Little Hands of Fate [ Eragos, Eithne, Sleeping Tiger, Nieve ]
The rain started when they broke out across the edge of the Acierran Plains, heavy and violent as it was wont to do in the southern half of the Free Cities. Vera was glad for her cloak, which caused the water to roll off her back rather than weigh down her clothes. The skies had waited until the tall flags of the Southern Army were in sight. Navy blue, red, black and white blurred together as the rain ripped fiercely at the cloth. Rain threatened even the stakes that held the poles to the earth. Yet the flags were driven into the ground by hands used to worse winds, worse rains. Faxril's men were, at their core, men of the sea.
Soldiers with long spears stood in a solid line, despite the weather, creating an entrance to the camp behind the flags. Their shields bore the seal of the Southern Army -- a ship at sea with a curved sword as its mast -- as well as the brunt of the weather. They did not block Vera's swift passage, or that of the Riders who followed behind her, but only because the beacon of light the Colonel held in his palm on their approach. A ball of glass that lit brightly when he held it up. It was likely made by an alchemist, Vera thought. Her brother took great interest in the East and went as far to keep those educated there in his employ.
For the entire ride to the camp, Vera did not look to see who followed her. She knew Eragos was there. Vera thought it was a sad state if she knew even the sound of his horse's hooves on the earth. That meant all of them had come. They would follow him. She hoped that they would. Vera hoped because knowing seemed impossible. The only time she felt sure was when death could enter a room with her.
Vera still felt like her uniform was heavy with blood, foul smelling and torn. Maybe she would become something that couldn't stand the test in the looking glass. The metaphorical monster lingered in her thoughts, the one Vera spoke to Nieve about. That conversation seemed like ages ago. No one saw her struggle. And for that, Vera was glad.
Her horse slowed to a trot as Colonel Aodh led them through Faxril's camp. Even though there was rain, everyone was moving. Men came in and out of tents with arms full of supplies. Weapons were being carried to smiths, to men, to be stored. Animals were brought beneath canvas canopies to be cleaned, brushed and prepared for travel. No one looked as if they intended to stay very much longer, but Vera had the feeling that this was partly for show. Aodh's vague message, his pained eyes, suggested her brother had been paralyzed by something. It was the reason she would have come here, with or without help.
The Colonel came to a stop a few tents away from a large tent that clearly belonged to a Lord, just by the amount of light that escaped the flaps. Vera dismounted as he did and brushed water from the edge of her hood so that it would not drip into her eyes.
"We will leave the horses here, just in case," Aodh said, first looking at her and then to the other riders. "For now, it's still possible to get visitors from Eistocene."
"Visitors who would like to kill us, you mean," Vera said. When the Colonel looked back at her, she smiled. She did not remove her weapons and doubted anyone else would either. This did not seem to bother the Colonel. There were very few in the camp who didn't openly wear weapons.
She patted Dinaden's nose and tied off his reins.
"Well if we are going to be honest," Aodh said, returning her smile. "Most of them would settle for killing you, my Lady. But Lord Faxril does not tolerate the harm or open disparagement of any of his guests. He would defend all of you, even if he can not currently afford to do so. Perhaps it is spineless to hide your presence, but it is better that your presence goes unnoticed, both for your group and for my Lord."
The Colonel gestured for them to follow him up the muddy path to the Lord's tent. The other officer had gone ahead of them, likely to tell Faxril that they’d arrived. Vera glanced back only once at her friends to see where shadow had replaced their faces. She followed after Aodh, holding her cloak shut to the wind. The mud was almost higher than her ankles. Vera wished that she could have ridden Dinaden up to the tent, if only to not to have her legs feel like stalks in a field.
Entering the tent was like entering into a world without storms. The light inside was warm and made it easy for one to consider taking off gloves. Though the weather was fierce, the fabric that held the tent was as good as walls. There was a table in the center with maps spread across it -- this was the table on which Faxril leaned both hands as the man beside him traced a line along the parchment with blue ink. Two easels sat off to their left with maps: one of Aurum Harbor and the ocean west of it, filled with lines of routes and markers for ships. The other of the northeast region of the Free Cities and the stretch of land toward Illos.
A man garbed in the black uniform of a messenger hurried past the group of White Riders as they entered, brushing past Nieve with an apology.
Faxril, like the rest of his men, was in uniform. Unlike most, however, the red and black coat he wore was immaculate. The pins of rank and achievement along his high collar gleamed under the tent's mage lights and did so more brightly than the ornamental clasps at his white cuffs. None of his dark hair was out of place and there was no doubt that he shaved that morning. His sword remained at his hip and the fine leatherwork at his waist was properly cared for, holding to the code he held his men strictly to. Yet despite this, Faxril seemed haggard as he stood straight and moved around the table to greet them. There was darkness beneath his eyes, as if he had not slept at all for nights upon nights. He seemed more gaunt than when she'd last seen him.
Faxril clasped arms with her.
"My sister," he said. "I did not know if you would come."
Vera did not expect him to embrace her with two of his officers and other Riders in the tent, yet he did with one arm. She didn't know what to say, not immediately, so she used whatever stumbled out of her mouth just then. "You needed my help," she said, quietly.
He released her silently as the Colonel and the other officer left the tent, emptying it of seemingly everyone but Lord Faxril and the White Riders. Faxril moved so that they could enter farther inside and leave behind the rain.
"I did not know if any of you would come here," Faxril said, correcting himself, to the rest of them. "I have only seen some of you in passing or heard of you from Captain Agrippa. When the Captain said your group was not headed back toward Simanel, I sought you out and hoped I would catch you coming out of Agethlea. I am Lord Faxril of Beit-Orane, head of the Southern Army. And I understand from my officer, that you were riding to seek out Lady Seca, for trial."