Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Faengil had seen some shit during his lifespan, which, yes, as the Aen Seidhe reckoned such things, hadn’t really been very long yet. But he was aware, now that he’d looked into it (well. He’d asked Vanetta), that as dh’oine reckoned it, he was nearing middle age, and he often felt that way.

In terms of shit he’d lived through, this past week didn’t really even rate-- not held up against the scale of, say, most of his childhood, which had featured the violent deaths of everyone who had ever attempted to protect him, and it also didn’t rate compared to… well, any of the things that he’d seen or done during the war.

But it was nonetheless fair to say this had been a pretty fucking weird week.

He was willing to concede that Iorveth nearly dying had started the whole thing off badly. Faengil had survived the deaths of a lot of people in his time, but losing Iorveth would have been devastating, especially when it had threatened to be a slow death by the painful ignominy of illness. Faengil had lost his old unit commander in battle; most nights he dreamed of her, and that would have been easier if they had been straightforward memories but they weren’t, they were always somehow reflections of his current life with this old terror laid over the top and his guilt and confusion a weird mixture in the middle, and anyway. Losing her had been terrible, and then winding up in charge had been terrible, and--

Well. It was safe to say that Iorveth occupied a rather different place in Faengil’s life than poor dead Anarië, and sometimes Faengil knew that was unhealthy and sometimes, like now, he had to stare down the realization that he just didn’t have any other options than to rely on Iorveth specifically. Iorveth was his commander, now. He wasn’t the only older elf here—even if Iorveth died, there would still be Faervaren, who was ancient, and Caira, who was old too—but without Iorveth, well.

But now Iorveth wasn’t dying. But it meant they had to rely on this mage, Yennefer, who-- well, Faengil liked her better than Philippa, Philippa had never looked twice at him and yet he still had nightmares about her sometimes--

Sometimes Faengil was really tired of being such a cobbled-together mess of-- trauma, was the word somebody had used, and that was what he was, just… just a whole pile of the leftover effects of trauma.

Because probably someone his age who’d had any kind of… childhood sort of experience, at all, instead of what he’d had, would have been able to deal with the very specifically weird thing that had happened to him after the Temerians had showed up, ridiculously early, for the political conference he was dreading.

He was afraid of Vernon Roche now, having seen his violence so up close. Having the man kill for him had been… possibly it should have been comforting, and at the time it sort of had been, as something to set against the terror of being attacked in a place that was supposed to have been safe. Faengil had been attacked in many places that were supposed to have been safe, starting in his own home when he was a very small child, and so this wasn’t new, but it was terrifying every time and somehow never got easier.

But then so soon after that, as he’d been slowly getting used to the idea that some dh’oine maybe did want to protect him and were on his side, Roche had gone and suddenly attacked Iorveth, to whom Faengil knew he had an unhealthy attachment, and-- well, anyway.

So the Temerians’ arrival this week hadn’t been something he was glad about. But it hadn’t mattered what he thought, and he hadn’t been called upon to interact with them, for which he’d been grateful. He’d been occupied in protecting Iorveth, patrolling the tower where Faengil’s protector-- his protectors, rather-- well, most of them at least, Faervaren lived out in the city with the ladies who were probably vampires or something—

Well anyway. He’d been patrolling the tower where some people slept with Saesenthessis, who was really his true protector now. And patrolling at least was straightforward, gave him something he could do to feel useful. (Maybe that was the worst thing now that they all lived somewhere that claimed to be safe; now everyone kept trying to shelter him from stuff that he knew how to do and could do safely and wanted to do in order to feel like he had some tiny bit of control over his life, but nobody seemed to care anymore that he was a person who was good at things, they only wanted him to pretend to be a baby to humor them.)

He’d been doing a good job at patrolling the tower, he thought-- he’d been not at all sleepy, he’d been keeping up on all the movements, he’d found a good vantage point for all the doors on his side and he’d checked in frequently with Ciaran and had been told he was doing well and he knew Ciaran’s standards were high and he’d been feeling pretty good about it. And then he’d heard Saesenthessis moving outside-- he’d known she was there, in her true form, she’d checked in with him and he’d been monitoring her-- and she’d definitely lunged for something-- or someone! But when he asked she’d said it was fine and there was nothing to be concerned about. And then she’d left to check on something, which concerned him, but again, no one ever took him seriously or told him anything.

So he’d left his post only briefly to confer with Ciaran. But Ciaran had agreed with Saesenthessis that it was fine and moreover reminded him she was in charge-- and then Faengil had been on his way back to his post and he’d run into one of the fucking Temerians, and it was Ves, and she was inside his tower, where Iorveth was drugged into sleep and helpless, and he’d challenged her and she’d called him cute.

The dh’oine insisting she was on her way out didn’t assuage his upset. Her protesting she’d been here for hours, and had been invited in, hadn’t helped at all. But she’d been-- well she hadn’t been quite herself, and he’d thought maybe she was drunk, but it wasn’t that. She didn’t smell of drink. And then he’d recognized what it was about her-- the goofy expression and the flushed cheeks and the, oh no, the marks on her neck, and on her exposed chest--

Well. He knew precisely what that was. She’d been having sex. And that wasn’t something Faengil had ever, ever cared about, and he’d seen it plenty of times, and people sometimes had hospitably tried to involve him in it and he wasn’t interested, and he didn’t care about it.

But then in that horrible moment in the hallway with a Temerian who wasn’t where she was supposed to be, he’d noticed the bite mark on her chest. Someone’s teeth-- someone’s small, even teeth, someone’s Aen Seidhe teeth-- had left marks in her breast, where it was hanging out of her shirt, like it was often hanging out of her shirt, and Aen Seidhe often wore shirts like this, whether they had breasts or not, with their bodies exposed because bodies were just bodies and it didn’t matter-- but suddenly, horribly, he’d been stricken with the bizarre desire to put his teeth there.

Not, like, to hurt her, but to feel her skin under his teeth and to feel her chest against his face and he wanted-- he wanted-- well he didn’t know what he wanted, and it was so frightening he’d just told her to get out and had fled from her and sat in his guard post for a solid quarter of an hour before it finally occurred to him that he needed to find out where she’d been, who she’d fucked, and whether she’d hurt anyone while she was inside the tower he was supposed to be protecting.

He thought he had composed himself well, but when he belatedly presented himself to Ciaran to check in, Ciaran’s expression slid into gentle concern.

“So we, so we need to find out where-- where she was,” Faengil finished, trailing off a little in the face of Ciaran’s unexpected expression. He’d thought his friend would look grim, or would reassure him, and couldn’t tell what this face meant. “And-- and who--” He stopped entirely, uncertain.

“Mo cuisle,” Ciaran said, and Faengil was too off-kilter to bristle at the endearment, “if she was on her way out, then it’s extremely likely that she was indeed invited in. And looking as you describe, I doubt she was involved in anything the other person was not enjoying. Or persons, perhaps.”

