Part I: A Parting Gift
Alanna was a few seconds shy of needing to jump from the gangplank to the dock. She pushed past the coachman waiting for them and threw up, loudly, behind a stack of crates. Numair, for his part, waited his turn and held on to the contents of his stomach but looked just as green. He walked to the opposite side of the carriage with the ease of someone whose every limb protested the need to move, and leaned his forehead against the neck of one of the drafthorses on the leads of the first carriage.
Stay still for him, please, Daine asked the horse and was pleased to receive a patient acceptance in return.
The return voyage from Cathak had been swift. Whatever luck had failed them in the south was on their side in the form of swift winds that urged their journey home. Daine shivered—it was much colder here and they'd missed the peak of the changing leaves. It was good to be home.
She was one of the last to disembark, behind Duke Gareth the Elder, Gareth the Younger, Lord Martin, Lindhall and Harailt. While some of the clerks and servants that had accompanied them had been friendly enough on the voyage over, they now hung back and let her reach the dock before they followed. At least she had Kit.
"Your Grace," a chamberlain bowed to Duke Gareth, "I'm afraid the other carriages are waylaid, so your belongings will need to follow."
"Late?" His Grace had been in a mood, to put it lightly, for days and Daine would be lying to say she wasn't a little interested to see how far his courtly reserve could stretch.
"Yes, Your Grace. Flooding in the delta washed out three of the northern bridges just last week. The port has been congested since."
"Ah," Duke Gareth nodded. "Let's do what we can, then."
Sir Gareth stepped behind his father, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a grin. "Think on the bright side: sounds like they've been dealing with all sorts of trouble at home while we've been relaxing." Gareth gave his son a look that needed no words and Daine was quite sure he would be regulating his namesake to a separate carriage. Unfazed, Gary just laughed.
"I'm glad someone's in good spirits," Alanna grumbled as she stalked past Daine.
"I resent that," Numair's voice could be heard from where he still rested, semi-prone, over the horses neck. "I am an absolute ray of sunshine, and always have been."
"A little decorum, please." This addition came from Lord Martin. He'd been positively scandalized by the whole experience, to say the least, and Daine was none too excited for what he may report to Their Majesties in regards to her specifically. The entire prospect of answering the many, many questions she was sure awaited her was daunting and she had been doing her best—with increasing difficulty—to push it from her mind.
"Lord Martin, which carriage would you prefer?" Alanna straightened, taking on the posture and cadence that reminded Daine that, despite everything, she had still been raised a noble. Lord Martin pointed towards the first and the coachmen opened the door for the man to enter. Alanna waited for him to do so and when he disappeared from view she huffed and headed to the second.
It was Gary who spoke, "how much room do we have?" He was looking between the carriages and their too-large group. "And what's been arranged for the Banjiku and the free men?"
"We've wagons on the way, My Lord," the chamberlain turned to address Gary, "They should fit ten each. For now, we can take seven—three in the first, and four in the second."
"Alright," Duke Gareth nodded, obviously ready to be on their way as their journey would take the greater part of what remained of the day. "I'll ride with Lord Martin," he looked over the group with a sweeping glance, "Gary, you can ride with us," he sounded a little tired at this, "and Alanna, Harailt, Lindhall, and Numair can take the second. Everyone else," he turned to address the crowd, "stay here until the others arrive, and follow when you can."
There was a small flurry of movement as the group dispersed—those left to wait finding crates and barrels to rest against while trying not to get in the way of the porters already unloading cargo in a steady stream, while those addressed began to load into the waiting carriages.
Daine tried not to let the slight affect her. At least not visibly. True, she'd been an official member of the delegation in name only. Everyone knew she'd been sent as a gesture of goodwill—the irony of which was not lost on her—as opposed to a fully-fledged representative of the Realm, but something about being left behind still stung. No matter how much time passed there was always someone there to remind her of just where they thought she belonged.
She'd turned her head away from her friends, balancing Kit against one hip, and caught Numair looking at her from across the backs of the horses. He did not look pleased.
With a shake of her head she signaled that she did not want him to say something, as he was obviously about to do, and though he was too far away for it to reach her, the sound of his sigh was so familiar that she heard it anyway.
