Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it belongs to Tamora Pierce.
A/N: This is a long chapter. But I had a lot say.
Narms Briton 44: As you will see when you read this chapter, you were exactly right about what Weiryn was doing.
Confused Knight: Oh, now I feel so bad. I'm not sure where Faithful went to. He is not in the Immortals series at all and I'm not sure if he became a god or what. If I weren't sticking so close to cannon I would put him in just for you, but I am. Sorry.
Lady Araceli: More cat-tude in here too. Queenclaw is fun.
Alanna Cooper: Thanks so much.
Goldeneyedwildmage: More Queenclaw and a little more on Weiryn in this chapter.
Nativewildmage: Apparently we've all encountered a cat like this. Thanks for the compliments.
Bitterosemary: He's a god and has lived a long, long time. And yet he can still be insecure. I love characters that deep. I think you'll like the section in this on Jon too. It's a glimpse of him you don't usually see in fanfiction. I actually cried when I wrote it, which probably indicates I'm way too wrapped up into my stories.
Purple Eyed Cat: It's those little touches that makes us all love Numair so. Thanks for the compliments.
Hoshi Ko88: Meowwww!
Sarramaks: Thanks. More Weiryn and Queenclaw here too. I will review the last chapter of your story soon. While I was reviewing today something weird happened to the site and I haven't gotten back on. So when you see this posted, I will probably be reading your last posted chapter too.
Chapter 7 – Measure of a Man
Numair dreamed fitfully throughout the night – the kind of vivid dreams that one would expect if they had swallowed dreamrose, though he had not. He observed a battle council in Corus, overseen by the queen (unusual given the conservative opinion of her), and he watched Alanna face more spidrens than anyone should ever see together in a lifetime. Despite the odds, Alanna and her crew of exhausted looking knights and riders triumphed with a few disheartening losses. But the dream that proceded his consciousness left him anxious to find a way to contact the other realm.
Jon sat in a Lord Imrah's study in the castle at Port Legann. He was reviewing a list of those killed in various battles. It went on for page after page and Jon looked gray with despair. Never before had Numair seen the king look less than confident. He usually displayed an air of being above it all. Though he was properly remorseful at news of death, it was only as much as was appropriate and no more or less. There was a knock at the door and Jon composed himself. A mage entered the room.
"Sire, the gelding has been returned to the stables. The scouts found their belongings, including this crossbow," the mage held up Daine's crossbow. It had been new at midwinter. Now it was mangled and useless. Jon took it in his hands and examined it, nodding slowly.
"Did your group scry as I requested?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," the mage replied. "However, like you, we did not find a trace of them."
"And the scouts and mages have also not seen any further sign of the Skinners?"
"Correct, Your Grace."
"Thank you, Corleth."
"I wish it were good news, Sire. The war will be much harder without the wildmage and black robe mage."
Jon closed his eyes for a moment. "Their names were Veralidaine Sarrasri and Numair Salmalin," he said a little harshly. "Please have the clerk add them to roles of the lost on your way out." He handed the sheets of parchment he had been reviewing to the mage, clearly dismissing him.
When the mage exited, Jon locked the door. He turned to the fire and sat down, face in his hands. Numair realized after a moment that he was weeping, something in all their years of friendship, he had never seen Jonathan do. After a while Jon whispered a prayer, "Great Mother Goddess, how many more must I send to their deaths? How many more? Help us please. Guide us out of the damnable war." The weeping turned to wracking sobs that shook the poor man. His arms were crossed as if trying to fend of grief in a self-embrace. "Daine, Numair," he whispered again, hoarsely, "Please forgive me. You saved us, but the price was too high, far too high."
For a moment more Jon cried in solitude, sorrow pouring from him like torrential rain. And then there was another knock at the door. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He crossed to the water basin and splashed water on his face, wiping away all signs of his emotional outpour. He composed himself and opened the door, majestic façade back in place.
Raoul of Goldenlake stood there with paperwork in hand and Jon began again to attend to the matters of running his kingdom, stuffing his humanity back where it must be kept to lend confidence to his people.
Numair sat up in his bed, sunlight streaming through the window. He had not given much thought to the struggles Jon faced everyday as King. And Numair knew that Jon wasn't just crying for the loss of his friends, but for all of those names that went on page after page. To a king with no conscience, the losses might just be names on parchment. Ozorne would have been that way. But to Jonathan, war was a personal struggle where a leader made decisions that cost lives. Jon was suffering the weight of those losses and he was suffering alone. At this moment, Numair felt more compassion for his friend than he ever had, and he knew he had to find a way back now.
He dressed and cleaned his teeth and brushed his hair. He wanted a bath and he desperately needed to shave, but though what he had needed for other hygienic chores had been provided, a place to bathe and a razor had not.
Light bloomed in his room and the strangest creature he had ever encountered waddled forward. It looked up at Numair through deep set, expressive eyes. It had a duck's bill and a tail shaped like that of a beaver, though it looked nothing like either one. The creature was covered in dense brown fur that might actually repel water. "G'day," the creature answered in an audible voice much like the badger's. "You must be Master Salmalin."
Numair nodded and then realized that like every creature he had encountered in this realm so far, this was a god. "Numair Salmalin, at your service," Numair said, bowing to the god with a flourish. The creature's eyes twinkled.
"I am Broad Foot, the male god of duckmoles, pleased to meet ya'." There was a unique accent to his voice – if voice was an accurate term. "I was sent to tell you that food was ready in the garden if you're hungry. Sarra heard you stirring about."
Numair scratched his new beard absently. It was much longer than one would expect for a day or two. "Have you any idea how long we've been here?"
"Four days," Broad Foot answered.
