That’s what she kept telling herself.
Astalia heaved a great, musical sigh. “I certainly hope so. Things in the Wilderlands are awful! They abandoned the refuge I was born in because of the gurvani uprising,” she said, accusingly. “It could be decades before we return!”
“I don’t think we have decades,” Dara said, glumly.
“They’re just gurvani,” Astalia dismissed. “They’ve rebelled before. But they’re more short-lived than even your people, though not by much. They’ll become disorganized and return to their nests in a few years, after their chieftains die off. That’s what usually happens.”
“This time, they have a leader who can’t die off,” Dara pointed out. “Sheruel, the Dead God. He really is dead. Or undead,” she reminded the Alkan maid.
“Yes, that even has the council . . . perplexed,” Astalia admitted. “There is all sorts of talk about using extraordinary means to put down the uprising. Songspells that haven’t been used in generations – our generations, not yours,” Astalia supplied, looking troubled. “That means that they really are concerned. They’re even talking about using . . . transgenic enchantments,” she whispered. “Those are highly restricted!”
Dara swallowed hard at the unexpected turn in the discussion. Transgenic enchantment was exactly what Lady Ithalia was using to make Frightful larger. That explained her desire for discretion about the project.
“Why are transgenic enchantments restricted?” Dara asked, trying to sound innocent. “Don’t the Emissaries use them, to look more like us?”
“They are you,” Astalia corrected, allowing the display to go dark. “When you use transgenic enchantment, you are taking your personal essence and expressing it in an entirely new biological species. With some changes, if they are adept enough at the magic. That’s why it’s restricted. We once had horrible wars that used transgencially improved bodies against each other. Far different from these bodies,” she said, gesturing to her tiny stature.
“How, different?” Dara asked, with horrid fascination. She suddenly imagined all sorts of terrible things happening to Frightful from the spell.
“Big, ugly, vicious, dangerous bodies designed to fight and kill,” Astalia answered. “Once, my people put them on as easily as your folk don armor, before you fight each other.”
Dara snorted, recalling the difficulty in dressing in her armor for the first time. “Clearly, you’ve never worn armor before,” she noted to her odd new friend.
“I’ve never worn clothes before!” Astalia pointed out, inspiring a gale of giggles from both girls. “Have you? Worn armor?” she asked, fascinated.
“Yes,” Dara admitted with a sigh. “And a flaming good thing, too. It’s the proper fashion choice, if you happen to be in the middle of a battle.”
Astalia looked even more horrified . . . and even more fascinated. “You’ve been in battle? I didn’t think human females went to war!”
“As a rule, it’s avoided,” Dara agreed, uncomfortably. “I’m kind of an exception, since I’m the Spellmonger’s apprentice. And I won my witchstone using an . . . unusual technique. And . . . well, there are a lot of reasons I ended up going, but it wasn’t my first idea.”
Astalia shuddered. “I can’t imagine! Was it dangerous? Did you fight?” she asked, excitedly.
“Personally?” Dara asked, still uncomfortable with discussing the Battle of Cambrian – or at least her part in it, as important as it was. “I did. I wasn’t supposed to, but then the gods don’t always pay attention to the plans of men. Our position was attacked, early in the battle, and I had to fight to defend it. It was . . . awful,” she said, simply. “And that was before the dragon.”
“The dragon!” Astara nearly squealed. “You saw the dragon?”
“Saw it?” Dara asked, self-consciously. “I helped slay it! Using the Thoughtful Knife,” she added, to put her effort in perspective. She didn’t want the maiden to think that she’d charged the great beast with a sword, or something silly like that. “I was one of several who fought it.”
“Then the humani are as brave as it is said,” Astalia said, shaking her head in wonder. “Only the most valiant Alka Alon warriors out of legend were bold enough to stand against dragons, with spell or spear. Most fled in terror,” she said, wistfully.
“That seems like an uncommonly wise idea, actually,” Dara observed. “However scary you might imagine a dragon, the reality is worse.”
