Fluid - 27

A touch causes a shrub within my bower to grow into the shape of a simple chair, the interlocking branches and broad leaves providing enough flexibility to be comfortable. I’ve barely had time to run through the harp’s full reach twice before I hear Sarah’s voice beside me, a razor-sharp edge in her tone.

“First issue you have is the royal delegation, comprising the High Singer, Royal Guard, and twenty-odd nobles. They’re outnumbered by a bunch of elves from noble houses that aren’t part of it. They turned up at the last minute and ordered the Portal held open. Do you even want to let the second lot inside?”

“Do you think they’ll head home if we don’t?”

“No, the High Singer tried to get them to return. They’ve been insistent that they’ve got a right to travel Human lands if they wish to do so,” says Sarah.

“Why are there so many of them?”

Her mental growl is menacingly draconic. “There isn’t one faction of elves but multiple pulling the same trick.”

“I doubt they’d all come up with the same idea independently, so someone put them up to it. Any idea how many?”

“At least three factions; after I heard enough to identify that many, I stopped looking,” admits Sarah, and I can practically hear her gritting her teeth.

“Let them in. I don’t want them causing trouble for the village, but until the discussions are over, they’ll not be leaving. I wonder if they brought rations with them? The second problem?”

Sarah snickers tightly at the suggestion, but the razor’s edge sharpens. “Grand Master Hasusar would like to speak to you, your Majesty,”

“He’ll have to wait, but please let him and Alfarr know about my intent to contain the elves.”

“I’ll do that,” snips Sarah.

“Alright, you picked up what I’d asked Hasusar about—I get it. I had intended to speak to you today about it,” I admit. “Is it concerning that request or something else?”

“He’s already found Gaius' location. He wishes to speak to you about that and another matter. I’m sure the size of the delegation is a flashing neon sign. Do you find it interesting that he was here for their arrival?”

“No doubt gathering information. I’m sorry to have caught you by surprise, aunt Sarah. I had expected to have time to tell you. Once he’d found Gaius, I was going to ask Hasusar to give that information to you, not me, and I wouldn’t have asked about it. If you want to rant or scream at me, I'll listen without a word of complainant.”

“I noticed you didn’t say sorry for doing it, and you overpaid for the information, you nitwit,” rasps Sarah, and the delicate strains of the psionic ability ends.

“At least I didn’t have to commune with the dead for her,” I murmur before trying to return to practice.

Tracing a finger down through the harp’s soundboard, I keep my hands well away from the strings and instead start singing a song I’d not expected to need. Once done, the Demi-Plane’s exit and entry conditions match—responding only to me, Sarah, my team, Aggie, and her team. Others will require Sarah or me to allow passage each time. The whole place increasingly reminds me of The Exchange, including the stasis bubbles for lawbreakers I find among the wards.

“I’ve locked the exits. You and I have the keys to let people leave. My team can come and go at will but can’t let others out.”

My Message to Sarah doesn’t get an immediate response, and I’m working through the second sequence on the harp when it finally comes.

“Fine,” replies Sarah, her mental touch firm against my mind. “Some are reacting like I’m a talking monkey, the bloody flower eaters. None of them even know I’m in their brains.”

Her tone makes my pulse skip a beat. “Please don’t make anyone talk backwards again. However, I’d like the names and faces of those treating you that way. I was going to clarify certain things but didn’t expect to need it already.”

“Them talking backwards is the least of your worries—your Polyglot would still translate it,” grumbles Sarah. “I take it I can’t peel their skin away and give you their faces that way?”

“They need to understand each other, and no, I’m not sure how well the grass would respond to blood,” I say before her mental touch withdraws.

Returning to my practice, I opt for a warlike piece, translating the heavy drums of the dwarves onto the harp, giving the music a knife-edged feel.

It’s only after I feel my shoulders relaxing that I send Yngvarr a message. “I’d like to meet around mid-afternoon. Two questions: Why the horde? How much did they put together?”

Yngvarr doesn’t keep me waiting, the message buzzing by my ear.

