Page 25 of The Ivory King

“Yes, please do,” I said, and she wiggled in, her wet armor dripping down my chest. But she was warm, and it felt good to have someone, even someone as small as a hummingbird, close.

V’alor pounded once more. Then shouted. An arrow flew downward to land mere inches from his foot after slicing through the hem of his woolen cape. We all looked up into the rain, seeking the archer. A form atop the barn, clouded in a dark cloak the color of the stormy clouds, stood on the point of the roof, a long bow drawn. I reached over my shoulder for my bow, my forearm resting on my shoulder, ready if the need arose. My skills with a bow had been proven in countless tournaments, the latest disaster at the Mossbell gala notwithstanding.

“Whoever you ride for, we have no issues with any law in any vills! Now go back to your overseer and tell them that the Vahorn name has been cleared.”

“Berta sent us. We seek a man named Beiro to hire him as a guide,” V’alor shouted. The wind blew so hard I wasn’t sure theman on the barn roof would hear him. A tense moment passed. The archer lowered his bow. I let my fingers relax.

“Meet me inside,” the man shouted and disappeared from sight. I threw a look at V’alor, who seemed displeased with the rend in his cape. V’alor yanked open the door, and we rode in, Pasil leading Sirdal by the reins. The interior of the barn was dry, the air not unpleasant. The smell of animal and sweet hay filled the damp air. A gray horse stood in a stall eating hay, its ears pricked forward. Our horses grew restless under us.

The man who nearly nicked V’alor dropped down from the roof through a small hatch into the hayloft. The wind slammed the hatch shut, but his keen green eyes stayed on us as he walked to the edge of the mow to stare down at us. He was elven. Pale, pretty, and eagle-eyed. His bow rode on his back just as mine did, his quiver filled with arrows.

“Are you Beiro?” I shouted as the storm tugged at the old barn boards on the roof. His shaggy hair was indeed red, only darker than a fire red due to being wet. His face was thin and pleasant, with a swatch of tiny brown freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. He dropped into a crouch to sit above us like a spider waiting for the pluck of her webbing.

“I am, and what kind of fools are you to be out in this storm?” he asked as a flash of lightning lit the sky. Atriel laid back her ears. “Your horse dislikes the weather.”

“We all do,” Pasil stated as he watched the man in the loft closely. “Answer my lord, are you Beiro Vahorn?”

“That depends. Who are you and why do you seek me out?” the ginger asked. Two fat hens and a red rooster appeared. Sirdal sidestepped into Atriel to avoid the chickens by his hooves, and Atriel took the chance to bite the gelding. “Your mare is unhappy.”

He leaped down with grace, landing on a mound of hay, then walked toward me, his hand up and raised. Atriel snorted angrily, her ears still flat to her head.

“Now, now, my lovely lady, all is well,” the redhead cooed as he stepped closer. I tugged on the reins in fear that she would take off a finger. “No, let her have her head. She is only upset. The rain displeases her as does the thunder. There is no harm here. Rest easy.” He placed his palm on Atriel’s nose. She inhaled deeply. Her muscles began to loosen. “That is good. Good. She is calm now. The gelding needs some balm on that bite.”

I threw the others questioning looks, but we said nothing as Beiro, or so we assumed, for he fit the description, tended to our horses before he deigned to speak to us.

“So youareBeiro Vahorn?” V’alor asked and got a nod as Beiro applied a strong-smelling paste to the weeping bite mark in Sirdal’s haunch.

“I am.” He shot V’alor a quick look and then glanced at me and Pasil. “And you are a noble elf out in a sea storm with two guards and a pixie.” We all gaped. Tezen gasped inside my hood, only then sticking out her little head. “Your armor bears the mark of the Stillcloud family,” he said as he assessed V’alor and Pasil. His sight moved back to me. “Your hair is out of its binds and your guard called you ‘his lord.’ Also, I can smell your pixie,” Beiro replied in smooth tones as he massaged balm into the horse’s wound. The gelding seemed completely at ease with the stranger.

“Hey, fuck you and your pointy little elven nose! I took a bath last night before I had to squash my tits into a corset!” Tezen yelled as she zipped out of my hood to fly in front of Beiro in fits and starts. Seemed her wings were not completely dry just yet.

Beiro gave the irate pixie a quizzical look.

“I meant no disrespect for I enjoy the smell of pixie. It reminds me of the subtlest trace of yellow oak bark after it has been boiled down for use in detoxification horse liniment.”

“So a pixie smells like horse liniment? Is that what you are saying?!”

“It is a fine smell, truly,” Beiro hurried to explain before Tezen freed the war picks her hands rested on. “It is the aroma of the wilds, of the trees and sap, of crisp leaves and nutmeats. Truly, the aroma is pleasing.”

“Hmph.” She harrumphed as she sized him up and down. “That is a half-assed apology, but I shall accept it. Be warned, elf, the next time you make mention of my smell, it had best be to extoll my feminine fragrance.”

“Yes, of course.” Beiro nodded, a small glint of confusion in his clover-colored eyes. Even his brows and lashes were dark red. Ginger root hair amongst elves is quite rare. I had to wonder if he possessed any dwarven blood, for the dwarves were riddled with copper, rust, and passel berry wine heads and beards. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady guard.”

“Pfft,” Tezen grunted and hovered before him awkwardly for a moment before flitting over to sit atop Atriel’s sodden mane.

I took the moment to lower my hood. My thick yellow tail rolled down my back. “Your perception and attention to detail is sharp. I am Aelir Stillcloud, the heir to the vills of Renedith, and these three are my guards. We seek a man with a knowledge of the roads, woods, and those who lurk in the forests to guide us to Celinthe.”

Beiro paused in petting Sirdal to stare openly at me. Rain pelted the old barn. The chickens dug and scratched without a care.

“A nod of your head is in order, Master Vahorn,” V’alor called out over the wind and rainfall. Beiro lowered his hand from V’alor’s gelding. “Bowing should follow.”

“Those courtly rules mean shit out here,” Beiro stated, easing closer to my agitated mare. She flung her head to glare at him as he neared. He whispered low and calmly to the horse, his voice easing her out of her pique. A near miracle, for, as much as I loved her, Atriel could linger in a sour mood longer than any elf or horse that I had ever known. “This one wishes for a dry pelt and some hay.”

I slid off my horse’s back, boots hitting the packed earth, sending the small flock of chickens clucking and flapping. Several doves cooed down at us from their hiding spots in the rafters. Seemed only foolish elves on a wifely quest ventured out in raging sea storms.

V’alor followed after me. Beiro’s sight moved from Atriel to me to my guard captain.

“Are you druidic?” I asked, lifting my hand to stall V’alor in his tracks. I knew him well. He was surely coming up to stand before me. I did not wish for Beiro to think I found him threatening, for I did not. His shot at V’alor earlier aside as that was a warning.

---