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Forest
Chapter 5: To say Goodbye
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"Your majesty."
Jonathan looked up from a stack of papers and frowned at the lanky mage, who was bowing to him very properly from the doorway. "Numair." He greeted him, just as coldly. The two of them glared at each other for a moment, then Jon waved nobly at a chair opposite him, indicating that this unwanted visitor should sit down while his king finished with reports of a more vital nature. Numair sat down and glanced curiously (but expressionlessly) around the room.
The house was old but grand, having belonged to an ancient noble family once upon a time, but was now fallen into decay. The elaborate tapestries and draperies that covered the walls were almost totally concealed by maps, tactical diagrams and lists of codes. At one point the code breaker must have run out of the valuable paper, as the white plaster on the scarce bare patches of wall was also covered in code.
Around the room, scores of clerks and couriers scuttled around in organized chaos, taking papers and letters from one place to another, drawing out diagrams, organizing messages into piles depending on their importance, and so on.
Numair could recognize a few of the faces from the rare occasions where he had worked as a spy, but a great many more were new- young, nervous looking men and women, probably dragged out of schools or their homes in the desperation of the war. Numair watched Jon's ears getting progressively redder, until he grew bored with the silence.
"I have come to ask you what my next job is." Numair kept his face carefully blank- not apologizing, not provoking, just blank. "I assume you don't want me to go to Scanra with Alanna, or you would have told me via her."
Jon looked up, his eyes bleak. "She's not going to Scanra- not yet, anyway. She's going to Pirate's Swoop."
"Pirate's Swoop?" Numair gaped at him, his anger forgotten. "What earthly good could she do there?"
"Her family is there." Jon fiddled nervously with the papers in front of him, finally giving up and meeting the other man's eyes, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. "I wanted to give her a chance to… to say goodbye. She's going to Scanra after that."
"Why on earth didn't she tell me?" The mage demanded. Jonathan shrugged, the gesture clear- this is Alanna we're talking about. Numair tapped his fingers against the table, dry paper crackling under his fingertips.
"To say goodbye… is it really that bad, Jon?"
Jon looked at the couriers and waved a hand in dismissal. As they hurried out of the room, he smiled humorlessly at Numair. "It's so bad, I can't imagine any way that it could be worse. Not even if Mithros himself came down from the immortal realms with a grudge against all Tortallans. The passes are being snowed shut, and the seas are treacherous in winter. We cannot try to form an alliance with anyone…we can't reach anyone. After we eat the winter stores, we will have nothing to plant in the spring."
His voice rose angrily, as if yelling would show the distant armies his loathing. "Even if Scanra doesn't kill us in the winter, we will starve in the summer. That's why I sent Alanna to say goodbye!"
He suddenly stood up and swept the pile of paper and inks off the desk, watching angrily as glass shattered and spilled ink spread over the white field. Numair started to get up, but stopped as Jon glared at him. His Royal Highness kicked at the papers frustratedly.
"It all seems so pointless! I hate paperwork, but I'm the only person I can trust to do it! I'd much rather go riding, or maybe go and chop up some Scanrans… but I'm king! I have to sit here like a vegetable, watching my country die around me… and there's nothing I can do about it! Nothing!"
"You've cut yourself." Numair said quietly. Jon looked at his hand, where a shard of glass from an inkwell had scored a deep cut. Sighing, he pulled the glass out and touched the wound with a glowing finger, healing it instantly. Slowly, he began picking up the papers and stacking them back on the desk, wiping ink off the worst ones. As Numair knelt down to help, Jon began to speak again, very quietly.
"Numair- I want to give you a choice. Now that Ozorne is dead, you can be Arram Draper again. You can disappear from this country before it falls- start a new life. You don't have to get involved in a losing battle. I'd be more content about losing Tortall and…dying… if I knew one of my friends, at least, was alive."
Numair blinked at him. "No."
"But…"
"You must be tired, or you'd never even think I'd accept such an offer. I will die for Tortall, with Tortall, just as you knew I would."
Jonathan straightened the last stack of papers and sighed. "I figured you might say that…"
"On one condition."
Numair waited and watched Jon's expression as he realized what the mage was getting at. The king groaned and flung himself in the chair in a most undignified manner. Numair sat opposite him again, waiting for him to say what they both knew.
"This isn't about that girl…?"
"I promised her she would be accepted here."
"I can't. The nobles…"
Numair cut him off with a swift gesture. Jonathan recognized it as a rough spy sign for 'secret', before the lanky man continued, "Not the nobles. You. She can't fight for us without your consent. She's the sort of person who wouldn't say boo to a goose without permission." He leaned forwards and said, intently, "I swear to you that she is trustworthy. And you need all the help you can get."
"Why is she so important to you?" Jon looked at the mage's stony face. "Um…never mind. If you claim responsibility for her…" He thought it over and nodded. Suddenly businesslike, he looked at the repaired work desk. "Can you see an inkpot that isn't broken anywhere?"
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Daine sighed and opened her eyes, looking in confusion at the unfamiliar room she was in. It was more lavish than any room she had ever been in before, with tapestries hanging on the walls to stave off the winter cold, and carvings on the modest fireplace. Looking closely, though, she realized that the tapestries were moth-eaten and threadbare, and the cherubic carvings were coated in a thick layer of dust. She scowled and looked around for something to dust them with.
