Steelfated, page 6
“That… is personal. Forgive me, tidsear, but my reasons for my path are my own. And I must soon return to the Long City.” She said with a slight bow.
The elf nodded and shrugged.
“You… I do not know what to think of you at the moment, bandrui. Part of me thinks you are wildly blessed- beyond that which many would know- especially considering your family.” he held up a hand to stop her protest. Traditions held he was supposed to know nothing about her personally, though he had likely gathered information on his own. “Harmony, bandrui, I can infer much without direct questions, and your tunic only confirms my suspicions. You are an incredibly fortunate young woman on the one hand. On the other, I think much of how you experience this cycle will depend on the whims of Vali, which is not a comfortable place to be. Your blessings make you highly desirable, highly dangerous, and highly sought after. Those same blessings make you a target. You may find yourself the target of those who feel spurned simply by a polite refusal to their requests. Yet you cannot agree to all requests- no one can. Perhaps it is fortunate that you will be… dying… so soon. These other Wrach-dealanaich- don’t let them worry you too much. I’ve only met one of them and know of two others by reputation. They are all… tempestuous. His voice was dry when he continued. “Brace for the storm, and remember that Archenarium chose you, you personally, for this gift. Treat them like the Fey, and hold your ground if you can. You may not think it yet, but you have just as much clout as they do, and they will use it.” Morgain shuddered, then turned and looked south towards the Long city, and her future. He looked at her and gave her some parting words.
“Balance and plenty.” With a slight bow, he turned and walked away. The other seven Wrach Dealanaich, gathered in a loose seven-pointed circle around her.
“Balance and plenty.” She replied quietly as she turned to face the seven others. They were approaching her with the speed and presence of a descending storm.
One of the elvish men, who must have been old indeed for an elf if the strands of silver peppering his soft brown hair were any indication, moved like a curious bird. He stepped forward, glancing around the circle, then prodded her sharply in the stomach with one long slender finger, as if she were something intriguing, or perhaps unknown. She kept her face relatively flat and prodded him back. He blinked in surprise, looking like nothing so much as an owl just poked in the eye by the mouse he was intending to swallow for dinner.
“Um… h-hello?” he chirped
“Um, hello to you as well.” Morgain said dryly.
“Hmm, I’m surprised to see that it was Jealdis who has finished her cycle. I’d have thought if it was anyone, it would have been you, Grainne.” He said in a musically reedy voice. Grainne, the single human woman, a strawberry blonde with an upturned Chelsian nose, was shorter than Morgain, though still relatively tall for a Chelsian woman, scowled openly at the elf.
“Saerys, I’m only one hundred and ten. No wait, one hundred twelve. At the outer extremes of the regular human lifespan, to be sure, but I’ve likely got at least as long again before my cycle ends.” Morgain blinked in astonishment.
“You are a hundred twelve?” Morgain blurted before she thought better of it. Grainne arched one eyebrow at her. “I-ah- I mean, you look good for your age. I thought you were a few years shy of forty.” The woman’s face darkened more.
“Forty??” she snarled. Then she twisted to face the reflecting pool and looked down at her reflection. The anger in the woman’s voice dropped quickly to something near disappointment. “Do I really look that old?”
“Peace, Grainne.” The willowy blonde elf man said, raising a hand. “Human ages are so hard to tell- you all change so fast- even those of you who have more than double their usual lifespan.”
“No one asked you, Taelswyth.” Grainne snapped back. This started the sort of bickering that Morgain expected among siblings, and young siblings at that.
“Enough, all of you.” A woman’s clear alto rang out. As one, the others fell silent.
The woman who had spoken, an elf, was easily the oldest of the lot of them. Her chin length hair was not silver, as some elves had naturally, but grey streaked with white, and her face actually showed some the signs of age- crows feet at the corners of her eyes almost deep enough to be wrinkles, and a few creases under her eyes and by the corners of her mouth. If she was a normal human, Morgain would have said she was in her early sixties. As an elf, for her to be showing that much age, she must have been ancient. Morgain thought about it for a moment. The woman would have to be incredibly ancient if the more than doubled lifespan they had mentioned to Grainne applied to the elves as well. She may have even seen over two millennia pass in her life. The old woman turned towards her and gave a grandmotherly smile.