“My apologies; the extras came without the King’s permission. I gave them incomplete facts, and they got it into their heads that you’re a Taurë who somehow gained True Song. After all, why wouldn’t an Anar have come to them?”

“Why the games?”

“Too much tension in the court. I was hoping to get just a small group to come and discuss things quietly,” admits Yngvarr.

“I’m going to tell them I’m an Anar at dinner. I want to keep them off balance, force them to react to me. They’ve been rude to Sarah, are they also that way to Alfar?”

Yngvarr's voice sounds hollow in his terse response. “Constantly when visiting.”

His tone has the tension humming in my shoulders again, and I have to work not to grind my teeth. “Can’t I invite him to dinner and put them in their place?”

His response didn’t come immediately, but he was decidedly buoyant when he did. “Alfarr said he’s willing to see if it will change things. Still, if you’d send him the invite directly, it lets him answer honestly that the invite came from you.”

“Will do. Can you get me faction information?”

“I’m rarely at court, but I’ve got a cousin in the delegation. I’ll bring him along this afternoon. Talk to you then.”

Putting that concern aside, I send off the other dinner invitations—fine food, a show, and maybe fireworks. That all goes together, right?

With that, I get back to my highest priority and push on with the intricate songs that challenge my fingering.

It’s slightly after midafternoon before Sarah gets herself to my bower, and immediately bops my nose. “Don’t do that again.”

“I’m sorry I upset you.”

Sarah’s voice softens even as her eyes glisten. “Why did you jump ahead?”

“You’re helping with my headache, though I didn’t think it would be this bad. Last night I was concerned that you’d find him too late, so I made a request. After all, isn’t he ancient for a Human now? Days might have mattered if you wanted to find him alive.”

“He’s in his seventies; that’s not ancient,” corrects Sarah.

“Not ancient to you, auntie. This is a different world from your birth. I heard a Human in their late forties can die of old age here,” I correct.

Sarah leans in and presses our foreheads together. “I’ll give you that, but it’s likely he can afford expensive healing, so no butting in again. Got it?”

Giving her a grin, I kiss her cheek. “Likely isn’t a certain thing. But I promise to leave it to you now.”

Sarah clears her throat before she goes on. “Are you still planning to be polite?”

“Not as polite as I had been intending. One should remain firm but polite with unruly children—screaming doesn’t help,” I reply primly. “What wording did you use inviting them into the tower? Are they in trouble?”

“I said that all Gailneth’s invited guests are welcome to enter the tower and find quarters for their stay,” purrs Sarah. “They all came inside without further question.”

“Have these elves not dealt with wild fey?” I ask, and Sarah merely shrugs. “So, as far as the wards are concerned, I have the invited High Singer, her entourage, and some naughty, currently non-violent, intruders.”

Sarah’s smile shows way too many teeth. “That sums it up.”

“Aunt Am’s been planar locked. These wards are too similar to The Exchange to be a coincidence,” I say.

The unasked question brings out amusement to soften her predatory gleam. “She can’t influence other planes, but that doesn’t stop her from hearing them. I opened a Gate to The Exchange a few times, and Ilya has opened others to places she knows. Any chance for snacks around here?”

“I can’t let you eat any of them,” I sigh.

“Doesn’t that depend?” laughs Sarah.

Face palming, I groan. “I thought I left my parents on a different Plane.”

The attempt at humour washes the last of the pain from her gaze. “Spoilsport. Did you get information on the intruders, or should I go digging?”

“I asked Yngvarr to meet me to discuss the non-delegation members; he wants to bring a guest.”

Sarah taps her fingers against her leg before she speaks. “Are you planning to learn via conversation, observation, or cheating?”

“I’ll get you or Yngvarr to handle the introductions. Not planning to cheat immediately, I’ll plan, chat, and not get too intrusive,” I reply.

“As a proper Steward, I’ll be spying on them,” Sarah says.

“I expected nothing less, auntie,” I say and frown when I remember her early comments. “Can you share the details of those that were rude to you? I want to clarify how improper their behaviour is in our home.”

