The Dastena did not get much sleep that night, or the night following. The creatures that doggedly pursued the caravan continued to do so until dawn, before vanishing into the retreating shadows for the day, only to return after another day of comparatively uneventful travel. Only when the outlying vestiges of the Fraylough oasis, distant farms and a few genuine living trees, began appearing did the creatures not return. Samira herself had kept vigil over the caravan for the better part of those two days, and so when they did not return on that third night, she finally let herself rest, falling into a slumber she did not wake from until te into the morning.
The caravan, at the behest of her third, had decided to break when the Fraylough itself had come into view in the night, so that their arrival to the city would happen in the morning. As Samira had sluggishly sipped at the tea the cook had prepared for her, looking over the Dastena, he had said something to the effect of the importance of appearances. She had brushed him off initially, having hoped for a less auspicious entry into the city of Seighart itself, but even now she could see people, just specks at this distance, gathering on the bridge that led to the isnd at the Fraylough’s center.
Seighart itself was not a kingdom in its own right; it y in the midst of the wastend that was Odhran’s Reach, and could expand little without the farmnd to support a rger popution. Instead, it was a city state made prosperous by being the rough centerpoint between the Thandaran Dynasty and the Shivan Empire to the east, and the small sea nation of Auchwain to the Northwest, which itself represented the main hub of trade with Edis across the sea. All trade entering the continent had to pass through the Reach, and to pass through the Reach, it had to stop in Seighart.
The city started, with smaller farms and sparse buildings, on the shores of the Fraylough, a massive ke that, as Samira looked on from where she stood, sparkled as though just below the surface were countless gemstones that lent the water its brilliant cerulean hue. The city proper, however, y at the center of the ke, on an isnd she’d been told was called the Fraylean. The shores of the isnd were brief, and tall, elegant buildings, ced with bridges and pathways, cluttered the isnd tightly, making the city as much vertical as it was horizontal across the Fraylean. It had never been invaded, despite its small size and minimal army; to do so one would first have to march a force through the Reach, which would be no small feat in itself, but further, there were only two bridges onto the isnd. They were grand bridges, to be sure, each wide enough for 2 dozen to walk side by side and not risk crowding, but they still represented a nearly insurmountable choke point.
Most curious of all, the Fraylough, and the life spawning oasis that surrounded it, was fed by no river, nor did it have any outlets that led to sea. It looked for all the world like some deity had simply wished for a ke to appear here, in the middle of the wastes, and it did. There were what seemed to be riverbeds here and there; the long ft tracts of nd allowed one to see quite far in the day time, and one was visible from where the Dastena had made camp, but they were long dry, overtaken by farming plots and new growth that showed no signs of having been flooded any time recently. By all logic, the Fraylough should’ve evaporated and left nothing but a crater long ago, and yet, despite everything, there it was.
Rélt, the smaller of the suns, was high in the East when the Dastena was ready to move again. Samira had, reluctantly, switched from her solid, practical Daamaret’s armor to her parade wear. Far less protection, and with bright trim made from gold (a material, she had reminded Amir when he had commissioned the set for her, that was not suited for deflecting impacts. He had ughed at her). The armor was paired with bright silks which draped across one of her shoulders, making her feel more like a bird showing its plumage than a soldier.
She took her pce at the head of the caravan, on foot, and was, by custom, fnked by her second, Rani, and her third, Isa, though he was sagging a bit under the weight of the st evening’s shift. They would all have a chance to rest once they actually entered the city, Samira hoped, though she knew the odds of her getting a break any time soon were slim. There was a wedding to pn, after all.
“Daamaret,” Came a terse voice from beside her, though Rani’s gaze was firmly locked on the city, “Requesting permission to assess the Dastena’s assigned quarters when we get into the city.”
Samira winced. “I had been under the impression that I and my officers were expected to meet with King Adrian immediately upon our arrival.” She remarked, boots (uncomfortable, made with aesthetics in mind more than marching, another gift from Amir) drumming a beat alongside the rhythmic steps of the rest of the Dastena. “Permission granted unless Saamet Divan requires the rest. If he is able, he can accompany me to court in your stead.” She said quietly.