“There was a bite mark,” Faengil said, distracted, tracing the spot on his own chest. “I-- someone bit her.”

“Broke the skin?” Ciaran asked.

“No,” Faengil said. “Just-- red.” He felt his face flush. He was pale enough that a bite mark would show on his own skin like that too.

Ciaran nodded, watching him with-- what was that expression? “Well,” Ciaran said gently. “From your description, it sounds like that’s not a mark she got in a fight.”

“No,” Faengil said. “I told you, she was definitely having sex.”

Ciaran gazed at him for a long moment, expression going strangely soft. “What,” Faengil said suddenly, in an anguish of self-consciousness.

“I think you need to talk to your esteemed uncle about this,” Ciaran said. “Or your esteemed relative in the city. One of your elders.”

Iorveth was the entire reason they were on this guard duty! The mage had said he wasn’t contagious anymore, but he also wasn’t really coherent enough for conversation most of the time, particularly not at this hour of night or morning or whatever it was. What could Faengil possibly have to talk about to anyone that only those specific two could address? Iorveth and Faervaren were so different from one another! Faervaren had never really been in the war and wasn’t Faengil’s commander.

“What?” Faengil said. “Why?” He sharpened with concern. “You think the dh’oine might have killed Iorveth and that’s why I should go see--”

“No,” Ciaran said, “no, not that, dear. I’m quite sure she didn’t hurt anyone and we’re all right. But maybe you’re right to be worried about Iorveth’s health, and you should just go see your esteemed relative instead in the morning to have a little chat with xem. You should maybe describe for xem the way you did for me what that dh’oine looked like.”

Faengil stared at him for a long time. He’d talked to Faerveren a few times; the elder was ancient, hundreds of years old, so old xe had taken on a gender that was apparently deeply traditional but nobody Faengil knew had ever lived long enough to get it. He’d talked to Faerveren a bit nervously about it; the upshot was that Faerveren had lived long enough to reproduce and then had aged past that to a point where xer gender was a specific Aen Seidhe concept that Faengil didn’t even understand. He’d asked if maybe he was that gender since he wasn’t interested in sex, and had gotten a long thoughtful pause, a brief explanation of some of the other genders Aen Seidhe could be, and a summation that it was too soon to know and also these things tended to change over the very long lives of their people and so he should not spend too much time worrying about it.

He didn’t really need more of that. “I don’t,” he said. “What--”

Ciaran relented, and stepped forward, pulling Faengil into an embrace. Normally Faengil wouldn’t put up with it but he let his comrade wrap his arms around him and kiss him on the hair, gently baffled at the attention. “You’ve seen breasts every day of your life,” Ciaran said, “and suddenly today you blush and describe them in unnecessary detail.”

“No,” Faengil protested, “no, it’s not like th--” but he stopped. He had, very vividly, imagined setting his teeth there. “Oh no,” he said, after a pause.

“It’s all right,” Ciaran said. “My dear! It’s a little late, even, but there’s nothing particularly unusual about that.”

“But a dh’oine,” Faengil said, horrified.

She was his Awakening, and it was a normal thing in Aen Seidhe communities for youths his age or slightly younger to spend their twenties learning about their bodies with their compatriots, in semi-chaperoned and well-boundaried sorts of limited ways, as they went through the gradual chaos of puberty, and then toward the end of this phase it was normal for a youth to suddenly be stricken by desire for someone older and more experienced, and if it was a suitable person of suitable age and suitable kinship status and if the person was willing, then it was a great honor, in very traditional and again semi-chaperoned ways, for the Awakener to gently guide the young person through their sexual debut. It was an old Aen Seidhe custom and-- well, it had fallen by the wayside in chaos along with a lot of the old ways, but Faengil had at least heard of it, even if none of his friends had actually had this happen in the traditional way.

But to have this be when it happened for him, and with this person-- Iorveth hated dh’oine. Especially this one. Except… well, she had been kind to them, even after Roche had turned.

“You know that doesn’t matter,” Ciaran said. He still had his arms circled loosely around Faengil’s shoulders. “My darling. Talk to xem, in the morning. Or if you want it to be your commander, then maybe he will be feeling better tomorrow.”

Faengil sighed, resigned. The more he thought of it the more Ciaran was right. “I-- I will,” he said.

Ciaran let go of him then, trailing his hands down Faengil’s arms to take his hands and clasp them. “If you have any questions before that,” he said, “I’m here.”

“N-- no,” Faengil said, face burning. He knew how it all worked. He could see, with a resigned and horrible clarity, precisely what Ciaran had noted in him. He’d watched the abbreviated modern version of this happen to various friends, and had been coolly pitying of them, and now here he was. His Awakening, and it was mortifying.

“Our guard shift is nearly over,” Ciaran said. “Go to bed, and think it over in private.”

“No,” Faengil said, but he knew Ciaran was right; he was too distracted to keep watch effectively anyway, and it was almost time to switch over. He covered his face with his hands. “Fine.”

Ves hadn’t really expected things to change much; she was no stranger to the phenomenon of a furtive assignation, and having made a deep and satisfying acquaintance with a member of an opposing faction didn’t generally tend to influence the larger course of events, particularly not on the level upon which she was attempting to conduct diplomacy now. But it never hurt matters. (To say she’d made a habit of fucking the ladies’ maids of prominent nobles was to overstate the matter somewhat, but it wasn’t like this was her first go-round at this sort of thing.)

Bren caught her eye a few times during the morning events, and would smile a little, which was pleasant, and was about what Ves had expected would be the extent of it. But Faengil was very different now, and kept alternating furious glowering with strange blushing refusal to look at her. That was unexpected and sort of annoying. Yes, he’d caught her sneaking out of the tower-- the door had been locked, so she’d’ve had to get him to let her out anyway, even if he hadn’t leapt out at her as she’d approached it. And she hadn’t had much of a chance to tidy herself up, so she’d surely looked completely debauched. She had known he was young, but hadn’t thought that would matter, but it seemed like he’d never before encountered someone in that state. Which couldn’t possibly be true. She knew enough about the Scoia’tael to know there was no way someone could have spent any amount of time in any of their units without overhearing-- or even openly witnessing!-- all sorts of things.

But the way he kept blushing and avoiding looking at her was distracting and strange. He wasn’t that young, she thought. Surely… surely that couldn’t have been his first exposure. He was taller than Roche, if just as slight; he looked more or less physically mature. She didn’t… she didn’t know enough to really tell. She’d have to try to get Bren alone sometime to talk to her about it. Maybe she’d done something to offend him.