He strode past her, addressing one of the clerks—Harailt's personal scribe—and pointing towards the second carriage. The youth nodded and scampered to catch up as Numair called to the mage.
"Harailt, I need a few moments before I leave solid ground again." He did look fair unwell. "Take Tomlin, and I'll follow." Harailt nodded his understanding and disappeared from sight.
"You didn't have to do that." Daine murmured when he came to stand next to her. Kit pawed at the mage and, to the dragon's sheer delight, he scratched her under the chin.
"I didn't, but I wanted to." He gestured towards an unclaimed crate just across the road that offered a little shade. She followed him. The first carriage was already departing, wheels clattering against the flagstone, but they had an excellent vantage point to watch the second try to determine just what to do with Bonedancer. He was too unwieldy to travel inside, but the spectacle of a living skeleton atop the carriage was far too odd even by Tortallan standards. Eventually, they placed him up front, next to the coachman—who did not look pleased—and covered him with a cloak.
"Already causing trouble," Numair smiled. "I told Lindhall he'd fit right in."
"I'm glad he came with us. I can see why you spoke so fondly of him."
"I'm looking forward to the two of you becoming better acquainted," he nodded, "and, I suppose, having the time to get re-acquainted with him myself."
"You've missed him." It wasn't a question and he didn't take it as one.
"I have. Perhaps the most, which is surprising." His voice grew soft at the end and she knew him enough to know he had retreated into his own thoughts. It was something he had always been prone to, and had only increased in frequency since they'd learned they were to be a part of the delegation. She knew enough about having secrets not to pry, though she hoped with time he'd talk to her.
"Well, I for one am looking forward to hearing all sorts of stories about you from your time at the University." She grinned, recalling one delightful tale Lindhall had shared on the ship involving Numair, a pretty healer's apprentice, and a closet. While the content had irked her, Numair's abject mortification had thrilled her.
"Perhaps it's best you don't spend time together without me," he grumbled.
They watched as the porter's began to stack the delegations belongings separately from the other cargo. Two stewards stepped forward to oversee the efforts, obviously not relishing the thought of anything they were responsible for getting misplaced.
"I heard a rumor." Numair had leaned over to speak to her in a low voice.
"What's that?" She grinned. He wasn't usually one for gossip, but when he did have something to share it was always entertaining.
He jerked his head towards the sandy-haired steward fastidiously organizing Gary's trunks. "That Steward Halsin is sweet on you." He teased, but there was something in his voice she couldn't place. She laughed and shook her head.
"Not anymore, I assure you." True, he'd flirted some on the passage to Carthak but he'd not even looked at her since the events that marked their leaving.
"What happened?" He asked, mildly, and looked honestly confused at her incredulous stare. "What?"
"You can't be serious." She rolled her eyes when he just shook his head in question. "Funny enough, raising an army of undead dinosaurs, dethroning an emperor, and destroying a foreign nations palace makes men a little nervous."
He scoffed, "boys. No sense of taste. All that just gives you character."
"Oh, it's fine. I'd been too distracted to even think about whether I liked him. Besides, if that hadn't scared him off I'm sure you would have." She didn't even try to hide the annoyance in her voice, casting him a sidelong glance, and he at least enough self-awareness to look penitent. While the later events of their trip eclipsed it, she was fair upset about what he had said to Kaddar.
He sighed, "about that—"
She patted his hand. "Later. I do want to talk about it," she fixed him with a look to ensure he understood how serious she was, "but my heads all full of other things to stew about, and I haven't the energy right now."
"Oh, good. Something to look forward to then," he deadpanned. "What's on your mind?"
"Besides all the questions I'll need to answer? Somehow I don't think they'll take my explanation of how needful it was in quite the stride you did."
He grimaced. "You may be surprised. The outcome is, well, favorable in the end and you were under the influence of a god—"
"I disobeyed her, actually."
"—I would leave that part out." He stifled a laugh, poorly. "But mortals can only be held so accountable when the divine are involved."
"Mortals," she turned the word over and studied the small group of Banjiku across from them.
"Is that something you'd like to talk about?"