Isa was nodding already, and Samira suspected that the pair had discussed this before she awoke. That stung, but it was hardly unexpected.
Rani forced a smile. “I simply wish to see if they will be adequate for our soldiers in the long term. I have a mind to try and whip the Seigharthan forces into shape, if the King deems it appropriate. We’ll make a proper Dastena of your new army.”
“I doubt,” Began Samira cautiously, “That they’re particurly likely to be my army in any way that matters. I may have military bearing, and be joining the noble family here in Seighart, but I find it unlikely that they actually allow me any position of authority.” She grumbled.
As they reached the bridge, the gathered Seigharthans began to call out and wave, a greeting that was somewhat more reluctantly returned by the Dastena. They were pale, on the whole, despite the climate, which Samira found odd. The people of Thandar tended towards darker, warmer skin tones, dark hair and eyes the same. Now amidst the white, if a bit sunburnt, skin, the reds and blondes of the Seigharthan’s hair, she felt almost as if her party was surrounded by ghosts, if not for the cheer with which they were greeted.
Isa shook his head with somber annoyance. “They’re worse off for it if they don’t. The sparse patrols they post at the Eastern edges of the Reach, the ck of protection on the roads through the wastes, it’s sloppy. They’re fools if they don’t heed a decorated officer like yourself, Sam.” His words made her wince. Decorated, perhaps, but if medals were given for mistakes, hers would outnumber her accodes by an order of magnitude. Regardless, she did not correct him. Best not to remind the others of her shame, not right then, at least.
“King Thomond did not ask the Dané for a commander, Isa. He requested a noble bride, and that is what he shall receive, whether that is to their benefit or not.” She reminded him. “With luck the rest of you may be able to have some influence, but for me, it’s meetings of the court, fancy luncheons, and politicking.” She did her best not to let her distaste bleed into voice.
Rani scoffed, her tight smile more a scowl than anything too welcoming. Samira forced her own to be just a bit brighter to compensate for their audience, as they began to make their way towards the grand gates into the city. There was little need for walls, since the Fraylean was an isnd, but the bridge (and presumably the other which y on the Northwestern side of the isnd, from her memory) boasted a pair of massive arches fnked by towers at its center. The arches each hosted a gate, wrought of metal twisted in organic looking patterns more reminiscent of ornately arranged vines than a construct of defense. It was beautiful if, like everything they’d passed so far, a bit much for her tastes.
Rani’s rough voice shook her from her thoughts again. “What a waste.”Isa gave Rani a look, which she did not return, now eyeing the gates with undisguised bitterness. “What Saamet Bansal means, I’m sure, is that the Dané my have been better served by sending your brother in your stead. Amir would take to such duties like a fish to water. Your talents are of better use keeping Malokat out of the hands of Shiv. Surely you could’ve-”
“Amir volunteered.” Samira snapped, briefly losing her composure before she straightened again, waving idly at a family with starry eyes, excited to see the newest curiosity visiting their city. “My mother denied his request and selected me instead. I may have had the opportunity to deny my duty, but I will bring no further stains to the Charan Dynasty’s reputation. It is for the best, Isa. Trust me.”
The moment the gates were raised high enough for the Dastena to pass through, Rani had ordered the rest of them to her side and disappeared into the city. The guard assigned to her struggled to keep up with her despite her shorter stature, so driven was she to be rid of Samira’s presence. Samira’s shoulders sagged beneath her armor, a vulnerability she hoped would be hidden by the yered fabric and pauldrons.
It was a beautiful city, but it passed her by in a blur of fine stonework, greenery, and splendor as she and Isa were escorted further into the city.
The Seigharthan pace, Drachlás, was odd. Not to say that it wasn’t beautiful, the sort of structure befitting royalty; quite the opposite. It was grand, towering above the surrounding structures, surrounded in a garden that must’ve required an army of groundskeepers to maintain. The oddity of it, rather, came from what it was constructed of. The pace was, for the ck of a more elegant word, a single, towering tree. Far above, branches dozens of feet across reached out over the city, bark carved with beautiful patterns and marked here and there by grand windows set into the wood. Roots sprawled out across the gardens before disappearing down into the isnd, likely tticing out beneath the entirety of Seighart, drawing water from the Fraylough to feed its many boughs. That was the greatest of its wonders; despite its size, and its age, Drachlás was alive.
