Lady Vera of Beit-Orane (v_eritas) wrote in adusta, @ 2010-05-18 18:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | elemmírë, vera of beit-orane |
No Shadows [ Elemmire ]
The weight of her headpiece -- garnet strung together with amber and other stones she could not name -- forced Vera to tilt her neck more than usual. Muscles along her shoulders were stiff, which in turn made her sit straighter. Her posture was almost always lousy when she was alone and she missed the opportunity to slouch when no one was there to judge her. The Hunter's Moon shone through the carriage window and the light seemed far away, even though the moon was so large. She wished she could pull the glass from its panes and feel the wind rushing past. Riding by horse just north of the Black Deer Plains was always an exhilarating feeling. Even when out on a task, it could make a Rider feel free. The wheels of the carriage were spinning fast now. Vera could almost feel the strain on the axles below. There was no helping the pace. They needed to make good time to get back to the Free Cities, to switch out the Riders guarding her for soldiers from Lord Faxril's company. If anyone knew she broke the terms of her agreement with the Beiten-K‘danav, Vera would be confined to the country as punishment. Her fingers moved restlessly against the silk of her dress, her calluses catching along invisible snags.
"Eistocene and Trone rarely quarrel, but when they do the argument is centered around money," High Lord Arand said. He gave her a gentle smile and a simple envelope. "Eistocene dislikes the idea of trading weapons with the Elves. The Knighted Houses in Astarii are deemed as greedy at best and warlike at worst. They worry that the Elves might be more capable of paying Trone's merchants, which means the best weapons would not be contained within the country. Trone sees developing trade with Astarii as a gesture of good faith."
"And good profit," Vera murmured. She looked at the large double doors behind them. The wheel symbol of the Free Cities was carved deeply into the oak. No one had come to open them. "When will the Beiten-K'danav see me?"
High Lord Arand shook his head. "I have already settled this matter. You will be going to negotiate trade with one of Astarii's ministers as a more neutral party. In order to send you, however, I had to agree to certain terms..."
She had already opened the envelope as he spoke. The list was short and devastating. She was to operate solely as a Lady of her House, an ambassador of the Beiten-K'danav. She was to ride in a carriage made in Trone and with an escort of soldiers from Eistocene. The more she read, the deeper her frown. Vera looked up at the High Lord and found him watching her thoughtfully. "This," she said in a very low voice. "This is not the terms for a trade mission. They are trying to--"
"I know."
Vera looked out of her window again, letting her forehead rest against it for only a moment. A gem from her headpiece made the position very uncomfortable. Craning her neck, she could see a white hood on the man riding at the corner of the carriage. He kept a steadier pace than most of the other Riders. She watched him and the trees until her back hurt too much from it; she leaned her back against the bench again. Closing her eyes, Vera tried to calm her heart.
Her wrist was burning.
Agrippa’s eyes hardened when she placed the letter in his hand. “So you know they are going to try to kill you and you are going along with it?”
“Yes,” Vera gave him an annoyed frown. “It‘s important to the country that this gets solved, whether someone is plotting against me or --”
“Like hell you are. Tell your brother to get his men on your guard detail. We’ll switch them out for White Riders after you cross the border and inspect the carriage ourselves.”
“But --”
“Being on the road alone has made you that reckless? Shut up,” the Captain snapped at her. Agrippa finally looked down at the letter in his hand. His anger faded almost instantly. “What is this?”
“A letter for Eragos. I need you to send it for me.”
“I thought you send them every month. This makes the two week mark,” Agrippa said.
“You keep track of when I send him letters?” Vera asked. She felt her cheeks turn red. “I just don‘t know if I will be back in time to send him another! Stop looking at me that way.” She reached out to grab the letter back, only to have the Captain hold it out of her reach. He was laughing.
“I‘ll send it,“ Agrippa said. “I promise.”
The ride became smoother, which meant the carriage was slowing. Vera could hear Riders calling out to one another, but her hearing wasn’t good enough to make out the words over the noise of the carriage. She looked out the window again and saw there was no longer a White Rider on that side. Vera chewed on her lip, moved to a squat on the floor of the carriage and lifted the seat of the bench she sat on. She pulled out her knife belt and the three pieces of her staff. Weaponry that was detachable was not nearly as solid in a fight, but it was given to her for this specific purpose. The enemy had to assume she was defenseless, or at the very least deprived of all advantages.
When they rolled to a stop, Vera had already cut her skirt to allow more movement. One of the Riders, Faxon, tapped on the window and shook his head. He was good enough with a sword, when it came down to it, and she had taken him along with her once before. But he was too protective and he told her to stay inside, as if it were in her nature to remain still when being threatened. She heard him lean against the door. Vera tore more fabric, uncaring of the way the bones of the dress were exposed, how expensive threads hung limp along rips and silk pooled at her side in a pile. She slid the leather belt with all of her knives along her waist, her hands stumbling over the buckle. The pain from the silver mark on her wrist was creeping up her palm and into the base of each finger. When she focused, the clumsiness disappeared. But as she slid her lone knife back into its proper place, the glass above her head shattered inward. Vera’s face was already pointed toward the floor and she raised her hands to cover her head. Blood spattered the shards that covered the carriage floor and the smell of fire -- now eating the curtains on the window behind her -- filled her nostrils. Her hand grasped for the pieces of her staff on the bench and she blindly started to shove and twist the weapon together. Her feet kicked at the debris on the floor, digging into the carpet there until it came up to reveal a small hatch. Fire was running along the ceiling and she knew what it was after. Squinting, she looked up and could see Faxon's head, split by glass against the door. An arrow was in his throat. Outside, other Riders were yelling.
Vera used her staff to knock out the hatch and shoved her weapon down into the mud. Heedless of cuts, of what she might crawl into, she lowered herself next and took refuge beneath the burning carriage. There was blood on her brow. Vera only wiped it off when it got in the way of her vision. She crawled toward the front of the carriage where the horses leaned heavily against each other and their harnesses. On the ground she could meet the gaze of Riders laying the mud. She could see the boots of others, struggling in the mud, struggling against men with dark cloaks. Vera felt the heat of the fire above her and did not move. Not yet, she said to herself. If she moved now she would die too.
She met a pair of lifeless eyes across the road. A Rider she did not know the name of, his mask broken against his face with crimson still leaking over his hood. Vera's nails dug into the mud and she clutched her staff. Arrows were falling. She could not move yet. There was too much light on the road to prevent becoming a target or to see who was in the trees from beneath this carriage. An ambush, at the last leg of her journey. Someone had to have known she hadn't taken soldiers. Or maybe they didn't care. Her mind was rushing to catch up, to collect all that was left of her wit because she would have to move...
And a warrior was nothing, if dead.