"No." She sighed. "Maybe soon. I don't know."
"That's alright." He patted her shoulder. "Things will be okay, and I will be with you. You're not alone."
The wagons arrived with the final carriage, and the porters—anxious to be on their way to enjoy the comforts of land—began loading the delegations belongings immediately. The chamberlain had remained behind as well at Duke Gareth's request and was directing the passengers: at least one steward or clerk with each group from Carthak to ensure they were not left on their own.
Daine and Numair were about to board their carriage when a clerk approached them. "Master Numair? Thought you might want to carry this yourself. I think it might get broken if it's left on a wagon." He held out an odd-shaped parcel wrapped in pink silk. Behind him, Daine watched as a porter chucked her own bag into the back of the wagon with an unnecessary amount of force and cringed.
"Oh, that's not mine." Numair shook his head and made to turn away, but the clerk persisted.
"It has your name."
Numair reached out and accepted the parcel with soft thank you, looking thoughtfully at it as he gestured for Daine and Kit to board before him. They sat across from one another and the carriage was just beginning to pull forward when he turned his full attention to the item in his hands. In the small space, the flowery scent that wafted from it was much stronger than it had been from outside. He turned over the parchment tag tied around the thinnest point of the parcel and she saw a neat scrawl she couldn't quite read from her distance.
"It's from Varice?" Daine asked without thinking and he looked at her, a little startled by her presence.
"Ah," he shifted in his seat, "yes. How did you know?" He turned the parcel over again, moving his hands along it's length to feel the shape of it through the wrapping.
"The perfume."
His eyes flicked back to her and she noted the touch of alarm, like he was piecing something together he'd rather not know. He didn't say anything and she let the subject drop, regretting speaking in the first place. It felt like something very private was happening and she was sure it was not something that had been meant for her to share in.
After a long stretch of road, the length of which he'd been staring at Varice's gift, he sighed and began to unwrap it. Then stopped. Began again. Kit had fallen fast asleep which was a boon, because she loved few things better than unwrapping things meant for other people. Daine couldn't help but notice how his hands shook—the rapid tremor of nerves as opposed to the rough shake of a carriage ride. She'd offer to help but was sure he would decline.
Finally, he gripped a corner of the silk and pulled it away. A bottle of dark liquid was inside. Wine, by the shape of it, but there was no label.
Numair looked shattered. Any color left in his swarthy complexion drained, leaving him looking drawn. She'd seen him cry, once, and it had followed the same hitch in his breath that came from him now.
She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. This looked like grief, and if there was anything she knew about grief it was that it took you somewhere no one else could follow. If he needed her, if he asked, she was there. She hoped that would be enough.
Numair inhaled deeply and shifted, clutching the bottle to his chest and leaning back in his seat. He stared out the window—eyes trained not on the passing countryside but on somewhere long gone.
Part II: Closure, or Something Like It
"You're up late." Daine's voice reached across the observation deck and he started, looking over his shoulder as she approached.
"Glass houses, magelet." He turned back to the sea. "I didn't know you were still up."
She settled next to him and mirrored his pose—elbows resting on the wooden rail, hands clasped, facing the wind. "It's fair pretty out. Seemed a shame not to enjoy it a little." She shivered, pulling her shawl more snuggly around her shoulders. "Although I always forget how cold it is here this time of year."
"I'm not sure I remember the last time I was here outside of summer." He looked a little surprised at the thought. "That's a shame. The tower is quite pretty when it snows."
"Is it?" She grinned, "I'd like to see that."
"You haven't?" She shook her head. "Odd; it feels like you've always been here."
She smiled, the comment pleasing her in a way she couldn't quite describe. "Maybe next year? I think we're expected at the palace for this Midwinter."
He sighed, "you're right, and if we're prudent we should leave soon."
Silence stretched between them while she waited to see if he'd say anything. When he did, it was in question, "would you like to tell me what's bothering you?"
"Wondering what's bothering you, actually." She inclined her head to the bottle between them. Moonlight reflected off the glass, and she could see that the wax seal that held the cork was inlaid with an intricate depiction of what looked like the all-seeing-eye. From Numair's stories of Carthak, she knew this was associated with Shakith's cult though she hadn't seen it during her visit.