There wasn’t much of a chance to talk about it, though. Distractingly, Roche made his appearance that morning wearing his extra-fancy hat. He had a normal one he wore almost all the time, and Ves knew him well enough to know he had several like it, plain, dyed an understatedly-expensive black, with plain hems and no trim, simple wool hoods that he almost always wore folded into the chaperon shape, except on rare occasions in very poor weather when he’d deign to wear them as regular hoods. He’d only brought the one plain one with him on this trip, she rather thought. The idea of having luggage was somewhat novel, still; the very idea of owning more than what she stood up in was difficult to get reaccustomed to. But Roche had fancy clothes now, and so did she. And that meant, for him, a fancy hood. This one had dagging, extremely fancy hems in the shapes of fleur-de-lis, and there was embroidery around the rolled bit around the middle of his head (which on this one she rather thought was sewn in place so it couldn’t be worn any other shape), and looked rather fetching, but also altogether too fussy for the rest of his appearance to make any damned sense.

Because he wasn’t wearing the extra-fancy gambeson he’d brought, and hadn’t shaved his face, either. But he had the full-dress hat on, and she couldn’t tell what the gambit was here. She had a fancier outfit with her too, just in case any more royalty showed up. But when she’d seen him she’d asked if she should get the fancier jacket, and he’d sort of growled at her and not really answered. She was used to those sorts of growls and understood it to be a negative. And he wasn’t wearing his fancier coat. So she didn’t change.

Which was just as well, as today’s cast of characters was about the same as yesterday’s. It was damned odd of him to be wearing the full-fuss hat, in that case. But the growl had convinced her not to ask about it.

He was also startlingly incurious about her errand of the previous night. She’d expected-- well, firstly she’d expected him to be waiting up for her in irritation, and had been rather surprised to find him tucked into bed instead. She hadn’t come home that late. But in the morning he hadn’t really asked her anything. She’d reported that she’d conducted some reconnaissance, and had expected some cranky ribbing about her amorous affairs, but he’d just sort of grunted. She assumed he’d done his own reconnaissance, then, but when she’d asked what he’d turned up, he hadn’t said anything, just more grunts and growls. Nothing of use.

So she’d have to wait to see what panned out from that. They could both agree that Iorveth was in fact alive, but beyond that Ves had forgotten to ask any more questions.

Ves had figured on shadowing Roche around all day, generally being reinforcement and assistant and bodyguard all in one as she sometimes did for political- type things like this. But then for some reason he had a meeting with Tornahal, and frowned at her about it. “Probably you shouldn’t come,” he said.

She’d recognized the fellow whose nose she’d broken on her previous visit, who skulked around behind Tornahal and glowered at her in a very different way from the way Faengil did. So she agreed with Roche, and took the chance thus offered to go and try to find Breniriel.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that Faengil popped up not long after she began her search. She hadn’t gone as far as what she was now thinking of the Tower of Privacy, which was really obviously where Saskia’s most intimate friends all had their rooms; Ves was just sort of wandering nonchalantly down hallways.

“You can’t be here,” Faengil said, appearing from literally nowhere. Young he might be, but he had clearly been a very good scout, and was undeniably competent. She genuinely could not figure out where he had been hiding, and without camouflage paint or trees or nature it was especially impressive.

Ves controlled her startled flinch. “I can’t be here,” she said. “But I am. Where else ought I to be?”

Faengil scowled at her. He was cute as fuck, was the thing, pointy and sharp-featured like any elf, with fairly typical glossy-chestnut hair, but his cheeks were a little round under his elf-sharp cheekbones, his eyes big, hazel and luminous and expressive, and his jaw had started to fill out into an adult kind of squareness. He wasn’t really a baby at all. He was probably older than she was by rather a lot, she remembered a little uneasily.

“You need to turn around and go back down that hallway,” he said. “I see you creeping around. What are you looking for?”

“I’m trying to talk to Bren,” Ves said, deciding to go for it.

“Bren,” Faengil said, taken aback. “What for?”

Part of Ves’s charm was that she knew how to be discreet. But there was discretion for powerful people, and then there was how the underlings talked among themselves. Faengil already knew she’d fucked somebody, and likely had his suspicions as to who. “It’s private,” she said, knowing that would give the game away. Faengil was important, but not unto himself; he was important for what he was, not what he did. He and Bren were friends, but she was higher in any decision-making capacity than he was, and it wasn’t like he was going to run and tattle on her. It was a bit of a gamble, but.

Faengil stared at her blankly for a moment, and then blushed furiously. “That’s--” He stopped. “Oh.”

“Hey,” Ves said. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I thought you weren’t like, a little kid. I don’t mean to be talking about inappropriate stuff around you but they let you fight in wars and things, surely some grown-ups kissing each other isn’t--”

“I’m not a little kid,” Faengil put in. “I’m older than you!”

“Yeah,” Ves said, “that’s what I thought. Listen I’m not-- like, your comfort levels are up to you, I’m just saying I wasn’t being creepy or whatever.”

“No, I’m old enough,” Faengil said, and he was even deeper red now, not looking at her. “I just-- I’m old enough for it but I sort of missed out on the in-between stuff kids are supposed to do to learn about it and-- well I’m a late bloomer I guess.”

“Is somebody giving you a hard time?” Ves asked, suddenly offended. “I’ll break a nose, it’s nobody’s business. You do what you want in your own time.”

“Nobody’s giving me a hard time,” Faengil mumbled.

He was avoiding her eyes. She planted her hands on her hips and surveyed him, his gawky too-long limbs and his hunched posture and the embarrassed tilt of his eyes. “They better not be,” she said. Suddenly self-conscious, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I mean. I didn’t get-- the in-between stuff either. I started off before I was really ready for it and I didn’t really have a choice. So I-- maybe you don’t want me meddling but I just-- I want you to get a better chance than I had, yeah?”

He looked at her, then, his face wide open in horrified sympathy. And understanding; he’d seen a lot. They’d both gone to war far too young. “It’s worse for girls,” he said, grimacing.

“Sometimes,” she said. “Not always. But it’s not-- it’s not about who has it worse. It’s about you not having it bad at all. I know I’m not-- your people, I’m on the other side, but I don’t-- I don’t want you to have a bad time.”

“I can’t talk about this with you,” he said, sort of strangled.

“Well then let me talk to Bren,” Ves said.

Another voice suddenly spoke, startling Ves badly. “She’s probably asleep,” said Ciaran aep Aesnillan, who had appeared directly behind her at some point. She whirled around, clutching her chest.

“Fucking hell,” Ves said, catching her breath. “How do you do that on bare floor with no trees to hide behind.” Faengil did not seem surprised that he was there, though he made a moment’s unreadable eye contact with him.

“Long practice,” Ciaran said, mouth curling up a little. Ves knew Loredo had nearly tortured him to death on that awful prison barge in the stinking little shit-town of Flotsam, but it hadn’t left scars on his face. He was beautiful, doe-eyed, and sometimes unnervingly smug, which was what he looked like now. Old instincts made Ves want to smack the smug look off his face, but this was a new world now, and it was possible he was smug about something that benefited her anyway. “Ves, I do know that Bren is resting. We could send Faengil to see if she’s really asleep, but it might be best to give us a message and let her respond in her own time.”

