture she’s gotten before. “We’ll need rations for travel, a whetstone for Tyrael’s blade, another bedroll so Tempest can stop stealing Dakota’s, or– or–”
“Or a fancy soap to make yourself smell nice and put a smile on that pretty face of yours,” Rathi cuts in before Celeste can keep listing all the things everyone else needs, and none of what she needs.
Someone, somewhere has taught her to put herself secondary, and it pains Rathi to hear it. Sure, it’s important to be kind and generous and considerate. It’s equally important to treasure and care for yourself.
They should have told her that also.
Rathi leans around Celeste and plucks a heart-shaped bottle from the display. She uncorks it and catches the scent of rosewater and lavender – not her preference, but something she thinks will suit Celeste quite well.
“I like this one for you,” she says.
Celeste cradles the bottle. “I’ve been lingering over this one. How did you know?”
Rathi winks. “Woman’s intuition.” She raises her hand to get the vendor’s attention – said vendor having likely given up on Celeste actually buying anything – and hands over the coin.
“Oh, no – You can’t – I shouldn’t–” Celeste stammers several incomplete sentences, but she’s also clutching the oil like it might escape her.
“It’s my coin. I can do whatever I want with it,” Rathi says.
Celeste bites her bottom lip, such an endearing habit, and says, “Wait. I can pay you back for it. I do have the coin.” She starts to reach for her pouch, wisely tucked away after Dakota’s advice, but Rathi puts her hand over Celeste’s.
“It’s a gift,” she says, giving Celeste’s hand a gentle squeeze. There’s no one who works harder to take care of their group of relative strangers than Celeste. She deserves to be spoiled.
“I–” Celeste swallows visibly. She takes in a deep breath, squares her shoulders and says, “Thank you. I’ll use it everyday. Or, well, within reason.”
Rathi grins and throws an arm over Celeste’s shoulder, tucking her in for a half-hug. “You’re welcome.” She half-turns, taking Celeste with her, as they scan the crowd. “We should probably see if we can gather everyone. Tyrael should be back – oh.”
Speak of the Champion, there he is, face set in grim lines, and shoulders so taut they crowd at the bottom of his ears. Tyrael beelines toward Rathi and Celeste, the very picture of a living thunderstorm coiling with disastrous intent.
“That’s not a good sign,” Celeste sighs and scoots out from under Rathi’s arm. “I’ll intercept. You find the others?”
“Will do.”
The rest of their party is not hard to find. Tempest is double-fisting roast turkey legs, her face smeared with some kind of sweet icing. Her eyes light up when she sees Rathi, and she graciously offers one of the legs to Rathi.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Rathi takes a great bite of the roast bird, the browned skin crunchy and tasting of char. Just the way she likes it. “Mmm. Tasty. Where’s Dakota?”
Tempest points her other drumstick to the left. “Hiding in the alley with Easton. I think they’re both melting.”
Rathi gnaws off a huge chunk of dark meat and juices immediately drip over her lips. She slurps it up noisily, saving herself from a stained tunic, like Tempest. Though the mousling’s tunic has been stained for several days now, so she probably hasn’t noticed.
Rathi cranes her neck to see around a massive tauros with pale, scarred fur and a broken horn who’s decided to stand in the middle of the walkway and carry on a conversation. She can just make out Dakota in the shade of an alley. He’s perched on a crate with the shadow of Easton lurking behind him.
“Tyrael back?” Tempest asks.
“Yep.” Rathi says around a second mouthful of perfectly smoked meat. “Come on. Let’s grab the pasty boys and get back to the others.”
Tempest snorts a laugh.
They retrieve Dakota and Easton with minimal fuss, though Easton’s as perky as a flower plucked from the land three days hence, all shriveled leaves and colorless petals. The sun’s obnoxiously high in the sky, and the sandstone buildings themselves seem to soak up the heat and promptly radiate it back, making the air in the port hotter and drier.
Easton drags his feet, and probably would long be gone, if not for the fact he still hasn’t been paid. He pulls the hood of his cloak and hunches beneath it, glaring out with baleful amber eyes.
Yeah, he’s been a joy to travel with.
Rathi heads back to where she saw Celeste intend to intercept Tyrael, and she hears them long before she sees either of them. The cousins are arguing in the middle of the walkway, the crowd flowing around them, though a few stop to stare at the commotion.
“--you spend so much?” Celeste’s voice carries on the hot air, and Rathi pushes through the crowd just as she continues with, “For someone who nags me about my spending habits, you went through your coin faster than I did.”
Tyrael folds his arms over his chest, an armored bulwark of indignation. “Even if I’d spent nothing, we still wouldn’t have enough. Intercontinental travel is expensive.”
Rathi joins them, sliding in next to Celeste to make it clear whose side she’s on no matter what. “Can’t afford the telecircle then?”
Tyrael’s glower grows in intensity, his dark eyes flashing. “We can’t afford anything. Not even a boat.” Which would’ve been Tyrael’s last choice considering their previous ship charter had resulted in him spending a week seasick. “I can only afford one ticket.”
“So you’d have to go alone,” Rathi says, her eyebrows rising toward her hairline. “You had a lot of fucking coin. I didn’t realize easy travel was only for the rich.”
“I can afford three tickets on the passenger ship,” Tyrael clarifies. “I can only afford one ticket for the telecircle. As this is my quest, it is best if I go alone.”
Celeste snarls, and there’s a crackle of arcane energy through her hazel eyes. “You can’t survive by yourself. Quit being an idiot.”
“You’re forgetting that you’re not the only one who wants to go to Jhune,” Rathi reminds him, and while Tyrael’s coin is his own to spend, she’s done her level best to keep him alive for the past several months. “It’s common courtesy to check with your other companions before you make such a decision.”
