“I think it’s best if I do all the talking,” My‑re said to Vomarian and the archmage Havelock, who stood flanking her.
Havelock breathed deeply, “Young lady, I’ll have you know I’ve spoken to kings and queens, royalty, and common folk alike. I’ve stood before some of the most powerful beings in all of Alastari. My debating skills are second to none.”
“Do you speak Rathiri?” My‑re inquired.
Havelock closed his open mouth.
She continued, “Before I forget, anyone speaking any Alastarian dialect in the Rirorni Empire risks the lash.”
“I think it’s best if you do all the talking,” Havelock echoed.
A horse’s whinny in the distance carried on the wind. Dawn had broken, and the red and orange glow of the day stretched across the heavens. The sleek swordsman tri-master sailing ship with a triangular and curved bow rested in a small gorge. The Shagornan Elven crew began to lower and tie up the three-tiered series of seashell-like sails.
As the trio crested the hill, she smelled and heard the sounds of cattle and saw the ranch and barn. A Rirorni woman in her fifties dressed in thick cotton brown garb lined with fur and wearing a headdress tended the pigs while a little girl, about eight, in a bright red outfit, black leggings, and fur boots, chased chickens.
My‑re gave her ringmail armor a once-over and checked the helm that covered her head and face. The little girl saw them approach and froze in fear. My‑re showed her empty hands, a Rirorni greeting indicating they were not a threat and unarmed.
“Na’loona!” The little girl called to the woman’s back. “Alastarian raiders!”
“Don’t be silly, Bel’alith, there haven’t been any Alastarians here in over…” her voice trailed off when she turned and saw My‑re, Vomarian, and Havelock.
My‑re removed her helm, revealing her face and short, dark hair.
“Na’loona?” My‑re asked. “Is that really you?”
Na’loona took a step back. Her voice shook, and she questioned, “My‑re?” Her face scrunched, and tears welled. She called out, “Mal’la! A’renna! Come quickly!”
Two women emerged. One was in her forties in a similar thick cotton brown garb lined in fur. In her early thirties, the other wore an off-white, thick cotton dress, black leggings, and high fur boots. A sheathed broadsword hung at her side. She also had a warm, motherly face with long, silky black hair.
“What is it now? Is Bel’alith tormenting the chickens again?”
The two new women took a moment to see My‑re and her companions. Their eyes grew wide.
“My‑re, it can’t be?” A’renna examined and squinted her eyes. “How are you alive? You were sentenced to death in the Blood Games tournament? Is that truly you?”
My‑re nodded in rapid succession.
A’renna, My‑re’s Rirorni foster mother, stepped back with a shaking hand on her chest.
Mal’la’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, then she clasped her hands over it and instantly began to pour longing tears.
They all ran encircling My‑re, and each cried out years of pain and joy reserved for loved ones reunited in the afterlife. Even A’renna, the toughest woman My‑re knew, had tears strewn down her face like her soul had finally given her permission to end her grief over losing a child. She was back in the loving arms of her former family, and she wouldn’t allow anything in the world to harm them. My‑re was home.
“What are they saying? I don’t understand Rathiri,” Vomarian asked. “Is this a good thing?”
“Yes, I think this is a good thing,” Havelock replied, clapping the Shagornan Elf on the back.
“Come in, come in,” A’renna said in Rathiri. “Before anyone sees you.” She then saw Vomarian and Havelock standing there a short distance away. She motioned for them to follow.
Shifting back and forth between the Rirorni native language of Rathiri and the Alastarian dialect, My‑re said, “This is a safe place. Come in.”
The three followed the four Rirorni into the house. Mal’la, a woman in her mid-forties, looked around outside as they entered before closing the door. The little girl Bel’alith hid behind her mother, A’renna.
“Bel’alith, this is your sister, My‑re. Don’t you remember?” A’renna asked, trying to scoot the eight-year-old in front of her.
“You said she died,” Bel’alith stated. “Is she a ghost?”
“No, don’t be silly.”
Bending to her knees to the child’s level, My‑re reached out a hand. “It’s me, Bel’alith. Don’t you remember swinging together on the old tree, swimming in the creek, and all the broadsword training sessions with Mother every morning?”
Bel’alith edged closer.
“Here. Remember when you hit me on the side of the head with Mother’s broadsword?” My‑re inquired. She pulled aside her dark hair, revealing a long scar.