“Amdirlain made this place for you,” corrects Sarah.

Shaking my head, I try to bop her nose, only to find she allows it. “You’re family, silly; it's your home too. Why’d you let me bop your nose?”

“Have to humour you sometimes, pipsqueak. How do you want dinner tonight handled?”

Inviting others, who I know will be far more fun, is tempting. Still, trying to get out from my mother’s shadow means I can’t invite those I know best, and I shouldn’t ask a few hundred of Moradin’s celestials to come along. My game face means the villagers are out as well.

“Give them, say, an hour's warning before dinner. I’ve asked Aggie, Pitnari, and Alfarr to attend.”

“Dragging Alfarr into these games might not make Yngvarr happy,” cautions Sarah.

“I’ve already spoken to Alfarr about it. They don’t properly recognise him as Yngvarr’s husband; I’ll make it clear I do,” I say, and the thought of how they’d categorise me has my stomach roiling.

I spot the slightest twitch in the corner of Sarah’s mouth. “Alright, shall we get this show on the road?”

“Do you want to bring them here, or should I?”

Precise whispering notes have me rolling my eyes, and I’ve barely composed myself before two figures appear.

Yngvarr is wearing a fancy version of his practical fighting garb: a dark blue silk shirt and pants tucked into ankle-high boots. The fancy jewelled belt has at least three punch daggers in concealed sheathes in the black manticore hide. His short hairstyle and garb make him appear plain beside the guest Sarah teleported with him.

A mane of hair nearly reaching the ground in a wild assortment of autumn hues that catches my attention; burnt amber, red, and yellows mingling together like a stream of falling leaves. In the bower’s dim lighting, the glow from my eyes catches at the individual strands as he shifts position in surprise. Widening eyes show pupils pin pricking in a bed of fern green irises, drawing my attention from his hair to his almost-feminine upturned nose and generous mouth. Impractical layered silk robes in green hues hide even a glimpse of his hands or feet. Impressed within the silk is the same house crest as Yngvarr’s, making me wonder if there is none other he can trust among them.

Their family name, Malantur, means lords of gold in the Andúnë dialect, yet their swirling crest means something entirely different for the Anar—treasury cleaners. The heraldry of every house I’ve seen so far shows their positions among the servants of the Anar and Lómë.

With Yngvarr’s gaze widening slightly, I realise he’s never seen me in anything but a female form. Lifting an eyebrow is enough to prompt him to compose himself.

Before Yngvarr can introduce us, his guest’s jaw drops. “An Anar here? How? Who? I mean to say, please forgive our intrusion.”

“Daerchon, allow me to introduce you to Gailneth, or Gail, as…  he likes to be called,” Yngvarr says. “Gail, this is Daerchon Malantur, my cousin twice over on my father’s side and member of the Tower of Singers.”

Daerchon’s mouth shuts with a click, and he manages a bow that shows the reflex grace of extensive use.

“It’s an honour to meet you, Lord Gailneth, but to be precise, I’m a Tower member in name only,” corrects Daerchon and an awed smile trembling on his lips, but he doesn’t even look me in the eye.

“Welcome, Daerchon. Yngvarr provided my name; please don’t use any titles,” I reply and glance at Sarah. “Do I need to tell everyone individually not to use any title addressing me?”

“Maybe a general announcement, something like: the use of a title will cause banishment from your presence,” Sarah suggests drily. “You could start with Daerchon.”

“Aunt Sarah, don’t tease him yet,” I reply and reclaiming my seat, I motion them to do likewise. “Please sit.”

“I’ll endeavour to do so, Gailneth,” assures Daerchon before he looks for a spot where he can sit.

Yngvarr has no issue getting a shrub on the boundary to transform. When Daerchon fumbles it the third time, Sarah shows him where to brush before plopping down on the bed with her ankles crossed and shooting me a tolerant smile. I don’t poke out my tongue, but the interplay stirs confusion across Daerchon’s face.

