Chapter 15: Launch

Part 2

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Chapter 15: Launch

Ber, Day 11 of Melia

Winking Moons

Year 602

People tell me sometimes that love is the strongest emotion. I disagree. I think it might be relief.

—From The Educator’s Practice, by Grandmaster Combatant Colin Slager

Repht wasn’t sure how, but she was both exhausted and overcome with a vibratory nervousness that threatened to paralyze her. She almost didn’t feel her pain through the haze of excitement.

This day had been many months in the making.

She absently tapped her fingers against one another in a predictable pattern, from the littlest all the way up to the thumb and back. Again and again. Faster and faster.

She was waiting outside the main hall in Daitak Capital. And she was about to infiltrate.

Repht squared her shoulders and tried to look as though she belonged there. It was an utter sham, though. She had nothing. Could she really gamble with nothing?

I must try, she thought firmly. I’ve got to try. At least once.

She had grown up in Daitak proper, the daughter of a reputable merchant. But when Mina was lost at sea, her life had changed forever. Suddenly, there was no one to talk to in the evening. No one to cook for. No one to pay for food and firewood, and for the medicines she so desperately needed to be comfortable.

Her community had been very kind, she admitted to herself. All of the good wives had rallied around her, suggesting that she join the market as a vendor and sell herbs or food. Or better yet, she could apply to work at a local inn or tavern as a cook.

Repht sighed. She grew so tired of explaining this to people. She could not do it. Her body would not allow her to.

An illness had ravaged her system when Repht was younger, and it had left her forever changed, thinner, and shadowed somehow—like a hazy reflection of the younger, stronger woman she once had been.

There were times when her muscles would twitch or jerk or simply give out and she would be obliged to lean on someone.

She either slept for days at a time or not at all.

And then there was the pain and tightness that dogged her every step. She could no longer remember what it was like to live without it now.

That made her sad.

But she blinked the tears hastily away and looked up attentively at the guests milling in and out of the hall.

She was ready. She had to be.

Every single day for months now, Repht had worked her fingers bloody cutting, sewing, and trimming this simple but elegant eborel gown. She’d scrimped and saved until she could afford the matching shoes, and had rinsed her hair with cinniswood for the fragrance and sheen it lent her thick, black hair. She’d bleached her teeth with crushed currant berries and gently scrubbed her deep caramel skin until it was soft and smooth.

She studied the cuts of the gowns passing in and out of the keep. Hers was archaic by these standards, a much older style. True, she didn’t look exactly like everyone else, but she reasoned that perhaps fitting in completely would defeat the object. It was time to stand out. There was no reason a simple gown couldn’t be just as alluring as a fancy one.

Repht took a few deep, shaky breaths, then she lifted her head and attempted to roll her shoulders back and down, wincing when they made audible popping noises at the collarbone.

She fell into step with the rest of the festival guests and made her way inside.

The portcullis had been lifted and remained open for the entirety of the festival, and the torchlight flickered across Repht’s thin features as she moved slowly through the tunnel, hearing how the revelers’ gay voices suddenly echoed in the round, stony interior.

Extra guards were posted everywhere for maximum security. She silently thanked Calumn that the authorities generally gave up on checking guest lists on the final day of the Hunt.

And anyway, guards could take one glance at a person’s clothing and tell if they belonged in the keep or not. Her failing to pass in this regard and needing to be ushered away was not an acceptable outcome for this evening.

Repht lifted her head and tried to lower her shoulders through the pain, feeling her tendons pull uncomfortably. She schooled her features into what she hoped was a pleasant expression and inadvertently met the eyes of an officer.

The man’s eyes flicked down over her dress and took in Repht’s rich black hair. The corners of his mouth slightly bespoke approval.

She gave him a smile, just to try it out.

He betrayed no emotion, and moved on to studying the other guests.

That was good. She’d passed without arousing suspicion. Not everyone would be taken with her, and that was fine. She just needed one. One person. To save her.

Inside, she was enchanted by the way Daitak Keep had been transformed. There were glowing torches and candles everywhere, illuminating the sparkling details of the more wealthy attendees’ clothes and highlighting the succulence of the spread.

Repht had happened upon the series of political debates that Daitak hosted for fun during the Hunt. Two very dull and scholastic-looking men were discussing organized religion.

Doesn’t it have to be organized to be a religion? Repht wondered absently before catching some faint strains of music emanating from the other end of the keep. In the distance, she could just make out large groups of people dancing. She immediately headed in that direction. That was a good place to start.