"Ah, that." There was a distinct sour note in his voice.
"You don't have to talk about it, but—" she faltered. She'd caught several glimpses of him since their return with the object—brooding, really. Once, when she'd stopped by his study after evening bell, he'd been staring intently at it—as if waiting for it to speak—and when she'd appeared he'd quickly moved it into a drawer.
"No," he sighed, "I'd prefer not to but," a pause, "I think I may need to."
"I've got nowhere to be." She turned her attention back to the sea, aware of how much harder it could be to share something vulnerable while being watched. "Whenever you're ready."
The moon had traveled towards its peak when he spoke. "There is a festival in Carthak each summer—well, I'm not sure if it still is, but it's to honor Shakith. That's how it started anyway; you know how these things spiral. Remember the Tribute Games to Oinomi Wavewalker we saw last summer?"
She laughed, "hard to forget! I think Miri scared Evin half to death."
"Yes, well, similar to that it's a mix of true tradition and worship, local customs, and profiteering off of superstition." He shifted, dropping his forehead to his clasped hands. "One such superstition is prophetiavin." He raised his head and gestured to the bottle between them.
"Proph—pro—" She stumbled over the new word, trying to wrap her mind around the sound of it.
"Prophetiavin." He said, patiently.
"Prophetiavine."
"Vin."
"Prophetiavin." She drew out each syllable carefully and was pleased when he nodded. "Thank you." He waved her off and continued.
"It's a sort of wine made by Carthaki Seer's—not those of the temple, mind you, it's a local practice—from Hibiscus flowers grown with the gift." Daine whistled softly at this; she'd heard of magic-infused spirits before and knew how pricey they were. "Each bottle is unique. They infuse it with additional ingredients before sealing the bottle for a customer. You see, each bottle is supposed to be a prophecy—to be aged until that which you wish for comes true, and opened when it does." He paused, eyes settling back on the bottle.
"What else is in this one?" She prodded, softly.
"Elderflower, blackcurrant, gold—" he listed them off softly and she had to hold her tongue to stop from asking why anyone would want to drink gold. Looking more closely, she could see tiny reflective flecks floating in the liquid. He sighed, "and rosebud hips. Varice was quite fond of them."
"Oh," she hesitated. She knew they had been lover's but Lindhall hadn't made it sound all that serious. The thought that Numair had been promised to the woman was a startling thought, and one she didn't like one bit. It seemed a fair significant thing for her not to have known. Numair glanced at her and seemed to guess her thoughts.
"We were never formally betrothed." There was at least a little laughter in his voice, perhaps at her expense, but it disappeared beneath a sigh, "but that was my intention. And she was aware of it."
"Well, she's fair beautiful." Daine tried to keep from sounding sour.
"I can't help that I like beautiful things, Daine." He teased, referencing a conversation they'd had many times—mostly regarding his extensive collection of jewelry. "I like you." Something passed over his face—just a flicker—when he said it. Like he hadn't meant to say it, or a thought he hadn't considered before was just occurring to him. Daine was too pleased and too embarrassed in a way she didn't quite understand—which was notable but for another time—to respond directly.
"So she's still in love with you?" Daine motioned back to the bottle. "If she kept it all these years."
Numair did laugh outright at this. "I assure you, that's not the case."
"You both seemed close enough in Carthak." She couldn't look at him when she said it, and picked at the stray threads of her shawl to occupy herself. When he didn't respond she turned to find him looking at her with a mildly alarmed, but tentative expression. He clearly didn't want to accidentally let on anything she didn't already know. Taking pity on him, she sighed, "she left a handkerchief in your room. I'm not stupid, Numair, I know you—" she gestured vaguely and left him to fill in the blanks.
He rubbed his face with his hands, uncomfortable with the shift in conversation. To be fair, it was not something they discussed. Ever. "How perceptive you are, magelet," He grumbled. "I'd like to say that was closure—that feels like the most honorable explanation, somehow—but it was probably just foolishness. Nostalgia," he threw a hand up as if he hoped to pull an answer from the air, "I'm not sure exactly what it was, but it wasn't love."