“I fear I and some of my kin are struggling given the accommodations follow Taurë patterns. After seeing the Sanctuary buildings, the interior of your tower was unexpected,” admits Daerchon once settled. “The lack of visible Mana adds to the confusion.”

“The Demi-Plane is still growing, so additional aspects might arise later. As for the plants, they’re sung, not enchanted using Mana,” I reply. “The rush of unplanned guests has things growing before their time, but it's just as well for our haste given the size of the invasion.”

My words get a wince from Daerchon, and I wonder which part of the triple reprimand he caught. “You’re not speaking High Elven, are you? Is it something like the Tongues Spell?”

“No, the Anar and Lómë designed High Elven for others to use when communicating with us. It meant we only had to learn one other written language.”

“What language did you use speaking to each other?”

“Daerchon is a senior Sage working with the Tower,” notes Yngvarr. “Hence his inclusion in the delegation.”

Daerchon coughs. “My apologies. We lost so much for which I expected there would never be answers—at least not in my lifetime.”

“There will be time for what answers I can give later. For now, Yngvarr has his reasons for including you in this discussion. Hopefully, we’re not putting you on the spot.”

“I’ve not been involved with the court for years. I asked Daerchon along to provide some insights into the unplanned guests,” states Yngvarr, giving his cousin a chance to find his feet.

At Yngvarr’s words, Daerchon's tension vanishes, and he finally meets my gaze. “While I can guess the factions' motivations, I don’t know their exact reasons for violating your hospitality this way.”

“Sarah noted there seemed at least three factions among those not following the High Singer’s instructions to return. Would you enlighten us on what factions are present? Both the faction making up the delegation and the others?”

“The delegation comprises members of the King’s nobles and the Tower of the Singers. We are by far the minority of the nobles present. From those I’ve seen amongst the crowd, I can account for members of the border nobles, isolationists, the old Queen's faction, and a growing group of revisionists.”

“Before I ask of the others, does the King, his nobles, and the Tower all share the same goals for a visit here?”

Daerchon winces. “I would very much doubt that; even among the Tower, I’ve heard arguments about the end goals.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t intruder further on your loyalties by asking what those might be,” I say, and Daerchon smiles in relief.

“As for my intruders, while you don’t know the exact reasons, can you tell me what they normally endeavour to achieve at court?”

“Intruders?” breathes Daerchon.

“Sarah said my guests were welcome to enter and find quarters. Am I mistaken, did the nondelegation remain outside? In my response to Yngvarr a couple of days ago, I said I would receive the High Singer and a small entourage. I ‌didn’t issue an open invitation of any kind.”

“Your… Sarah-”

“She’s her own Sarah,” I interject. “That’s another matter that will need addressing. I didn’t expect such rudeness to be levelled at my aunt. Please convey my distress to the High Singer—I find it abhorrent.”

“I took you referring to her as your aunt as an honorary title,” murmurs Daerchon.

“No, she is the sworn sister of my aunt, making her also my aunt,” I say. “And even if it was an honorary title, the fact I honour her should be all that is required.”

Daerchon's attention snaps to Sarah, and he inclines his head in apology. “My apologies for my lack of respect, Lady Sarah. I will let the High Singer know.”

“I don’t use that title either,” corrects Sarah, her voice hardening. “You’re all trying to put Gail and me in categories you find comfortable and familiar. You might be wise to prepare for some stretching of your comfort zones. Let me know if you need any ropes for that.”

“We’ve gone very far afield. Shall we return to the factions?” I suggest, rescuing Daerchon. His blank, confused look made it clear he was out of his depth.

Hands twitching inside the folds of his sleeves, Daerchon nods. “Of course.”

“Give me one sentence on each faction summarising their positions,” I request, and Daerchon’s jaw drops.

“Told you comfort zone stretching was going to happen,” murmurs Sarah.

The muscles in Yngvarr’s neck and jaw flex as he fights off his laughter.

“I thought I was being nice. It was tempting to ask for one word on each,” I admit.