Ves nodded; she knew that was another effect of early pregnancy, that it was exhausting. Ciaran gave Faengil a look, but Faengil seemed mildly baffled by the look, and glanced over at Ves to see how she was reacting, clearly not sure what was going on.

Oh. Ves did know what was going on. “Yeah, that makes sense to let her rest,” she said, “she told me about...”

Ciaran tilted his head, and looked at Faengil again, and Faengil still looked mystified. Ves took pity on him. “About the baby, Faengil,” she said. “Ciaran was observing that I must actually have spoken to Bren, and in some detail, if I know about that.”

“Oh,” Faengil said. He blushed bright red. “I already know you-- did.”

“Well,” Ciaran said, “but she wouldn’t have told her about it, if sex was all it was.”

“It’s not yours, is it,” Ves demanded suddenly of Ciaran, suspicious.

Ciaran looked briefly surprised. “No,” he said, and then laughed a little bitterly, clearly having been startled into honesty.

“Is it a secret?” Faengil asked.

“It’s private,” Ciaran said. “If Bren wanted Ves to know she’d’ve told her.”

“She said there was more than one possibility,” Ves said, “and I assume they’re people I don’t know. I just wondered if you were one of the possibles, is all.”

“No,” Ciaran said.

Then, because he had rubbed her the wrong way, Ves said, before she could stop herself, “Do you wish you were?”

Ciaran shook his head. “That’s private too,” he said. “You need to be careful, if you’re involving yourself in our affairs; we’ve got boundaries about some things.”

But he hadn’t told her to fuck off, which was rather more than she’d expected to deserve, so Ves got herself back under control. “Then I apologize,” she said. Peacetime meant new rules. “I should have known that would be a rude question.” She made herself add, a little stiffly, “Thank you for being patient in correcting me.”

Ciaran gave her a long, considering look, then said, “Faengil, I’ll keep watch, you go see if Bren is awake. If she is not, then leave her a note that Ves was looking for her.”

Faengil nodded jerkily, and gave Ves an oddly lingering look, then turned and went down the hallway. Ves watched him go, then turned back to Ciaran. “I guess I’ll be in the great hall,” she said.

Ciaran nodded slowly, clearly thinking something over. Maybe he was just thinking about how rude she’d been, but maybe…

“You heard a lot of that, didn’t you,” she guessed.

“Your conversation with Faengil?” Ciaran’s smile looked smug, but now that she was looking, she could tell it wasn’t. It was more a sort of emotional reserve. “Yes.”

“I’m not-- he’s not a little kid, right?” she said, defensive.

“He’s not,” Ciaran said. “He’s not quite considered a full adult but it’s not inappropriate to discuss adult topics with him.” He sighed. “Our society has been much interrupted for generations now, so it’s impossible to say anything concrete about our norms and values, and.” He coughed, strangely. “Well there are a few traditions left and one of them is that a youth of-- well normally slightly younger than Faengil’s age-- will have an Awakening, when they first really… become aware… of someone… in that kind of. Well.” He hesitated, and it was the only time Ves had ever seen him discomfited or awkward.

“Do you mean their first real crush?” Ves asked, fascinated.

“Well,” Ciaran said, “yes.” He fidgeted, actually fidgeted, and Ves stared at him. “It’s not— it’s normal for our young to kind of ease their way into this sort of thing, do some light experimenting with others close to their age, sort of figure out how it all works, but it’s— when they’re nearly mature, or sometimes a little later like in Faengil’s case, there’s usually a point where suddenly they’re aware of someone in a way they weren’t before, and we call that their Awakening and it’s. It’s a whole— thing we used to— we would celebrate.”

“You’re so uncomfortable,” she said. “Why tell me this?”

“Well,” Ciaran said, and visibly gathered himself. “Well it’s— it’s you. Faengil has suddenly noticed— you.”

“Oh,” Ves said, stunned, but as she considered it, well yeah, that would explain why he couldn’t look at her. “Oh.”

“It’s an honor,” Ciaran said, and she could tell now, under the light brown of his skin, he was blushing. “Normally it’s— someone a little bit more experienced, with any luck, and it’s— well it used to be part of it, was that the Awakener, if they were willing, would very gently introduce the newly-Awakened to the, sort of, general, you know, experience—“

“You want me to fuck that kid,” Ves said, shocked.

“N, no, it’s, it’s not like—” Ciaran sighed, pained. “Firstly he’s not a child, secondly, no, I don’t want you to do anything, I was just telling you, because you’d— you’d been kind about—” He sighed again. “Never mind.”

“No, no,” she said, “wait, no, Ciaran. I wasn’t meaning to be— uh, a jerk about it.”

He’d started to turn away, but paused, looking at her. He looked the very opposite of smug now, discomfited and vulnerable. “No?” His mouth set in a skeptical line.

“No,” she said. “I know how important that kid is to you guys. I get it. And yeah, I know he’s older than me. He’s a sweet kid, and you want better for him than you all got. I understand that impulse, believe me.”

“He’s,” Ciaran said. “Yes. That’s it. He’s important to us. You can see why.”

“I can,” Ves said. She considered it. “I would. If that’s the done thing. Only— I mean, I don’t know if it’s— if Bren would mind, exactly, but— I would. With Faengil.”

“Why would Bren mind?” Ciaran said, seeming honestly puzzled. “Oh— no, they’re— it’s an adoptive kinship group, it’s not— it’s all right if they share lovers, it’s not unacceptable.” She stared blankly at him, and he read her expression and laughed. “We have different rules about that than you, I think. But no, it’d— Bren might even chaperone, if you wouldn’t mind that. She’s— adoptively she’s the correct degree of kinswoman to do that sort of thing for him.” He gestured vaguely. “Or I am.”

“Chaperone,” Ves said.

“It’s— usually it’s— well it’s up to the Awakened if they want to be alone with their Awakener or if they want a correctly-distant kinsman to sit in on the ceremony.”

Ves considered that. “I mean, I’d be fine with that too. Actually I’d prefer that, so I know what’s… appropriate and what’s not.”

Ciaran looked hopeful. “Well if. I mean, if you’re willing. I need to talk to— well, there are two people who are adoptively our clan’s ancestors, or closest thing we have. And, well. Iorveth is one of them.”

“He doesn’t like me much,” Ves said with a grimace. “Maybe better to talk to the other one, then, if you want this to happen.”

Ciaran looked thoughtful. “Iorveth likes you more than you’d think, I suspect,” he said.

Chapter Text

Roche had spent three hours putting up with Eughen Tornahal’s decreasingly subtle hints and insinuations about how the current leadership of the state was unsuitable and there were too many nonhumans. It was getting difficult to stay noncommittal.

He was starting to think he’d have to abandon his subterfuge and just tell the man to shut the fuck up, when he suddenly became aware of being watched.