“Greetings, Wrach-Dealanaich. You may call me Nerymis. The others here are called Grainne,” she pointed to the human woman, “Zin’phyra, Taelswyth, Ela’anan, Saerys, and Ael’emar.” She said.
Zin’phyra was a dark elf, her cool lavender-blue eyes and shoulder length black hair marked her. For humans, most considered skin tone to be the indicator of race. Not so among the elves. For them it was the color of their hair and eyes. High elves all had green, hazel, or golden eyes, and red, silver, gold, or light brown hair. Dark elves had hair ranging from dark brown to black with red or blue undertones, and blue, grey or purple eyes. Wild elves were an exception, but they had dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, and to a one they were shorter than the other elves. They also typically had a skin color, the exact shade of the bark of whatever tree was most prevalent in their region.
Ela’anan was a dark elf as well. His black hair, cropped incredibly short, almost a military cut, glittered brightly with blue undertones and his bright blue eyes full of laughter. She immediately felt as though she liked him.
Ael’emar was one of the shortest men she’d ever met, and a wild elf. His skin was the color of black walnut, which his eyes matched. If he was over five feet tall, she was a Jorun Merchant. Nerymis spoke again.
“What may we call you, Bandrui?” She wondered briefly if they had given her their real names, or if they had given her assumed names. Names were tricky business when dealing with druids and the fae both, and dangerous if misused. Perhaps an honest and open deflection would be best. But, it occurred to her she had been fully bound, and Archenarium would offer her protection from other druids, at the least.
“Balance and plenty to you all. For now, you may call me Aife.” She said with a slight bow to Nerymis, then a similar bow to the group. All of their eyebrows rose.
“Caution is an admirable trait, Aife, but unnecessary amongst our own group.” Ael’emar said.
“Oh, cut the girl some slack, Ael’emar. She’s just been bound, and has had arch druids beating caution into her head about names and obligations, and everything else for more than a decade. She’ll give us her name when she’s ready. For now, Aife will suit well enough.” Taelswyth said. Morgain looked at him and offered a grateful half smile.
Zin’phyra walked up to her with a tilted head and looked her over like she was a horse that was being sold for a suspiciously low price.
“Hmm.” she said after a moment.
“Do you like what you see?” Morgain asked, not quite keeping the sarcasm out of her voice. Zin’phyra looked up at her and smiled wanly. Morgain almost yelped when the woman tugged sharply on the leather cord that held her hair in its tail and let it tumble loose down almost to the small of her back. She’d always liked her hair long and was proud of the care she’d taken of it, at least until the electrification of her whole body a few moments ago.
“What are you-” she started.
“Nobly born, and highly so at that.” Zin’phyra said pointedly.
“Zin, you know that hair length doesn’t matter among humans-” Grainne started, but Zin’phyra cut her off.
“I know that, Grainne. Her hair gives her station away, not as a significant indicator of caste, but by its quality. Her hair is extremely soft and well cared for, and it smells faintly of honeysuckle and blackberries. This far south, those are expensive scents. Merchants rich enough to afford them are too stingy to spend that kind of coin on scents for their hair. And her hands are quite soft. Ergo, she is of noble birth, and at least moderately high enough to have some considerable wealth.”
“I heard from Lady Ironheart that the youngest daughter of the Muirdoch’s was training to be a druid.” Ela’anan said. It was the first time she’d heard him speak-, and she wished he would speak again. The man’s deep voice belied his slight frame and blanketed the air with what she could only describe as the aural equivalent of melted butter. She could listen to it for hours without-
Morgain shook her head and snapped herself out of that line of thinking.
“That would make sense. The Muirdoch’s certainly have the coin for those sorts of luxuries.” Zin’phyra said.
