She bowed her head, cast an anxious eye to Orin before proceeding toward the bathing area.
“No, wait.” I stepped into her path. Balen might not have been forthcoming, but perhaps the servants would be. “Why serve me? I’m a halfling, a servant, too.”
Nuallan’s eyes widened. The look she shared with Orin was one of wariness and sadness.
“What?” I asked, my concern growing. “What is it?”
“You don’t know?” Ferryn said, surprised.
“Ferryn, hush,” Nuallan whispered. “It’s not for us to tell.”
Orin frowned, the scar dipping a fraction as his heavy black brows drew together. “He hasn’t told you?”
“Told me what?”
Tension filled the tent. I looked from Orin to Nuallan and back again, finding it hard to find my voice. The secrecy and the mood sent a stark warning down my spine. “Orin...”
“Nuallan’s right. It’s not for us to tell.” His look said otherwise. His look said he didn’t agree with all the secrecy.
I couldn’t help but start questioning Balen once more. “Am I to die? Is that why I’m here?”
Ferryn fumbled with one of the buckets, nearly dropping it. Water sloshed onto the rug. His face reddened as Orin’s twisted in a flash of grief. “Only one person’s death is sure,” Orin revealed, “and it’s not yours. Yours is not yet written.”
With that, he gathered the dishes from the table and left. Nuallan had already disappeared into the bathing area, Ferryn following quickly behind her.
I hurried after them.
Ferryn was dumping the hot water into a small bronze tub as his mother laid out the towels and clothing. She straightened and smiled at me as I approached. “Would you like assistance with your bath?”
Determined to get an answer, I stopped in front of her, wishing I towered over her to glare her into submission. But I was the one looking up, as usual. “Please. I need to know. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be taken from your home, without a choice, without knowing why?”
She gestured for Ferryn to leave the tent. After he was gone, she regarded me for a long time. Clearly she wanted to tell, but I guessed loyalty to Balen won out over that desire. “I’m sorry. I cannot. Balen will tell you . . . when the time is right. I know this must be hard. But you can trust him. He protects those in his care.” Her eyes went sad at that. “There’s soap on the stand by the tub. The clothing is for you. This might be your last hot bath for a while.”
My shoulders sagged in defeat. “How long will it take to reach Bren Cara?”
She moved behind me to help with my clothes. “Two months, give or take.”
Once I was bare, Nuallan plucked a few pieces of grass from my hair. Then, I stepped into the tub and eased into the hip-deep water as Nuallan left the tent.
The bath was a luxury, one I was exceedingly grateful for. I soaked for a while and then washed before the water grew cold. After rinsing, I wrapped a towel around my body and inspected the clothing Nuallan had set out for me.
There were soft, form-fitting leggings, matching socks and leather shoes. I picked up a white blouse and blood red tunic, both softer than anything I’d ever worn. The gold trim around the tunic flashed in the light. Carefully, folded the tunic and set it aside.
The white shift for sleeping, I set aside as well. The delicate material was nearly see-through and not something I planned on sleeping in; the leggings and blouse would do just fine. There was a gown as well. I held it up. When the light hit the shimmering fabric, it shone like silver. It was a regal gown, something my mother would’ve worn. I folded that too, choosing to don the leggings, blouse, and a simple copper-colored tunic.
I finger-combed my hair then braided it into two braids that I coiled into two low knots behind my ears. Instinctively, I reached for my veil.
I had no veil.
For once, I didn’t need one.
I stared at my reflection in the oval mirror that hung on the high back of the washing table. In the steady glow of the lanterns, I tried to see the Danaan in me. But I only found the human. Even the shade of my skin was different. Not the pale perfection I saw on everyone else, but somewhat darker, like the insides of Bressia’s bread. My cheek bones weren’t high and royal; they were softer. My eyes were the exact shade of mud.
Despite my differences, I did not see the capability to steal the life from other living thing. I saw nothing that horrible in the face staring back.
I shoved the thought from my mind.
While they seemed to think my presence was an honor, I wouldn’t make the mistake of believing the Fire Breathers welcomed me. I had to protect myself, had to focus on making a life for myself. That was all that mattered. Resolved, I sent a silent prayer to Anu and Dagda before entering the main tent to call for Orin.
He stepped inside so quickly he must have been waiting just outside the entrance. “Aye, Deira D’Anu?”
