Chapter 213

Voretta's tent smelled exactly as it always had - smoke, earth, and crushed herbs. The scent was pungent, sweet, and acrid all at once. Familiar.

Bones, dried herbs, feathers, and charms hung from leather cords tied to the wooden frame. Thick furs carpeted the ground, forming a rough circle around the small fire pit at the center.

The Black Earth Clan had recently arrived at their winter camp.

Unlike many of the settled clans, they still followed the old ways, moving with the seasons between summer and winter grounds. Their cold-weather camp sat far to the south, closer to Ilyr'Vaeneth than Arvellia.

The move was still evident. Bundles, chests, sacks, and crates remained stacked around the edges of the tent waiting to be unpacked.

Voretta sat across the low table from me, nursing a cup of tea.

As tradition dictated, we spoke of nothing important. Tea was not for business. Tea was for people. For stories. Weather. Gossip. Complaints. For ing that the person across from you mattered.

As always, her hair had been hardened into jagged spikes and painted a vivid red, forming a crown of thorns around her head. Ritual scars competed with wrinkles across her face, chest, and arms. She was thin enough that her skin hung loose around her bones, but there was nothing frail about her.

I didn't know how old she really was. Eighty, maybe. Knowing Voretta, she'd live another forty years out of pure spite.

She wore a rough brown suede dress trimmed with fur against the growing chill. A necklace of small bones rested against her chest. An iron bracer circled her left forearm.

No other jewelry. Nothing unnecessary.

Eventually our cups ran dry.

“What brings you to me, Grath-Vael Seth?”

“First,” I said, sliding a small crate across the table, “I brought a gift.”

Her eyes narrowed immediately.

She opened it.

Inside sat an assortment of Morenti glassware alongside packets of seeds gathered from Iilvarion, Caldris, Arvellia, and Ilyr'Vaeneth.

She stared into the crate. Then at me. Then back into the crate.

“Last time you brought me herbs from Mirri,” she said. “I spent a week picking bone and sinew out of my teeth.”

I laughed.

“Now you bring me treasures from distant lands.” She shut the lid. “I don't think I want to help this time.”

“No bones. No sinew,” I assured her.

“Hm.”

“It's more important.”

“Hm.”

“But probably safer.”

That earned me a glare.

“I dislike every word you just said.” She pointed at me. “Ask.”

My confidence immediately abandoned me. “I, uh...” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I have some questions.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “About?”

“Your people's culture.”

“Ask Ashlara.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“It's...” I sighed. “Sort of about Ashlara.”

The old shaman blinked. Then one corner of her mouth twitched. “Oh?”

“I want to know about engagements and marriage.”

Voretta exploded into laughter. She slapped her knee hard enough to make the tea cups rattle. “Finally putting her beneath your shield?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

That only made her laugh harder. When she finally recovered, she shook her head. “I don't think Ashlara is a particularly traditional girl.”

“No.”

“Spent most of her life proving she wasn't a prize for some warlord to win.”

“I know.” I sighed. “But I don't want to ignore her culture either. I want to understand how it's supposed to be done. Then maybe I can find something that honors those traditions without minimizing the woman she is.”

Voretta studied me for several moments, then chuckled. “You've got your work cut out for you.”

That might have been the understatement of the century.

She leaned back in her chair. “Taking a wife and taking a concubine are not the same thing.”

Her voice shifted. Less amused. More like a teacher. “Taking a wife is a claim of responsibility.”

She tapped the table with one finger. “Taking a concubine is a claim of ownership.”

I nodded.

“To take a wife, a man announces his intentions publicly. Then he challenges her family and any competing suitors. If they approve, they'll usually let him win.” Her tusks flashed in a grin. “If not, then he has to earn it.”

That sounded about right.

“Once his strength is proven, the marriage may proceed. Most couples complete the rites within a moon or two.”

I nodded.

“The ceremony itself is simple. The groom places a shield before his bride and swears to make her enemies his enemies.”

I frowned thoughtfully.

“The bride and groom then exchange bracers - he to her and she to him.” She tapped the iron bracer on her arm. “A symbol of the oath.”

Her grin returned. “Men with multiple wives eventually become creative when they run out of places to wear them.”

I laughed.

“After the oath comes the celebration. Games. Food. Drink. Stories. All until dawn.” She paused. “The couple rarely lasts that long.”

I chuckled. That sounded even more familiar.

I considered everything she'd told me.

Voretta belonged to the Black Earth Clan, a semi-nomadic people who followed the seasons between camps. Ashlara came from the Blood-Wolf Horde, one of the settled clans. I was certain there were differences between their customs, but they occupied the same broad stretch of the Iron Nation. Close enough, I hoped, that the spirit behind the traditions would be similar even if the details weren't.

The problem was that Ashlara didn't have any surviving family. And pretending she needed my protection felt insulting. If anything, I needed hers.

The combat challenge wasn't much better. For one thing, she'd beat me. Probably badly.

It was a strange realization.

I was a god. I could reshape stone with a thought. Heal mortal wounds. Walk between worlds. Survive things that would reduce ordinary people to red paste.

And Ashlara could still kick my ass.

In a fair fight. In an unfair fight. Possibly while carrying someone over one shoulder and complaining that I wasn't trying hard enough.

She'd destroyed multiple knots of Mother Hunger's swarm without relying on Faith. Survived battles that would have wiped out armies. Hell, she'd probably broken Aurelion's nose when she punched him.

She was a tank disguised as a woman. The kind of person who looked at impossible odds and asked if they could be made more challenging. Strong enough to stand alone against almost anything the world could throw at her. Strong enough to pick up steel I-beams and throw them like oversized javelins.

If she showed up wearing a red cape with a giant S on her chest, I wouldn't even question it.