It was just a sense. His meeting with Tornahal had been taken on the move, wandering through a mews to ostensibly be shown some of the stock of horses the Upper Aedirn Free State boasted in its stables (fine enough horses, but Roche had not failed to notice that most of the tack was elven-style; the stablemaster was clearly Aen Seidhe), and thence through to a training yard, to see some of the soldiers at practice. Roche had taken the chance to practice a bit of mock-combat with one or two of the soldiers; nothing too strenuous, but a demonstration of their skills. (Adequate. Not up to his late, lamented Stripes. He said polite things anyway.) And they’d passed through from there into a meeting hall sort of space within the castle complex, though not an area he’d ever been in before.

He’d been under observation throughout, of course, but now it was a more intense feeling. Fewer people were around, most of the soldiers had remained at the training ground, and it was just Tornahal and Haltseidt and two others in this room with him. But someone was… someone else was here, or someone was listening, or-- or something, he couldn’t be sure what.

Distracted, Roche managed to give another non-answer to something fairly shocking Haltseidt said, and then Tornahal butted in and said, teeth-achingly unctuous, that of course such allegations were-- merely talk, nothing to be acted upon, just something to consider-- and as Roche let his eyebrows answer for him, he scratched his jaw and happened to glance up and--

--He made eye contact with someone in the rafters.

The person’s eyes widened, but he didn’t otherwise react. Roche managed to also give no sign; after the bare moment of recognition, he let his eyes focus past him, and kept his head moving smoothly.

Faengil. It only took him a moment to put together the shape and size of those eyes and the location and the expression-- it was Faengil, wearing dark clothing, with Scoia’tael-style camouflage paint streaking his face to break up the lines of it, and he was hiding in the rafters and probably had been following Roche most of the entire time he’d been in this teeth-grinding meeting.

Tornahal had sat them at a table, and now Haltseidt went to find them refreshment. Roche scratched the back of his neck, and then put his hand out and absently tapped on the table. After a moment, when Tornahal was in the middle of saying something else— something relatively inoffensive, for once, a desultory sort of tale of his wife’s attempts to brew human-style beer in this place, and Roche nodded absently, and then signed on the table, carefully finger-spelling the name, Faengil, I know it’s you.

Scotia’tael used the hand-signs, Roche knew they did. Perhaps not the letters. He wasn’t sure. But surely it would be obvious he was signing, from the posture of his hand, visible from above-- well, he didn’t know whether it would work. But it kept him entertained, and kept him from strangling Tornahal.

Haltseidt came back with beers, even though Roche had said he would not drink one. “Just try a little,” Tornahal said, “I want to know what you think of the flavor.”

“I can’t, I am sorry,” Roche said. “I have suffered from poisoning, and it caused damage. I can’t drink at all, only water.”

“But surely,” Tornahal said, astonished, “just a taste.”

“For politeness’s sake I would love if I could have just a taste,” Roche said, “but the damage was severe. Even a taste would make me ill.”

There was more discussion of the matter, but no one tried to make Roche drink, which sufficed. No one offered him any water either, but he figured he could survive. After a little while Haltseidt said another horrifying thing, and Roche coughed rather than reacting to it. He muffled his cough with one arm, and with the other hand signed on the table, asshole.

It was impossible to tell whether Faengil saw the signs or not. After a little while longer, when the others had finished drinking, they got up, and Roche managed to make his excuses and leave.

He was wandering back through the hallways when he caught sight of someone slender flitting around a corner ahead of him. “Faengil,” he called, at a wild guess, and was rewarded with a flicker of hesitation. He strode up to the corner, and the young elf was waiting there in the shadows, scowling at him, face painted in streaks.

He was wearing a black wool hood that looked rather like the one Roche had lost, but Roche decided not to address that startling detail just yet. “Could you read my hand-signs?” he asked.

Fuck you, Faengil signed back in the same hand-language, and Roche laughed.

“Good,” he said. “Listen, I’m trying to--”

“I know what you’re doing,” Faengil said, hard and cold. [edited to add: art of this here!!]

“The point is I’m not,” Roche said. “Listen to me!”

“Why would I listen to you,” Faengil said, a spike of hurt melting through his coldness for a moment.

Of course. The last interaction Roche had really had with Faengil was when he’d suddenly snapped and attacked Iorveth. And Faengil was a kid who’d seen too much already. Roche steadied himself against the corresponding spike of discomfort in himself, and gritted his teeth and said “I apologized to Iorveth.”

Faengil stared at him, blank and inscrutable, wary, framed by that damned hood. “When,” he said.

“Did Iorveth give you that hood?” Roche asked.

Faengil stared at him, completely blank, like a prey animal waiting for a chance to flee.

“It’s mine,” Roche said. “I dropped it when I was in his room, and couldn’t find it when I left.”

Faengil’s blankness went even deeper and stiller, absolutely impossible to read.

“You can believe me or not if you like,” Roche said, because either that had gone through to him or it hadn’t and belaboring it wouldn’t help. “But listen. Ves blew her cover to defend Breniriel, so she gets to be nice to you. I haven’t yet so I’m still trying to get in good with these assholes to uncover their plots against Iorveth. But Ves being on your side means I have to go without backup. I have no friends here-- to keep my cover I have to pretend I’m mad at Ves.”

Faengil was thinking that over. “You weren’t faking when you hit Iorveth,” he said.

“No,” Roche admitted. “I was-- well, I thought he’d said something he hadn’t.”

Faengil looked dubious now, which was progress. Roche had a lot of practice at winning surly youths over to his point of view. “I wondered why you were signing bad words while Tornahal was talking,” he said grudgingly.

Roche shook his head. “I was trying to get him to say awful things,” he said. “I’m trying to get him to say right out to me what he intends. I hate listening to that sort of thing. It’s one thing to overhear it but it’s another to have to sit there looking pleasant while he says it.” He shrugged. Time to force a conclusion. “Were you there to watch him, or watch me?”

Faengil eyed him. His age really was hard to pin down, mentally; under the camouflage paint, he just looked dangerous. “You don’t think it might’ve been the combination that interested us,” he said, witheringly dry.

Roche conceded that with a tilt of his head. “Well,” he said. “I’m still trying to convince them I’m on their side, so they’ll tell me their plans.”

“You don’t expect me to so easily believe that,” Faengil said.

“I don’t,” Roche said. “I don’t need you to believe me. I just need to know someone’s watching. Because if I fail, and they figure out I’m not really on their side, I need someone to know what happened.”

The next day

Roche had intended to exaggerate how estranged he had to be from Ves now, but he barely saw the woman anymore. She was nowhere to be found, and hadn’t even slept the previous night in her room.

He knew she’d found a hookup, knew she’d managed to pull; he’d noticed the kiss-bruises on her neck and chest, and beyond that, the way her whole posture had gone into that swaggery just-laid attitude she got sometimes. She’d fucked somebody and was mightily pleased with herself about it, and moreover she was now potentially on the way to fuck all of that person’s friends. He’d missed her initial report in the haze of--

Well, something weird had happened to him at Iorveth’s, and he couldn’t decide what, and now he really wasn’t sure what had actually happened and what he’d just wished for. His further research was turning up that there was a powerful mage here, and potentially that she’d been involved in healing Iorveth, and he was wondering if there’d been some enchantment on the room.