Samira had been informed of this much, of course. The Seigharthan ambassador had been full of tales of the origins of Seighart, and none held more a pce of pride than the founding of the city. King Odhran Thomond, the first king of Seighart, had stood beneath a gnarled old oak when he first addressed his new people, swearing conquest, to pry the nds of the Reach from the hands of the beasts that marauded across it some 300 years past. After his success, the tree, named Drachlás in honor of the bde the King had wielded, had grown to incredible size, and Odhran had decided to make it the seat of his power, and the heart of his new city. In the centuries since, Drachlás had continued to grow, and the royal family proliferated along with it, expanding to fill the tree as it sprouted new limbs to contain its inhabitants.
She wasn’t sure how much of that story was true, or how a tree could grow to such proportions even over the course of centuries, but standing beneath it as she was, it truly was something out of a fairytale. The leaves, lush and green despite the season, shaded a great amount of the Northern district of the city at midday, but the gaps between them painted a dancing mosaic of light and shadow that cast the pace garden in a dreamlike haze. It couldn’t be more different than the pace back in Malokat, all filigree and eborate geometric architecture, but even still it felt familiar.
Isa gave her a tap on the shoulder, and all at once Samira came back to herself, standing looking aimless in front of their guide. What had their name been? She cleared her throat, “Right, ah, Rose, was it? Apologies, I lost myself for a moment there.”
The small woman shifted uncomfortably, but put on a gracious smile nonetheless. “Róisín, my dy, though you may call me Rose, if you prefer?”
That was also something that she had been trying to adjust to. “Róisín, then. And please, Daamaret, or Samira, not my dy. I am a military officer, not a princess.” She tried not to look as out of pce being addressed by servants as she was. The Charan dynasty had minders, yes, but they were employees. Respect was expected, but not the sort of reverence typically reserved for royalty. Being treated as though one wrong move could lead to the gallows was jarring, to say the least.
Isa cleared his throat. “Daamaret,” He reminded her, “You aren’t a princess currently. Your betrothal, however, ties you to the Thomonds. And after the marriage-”
“I am well aware, Saamet Divan, of my status. My desire remains the same.” She turned her attention to Róisín. “Tell me, does a carpenter become a baker simply by donning an apron?”
Róisín looked away, considering her words carefully. “I suppose not. Likewise though, does steel remain an ingot when shaped into a bde?” She met Samira’s gaze, for the first time, having looked somewhere over her shoulder or to her shoes while leading the pair through Seighart. “The point I make, my dy, is that some changes occur whether or not you wish for them to have done so. I will not be the st to call you by the title you are assigned.”
“And so I had best get used to it.” Samira Sighed. “At least refer to me as Daamaret if you must call me a title. What was your military’s term… General? It is still a title of respect, but I find it more fitting. Humor me, please.”
Their guide considered this again, before nodding, having come to her decision. “Very well, Daamaret. But know that I will conform to our own traditions in the presence of others, for which I am sorry. I would face reprimand otherwise.”
The three continued through the garden, to the great doors which y at the front of the pace. Like the rest of the structure, they were carved of gnarled wood, polished and treated, but still belying their age. Each was carved with ornate patterns that were inid with a dark, warm colored metal, maybe bronze. They swung open as Róisín led them forward, held to the side by a pair of servants, revealing a grand entryway. The ceiling towered above, maybe 30 feet, and a pair of staircases spiraled up on either side. Everything, besides bits of furniture and a beautifully made carpet which marked pathways through the room, was made of the same wood, all a single piece.
A door on the far opposite of the room opened as Samira entered, revealing a much smaller room with seating arrayed at its walls. “The waiting chamber for those seeking audience with His Majesty, my dy.” Róisín murmured, leading Samira and Isa in, and gesturing for them to sit. My dy again, though there were other servants present, so Samira supposed she couldn’t protest. Not out loud, at least. “It won’t be long, you are expected.”