Repht noted the way people near her spared some glances for her clothing and figure. Not everyone turned her way, which was good, but several of the men seemed to watch in admiration as she passed, and she even got a few glares from the older, more unhappy-looking matrons. It didn’t bother her.

They’re treating me as a peer, she reminded herself. People wouldn’t be jealous if they knew who I was, where I’d come from. This is good. I look—somehow—like I belong here.

She surreptitiously made her way to one of the polished banquet tables that lined the walls and peered down at the impressive dishes.

“Delicious, eh?” said a gentlemen at her elbow.

Repht jumped and had to consciously tell her muscles to relax so she didn’t walk about with her shoulders touching her ears for the rest of the evening. She put on her best surprised smile and turned to face the man.

He was perhaps in his mid-fifties. Or in his forties and a drinker. Generous salty eyebrows hung fuzzily above a pair of merry brown eyes. His complexion was florid. He winked at her. “Food doesn’t look too bad either!”

It was a clumsy jest, but mechanically Repht deduced that he expected an amused titter from her, and so she gave it to him.

He smiled and gave her a slight bow. “Doane’s the name,” he said. “I’m an intendant to the master of ceremonies.”

She curtsied in return and then offered her hand, flashing her dimples. Better to be careful until she knew him better. “Claire,” she said. Her mother’s name. “Daughter of a local merchant.”

Doane took the slight hand in his own. “Glad to hear the Capital is still inviting commercial players,” he returned in a grandfatherly sort of way. He spoke slowly, as though he feared she was too stupid to deduce meaning through tone. “People like your father are crucial to our healthy economy,” he explained, then looked down at her fingers. “Your hands are freezing, young lady!”

Repht blushed a little. “I know. I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Perhaps I simply haven’t been keeping the right company tonight. It’s a good thing you came along.”

Doane smiled congenially until the full meaning of her words sank in. His eyes met hers incredulously, and she gave a little nod of assent to confirm that she absolutely meant to imply what he thought she had. He stood up a little straighter and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “At your service,” he murmured seriously.

Good. On the one hand, it was a boon to have met any member of the royal court at all. On other hand, he was only an intendant. On the other other hand, he would know important people, and those important people would know other important people. Her mind raced. She’d run out of hands. But she smiled graciously about herself and played along; her plan was working.

She gave Doane a low-key dance that was entirely forgettable, and on their way off of the dance floor they were stopped by a cousin of the Earl Marshall of Daitak. Handsome young thing! He asked her to dance and she complied happily, leaving the reluctant arms of poor Doane.

This dance was faster and almost too much for her. She felt winded afterward. But rather than hiding it and continuing to be seen on the dance floor accepting requests, she made a bit of a show about being too fatigued.

“I think I need to sit for a moment,” she said to the young man, speaking a little breathlessly.

His face grew immediately concerned. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Just a little overcome,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I have a weak ankle, and—Oh!” and she pretended to stumble, catching onto his sleeve.

And there it was. Predictably, the man took her gently by the forearm and led her to a nearby chair, taking care to make sure she was comfortable.

It was almost too easy.

She wasn’t exactly lying, because her condition was quite serious. And she did have a weak ankle. But just the same, Repht knew that she was… demonstrating. And as certain as starshine, the man’s reaction was instant and calculable. Demonstration usually prompted answering demonstration in others. And real or not, the results were generally pleasant.

There was something about a young, comely lady in distress that brought out compassion; well, more than that. Compassion, attraction. Interest. Helping her made men feel like heroes. It made them feel needed, wanted, necessary. This wasn’t the first young man whose eye she’d caught, and while initially she’d been disgusted by the phenomenon, Repht had learned to profit by it rather than judge it.

By stepping off of the dance floor at an unusual time and pretending to be weak enough to fall—and by taking a seat nearby, Repht knew what she had done. She had grabbed everyone else’s attention.

She leaned forward a little to massage her weak ankle, thereby exposing her decollete to whoever cared to see it and feigning absolute incognizance the whole time.

When the earl marshall’s cousin brought her a goblet of water, she thanked him with a tremulous smile and then slowly sipped at it, jutting out her shapely chin and lifting her head.

This was one of her favorite tricks. She swallowed slowly, allowed the liquid to move down her throat, activating the delicate muscles there and accentuating the turn of her neck and her creamy caramel skin.

She actually saw the young man gulp in admiration.

On some level, she felt ridiculous and sort of guilty. This was wrong. It felt wrong.

But on another, Repht knew she had no choice.

She became aware of another pair of footsteps approaching and looked up to see who it might be.

* * *

Bricot stood in the library, flushed and breathing hard. He resisted the urge to kick something.

