A few hours passed, and the bars of their prison cast increasingly angled shadows on them. A few times, members of the group had tried to quietly speak to one another, but their Ronan’el guards fixed them with hideous glares that silenced them immediately. Quickly, they gave up on communicating; while they hadn’t been explicitly forbidden from speaking, the idea of making their guards even more furious than they already were seemed foolish to each of them.
The rest of the group sat listlessly around their holding cell, but Asp paced back and forth. If she had to guess, she would have said she traversed the prison about three hundred times. In Despair, she had learned that a busy body and a busy mind was the way to survive being locked up. I wish I could tell them to do the same, she thought. But something tells me that admitting I spent a year in prison isn’t exactly going to go over well.
Instead, she kept her mind firing. She would spend several minutes observing her captors, then switch to plotting an escape, then shift to a backup plan in which she tried to talk her way free; after that, she would count twenty deep breaths and begin again.
Most of the soldiers carry battleaxes or even handaxes, and lots carry hammers, she recited in her mind. We saw that earlier when we got surrounded. There are also only lightly-armed troops who are covered in purple tattoos in geometric patterns–I’ve seen several of them cast spells, so I’m betting that they all can. In the hierarchy of the Ronan’el military, it seems like the ax-wielders and hammer-wielders are basically equal, but the spellcasters are held above them, or at least, the armed soldiers seem to pay some form of respect to the spellcasters. But there are also armed soldiers with more ornate armor, and they seem to be commanders–I don’t know their exact rankings yet, but in general, pardon the pun, the more ornate the armor, the higher ranking they seem to be. It would be a waste to appeal to a soldier, so I need to take my best shot with whatever officer I can speak to.
She had repeated these theories to herself several dozen times already, and she looked out through the bars of their cell at Ronan’el nearby to confirm or deny what she believed she’d gathered. On this particular iteration, she had learned nothing new, but it gave her some small degree of comfort to keep going through the motions. She began to inspect the cell yet again.
The bars are pretty secure. I haven’t given them a good shake for fear of attracting attention, but the logs they used are definitely too thick to cut through with what we have, and it would be too obvious anyway. I might be able to make a break through the gate when they come for us, but that’s a bad gamble; there seem to be soldiers for a long way in every direction–we’re basically at the center of camp. So that’s only an absolute last resort if things look dire. I might be able to dig under the bars in a pinch, but pulling that off will require getting the rest of the group to create a sustained distraction, and without talking, that’s gonna be one hell of a challenge. I think escape isn’t an option, she thought for perhaps the hundredth time. I think I gotta talk our way out.
She turned her face upward to the sky and idly watched the clouds inching through the light blue above her. Warriors won’t give a shit about Delia–a reporter is nothing to them. And Gilbert wouldn’t be much either–I don’t think I could improvise a warlike invention in here, and that’s about the only gadget they’re going to care about. But Penelope. She smiled slightly to herself, watching a cloud shifting in the sky, its shape moving from a malformed turtle to a pudgy bear. Penelope has promise. A foreign diplomat caught up in a misunderstanding, someone who could bargain on their behalf–“I promise that if you let me and my companions go, we will go back to the elven camp and negotiate for you.” It could work. It has to work. I’ve got nothing else, and from the looks of the rest of us, they’ve got no plans. “I”m Lady Penelope Jasmine, diplomat of the fine city of Thistlewade, humbly at your service to end this violence.” No. “Humbly at your service to make peace as you see fit.” Better.
She lowered her gaze back to her companions and began her deep breathing. One. Sash sat meditating, but their face was dour. Two. Tartarus stared numbly into his hands, his eyes vacant. Three. Larkin glanced around nervously, her eyes lingering a moment on Asp before glancing out through the bars. Four. Steel-Eyes lay flat on his back, his eyes closed tight, and Guy simply stood in place, immobile. Five. Wesley twitched and twiddled his fingers, apparently rehearsing a part on his lute without the instrument present. Six. Brokk sat cross-legged, and every few seconds, his wings involuntarily twitched. He seemed more miserable than the rest, and given that he was more familiar with Ronan’el and their military than anyone else, that worried Asp. Seven. She looked out through the bars at the wagon, which had been unloaded in a thorough search. Eight. Her bag was just through the bars. If only she could reach it, she could try changing into Penelope’s fine green-and-yellow dress. Nine. She inched closer to the edge of the cell by her bag. Ten. She placed her back to the wall of the cell and began to reach backwards through it–
“Brokk,” thundered a Ronan’el as he came to the gate. He was joined by three other heavily-armed Ronan’el soldiers. The one who had spoken placed a key in the lock on the bars and yanked it open. “Come with us.”
Brokk lowered his head in defeat and marched to the gate, where the four Ronan’el soldiers shackled him and led him away.
Asp looked around. It seemed everyone was paying attention to Brokk. Now is the time. She darted her hand behind her through the bars toward her bag.
She felt something clench down on her wrist.
“No, no, no,” cooed an elderly Ronan’el woman, her meaty hand wrapped tightly around Asp’s forearm. “Prisoners do not have possessions.” Her face was stern and yet also playful, as though Asp were a mischievous child who had been caught in the act of getting into trouble. The old woman lifted the bag and moved it out of Asp’s reach.
“But I need to change clothes,” whined Asp.
“And why would you need to do that?” inquired the Ronan’el woman as a uniformed soldier joined her. “You look just fine as you are.”
“I thank you ma’am,” said Asp respectfully. Launch the Penelope plan. She adopted a thicker version of the accent she had had as a child. “It’s just that I’m a foreign dignitary, you see, and I was traveling incognito to avoid undue attention, but if we’re to speak to a governmental official, I should be in my official clothes. I mean to do the best I can to help you, you understand, and I want to look as official as my post is.” The Ronan’el woman nodded politely along, but her face looked disinterested. The uniformed Ronan’el, however, was listening closely. “If I could only have my clothes out of my bag, ma’am, I could try my honest best to help. I think that it’s a small request, and I only want to be honest with you, and that means showing my true self–a diplomat. Please, let me have my dress and crest. I promise that–”
“Hush,” said the Ronan’el woman. “A dignitary traveling with this riffraff?”