But Faengil turning up wearing his hood meant at least he remembered some of that evening correctly. He’d spoken to Iorveth. He’d lost his hood in the dark. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten home. He possibly had fallen under some enchantment, but if he’d said or done anything under its influence, there was no sign of it in anyone’s behavior.

He did badly want to speak to Iorveth face to face in daylight, but the elf was not making public appearances.

Anyhow, he’d missed Ves’s initial report, and now he couldn’t get her to come back and give it. She was too involved in what she was doing, whatever that was. He hoped he was getting useful information and not just fucking around, but then, what was he doing? He wasn’t having any fun and might well not be getting anything useful. Spending his days with these assholes was not that productive.

He left Ves a note, finally, after not finding her in her room or at the meal. He wanted her to find out about this powerful sorceress, whose name nobody had used within his hearing. He did not want to be seen to be asking about her, did not want to draw her attention. He’d spent enough time with Triss and Keira that he knew better than to hope for any good things to come out of consorting with sorceresses. (He’d liked Triss fine, but she was not a force for stability, despite her best attempts. By contrast Keira had been refreshingly disinterested in meddling, though that hadn’t kept her out of politics, alas.)

“Am I never going to speak with anyone official,” he groused to Haltseidt when the man turned up at his elbow as he walked into the dining hall at an hour he thought might be suitable for the day-meal.

“Mm,” Haltseidt said, “the official reception for you seems to have been a bit lacking, hasn’t it.”

“It’s understandable I suppose,” Roche said, “since I’ve tried twice to kill her precious elf. But Luisa talked it out with Saskia and said that I was still the one who should come to this. The Rivians are sending someone, do we know yet who’s coming?”

“Mm,” Haltseidt said, and laughed, “I think Queen Meve herself is coming.”

“Can’t be,” Roche said. “Or Luisa would have insisted on coming instead of me.”

Haltseidt’s face screwed up into an amused expression, but he didn’t say more. Roche wondered how reliable the man’s information was; if it was true that Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia really was appearing, he really ought to send word to Luisa. She’d be furious to miss out, and he wondered how the information that had come to Temeria had been so much less good than Upper Aedirn’s information, that Vergen would know of Meve’s travels and Vizima would not.

He was still contemplating that when Haltseidt collected him after the meal, as if they’d planned this ahead of time, and they went out into the city. “Seems to me somebody ought to show you around,” Haltseidt said, “and there’s no way to get through the quarantines without a local.”

“Should we be breaking the quarantines?” Roche asked, hesitating on the doorstep.

“We’re not going anywhere… dangerous,” Haltseidt said.

Roche hesitated a moment longer, then followed the man out into the city. There was nothing for it; he had to follow this lead.

It was rather a distance later that Roche realized they’d been followed. He let out his breath a little; he’d been bracing himself to get betrayed to his death at any time, but he caught a glimpse of a slim figure darting through a doorway and recognized Faengil by the black hood.

They’d gone into an area of the city Roche had never been to, which wasn’t difficult-- he hadn’t seen much outside the palace itself. But this was an area that as far as he could tell was almost entirely inhabited by humans, which was a bit strange since most of Vergen historically had been dwarven. They were away from the mine entrances, over the hump of the mountain foothills, and down at the other end of the city, where the city gates opened out onto fields. Now they’d gone into a little square among a number of buildings, where there were a few market stalls, and an inn at one end of the square with a small crowd of mostly men milling about in idle conversation in the inn’s small fenced front yard.

Faengil had darted down between a couple of the buildings, and Roche did not look at where he’d gone. In a hood, he wouldn’t be so conspicuous here, and Roche hoped he knew what he was about; anyone who saw his face would know he was an elf, and this did not seem to be a friendly neighborhood for nonhumans.

Keep your head down, boy, Roche thought, but could spare the matter no further thought; he was being led into that inn, and he had to pay attention.

The inn was like any number of inns he’d been in, down to there being one corner with a couple of trestle tables where ill-favored and disreputable burly men were glowering together over greasy-fingerprinted ceramic cups of cheap beer. Those were often, historically, the precise people Roche had come to do business with, and he was not surprised to be escorted over to that corner. The ill-favored men’s expressions lightened upon recognizing Haltseidt, though one in particular fixed Roche with an unfriendly glower.

“Who’s this ponce,” he demanded, as Roche followed Haltseidt to stand near the table.

“This,” Haltseidt said, “is,” and he lowered his voice, “Vernon Roche, of Temeria, though for legal purposes I will say that he has not recently traveled here from out of town.” That gave Roche a moment of confusion until he remembered about the quarantines, and had to control his glower at the thought of breaking them. There was nothing he could do, and still make these connections.

“Vernon Roche,” the glowerer said. “Didn’t you just get your ass handed to you by that fucking one-eyed elf.”

“He’s handed my ass to me several times,” Roche said mildly, “and I’ve handed him his slightly fewer, so I would say I owe him one, only I think the influenza has done him more damage than I ever managed.”

“That’s true,” said one of the other men, and there was a general uproar of merriment and skepticism. This eased Roche’s passage into the group, and he was soon sat at one of the tables. He wasn’t sure asking for water would serve, in this crowd, and anyway the water might not be clean here, so he accepted a tankard of small-beer and used his only lightly-practiced skill at pretending to drink it. It was weak and not very good, so it was no great loss to swig closed-mouthed and spill it surreptitiously now and then.

The conversation was mostly about how hard times were, how some of them missed the occupation of Nilfgaard, how others of them felt the country was being run poorly, but none of it was anything serious, none of it was anything Roche couldn’t use and wouldn’t have agreed with in his own turn without controversy. “How was it, under Nilfgaard?” he asked finally, curious.

“Peaceful,” one of the men said.

“They didn’t confiscate everything?” Roche asked, surprised.

Well, it transpired, there had been no resistance: when Nilfgaard had come, the Upper Aedirn Free State had surrendered peacefully, had negotiated fair and reasonable taxes, had brooked no resistance. Anyone who hadn’t wanted to deal with Nilfgaard had left quietly before they arrived-- “all them Squirrels, snuck away like thieves into the forest,” one of the men said, and when Roche asked if they’d harried the Nilfgaardians, the man had answered somewhat subduedly that no, there had been no trouble. And so there had been no fighting, and they’d mostly been left to themselves, except for being required to pay some actually quite reasonable taxes to the new administration, and obey the quite reasonable Nilfgaardian governor who had been assigned to run the government.

“Reckon it wasn’t like that in Temeria,” one of the men said, and Roche stared blankly for a moment, thinking of the ruins of White Orchard, of the trees full of corpses.

“No,” he said.

“Our city council stayed in place,” Haltseidt said, “with few to no changes. I suppose that could have gone worse than it did.”

