The world was still in shock about what had happened at the spire on that fateful day. Blood, they had expected. Death, the naturals had known was inevitable. Freedom, the Outlanders had held out confidence for. In the end, they had all been right, but no one had foreseen the rifts that would crack like chasms between the naturals and outlanders during the fight. Even if Ronin had not died, the tensions would have remained. Why in all the hells Ronin had brought only Northhaveners to the battle Jigano could now never ask or know… but the late guildmaster’s choice had broken wide the resentment that had been simmering below the surface for all of Deepfrost. People needed time to come to terms with how their world had changed… and time to mourn the man who had bought that change with his life.
Perhaps this could be a chance for new beginnings, new bridges to form as those within the barrier found similarities in their shared experiences before they gathered to invoke a change that would affect all of them, natural and outlander alike. Jigano had been tentatively hopeful, giving the moment time to breathe and letting those affected mourn and recover before he tried again to bring up the possibility of plans and preparations. In fact, he had been taking a break from poring over Safrin’s books in the Guildhall to visit his favorite teahouse – and bumped into Rory on the way.
It might have been a good day, if their path hadn’t taken them past the Temple, and the Notice Board just inside its doors.
”I wish I could stand beside you,” he had murmured back toRory, giving his friend a wry smile. ”But I know why you need to do it. And that I can only get in the way like this. It’s strange to think that we need to incite a mob in order to let cooler heads prevail…” he hesitated, then shrugged ruefully, twining his fingers briefly through the hunter’s and returning the squeeze with firm reassurance before he let him pull away. ”But you have my support, no matter what shape I wear. Be careful, please.”
He had caught108 ‘s eye and nodded in return, a wry smile of acknowledgment before he faded back into the Temple, fierce pride in his friend battling with worry for what was about to happen and guilt that he wasn’t able to do more to help. Once he had been the one to give inspiring speeches and lead a legion…
And the orders he had given them, at the end, had broken him in ways no enemy nor would-be god had been able to accomplish.
Once, he would have sent Isuma to the Infirmary, to play in Isla’s office and sleep in the basket the gryphon’s godmother had kept for her there. Now that place was run by a succession of magically-inclined and half-trained healers, natural and outlander alike, rotating through as their schedules permitted. Some were friends, but many were strangers, and none had the rapport with the gryphlet that Isla had. Though she was still often in residence, the office was no longer hers, and Isuma no longer had a place there. Instead he sent the little one down the Rathskeller steps, to find Chunk and Edy and cadge treats from the kitchen with Bobi.
Jigano himself went to the Infirmary, slipping into an empty treatment room for privacy and opening the window to the fresh Flowerbirth air before transforming into a raven and taking wing, circling around the imposing building to witness Rory’s speech.
The man was good. The bard could appreciate that in a professional way, even as his little avian heart pounded in his feathered breast for the risk the hunter took in whipping up the crowd. Perched on a gutter, all he could do was clench his taloned toes in anxious worry and a wild exultation as his friend chose his words as carefully as a general marshalling his troops, laying them out with a precision that might have made Jigano want to fly down and kiss him if the situation hadn’t been so dire. Rory was bright and fierce and beautiful in the spring sunlight, a tawny wolf of a man calling his pack to the hunt.
And, gods most fortunate, they came to him, wild and angry and baying for blood.
There was no place for an Outlander bard among them, that was abundantly clear. But a raven messenger for their sun-blessed leader? That, he could be. He wrapped his thoughts close, tight as armor, and followed the mob to the killing ground. So many of his Loreseekers were naturals that he thought some of them would surely make their way to the gathering. Amalia and Maea, at least, if not Sam. The bookmaker had his own worries, and this conflict could only wound him more.
The raven spent the night on Rory’s shoulder, dozing when his friend was still and providing a silent warmth and encouragement when it seemed like the enormity of what the naturals dared might become overwhelming to the man who had become their de facto leader. Content – for now – to watch and listen, the raven took note of the worries and concerns of those who approached the hunter. Some were eager for conflict, others – like Maea – seemed interested in seeking a more long-term solution. And then there was the way the Ascended naturals sought to set themselves apart and claim the same glory Roana had… with no greater patience than the Outlanders had shown. There was something suspicious there, something that would have raised the hackles of a fox, but the raven only shifted his weight uneasily, talons prickling gentle warning through the leather of Rory’s greatcoat as he continued his silent vigil over the history unfolding around him.
Perhaps this could be a chance for new beginnings, new bridges to form as those within the barrier found similarities in their shared experiences before they gathered to invoke a change that would affect all of them, natural and outlander alike. Jigano had been tentatively hopeful, giving the moment time to breathe and letting those affected mourn and recover before he tried again to bring up the possibility of plans and preparations. In fact, he had been taking a break from poring over Safrin’s books in the Guildhall to visit his favorite teahouse – and bumped into Rory on the way.
It might have been a good day, if their path hadn’t taken them past the Temple, and the Notice Board just inside its doors.
”I wish I could stand beside you,” he had murmured back to
He had caught
And the orders he had given them, at the end, had broken him in ways no enemy nor would-be god had been able to accomplish.
Once, he would have sent Isuma to the Infirmary, to play in Isla’s office and sleep in the basket the gryphon’s godmother had kept for her there. Now that place was run by a succession of magically-inclined and half-trained healers, natural and outlander alike, rotating through as their schedules permitted. Some were friends, but many were strangers, and none had the rapport with the gryphlet that Isla had. Though she was still often in residence, the office was no longer hers, and Isuma no longer had a place there. Instead he sent the little one down the Rathskeller steps, to find Chunk and Edy and cadge treats from the kitchen with Bobi.
Jigano himself went to the Infirmary, slipping into an empty treatment room for privacy and opening the window to the fresh Flowerbirth air before transforming into a raven and taking wing, circling around the imposing building to witness Rory’s speech.
The man was good. The bard could appreciate that in a professional way, even as his little avian heart pounded in his feathered breast for the risk the hunter took in whipping up the crowd. Perched on a gutter, all he could do was clench his taloned toes in anxious worry and a wild exultation as his friend chose his words as carefully as a general marshalling his troops, laying them out with a precision that might have made Jigano want to fly down and kiss him if the situation hadn’t been so dire. Rory was bright and fierce and beautiful in the spring sunlight, a tawny wolf of a man calling his pack to the hunt.
And, gods most fortunate, they came to him, wild and angry and baying for blood.
There was no place for an Outlander bard among them, that was abundantly clear. But a raven messenger for their sun-blessed leader? That, he could be. He wrapped his thoughts close, tight as armor, and followed the mob to the killing ground. So many of his Loreseekers were naturals that he thought some of them would surely make their way to the gathering. Amalia and Maea, at least, if not Sam. The bookmaker had his own worries, and this conflict could only wound him more.
The raven spent the night on Rory’s shoulder, dozing when his friend was still and providing a silent warmth and encouragement when it seemed like the enormity of what the naturals dared might become overwhelming to the man who had become their de facto leader. Content – for now – to watch and listen, the raven took note of the worries and concerns of those who approached the hunter. Some were eager for conflict, others – like Maea – seemed interested in seeking a more long-term solution. And then there was the way the Ascended naturals sought to set themselves apart and claim the same glory Roana had… with no greater patience than the Outlanders had shown. There was something suspicious there, something that would have raised the hackles of a fox, but the raven only shifted his weight uneasily, talons prickling gentle warning through the leather of Rory’s greatcoat as he continued his silent vigil over the history unfolding around him.
