8 War Cries #2
Blinking, she spotted a small basin with a similar design. She tried the lever. More water. She opened what she thought was a cupboard, only to find the sturdiest looking latrine she’d ever seen. There was another lever, another rush of water.
In a daze, she turned back to the tub. It was almost full. She pulled the lever and the water stopped. Tentatively, she dipped her hand in, afraid the heat might bite, but its warmth was mercifully gentle.
Lowering herself into the bath, she let a sigh escape her lips as her muscles relaxed. She looked around the strange room, resolving not to think too hard on it, at least not right now. Then she let herself sink under.
She had bathed for what felt like an eternity, the heat easing her body and the dark images from her mind. Things could have gone so much worse on the road. That she had made it here, to this strange silent house, felt nothing short of a miracle.
When she returned to the bedroom, her clothes and boots were gone. Her weapons and pack had been laid out neatly, and her heart sank at the sight of her quiver without its bow. Unease settled as she realised there must be another key to the room.
She climbed onto the bed and lay on her side, knees tucked towards her chest, a thick bath sheet wrapped around her. She watched the thin strip of light under the door, wondering if her clothes would be returned anytime soon, or if she should simply sleep.
A shadow passed behind the door and a knock sounded.
“Yes?” she called.
“It’s me.” Eli’s voice was muffled through the door. How presumptuous of him to think she would recognise it.
“Who exactly is me?”
“Open the door.”
She sat up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. “If you think I am opening another door to you when I’ve got no clothes on, you are out of your gods damned mind.”
A pause. Then he answered, his tone a little lighter. “The door to the left.”
She looked, and there, disguised by the wall panelling, was a narrow door with a little golden knob. “You’ll find clothes inside,” he continued. “Dress and meet us in the dining room for dinner.”
“And what if I’m no—”
“Not hungry?” he cut in. “Be there in ten minutes.”
“And how exactly am I meant to know when that is?”
His sigh was audible even through the thick door. “On the nightstand. There should be a clock. It’s round.” He drew out the last word, sarcasm lining his voice.
She bristled but turned to look. A tiny clock sat beside the bed. She picked it up, peering at the delicate arrows that met in the centre. It was like a tiny replica of the one in Anhaven, small enough to fit in her pouch if it weren’t for the wood that framed it.
“Ten minutes,” Eli called, his footsteps fading down the hall.
Behind the narrow door, Vaelira found a long room lined with dresses, coats, and blouses, all hanging in carefully arranged rows.
She lit the lamps in the wall sconces, their soft light flickering over silks in shades of pale blue, emerald, silver, and gold.
Her fingers brushed over them, the fabric shimmering like water.
They were beautiful, but none of them looked practical.
She kept walking down the rows until she found a chest of drawers, and inside, a pair of light flowing trousers and a green silk camisole.
The clothes were simple and soft, and comfier than anything she had worn before. She pulled a thick cardigan over her arms and smiled. She didn’t need it, the house was warm, but it made her feel less exposed.
In the hall, a pair of slippers waited for her. Vaelira slid them on, finding the fit perfect.
As she walked, she took in the ornately framed paintings that lined the walls, the subjects looking oddly familiar, yet also noble and fierce.
Despite that ferocity, something in their eyes felt cold, the artist unable to capture the emotion of their subject correctly.
Or perhaps these people were simply heartless creatures, the artist doomed before they’d even begun.
Despite her best attempts, the borrowed trousers dragged on the floor. As she reached the top of the stairs, she gathered them in one hand and made her way down, her footsteps quiet on the thick carpet. Someone had already cleaned the dirt they had tracked in earlier.
At the bottom, the double doors to the left stood open.
Beyond, a long dining table of dark polished wood stood surrounded by twelve straight backed chairs.
Three places had been set with heavy looking silverware and thick napkins.
At the head of the table, Jurah shifted in his seat.
Behind him, a fire crackled softly in the great stone hearth, throwing light against the dark panelled walls.