“Please, ma’am,” Asp nearly whispered, “I might be able to help. What happened here is a misunderstanding, I assure you. Please–”
“A misunderstanding?” repeated the officer. “I should hope the fuck so. You realize what you did?”
Asp withheld a smile. We’re in business. “Whatever do you mean?”
The officer snorted. “You crossed the border, miss. But it’s not just a border. It’s a treaty line. No one was allowed to cross under the negotiated agreement between us and the elves. You crossed that line with an elf, you declared war.”
Tartarus sucked in air as though struck, and Larkin moaned.
“Then there truly has been a misunderstanding,” said Asp. “I was sent to help the Ronan’el people negotiate a more stable peace. I was made to understand that we would be welcomed with open arms. You can imagine how surprised I am to be held here without explanation until now, to be thrown in a cell without my things, to be suspected of trying to inflame tensions when I came here to subdue them.”
The officer studied Asp for a moment, then shrugged. “And what’s your name?”
Asp offered a refined smile. “Lady Penelope Jasmine of the fine city of Thistlewade. I am humbly at your service to make peace as you see fit.” She curtsied slightly.
“Give her the bag,” said the officer, turning to leave. “We may have use of her.”
“But–” began the old woman.
“Give her the bag,” repeated the officer firmly.
The elderly Ronan’el frowned and handed the bag to Asp.
“Thank you, sir,” said Asp as the officer marched away. “And you too, ma’am.”
The old woman stuck her tongue out at Asp. “But of course, Lady Jasmine,” she said, her tone thick with mockery.
The officer stopped several paces away and returned to the cell. He turned his head so that they could hear him, but he did not face them. “You await trial momentarily, once Brokk is sentenced. No delaying when the time comes.” He stalked off.
The elderly Ronan’el cackled and hurried off to join the officer. The nearby troops likewise followed, apparently eager to see the proceedings for Brokk.
“A fucking diplomat?” whispered Tartarus. “You better know what you’re doing.”
Asp flashed him a smile. “Just work with me,” she whispered back. She turned to Wesley. “Block me so I can change.”
Wesley raised an eyebrow, more curious than anything, and shrugged. He stood in the corner of the cell with his back to the corner. Asp stepped in behind him and threw off Delia’s dress before quickly donning Penelope’s more formal gown. She removed Delia’s cap and shook her long sandy hair out, running her tiny fingers through it a few times. Fixing the crest of Thistlewade she had found all those years ago in the city of her birth around her neck, she nodded to herself. Let’s hope this works.
She stepped out from behind Wesley and felt the group’s eyes on her. She could tell from their incredulous looks that her change had had the intended effect–she was scarcely recognizable as her former self. She adopted a regal smile and curtsied. “Lady Penelope Jasmine,” she said in her exaggerated accent. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Wesley chuckled, and Tartarus rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sash stared, not rudely, but intently. Steel-Eyes sighed heavily, his disappointment clear. Larkin’s eyes lit up.
“No way,” she whispered. “Wow!”
“Shhhh!” Tartarus pointed to a large group of incoming soldiers, perhaps twenty of them. A Ronan’el in a simplified version of the earlier officer’s uniform spoke first.
“This way, prisoners,” he said flatly. “No funny business.”
“What may I call you?” asked Asp.
The officer cocked an eyebrow. “I’m Chieftain Uzgro. Why?”
Asp smiled slightly. “I’m Lady Penelope Jasmine of the fine city of Thistlewade, and I like to know who I’m working with.”
A few of the Ronan’el soldiers with Uzgro giggled, and others looked at her nervously.
“Right,” said Uzgro. “Well, Lady Jasmine, you’re about to answer for what you’ve done.”
“It’s all a misunderstanding,” said Asp gently.
“The tribunal will decide that,” replied Uzgro, keying the lock and opening the gate. “Come on now.”
One by one, Asp and her companions filed out of the holding cell, and two soldiers walked on either side of them. Asp noted that Sash was accompanied by four soldiers, all of whom watched the elf closely as though Sash would turn into a fiery beast at any moment. They were guided a short distance away to a large, intimidating stone table, massive stones in a ring surrounding it. On one edge, six dignified Ronan’el–a middle-aged green man, a middle-aged woman of white with brown speckled scales, a stern-looking purple-and-dark-blue man in late adolescence, a massive and muscled red man in what appeared to be youth, a slim black-scaled woman whose age Asp could not discern, and finally a solemn silver woman with a flowing grey hood–sat on chairs whose fanciness sharply contrasted with the simplicity of the rest of the camp. Well beyond the other edge, dozens of soldiers watched hungrily as the proceedings continued. At the edge opposite the tribunal, Brokk stood in shackles, staring blankly at the council before him. Asp and the others were held on the perimeter between the soldiers and the leaders.
“Do you deny that your actions have inflamed the situation, have ignited a war we worked so hard to bring peace to?” asked the green Ronan’el, his voice more severe than his gaze.
“No,” said Brokk, pain in his voice.
“And do you recognize that you have given the elves the right to storm our lands, destroy our villages, slaughter our people?” the green Ronan’el continued.
“I do,” said Brokk. He seemed to want to break away from looking his questioner in the eye, but refused.
The green Ronan’el leaned in, extending his face out beyond the reach of his chair. “You realize you have become a traitor to our cause?”
Brokk cringed. “Yes.”
The six seated Ronan’el whispered among one another, conferring with occasional glances at Brokk. After a minute that seemed like hours, the green Ronan’el spoke again.