“We’ve oft cursed the day when we brought them to Callidore,” Astalia said, sadly. “We thought them all but extinct, until the Abomination brought them forth again in force against us.”
“Wait, the Alka Alon brought dragons to Callidore?” Dara asked, accusingly.
“That was long, long ago, even as my people reckon things,” Astalia said, defensively. “Nor was my kindred involved in their import. That was the Versaroti clans,” she insisted. “My people fought our wars with other weapons!”
“Like . . . transgenic enchantments?” Dara asked, her eyebrow arched.
“Well, yes!” Astalia said, folding her arms in a most human-like fashion. “When our clans fought, that is how they fought! Why is that so amusing to you?” she demanded.
“Because . . . because suddenly sinking our own civilization doesn’t seem like such bad thing, by comparison,” Dara decided, after a moment’s thought. “I suppose that we humani look on you Alka Alon as being incredibly superior, because you live so long. In our stories you’re always wise, remote, magically far-sighted . . . but I guess you’re just as boneheaded as we are. Your folk just take a lot longer to do it.”
Astalia was about to reply, hotly, when she paused and sighed. “I believe you are correct, Lenodara. And we often treat your folk as either novel subjects for our amusement or annoying inconveniences, thanks to your shorter life-spans. One moment you have an advanced civilization, entirely ignorant of magic yet lords of the sky, and the next you’re a bunch of ignorant farmers fighting over territory who don’t know anything that wasn’t painstakingly written down. It’s frustrating,” Astalia revealed.
“I guess from your perspective, it would be. And I guess we can be a little annoying. That’s what Ithalia said, too.”
“My cousin is one of your biggest proponents, in council,” Astalia said, proudly. “She thinks the answer to our current problems lies in embracing the humani and their ideas . . . even if you do tend to sink islands and such. She places much value in your master, the Spellmonger.” Though it was a statement, there was a question implied, one Dara felt compelled to answer.
“Master Minalan is accounted a great and powerful wizard for a reason,” Dara reflected. “He’s used his powers to transform and improve Sevendor and keep it safe. He doesn’t mind standing up to Dukes and Kings, though he’s only a baker’s son. And he’s bloody clever, even for a wizard,” Dara decided. “I don’t know what to tell you, Astalia. Is he clever enough? Like your cousin, he sees our best hope in a strong alliance between our peoples. Regardless of what worlds we started on, we’re both here on Callidore, now. And the Dead God threatens us both.”
“I could not agree more, Lenodara,” Astalia admitted. “The gurvani have risen before, but never like this.”
“Call me Dara,” she replied, as a clear, bright tone seemed to fill the air. “All my friends do. Is that the chime for dinner?”
***
While the Alka Alon were a strange and different people from humanity, they weren’t so different that they didn’t commemorate the meeting of the council with a feast. The great hall they met within was large enough to host hundreds, though it was only partially filled.
While it was a celebration, it was a different sort of feast than the human occasions Dara had attended. For one thing, while the food was delicious, exotic, and beautifully presented in captivating geometric patterns, it was not the focus of the event, the way it usually was at human affairs. They were not even seated at tables according to rank: the food was piled on a singl
e long table in the center of the hall and all ate freely, without service or ceremony.
Nor was wine or ale the center of attention, though there seemed to be plenty available. There was music – beautiful music, featuring strange stringed instruments and delightful little pipes – but it was there to enhance conversation, not interrupt it.
In fact, Dara quickly realized that the reception was largely an excuse to stand around and talk, an unofficial extension of the Council’s deliberations, conducted in a less formal setting. There wasn’t even dancing, though considering the size of her potential partners, she didn’t mind that.
“What is my task, Master?” she asked Minalan, as they spent a few moments in the small hostel they’d been loaned before the reception.
“Learn as much as you can,” he said, vaguely, as she helped him drape his “official” robes over his shoulders. “About everything. We did well, today, and the council is well-disposed to us, at the moment. But there is still much reluctance among the Alka Alon to throw their support behind us, fully. Try to discover the source of their reluctance, if you can,” he advised. “But listen to every word. There’s no telling when a stray bit of conversation can prove meaningful.” Lady Pentandra was similarly unhelpful in her direction, when Dara asked her what she was supposed to be listening out for.