Daerchon opens his mouth to protest but stops with a frown. “That might be easier, Gail. revisionist, delusional; isolationists, xenophobic; queen’s faction… demanding; border nobles are militants.”

“So I have some guests and a group of demanding, delusional, militaristic, xenophobic invaders. This should be fun. If you were to guess, who put them up to it?”

“What?” blurts Daerchon.

“Please, they all turned up when the Portal opened here and rushed through with no one at the other end stopping them? Do these factions normally see eye to eye enough for that level of coordinated behaviour?” I ask sceptically.

Daerchon starts to stammer a protest, and Yngvarr leans forward to still him. “It’s alright, Daerchon. Likely it's the old Queen’s faction, I know enough that they’re now the weakest but also with the most diverse influence.”

“Okay, so expect the demanding ones to pull strings. Thank you, Yngvarr.”

Yngvar smiles. “What will you do with them?”

“Well, I’m sure after a brief stay, I’ll have determined a way forward and how they can make amends.”

“For clarity, what do the Anar consider brief?” asks Daerchon hurriedly.

“It shouldn’t take longer than two or three to reach a proper accord between us,” I say.

“Two or three?” probes Daerchon.

The subtle frown lines I leave in place for only two heartbeats before smiling innocently. “It could mean millennia. Given my Anar lifespan, what else would I mean? Should I opt for millions of years instead? Since they rushed the beginning, I will need at least a brief time to ensure I’ve determined a proper accord and restitution for their imposition.”

His expression shifts between shock and delight before the colour fades from his dusky skin.

“I jest, but seriously, do your kin not deal with wild fey? My aunt invited the delegation to enter as guests. She omitted the others, yet they saw fit to come inside. The wards consider all of them invaders, and if they raise a hand to slap someone, the wards will trigger on them. The wards are slightly more tolerant of genuine guests.”

“What-”

Rising from my seat cuts off Daerchon’s question. “Thank you both for your time; you’ve given me much to think about. Yngvarr, sorry, I almost forgot to mention it. I’ve invited your husband, Grand Traveller Aggie, and her companion Pitnari for dinner.”

“It will be nice to see him under even these circumstances—the court has kept me busy with its demands,” replies Yngvarr.

Nodding, I keep a straight face as I take in Daerchon's flicker of distaste.

“Daerchon, please let the High Singer know I’m displeased with various elven attitudes towards Sarah, but keep my race to yourself for now. Let’s play along with the game Yngvarr wants to have fun with for now.”

Opening a Portal, I wave them through and only after it's closed do I turn to Sarah.

“Well?” asks Sarah.

“Six factions—at least—in play, even if you consider that the King likely doesn’t share all the same goals as his nobles,” I say.

“You didn’t want to pick his brains for more?”

“I don’t want to advance with a distorted picture; we should get the faction goals from members. He doesn’t properly belong to any of them if I correctly understand his qualification of Yngvarr’s introduction.”

“He’s in for a shock, but you played the pride card very misleadingly,” says Sarah. “How do you want to handle dinner?”

“If you’d broadcast out an announcement an hour beforehand. Some of them have spread out a bit from the main hall. If they gather in quickly, let them mill about. I’d like to see if any are rash enough to claim seats at the head table. Given my lessons on Andúnë customs, I’m betting they will.”

“Planning to spank them?”

“Auntie, that's your old job not mine. I want them to react to me, so keeping them off balance is the goal. I’ll kick them off and replace them. You, Glingaerneth, Yngvarr, Alfarr, Aggie, and Pitnari are the only ones I plan to let sit there,” I explain. “Mean, I know. Besides the naughty children, can you share the names and faces you’ve picked up?”

She gives the details of the problem individuals in a rush before continuing with a kinder summary of crucial delegation members.

“Isa never told Yngvarr, did she?” I ask.

“That she cursed the prince? No, though he knows the Prince was involved in summoning demons. The evidence connecting him to Raivo’s cult isn’t substantial. The Queen got disposed of solely because of her orders helping in the rise of a dark goddess.”