Another servant provided gsses of water, the crystal was beautiful, tinted slightly blue with some sort of inclusion. How many servants, Samira supposed, filled the halls of Drachlás alone? The ones at the door, were they solely there for the convenience of not having to push aside a sb of wood to enter a room? It seemed unnecessary, arrogant, and already she itched at the luxury. The furnishings even here, a room she would have considered important, yes, but worth the eborate scrolling patterns carved into the wood grown seating and tables would’ve taken a master craftsperson weeks. The entire history of the city was illustrated on the leg of the seat upon with Isa sat uncomfortably despite the lush upholstering. At least she was not alone in her sentiment.
“Róisín,” Samira inquired, “Is there anything else we might expect from our introduction, foreign to your customs as we are?” She shot a look at Isa, whose expression was difficult to read. He had been her third for as long as Rani had been her second, and his level head had seen her through many a bad situation. This one, though, he’d likely be no help with. It wasn’t a battlefield, and worse still, he wasn’t nobility. Military rank seemed to mean little to the Seigharthans, so odds were he wouldn’t be expected to speak much, if at all, in the presence of someone like the King. He’d be relegated to emotional support, and nothing more. Catching her eye, Isa gave a small smile of encouragement, which was something, but still Samira was ill at ease.
Róisín made some gesture at the attending servant, who nodded back, gathering the tray of beverages and leaving the room, closing the door behind him. She visibly rexed slightly, and leaned back against the wall where she stood. Seats, it seemed, were also reserved for guests and nobility in Drachlás.
“Do not speak unless you are spoken to, besides to greet the Court after you are announced,” She began, “While His Majesty is present, at least. On that note, when speaking directly to His Majesty directly, refer to him as such once, and then subsequently Sir is appropriate. Women would normally curtsy, however,” The servant smirked, “Based on your attire and bearing, I suspect you would prefer to bow, as is the more masculine choice. You’ll be expected to do so as well, Saamet Divan, but you will not greet His Majesty or the Court. Like so, from the neck.” Róisín tilted her head, a simple gesture that carried great nuance when she did it. Isa mirrored it with considerably less grace, though he carried the relief of someone who was not imminently expected to speak in front of a man who could have her put to the sword.
Róisín tilted her gaze back to the floor and was silent for a long moment. “Daamaret, how familiar are you with the Court of Seighart? Its members, I mean.” She said, face betraying the barest hint of uncertainty, as though unsure if she should have even asked.
“I am aware the royal family is… extensive. King Thomond reigns, and has done so for some decades, over which time, through various unions, he’s produced many heirs.” The ambassador had, thank any gods who listened, prepared her for this particur line of inquiry. “Princess Aoife is His Majesty’s granddaughter, 14th in line for the throne. Her mother, Duchess Niamh, is the King’s youngest. All members of the court bear the name Thomond, though some, I believe, have married in.” Odd to call someone a duchess when they did not rule a duchy, Samira thought, though she supposed every member of the family being called prince or princess would lead to some redundancy eventually.
Róisín bit her lip and tilted her head from side to side. “You are rgely correct, Daamaret. All members are Thomonds, and yes, some of the royal family’s size can be attributed to marriage. However-” And then the servant made an odd, strangled noise, as though her throat had pinched shut and caught her words mid formation. Her brows furrowed, and she opened her mouth again, only to fall into a brief fit of coughing. Isa was beside her in a moment, gentleman that he was, offering his own gss of water, which she accepted, taking a long draft. “Apologies, Daamaret. I should know better than to attempt to skirt around the rules.”
Samira frowned, “What do you-” But Róisín silenced her, raising her hand to wave off the question. Bold, from what Samira had seen of her so far.
“You will understand in a moment, madam. I would say more if I could.” Róisín’s expression softened. “You needn’t be as nervous as you are. His Majesty will not take offense to a minor mistake of etiquette from one unused to our ways. And,” She said, softer, “You are beautiful. You’ll take to the Court well, given time.”
“Lady Samira Char and her retinue, arriving from Thandar.” A low voice intoned as Samira and Isa were led into the room. The person making the announcement, another servant of course, stepped out of the room along with Róisín, and the beautiful doors swung shut with a thud that rang in Samira’s ears. Breathing in deeply, she bowed, from the neck, and thought of what, exactly, it was that she was to say.