Master Guri, of all people, had the best counsel: “Ruthlessly interrogate the buffet table,” the Karshak stonesinger advised. “In a room full of Alka Alon, it’s the only thing that’s likely to give you a straight answer.”
Dara did just that, when she realized that there were no service duties for her to perform, nor any rules of precedence she had to follow about when to eat. The food – mostly fresh fruit, nuts, steamed vegetables, and boiled roots she’d never seen before – was delicious and strange on her tongue, and she enjoyed experimenting with the flavors and textures while everyone else in the room ignored her. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad, being unimportant, she reflected while pouring herself a second cup of some amazing beverage from an impossibly elegant glass pitcher.
That’s when Dara learned that she wasn’t, strictly speaking, entirely unimportant.
Lady Varen appeared at her elbow, one of the few people in the room taller than Dara. She and the other two Emissaries were mingling with everyone, smiling and conversing more than eating and drinking. Of the three transformed Alka Alon women, Dara had always found Lady Varen the most distant and remote. She lacked Lady Ithalia’s joviality or Lady Fallawen’s engagement, when she conversed. But when she did speak, Dara soon learned, her words were filled with import.
“Lady Lenodara,” she began, quietly, her voice sounding like a bell, “Pray be cautious about discussing any recent lessons you may have had,” she said, catching Dara’s eye. It was the closest she’d ever seen an Alka Alon to panic, she realized. And she could only be referring to Ithalia’s experiments with Frightful.
Because transgenic enchantments were restricted by the Alka Alon council, she knew, and Ithalia was likely breaking some rules in doing so. Lady Varen was worried that Dara would blab to someone at the important function.
It was a subtle direction, but Dara understood it perhaps a little better, after spending some time with Astalia earlier in the day. It made sense, considering their perspective: Varen was worried a gossipy wizard’s apprentice would casually mention something incriminating about her work in the very worst possible location to do so. That would serve neither the friendly Alka Alon or the humans they were trying to help.
While she bristled, mentally, at the idea that Lady Varen thought that she’d be such a blabbermouth, she could also appreciate the caution. There was a lot at stake, Dara knew.
“And ruin the surprise?” she replied, slyly, popping a slice of fruit in her mouth. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Master Min isn’t even aware of it, yet,” she boasted.
Lady Varen’s shoulders dropped slightly as she relaxed. “Thank you, Lady Lenodara. You understand perfectly. Thankfully the point is likely to be moot, soon. The Council reacted very favorably to Minalan’s gifts,” she pointed out, nodding to some of the members mingling in the hall, fingering the pretty new stones around their necks.
“And that means . . .?” Dara asked, expectantly. She had no clear idea just what that should mean.
“That means that things could change very rapidly, very soon,” she assured. “Minalan and Pentandra have managed to impress the Council, and that is not lightly done.”
Before Dara could get frustrated with the vague answer, they were interrupted by an older Alka Alon, in his traditional form . . . which brought him no taller than Dara’s belt.
“Ah! I’d hoped to get the opportunity to speak with one of the humani wizards, before they return home, but the other two seem well-occupied. Varen, could you introduce me to your friend?” he asked, formally.
Varen sighed, but so subtly that few would have noticed. Dara noticed. “Father, may I present Lady Lenodara of Westwood, the Hawkmaiden of Sevendor. Lady Lenodara, this is my sire, Raer Ingvarion.”
“Your . . . father?” Dara asked, swallowing. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt as she bowed deeply. “Your daughter has given great service to my homeland, and my people,” she said, formally. That’s what Lady Pentandra would have wanted her to say, she knew.
“Oh, she’s a canny one,” the little Alkan said, beaming with fatherly pride as he looked up at his daughter. “Smarter than her mother or father. She’s always been fascinated by your people,” he revealed. “I never saw the allure of such a study, but I’m beginning to see her point.”
“Lady Varen . . . studies . . . humans?” Dara asked, surprised.
