tomorrow (vera)
A feast day was a fine thing, in Astora. From his window Eragos could see parades of men marching in the street, playing all instruments of almost every kind, and in the livery of noble houses. it was latticed in iron, this window, with stained glass but for the winged messengers of Armas who carried each a sword and shield. It was through these winged creatures that he peered down, and out, but the novelty wore off quickly. Sitting on a stone sill, waiting for the rain to let up, had the appeal of sitting on stone to stay out of the rain. It was precisely that exciting. Eragos felt every ounce of every wound that had been inflicted on him since departing Malondir. Even if most of those injuries had been healed by one of the court mages who danced attendance on the prince and his. Quite a sight, riding into the city like that, throwing up a column of dust and flying the prince's colors ahead of them like a weapon. They'd had enough time to open the gate and little else.
That was all the time that was needed.
The first thing she'd done for him, and perhaps not a kindness, was force him to endure the fitting of new clothing. With close shoulders and torso, a high collar and flared cuffs he felt like one of the lords he saw roaming the halls. It was perhaps slightly amusing that they sucked in their stomachs when he passed, but a collar that followed his jaw and covered the back of his neck was too high by far. One sword hung from his hip, and the other... the other leaned against the far wall. He had explained its uses and its story to the Lady Cithia, in detail, giving her tales of his homeland to shame a bard. All the while she'd stared at him. Almost as though expecting a question. When it did not come she seemed disappointed. Yet their moment had been earlier, in the cart, when she'd asked with her eyes for a different sort of life. He could not give that to her, and indeed, was not sure that he would even if he could. Not sure that he wanted to. There was nothing for him to gift a bride save dishonor. A curse and a bloody sword. Those were the heirlooms and wedding gifts of Eragos Feareborne.
The corridor was little better than the street. Littered with flower petals. From the wall hung velvet banners - some of Astora, some of Malondir. They were two lions rampant - but one held a sword, and the other a pike, and the colors were opposite. They must have been one kingdom once. His mind, which read far too many histories, told him that. His heart told him that they would be again. That Galatin, and Barada, and the strange magic they'd faced - all of it meant something more than a mission to accomplish and a duty to perform. There was a reason above pride that duty could not be abandoned. Because in doing your duty, you could save a life. You could save a kingdom, and the future of two peoples. These were the things that he fought for. Not his pride as a warrior or his place in the world. Those were irrelevant as long as the mission was successful. Eragos stared down the flower-coated hall, with its rippling banners - rippling for the wind of passage as children fled down the hall. It was something like a story.
Something like.
The sconces played host to hanging flags, which aslo fluttered as the children streamed by hurling more flower petals onto the ground. He named them nightflowers and roses and daisies and irises. He named them sunbursts and waves and spirals. He saw them glow like fire under the too-bright light of torches. It might be raining outside, but inside, the castle was alive with dreams. Children whose fathers did not have to return to war. A minstrel played the song that had been written hastily upon their return. "The Riders", he called it. An ode to the Lady Vera and her companion Sir Eragos Feareborne. Eragos did not want to hear the lyrics, but they filtered into his ears in any case, and he was powerless to stop them. A fine mess he found himself in. The Lady Vera might not be involved in the festivities yet, although as an ambassador she had a place at the formal declaration of peace that was to take place as soon as the rain abated. It was two days until the wedding, and then there would be no further conflict. No more blood spilled for this war.
"Astride the warhorse pale, her staff was swift and fell, she rode with wild abandon, through the fires of hell."
It was not simply that it was a terrible song. It was also that no hellfire had been involved. Eragos appreciated a good story - he had Fires That Forge The Steel tucked into his saddlebags, and had read some of it when no one was there to see him do it - but this was ridiculous. He almost accosted the minstrel for his temerity. Save a flash of white. No one wore white in Malondir or Astora. It had to be her. There was a vague scent of perfume - her sole vanity, perhaps, if she had any at all - and this was the scent that laid his trail. Children streamed by him in giggling mobs. Flowers seemed to flow out of their ears, out of their sing-song verses poorly copying the minstrel. If she was here, he could not hear her footfalls nor see the white any longer. But that lingering perfume remained. Eragos took a sharp turn down one of the lesser-used halls - only to be confronted with a mass of cavorting soldiers. They knew him on sight, of course. Slapped his weary shoulders. Pumped his hand in congratulations. Shared their favorite verses from the song in loud, boisterous voices.
At last he interrupted their merriment.
"Have you seen a woman through here?" Eragos asked impatiently. "In white?"
Bottles half-raised to lips loose and open from drink, the soldiers suddenly laughed and turned to stare at each other.
"Oh ho," one remarked, still gleeful, but for a different reason now. "The girl, is it?"
"She took one look at us and started stomping. If that one could summon lightning with her eyes, she would have blasted me first."
"Nothing says she can't," another soldier cackled. "Down the hall, lad, and to the right. Be careful with that one."
He considered dispensing them a lesson in manners. This was a time of festivities. Their long war was over. Their children were safe, and they could grow fat and old on pensions for their service. Life could not be better than it was at that very second, unless each of them were in the arms of his wife already. He gave a curt nod, instead, and moved on. Down the hall there were no children. Only evidence of their passing in the makeshift rug beneath his boots. It was a winding corridor, this one, out of the interior of the castle and hugging the exterior wall. He heard a door close, ahead of him, and looked up in time to see some of the banners moving from the kiss of breeze the door had created. A woman was passing with silver tray in hand, mugs organized in the center carefully, and Eragos stopped her with a raised hand.
"This room, my lady?" he asked her quietly.
"The library, my lord," her coquettish smile held no charm for him, and she must have realized it, for her face darkened as she gave a curtsy with one hand and departed.
A push of the door. Massive oak shelves, fitted carefully to the walls, with lower stands in the center of the room that only reached his waist. A pair of desks sat unused dead-center of the room, with high-backed oak chairs. It was simply, and yet regal in the same instant, enough that he at first did not see the rolling ladders fitted to the outer walls. There was the Lady Vera, in white, peering at the room as though trying to decide which shelf she would devour first. For a moment. He thought that must be it, in any case. Eragos cleared his throat before he could be seen - it would not do to give the impression of staring.
"Your pardon, my lady," and he tried not to grimace. "I was in search of company that was not intoxicated."