Calumn, when had he last been so angry? That little snot had nearly killed Ger. And he’d felt nothing! No sympathy, no shame.

Bricot decided he was going to work very hard to get that animal kicked out of Craestor.

One of the large hall doors swung open slowly, and Colin hurried in. Since the incident, the chancellor had been outside, busily trying to calm the students and encouraging everyone to return to their rooms.

Colin did not look happy.

“What is the matter with you?” he hissed at Bricot. “With everything that’s gone on today and in the middle of this already very complicated situation—what made you think it was a good idea to hit a student?”

All of the excuses that Bricot had been rehearsing since he’d been relegated to the library floated away. He met the chancellor’s eyes and then immediately looked away.

Colin pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “This will not be easy to clean up,” he muttered.

“Chancellor—” Bricot began.

Colin cut him off. “What exactly is your problem with young Diarmad that you cannot manage to control yourself, man?” he exclaimed. “You punched a student!”

There was a short silence.

“Ger cannot tolerate the stings,” Bricot finally offered, chagrined. “He nearly died, Colin. You saw.”

“Yes,” the older man agreed, nodding emphatically. “I did see. And thank the Pantheon for Ishka and his quick reflexes.”

Bricot bit the inside of his cheek.

Colin went on. “But you must—you have to—separate the incident of the bee stings or whatever they were from your... I must say, very uncharacteristically emotional outburst,” he pled.

“I was wrong,” Bricot assented.

Colin looked up at the young master alchemist. The chancellor’s eyes were an icy, crystalline blue and seemed to penetrate straight to the soul. “Are you alright, Bricot?” he asked. “Is the stress of the translation getting to you?”

Bricot sighed worriedly. Was it? “No, it…” he stammered, “It’s a very big responsibility…”

“Because if you cannot handle both the document and your course load, we will find another candidate who can.”

A cold chill touched Bricot at the crown of his head and seemed to leak down over his neck and shoulders. That—would be horrible. “No,” he said haltingly. “I can handle it. I can handle it.”

Colin appraised him.

“Chancellor, that student—Diarmad?” asked Bricot. “Surely he could be dismissed for something like this, couldn’t he?”

The older man smiled grimly. “Generally, he’d be subject to several hearings with the board,” he returned. “And yes, his enrollment would have to be reevaluated. But thanks to your thoughtless action today, you hitting that boy is going to be all anyone talks about. If there’s anyone the university board will vote to dismiss, it’s you.”

Oh, Calumn, save us.

“I’ll fight to keep you, of course,” Colin continued. “I like you, Bricot. Always have. This is in part why I’m so surprised.”

The two of them stood there in the library for some time, neither looking at the other. Outside, a brownbird darted past the window and out of sight.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Bricot?” Colin asked finally.

“Not—well, not anything crucial,” the master alchemist replied. “Although…”

Colin motioned to a pair of chairs by the large work table, taking one for himself. Bricot followed suit.

Slowly and probably very clumsily, Bricot explained to Colin about the experiments he’d been conducting with Ger. The chancellor listened, frowning.

After a moment, he spoke, bemused. “One of my students appears to be favored of Calumn, and my best master has turned out to be a ham-fisted grunt. I’m not sure what to think of this day.”

* * *

Repht looked up into the kindly face of a man in his late forties. She felt the impulse to leave her ankle alone and allowed it to pass, regarding the stranger from under arch brows and out from over her compressed decollete. When she was sure he’d gotten a sufficient look, she sat up and smiled gamely.

He was older than she by a couple of decades, but quite handsome; with square, straightforward features, a full head of brown hair, impressive height, and some friendly wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Repht instinctively moved to take all of him in, gauging what she was working with, but found that she could not. He bent and offered her his hand, and his eyes were so warm and insistent that she became lost in them.

“Ankle troubling you?” he asked.

Repht blushed prettily. “It’s a little weak,” she replied. “I imagine I just needed to rest it.”

The man smiled at her, engaging the adorable crinkles at his eyes. “Hungry?” he asked.

And she looked right at him. “Starved,” she replied.

For a wonder, the man seemed to take her meaning and offered her his arm. “Come with me,” he said.

They had a bite—minted lamb shanks, herbed pottage and creamy potatoes—then sought a quieter atmosphere out on the terrace.

Several other strolling couples were present taking the air; it was a nice reprieve from all of the noise and business going on inside.

“It’s so loud in there,” remarked Repht.

“I agree,” said the stranger. He still hadn’t told her his name. When they waited this long to introduce themselves, she got nervous.

“So, are you going to give me your name?” he asked gently, reading her thoughts and causing Repht to startle. “Don’t tell me you’re a visiting cousin of one of the courtiers. That always seems to be my lot.”