“That explains a few things,” Vomarian muttered under his breath.
“Shut it,” My‑re said in a calm, even tone, then switched back to Rathiri, “Remember, there was so much blood that you thought you killed me and bawled the rest of the day. You felt worse than I did. Remember when I was being stitched up and cried in pain? You brought me your doll for comfort.”
Bel’alith studied My‑re’s face and lightly touched the scar on the side of her head.
“It’s me. Your sissy.”
Bel’alith lunged into My‑re’s frame, and the two lost sisters were reunited again.
Hugging her younger sister for a moment, she rose. A’renna then smacked My‑re on the back of the head.
“Ow!”
“By the Khan’s blade, what are you doing back here?” A’renna demanded. “Returning to the Empire was foolish. And what are you doing with this elf and this…old man? Are you his property? Did he touch you?” She then gripped the hilt of her broadsword tightly.
Vomarian and Havelock didn’t need to speak Rathiri to know things were about to turn ugly. They backed away and held up their hands in supplication.
My‑re stepped in between them. “No, they brought me here. They’re my friends and honorable men.”
Na’loona emerged from the kitchen with a food tray with cups and a brew pot with steam rising. She noticed the tension in the air. Slowly putting the tray down, she poured the drinks. The smell of strongly spiced tea wafted through the room. She motioned to the bread, cheese, honey dates, and nuts.
“It’s fine. She’s not going to harm you. Tea’s been served,” My‑re stated to Vomarian and Havelock. “Spilling blood now would be considered rude and impolite.”
The two men hesitantly nodded in thanks, and each took a cup.
“Ah, Rirorni spiced tea,” My‑re said after a sip. “I almost forgot how flavorful it tasted. Not weak like Alastarian tea.”
“I’m not surprised. The Alastarians always lacked culture. When they weren’t drunk on spirits, indulging in carnal knowledge like rabbits in heat, they were stuffing their faces while the rest of the world’s bellies went unfilled. May Mytori curse them,” A’renna said.
“Present company excluded,” My‑re responded.
“Of course.”
“What are you saying?” Vomarian asked.
“The tea’s good,” My‑re translated.
Havelock commented, “I thought I heard the name Mytori.”
“Why are you traveling with this lot?” A’renna asked, gesturing to the two Alastarians.
“We’re on a mission. Lady Sheila Greywand sent us.”
“The Witch of the Northern Waste?” A’renna exclaimed, “She can’t be trusted.”
“Mother, we need your help.”
“No, I will not be part of that sorceress’s schemes. You would do well to abandon this folly. She has a duplicitous and reckless nature for others. Her lies, half-truths, and plans within plans make a spider web appear simple.”
“Mother, please. I implore you.”
“What are you saying?” Vomarian asked.
“I said the tea’s good,” My‑re snapped in the Alastarian dialect.
“I thought I heard Lady Sheila Greywand’s name being mentioned,” Havelock commented.
A’renna stood forcefully. “I said no My‑re.”
They paused for several heartbeats.
“Mother, we’re traveling at the behest of parents. Their child is missing. We’re searching for her. We believe she’s within the Empire.”
The room grew quiet, except for Havelock eating a cheese sandwich and slurping his tea. “I agree the tea is good,” he commented.
Sighing, A’renna sat back down and said, “The Empire is vast. Finding a Rirorni girl is going to be difficult. Near impossible. Like finding a needle within a field full of haystacks.”
“She’s not Rirorni.”
“Alastarian?”
“Now that you asked it, I’m unsure,” My‑re replied. “Her name is Araminth.”
A’renna’s eyes went wide at hearing the name.
“Wait, you know the name?”
“Yes. That one stuck out. Tawny hair, small build, slender, and a little rangy. Breeding hips of a boy. Didn’t weigh much. A strong wind could have blown her over. Fair skin and freckles across her nose,” A’renna described. “She spoke Rathiri fairly well.”
“The nine hells. That sounds like her,” My‑re exclaimed.
“What are you saying?” Vomarian asked.
“They know her. They know of Araminth,” My‑re translated excitedly.
“Daughter, my heart is lightened and filled with joy knowing you are alive, but you are not safe within the Empire. You risked and traveled all this way for naught.”
“What? You just made things so much easier.”
“You don’t understand. Araminth is dead.”