A/N: I edited the end of the last chapter (please see the author's note at the beginning of chapter 9); this chapter begins with a time skip that is based off that edit. (And Aveil is introduced again!)

X

TASK

Ganondorf did not appear to see the Hylians off the next morning.

Zelda waited for him. She stood on the fortress steps in the fast-waning chill of dawn, her face a smiling rictus. She'd been smiling for nearly two hours, as she watched the saddling of the mounts and baggage train. The Hylians, down to the very last squire, were sluggish with sleep and cranky with hunger, in stark contrast to the Gerudo watching them from the patrol towers. They would not be gone by dawn, as Ganondorf had demanded; the moon would fall from the heavens first.

The morning had begun feverishly enough. Zelda's toilette had been a whirlwind of golden Gerudo eyes and dusky hands that rubbed her clean with musky oils and robed her in watered silk. An unfamiliar woman had steered her through the corridors. "Aveil," the woman had said, in answer to Zelda's inquiry. "The Lady Nabooru requested that I help you with the Hylians."

"Will Nabooru not be joining me?" Zelda had asked, distressed that there would be no familiar face to stand between her and her husband while the Hylians took their leave.

"An incident detained her," Aveil said.

"Oh! I hope she is not hurt."

"It is only a party of Subrosians who've come riding out of the desert to demand an audience with the king." Aveil's grim smile flashed in the torchlight. "Nabooru will not be hurt."

Zelda ignored her derisive tone. "How long will the audience take?" she asked. "Will the king be present to see the envoys off?"

"I cannot say." Aveil shrugged. "I do not even know if the king is in the fortress."

Zelda's stomach sank. If Ganondorf was no longer in the fortress, then what of her promise to the envoys? First the wedding feast, and now, quite possibly, an absent king—the Gerudo would make a liar of her.

But she met her father's men with a smile. When an envoy approached her with pleasantries and evasive questions regarding the whereabouts of the king, she apologized for Ganondorf and blamed his absence upon "business."

"Business," said the envoy, with a twist of the mouth no doubt meant to be courteous. (It failed; his eyes roamed past her to rake the steps with open displeasure). "Of course, your ladyship."

"He means no insult," Zelda said, "but matters of… government detain him. He sends me with his apologies." She opened a hand as she had seen the Gerudo do, in apology, and dropped it a moment later when the envoy looked at her with suspicion. She wondered at the unconscious ease with which she had made the gesture; perhaps this marriage would yet make a Gerudo out of her.

"Of course, your ladyship!" the envoy said, with forced levity. "There is no need for apology—please!—none at all."

But Zelda could see his falsehood in his sour smile, as he bowed and scraped his way back to his companions. The men conferred in whispers and snorts; they flicked scowls toward her, beyond her, as casual as flies twitched from shoulders. "He means no insult," she whispered, as if this reassurance could keep the peace between her husband and her father's men.

She tried to hide her anxiety—but she could not stop herself from glancing over her shoulder for Ganondorf. The movement became a nervous tic; she flinched at every sound that issued from behind her. She stopped only when she noticed Aveil eyeing her, amused.

Only when the Hylians were at last mounting up, bidding her farewell, did Zelda accept that Ganondorf would not come, that he had made a liar of her, and that the Hylians were insulted. This was what it meant to be a king's consort and Harkinian's daughter (as she must always be, however far she lived beyond her father's reach). It was her duty to hold the olive branch between her husband, her father, and all other men, no matter how much the branch was spurned.

She watched the Hylians depart in clouds of dust, taking with them the reek and bellowing of the pack animals. An escort of warriors accompanied them. Zelda hoped that the group contained diplomats meant to satisfy the treaty on the Gerudo end.

She turned and did not watch the company go.

"I wish to return to the Corridor," she said to Aveil, as the woman bounded up the steps toward her. "And Aveil?"

"Your ladyship?"

"Is there nothing to be had in the kitchens? No dried fruit? No meat? I wish a breakfast prepared for—"

She broke off. She did not know this woman, did not know if Aveil could be trusted with the knowledge of the Hylians who had remained behind. But what if that knowledge already circulated? Would Aveil, as Nabooru's second, already know about them?

Zelda could not keep her secret for long—this was the only thing she knew for certain. Her three Hylians must be fed, and they could not spend the rest of their natural lives concealed in the Corridor—for though she yearned, foremost, for Hylian company, there was also her father's treaty and the upkeep of relations between the Gerudos and Hylians to consider. With Nabooru stretched so thin, attending to the king's business as well as to the running of the fortress, Zelda would require allies. Confidants.

The prospect of finding such people, unassisted, daunted her.

"Her ladyship," said Aveil, breaking into her thoughts, "is worried about her next meal?" Again, the derision, the indulgent smile.

Zelda flushed. "I only wished to know if my wedding feast truly cleaned out the kitchens. It seems a matter of… poor management, if that is indeed the case."

"And indeed it would be," said Aveil. "I will look into it, if you wish. Is there anything else you would have me see to?"