She smiled. “Don’t fear,” she said. “I’m a local. It’s not likely that I’ll go anywhere exciting in my lifetime.”

He watched her.

She took a moment, breathing in the nighttime Melian air. “Repht,” she said, deciding on impulse to trust him with the precious information.

He sat them down gently on the terrace railing, taking such care with her that her eyes filled with tears. “What’s that?” he asked.

“My name is Repht,” she repeated.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, but she shook her head.

“It comes from the word bereft. My mother died giving birth to me. My father took it personally.”

The man pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and gave it to her, crouching before her as she sat on the safety rail.

“Sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I suppose I’m feeling a little lonely tonight.”

He smiled that crinkly smile at her. “Perhaps this is a bit broad, a bit sweeping, and just a little reckless,” he said. “But I find you fascinating. If you’re open to it, Repht, you never have to be lonely again.”

It was stupid, but she had to know before things went any further. “What’s your name?” she asked, hoping against all hope.

“Hodric,” he replied. “Master of the Horse in Daitak Capital.”

“Hodric,” she repeated.

He was somebody. He was significant in the Capital. And he was kind, and gentle, and mannerly.

“Care to dance?” he asked. “It sounds slower and altogether much more agreeable in there.”

Repht smiled and nodded. What was this feeling? It was new and unfamiliar to her. Could it really be true optimism?

* * *

The Red Dove was a delightful little destination inside Craestor Village. There was a nicely stocked tavern and restaurant on the first floor and rooms to let on the second.

When Evin, Tadyath, Craix and Himes finally arrived at the Red Dove, it was the middle of the night.

Evin wasn’t particularly struck by the cheerful smell of cooking or the welcome warmth the building brought after days of sleeping on the ground. Mostly, she remembered the ghostly, unfamiliar shadows that clung to each dark corner, and the smell of fresh wood and sawdust connoting new construction. How they all came to be fed and installed in their new rooms upstairs was a blurry, stumble-y kind of memory, and sort of sad to boot.

She found that if she could keep her mind busy, Evin was able to avoid thinking about her new situation. It almost didn’t make sense. She’d never cared about educating herself, and here a group of strangers would see it done or apparently perish trying. Evin felt dizzy from the change in thought and value. She was going to attend a university!

Wynn would have been so proud.

And there it was. If she held still long enough, her mind would eventually make it around to Wynn. And Cotter. And the baby. Wynn and Cotter and the baby.

She was sitting up in the threadbare but warm bedclothes upstairs in the Red Dove, staring out at a grey window. The tears crept up into her vision, and she took a shuddery breath.

Generally, she would pray at a time like this. Or swear. Or swear and then pray. But something stopped her.

Why should she deign to mention Calumn in her morning prayers? Or any of the Divines, for that matter? She’d been faithful, thoughtful, careful, and patient. And she’d been stung. Perhaps Evin would pray again when the activity wouldn’t make a liar out of her.

She dressed slowly and listened to the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath her feet as she moved across the floor. Out the window, she could see bits of sprawling village and habitation flanked by treeline and grassland. Some of the green foliage had been caught up in a slight morning breeze. It was Melia, early summer for those in West Urda. The temperature was pleasant this morning but would warm up as the day went on.

If Evin remembered correctly, Tadyath and his consort were planning to tour the university today.

She looked down suddenly at her simple eborel clothes and wondered if they were enough to make a good impression. Then she shrugged. It would have to do. She simply didn’t have the money to outfit herself more respectably.

There was a small knock at her door.

“Decent?” called Craix softly.

“Yes,” Evin replied, and the door swung open.

The older woman entered. Even rested and in a fresh change of clothes, there always seemed to be something wild about Craix. She moved like a cat, and her sharp eyes never held quite still.

“You look nice,” Evin said to her.

Craix snorted.

“When are we leaving?”

“After breakfast.”

Evin turned to look out the window once more, trying to catch a glimpse of the university.

“You won’t see it from this side of the building,” Craix remarked stiffly. “And anyway, the treetops mostly cover it.”

With a shrug, Evin turned back to her companion. “Do you know how many days we’ll stay in Craestor?” she asked.

Craix shook her head. “No. Tadyath may want to stay in town until you’re enrolled, but I must leave. I’m expected elsewhere soon.”

“You’re leaving?” asked Evin with a twinge of disappointment. Craix was quiet and a little odd, but she was the only other woman in the group. Evin would miss her. “Where are you going?” she pressed.

“Away,” returned Craix cryptically. “Are you ready? I smell breakfast.”