“You were created for war, and so I am not surprised you have begun it again.” He paused, frowning. “You are sentenced, quite leniently, I should add, to fighting at the warfront. You will not have your freedom again until you have slain one elf for every Ronan’el you caused the death of today.”
Brokk looked anguished. Asp could not tell whether the reminder that his people had died or the sentence itself hurt him more, and she knew it didn’t matter. Brokk bowed his head.
“Thank you, Bruzohr,” he said to the green Ronan’el. “I will restore honor where I have tarnished it.”
“See that you do,” said Bruzohr. “And do not forget what you have done this day, for it may be the beginning of the end for our people.”
Brokk bit down hard, his pain too obvious to mistake for anything else. But it was a mistake! thought Asp. I have to do something.
“Please,” she said without fully knowing how the sentence ended, “please show mercy on him. We traveled without knowing the full ramifications of crossing the treaty line, and Brokk–”
“What gives you the right?” demanded the red Ronan’el. “How dare you speak when you too are a prisoner of war, responsible for the greatest threat we have ever known? Do you think it matters whether you intended to bring this upon us?”
“Indeed,” said the purple-and-blue Ronan’el, “what you, a stranger and an apparent fool, mean to say is of no importance given the situation.”
“Who precisely are you, little one?” asked Bruzohr. “What makes you think you have the privilege to speak before your sentencing?”
“I mean to help,” said Asp meekly. “I mean to set things right.”
The Ronan’el were quiet for a time, then looked at her sharply.
“We will confer a time and decide whether to hear you out,” said the black Ronan’el. “See that you do not interrupt us again.”
Asp nodded deferentially, and the Ronan’el began once again to whisper among themselves. The soldiers did this too, and Asp could hear snatches of conversation from them that suggested she may be executed for her actions. She silently prayed to whoever might be listening that she wouldn’t.
—
After what seemed an eternity, the Ronan’el stopped whispering.
“Your sentence stands, Brokk,” Bruzohr said. “Be gone.” Six heavily armed soldiers escorted Brokk away.
“You lot,” continued Bruzohr. “Step forward and make your case.”
Oh thank the gods, thought Asp. Be smart now–this is a desperate situation.
Asp took her place before the tribunal and curtsied deeply. “I sincerely apologize for speaking out of turn. I meant only to speak to the innocence of our friend.”
“Yes, yes,” said the white-and-brown Ronan’el. “And in that you are wrong. Now prove that you are not wrong about your offer to help as well.”
She nodded. “I have been in Afira only a short time, mostly in Lo’Torrin,” explained Asp. “I understand it is the most generous and accepting of cities in the elven lands. But even there, Ronan’el are stigmatized, not even allowed within the city’s bounds, given a treatment worse than animals.” She paused and folded her hands before her. “I did not know until today how bad things truly are. I see now that the Ronan’el are treated as nothing but threats, menaces, monsters. I see that your people are given nothing but fury that I have yet to see earned.”
“This is true,” said Bruzohr. “But I know we are victims of the elven menace.” He eyed Sash viciously. “Tell me something I do not already know.”
“Of course,” said Asp solemnly. “I mean only to explain my perspective. The thing is, you do not seem to return the barbarity of the elves.” She pointed directly at Sash. “If a Ronan’el had stumbled across the treaty line, the elves would have executed them on the spot. Correct?”
The red and purple Ronan’el nodded fiercely. “This is correct,” said Bruzohr tiredly.
Asp looked down humbly. “But when our associate Sasharaan crossed the treaty line, you took them prisoner. You gave them a trial. You did not return the hatred you are given.”
“And have been given for all of time,” said the red Ronan’el.
“Precisely,” continued Asp. “You are victims of something heinous, but you carry on in dignity. That is part of why I am here. I am Lady Penelope Jasmine of the city of Thistlewade, in the province of Lowglen, on the noble continent of Eunax. I have come all this way because I have heard tales of the mistreatment of the Ronan’el at the hands of the elves. I heard about the threat of war, and I regrettably did not know just how dire it was. Now that I am here, I cannot help but be moved. I set out this way, to the opposite end of all known lands, to see what I could do to help. Now that I am here, I see how I can.” She looked each of the Ronan’el in the tribunal in their reptilian eyes. “Let me help broker peace. Let me and my colleagues here help to negotiate for an end to the war. Not just a temporary treaty, but an end to the conflict. Let us not only fix the problem we created, but solve the larger problem.”
The white-and-brown Ronan’el nodded along with her words. Her red companion stared suspiciously at her, and the others seemed to simply wait for what came next. Bruzohr sighed, then spoke. “Why should a slightkin care?” he asked. He waved a clawed hand out over the camp. “Why does the government of whatever city you are from care about the plight of the Ronan’el?”
Asp bowed. “When someone has enough to prosper, it is their duty to see to it that others prosper as well. You cannot prosper when beset by war. Lowglen has not seen war in so many centuries that we don’t understand. But surrounded by troops, locked in a prison, seeing the death of dozens of innocent soldiers–I am beginning to understand. Please, let us help.”
“She’s a liar, as all diplomats are,” fumed the red Ronan’el.
“But she might be able to help, Urdukk,” reasoned the white-and-brown. “We are not in a position to be choosy about help.”
“I will not accept pity, Gaya,” spat the red Ronan’el. The white-and-brown Ronan’el frowned, but turned back toward Asp.
“Silence,” said Bruzohr, lifting a hand. “Let us say that you are what you say you are–a diplomat looking to make peace. What about these others?” He moved his raised hand and gestured broadly to the group behind Asp. “Why should a group of hornkin, a dwarf, and a wretched elf have any interest in this?”
“Why, my associates–” began Asp.
“I want to hear it from them,” interrupted Urdukk. “You, hornkin girl–what stake do you have in peace for us?”