“It’s been her passion for centuries,” Ingvarion agreed. “She even kept a few as pets, once. She’s always said that the magi were the very brightest of your species,” he reflected, skeptically. “I’ve had my doubts, but you seem to have accomplished quite a bit, with so little,” he praised.
It was an insulting compliment, but Dara suspected Ingvarion wasn’t aware of it. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, hesitantly. “Though I cannot take any credit, myself. Master Minalan and Lady Pentandra have been the ones who have done the hard work. I’m merely the Spellmonger’s apprentice.”
“Lady Lenodara denies herself credit for her actions,” Varen reproved. “Actually, Father, she’s one of the brightest, most capable of the magi. In a few short years she’s managed to learn an incredible volume of material. And even mastered the use of the Thoughtful Knife,” she added, praisingly.
“Oh, did she, now?” the older Alkan asked, newly impressed. “That does indicate a more complex mental command than I’d give your species credit for,” he reflected. “Now if you just didn’t die after a few damnably short decades, you might be really interesting!”
“A common complaint, among scholars,” Lady Varen said, quickly, realizing how insulting the comment sounded to humans. “But humanity’s short lifespan also encourages them to accomplish much in a short period of time,” she reminded her father.
“Or to lose much,” he reflected. “They went from being masters of the sky to ignorant peasants in just a few generations, after they sunk Perwyn,” he reminded them.
“We pride ourselves on our adaptability, my lord,” Dara said, diplomatically. But she was feeling bold, after the Alkan’s unintentional insults. “I understand that the members of your kindred focus their scholarship on some subjects with unrestrained passion,” she said, trying to change the subject. “May I ask what field you study?”
“My father is an authority on the lesser Alon,” Lady Varen replied, informatively. “The Karshak, the Dradrien, the Tal Alon, the Hulka Alon, the gurvani . . .”
“Our client species,” Ingvarion said, with a touch of pride. “In this region, they’ve been allowed to go all but fallow. A marvelous opportunity to study their unguided development,” he said, with satisfaction. “Especially since the Feluthial Ab
dication, it’s been particularly fruitful. Then your folk appeared, and were granted their lands,” he frowned. “Now we have cultural contamination from the humani to contend with,” he said, irritated. “Highly disruptive.”
“My father is being an ass, Lady Lenodara,” Lady Varen soothed. “He’s been upset about losing the purity of his scholarship since the humani arrived, ignoring the far more interesting factor of that very cultural contamination. The lesser Alon have adopted a number of cultural and technological things from humanity,” she assured. “That is far, far more intriguing than which Hulka Alon clans are using what kind of clubs.”
“That was a very well-received lecture!” Ingvarion countered, even more irritated.
“My point is that the humani have enriched our lands with more than trees and flowers,” Lady Varen argued. “What Minalan is doing with the Tal Alon in Sevendor is remarkable. Even the Karshak Alon are affected by their culture – they’ve adopted writing, under their influence.”
“A cheat, discouraging proper study and scholarship!” sneered the Alka Alon. “Hardly a step forward!”
“It’s a step somewhere!” insisted Lady Varen, putting her hands on her hips in a most human-like gesture. “When are you going to admit that the humani arrival was a positive development?”
“When are you going to acknowledge the great difficulties they’ve created by their arrival, and agree that it was a mistake?” countered Ingvarion, hotly. “Never mind! It appears Lady Pentandra isn’t currently occupied – perhaps she’ll be more reasonable about the subject!”
“Proving that he has yet to make Lady Pentandra’s acquaintance,” Dara muttered, as the older Alkan strutted away. She hadn’t intended for the remark to be overheard, but Lady Varen caught her eye and shot her a thankful smile.
“I’m so sorry you had to witness that,” the emissary sighed, as her father walked away. “Ingvarion is a bit old-fashioned, in his scholarship. Indeed, he hasn’t had an original idea in a thousand years,” she declared. “He’s never accepted my interest in the humani as valid scholarship. Until recently,” she conceded. “Now, he’s starting to see the promise in your folk that I do.”
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