“Yes,” Roche said.

“What did they do in Temeria?” one of the men, who on further inspection was rather young, asked, a bit wide-eyed.

Roche shook his head slightly. “We fought,” he said. “I can’t say we were wrong. But--” He pretended to drink more of his beer, remembering to pretend to swallow.

“The City Council did well by us,” Haltseidt said.

“Speaking of which!” someone said, and a small ruckus went up as the men greeted Eugen Tornahal, who had just walked into the inn. Tornahal was on the City Council, Roche knew that, and so was Iorveth, and he had been wondering what those meetings were like. He’d only met a handful of the other members of that council, most of them dwarves.

“Vernon Roche,” Tornahal said, grinning broadly and holding out a hand. Roche stood to greet him, clasping arms and slapping backs; Tornahal swung a leg over the bench and sat near Roche. “Fancy meeting you in this establishment.” And he laughed.

It seemed like a slightly odd thing to say, but Roche laughed too, and raised his glass, and they drank all around. Roche had managed to spill most of his beer, but Tornahal was watching him so closely that he felt he couldn’t fake this, and so drank down the rest of it.

It sat in his stomach like a rock. It wasn’t strong beer at all, which was why he’d chanced it, but he was acutely aware of it as the conversation went on. In a little while, someone brought over a bottle of vodka, and poured everyone little glasses of it. Roche tried to refuse; he’d told them he couldn’t have the stuff. But the uncomfortable camaraderie of the room took on a sharp edge, keen glances as he tried to push the cup away, cheer suddenly tipping over toward hostility and to keep the peace he wound up with a glass of it pressed into his hand. It was torture to pretend to drink it, to wet his lips with it. He would set the glass down, expecting someone to swipe it and drink it, but no one did, and Tornahal kept pressing it back into his hand.

It went straight to his head. He had a sip of it and it went straight to his head, and he couldn’t help it, more of it wound up down his throat, and before he knew it the glass was empty. “No,” he said, “no,” when Tornahal saw and went to pour from the glass again, “I can’t, it’s going to make me ill.”

He wanted it, though. It burned so pleasantly, just like the old friend it was, just the way he liked it and had been craving it. Oh he wanted more. But he could feel the old familiar pain in his midsection, just a little hint of it. It would kill him, Iola had said, and he knew she wouldn’t lie to him. Tornahal smiled at him and refilled his glass.

“A little more won’t hurt,” he said, “surely,” and Roche sat back a little, crossing his arms over his chest.

“If you want me dead,” Roche began, but Tornahal stood up suddenly, gesturing, ignoring him.

“My fellows,” Tornahal said, “I know we have been, of late, languishing for want of sport.” There was much outcry about this. Roche surreptitiously set his refilled vodka glass aside but all he could think about was drinking it. “And it’s true, things have been dreadfully boring here. But I have an idea for an entertainment. Naya, would you close the door? Sama, could you get the door to the kitchen?”

The barmaid sighed, and went over to the door and pushed it shut tight where it had been standing slightly open, letting cold air but a bit of light in. The room had some windows, but not many, and it reeked in here a bit. Roche sat up in mild alarm. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be involved in whatever this was. He hadn’t brought a sword or a mace, he only had his usual peacetime assortment of knives, and he didn’t fancy his chances in this crowd.

Across the room, he knew Faengil had been sitting near the bar with his hood up. He did not look over, did not see if the kid had seen this coming somehow and slipped out. The only other door out of the room led to the kitchen, and a large man had just closed it and was standing in front of it.

There was a staircase at the far end of the room, open, that led up to the second floor. That was the last remaining exit. Roche did not eye it, but as he kept his expression mild, he thought about how fast he could get up it. He’d been hunted for sport, more than once, and being willing to climb over a roof had saved him on one occasion.

“So it’s not exactly that this is a test,” Tornahal said, taking several steps toward the center of the room and turning back to look at Roche. “It’s not that I find it suspicious that Iorveth should have gotten the better of you as he did, that time in the woods. But this is a chance to redeem yourself.” He turned suddenly and pointed at-- yes, Faengil was still sitting there, on the same stool, frozen in place, hood pulled down. “Did you know this pointy pipsqueak was following you? Kill him first and we won’t kill you.”

To his credit, Faengil didn’t react, holding position and looking up at Tornahal in the same interested suspense as everyone else in the room. Roche wanted to protest that surely they couldn’t kill with impunity, but obviously this was as safe for Tornahal as being in the middle of the woods. No one would ever report what had really happened-- unless this was, again, a set-up to bait Roche into doing something foolish. “Well, now,” Roche said, trying to think of something to buy time. “Who?”

“That one,” Tornahal began, gesturing again, and that was when Faengil broke and ran, throwing his beer into the face of the nearest man and scrambling madly up the stairs.

“Now’s your chance,” Tornahal said, and Roche knew he had no choice. He sprinted across the room and up the stairs too, thinking frantically. Of course he couldn’t kill Faengil, nor could he let these men have him, but of course they were already suspicious of him for somehow failing to kill Iorveth. His options were limited and he’d already played his only trick card.

The building was a rickety collection of passages; Faengil pelted down them, flinging himself through doorways, and Roche followed, not daring to be slow. They’d only given him a moment’s headstart; a thunder of footsteps came behind him, and voices shouted and laughed.

Faengil was nimble, and he was fast, but so was Roche, and Faengil was slowed down by trying a couple of doors that were either locked or nailed shut. Roche was nearly atop him when he slammed himself through a door and into a room that didn’t have another exit.

“Out the window,” Roche gasped, “get on the roof,” and Faengil gave him a shocked look-- had he really thought Roche would kill him?-- and ran to fling the window’s shutters open.

But they opened from the outside, improbably-- someone was already there. Faengil recoiled, and slammed into Roche, but Roche outweighed him or at least had better footing, and kept his feet. The footfalls were pounding behind them, and Roche yanked the knife from his belt. Maybe he and Faengil were going to make a stand in this room. Fuck. “We have to fight them,” he said.

Which was when the shutters completed their opening swing and someone glided in. Roche stood dumbfounded as a heavyset-- woman? -- carrying a slender-- person-- came in the window and settled to the floor. The slender person, an elf, threw their arms around Faengil.

The heavyset woman-- well maybe woman, she seemed to have breasts, though she was wearing dwarven-style clothing and was twice Roche’s breadth-- settled to the floor and put a finger to her lips, winking at him. “We’ve been in here the whole time,” she said, and went and stood in the doorway.

“What the fuck,” Roche said. He had the presence of mind to put his knife away. “You-- flew.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman said. “I’m Dania, by the way, and that’s Faerveren, and you’re gonna do some explaining in a minute.” She turned back to the doorway and raised her voice to bellow, “Now just what in the love of fuck is going on in this cesspit!”

The first man approaching the door slammed to a halt, and several others ran into his back, and there was a lot of slamming and swearing and yelling.

