20 #2
Elrion furrowed his brow. He began to say something, and she shook her head at him.
She scribbled on the paper, We are being overheard.
He raised his eyebrows and he brought the tea to his lips.
He looked very startled, quite uncomfortable, but then, that was his way.
He was not of this land, no matter what he might say.
He was not the sort to raise his fists. He was likely the sort to stammer out an apology. The sort to take to his heels and run.
But she did not need him to fight. She needed him to save her sister. Running away with Raclahad was exactly the best thing.
She wrote, I need you to claim that your daughter insists that Raclahad be brought to you. I need you to loudly say that you will not leave without her. I need her gone from this place.
Elrion swallowed. “Well,” he said, “it is true that Evriane is most desirous to see Raclahad again. I have never made her acquaintance, but I know my daughter has been sneaking around, coming to visit here without my knowledge.”
“Yes,” said Aerhril.
“I assume, if you have both come to meet us, neither of you are ill,” said Elrion.
“We are not,” said Aerhril.
Raclahad was reading what Aerhril had written and shaking her head, looking panicked.
Aerhril was writing.
“Well, if she cannot come here to visit, then Raclahad must come with us.”
“Oh, how kind,” said Aerhril.
“I would like to stay with you,” whispered Raclahad.
Aerhril shook her head fiercely at her sister, still writing.
We were attacked by the orc army on the day of my wedding.
They killed all the men and took all the women and children prisoner.
The army is continuing south to strike Renegahan.
You must take Raclahad from this place. You must send word to the armies in the Vale. You must stop this invasion.
Elrion read what she had written, his eyes going wide. His hands shook. “I must very much insist that your sister come along with us, and I should like to extent our invitation to you as well, my lady.” He snatched the pen from her. Celedin? he wrote.
She hesitated and then got another piece of paper. Aloud, she said, “I could not leave the Peak, of course. I must stay here and guard it.” She wrote, The orcs think he is dead, but he survived. I have him hidden away in the keep.
Raclahad gasped when she read this, utterly surprised.
Aerhril glared at her.
Elrion stroked his chin, reading it. “If you are not ill, my lady, you would do well to leave before you become ill. I would have you come along.”
“I cannot,” said Aerhril.
Elrion scribbled, Perhaps we can come back in the night, and you can bring Celedin, and I can spirit both of you away.
She shook her head. Aloud she said, “I must stay here. It is important that I stay here. But if I knew my sister would not fall ill, it would be one less thing to worry about.”
“But I wish to stay with you,” said Raclahad. “I do not wish to be sent off.”
“It is only until the sickness is over,” said Aerhril.
Elrion wrote again. Stay here with him, I assume? His face was an ugly sneer. He meant Dathor.
She wrote back. He is the one who overhears. I have some influence over him. I cannot go. I must stay here to keep him in check.
Elrion read it, still sneering. His voice, however, was composed. “Regarding the sickness, we do wish to minister to the sick. Can we not do so? Can Igbar do so?”
Igbar was silent as ever.
“Surely, since he is an orc, he is too hardy to fall ill,” said Elrion.
“I would not think that such a thing would matter,” said Aerhril, glaring at him for saying a thing like that. As if orcs were not as susceptible to sickness as anyone. Elrion, for all his claims to the contrary, was just as likely to think stereotypically about the orcs.
“So, you refuse our help,” said Elrion. “You were always stubborn.”
She met his gaze, saying nothing.
“But we have no choice but to go,” Elrion continued. “If you will not allow us to minister to the ill, we must leave.” He stood up. “Come, Raclahad. Evriane will be ever so pleased to see you again.”
“But I don’t wish—”
“Yes, you do,” Aerhril cut her off. “You and Evriane will be much better off out of this place, away from this sickness.” She gathered up all of the pieces of paper and threw them in the fire.
Raclahad was there, throwing herself into her sister’s arms. Aerhril hugged her tightly. She whispered in her ear, “I will come for you when it is safe. You can trust Elrion. He will treat you with the respect you are accustomed to. It will be very civilized.”
Raclahad pulled away, eyes shining, but she nodded, and Aerhril could see her sister would go with the man.
They all went to the door together.
When she pulled it open, Dathor was right there. He just smirked at them all.
Igbar did not look at Dathor as they all left.
Raclahad cast one long look over her shoulder at Aerhril.
And then Elrion was speaking to her in a gentle voice, saying that his cook was making a pear tart that evening, and did she like pears, and Raclahad responded, and they went out the door.
Dathor folded his arms over his chest. “You couldn’t resist the chance to shuffle your sister off, I see.”
“I saw the opportunity and I jumped on it,” she said. “Evriane does love Raclahad so.”
He shook his head at her. “But you did get rid of him. Do you think he believed it? The sickness?”
She let out a shaky breath. She had been sure that Dathor was going to know that she was scribbling out messages in there, that their conversation would have sounded stilted or something of that nature. “Well, he left, didn’t he?”
“You seem to have thrown him off kilter,” said Dathor. “As you say, it has been a long time since he saw you. He does not like you. He seemed to wish to be away from you.”
“Yes,” she said. “He did.”
Dathor nodded. “Well, very good, then.”
She let out a breath, quite pleased with herself.
DATHOR WAS SURPRISED to be summoned to the gate again, much later that evening, after darkness had fallen. He was even more surprised to see Igbar there, holding up a letter.
He handed it through the bars of the gate, the other orc’s expression grim.
Dathor turned it over. It was addressed to the Envivtain nae Oirnir, a region in the Vale. “What is this?”
“Is it true?” said Igbar. “Are we invading?”
Dathor licked his lips. He nodded. “We are.”
Igbar clutched at the bar of the gate, holding himself up as he bowed his head. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “After all these years. All these years of abuse and the way they shoved us back that pass, after all these years, we finally give them an answer to the way they have treated us.”
“Indeed, we do,” said Dathor. “So, she told you.” He let out a breath. “She used the writing desk. I should have realized. What an idiot I am. She wrote it all down, did she?”
“She did,” said Igbar. “But I volunteered to take the letter to the postmaster to be put on the train, and I shall not deliver it.”
“How long until he expects a reply, do you think?”
“My master should not feel anything has gone wrong, I do not think, for at least a week and a half. At that point, he’ll send another letter, but I’ll take that one as well. When he gets no response on it, he’ll suspect me, and then I will wish to come here.”
“Of course,” said Dathor. “You would be welcome.”
Igbar nodded. “Good. Well, I suppose that is all, then.”
Dathor’s jaw worked. “I am surprised that you would do this. I thought you loved him.”
“It has been six years since I’ve seen you,” said Igbar. “I have had time to think over a number of things.”
“I see,” said Dathor.
“And Nathre?” said Igbar. “Is she safe and sound in Arzakh?”
Dathor’s face fell. He could not look at the other man. “I failed her.”
“No. What happened? Is she…?”
“I failed her. She died. The baby died. I…” He felt tears coming to his eyes about this, and he had not cried over it in so long, but Igbar had been like a brother to Nathre. He had loved her, and to have been the source of the poor girl’s destruction, it—
“Not your fault.” Igbar’s hand came through the bars of the gate to settle against his shoulder. “It’s the elves’s fault.”
Dathor lifted his gaze to the other orc’s face. “It is their fault.”
“They have treated us badly for too long,” said Igbar. “Now, may they feel just a fraction of the sorrow they visited upon us. Just a fraction.”
“Indeed,” said Dathor.
He and Igbar looked at each other, and a current of understanding passed through them, a current of connection.
It was something to feel, was it not?
Kinship?