"I have got to stop waking up in such dirty places." She muttered under her breath. She found a scrap of cloth in one of her pockets, and set to work on a pony whose tail had broken off. After two years of slavery, the work was second nature, and gave her time to think.
By the time the fireplace was reasonably clean, she was fully awake, and had recalled the odd dream enough times to be able to write a novel of it. Still thinking, she opened the door and went exploring.
The first corner she turned, she found a small flock of starlings roosting around a window. Hesitantly, she tried to speak to them, not really expecting them to answer.
For the last two years, the only People she had spoken to were horses and ponies. She had obstinately blocked out the voices of every other animal, unable to bear the thought of their freedom when she herself was caged. Eventually, she had convinced herself that they had deserted her, first, and stopped feeling guilty for her silence.
She went up to the nearest bird- a small chick, barely a week out of the nest. It peeped and fluttered away, hiding behind an older starling.
"I'm sorry for scaring you." Daine said hesitantly. The bird regarded her for a moment, fluffing out its feathers against the cold. The tiny bird behind it peeked out from behind the wings and chirped. The larger bird spun around and pecked at it, forcing it to fly further away.
Daine watched the display and sighed, turning away from the starling flock.
You are wrong to teach the young to trust humans. The larger bird hopped closer. They do not know what you are.
Daine couldn't stop herself smiling. "You're speaking to me!"
Yes. If I let you talk to my children, will you warn them about the other humans? It might mean more, from you. They are very curious, and not yet very wise. The starling cocked his head to one side and fixed her with one beady eye as she nodded.
When Numair found her, she was covered in tiny speckled birds, who were all peeping at once. She looked up and smiled at him, bidding the starlings goodbye as they flew off, scared, and started to hunt for bugs.
"What did they say?" Asked the tall man, looking out of the window at the birds.
"They're migrating to the western islands tomorrow. They left it a bit overdue, because they had a late hatching. The new chicks are nervous, because they've never flown such a long way before, but the older ones say there are some good thermals along the way, so it really only takes two wing-beats to get there. They're not very good at counting." She added.
"Western Islands? Do you mean the Yamani Islands?" Numair asked, then checked himself and handed her a rolled up letter, sealed with red wax. "I was talking to Jon, and he asked me to give this to you."
"Just like that?" The girl raised an eyebrow, looking suspicious. Numair grinned, wondering how the girl had detected the temporary hostility between the two men.
"Exactly like that." He turned and watched the birds flying outside, giving Daine some privacy to read in. Curious, she slit under the seal with a fingernail, not wanting to destroy the beautiful design, and unrolled the paper. A second, smaller piece fluttered out and landed on the floor. Hastily, she picked it up and read it.
I, Jonathan of Conte, King of Tortall, declare Veralidaine Sarrasri to be a citizen of Tortall. This declaration frees her of any obligation to any other country, in times of war and peace, until the day she dies.
A neat signature followed. Daine blinked away the sudden tears in her eyes and read the second letter, holding it carefully so the tears didn't fall and smudge the ink.
Dear Daine,
I must apologise for my impolite behavior when I met you. It is understandable for me to be cautious in times of war, but caution is no excuse for incivility.
Numair declares you to be trustworthy, and I believe him to be right. I have enclosed an item which I hope proves my trust in you. Remember that as a citizen of Tortall, you have a responsibility to your home- but you also have freedom to choose your own path. Act as you feel is right, remembering your loyalty to your country, and I am sure that whatever the outcome, your actions will make us proud.
The item I have enclosed is one of an identical pair. The second is being recorded as I write this in the ledgers of our country. I thought it wise for you to have your own copy, in case your old life catches up with you. Use it with discretion.
Thank you for your help in this war. Our country owes you a debt, and I hope this reaches some way to paying off that debt.
Most Sincerely, Jonathan
P.S. Don't let that lanky mage bully you, he's ridiculously obstinate but a good friend when all is done.
Daine smiled at the informal addendum and wiped her eyes a second time. Words like "home" and "freedom" danced up from the page. She leaped up and threw her arms around a surprised Numair, hugging him joyfully. He grinned at her. "Good news, was it?"
"I don't know how you did it…"
"I? I didn't do anything." Numair tried to look dignified. "I wouldn't presume to put words into Jonathan's mouth. He was totally sincere when he wrote it."
She laughed and looked at the letter again, noting the post-script. "It's the best present I've ever had. Thank you so much!" She hugged him again and spun around, waving the letter at the birds outside the window, who cheeped in alarm.
"I have a home!"
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Ranty A/N: A rather bittersweet chapter, I fear… thank you all for your reviews! I'm sorry that the story's rather confusing so far… I promise it will become clearer! I just don't like writing the kind of characters who come in and say:
VILLAIN: Muahaha! I am the egocentric baddie!
HERO: I am the hero! showy pose
VILLAIN: Hero? I will tell you my entire plan, home address and Email so that you can spend the rest of the novel creating the perfect, most ironic way to kill me!
HERO: You'll never get away with it! pose
Exaggeration is your friend:P But seriously, exposition dialogue annoys me. I can't write it without boring people, and I find it kind of unrealistic. How many people have you spilled your guts to this week? Seriously. I prefer to be mysterious (and therefore confusing.)