“I’ve heard that from the same source.” Taelswyth said with a shrug.
“Oh, but why her? Unless what I know about the Skylords and their ilk is wrong, there are four Muirdoch children, two boys, two girls, so if she IS of house Muirdoch she’ll be sent to- Why would Archenarium choose her in this way? It’s a much deeper investment to bind a measglaim, than it is to-” Grainne started.
“It’s not for us to question what Archenarium and the Octet choose to give or burden another with.” Nerymis snapped coldly. She turned to Morgain, her eyes thunderbolts. “Well, lass, will you have to-”
Morgain looked up at her and gave a small nod. Grainne and Zin’phyra cursed under their breath, but to a soul, all seven of them raised two fingers to their lips and kissed them before raising them above their heads and separating them into a V in salute.
Morgain sighed, recognizing the gesture, though despite its rarity. It was the final one given to soldiers who knew they were being sent to die. It was a gesture of great respect, and an attempt to draw the eyes of Myrrin’s Valkyries, the choosers of the victorious dead who would ascend to Vandalore.
Nerymis, Ela’anan, Ael’emar, and Saerys turned and walked back to the trees without another word spoken after giving her the salute. With a surge of power darting beneath her feet, they vanished.
Morgain found herself with Grainne, Taelswyth, and Zin’phyra. Grainne clapped her gently on the shoulder.
“Best of luck, Lass. If you need us, send a call through the trees- we’ll come if we can.” Then she was gone as well.
Taelswyth smiled warmly at her, and he and Zin’phyra showed her some tricks of her power.
They stayed and talked to her for another two hours until full dark had fallen and the stars emerged in great numbers. When they left, she felt considerably better about her life, until she thought about how short her remaining time was to be.
4
The Long City
(26th Dusk’s Wane 674 3rd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times passing in Talys Rae)
Morgain bent over the podium she was using as a desk, focusing intently on a small, roughly cylindrical piece of corroded brass that was suspended in the air before her.
She was in her workshop, near the top of the old storage tower her father had “designated” for her use. A single stone bridge, which led to a hall on the third floor of the keep close to her own personal chambers, connected the tower to the main keep of Daggerhold.
This artifact and the several hundred others she possessed just like it filled about a dozen crates in the room. The whole trove of items dated back to the time of the Connacthian Empire, whose collapse marked the end of the Second Era, and the rise of the Mistbourne.
She scratched her chin absently and stuck her tongue out of one corner of her mouth, trying with everything she had to be delicate as she worked. She had not yet fully repaid her “debt” to Archenarium- she was working on it- but her lack of access to the earth’s magic actually made it easier to focus on this project upon which she was working now. This was a delicate part of the procedure required to disassemble the artifact, and any wrong moves could have rather… sudden… consequences.
Although her breath still misted in the air before her mouth, and the icicles that hung dripping from the window ledge, she wore only a short-sleeved tunic, breeches and boots. Though plain, the clothes were of the finest quality, her parents had ensured it. Made of thick, soft wool, gathered from the alpacas that the mountain shepherds kept a watch on, it was exceptionally soft, and warm, and its black dye didn’t hide the wavy pattern of the fibers. That said, it would likely still surprise any foreigners that she wasn’t wearing a coat or hat. The highlands and their chill were in her blood, though, and the air was bracing enough to help her concentrate.
The same unruly lock of hair fell from behind her ears and into her eyes, almost causing her to tie off the knots she was weaving in surprise. She tucked the offending strand behind her ear and wiped her face with a hand, breathing a sigh of relief. She really should cut that damned lock off. It was always misbehaving. The rest of her hair always seemed to at least be manageable. THAT lock however-
She was getting distracted, which she could ill afford at this stage. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to clear her thoughts.
