Vol.3, Ch.7, P.5
The 5th headquarters. In a leaders’ lounge were they sat.
Fair of face and combed of corn-gold hair: Gerd Kranz, the spellblade.
With sinews like a sculpture and locks like a blaze: Raakel Nyholm, warrior of magicks.
And the buxom beauty belied by a smile innocent and serene: Sheila Larsen, the surgien.
Night was fallen. With their duties done, the Owlcranes had flocked for some respite before retiring for the day. The moment found them in the midst of merriment: a game of tarot and a bottle of spirits besides to milden the mood. And what a fine spirit it was: golden like a late-summer sunset, the liquor listed lazily in tinnen cups of fine, inlaid filigree.
“Such a lovely thing that meets my lips,” Sheila remarked, letting down her cup upon the table.
“You like?” said Gerd, taking a sip himself before studying the drink. “‘Uisce beatha’ they call it. A barley spirit—and all the rage in Redelberne, of late.” The lounge was lit little, and so as he mused, soft yet deep-set shadows played upon the spellblade’s face.
“Well, it wafts nice to me nose, it does, but…” Raakel returned, “…it’s a mite priggish-like ‘pon the palate, if ye pardon me meanin’.”
Gerd smirked. “‘Ain’t in a tankard, ain’t to me taste’, is it?”
“Peh,” Raakel sputtered. “Never said it ain’t.”
Booze ought be swigged than sipped, was Raakel’s motto, and so never could the lustrous liquid have earned her love. Gerd and Sheila, for their part, quite enjoyed the drink, if their dainty delighting in served any sign.
“My dear Lady Raakel,” Sheila began with pity, “no banquet would deign to serve the alehouse fare you so fancy. And yet banquets are your favourite occasion, are they not? Acquiring a taste or two ought do you a fine favour there.”
“Aye? Well ’ere’s a taste fer ye to acquire, Lady Sheila,” Raakel quipped, before slapping down a card upon the table: Cornū Sōlis, the Horn of the Sun. And true to its name, it heralded the loss of Sheila’s every jeton.
“Oh, no!” the surgien gasped. “How cruel!”
“Aye,” Gerd sighed, watching the warrior giddily gather up her boon of tokens. “The fates’ve found their pet for the night, eh? How long’s her lead over you now, Sheila? Two?”
“Three soon,” Raakel sooner answered, smiling at her new horde.
Of the trio, Gerd had the greater gift for the game, and so could not help but raise a brow at Raakel’s triumphant streak. A seldom sight, truly, one stunning the surgien no less.
“What shame…” Sheila sighed, “…though mine ought be the better brain for this.”
“’Ey! I’ll belt ’em brains out, I will,” Raakel snapped, raising her hand, but then deciding instead to flex the arm. “Brawn—thass the winnin’ secret ‘ere!”
“At this rate, she might be onto something, Sheila,” Gerd remarked.
Such banter continued, and more and more of the booze they imbibed. Even Raakel, though at first misliking the stuff, eventually found it fair upon her tongue. Perhaps the spice of victory had much to do with it. Indeed, as her winnings waxed, so did the smile upon her lips as she slurped down the sumptuous spirit.
“Well now,” said Sheila, “any word yet from the Lady Emilie?”
Raakel’s mirth vanished. “Oi, come on,” she grumbled. “Leave work fer the morrow, aye? Merrymakin’s what’s on the menu tonight—an’ the wine o’ winnin’!”
“Stole the words right from my mouth,” Gerd said to Raakel, but then turned to Sheila. “…All’s quiet as yet.”
Long on their minds was Emilie, who at this moment was summoned to the royal capital. Though such a trip was hardly seldom, something was amiss this time around: grim seemed the summons given, and just as grimly answered. As part of the Order leadership, the three Owlcranes could but sense some darkness was afoot.
“…Balasthea’s done in real, innit?” Raakel broached. “Pity. It were winnin’ left an’ right, the fort.”
“I worry more for our dear mareschal, truth be told,” said Sheila.
“Aye to that,” Gerd echoed, quiet.
It had not been so long since the stronghold of Balasthea was brought to its knees. But when tidings of it had reached Emilie’s ears, what warmth and sunniness that yet remained in her mien were lost all at once. And to the Owlcranes’ keen eyes, not since then has she regained either of them, for posted to that selfsame stronghold was none other than her former fiancé.
A post of punishment, imparted by whose hand but Emilie’s very own.
“Nevertheless, our little swain is like to have left this coil,” reckoned Sheila, “…and with him, the chains fettering the Lady Emilie, I should hope.”
“Who’s to say…” murmured Gerd.
“Oh?” Sheila blinked at him. “Think you the Lady Emilie yet yearns for her old flame?”