"Do you still love her?" She winced; that was his information to share and not hers to ask but he didn't seem offended.
"No, I—" he slowed, brows knitted, as he re-evaluated his answer, "I think I love the memory of her. I might always love that. But I don't love her anymore." He was still thoughtful when Daine spoke.
"You seem sad about that."
"I am, I think." This seemed a surprising notion. "Saying that out loud—that I don't love Varice—feels a little like betrayal. There was a time when I would have been enraged had someone accused me of such a sentiment."
"A lot's changed since then, though. You could give yourself some grace, surely." She was a little overwhelmed with their conversation. She knew him so well and yet here was this entire facet to him that seemed so new and so daunting to her. A few weeks ago she hadn't known this woman existed, and the more she learned the more she discovered just how much of a legacy their romance had left him with.
"I thought I had," he shrugged. "And then this found it's way back to me, and..." He shook his head.
"Why did she give it to you?"
"I have no idea."
"What did the note say?" She was a little confused that he could have no notion.
"Just my name. Nothing else."
Daine shifted to rest her chin on her hands and made a thoughtful sound as she regarded the bottle. "So you've been driving yourself silly brooding about it?"
He smiled at her, "exactly. Seemed like the best option." He picked up the bottle, turning it over in his hands. "It's obviously a message. I just don't know as to what." He was shifting to the voice he used when he was speaking to himself as much as her. "It could be a parting gift—some actual closure—or it could be meant as a slight. I don't think she still harbors feelings of any significant extent for me and, if she did, frankly I don't think she knows me well enough anymore for them to be true—"
"Numair." She interjected.
"Yes?" He didn't look at her.
"What, exactly, did the note say?"
"My name; that's it."
"Which name?" She saw realization dawn and he stood, eyes passing to the bottle and then back to her.
"Numair." He blinked. If he had been in a different mood she was sure he'd have been fair vexed to have missed such a clue.
"I think," it wasn't her place, but none of this was, "that may be your answer."
"I think you're right." He murmured, thumb running along the neck of the bottle. "She's let Arram go. Released him—me—from that promise."
"That's a good thing, yes?" She asked it carefully.
"Yes, I should think so."
"I'd feel more convinced if you didn't look so sad."
"So would I," he offered her a wry grin. "I'd no notion that seeing her would affect me so."
"To be fair, I think she's fair wrapped up in all of it and you've so much history to manage. Not to diminish this, of course." He waved off her last statement. "You're not going to drink it all alone and get all sad, are you?" She asked, finally, when he continued to be glum.
For the first time, a true smile. He shook his head. "That would actually be horribly bad luck. It was to be shared with her, or no one."
"What will you do with it, then?"
He turned it again, slowly, swaying his head back and forth as he regarded it. With a flare of black fire, he held one hand over the neck and the wax melted away. There was the soft pop of a cork being freed. From where she stood she could smell the heady scent of hibiscus and roses and sickly sweet alcohol. Numair turned and held it out into open air, tipping the bottle slowly. When the first drop of liquid fell from the tower he pulled back, cursing, to stop the flow. With another, more resigned, curse he put it back on the railing with a thump that reverberated through the wood.
Numair dropped his head, bracing himself against the railing. She could see that he was trying to hide how his hand trembled so she reached to cover it with her own. Tentatively, she picked up the bottle and looked at him. She moved slowly so as to give him plenty of time to stop her. He didn't, just nodded once when she held it out and once more when she had tipped it to the point of no return.
She finished the task for him, and together they watched until every drop had been poured out.
Part III: Promises
"Where have you been?" Varice was vexed. She waved at him to hurry and if they weren't in public he knew she would have stamped her foot. "We've nearly missed the last ferry. Ozorne already took another."
"I'm sorry," he grinned, lying. "I had to get something." He held up a parcel in one hand and took hers with the other. They moved through the crowd loading onto the barge, and he pulled her with him so they could reach the front before the best vantage points were taken. Night was coming fast and, despite being late, this was his favorite time to be on the water. The River Zekoi was already changing color—reflecting the brilliant red of the fading sun above—and by the time they docked he knew the stars would be appearing.