Orin’s size and the big hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword should’ve intimidated me, but my unease didn’t come from him. “Deira. Deira is fine.” I drew in a quick breath and then started working on my future. “Tell me, Orin, is there anyone in camp who needs a scribe? Someone to read or write letters?” He blinked as though I’d spoken a foreign language. “I’d like to get out of the tent,” I said honestly. “I’m used to keeping busy, and this is something I’m trained to do.” He still said nothing. “Am I forbidden to leave?”
“No, no. Of course not.”
I gave him an encouraging smile. Quickly he stepped aside, lifted the flap, and I walked through. I was allowed to leave, but apparently with an escort. Orin fell in step beside me.
“Perhaps you’ll have luck in the female’s tent,” he offered, clasping his hands behind his back.
Sparks from the fire pit flew into the night sky. Two men lifted a thick pole holding a slaughtered stag, headless and skinned, and placed it into the grooves of a roasting spit.
I’d always imagine the legions to be rowdy and boisterous, but here the mood was quiet and tempered. Men came and went from tents, some carrying supplies, others with bath towels thrown across bare shoulders. Between the spaces in the tents, I saw simple things. Laundry hung out to dry, a man sitting on a log cleaning a saddle. As we went down the wide pathway of stamped grass and mud, I heard snippets of conversation and the muffled sounds of music and laughter.
“Your culture is much different than what I’m used to. My grandfather never sets foot in the stables or serves himself wine.”
“Balen is our leader, but he is also Sydhr.” Orin’s pride was evident. “If he can do for himself, he does. That is our way. We serve him not because we must, but because we choose to. It is an easy thing to do when he protects us, fights for us, would die for us. He puts the needs of his people first.”
Orin stopped in front of a tent that looked like all the others. He cleared his throat loudly. “Females! I’m coming in!” He dropped his tone and said to me, “I’ve learned my lesson. Last time,” he shuddered, “left me bruised for weeks. One thing you should know about Sydhr females, they are—”
“Are what?” Nuallan stepped from the tent with a challenging gaze leveled at warrior, though there was humor there too.
Orin let out a martyred sigh. “Nothing I say will be right.” He shook his head then promptly changed the subject. “Deira wants to read or write something. I thought this was a good place to start.”
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or frown at Orin’s summation of what I’d asked. Nuallan rolled her eyes at him, placed a hand on my arm, and directed me toward the tent. “Males,” she shot over her shoulder.
“Females,” he returned as the tent flap closed behind us.
Now this was the tent of a king.
Curtains, walls of shimmering color threaded with gold and silver, hid the drab gray of the tent cloth. There were tables and chairs and side tables full of trinkets and food. Luxurious couches and pillows of the deepest jewel tones filled the space and were occupied by the beautiful Sydhr dancers I’d seen in the hall.
It was the tent of a queen.
A queen.
I hadn’t thought of that. How could I have not thought of it before? Of course, Balen had a queen.
Nuallan dropped her hand from my arm. Silence filled the tent. I smoothed the front of my tunic as they regarded me with speculative eyes. Some leaned so close that their heads touched as they whispered, never taking their eyes from me.
One of the dancers rose gracefully from the couch and approached. She scrutinized every inch of me so thoroughly that each second passed tediously slow. Then her eyes filled with tears, her hand went to her mouth to stifle a sob, and she ran from the tent.
The others crowded around me, all with somber expressions. I looked to Nuallan for answers. “Did I do something wrong?
The shortest woman of the six tilted her head. “You don’t know?”
“No.” Of course not. No one would tell me!
They burst into murmurs, speaking too quickly for me to follow. The one who’d spoken stepped closer. Though the shortest of the dancers, she was still taller than me, but not by much. Her shiny straight hair was tucked behind both ears and she had an impish quality to her face. She smiled. “Your hair is truly the color of flame.” She led me to one of the couches, plopped down behind me, and began uncoiling the buns.
The others joined us, sitting on the couch, the floor, or in the chairs nearby.
Nuallan settled next to me and rolled her eyes. “The one who is so rudely taking down your hair is Ciara. The others are Bryn, Daya, Mab, Edanna, and the one who fled is Ixia.”
“Is she your queen?”
Ciara’s hands stilled on my hair. “Ixia is closest to Balen,” she said in an uncertain tone. “She’s the eldest and has known him the longest.”
“But she does not love him anymore or better than we do,” the one called Edanna said from the chair next the couch, her long legs thrown over the arm, the blue gown riding high on her thighs without care.
