Chapter 4
FOUR
We travel hard and on arrival at the Sorting push through the crowd, urgency battling exhaustion.
Battered tents and ramshackle stalls are pitched outside the crumbling stadium. There’s the usual mix of Fae, Orcs, Icarians and Humans and all the mixtures in between. Immortals can’t stop copulating with everything in their quest to repopulate their species’, then taking the DNA and altering it more.
We process through line, awed by the remnants of Dreadnaught technology that only come out at the Sorting. Our blood is taken, our value classified.
“Mixed species female,” the Icarian orderly mutters as the tablet flashes. “Of breeding age, expected lifespan barring gross stupidity, approximately seven hundred twenty years. Minimal magical potential.”
That shocks me; I’d always assumed I’d inherit my Human mother’s lifespan since I grew so quickly. It’s how the boys, Iloni, and I all started primary lessons together though I was only fifteen and they thirty-five, Iloni a few years younger. By my quick calculation, Rath will be around sixty-five to my forty-five now, both of us settled into adult bodies, physical aging having ceased in the last five years. He was just barely old enough to bare his throat to a female when I left.
Not that he ever cared about traditional timelines.
I’m given a necklace with five beads indicating I’m of above average value, an extra bead added for my learned skills.
“Mixed species female, recent onset of breeding age, correctible malnourishment. High, accessible, reproducible magical potential.” The orderly gives a shocked Maezii a once over. “You’ll have your pick. Have a care if you bargain with Aeddannari. It’s where your magical bloodline comes from.”
“I’m—I’m Fae?”
The orderly snorts, lifting a wing in a shrug. “No. You’re a throwback. Expected lifespan barring gross stupidity or other simple things that kill mortals, approximately four hundred and fifteen years. Onset of menopause not expected until approximately three hundred seventy-five. Congratulations, mortal. You’ll never need work again, except once every three years in a birthing room.”
I stare at Maezii, ignoring the comment about pregnancy and childbirth not being “work.” It’s not worth arguing over. Double an average Human lifespan in the Outlands. She can have a lot of babies during that time .
Hand trembling, she takes a necklace strung with six beads; seven is the highest and reserved for individuals who actively wield magical skills.
“Can I take one off?” she asks, recovering.
The Icarian gives her a shrewd look, but after a moment says, “You can. That is. . .wise.”
Because no one wants a bloodbath due to a bidding war that doesn’t go some spoiled Immortal’s way.
We enter the stadium, using the excuse of scouting for the best spot to wait to both gather our thoughts.
“We don't let them split us up,” she says and whirls, grabbing my hand, her green-gold eyes wide and pleading. “If I get a better deal than you, I'll refuse it. Don't make me accept it.”
I squeeze her shoulder. “I'm not going to make you do anything. Whatever we do, we'll do together.”
When the gong sounds, Immortals enter. Aeddannari Fae and Uthilsen Orcs on foot, Icarian Gargoyles swooping down to land lightly on their feet before they tuck their membranous wings tightly against their back. I eyeball the Icarians; they're a scientific species that prefer isolation. Maezii and I will do well with an Icarian.
Instead of waiting, I approach one who’s been standing back and observing, Maezii silent at my back. He's dressed in standard flight leathers cut close to his body, a few shades darker than his gray skin. The planes of his face are as sharp as cut rock, his black eyes intelligent and watchful. His long black hair is also braided back, for the practicalities of flight .
He's discreet; there's nothing on his person to indicate his family, social status, or wealth. The headband he wears is also plain gray leather. Well, the quality of his boots, but anyone who lives long enough is expected to dress well even if poor. There aren't many poor Immortals since after a couple of centuries if you can't figure out finances, you're either stupid or dead. Usually both.
He turns his head and watches as I approach, his calm demeanor appealing.
“Vohnteri lun skri,” I say, clasping my elbows and executing the short bow that is a common courtesy in their culture.
He shifts slightly towards me to indicate I may continue. Dealing with an Icarian means learning to interpret silences.
I continue the greeting in his tongue. “I’m Kyona Lethergen, No Clan, accompanied by my apprentice, Maezii of the Outlands.” She duplicates my bow.
He barely inclines his head instead of bowing, which is borderline rude unless he's of high rank and in that case, the nod is polite. His gaze lingers on Maezii. “I am Ya?onar of Zar Gandul, Tyrnul Symput?rii. You speak my language.”
He’s still staring at Maezii, unblinking. I glance at her in time to see her blush and look down, then jerk her head back up and glare.
“A little,” I say, mirroring his neutral but pleasant tone of voice.
He looks at me and waits.
“I am a fully trained midwife recently come from the Outlands where I travel between communities to deliver infants and provide basic gynecological care.” I gesture at Maezii. “She is my apprentice. We’re both tutored in basic self-defense and survival skills.”
“What formal education have you?”
“I can read and write and have mastered mathematics up to the algebraic levels. I've tutored my apprentice as time permitted.”
“My community has no need of a midwife, but two young females capable of learning the sciences will be of use. Are you willing to breed?”
“Neither of us will accept a concubine's position. But if a suitable mate offers himself, we will consider it. One for each of us,” I add, so there's no misunderstanding. “But we won’t be contracted into birthing young.”
A glimmer of amusement lightens his pure black eyes. He shifts towards Maezii. “You have an Immortal in your bloodline, and you bear a name of the Tyrnuls.”
She hesitates. “They said my ancestor is Fae. I don’t know about my name. Maybe my mother heard it and liked it.”
“That would be a reasonable explanation.” He glances at my necklace of five beads. “You have little magical potential other than what is innate with a Uthilsen line, but that is not to say you cannot be bred into a stronger bloodline.”
He’s negotiating.
“Not many half Immortals offer themselves up at the Sorting,” I say.
I wouldn't have been allowed at all if I wasn't half Human. The Sorting is meant for Immortal masters and Human servants, not the other way around, but they make exceptions for halflings. If we began offering ourselves in droves, they might not though. The Immortals need magic adapted Humans to bring fresh genes into their bloodlines, but if they start treating their own offspring the same as mere mortals. . .that is a slope no one wants to slip down.
Ya?onar straightens. “I will offer you and your apprentice a contract for a year and a day, as it is plain you will not be separated.”
I bow.
“I am in need of a junior researcher and lab assistant, as well as labor to supplement my household staff. Should I find your service acceptable, the contract can be renewed at the end of the year. In addition, if your service is acceptable, I will allow males of appropriate status to submit courtship proposals. You will need to provide your own dowry, if one is required.”
“Neither Maezii nor I will offer a dowry at all. We won’t pay a male for the privilege of courting death to bear and rear his children, with whom he will enrich his Tyrnul.”
Ya?onar gives me a thin smile. “Even so. Are these preliminary terms satisfactory? I believe if we linger I may soon be challenged.”
“I would like to know what arrangements will be made for our room and board, clothing allowance, and whether or not we will be required to serve as concubines.”
He rattles off a series of provisions I recognize as more or less standard, with concubinage being optional and compensated should we choose.
“I, however,” he finishes, “will not require service in my bed.” He gives us another thin smile, though his gaze lingers on Maezii. “I will not be foolish enough to reject an offer, should you find it advantageous to make one.”
Maezii and I exchange a look. She tugs on her prayer necklace once, and I turn back to the Icarian.
“We—”
“Wife.”
I hear the word right before I’m lifted and thrown over a hard shoulder.