He made sure Varice had her choice of cushion and sat next to her, excited to share his gift with her. Excited to share what his gift meant.
"What is it?" The promise of a present, and the fact that they had not missed their ticket back to the University, had waylaid her annoyance.
"Hold on, let's wait to cast-off." There was a bustle of motion around them that he knew would die-down shortly, and he'd chosen their seats specifically for their relative privacy.
When at last they'd set sail, he handed her the parcel. She opened it quickly, smiling politely when she picked up the bottle. "I do enjoy a good glass—" her voice halted when she spotted the seal on the neck. "Arram."
"I know it's expensive, but—"
"You wonder why you never have any money," she huffed, "the one time you promise not to buy more clothes or jewels, and you find something more expensive."
"I'd spend anything for you." He said, breathless and getting ahead of himself. When it was clear she didn't understand he put his hands over hers, which still held their future. "It's for us. That's what I had it made for. Our future."
She smiled and she was so pretty and he was so in love. "We'll let it sit for now," he continued, "but we'll know it's there. And we'll open it on our wedding night."
"Arram," she was excited and a little taken aback, "are you proposing?" They'd skirted the issue before—her families expectation she make a good match and the low circumstances of his birth something his sheer power had not overcome—yet.
"Not now, but I will. When I get my robe. The moment I do." He gripped her hands tighter and felt the hammering of his heart against his ribcage. If there was anything in this world he was sure of, it was her. "Until then, we have this."
"Alright." She beamed. "That sounds like a promise to me."
He leaned forward and kissed her. He loved the how soft her lips were against his and the pretty little sigh that escaped her. He even loved the glare she gave him when she pushed him away after remembering where they were, partly because it was paired with a very fetching blush.
He loved her, and now—the promise of a future between them—he could love her forever.
Part IV: Prophet
Arram sprinted through the crowds, barely avoiding a near-disastrous run-in with a cart overburdened with cabbages. He was very late and Varice would be very unhappy with him if they missed the boat because of him. Still though, the bottle of prophetiavin clutched close to his chest had been well-worth the risk. He'd been wracking his brain for months as to what he could do—what he could do to prove his devotion and intentions—until he was worthy enough to ask for her hand.
He skidded to a halt at the end of an alley, finding the main thoroughfare blocked by a procession of players. He scanned the street and spotted a path where the crowd at thinned on the great steps of Shakith's temple. He followed it, slowing down so as not to draw too much attention from the guards as he used their house of worship as a shortcut.
Halfway through, he was blocked when the head of a spear swung down to block his path. He looked at the guard—looking up and then down, still not used to his most recent growth spurt—who motioned further up the steps. Arram swallowed. At the top was a tall woman in the garb of the Head Seer of Shakith's Dark House.
She motioned for him to come closer with a singular crook of a long finger. He complied, hoping to talk himself out of whatever trouble he had gotten himself into—the last thing he needed was for a complaint from the temple of one of the Great Gods to be added to his growing file at the University.
She was tall and slim, with dark skin shadowed by the hood of her cloaked robes. A thin, transparent strip of fabric was tied over her eyes but her pale gaze through it was piercing. When she spoke, it was not in any voice he'd heard before. It was more akin to the rustling of the wind through river reeds.
"Numair Salmalín." She leaned in, and gestured towards him.
"Oh, I think you have the wrong—" she kept speaking, unconcerned with his interjection.
"The desert sun does not know you as her child and the future you seek to purchase is already sold. If the next star born does not greet the captive, then all is already lost. Your path is pine and wing and mountain cold and woe should you stave off your rendering for sake of what is only dreams. Should that pass, then no songs of new day will be sung, no shepherds will rest their flocks there. Wild animals with cease to rest there, and their ruined houses will be full with slaughtered hyenas. Her time is almost upon us and her days will not be prolonged."
The Seeress stood, and Arram glanced to see if anyone else had heard—either they hadn't, or were very used to these sort of displays. "I'm sorry," he tried again, "I think you have the wrong person. My name is Arram."
She did not speak again but only motioned that he was free to leave. He did so, gladly, and pushed the exchange from his mind as he gained speed down the steps and towards his future.