Larkin looked surprised. “Um. Well. Peace is the right thing!” she chirped. “People dying all the time is bad. Like, really bad. I mean, you all don’t deserve to die.” She looked over the assembled soldiers. “If you keep fighting, you might all die.” The soldiers looked nervously amongst each other. “And I don’t want that. I want you to live! I wanna help make things better.”
“She is but a child,” whispered the black Ronan’el.
“Patience, Rhuk,” said Bruzohr. “Peace would indeed be good, child,” he said to Larkin. “And you?” he asked, looking at Tartarus. “You seem to be a merchant. Why should you care?”
Tartarus’s eyes widened. “I’m a merchant–that’s true. And for selfish reasons–I mean, peace means more than a market–I’d love an end to the war. But the longer I’ve been with, um, Lady Penelope, the more I see what she’s talking about. It’s the right thing. I, uh . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m a hornkin. Wherever I go, people suspect me of being up to something. And when I travel Afira, I see that Ronan’el are treated the same by elves. I sympathize. I empathize. I dunno if we can fix the elves’ penchant for war and conquest in a day, but if we can get Ronan’el a world where you get to just live your lives without the doubt that you’ll get a fair deal in your own homeland–that would be something. And so maybe I was just starting out on a trade route at first, but I get it now. We gotta do something.”
“Nice to hear,” fumed Urdukk. “But you are the one who hired this wretched lot, yes?”
Tartarus swallowed hard and nodded.
“So it was your fault?” persisted Urdukk.
“I’m sorry,” said Tartarus weakly.
“Sorry?” thundered the purple Ronan’el. “Sorry?! Sorry will not bring back our dead. Sorry will not end this war you’ve restarted.
“I didn’t know.” Tartarus was quiet, as though volume had been the problem.
“You didn’t know?” scoffed Urdukk. “You dare give a child’s excuse for a grown man’s offense?”
Tartarus looked down shamefully. He didn’t respond.
“You will be detained,” said Bruzhor. “And we will decide what to do with you later.” He turned to Wesley. “You, the blue hornkin? What about you? This man is your brother, correct?”
Wesley breathed deeply and began to speak. “What my brother meant to do was reach the Stronghold to enrich your city with trade.”
“Let your fool brother speak for himself,” hissed Rhuk. “What of you?”
Wesley sighed. “Well, with the tribunal’s permission, I would go with my brother, wherever you send him. He is family, and I owe him that much. Please, let me care for him until you decide what is just.”
Urdukk frowned, but Bruzohr nodded. “You may accompany him and perhaps share his sentence.”
“Thank you,” said Wesley just above a whisper, pain in his voice. He looked toward Tartarus, who glanced back for a moment.
“I’m sorry, brother,” said Tartarus.
“It’s okay,” said Wesley. “Better a cruel fate together than to be split apart.”
Urdukk and the purple Ronan’el grinned.
“Can’t we sort this out?” asked Asp. “Surely, there must be something–”
“I will be so gracious as to consider hearing you out,” said Bruzohr, “if and only if this hornkin concedes to us.”
Asp looked to Tartarus. He nodded. She opened her mouth to speak, but Tartarus cut her off. “Let them take me,” said the hornkin. “We have no choice.”
Asp grimaced. Rhuk smiled as though entertained, and Bruzohr simply turned to Steel-Eyes; he had more prisoners to question. “Dwarf?”
Steel-Eyes had been staring at Bruzohr for the whole proceedings, and he didn’t look away now. “Steel-Eyes believes in justice.”
The Ronan’el on the tribunal looked back and forth among themselves, confused.
“Who’s Steel-Eyes?” asked Rhuk.
“Steel-Eyes is me,” grunted the dwarf.
“And you believe in justice?” asked Bruzohr. “And?”
Steel-Eyes shrugged. “War, especially accidental war, is wrong. Like the slightkin says, Ronan’el deserve better. Justice is peace.”
The council seemed to be awaiting further comment, and when none came, Bruzohr nodded again. “Elf?” he asked, his voice bitter.
Sash looked at their hands, then up at Bruzohr. “I’m an outsider in elven society,” they said more quietly than usual, and the council and soldiers around leaned in to hear better. “I live on an archipelago away from the cities. I don’t talk to people very much. I’m not . . . I’m not very interested in talking to people. My deity, Godtide Sasharaan, has kindly bestowed on me the duty of protecting a reef off the archipelago. I tend the waters. I guard the animals.” Light shone in Sash’s eyes, and their voice grew louder, more confident. “It is not my way to make war. It is not in what I am to exclude people–whoever comes to the archipelago is my charge. I have fed and sheltered Ronan’el in my travels. There is no hardness in my heart for them. For you. I stepped across your treaty line. You are treating me as a person with rights. If a person threatened my reef, I like to think I would extend them the same dignity.” They looked the tribunal in their eyes. “What you decide to do with me is your business. But I have no stake in the elven war. And if you mean to protect your lands as I protect my reef, I will honor that. I, too, will help. If you will let me.”
“How dare you?” spat the purple Ronan’el. “You walk across the line that every elf was forbidden to cross as though it is nothing, and you ask for clemency? You are a disappointment to even your kind.”
Sash stood silently, expressionlessly.
“You have nothing to say?” asked Gaya. “You begin a war we fought to end, and you stand there like nothing has happened?”
Sash looked the tribunal members in their faces sadly. “I did not have knowledge of the treaty or its terms. Had I known that this would happen, I never would have come.”
“Intentions mean nothing,” fumed Urdukk. “Actions mean everything. You were careless, and your carelessness has cost many lives today.”
“I regret that,” replied Sash. “If I could undo it, I would.”
“But you cannot,” said Rhuk. “Why should we trust you? How do we know you won’t hurt us again as you already have?”
Sash glanced up at the sky, eyes shifting back and forth. “I suppose that you do not,” they said eventually. “I suppose you must trust me.”