Eli sat to Jurah’s right, a glass tumbler filled with amber liquid clutched in one hand, his face as unreadable as ever. Clearly, his mood hadn’t improved since earlier. He turned his head slowly, his eyes dragging down Vaelira’s body.
“I hope this is okay,” she said, gesturing to the clothes. “It was the most practical thing I could find.”
He just watched her.
Jurah cleared his throat. “Of course it is. Please, sit.”
She stepped into the dining room and lowered herself into the chair to his left, it’s high back and straight angles forcing her spine stiff. She edged forward slightly, trying to give herself more room to slouch.
A panel on the wall behind Eli swung open, and a girl in a spotless apron stepped in, balancing three plates on a silver tray. She placed one in front of Eli.
“Ladies first,” he snapped.
The woman flinched. “Apologies,” she murmured, head bowed as she retrieved the plate.
Vaelira’s eyes narrowed. He was being cruel, and she suspected it was her fault.
Eli exhaled, his voice softening. “I’m sorry, Mildred. It’s been a long day.”
The woman served the plates and slipped quietly back through the door. Vaelira stared down at the small roasted bird before her. No one spoke.
The woman returned with two larger trays heaped with potatoes and carrots, glazed figs, and more roasted meat.
“That’s plenty,” Jurah said gently, offering the woman a small nod of dismissal.
Eli helped himself. Jurah followed. Vaelira reached for a potato and a single carrot with its green top still attached.
She cut into the potato, steam curling up into her face.
One bite and her eyes closed, a quiet moan escaping before she could stop it.
Someone cleared their throat and she opened her eyes.
Jurah was looking at his plate and failing to restrain his smile.
Eli was cutting into his bird, seemingly oblivious.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. A pause. “I was stupid today. I made a mistake.”
“Mistakes,” Eli said, laying his cutlery down and crossing his arms. “Plural.”
She frowned. “I know I messed up with the raiders. But if I remember correctly, I’m the one who killed the demon.”
Eli let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Your horse killed the demon. You just made it angry.”
She met his gaze, her voice even. “And I was riding that horse.”
Jurah gave a slight tilt of his head. “If I remember correctly, I’m the one who took its head.”
Eli shot him a look.
Jurah cleared his throat. “She makes a fair point.”
“No.” Eli said, not looking at his commander. “She doesn’t. She disobeyed orders. Twice. And she still thinks she doesn’t need more training?” He scoffed. “If any Royal Guard had acted the way you did today, they’d have been stripped of their crest on the spot.”
The words hit her like a slap.
“It was one minor demon,” he continued. “We had it under control. You complicated the situation. You risked your life, and the life of that horse you are so fond of, for nothing.”
Silence fell. She hadn’t thought of the commands they gave as formal orders. Not in the heat of the moment. Not when so much was happening.
Jurah spoke softly, but the warmth was gone now. “Eli is right, Vaelira. There’s a reason we follow the chain of command. In battle, orders matter. Coordination saves lives. You must have learned this already?”
Her face burned. Of course she had. She had seen her father live by his commands. It had been drilled into her long before she had started training. She’d been so focused on what she wanted that she had acted rashly and forgotten her place.
She rose abruptly, pushing back her chair. “You’re right,” she murmured, eyes on the table. When no one spoke, she turned to leave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eli said. “You need to eat.”
She turned back to him slowly. “I’m not hungry,” she said, each word clipped. She looked to Jurah. “Thank you for the meal.”
Jurah nodded, pity softening his weathered features.
Vaelira walked in silence, her fists clenched at her sides. When the sound of their voices drifted from the dining room and down the hall behind her, she ignored them.
The bedroom door shut with a soft click, the sound echoing through the too large room. Tears stung her eyes. Hot, furious tears that she pushed back with the heels of her palms. She was angry at Eli for his cruelty, but mostly at herself for handing them every reason to doubt her.
She had to be better. Stronger.
She couldn’t afford mistakes. Not here and not now. Not when she needed answers.
Answers that could help her avenge her brother. That could help her decide what to do with this thing that she still barely understood. That simmered in her blood like a threat.
It frightened her, and fear was the fastest way to die.