Previously:
Tyruc is embraced by the town of Bodra as their savior, and the owners of the Honeycomb Inn are keen to serve. Tyruc learns from Oliette how the Endless War ended and his own role in it.
The Honeywillows fussed over Tyruc incessantly. Dallor and Oliette served him dish upon dish of baked and fried foods, insisting that it all be brought directly to his room. In the morning, he ate while nestled in one of the overstuffed chairs near the fireplace, his injured foot propped up on a cushioned stool and a smorgasbord of food arranged on the coffee table.
Every platter contained honey as either an ingredient, glaze, or dipping sauce. Tyruc first believed the theme to be a clever nod to the Honeywillow surname, just like the title of their inn, but as each dish came out more drenched in honey than the last, he began to suspect an obsession.
When the morning had crept past noon and Tyruc’s stomach could stretch no further, he noticed Sareit had been missing for the entire time. He was going to ask about her, but he found it difficult to get a word past the older couple’s stream of bickering.
“Did you check on the rooms downstairs?” Oliette asked her husband while stacking up the plates. A hint of exasperation threaded her voice.
Dallor huffed at her. “Now why would you think I had done that? I’ve done all the cooking this morning, I helped salvage what’s left of the harvest market, and I’ve been tending to Mister Tyruc here.”
“No, I’ve been tending to our guest; you’ve been hovering around for a compliment on your biscuits.”
“The biscuits were delicious,” Tyruc chimed in.
“Thank you,” they said in unison, initiating a new turn in their quarreling. They exited the room with the stacked plates and left the door open behind them.
Tyruc chuckled, admiring how such a loving relationship could result in both affection and irritation. He wistfully considered his former life, most of it spent as a scamp and a vagabond. No one had ever known him well enough to both love him and find him annoying all at once.
Sareit swept in from the doorway. She wore her scholar’s robe overtop a pale blue dress. Her arms were filled with an assortment of books, which she dumped on the table in front of Tyruc. Without a word to him, she left the room to return a few moments later with another armful. She dusted her hands and asked, “Shall we begin?”
Tyruc blinked. “Begin what?”
“You agreed to answer my questions.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to anything.”
Sareit folded her arms. Her eyebrows lowered a fraction, and her mouth pinched inward. “I did not think you would object.”
What kind of questions does she want to ask? Tyruc worried.
You have nothing to hide, Tyruc, Asena rumbled her advice. Engage with Sareit, and you will have the opportunity to ask questions of your own.
Tyruc broke from his mental exchange to catch Sareit staring at him intensely. “Sorry, I’m not objecting, just surprised. What sort of questions do you have for me?”
Sareit’s expression lifted. “All sorts.” She folded herself up in the other chair across from Tyruc and pulled several books from the low table. She opened two across her lap, balanced one on each armrest, and thumbed through a fifth tome.
“Just tell me about yourself, and we’ll go from there.”
Tyruc flashed back to his past life, which came with its share of interrogations. He straightened in his chair, folded his sweating hands in his lap, and cleared his throat twice. “I’m Tyruc, Herald of Som.”
“Have you always been ‘Tyruc, Herald of Som?’”
Tyruc resisted the need to fidget. “No.”
Tell her.
He sighed. “My birthname is Tyruc Dragomir. I grew up in Southern H’vraan before taking up sea travel.”
Sareit held her hand up, pausing him while she searched around her robes for something. She produced her little notebook and fountain pen. “Several things to clarify already,” she mumbled to herself as she scribbled. “Out of curiosity, which of your parents is an elf?”
“What do you mean?”
“I assumed one of your parents is of the Forestfolk. Obviously you’re a lux, but your skin tone is slightly coppery, you have a naturally earthy scent, and ‘Tyruc’ is an elvish name.” Sareit looked up from her notebook, a mortifying realization slowly dawning over her face.
Tyruc stared at his hands, noticing the copper tone himself now that it had been pointed out. “I never knew my parents.”
“Sir Tyruc, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” Tyruc assured her. “I don’t remember much of my childhood. I ran the streets of a small desert town. Couldn’t tell you its name. Then at some point I hopped aboard a ship in Port M’tiethay. First real memory I have was when I was around ten years old, working as a powder monkey and getting a good cuff to the back of the head ‘cause I dropped gunpowder on the deck.”
Sareit’s pen had taken up its dance again, but it moved slowly, politely, and Sareit managed to write while not taking her eyes off of Tyruc.
“I jumped from ship to ship, port to port, bouncing between H’vraan and Chresius and the Middle Isles for about fifteen years.”
“You were an explorer,” Sareit said with a tone of wonder.
“Not really. I never set foot past the port cities.”
“Why is that?”
Tyruc chuckled ruefully. “Because I was always in some sort of trouble. I…” He hesitated. No point denying it. “I was a thief. Stole whenever I had to, then used my stolen goods to buy passage. It worked for a time, until I realized that this side of the world is smaller than you’d think. When I ran out of ports I could still land in without getting arrested on sight, I knew I had to expand my horizons. That either meant sailing far west into who-knows-what or trying out the ports on Jorza.”
“In all that time, you had never stopped in Jorza?”
“This continent has a reputation,” Tyruc said pointedly.
It was Sareit’s turn to pull a rueful face. “The Endless War.”