"And where is the garden?" he asked next. Broad Foot gave him directions. "One more thing, is Weiryn there currently?"
"Yes," Broad Foot answered, an almost quizzical look passing through his dark eyes.
"Mental preparation," Numair answered. The creature snorted and disappeared in a puff of sparkling white light.
The small walled garden was another feature that seemed consistent with Sarra's personality rather than Weiryn's. It featured a table, benches and an outdoor hearth, set on open grass. Weiryn sat at one end of the table, adding fletching to arrows. Sarra was standing at the other end of the table, rolling what appeared to be pie crust with a large wooden cylinder. Queenclaw, all dignity forgotten, was chasing a small yellow ball around by the hearth. Broad Foot was now seated to Weiryn's left, with his webbed front feet perched on the edge of the table.
"Good morning, Sarra, Weiryn, Queenclaw," Numair said politely trying to keep his mind filled with text. Sarra looked up and smiled in a friendly manner. Weiryn grunted a half greeting.
"There's porridge. I thought it would go down best." Sarra said.
"Thank you," he answered nervously thinking that with his poor traveler's stomach, porridge would be a very good choice. Sarra ushered him to the table and he sat down next to Broad Foot. Sarra then placed a bowl of porridge before him.
Numair looked up at Weiryn and said, "I was wondering if we might discuss our return to the mortal realms?"
Weiryn glared, "We shall not discuss any such thing until Daine is recovered." Weiryn began to trim fletching violently. Numair chided himself. He had obviously added to Weiryn's animosity.
There was a long silence as he tried to eat the porridge. It was very flavorful, a little too much so. Next to him Broad Foot began to mash a piece of dried fruit with his bill. "You have to be the most unusual creature I have ever encountered," he said to Broad Foot. "You look mammalian, is that correct."
"Yes, but my people also lay eggs," Broad Foot answered.
Awed, Numair tried to think if he had ever read of any creature that matched this description. "I gave Daine a book on mammals of the world and we studied it in depth together. In addition, I have read many books on mammals. Why have I never encountered anything about you before?"
Weiryn snorted, but continued to work with the fletching, never looking up at Numair. Broad Foot turned to look at the hunt god with clear amusement, then turned back and answered, "There are no two-leggers where my people reside. To you it is the other side of the world."
Numair contemplated this for a moment, scratching his beard again. He preferred to be clean shaven. "Are there other amniote-mammals that you are aware of?"
"He's not a university professor," Weiryn said irritably.
Queenclaw strolled over and leaped gracefully up to the chair on the other side of Weiryn. "He asked if there were any other animals that suckle their young, but also lay eggs, as you very well know. If he starts simplifying unnecessarily, then you'll accuse him of talking down to you," she told him saucily.
Numair sighed to himself. This was not ingratiating him to Daine's father.
Broadfoot decided to answer the question. "Yes -- a spiny anteater. We live in the same region."
Numair looked up and saw Sarra glance nervously at her lover. He thought it was a good sign that he should tread lightly. But Queenclaw had other ideas. The cat turned to Numair and said, "Eat, before it's completely cold." He took a mouthful of porridge and then nearly spit it out when the cat turned her amber eyes on Weiryn and said, "Your daughter is quite fond of that mage. You might consider getting to know him before you growl so."
Numair shot Queenclaw a pleading look.
"Mage," Weiryn said gruffly, "Can you shoot a bow?"
"Yes, but I'm a poor shot," he answered honestly.
"You're worse than poor," the god snorted. He waived his hand and a scene appeared in miniature. Daine was standing behind Numair on an overturned trough, obviously attempting to teach him archery. He raised the bow, arrow knocked, and then she touched his arm. He jerked and sent the arrow flying askew. Numair could remember that day. It was in October, before he met the Goddess. Watching it from that position, he could see that he was responding nervously to Daine's touch like someone highly infatuated might do. He was amazed that everyone who was present that day did not know his feelings for Daine simply from his behavior, but it had taken him nearly another two months to recognize it for himself.
Numair realized his mouth was hanging open. He looked at Weiryn and wondered exactly how he didn't know his feelings for Daine – but then maybe that was the problem.
"That's fair rude," Sarra spoke up. "He said he was no good. You shouldn't rub it in."
But Weiryn wasn't done. "How can you protect my daughter when you can't even use a bow?"
"Sir, I'm a mage. While some young boys spent hours practicing against targets, I had my head buried in books to perfect the craft I was born for. I protect Daine with magic. And she's a better shot than most men I know anyway." Queenclaw purred loudly. Numair studied Weiryn for a moment. "But I don't need to tell you that. You already know. You were watching us fight the skinners. You've watched off and on a lot, haven't you? Are you trying to get the measure of me?" For some reason that Numair couldn't imagine, Sarra beamed at him.
But Weiryn glared at Numair and rose without speaking. He picked up his arrows and strolled over to Sarra, then kissed her cheek. "I'm going hunting," he said.
"Good luck, my love," she said ritually. Weiryn strode out of the garden.
"Are you taking bets on how long I'll live?" Numair asked quietly.
Queenclaw was clearly amused as was Broad Foot. Sarra focused on her pie in silence for a moment. "You were right, you know. He wants to rile you – see what you're made of."
"Flesh and bone, like most of his moving targets," Numair answered glumly causing a round of laughter from the gods.
Light flared and Queenclaw disappeared from the chair she had been on and reappeared in his lap. "You have the respect of his daughter and he has little in common with you," the cat says. "He's nervous." She turned twice in his lap before settling herself comfortably. "You'll feel better if you pet me," she said – another command. He complied.
"Daine likes everyone. She's got a very loving nature. I'm sure once she's used to the idea she will love him," Numair said.
Sarra beamed again. "That's what I tried to tell him."