The tribunal broke into anxious and furious whispers. Asp heard one–she believed it to be Urdukk–say, “Trust an elf? I’d sooner eat lava.” Their conversation persisted for several interminable minutes. Finally, they turned back to Sash.
“Why help us?” asked Bruzohr. “Why would an elf wish to help the Ronan’el? You have said you hold no grudge, and perhaps this is true. But to help us? This is another matter entirely.”
Sash looked back up at the sky. “I am a sworn protector. I made a vow to do good. I have done wrong, and I am also bound to try to fix it. Should you decide to punish me, I will understand.” They held their hands loosely before them. “But if you let me try to help, I will do everything I can to help. And that I swear on my life.”
“Perhaps,” said Bruzohr.
“An elf in our cause?” muttered Urdukk.
“Imagine the advantage,” said Asp gently. “You know elves listen to elves. If we have this important elf on our side during negotiations, it can only help.”
The council sat and considered this a moment.
“Let us deliberate once more,” said Bruzohr. “Guards, take them back to their cell. We will send word of our decision once we have reached it.”
The soldiers who had escorted them to the tribunal surrounded them again. Asp tried to watch the expressions of the tribunal as she was marched away, but her guards ordered her to look where she was going. She tried to build a mental map of the camp, but her head was swimming. Never before had a con been so important to her fate, and not knowing right away if it had worked was torture. The group was deposited in their cell, the gate was locked, and the guards stood at a distance, trying to gather information on what the tribunal was saying.
“Holy fuck,” said Tartarus. “Lady Penelope Jasmine can talk.”
Asp smiled despite her anxiety. “When she needs to.”
“One day, if we get out of here, you have a whole lot of explaining to do,” muttered Tartarus.
“We’re getting out of here,” replied Asp. “And I swear I’ll explain everything.”
“Why didn’t you say you were a diplomat?” asked Larkin. “That’s so cool!”
The group laughed more easily than they thought they could, but the silence that followed was uneasy and cold.
—
“You fucking cheat!”
Tartarus and Wesley were playing some manner of card game with a deck that hadn’t been confiscated when they were locked in the cell. This particular exclamation had come from Wesley, but both of the hornkin brothers had thrown identical accusations back and forth as they played. Sash sat away from them, either meditating or praying, a serene look on their face despite the situation. Larkin had been playing a one-person game in which she spotted something outside the cell, described its imagined purposes (none of which seemed to be in the realm of reality), and moved on to another object once she had exhausted her imagination, which took a remarkably long amount of time. Steel-Eyes was once again laying flat on his back with Guy standing at his feet, and Asp paced in circles around the cell. On her hundredth lap around, and stopped at Steel-Eyes’s head.
“Thanks for, uh, not ratting me out,” she said quietly.
Steel-Eyes furrowed his brow. “What do you mean,” he said.
“Well, I mean about the whole Delia-Penelope thing,” she explained. “I know you don’t like it, and I could tell you didn’t want to play along, but you did, and–”
“Steel-Eyes does not want to die,” he said flatly.
“Right,” she said. “Yeah. Anyway, thanks.”
He did not respond.
“Lunchtime, prisoners,” said Uzgro, accompanied by two soldiers bearing trays of simple rations–dried vegetables, jerky, and chunks of bread. He unlocked the cell, passed the trays to the group, and relocked the cell. “Eat up. The tribunal is almost ready for you.” He and the soldiers marched away.
“Food’s a good sign,” said Asp after chewing and swallowing some bread. “They wouldn’t feed us if they were gonna kill us.”
“Good point,” said Tartarus. “But they may also have something more creative in store. Torture or the like.”
Larkin looked horrified, and Sash grimaced slightly.
“Nah,” replied Asp. “I think it went well.”
“Didn’t peg you for an optimist,” said Wesley. He bit a piece of jerky and chewed thoughtfully.
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m a realist. And trust me–they’ve been deliberating for almost an hour. We’re gonna be okay, I think.”
“I sure hope so,” said Larkin. “They seemed pretty mad.”
They were finishing the last bites of the modest meals that Uzgro had brought to them when he returned with the collection of guards from earlier. He unlocked the cell. “C’mon,” he said.
They were once again guided back through the camp, and when they arrived, the soldiers opposite the tribunal watched quietly. The purple Ronan’el and Urdukk looked dissatisfied, and Asp chose to interpret Urdukk’s unhappiness as a good thing. I’ll bet he was arguing for execution the whole time we were gone. This could be good.
“We have discussed things,” said Bruzohr. “For better or for worse, I believe that you do mean to help. To set right the wrong you have done. We sentenced Brokk to return the lives he caused to be extinguished. Like him, you shall correct your mistake. You say you mean to bring peace. We want peace. So how do you intend to bring it about?”
“I am a diplomat,” said Asp sweetly. “I believe the path to peace is through negotiation. We have your assurance that you wish for peace; if we can go speak to the elves, we can have a similar conversation. They agreed to a treaty once already–explaining the situation with a neutral party and an elf at hand will secure that treaty and more.”
Bruzohr was beginning to speak, but Steel-Eyes spoke first.
“No,” said the dwarf. “The elves do not want peace.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you!” thundered Urdukk.
“Diplomacy can work in the right hands,” countered Rhuk.
“In your hands, you mean?” asked the purple Ronan’el.
“Why not, Abzal?” asked Rhuk gently. “Why should it not be in the clan Shad’uk?”
“This infighting does us no good,” said the silver Ronan’el, the first time she had spoken before Asp.
“And neither does blindly listening to thieves, Sithrin,” spat Urdukk.
“Let the dwarf speak,” ordered Bruzohr.
“Elves are not good,” continued Steel-Eyes. “Sash is a good elf, and there are other good elves. But elves are inclined to be evil. They like war. They like to tyrannize. They let us cross the treaty line so they could make war again.”
“They did stand by and wait for this,” said Gaya.
“So what do you suggest?” asked Bruzohr.