“Eughen!” Dania shouted. “Explain yourself!”

There was a lot of commotion in the hallway, and Roche was delighted to see that after a moment Tornahal was bodily shoved forward by the others, looking somewhat dishevelled. “Madam Fitzhugh,” he said. “We didn’t mean to disturb you, I didn’t know you frequented this establishment.”

“I frequent a lot of places,” Dania said, crossing her arms over her chest. The way she was standing so square and so sturdy, Roche could absolutely believe she’d have no problem taking every one of these men in a fight.

And he’d seen someone fly like that before and knew what it meant. She wasn’t human, she was a bruxa. He’d met bruxae before. If they didn’t want to reveal themselves then you’d never know they weren’t human, but this was certainly one, the way she’d been moving.

One of the men behind Eughen gasped. “Stablemaster,” he said.

The elf still holding Faengil’s arms looked out at them. “Well isn’t this revolting,” the elf said, and Roche, looking at-- their-- face, was suddenly struck by the realization that whether this was a man or a woman didn’t matter so much as the fact that they were incredibly ancient. Not like a human would be-- there were no notable wrinkles or creases, the skin wasn’t translucent or spotted, the hair was still thick and glossy, but something in the face, the eyes-- there was a weight there. This was the oldest elf Roche had ever seen.

“We weren’t-- we were only having a bit of fun,” the man said.

“There was no harm intended,” Tornahal said.

“Bullshit,” Faengil said shakily, and the ancient elf pulled him in close to embrace him tightly.

Dania was staring at Tornahal, who was staring back at her, and as Roche watched, his face went more and more blank, and his jaw sagged a bit. She was hypnotizing him, Roche thought, as he knew bruxae could, drawing him in and speaking to him in his mind. From the slack faces around him, he wasn’t the only one she was doing this to.

But even as he realized this, some other part of his mind was putting together where he’d heard of Dania Fitzhugh before. “Oh,” he said. “You’re on the City Council.”

“Ah,” she said, not looking away from Tornahal’s lax blank face, “you’re more than just a cute hat rack, aren’t you, Vernon Roche.”

Into his mind, a voice came that was unmistakably also hers. I don’t have to do this to you, do I? she asked.

“No ma’am,” he said out loud, not sure how to answer inside his mind. He thought of where else he’d met a Fitzhugh. “You any relation to Talia Fitzhugh?”

Dania barked out a laugh, at that, and turned to look at him. “She mentioned you,” she said.

“If you’d believe it, I know her from Intelligence work,” Roche said.

“Oh, that’s not surprising,” Dania said. “She’s been at Queen of the Night for a few years now. Said you came in and talked to them. Said you were a decent fellow, which is why I thought maybe I could let you be. That’s one of my daughters.” She waved a hand, and Tornahal stepped meekly aside. “Come on, guys, we’re going back to my house to talk this over.”

“Don’t-- we didn’t mean no harm,” one of the men said dully, shuffling to the side. Roche gestured to Faengil that he should follow Dania, trying to convey to the poor kid with his facial expression how chagrined he was for getting Faengil into this mess. Faengil glanced briefly at him but turned his face away, still clinging to the ancient elf, who did not deign to look at Roche but filed out the door after Dania.

Roche trailed after them, warily watching the men in the hallway, but they all seemed meek, cowed, maybe all hypnotized. It was hard to tell.

Their little procession went down the nearest stairwell, which Roche wouldn’t have guessed was there, and out into the neighborhood via an alley. No one followed them, no one seemed to mark their passage.

The ancient elf was talking, low and sweet, in their own tongue to Faengil, who was still clinging to them. Realizing they weren’t being followed, Roche left off his backward vigil and caught them up.

“Faengil,” he said, “I wouldn’t have-- you know I wasn’t--” Anything he said was going to sound defensive. “I was running from them too.”

“I made them forget that they were suspicious of you,” Dania said, waving a hand, and paused, looking back at Roche. They all stopped, standing in a street, but the traffic was paying them no attention. That might be natural, Roche judged; they weren’t that outlandish a bunch here. Faengil was unexceptionally dressed, and his companion was-- well, dressed like a local, at any rate. “They’ll remember you as whatever they expected you to be. Come on.”

They set off again, and Roche had to trot to keep up; Dania wasn’t tall but she took long strides. She led them unerringly down narrow alleys and streets, and through a neat wooden fence into a beautiful garden, half-dormant with winter but impeccably-kept nonetheless, and thence into the ornamented wooden door of a tidy, fairly large house whose back rooms were set into the slope of the mountain.

He hesitated only briefly, but Dania beckoned, and he followed her in.

“But you’re not, are you?” she said, as if they’d just been speaking.

“What?” He closed the door behind himself, conscious of the pair of elves staring at him with inscrutable, closed expressions.

“You’re not what those men expect you to be,” Dania said.

“I would never have hurt him,” Roche said, of Faengil, which was the truth. Then, almost as if he was compelled to say it, he shivered and said, “They would have killed me. I’ve been hunted like that before. Last time I survived by going over the roof. I spent the night holding onto a chimney.” He hadn’t meant to say that, and he closed his mouth and frowned at her.

“That was only a little bit me,” she said. “But, on that point, you know what I am.”

“Bruxa,” Roche said.

“Because I’m not the first one you’ve known,” she went on, and he realized this was for the elves’ benefit.

“No,” he said. “Your daughter works at a-- well, at a brothel in Vizima, along with a number of your kind. I rely on sex workers for my information network and the Night’s are as reliable as any, and treat you fairly if you treat them fairly, so I never saw any problem with letting them remain there.”

“Who did you tell that they were vampires?” Dania asked.

Roche shook his head. “It was not a fact I needed to reveal, so I did not,” he said. “I warned colleagues not to be unwary but I never told the full truth of it to anyone.”

“How long have you known?” she pressed.

He shook his head again. “Years,” he said. “Six, seven-- a decade?” He genuinely couldn’t remember.

Dania turned to the ancient elf, and they exchanged some kind of very loaded glance. The elf sighed, rolling their eyes somewhat.

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” Roche said, feeling daring.

The ancient elf’s mouth turned up at one corner. Their face was all sharp angles, and their hair was in elaborate braids. Their body was a slender sweep, wiry and strong, but their green-embroidered long coat gave no particular weight to either a masculine or feminine interpretation of the fashion. “I know who you are, Vernon Roche,” they said, but sighed. “I am Faerveren, notable to these folk mostly because I am the stablemaster for the city’s stables.”

“Faerveren,” Roche said, mostly to make sure he remembered it. He put a hand to his chest and bowed over it, almost absently. “I see. Yes, of course.”

“You’d better stay to tea,” Dania said, and led them deeper into the house. “Don’t mind the screeching, the babies are supposed to be napping.”

Roche hesitated for the briefest instant, imagining what a brood of baby bruxae looked like, but then made himself follow the elves down the hallway. It wasn’t every day you got offered this kind of an alliance, and he needed it.