The Court chamber was vast, occupying the first floor of the pace. Along either side of the room were galleries, fine seating, packed to the brim with unfamiliar faces, many of which looked as though they could’ve been cousins, if not more closely reted. The Thomond line had strong genes, all dusty blonde hair and sharp jawlines, and those features were prominent among blood members of the family. One among those many faces, presumably, was Samira’s bride-to-be, though she hadn’t spotted the Princess during her quick scan of the room. The other faces that fnked the room must’ve been additions to the family, other nobles pulled into the tangled web that was the political sphere of Vidrios.
Above the galleries were swathes of portraits, some of individuals and others groups, branches of the Thomond family tree (a pun Samira had thought of immediately upon hearing of Drachlás, but continued to choose to keep to herself). The rgest such portrait, cd in a gilded frame, featured a younger King Thomond and his five children, each of whom was likely seated in one of the galleries, gazing upon the woman who would, soon, be counted among their number.
The thing that Samira noticed st, between the portraits and the people, just as she had tipped her head down, were the tattoos. Nearly every member of the Thomond family had them. Samira was not unused to the concept, of course; tattoos were as prominent in Thandar, even among nobility, provided the artists were skilled enough, as they were anywhere else on Eidai. These tattoos, however, were not the art pieces, floral, or depicting a well won battle, or a family crest, that she was used to. Not that they were not beautiful—far from it— they were simply odd. Each blonde haired member of the Court, and many of the others, were covered in words, tattooed into their skin. For some just an arm, or the back of a hand, but others were covered with it, to the point where it could be seen creeping up onto their neck from beneath their fine attire. The text itself varied in style, from sharp and officious to looping and soft, but all of it ornate.
King Adrian Thomond himself had script covering every exposed portion of skin Samira could see from the neck down, in small lettering that looked as though it had been lovingly written by a master calligrapher. Even aside from that peculiarity, something else was wrong. By all accounts, King Adrian should’ve been approaching, or past, his 80th year, but the man sitting on the throne, with his shoulder length blonde hair greying just at the temples, seemed to be, at most, 40 or 50. He had smiled jovially as she and Isa had entered, a bright grin accentuated by the well maintained beard that he bore, but something about him simply seemed wrong.
Beside the King, not seated in the second, less eborate throne that currently y empty, but instead just behind and to the side, was another uncanny person. Their face was long and thin, and from short cropped grey hair speckled with the remnants of what had once been a brilliant red sprouted long ears that tapered to points. Their skin was parchment pale and wrinkled around the eyes, giving the figure a wizened look, as though they had become accustomed to peering warily down at people over the course of a long life. As Samira tilted her head back up and took in the room once more, she noticed more such individuals among the Court, pointed ears and other uncanny features unshared betwixt any two spread out amongst the royal family.
That was what Róisín had meant, then. That, Samira supposed, or the tattoos, though given the clearly inhuman members of the Court, who had joined their peers in staring at Samira, she suspected it was the former. Monsters, then, among the royal family. She was not blind, and the simirities to the not-people who had followed her Dastena through Odhran’s Reach had not been lost on her. Monsters, or demons, or some other thing that she could not now even react to, not with so many judgemental eyes on her. Why were they staring?
Isa nudged her arm again, and cleared his throat softly. Ah. Samira had yet to speak.
“Your Majesty. Members of the Court of Seighart. It is an honor and a pleasure to appear before you today. Dané Dalia Char sends her warmest regards, and tidings of good will for this union between our nations.” Samira managed to keep her voice from cracking as she delivered what she hoped was an adequate introduction. Part of her itched to say more, to preemptively beg the King’s forgiveness for her inadequacy, but having to utter even another sentence without being prompted was a task she did not feel capable of.