It occurred to Morgain that perhaps she should have done this part of the project at night, which caused a sheen of nervous sweat to spring to her forehead, despite the cool air. Well, it was too late to worry about that now, and she gingerly wiped her entire face on her sleeve, letting out a sigh of relief when nothing spontaneous occurred. She spent a moment imagining the people of Iannemrir singing her praises when she discovered what the use of these corroded brass cylinders truly was.
She would be famous!
Well, more famous than she already was, at the least. Everyone in Iannemrir knew her name, even if they did not know her by sight.
Iannemrir, colloquially known as The Long City, or Sanctuary-was a marvel of engineering and the stubborn resilience of the people of the Tuathan Highlands. The city walls stood forty feet high at the lowest and half as thick. They stretched in an unbroken rectangle the entire length of the plateau that the city stood on- fifty miles east to west, and ten miles north to south. The city proper was close to five hundred years old, though the central quarter of the City, where the Hall of the High Council stood, was far older. The population within its walls was almost three million, which was slightly more than half of the total population of all five of the highland countries.
Over the last five years, with the refugees from the latest Mistbourne resurgence trickling in a few dozen to a couple of hundred at a time, Iannemrir’s population had nearly doubled. If the need arose, Iannemrir could hold the entire population of the Highlands within its walls for up to two years without having to tighten daily rations beyond the initial need for establishing rationing. It would take the help of the druids to ensure food could be grown throughout the year, but it had been done before. Highlanders were always prepared for a disaster or a war. Pragmatism and vigilance were in their blood as much as the cold.
Morgain shook her head, chasing the stray thought away, and struggled to concentrate again. She had to concentrate fully on what she was doing if she wanted to take this damned thing apart successfully.
She was so close she could taste it. This last part of the process was delicate, and failure at this stage was often unpleasantly loud, not to mention smoky.
Distantly, she heard a thumping noise, almost like someone knocking on a door. She ignored it, assuming it was a vendor of some sort. Her guards were “supposed” to stop them, but occasionally they let one pass if they presented interesting enough goods. Other times, they let one in simply to vex her.
The lock of hair fell from its place behind her ears into her eyes.
She muttered an oath under her breath and tucked the hair behind her ear again. Sweat continued to drip down her neck and onto her forehead as she worked. She heard the thumping noise again but paid it no more mind than she did the inescapable smell of the city, or the cry of birds in the wind. She slowly reached out with her left hand, trying to find a point on which she could touch the brass cylinder without damaging it. There was always one, but some of them were hard to find.
She used the faint trickle of Archenarium’s power she held to view the delicate strands of knotwork magic woven around the artifact, and scratched her chin. It was an old pattern of knotwork, the lines of its weave antiquated, of a style that was no longer used. It was extraordinarily difficult to determine what exactly the makers had intended the weave to do. Once or twice before she had gotten past this stage, though she had never gotten one open without a catastrophic failure.
The thumping came again, and again she ignored it. She focused her will and a thin thread of her magic to pick at the strands of knotwork. She held her right hand out near the object. The persistent thump suddenly turned into a crash as the door flew backwards and bounced off the wall.
Morgain started, and her hand entered the weave and crossed two strands. There was a high-pitched keening whistle, then a blinding flash of orange light and a loud bang. She felt her feet leave the ground with the noise, and the acrid sulfur smell of rotten eggs permeated the room.
She rolled back to her hands and knees coughing, her ears ringing in protest of the noise, and she wiped the smoke from her eyes with the back of her hand. The lock of hair had fallen again. She swore under her breath; the words leaving her mouth foul enough to turn a sailor’s cheeks red. She spat the command word of a knot that would create a small gust of wind and cleared the room of smoke. In her irritation and underestimating how much of her debt she’d repaid, she drew too much power, and what she intended as a gentle breeze turned out to be a gust.
Papers and various clutter flew wildly about the room. An uneven stack of books fell over and most of them landed on her head and back. The thuds and weight were more irritating than painful, though one heavy wooden bound book did land on the nails of the last two fingers of her left hand, painfully. Three glass jars broke when they hit the floor, and the wooden shutters flapped loudly against the wall.