"Please see if Lord Dragmire is still in the fortress," Zelda said. "And if he is, send word to me as quickly as you can."

oOo

She found the remaining three Hylians waiting for her in the great, open space of the Consort's Corridor. They bowed; she returned their greetings. She knew each of them from her father's court, by reputation if not by name. There was the sage who had blessed her wedding, russet-robed and cowled, the sweat standing out on his beardless jowls. There was the eldest courtier, Lord Auru, a former knight, his back unbowed and limbs still strong, though it had years since he or any Hylian soldier had seen military action. And finally, there was the second courtier, a Lord Onkled. He wore every woolen stitch of a Hylian nobleman's costume, even though he was one of the original diplomats, had lived the longest in the desert, and thus should have known better than to dress as he did. His face was flushed above his collar, his smile strained.

"If you would walk with me, my lords," Zelda said. "I wish speak with you."

She led them to the veranda, where a small breakfast table and two chairs overlooked the desert. She began to apologize for the lack of seating, but Lord Auru stopped her with an upraised hand. "We prefer to stand, milady," he said. "Please do not go out of your way to provide seating for us." His smile was placating, as if he meant to calm her. She did not like the implication of his smile; she looked away.

"I wish to be frank with you, my lords," she said. "Your continued presence, here in the fortress, is at my wish. Not my husband's."

The courtiers exchanged glances. "Indeed, milady?" Onkled said.

Zelda's chest tightened. Had she erred with her honesty? Should she not have admitted to having differences of opinion with her husband? A headache thickened at the back of her skull. She wished that Impa or Nabooru were here.

She continued, "I only wish to uphold my father's treaty to the best of my ability—"

Wrong, wrong; she implied that she was working against Ganondorf, against his act of sabotage. What did it matter that she believed this was the case? One did not admit to such things.

"That is, my husband has suggested that I alone would satisfy the provision that a Hylian presence must be maintained in Gerudo Valley. But surely—surely that cannot be the case…?"

Lord Auru grimaced. "In the strictest sense, it is true, milady. The provision is a… formality which you and your dowry fulfill. But we—and I speak for your father's court and council—had hoped that His Lordship might allow us to remain here in the fortress and remove that burden from your shoulders."

Zelda clasped her hands, squeezing until her fingers ached. "But was there not an equal exchange of diplomats? Are there not Gerudo now riding to Lanayru to take their place in my father's court?"

"I do not know, milady."

Zelda's voice shook. "This seems but a nominal peace, milords. How am I to maintain relations between my father and the Gerudo without help?"

"But do you not see, milady?" Onkled said. "You have ensured that you have help, that this treaty will promote true change and good relations between ourselves and the Gerudo."

"But if I had not asked you to remain—" She rose, ringing her hands.

"But surely Lord Dragmire is now amendable to our presence—"

"No," cried Zelda, "no! He does not know."

She covered her mouth, as she heard the echo of her cry among the sandstone columns, desperate and childish. The courtiers looked away. The sage had drifted off, to look out over the desert, washing his hands of their discussion and concerns. Her father had sent her the wrong sort of sage, Zelda thought, dully, a man who put the business of blessings and prayers between himself and the world when it was the world and those in it who needed him most.

She uncovered her mouth and faced the Hylians once again. "You understand, then, my lords, why I am asking your advice? How might I broach this subject with my husband?"

"Perhaps," said Onkled, "that will not be necessary."

oOo

Zelda, according to Lord Onkled, had done enough. "Her Ladyship has retained us and informed us, to the best of her ability, about our situation," he said. "It is time we took the burden from her shoulders, eh, Auru?"

Lord Auru nodded, face thoughtful; he did not seem bothered by Onkled's familiar tone.

Onkled's words stung. It chilled her, the way he said to the best of her ability as if everything Zelda had done up to this point was barely adequate. Perhaps they thought her out of her depth. She could understand the concern, but it was no reason to dismiss her; she was a part of things, as the daughter of one king and the wife of another.

The men drew together, conferring in hushed voices; Zelda said, "How else may I help you?"

"If you could arrange a meeting between ourselves and Lord Dragmire," Onkled said. "We would be most grateful."

They bowed their heads. Zelda understood the polite dismissal.

She stepped away from the table, slippers scraping the sandstone walkway. "Thank you for your time, my lords," she said. "I will see what can be done."

She left the veranda before they could turn their backs on her, footsteps quick, hands clasped. She could not get the image of their dismissal out of her head, how obvious it was that to them, she was not enough a part of things, not worthy of their confidences.

"Please tell me that Aveil has come back," she said to her handmaidens, when she returned to the Corridor.

"Were you expecting her, milady?" one of the girls ventured, in a tone that made it clear that they certainly did not.

"She said she would bring news of my husband. You have not seen her?"

"No, milady."

They gave her the same answer when she asked after Nabooru; Zelda's chest knotted with frustration. She would give a fortune in gold to have Impa – constant, ever present Impa – with her now.