King Adrian, unexpectedly, stood, and strode towards her. This would’ve been immediately arming, and in a way it still was, but for the broad warm smile that remained on his face, nearly lighting up the room. He stopped, heels clicking together, a few feet before her, and extended a hand, fingers spiraled with incomprehensible text. “The pleasure is ours, my dy!” He excimed, and with his warmth, it was as though the rest of the chamber thawed as well, quiet chatter breaking out amongst the assembled nobility. “Ambassador Farah spoke of your beauty, but even their words have done you a great disservice.” The Ambassador was not one that Samira had met before, but at their mention, she did notice their position in the gallery to her right. They were, in part, responsible for the arrangement that she had arrived in Seighart to fulfill, for better or worse.
Samira reached to take the King’s hand, expecting to shake it, but instead, he brought it to his lips and pced a chaste kiss on her knuckles. Between that and the second comment that day on her appearance, she was thoroughly thrown off bance, more so than the situation itself had already done. She nodded appreciatively on instinct, but pulled her hand back to its position in the parade rest she had adopted the moment he released it.
“If I may?” Spoke a woman standing just beside the rail separating the left gallery from the chamber. She was short, very short, and had short hair styled in a masculine part, an ashy blonde that marked her a Thomond by birth. Rather than a dress, it seemed she, like Samira herself, preferred fashions more typically expected of men, and the tailored doublet she wore suited her quite well. A woman after Samira’s own heart, it would seem.
The King ceased his merry appraisal of Samira nodded fondly. “But of course, Songbird! It’s only right for you to speak first, though do be sure to give the rest of the Court a chance to properly greet Lady Char, yes?” At the nickname, said with nothing but affection, the woman’s expression soured.
“It would be more proper to speak of me by my name, Your Majesty.” She rumbled, the honorific included with just a hint of venom, “Thank you, regardless.” Her icy gaze shifted towards Samira, who suddenly felt small, despite the difference in stature between her and the smaller woman. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Char. I have heard such things of your nd, and I am sure you have stories to share. However, I find myself impatient to meet my betrothed.” She gnced from Samira, to Isa, and back again, expression growing perplexed. “I assume you’ve accompanied him. When will I meet the Daamaret?”
Samira pulled her shoulders back, straightening her posture. “You are Princess Aoife?” She looked different than the portrait the ambassador had shown. Her hair was shorter, and her expression was sharp and dangerous. In person the Princess stood with an energy like a knife simply waiting to be drawn from its sheath, and Samira was a hair’s breadth from getting cut. It was intoxicating.
Aoife straightened up as well, attempting to match Samira, though she still had to look up to make eye contact with the taller woman. This close, Samira could see that her eyes were hazel, light brown with a ring of verdant green at the center. She wondered how they looked in the sunlight.
“I am. Now, Lady Char, my betrothed? I’m told he’s a military man, has he gone to speak with the Commander first? Insulting, but not unexpected.” The Princess snapped. Samira heard a quiet chuckle from the gallery, near where Aoife had been standing before. There, gripping the rail and leaning forward as though in anticipation, was one of the individuals with the pointed ears. Long, wild red hair curled down and around their shoulders, and bright green eyes shone with an emotion that Samira could not quite pce. “Your Highness, I fear there may have been a miscommunication,” Samira said cautiously, gncing at the King whose ever present smile now seemed somewhat strained, “I am Daamaret Samira Char. We are to be wed, as arranged-”
Samira was interrupted by a loud crack. The rail beneath the hands of the inhuman individual splintered, and the sudden silence in the room was broken by fragments of wood falling to the floor of the chamber. All at once, the room was again filled with noise, the gossiping chapter of the Court, and the rumbling growl emanating from that person, who shoved their way through the crowd and smmed open a side door, storming through.
“A woman?” Aoife sputtered with disbelief. “This is… I…” Her face began to grow red, fair complexion contorting from annoyance to anger, then to rage, as she rounded on the King, who raised his hands pcatingly, but said nothing. The Princess groaned with frustration, before rushing towards the same side door. “Oriole! Oriole, we need to-” Her words echoed back into the chamber as she shouted, before a noble sitting near it awkwardly pushed it shut.
The King smiled somewhat guiltily, looking very much like a cat who had been caught with the family bird in its mouth. “My sincerest apologies, Lady Char. I will have someone speak with her to rectify her, ah…. Misunderstanding. Shall we proceed with the introductions, then?”
