Chapter 14 #4
Then my gaze begins returning to the walls.
I imagine dragging the furs from my cage outside, knotting them together and using them as a rope. Even if I used every one of them, they would never be long enough. They would be too thick to hide, and I would still need some way to reach the top.
I plan anyway.
By my best estimate, nearly half an hour has passed. I make one final circuit of the estate, then return through the archway without waiting for anyone to call me.
I climb back into Talarin’s chair and reopen the guide where I left off.
After thirty minutes spent circling the same enclosed grounds, it still feels like a simulacrum of freedom: birds, forests and open skies captured in ink and bound between covers while Talarin walks through the real thing beyond the walls.
The entire time, the smell of the slow-roasting meat keeps pulling my attention away, making my mouth water and my stomach grumble.
I finish the guide to Colossian birds from cover to cover. Then I turn back to the beginning and start reading the entire thing again.
I glance over at the mystery, but I have to save it. I only have four books, and I really don’t want to get through the two that are even semi-interesting and end up desperate enough to start learning about fluid dynamics.
I wonder what the others are doing. Talarin told me to sit here, and at first it felt like a nice thing. It is a nice thing. It’s better than sitting in my cage, doing nothing at all.
But can I leave? Or was it a command to stay here until he is back?
Mero returns before Talarin, changed out of his battle robe and into dark trousers and a short-sleeved, dark-brown knit shirt with a folded collar. His thick iron-grey hair is still damp from the shower, falling in curls swept back from his forehead. There is something distinctly noble about him.
The fine knit lies closely across his chest and shoulders, the sleeves fitted around his upper arms. A thick vein runs the length of one bicep. His posture is perfect.
He simply looks like a man who buys the best because it is the best and has never had to worry about the cost.
From what I can gather, these men came directly here from war. They probably bought most of their clothing when they arrived. That would explain why Arrek’s shirts now fit him too tightly. He has added a great deal of bulk over the last six months.
How rich are they, exactly?
Elites. That was the word the Commissioner used. I have never heard it before, but it is not a military rank. It sounds like something else.
Every Aurelian who survives his first century is supposed to receive an estate and enough riches to live in luxury.
Was this estate granted to them for their service, or did they buy it?
Did Elites receive something more? They have a Reaver, Orb-Blades and clothing made by craftsmen with centuries of experience.
Perhaps living for nearly six hundred years, most of it spent on campaigns with little opportunity to spend anything, could make anyone wealthy.
At least until I came along and destroyed a harvest worth a fortune.
Mero crosses into the kitchen. For a moment, he goes still, looking somewhere far beyond the room, and I wonder whether Talarin is speaking to him through the Bond.
Then his gaze clears, and he begins setting the table.
It is not long before Talarin returns, carrying a pot of honey in one hand and a broad bowl filled with enormous blackberries and strawberries in the other, the last of the late-summer berries, each one perfectly ripe.
He passes me with only a brief glance. I search him for any indication that he was stung, knowing already that he would not have been. The honey is clear and thick, already strained from the comb. A moment later, I hear him place the pot and bowl upon the counter.
Mero carries the huge platter to the table balanced upon his left hand, several enormous sections of baton ribs surrounded by vegetables softened during the slow cook. He returns for a smaller bowl of chilled pasta salad, then takes the single chair at the head of the table without a word.
Arrek emerges last from the passage, his beard still damp. He has changed back into his faded blue work trousers and the same checked shirt he wore earlier, the fabric stretched tightly across the new bulk of his shoulders and upper arms.
He looks over the table, then points to a place on one of the long benches beside his own setting.
“Sit there.”
I glance towards my cage.
I thought they might make me eat inside it, or wait until they had finished before feeding me. Instead, I will be sitting at Arrek’s side.
I close the guide and leave it upon the arm of Talarin’s chair, then cross the room. The place Arrek has chosen puts my back to the broad windows I used to watch through.
For a moment, I see the scene as it would have looked from my old perch outside: three enormous Aurelians gathering around the long table, and a small woman dressed in ridiculous pink clothing sitting among them.
Me.
I pull myself onto the bench and sit as straight as I can, but the table is still slightly too high for me to eat comfortably.
During the negotiations, I sat with my back as straight as possible, but there is a difference between reaching up to pull a contract towards me and trying to eat an entire meal with a knife and fork.
A quiet chuckle rumbles from Arrek as he sees my predicament. He rises and returns with a broad black cushion, placing it upon the bench closer to his own place.
Before he can reach for me, I climb onto it myself. He would take any excuse to put his hands on me.
The cushion is thick and firm, raising me high enough to reach the table.
At least it is black. I am grateful they have not managed to make this hot pink too.