27. Taldesa
Taldesa
The last time Tala had attended a formal dinner party, she had been just shy of sixteen.
It had been a memorable affair for her family, because Tala had taken a pair of scissors to her hair.
The only reason the length wasn’t shorter than her chin was because the maids had caught her.
It had taken four staff members to pry the scissors from her—three maids and one full grown butler.
Her mother had been furious, even as she tried to save the mess Tala had made.
In the end, Tala had still been forced into a gown that weighed twice as much as she did.
Covered in frills and bows, Tala had curtsied and smiled when it was demanded of her.
As the evening went on, she had even managed to behave long enough for her parents moods to improve as they held conversations with other nobles…
until Tala had broken away from her family and infiltrated the kitchen staff for strawberry cake.
She had sworn over the half-eaten slice—wedged between a large column and a wall—that she would never allow her parents to drag her to one of these events ever again.
Whether it was a trickster fae or some bored god that heard her, Tala’s wish was granted.
She was sent to the Moon Maidens shortly after that.
With the demands of gala obligations no longer in the cards for her, Tala had grown accustomed to living as a warrior.
Loose fitted cotton, wooden weapons, and not a corset in sight.
It was the one thing the Moon Maidens and the Valiant Circle had gotten right when it came to dress code.
Yet, Cercel didn’t say a damn thing about situations like this.
Within the privacy of her room, Tala stared at the expensive monstrosity hanging from the window.
In the late afternoon sun, the garment was a stark contrast to what she was used to wearing.
A fitted, high-collared vest with long, flowing sleeves that rivaled the gowns of fictional characters she had seen illustrated in Avie’s books.
It descended into pants, with an ankle length half- skirt that fell to one side.
It wasn’t exactly a dress, but it was really fucking close.
It was also an obnoxiously bright aquamarine with ivory accents that screamed attention.
Attention that Tala desperately didn’t want or need for her role that evening.
Cashmere Fantasy was meeting with the king and his daughter that evening, and Tala’s role was to keep an eye out for any potential security risks.
Both for the bards and the monarchy. That had always been the main objective when the High Conservator had briefed her about the mission.
Only, instead of doing it for the princess’s birthday, the event had been moved up to accommodate the change in schedule.
Tala planned to follow that mission thoroughly, but her mind kept falling back to the two mysterious objects on her bedside table.
The ring was still cold—something that continued to bother Tala to no end.
She had wanted to take it to the Enchanting Bauble, but knowing there were eyes on her had stalled her.
The last thing she wanted to do was alert them further to what she was doing, but without a proper enchanter to verify the properties of the ring, it was becoming a weird thing Tala carried in her pockets.
Ameriden had even teased her about it, claiming she was paranoid and that it was most likely just a gift from a fan.
Tala could almost concede to his way of thinking if he wasn’t such an overly confident bastard.
The Valiant Circle had drilled it into Tala’s head that just because something appeared simple, didn’t mean it was.
She had heard the stories from other members, of anarchists, alchemists, and sorcerers and their vast vaults of dangerous magical items. How a simple trinket could lead to boons or banes.
There had even been a monk that had the misfortune to pick up a dagger and the damn thing had turned him into stone.
It had taken months to find someone skilled enough to remove the curse on him.
No, the ring stayed with Tala until she could get it to Cercel.
After speaking with the guard, Tala had managed to leave a note in a book at one of the market stores.
It was a trick the monks had picked up from the thieves guild.
A way to pass information without making it too obvious.
Cercel had instructed that if she were to need anything, to contact him that way, which she did—granted the message was purposefully vague.
When Tala went to check the book a day later, she found a similar message near the back.
Just desserts taste best with a song and view.
The reply would have made Avie’s brow furrow in confusion, but Tala recognized the meaning.
Whether it was Cercel himself or another member of the Valiant Circle, someone would be at the castle tonight.
She would meet them in the garden after the bard’s performance but before dessert and pass the ring off to them.
The archive had more information of magical items and the man power to dedicate time in finding it.
A knock on her door made Tala briefly tense. She grabbed the ring and metal, shoving both beneath a pillow. Silently, she made her way to the door, one hand readying on her baton as she called, “Who is it?”
“Hey, it’s Seira.”
Tala let out a breath, unlocking the door and opening it with some relief. The last thing she wanted to do was show up to dinner with the king and have a giant black eye. Mysterious poison assassins be damned.
“Hey, I’m here to see if you need any help getting ready.
” Seira grinned, barging into the room without any hesitation.
Her hair was partially wrapped in curlers—at least, that’s what Tala thought they were.
“Boys are still in the process of finalizing their jewelry, and, well, you know how men are.”
Come on in, Tala thought sarcastically.
“I don’t think I’ll need—”
“Look, I didn’t want to assume, but have you seen the back of this thing?” Seira asked as she kicked a chair over to the window and proceeded to climb up it.
True to her word, the moment Seira pulled the garment down and showed Tala the back, she wanted to curse.