“Hm? Nay, it’s not that,” answered Gerd, half-startled, but after a moment’s thought, “…no. Pay me no mind.” He looked down at his cup again and stared into the amber reflections within. Before long, his lips slowly parted once more. “There’s the brigadier, as well,” he said. “The Lady Felicia—she earns my other worry.”
“Aye. The li’l lass look’d right fray’d-like, innit?” Raakel concurred. And indeed, the daughter of House Buckmann had seemed mired—morose, even, following her return from Ström. “Maybe she’s got a gander o’ the berk’s cold body? He were her brother, sure ‘nough. Must’ve left ‘er in pieces, the sight o’ him.”
“Perhaps so,” said Sheila. “Our dear mareschal herself seemed quite fracted after the Lady Felicia’s report. Mm, curious…”
“Whichever the way, we’ll know for certain soon enough,” said Gerd, to which the other two nodded.
What a storm of activity it was that had followed the brigadier’s report, soon after which found Emilie setting off asudden to Redelberne.
‘…I-I’m sorry…’ she had said to the Owlcranes. ‘…There’s too little that I can say… for now, at least… But let us talk for sure upon my return…’
This was an exigency, no doubt, if not yet could Emilie sooner discuss behind the walls of the Order than the chambers of Central. There was, as well, the original summons, one set to address the fall of Balasthea. But thereafter had something transpired that warranted an immediate council at the capital… one bidding the presence of Felicia.
There was nothing for it; great wheels had been set in motion. This Gerd prevised, for between the Owlcranes and their mareschal was stone-solid trust, that ever willing was the latter to discuss any matter on her mind. Most ominous, then, was this speed, this silence.
Gerd let out a long, slow breath. Undulating under dim light was his golden drink, in which drowned yet again his wordless stare.
“I feel a bit frayed myself, to be frank,” Sheila confessed. “Our little swain was a hulking heathen, that is certain. And yet… yet I see much to be pitied about him.”
“I mislikes weak ones, I does,” said Raakel. “Weak ones like the addle-pate ‘imself. But if ye asks me: were he pit’ful, that alleyway pup? Hm. Aye, prob’ly.”
Pity for the apostate; oh, indeed, were the two women airing something to that effect. Their tongues were tinged with the usual scorn, of course, but to more acquainted ears, their tone might have sounded more softened, or sympathetic, even—perhaps by fault of the sodden hour.
Were he no heretic.
Were he a fellow knight, fast and valiant.
Another Owlcrane comrade to call their own.
Then…
Nay. The fruitless thought was let be, for none of the three nurtured the same warmth of mind as Emilie’s. Nevertheless, such thoughts, such fancies had, in truth, visited theirs on more than one past occasion.
“Thinkin’ ‘bout it, that adjutant bus’ness—weren’t it just some front to bring the berk back?” Raakel guessed.
“So it seemed,” Gerd answered flatly.
“But the bait ended up rotted on the snare,” continued Raakel. “What were it whirlin’ in ‘is pate, I wonders? Runnin’ an’ runnin’—thass all ‘e’s done, aye? Maybe he thought it’d blow over meanwhiles? The reek ‘e’s roused at the hearin’, that is.”
“Then alas: away from the snare and into the maw,” Sheila summarised. “A shame. Twenty winters lived—all for what?”
She sighed. But no sooner did a knock then play upon the door. Gerd bade the knocker enter. In came a knight, who, declaring his bearing a message from the mareschal, handed to Gerd a scroll. Taking it, the spellblade confirmed Emilie’s seal upon the parchment.
To the knight he then nodded. “Dismissed,” he said, to which the knight obliged. Privacy restored, Gerd next unsealed the scroll and scanned through the contents therein.
The silence stretched on, in which while Gerd’s regard grew grim.
“A prank, innit? Some love letter or summat?” Raakel jested, perhaps to lighten the air—and unravel the unreadable furrows upon Gerd’s brows.
He scoffed. “Nay. A notice, Owlcranes,” Gerd said darkly. “We’re to set out soon. But as to the ‘where’ and ‘why’—that, Emilie would like to discuss after she’s returned.”
“To take back Balasthea, I presume?” Sheila guessed, looking into her own cup. “But Arbel has men in spades… Why send for the Order, I wonder?” She then ventured another sip, but halted as soon as a new thought sparked in her mind. “…Nay… unless…”
“‘Unless’, indeed,” Gerd answered, setting down the scroll. “If what’s writ here be true, then… forget Arbel—Ström itself is lost.”
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Notes
Uisce Beatha
(Language: Old Gaelic) “Whisky”, a distilled alcoholic beverage. Derived from the Latin term aqua vitae, or “water of life”.
Thanks for the chapter.
Somewhere, one or more of the Owlcranes is a rat. And with the possible exception of Gerd, who is only slightly more aware than the rest, the other two are oblivious fools were desperately need a comeuppance.