Easton coughs, but it’s neither subtle nor delicate. “I want to get paid,” he rasps from the depths of his hood. “I don’t care about Jhune. I want my coin.”
At this reminder, Tyrael winces. “My apologies, I had not taken that into consideration.” He produces his purse, the sad clinking of a handful of coins barely audible over the crowds. “Once Easton is paid, I can only afford a ticket on the passenger ship.”
“People earn coin every day,” Celeste huffs, rolling her eyes. She makes a sharp gesture to the city all around them. “I’m sure we have enough skill and knowledge between the six of us–”
“--five,” Easton corrects.
“Five of us,” Celeste amends with a shake of her head. “That we can find a way to earn what we need to afford tickets for everyone.”
“That could take months we don’t have,” Tyrael snaps.
Rathi stares at the heavens, praying for a patience she doesn’t have. This has reached the point of family squabble, and she knows better than to get herself in the middle of that. She takes a step back and goes back to the turkey leg. It, at least, makes sense.
“I want to get paid for the work I’ve already done, not take on more tasks,” Easton growls, either not realizing that he’s putting himself in between a cat fight, or not caring. He’s trying to loom threateningly, and while he’s got the height to pull it off, he’s thin as a twig. Practically skin and bones.
Probably needs the coin to buy himself a decent meal.
“You will get fucking paid!” Celeste snarls, her eyes a flash of blue-silver that makes Rathi’s eyebrows rejoin her hairline. Did her teeth get pointed for a second there?
No?
Maybe Rathi is imagining things.
“For the love of– here!” Tyrael barks, plucking a few coins out of the pouch before lobbing it in Easton’s direction. “Thank you for your service.”
Easton tries to catch it out, but misses and the pouch hits the cobblestone walkway. He snarls a scowl and snatches up the pouch, dumping the contents into his palm. He thumbs through the coins, counting them one by one.
Tyrael grinds his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Rathi wonders who’s going to throw the first blow. Tyrael prides himself on his self-control, but Easton has a special talent for pushing him.
“I’ve got it!” Tempest leaps into the middle of the argument, wildly waving a piece of parchment. “I found it! The answer to all our problems!” She grins from ear to ear, tail excitedly lashing through the air.
Everyone stops to look at her. Rathi slurps the last piece of meat from the turkey leg and drops the bare bone to the ground.
“This is what we can do.” Tempest shoves the paper in Tyrael’s face. Or at least as close to his face as she can manage. “Look!”
He squints at the wrinkled parchment, and Celeste leans in beside him. Rathi takes Tyrael’s other side so she can see the big, blocky writing for herself.
TOURNAMENT TODAY, it proclaims in capital letters and the most common written language in all Sistara. FREE FOR ANY, says the second line, the words smaller and less bold. Even smaller still, in a delicate looping script, the final line reads, For quartets to engage in combat to the last team standing. Medical aid to be provided. Death discouraged.
The top prize? A tidy thousand gold. More than enough to get everyone to Jhune who wishes to go, whether by telecircle or passenger ship.
“Only four of us need to participate,” Tempest says as Rathi squints to try and read the fine print at the very bottom. “I volunteer! I don’t even care about the coin. I just want to fight.”
“Of course you do,” Celeste sighs, but her smile is fond. “We could use the prize money, but I don’t fight for sport, only to defend myself and others.”
“It would cover our travel costs, and Cyrillus would not protest my participation,” Tyrael says. “You’re the one who doesn’t want me to go alone.”
Dakota reaches over Tempest’s head and plucks the parchment from her hand. “I am of no use in a tournament.” He skims over the details before handing it to Rathi. “Pass.”
Rathi wipes her hand on her pants leg and takes the announcement, finally able to read the fine print, which is an overlong paragraph about how the hosts aren’t responsible for anyone choosing to participate, et cetera.
“It looks like fun to me.” She shrugs and tucks the parchment into Tempest’s shirt, giving it a little pan. “We can’t lose, right?” She winks.
“Right.” Tempest giggles.
“Except that it’s pointless if there’s only three of us.” Tyrael plants a hand on his hips and scrubs at his forehead. “If Dakota and Celeste don’t participate, then our only option is to ask you.” He looks at Easton with expectation, and Rathi could have told him it is a waste of breath.
“”I have what I need.” Easton holds up Tyrael’s pouch before tucking it away. “And I don’t do tournaments. Good luck.”
He pulls his hood back over his head, spins around, and vanishes into the crowd without so much as a moment of hesitation.
They traveled with him for the better part of a month, and he still treats them as strangers. Some people have no interest in forming lasting relationship apparently.
“Damn.” Tempest watches Easton’s exit with her lips pursed into a moue of disappointment. “I kind of thought he’d stick around.”
“I knew he wouldn’t,” Dakota says.
Tyrael rubs his hand down his face. “That’s it then. No tournament. So if you insist we travel together, then we’ll have to look for some other source of employment.” He wrinkles his nose as if physical labor is anathema to him.
Celeste taps the handle of her mace. “I can’t help the terms of my contract any more than you can,” she huffs. “It can’t be that hard to earn coin around here. People do it every day.”
“Pardon me. Perhaps I can be of help?”
Rathi blinks at the unfamiliar voice while Tempest turns and starts to wave, grinning from ear to ear.
“Hello again!” Tempest says.
“Yes, hello,” says the interloper, and as Rathi turns, she takes in the newcomer.
They’re a gemling, slightly shorter than she, with a lush brown beard and wavy brown hair, their horns a pair of pearlescent arches jutting upright from their crown with a small loop at the base.
They’re dressed for travel, pouches hanging from their belt, a book tucked under one arm, and their other hand raised in a wave.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” they continue with a broad smile that remains friendly despite prominent canines. “If you give me a moment, I think I have the solution to your problem.”
***