“Make peace with the gods,” said Steel-Eyes as though this were as simple as cooking an egg. “Steel-Eyes knows that elves and Ronan’el fight in part because Faerian and Ronaan have fought for a long time. If the gods make peace, the elves may want to make peace.” He sighed. “But even then, maybe the elves will not want to make peace.”
Steel-Eyes negotiates like he wants to lose. Fucking gods, and even then no promises?
“You mean to bargain with Faerian?” asked Bruzohr. “The grimmest of the elves?”
“What if,” suggested Asp, “we performed some reconnaissance? What if we traveled the elven provinces, spoke to the leaders, and got a sense of what it would take to bargain with them?”
“We already have a sense of that,” countered Urdukk. “We know that almost none of them would be willing to hear you out.”
“Tell us what you know, then,” said Asp. “Readiness is the friend of experience.”
Steel-Eyes grunted, half-surprised, half-approving.
“You came from Lo’Torrin,” said Bruzohr. “Arokosiel is the most open-minded of the elves. If you return there, you will likely be met with success. Or at least, the likeliest success you will find.”
“Leonarra may be open to discussion as well,” said Gaya. “She is not a tyrant like the others.”
“But the others will be near impossible,” fumed the red Ronan’el. “Particularly the desert elves. Their new leader is bloodthirsty like a leech. She would sooner skin her own child alive than agree to peace.”
“In a discussion with Ronan’el, perhaps,” said Asp. “But if we approach her with the full agreement of every other elven leader, with a ranking elf by our side, in a neutral conversation–it’s at least our best chance.”
“And why should they agree to peace?” asked Bruzohr. “Their record of this incident will say that we attacked first. They will make it look like we are the aggressors.”
“Because it was an accident,” answered Asp. “We will make that clear. We will take full responsibility for what happened today.” She paused and stepped daintily toward the tribunal. “If we leave here with a treaty for peace signed by all the Ronan’el leaders and a promise to only fight defensively, the elves would be the aggressors not to accept it.”
Bruzohr looked to the sky. The Ronan’el by his side watched him carefully. He spoke after a long, quiet moment. “What you say makes sense. To us, at least. To them–perhaps. But as much of a long shot as it may be, it seems our best tactic at the moment.” He turned to a nearby soldier. “Fetch us a pen and parchment.”
“I can offer that,” said Asp, producing a pen and parchment from her bag.
Bruzohr raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. He took the writing tools and began to scribble on the page. After a minute, he passed the parchment to the other Ronan’el on the tribunal, who also signed–a few with a flourish and others with a scowl. Asp retrieved the parchment and pen and scanned it. It mentioned everything they had discussed–total peace, the agreement of all leaders, only defensive fighting, and the Ronan’el consent to the plan indicated by six signatures at the bottom. She folded it carefully and placed it delicately in her bag.
“We shall return your weapons to you on the condition that they remain sheathed,” said Bruzohr. “You are free to explore our camp. You may set out when you are ready, but as you likely realize, sooner is better. We may call you to leave before then if an opportunity presents itself.” He stood. “You are dismissed.” He turned to Tartarus and Wesley. “You, however, will come with us.”
The guards once again surrounded the group. But they only took Tartarus and Wesley, Larkin whimpering as they went. The others were allowed to simply walk away from the tribunal. They wandered, dazed, back into the camp. They began heading instinctually back towards the holding cell before realizing they didn’t have to. Asp could see from her companions’ faces that relief was slowly settling in. They returned to the wagon, collected their things, and sat beside the vehicle.
“We lost Triple T and Uncle Wesley,” moaned Larkin.
“Yeah,” said Asp. “But we’re alive.”
“For now,” said Steel-Eyes gruffly, and the silence that followed lasted for a long time.
—
“Wrench,” said Steel-Eyes.
Guy reached inside his chest cavity, which seemed to be a hollowed-out space, and pulled out a thick wrench, which he handed to Steel-Eyes. The dwarf had been working for a while on something that Asp had chosen not to pay too close of attention to. It’s obvious that Steel-Eyes does not approve of anything I do, so I’ll just give the man space. Whatever it was, it clearly demanded his full attention, and Larkin circled him, twisting her head to get a better view of his machinations. Steel-Eyes continued his work as though he didn’t have an audience, or at least, didn’t care that he had an audience.
Sash approached Asp with eyes downcast. “You speak in a certain way,” they said. “You . . . you know how to charm people.” They frowned. “Not in a bad way, I mean. You– you made the tribunal listen to you. How do you do that?”
Asp shrugged. “You mean, listen?”
“They liked you,” said Sash. “Not as a friend. But you told them you meant to help even though they had no reason to believe you, and they did believe you. How do you do that?”
Asp smiled at Sash’s seemingly unintentional flattery. “Well, you have to show people respect. Little things like bows and curtsies and stuff helps. The tone of voice you use helps too–gentle, deferential, humble.” She considered what she’d internalized many years ago the way someone teaches you to tie their shoes, trying to break down a process that was so much second nature that it barely required any conscious thought. “I guess it’s all small things. There’s no one thing you can do to convince someone you’re on their side. It’s more of a performance. It’s in your body language–leaning towards them, making eye contact without seeming too intense, smiling just enough to seem friendly without being weird. And it’s also what words you use. No ordering someone around, but still being firm. A balance of excitement and calm, something that suggests you’re happy to see them, but not too excited–you don’t want them to think anything’s the matter. It’s like you’re trying to make them comfortable, but also happy and excited to see you, like you’re an old friend they haven’t seen in a while.”
Sash raised their eyebrows. “That’s . . . a lot.”
Asp laughed. “It takes time, and concentration, and confidence. You have to believe they’ll like you. Because if you don’t, they won’t either.” She glanced at Steel-Eyes's progress. Whatever he’s working on is small. Whatever.
“How did you learn all of that?” asked Sash.