“How many of her faction would continue to support her if she had a demon-summoning son?”

“Are his crimes hers?” asks Sarah with mock haughtiness.

Given everything else, that excuse disgusts me. “Her visions would have told her enough to know what he was up to; she ignored them. Yngvarr is far from the throne and still got a Scion’s vision that led him to connect her son to Raivo’s cult.”

Exhaling sharply, I blow a raspberry that sets Sarah laughing.

“Very mature.”

“I need to finish my harp practice. So far, it’s still more important than this charade.”

Sarah leaves without a word and, after some consideration, I decide not to use the enchantment and prepare early for dinner. While I practice, I space out the True Song creations to avoid stretching my abilities. It’s only after Sarah’s mental broadcast announces the dinner schedule that I bother considering my clothing. Given the foppery they dress in, it's tempting to stay in the green silk shirt and leather pants I’d greeted Daerchon in.

Sorting out what I’ve got, I opt for a scarlet red phase-silk shirt, in what aunt Am calls a mandarin style, with mother-of-pearl buttons. A starburst True Song crystal pendant with its mithril chain sits atop the shirt, each with a myriad of enchantments set in place by Amdirlain. Picking out black silk pants, I match them with mid-calf black Dracolisk boots and top it off with a Persian-style waist sash woven of gold and silver thread.

Ten minutes before the announced time for dinner, I scry the banquet hall and find them all present. Elaborately bejewelled individuals fill all seven seats at the head table. Most of the throng mill about between tables, though a few others have claimed safer seats. The only ones not freely chatting are the Royal Guards, who have arrayed themselves along the banquet area's outer boundary.

With composed expressions, Yngvarr, Glingaerneth, and the delegation stand quietly near the front. Their calm is unruffled when my other guests’ arrival causes murmurs to start. Alfarr walks with a predatory poise that prompts a number between him and his husband to slide aside. Aggie and Pitnari follow in his wake, untroubled by the looks of contempt from the same folks that referred to my aunt as a monkey.

Though the beauty of many in the group overshadowed her, Glingaerneth's features were exquisitely delicate and undimmed by age. Her hair was a solid, unsettling hue that appeared like a cascade of fresh blood to her lower back, its strands standing out from the gown’s lime green silk—a colour that matched her eyes. Unlike the others, the High Singer’s clothing seemed almost plain, with no gems or metallic threads. A deceptive appearance given the quality of its phase silk and the enchantments that made it worth more than anyone else’s attire.

“Fun crowd, Gail. You should have invited Ras to come play.”

Pit’s message, suddenly whispering in my ear, has me giggling with glee.

My intended reply gets cut off when I spot an Elf towards the front bailing up Sarah, now dressed in an even skimpier dress that hits midthigh. The others ignore his handsome features contorting in anger, and his stabbing motions towards the empty tables clarify the content of his unheard words.

Teleport puts me in the entry to the right of the head table, and the conversation stops when the glow of my gaze casts shadows.

“Aunt Sarah, is someone causing you an issue?”

“He was insisting on refreshments early, Gail.”

“It didn’t appear as if he was insisting politely. Would you care to repeat your demands to me?”

Licking his lips, the male Elf turns to me slowly, his dusky complexion growing pale.

“I asked your servant why they’d dishonoured you by having nothing laid out and why there were no servants to tend to your guests.”

“Sarah is not my servant, she is one of your hosts. You do not determine my honour, and you showed the flaws in yours by lying. I asked if you would care to repeat your demands to me, not pretty them up. The dissonance within you tells me that wasn’t the words you used. Well?”

“No, they were not,” mutters the male.

“Never be rude to my aunt again, or we will seek restitution,” I say and cut off his protest with a raised hand. Turning to High Singer Glingaerneth, I give her a concerned smile. “We've not yet had the presentation of your credentials, Glingaerneth, and I find myself with concerns about your King’s delegation.”

“He is not a member of the King’s delegation, Lord Gailneth,” corrects Glingaerneth.