The prospect of remaining in the Corridor, whiling away the time until either Aveil or Nabooru looked in (as if Zelda were a child in the nursery; the idea shamed her), was unbearable. She needed to move, to be useful. "Stay here and wait for Aveil," she told her Hylian handmaidens. "If she has news of the king, send her to me. I am going to speak with Elder Kotake."

She supposed that if anyone could tell her the whereabouts of the king, it would one of the elder Gerudo women. And there was only one of them with whom she cared to speak. Kotake had been reserved but kinder than Koume, and Zelda needed kindness now.

None of the Gerudo handmaidens could tell her where Elder Kotake would be at this hour. "She is a private woman, milady," said one of the girls. "But we can show you her quarters, where she may yet be."

Zelda followed two of the handmaidens through a labyrinth of corridors. The halls were cramped and silent, the deeper they went, catacombs bristling with phantoms. Zelda glimpsed guards on vigil, prowling with soft-footed grace. Some watched her pass, golden eyes tracking her through the torchlit gloom, but most did not. She thought, with regret, of the courtiers who had pressed their attentions on her back home, of the servants who ducked their heads and dropped their eyes as she walked past. Did these Gerudo ignore her because she was nothing more than a queen consort? The attention paid to her by the Hylian court had always made her a little uncomfortable, but now she wondered if she would miss it.

"Why does Elder Kotake keep rooms so deep within the fortress?" she asked. Her voice echoed strangely, as if it did not belong to her. "Why does she stay so far from the sun?"

It took one of the handmaidens a long moment to answer. "The Elder likes, I think, to get out of the sun now and then." Her voice was rich with stifled humor. "As we all would."

Of course that would be the answer, Zelda thought; she could have answered herself. She had been in the desert for less than a week and already she was starting to fear the sun; it would have skinned her in the journey to Gerudo Valley and on the ride to and from the temple. As it was, her layers of clothing – gowns of creamy linen, white gloves, white slippers, veils – had only just protected her.

The handmaidens turned down a narrow hall and pushed open a door braced in iron. Zelda stepped forward, blinking in the sudden spill of torchlight. She jumped when the door slid shut with a thunk behind her.

"The antechamber, milady," said one of the girls.

They stood in a chamber as austere as a dungeon, all cold stone and untapestried walls, torchlit niches half-drowned in shadow. The ceiling lowered over them, smoke-stained and cramped as the inside of a chest. There was little furniture—a squat pair of stools, a table, a brace of clay pots painted with Gerudo calligraphy. The room's sole extravagance was the books. Heaps of leather, vellum, folios, scrolls, spilling out of the recessed shelves, onto the flagstones. They were almost decadent in their disorder. Zelda's body hitched with a strange, sweet sensation.

"Oh." She stepped toward the shelves, stretching out a hand. "This is—beautiful."

"If it's books you're wanting, Hylian," said a gristly voice, "there are others in this fortress for you. But not these. Not these."

Zelda snapped around. Elder Koume had emerged from a deep-set doorway Zelda has not noticed; she stood bent-backed and trembling, jaundiced eyes glaring. Handmaidens flanked her with hands poised, to catch her should she fall.

"Well?" Koume said.

Zelda shut her gaping mouth. "Good morning, Elder. I—I'm looking for Elder Kotake."

"She isn't here."

Zelda waited. Koume did not elaborate.

"Where is she, please?"

The tiny Gerudo looked Zelda up and down. "How should I know? Nabooru hauled her off. Ask her."

Zelda licked her lips. "I can not, I'm afraid; the Lady Nabooru has business."

"Well," said Koume, "I suppose my sister has business too."

Her face was set, unyielding and uninterested. Zelda stepped back. "Thank you for your help," she began. "I'll just—"

"Don't thank me for what I haven't done," said Koume.

"… Of course," Zelda said.

She wished she knew the proper etiquette of retreat, wished she knew where she stood in relation to this Gerudo. Was she, as the queen consort, Koume's superior? Able to turn her back without giving offense? Or should she wait for Koume to turn away first?

Koume did not turn away. "Your husband," she said, "would have you do a thing."

Zelda froze. "What?"

A grin spread like warm honey over Koume's face. "Pity you should be the last to know, Hylian girl."

"What thing?"

She had sent the courtiers away. What more did Ganondorf want? Why had he not seen fit to give her this information himself? She did not even need him to speak to her in person; a note would have sufficed.

"This thing he wants—it is not important, then?" she said, before she thought better of it.

Koume's smile grew rigid. "It is important if the king says it, Hylian."

"But it cannot be so important if he did not tell me."

She and Koume considered one another for a long moment. Zelda folded her hands behind her back. She hoped the elder could not see that she was shaking.

"Tell me," she said. "Please tell me what my husband said."

Koume's eyes flickered. "He hopes you are not so sore that you cannot get into a saddle again," she said. "Because there is a long ride ahead of you, Hylian girl."