Asp shrugged, smiling. “A combination of trial and error and instinct. I mean, when I was a kid, the difference between eating and not eating was getting bakers to like me enough to give me food.”
“Oh,” said Sash quietly.
Asp read their face. Sadness. Pity, maybe. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve come a long way. I’m a diplomat now, remember?”
Sash chuckled. “So you say. I suppose–wait. You were doing it just now, huh?”
Asp cackled. “Yeah. But we all do sometimes, in a way. Being a good friend is also reading other people and making them comfortable.”
“Right,” said Sash. “Hmm. Are we friends?”
“We can be if you want,” said Asp carefully. “You seem nice enough.”
Sash considered this and seemed ready to respond, but then decided against it.
Larkin continued to study Steel-Eyes’s progress, then slumped her shoulders. “I wanna snack,” she declared. “Anybody else?”
“I’d take some bread,” said Asp.
“Yes please,” replied Sash with a slight bow.
“Be right back!” cried Larkin, skipping off into camp.
Asp headed back over to Sash just as a young Ronan’el girl with crimson scales approached the group.
“So you’re the emissaries?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“It seems so,” said Steel-Eyes, his voice bitter. He seemed to be tuning up Guy by letting some oily grease drain from Guy’s torso into a small metal can.
“Wow,” said the little girl. “You’re, like, heroes.”
“We are,” said Asp warmly.
Steel-Eyes cleared his throat.
Asp considered sticking her tongue out at him but thought better of it, if only to seem more official. “We’re gonna go talk to the mean elves across the border and stop the fighting,” she told the girl.
“Wow,” said the girl again. “But this elf isn’t mean?”
Sash looked down at themself in surprise, then shook their head to indicate that they were in fact not a threat.
“This one’s pretty nice,” explained Asp. “They want to help.”
The girl nodded in wonderment. “So this elf can be nice, and that dwarf can make inventions, and you can talk the elves into peace,” she said. “What else can you do?”
Steel-Eyes placed the can of grease on the ground beside Guy and sighed.
This kid has probably seen nothing but hard times for her people her whole life, Asp thought. I had a rough childhood in peacetime. I can only imagine what she’s been through. I gotta cheer her up, give her something happy to hope for. She glanced around, then smiled.
“I can drink Guy grease!” Asp exclaimed, grabbing the can and lifting it to her mouth.
“Don’t do–” Steel-Eyes began, then shrugged before he finished the warning.
Asp drank a few swallows of the grease in the can before gagging. It was oily and bitter; it tasted burnt and utterly disgusting. As the little girl giggled delightedly, Asp spat as much of the grease left in her mouth as she could onto the ground, careful to avoid getting any on her dress.
Asp watched as Steel-Eyes smiled for what seemed like the first time, and she grinned through the grease remaining in her mouth, black-grey goo showing on her teeth.
“Ewwwwwww!” cried the little girl. “That’s so gross!” But her delight at Asp’s antics told the slightkin not to worry.
“I’m Lady Penelope Jasmine of the fair city of Thistlewade,” said Asp with a deep curtsy to the girl. “What’s your name?”
The girl giggled and returned the curtsy. “I’m Gertha,” she said. “Where’s Thistlewade?”
“Eunax,” replied Asp regally. “On the other end of the world.”
“Wow,” breathed Gertha. “That’s far.”
“Indeed it is,” replied Asp.
“Why are you here?” asked Gertha.
Asp smiled. “To help,” she said.
“Wow,” said Gertha again. “Well, thank you.”
“But of course,” said Asp. “What do you want to do when you grow up?”
“I wanna be a warrior,” replied Gertha seriously.
“Well, you look plenty strong,” said Asp.
Gertha flexed her muscles and giggled again before running off.
“I need some water,” said Asp.
Sash offered their canteen, which Asp gratefully took. She took a few big gulps, swished, and spat. The water came out thick and grey.
“Steel-Eyes told you not to,” chided the dwarf, though there was a touch of playfulness in his voice.
He shifted and used a pair of pliers on whatever he was working on.
“Worth it,” said Asp, watching Gertha run in big, looping circles in the distance, laughing and turning a cartwheel.
Larkin returned, carrying an armload of food. “I’m back!” she cried. “I have bread, and vegetables, and nuts, and–wait, Penelope–what’s with your teeth?”
Asp, Sash, and Steel-Eyes laughed, and the group sat down for a meal in a far more relaxed state than they’d been in since they’d left Lo’Torrin.
—
Steel-Eyes worked away, Guy holding the object of the dwarf’s fascination. Steel-Eyes had eaten quickly and returned to work without a word. I know that focus, thought Asp. He’s doing something he thinks is really important. She craned her neck to try to get a better view, but Steel-Eyes was standing squarely between her and his work.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Asp after a moment. “We have you, Sash,” she went on, nodding towards the elf, “which means we can appeal to the elves’ desire to be represented in our delegation.” She felt the fullness of her belly, the bread and nuts having satisfied her hunger. “But we also need someone the Ronan’el trust. I mean, we’re all nobodies or aggressors to them. But if we had someone they trusted, they might do more to support us.”
“I’ll pray on it,” said Sash quietly. They walked off to the edge of their space in camp and sat cross-legged, a look of placidity crossing their face.
“Maybe someone who’s done something to help make peace in the past,”” continued Asp. “Who brokered the treaty we broke?”
Larkin shrugged.
“That may be our ticket,” said Asp, more to herself than anything.
A grey Ronan’el approached the group. He waved a clawed hand and stood before Asp and Larkin.
“Hi,” he said quietly, eyeing Sash curiously. “I’m Worthag.” He inspected the group. “So you’re our emissaries.”
“That’s us,” chirped Asp.
“Right,” said Worthag. “I’m supposed to tell you about the person joining you.”
“We get a new friend?!” exclaimed Larkin.