“One would hope that is a relief to your King. Please call me Gail outside of the formalities, Glingaerneth,” I say.

“You honour me, Gail.”

“I wouldn’t consider it an honour; I dislike titles. Daerchon should have already conveyed my distaste for others' conduct towards my aunt. Did that message go astray?” I ask.

The wince barely tightens the muscles in her jaw. “It did not, but I don’t have authority over him.”

“My thanks then to Daerchon, yet you didn’t even try to dissuade him. A host has duties towards guests, but then so do guests towards their hosts. Are any of the individuals sitting at my table members of your King’s delegation?” I ask. Gesturing to the head table draws inhalations of surprise from the unfortunate.

“They are not. All the delegation members have waited with me for your arrival,” Glingaerneth says, motioning smoothly to those arrayed around her and Yngvarr.

Turning to the closest individual, I raise an eyebrow and try for a stiff smile. “Why are you sitting at my table?”

Already risen from his seat, the male Elf I address bows respectfully. His short autumn-hued braid cascades off the shoulder of the bejewelled cream robe he wears. The infrequent hints of mithril thread within the robe matches the speckles of grey in his hair, though his features are unlined. When he looks up, his amber gaze meets my own with a determined expression, and I recognise him from among those rude to Sarah. Litthor of the border faction.

“Among the Andúnë, if we set a table to the side, it is for the eldest to supervise the gathering,” explains Litthor.

“Am I Andúnë, Litthor?” I ask, disliking the need to feign such arrogance. The fear and potential panic that they could have provoked in the village reminds me of the potential cost of their unchecked conduct.

My use of his name causes him to swallow nervously. “No, Lord Gailneth, you are not. We had expected a Taurë maiden of 120 years.”

“Well, I told the Guild Master to put my age down as 120; the truth might have confused them. Do you know my age?”

“But you’re not female!” protests Litthor.

“My heritage allows me to be whatever I wish; sometimes that’s male, at others, I’m female, or genders you’ll never encounter upon Vehtë. “

I morph into my female Anar shape before shifting to the Taurë form I’d been using and rippling through a dozen more including a Dwarf. Giving my beard a stroke before I return to the male Anar again. Through it all, the enchantment within my clothing resizes with ease. The horror and distaste I see in many gazes matches their harsh, discordant tones. For the first time in my life, I’ve met a group I might dislike; it's disappointing.

“You were on the balcony when we arrived. Sarah said you were unavailable,” mutters Litthor, fighting to keep his mouth from twisting his thin lips into an ugliness that matches the anger stirring within.

“Do you know my age?” I ask.

“No, I do not,” admits Litthor, ignoring the shocked murmurs that continue among the crowd.

Amidst their disquiet, I harden my tone and lower my voice. “Did you know with 100% confidence the age of the Taurë you expected?”

“Only what Prince Ýridhrendaer reported as being on her guild paperwork,” answers Litthor, his voice softening to match mine, forcing the others to be quiet in order to hear.

“Then why was not one seat—at least—left open if your custom, instead of mine, took precedence in your mind? Were you confused? After all, the Taurë people don’t follow that custom. Respecting a Taurë host, you should have seated yourself at the dance floor’s edge. Now, High Singer Glingaerneth said you are not a delegation member. Are you confused with that also?” I ask, sharpening my tone and adding a hint of ice.

“No, I am not a member of the delegation. I came to ensure his pawns don’t seize what they shouldn’t have,” declares Litthor, drawing murmurs from others among the assembly.

“I am not someone to seize. I won’t ask which faction you’re from, but you’re not off to a good start. Which is something you all have in common with this unrequested delegation.”

“But we were invited.”

I miss who among the delegation whispers the protest, but I look in the voice's direction and keep my tone firm. “You shouldn’t whisper; it's rude. Invited, you claim? When asked, I said I would receive the High Singer and a small entourage. A concession that was then abused by bringing a hundred of the Andúnë Royal Guard. How is this a small entourage when you believed me here alone?” I ask, and wave a hand at the hundreds present. “Did you stop to consider the fear your numbers will have inflict on many in the village? None of them deserves an ounce of that. I am so far beyond disappointed in what the Andúnë nation calls nobles right now.”