The problem wasn't proving I could protect her. The problem was proving myself to someone who'd spent her entire life proving she didn't need protecting.

That was a much harder challenge.

And unlike combat, I wasn't even sure where to begin.

That was going to require a lot more thought.

I rose to my feet. “Thank you, shaman. This has been helpful.”

I reached the tent flap.

“Seth.”

I stopped and looked back.

The amusement had vanished from Voretta's face. For once, she looked completely serious.

“Don't fuck this up.”

* * *

“What’s the score, dinosaur?”

My greeting fell on deaf ears.

Nyssira sat cross-legged within the ring of wards, writing in one of the journals I'd given her. She'd been doing little else for the past few days.

The number of journals had eventually climbed to five.

She demanded more.

I told her she could have them in exchange for the ones she'd already filled.

She hated that.

We argued.

The next day she reluctantly gave in.

What she handed over could barely be called journals anymore. Torn. Burned. Shredded. Mangled. Entire pages had been gouged through with charcoal. What little remained legible had been buried beneath endless repetitions of ‘Thief’, ‘Go Away’, and ‘I Hate You’.

Five new journals changed hands.

After a few more days, those journals were filled almost entirely with messages directed at me.

{letter}

‘I will peel the flesh from your thralls and feed it to wargs.’

‘You are a coward.’

‘If I escaped today, I would kill the goblin first. I would capture each of her screams and release them later when I wished to relax.’

‘You smell of vomit and potatoes.’

{endletter}

Every now and then, something else slipped through the cracks.

{letter}

‘The walls are unchanged. The floor is unchanged. The wards are unchanged. I am unchanged.’

‘Seth asked if I needed anything. I told him no. Then spent the next hour ing her library.’

‘I counted 14,223 stones visible from this position. There are probably more. If I ever escape, I will make him count them individually.’

{endletter}

Then another five journals changed hands.

By the look of things, she was nearing the end of her fifteenth.

“Hard at work?” I asked as I fetched my chair and pulled five fresh journals from the bookshelf.

“Documentation is important,” she said absently without looking up.

I sat and watched her.

The journal rested in her lap. The nub of charcoal smoldered softly between her fingers as she fed it tiny threads of Faith. Her shoulders remained hunched protectively over the page, as though shielding it from prying eyes. The stars that formed her face drifted lazily through shifting constellations.

The silver thread between us was nearly complete.

I still had no idea what that meant.

“It is,” I agreed. “What are you documenting now?”

“Apples.”

“Apples?”

She growled in annoyance. “Yes. Apples. They-”

She stopped. For a moment she stared at me as if she'd only just noticed I was there.

Angry stars exploded across her features. The journal slammed shut. She rose to her feet. “Coward,” she spat, immediately beginning to pace. “Thief. Why have you come to torment me today?”

“Is it really so horrible to spend a few minutes talking with me each day?” I asked. “I'd think having something to focus your rage on would be beneficial.”

“I hate you.” Her voice trembled. “You have no redeeming qualities.”

“None?”

“None!” She wheeled around.

“Your wife left you. You weren't enough for her.” Her palms struck the wards. They flashed with light. “Your daughter hated you.” Another slap. “You spent a lifetime accomplishing nothing.”

These weren't new attacks. We'd discussed them before.

One of my early ideas had been that sharing pieces of my life might build some kind of rapport. That we could find common ground somewhere between captor and prisoner.

I had been spectacularly wrong.

The words no longer carried much sting. At least not when they came from her.

“I've finally figured out how you control people,” she hissed.

“Oh?”

“It isn't that ridiculous exchange-of-favors nonsense you talked about.” She jabbed a finger toward me. “It's dependency.”

“The goblin follows you because you rescued her. You've convinced her she's only safe around you.”

Her face was twisted in rage. “ It’s the same with the dragon. You protect her from Pyraeth. If he died tomorrow she'd leave you in a heartbeat.”

“The orc is little more than a stray dog. Feed it scraps once and it keeps coming back because it's never known anything resembling kindness.”

My jaw tightened.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

But after everything Ashlara had just been through, part of me wanted to forcibly shut her up.

Nyssira noticed. A swirling nebula spread across her face like a satisfied smirk.

“Your so-called children are no different,” she continued. “You've convinced them they can't survive without you. They're little more than parasites now.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a slow breath. “You've got me all figured out,” I said flatly. “Good job.”

The sarcasm landed.

She realized immediately that none of it had hurt as much as she'd expected. Angry stars flared across her face again. “You have a stupid face!”

I blinked.

“A stupid, ordinary face! Nobody likes you!” Her hand smacked against the wards. “You can't even dress yourself properly!”

“What?”

“You can't even dress yourself properly,” she repeated furiously. “You missed a button.”

I looked down.

Damn it. She was right.

I'd missed one while getting dressed that morning. I fixed it. “Thanks.”

She screamed.

The sound echoed off stone and wards alike.

I waited patiently until she ran out of breath. “Would you like new journals?”

She growled.

“You know the drill. Old ones on the pad.”

I watched the battle play out behind her eyes. The same battle as last time. Pride versus desire. Stubbornness versus curiosity. Hatred versus wanting the journals badly enough to tolerate me.

After several long moments she stomped over, snatched up the completed journals, and slammed them onto the transport pedestal.

I crossed to my side of the platform and stacked the fresh journals beside several new charcoal sticks.

Faith and mana flowed through the mechanism. The neat stack vanished. A moment later the worn journals appeared in their place.

I gathered them into my arms and pushed my chair back against the wall. “Is there anything else I can get you before I go?”

She turned her back on me and dropped heavily to the floor. One of the fresh journals was immediately seized and slapped onto her thighs. The charcoal began scratching furiously across the page.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Nyssira.”

I left.