Worthag chuckled. “I guess, yeah. He’s, uh . . . he’s an odd one, you should know.”
“So he’ll fit right in,” said Asp with a grin.
Worthag nodded. “I suppose he will.”
“Tell us about him!” beamed Larkin.
“Well,” said Worthag, “he’s a Ronan’el in part.” He scratched at the side of his neck. “And he’s something else. Elf, oddly enough. But also not.”
“Part elf, part Ronan’el,” mumbled Asp, looking off into the distance. “That’s promising.”
“Promising?” repeated Worthag.
“We were just discussing someone who would give the tribunal the understanding that we represent their interests,” she explained. “This could be our guy.”
“But that’s our Guy,” said Larkin, pointing to Steel-Eyes’s assistant.
Everyone but Worthag laughed, the Ronan’el looking increasingly tired as the conversation continued.
“Anyway,” continued Worthag, “you’re going to pick him up tonight. I’ve been ordered to tell you that you’ll be departing tonight under cover of darkness to avoid any other . . . miscalculations.”
“We are truly sorry about that,” Asp replied softly. “Miscalculation is the right word, and I thank you for understanding.”
“Yeah.” Worthag shifted his weight onto his left foot. “If you’re looking for someone that the elves would trust, I have a couple recommendations.”
“You do?!” cried Larkin. “Let’s hear ‘em!”
Worthag took a deep breath, and Asp was sure it was more self-consciousness than exasperation at this point. “Shad-Ghast could be a good option,” he said. “Having his blessing would be a big deal. And Sariel. She’s elven, and highly regarded. Her support would be massive for us.”
“Which of the leaders from the tribunal were they?” asked Asp. “I don’t remember those names.”
Worthag laughed and shook his head as though Asp were a child who’d spoken of capturing the night sky in a jar. “They’re gods, miss.”
Asp’s eyes widened, and she turned to Larkin, whose eyes had done the same.
“Gods?” repeated the orange hornkin. "I serve Sariel, but we're supposed to get her to help?"
“Well, yes.” Worthag looked back at them as though this were simple business.
“You want us to find actual deities and convince them to interfere in the lives of mortals?” Asp’s tone was half-disbelief, half-derision. “Your solution is to get gods to step in?”
Worthag offered a pained smile. “I don’t think you realize how deep this war goes. The Ronan’el and the elves have been fighting since the dawn of existence. The clan leaders are listening to you for what are reasons I’ll admit to not entirely understanding.” He glanced around nervously. “I don’t say that lightly–it borders on treason. I’ll trust you if they trust you, but I’m not sure you understand what you’ve promised to do.” He shifted to his right foot. “I think you need the help of the gods.”
Asp chewed her lip. “Noted. And thank you.” She bowed slightly.
Worthag nodded grimly. “Don’t forget–you leave tonight. You’ll get Kastark Fayedd, the Ronan’el-elf I mentioned, on the way, and you’ll set sail back for Lo’Torrin. The tribunal still believes that starting with Arokosiel is wise.” It seemed to pain Worthag to acknowledge this, as though the gods were the only way.
“Thank you, Worthag,” said Asp solemnly. “We appreciate your help.”
He nodded, turned, and walked away. Asp thought she saw him shake his head as he passed into the distance, and she smiled. I love proving people wrong.
“Done,” said Steel-Eyes as though the conversation with Worthag had been little but a distraction from his task. The dwarf brandished a fine, smooth metal ring above his head, and it glinted in the receding light of the day. Steel-Eyes smiled in satisfaction, removed a glove from his right hand, and slipped it onto his middle finger. A pale blue light crackled around him for a moment, then disappeared in a faint shimmer. Steel-Eyes gloved his hand once more and let the smile slide from his face.
“What does it do?” asked Larkin, her eyes wide.
“It will help,” replied Steel-Eyes.
“It sounds like we need all the help we can get,” said Asp. “Kastark,” she muttered. “A half-step between mortal enemies. I think he may be of more assistance than Worthag thinks.”
“He seemed pretty sure he wouldn’t,” said Larkin, worried.
Asp shrugged. “Worthag had the look of a warrior. The way he carried himself, his mindset–how to overwhelm a problem.” She shook her head. “Diplomacy is finer, more delicate than that. Someone who can truly represent both sides–that’s big. This emissary may be more than that. He may be the way we show the elves that there’s something bigger at play. That union is possible. That they and the Ronan’el have something in common.”
“Maybe,” said Steel-Eyes, gripping the ring through his glove as if to make sure it was still there. “But the gods may be of more help.”
“We don’t have years, here,” replied Asp. “This border situation is complicated. You saw–all it took was one wagon crossing the line to reignite the war. How long ‘til someone else makes the same mistake we did? Tracking down gods and convincing them to help would be huge–don’t get me wrong–but if this war is still going ten years from now because we’re chasing down deities, lots of people are going to die. And we will have basically failed. A sure thing is better than a long shot.”
Steel-Eyes cocked an eyebrow. “And Kastark is a sure thing?”
“A surer thing, yeah,” said Asp.
Steel-Eyes grunted. “Maybe,” he said again.
Asp crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Let’s meet him before you cast judgment.”
“Before you cast-ark judgment, you mean.” Larkin’s mouth hung open, delighted by her own joke.
Asp couldn’t help but laugh. “Thanks, Larkin.”
Larkin jigged about, clearly pleased that she’d gotten a laugh. Sash nodded serenely and opened their eyes. They came to stand by Asp.
“What did I miss?” they asked.
Asp smiled. “Oh, you know, we discussed getting some gods to help us, nothing big.”
Sash chuckled and shook their head. “Never a dull moment with you all, I’d say.”
Asp smiled again, but inside, she worried. Maybe Worthag is right. Maybe I don’t know what I’ve gotten into. She shrugged. But then, when have I ever?
You can read the next chapter here!
No comments:
Post a Comment