The fucking vest had lacing on the back—like the corsets her mother had wrangled her in the moment she started growing breasts.
Tala was rather dexterous, but having to manage the intricate design of the lace would be a nightmare without a second pair of eyes.
“Why is it like that?” Tala asked.
“The tailors said when you lace it up properly, the back looks like a rose,” Seira shrugged. “Apparently, that’s the princess’s favorite flower. Now, come on. This thing isn’t going to wear itself.”
Unlike her mother, Seira was a much softer hand when it came to helping Tala.
She didn’t make weird comments about her body and she didn’t spend the time reminding Tala how to entertain the son of a lord.
If anything, Seira almost felt like a friend who was simply helping Tala get ready for an event.
A friend who apparently had really shitty taste in men.
“So, there I am, all four foot eleven—with heels mind you—waiting for this man at one of the best taverns on this side of Ordia, in the middle of dust nothing IronGarde. I mean, I spent some time there growing up. Got family out there; it’s not a shit hole, it’s a nice place, but it’s still in the middle of gods damn nowhere.
Anyway, I’m not there for a long time, I’m there for a good time, and you know what happens?
This mother fucker doesn’t show up. I get myself all dolled up, and this bastard has the nerve to leave me hanging,” Seira sighed in frustration as she pulled on the lace. “Biggest mistake of my life.”
“Who was this guy, again?” Tala asked, with absolutely no intention of utilizing the archives records to track him down and beat the shit out of him.
“Some guy I met on the train to IronGarde years ago,” Seira huffed. “His name was Jacobus. Good looking—really toned ass—but the name, I didn’t really care for.”
By the time Seira finished lacing the vest and Tala had fastened the half skirt to her waist, she knew way more about no-show Jacobus than she knew about the poison assassin.
Jacobus was a daemon, born and raised in IronGarde.
He was blond-haired, puppy dog eyed, and had a pair of horns that may or may not be cute depending on Seira’s mood.
“Anyway, enough of that guy,” Seira huffed while she straightened the end of Tala’s half skirt. “How you feeling in this thing?”
“Like I don’t know where to put my batons,” Tala said with her hands on her hips.
“I spoke with the captain of the guards about this event. Weapons aren’t allowed,” Seira explained. “You can bring them to the front to get checked in with security, but you won’t be able to bring them to the formal event.”
Of course.
Well, that certainly complicated things. Tala had been trained in hand to hand combat before, but she preferred using the batons. They offered an extended reach, giving Tala the ability to take on opponents that might have the advantage when it came to strength.
Plus, it’s way easier to disarm a guy with a dagger with my batons than without.
Tala decided having her weapons for most of the travel was better than without. She attached them to her hip, hiding both beneath the skirt at her side.
“Okay, I think I’m ready for whatever this is,” Tala said.
“Oh,” Seira laughed. “You aren’t ready. I haven’t even tackled your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“You look like you’ve got a birds nest growing from the back of your head,” Seira explained. “Come on, sit in the chair and let’s try and tackle this.”
For whatever reason, having a woman half her height boss her around wasn’t as irritating as when Cercel did it.
Tala was left to ponder what had changed—why she didn’t argue, but couldn’t figure out why.
Even when Seira had produced a brush out of thin air and started yanking it through the strands, Tala couldn’t find her voice, let alone her anger.
“You got great hair, by the way,” Seira said. “If I had thick hair like this, I would always wear it down.”
Avie had said the same thing the few times they woke up hung over.
She would bully Tala until she managed to grab her braids, claiming her bed head was too messy for civilization.
Tala hadn’t complained much then, allowing Avie to run her fingers through her hair while they tried to piece the night back together.
“I don’t really think about it,” Tala admitted. “It’s just always been easier to have braids.”
“I do most of the boys’ shopping for their beauty products. Casimine uses this oil that does wonders.” Seira gathered a large chunk of hair. “Smells just like coconut.”
“I know,” Tala said with a sigh.
A beat went by and it wasn’t until it went for too long that Tala realized what she said.
“I thought as much,” Seira said, sighing like a disappointed sibling.
“I—”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, hon,” Seira said as she moved to Tala’s field of vision.
Her eyes were still trained on pulling Tala’s hair into something suitable for a dinner with royalty.
“The boys think they’re slick, but they forget: I’ve been around a lot longer than they have.
I know when something’s going on, even when they think I don’t. ”
The tension in Tala’s body didn’t lessen, but she didn’t protest. This was going to happen sooner or later, and Tala figured there was no avoiding it. She’d finish out the evening and by tomorrow, Cercel would come by with her replacement—
“Do you love ‘em?”
The question startled Tala into moving. She jerked in her seat, but stopped as the tension on her hair grew taut.
“Seira, I shouldn’t—”
The manager of Cashmere Fantasy shuffled until she was directly in Tala’s line of sight. She didn’t appear angry, but her expression was serious.
“Do you love them?” Seira asked again.