My words kick up a buzz among nearly all the assembled elves, only the Royal Guard and Yngvarr keeping their composure. Standing near Yngvarr, a merry twinkle shows in Alfarr’s gaze, and he strokes his auburn beard, which he wears close cut for the evening.

I catch Sarah’s mental prompt before Yngvarr steps forward and bows, his liquid grace turning the gesture into a motion from a dance. “Gailneth, might I present the King’s delegate‌?”

“Please do, Prince Ýridhrendaer Malantur, or would you prefer Yngvarr Helvitiøx?” I ask with a grin, and the murmurs become mutterings. “I like your husband’s deed name and his Soul’s melody, I am glad he accepted my invitation to attend.”

Alfarr gives me an exaggerated bow that is deliberately lacking in the grace I know he could add. Yngvarr waits for me to acknowledge the bow—though I use my father’s concise style—before he continues.

“It is a formal matter for the Andúnë King; Ýridhrendaer would thus be the most suitable,” declares Yngvarr, his tone distinctly formal.

“We are not in the Andúnë court, and I find the distaste the Andúnë represented here direct at you both disgusting,” I say with a smile. “We recognise you, Yngvarr Helvitiøx, may the song always guide your way. Please proceed when ready.”

The sudden fierceness in Yngvarr’s gaze accompanies Sarah giggling in my mind. Mentally sending her a fist pump, I wait while he steps forward and motions Glingaerneth towards me.

“High Singer Glingaerneth, allow me to introduce you to Gailneth, the only Anar that the Titan has allowed rebirth in over five hundred thousand years. Gailneth, this is High Singer Glingaerneth of the Andúnë Tower of Singers, Duchess of the Andúnë Court, and official representative of the Andúnë King, Sailatar.”

His use of the years to cloud the question of my age earns him a smile from me. Glingaerneth shoots a look of disbelief at Yngvarr before stepping forward and bowing.

“It's a pleasure, and even more of a surprise, than I had expected, Gailneth. I hope that, unrequested as we might be, you’ll spare me some time in your schedule for discussions.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Glingaerneth. I came to know Yngvarr through his association with Julia; you helped reveal her state, did you not?” I ask. “Though your guard on that evening was ready to cut her down.”

Glingaerneth’s eyes barely widen, but the pulse in her neck speeds up. “You’re aware of Julia?”

“I’ve spoken with her and various Lómë frequently in the last score of years.”

Everyone speaks up, throwing questions around, and Sarah’s roar cuts through it all. “Silence!”

An edge of the Dragon Fear ripples within her voice, and nearly everyone freezes. The male Elf that had insulted her appears ready to faint at her feet.

The amulet’s mental protection left me unmoved by Sarah’s demonstration, and I take in their off-balance expressions. As I look in her direction, Aggie meets my gaze with a tight smile, trying to restrain her amusement.

Sarah’s mental announcement almost causes my jaw to drop. “Aggie says the Andúnë court doesn’t know Julia is Amdirlain. She’d already changed her name before Aggie set up the Temple there.”

Happy to leave them confused and wanting answers, I move on.

“We’ve gone far afield. Would you sit on my right for the meal, Glingaerneth?” I ask, gesturing to the now vacant head table.

“It would be an honour,” accepts Glingaerneth with another bow

“Yngvarr, I’d appreciate you and your husband Alfarr sitting to Glingaerneth’s right. Aunt Sarah, if you sit on my left. Grand Traveller Aggie and Pitnari if you’d sit beside my aunt,” I say, before moving to the middle chair at the head table. Once there, I look over the motionless elves and motion to the maze of seating. “Please sit. The dinner service will begin once everyone finds a place; I don’t need servants.”

While they move to claim positions, I take a tally against what I’d created earlier—I’d made too many mithril plates. Since they like to flaunt their wealth, I’ll give them a display of wealth.