“Every sailor knows to avoid the southern continent. Regardless of where you port, you have a better than decent chance of getting pulled into the crossfire of Orynheim versus Merros. But even knowing that, I didn’t expect to wind up on the frontlines of the war.”
Sareit’s pen picked up its pace, so Tyruc paused to give her a moment to catch up.
Tyruc.
Yes?
Ask her questions in return.
Now?
You have an opportunity here, and I would not see you squander it. Follow along with what I tell you.
“Sir Tyruc?” Sareit asked, staring at him again. “How did you wind up in the war?”
Tyruc tried to focus back on her while listening to Asena’s voice at the same time. “Actually, Miss Sareit, what do you say we make a deal?”
One of Sareit’s eyebrows lifted slowly. “What kind of deal?”
“I’m telling you quite a bit about myself. What say we make an exchange of information?”
“I’m not sure what someone like me could do for you,” she rebuffed.
“You are a scholar, right? I grew up in alleys and on pirate ships, so there’s a lot of stuff I never properly learned. Perhaps you could help fill in some gaps for me?”
“Do you mean… you can’t read?” she asked.
Tyruc scoffed. “Of course I can read. But most of my reading has been pub menus and thieves’ code. For example, I can never get the terms for tribes straight. I thought it was just Plainfolk, Mountainfolk, and all that, but then there’s elves and dwarves and lux and so on. Then there’s magic and all that guff. It’s always confused the daylights out of me.”
“Oh,” she said, a light brightening in her eyes. “I am fairly knowledgeable in those areas.”
I’m not as stupid as you’re having me sound, you know, Tyruc griped.
No one said you are stupid. Release your pride, Tyruc, and learn as much from Sareit as you teach.
“Where would you like me to start?” Sareit asked, trading her notebook for one of the tomes on her lap.
“Let’s start with tribes. Go from the basics, like you’re explaining it to a kid.” Tyruc rankled at that, but the words had passed from Asena’s whisper through his lips before he could catch them.
“I can do that,” Sareit said with a satisfied smile. “All people hail from one of the eight tribes. Each tribe is elementally aligned with a patron from the Court of the Fel.” She pulled a book from the table, opened it to a tab, and continued.
“As I’m sure you know, the eight gods each hold dominion over an aspect of the natural world. Legend states that the gods, called ‘Fel’ in the elde tongue, formed a pact to create mortals suited to each of their areas of influence.
“The old names of the tribes are Mountainfolk, Seafolk, Forestfolk, Skyfolk, Beastfolk, Frostfolk, Deepfolk, and Plainfolk.” She ticked each off her fingers. “Those names are still used, of course, but most tribes can also be divided into clans. Usage of clan names used to be purely academic, but it has become more common in the last few centuries.
“For example, most Forestfolk are called elves, but there are also clans of sprites and dryads. Mountainfolk are mostly divided between dwarves and giants. I mentioned the irony once to a dwarven friend of mine, and he didn’t find it nearly as fascinating as I did.”
“So that’s why I hear people call me a Plainfolk and lux interchangeably?”
“Exactly. Similarly, my parents and I are zoan, which is a clan of Beastfolk.”
Tyruc mused over that. “So what about the word ‘human?’”
“‘Human’ is an old word that applies to any and all mortal people, though it doesn’t get used much in scholarly circles anymore. There are accounts of ancient conflicts between the tribes over who was and wasn’t truly ‘human,’ but none of that nonsense has been spoken seriously in millennia.”
A question floated to the surface of Tyruc’s mind. “What happens when people of different tribes have a child?”
“It’s not uncommon. A child of two tribes will have a dominant parentage, but there might be mild influences of the non-dominant parent. Coloration, stature, slight elemental affinity toward the other parent’s domain. So in your case, you get your primary features from your lux parent, but there are absolutely traces of Forestfolk ancestry.”
At Asena’s prompting, Tyruc asked, “Can you tell me more about how the elements connect to tribes?”
That question earned a gleam of excitement in Sareit’s eyes. “I’d be happy to. As I said, each of the Fel holds dominion over one of the eight elemental attributes. Mederanth is the god of fire, Phol is the goddess of water, Nebeus the god of earth, so on and so forth. When the gods made mortals, they forged them out of the elements they preside over.
“That’s why we have a natural affinity for our respective elements.”
“Interesting. So then we have not only a connection to our element, but also to a member of the Fel?”
“Correct. Beastfolk like me were created by Zalion, god of lightning, so many of our tribe venerate him. You belong to—”
“Som,” Tyruc completed reflexively.
“Actually,” Sareit corrected, “Ludrallin is the god of light, and that’s who you, as a Plainfolk, belong to.”
“No,” Tyruc responded, “I belong to Som. I may be part of this Ludrallin’s tribe, but I certainly don’t belong to him.”
Tyruc was shocked by his own conviction, but it was genuine. He was not ignorant of the Fel. Though Sareit seemed to hold them with some regard, Tyruc knew the Court of the Fel as aloof and distant at best, entirely silent at worst. Som was already so much more than that.
Sareit had gone wide-eyed at his firmness, but her studious stare descended over her visage. She drummed her fingers on one of her books. “I believe it’s my turn for another question,” she said, her tone now challenging. “Tell me: who is Som?”
And despite his convictions, Tyruc had no idea how to answer.
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