Page 43 of The Source of Storms

“Seems like that would get tenuous at times,” I observed.

“It did. But tenuous was the Council’s specialty back then. They had their fingers in every court, every kingdom, hence the importance of the Rangers and their skills in intelligence. The Council and the Rangers have been influencing politics and manipulating wars since long before the Veil was sealed.”

“And they still do that now?” I asked.

“Not anymore. After the fae left, a few humans of the Council remained, and they nominated more Councilors to fill the gaps, although their influence was greatly diminished in the new fae-less world. Still, they continued to advise kings and queens of Elvik for a while, until that fell out of fashion. Then the Paragons showed up, and even the ceremonial observance of the Council in advisory to the throne was dismissed.”

“Have you served on the Council?” I asked. “Seems like you know a lot about it.”

“No, no. My mother did, long ago. But I work with them often. Sort of an adviser to the advisers, if you will. But I have no official position with them.”

“Would you like to?”

“No, definitely not,” El answered quickly, her face darkened with a humorless chuckle. She read the logical next question in my eyes, and said, “The Council is important and I respect those who serve on it. But it requires deep commitment and sacrificethat I have not yet been able to reconcile with my freedom. That I’m not sure are even worth the effort, with all their rules and processes. The Council is losing more influence and power each year. Life outside of it has been a better path for me so far.” She shrugged, a too-casual gesture for a subject that had clearly touched a nerve.

“But enough about me! Let’s get you out to see the city and I can learn more about you on the way.”

∞∞∞

We wandered the city for the rest of the afternoon. We walked to the ocean, inhaling the salt spray that showered rock formations on the edges of the inlet. Docks stretched from the forest edge over the smooth pebbled beach and into the sheltered waters of the fjord, several ships moored safely at their edges, including two in the iconic narrow and sleek style of the North, of Seonaid. I felt a pang of homesickness and nostalgia at the sight of it, at the scent of the sea, the salt coating my lips. A past life, a home I may never be able to return to. If El sensed my emotions, she politely did not ask.

We wove back through the city, stopping at El’s favorite bakery for lunch. She talked excitedly most of the time, but we easily fell into a comfortable silence at others. Her enthusiasm to show me Rhyanaes was both endearing and flattering. The stings of jealousy I had felt observing her interactions with Byrgir the previous night still shadowed my outlook toward her, but I fought hard to keep it from showing. She was sweet, and her bubbly nature made it impossible to stay mad at her. She didn’t deserve my saltiness.

As we meandered through streets, up staircases, and across bridges, I noticed more details of the city. In corners of shadow and humidity sprouted all manner of mushrooms. Some grew in small clusters or rings, others towered over our heads, reaching the height of small trees. Some shelf-forming varieties climbed tree trunks in tiers, sometimes perfectly placed to form natural staircases. And where the shadows were deep enough, I could see some of them glowing with ghostly blue light.

We ducked into a clothing store, which hung off the front of a tree on an illogical framework of leaning stilts. It was narrow and at least five stories high, built tight along the curve of an enormous hemlock so that the top leaned outward precariously.

The strange shop displayed the most beautiful and intricate dresses I had ever seen. Whimsical, detailed, and elegant. They matched the ethereal style of the gown El had greeted us in last night, although hers had been a more understated version of the pieces we perused now. El encouraged me to try some on, despite my pragmatic protests of “When would I ever wear something like this?”

But she selected one of light blue and insisted with great persistence that I at least try it. I acquiesced, and was amazed to find it framed my shoulders and draped over my breasts and hips with a form-fitting flattery I had never experienced. The back dipped low, revealing most of my spine, and there were pearls draped in layers suspended between the two small shoulder straps, dangling across my shoulder blades down to the dip of my lower back. It shimmered and pooled around my feet like glacial water.

El practically squealed with delight when I exited the dressing room and spun in front of the tall mirror, and I laughed self-consciously.

“Halja! It’s perfect for you! We’ll get your measurements and have it tailored to you. It’s too good.” She clapped her hands once, decisively, rising to find the shop keeper.

“El!” I called after her. “El, stop, I really can’t afford this!”

“Nonsense!” she waved a dismissive hand behind her without turning around as she disappeared amongst racks of clothes.

I stood helplessly in the gown until she returned with the shop owner, an older man with kind eyes and knuckles swollen with years of precise, delicate work.

“It is truly perfect for you, I must agree,” he said, and held up a measuring tape. “May I?”

I sighed, feeling it would be rude to protest more. “Yes, please, and thank you. It is an incredible dress. But really, El, I can’t afford this. No matter how beautiful it is.”

“You can’t, but I can.” El winked.

“No! I can’t let you do that. I mean, I can’t even pay you back,” I argued as the clothier wrapped the tape around my waist with practiced gentleness.

“You really don’t need to pay me back.” El shrugged. “Consider it a welcome gift.”

“Fine, fine. But I have your measurements now, safe with Mister Hartchen here. So you never know…”

In another shop, I purchased a more practical––but still beautiful––linen dress, a deep ocean-blue in the comfortable Seonaid style. We picked out two pairs of pants and several more shirts, since I had fled Eilith’s with little more than the clothes on my back. In fact, El had insisted I borrow an outfit of hers that day while my clothes were washed and dried, consisting of form-fitting pants and a slim long-sleeved shirt under a warm sweater.

Finally, we stopped at an armorer. The shop smelled of leather and acrid metal. I shifted from foot to achy foot, my legstiring quickly with the long afternoon of walking after days of riding, while El spoke to a woman with strong arms and black eyes like my own. We discussed what specifications I would need, its flexibility, weight, thickness. El led the conversation, and I did my best to learn all I could, but I was distracted by the stands displaying set after set of incredible leather armor.

Some were slim and thin, flexible and containing no metal at all. Others were thin but still malleable, with extra layers of leather containing hammered metal studs throughout the shoulder pauldrons and chest plates. Still others were bulkier, with plates of steel across the chest, waist, thigh greaves, and bracers. Most sets were assembled over a padded tunic for extra cushion against hard blows. All were decorated with etchings and engravings of knotwork and runes, some depicting animals, others trees of life, stormy seas, or battle scenes. I recognized the style from Byrgir’s armor.

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