Samira had sat for a portrait before, though not in years. When she had finally come of age, her mother, Dané Dalia Char, had decided that it was time to commission a portrait of their family. Badr, two years older than her, and Amir, five years older, had looked handsome, Badr in parade armor and Amir in a fine doublet. So handsome that Samira had grown jealous, and had deyed the portrait by nearly a month to wait for the completion of her own armor rather than wear the dress the seamstress had designed for her. It was a hassle, but her mother had not minded enough, or cared enough, to make a fuss, and so it was that she and Badr looked every bit the royal knights to Amir’s confident politician.
She was not permitted to wear armor for this portrait. She had tried, of course, but the moment she had asked Róisín to assist her with the ties—a process she could do on her own, but had foolishly tried to save time by getting a second set of hands—the servant had thrown a fit. In a flurry of activity, they had dug through her slowly expanding wardrobe until they had assembled an outfit. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. For as frustrating as the seamstress had been to work with, she had at least conceded to Samira’s request for menswear. A white linen shirt with a high colr and matching cuffs, a tightly fitted bck jacket with gold embroidered trim (excessive, but most of her wardrobe featured such accents now, it seemed), matching pants, and a dark turquoise cape that draped over her left shoulder, patterned with the same twisting vines that decorated nearly everything in Seighart. It felt vish, fmboyant, but despite everything, Samira found herself smiling as she stood in front of the mirror in her chamber.
“Now you look presentable, Daamaret. Samira.” Róisín corrected herself with a smirk. “I had thought of putting your hair into a braid, but I think it looks better loose, it works better for the silhouette. Perhaps just a single braid at the back to keep it from falling into your face while the artist sketches, and leave the rest free?” The question, it seemed, was directed at herself, as she gestured for Samira to sit without waiting for input.
Samira feigned a pout as Róisín begin to fiddle with her hair. “You know,” She said, “I am the one actually being painted. Shouldn’t how I look be my choice?”
“First, this is just a sketch, and the artist will be taking swatches to use for the actual portrait. Second, if you had your choice you wouldn’t be going at all, now would you?” Róisín pulled Samira’s hair back out of her face, gathering it at the back and beginning to braid. Samira had never really thought much about her appearance. Her and her brothers had all looked much the same, and if it were not for the grey that Amir had started sprouting at his temples, they could’ve passed for triplets. Straight nose, warm tan skin, and dark brown eyes that stared back at her from the mirror. Swap her long hair for something shorter and curly and she’d be Badr, add some lines around her eyes and a dimple on the left cheek and she’d be Amir. She thought she looked fine enough, and Rani had always said as much, though Rani could’ve said anything and Samira would’ve believed her.
Samira opened her mouth to speak, then closed it as a realization hit her. If Princess Aoife and Lady Oriole were involved, then perhaps? The marriage was destined to be a purely symbolic thing, the threats the Tíreile had made confirmed as much, so then there may yet be a chance of salvaging things with Rani. If there was room in her heart to forgive Samira for accepting this position in the first pce, at least. The connection between a pactbound and their human was special though, and the form of those retionships were as free as they were specifically because they were arcanely obscured from the public eye. If she were caught by a member of the Wyrmguard visiting Rani’s chambers, or Rani by a noble in the pace, there was no guarantee that gossip would not spread across the city, even back to Malokat, no assurance of silence. Her heart clenched at the thought, and her expression fell enough that Róisín noticed.
The servant smiled kindly. “You look lovely, Samira, I promise. Maybe not as rugged as you would prefer but-”
“It isn’t that, Róisín. You’re doing a great job.” Samira reassured, schooling her expression into something more neutral. “There’s just a lot to adjust to, I suppose. Perhaps I’m just a bit homesick. Have you ever been to Thandar?”
Róisín shook her head, tilting it a bit as though the question had been foolish. “There aren’t many opportunities for a servant to take leave, especially not to cross the Reach. Maybe someday though. What is it like? If I cannot visit in person perhaps I can in my mind, if you describe it well enough.”
“It’s bigger, for one thing.” Samira waved off the jab that she could tell was coming. “I don’t mean it the way you think. I know Seighart is just the one city and then tracts of barren wastes. I mean there’s just… more. Not just nd. Thandar is rge enough that a person from Malokat—the capital, in the West— and a person from Helond, which is a port city in the Northeast, could be totally different. The culture, the customs, the people, they’re all so spread out that they’ve developed into something totally new depending on where you are. In a city like Malokat where people are always visiting from all over Vidrios it’s always so colorful, different personalities and cultures and people all blending together.”
Róisín hummed, undoing the braid she had just finished to try something else, to Samira’s amusement. “Not many people make their way out here. We get traders from Auchwain and Edis passing through on their way to Thandar, and the occasional visitors from Shiv or Thandar, but those aren’t people coming to visit, or to stay. It’s always just faces passing through.” She twisted a new braid around the crown of Samira’s head in a manner reminiscent of a circlet. “We have our own color though, I think, in the pace. The Court especially. No two are much alike, once you get to know them. Most don’t pay enough attention to us commonfolk to mask themselves or worry very much about appearances.”
Samira grimaced. She was aware that Shiv was friendly with Seighart, if it could truly be said that it was friendly with any nation aside from Monrijk—an isnd empire to the Southeast of Vidrios that had pnted its fg on the Southern coast of the continent and refused to let go, resulting in a vassal state that masqueraded as its own imperial power. The thought that she may have to interact with a Shivan Ambassador, and worse, be friendly to them made her sick to her stomach. Thandar had been at war to some extent since Samira was a child, but in the past decade conflict had escated from scattered skirmishes to battles between hundreds to thousands of soldiers. She’d been at the front lines for years, she knew that Shivans were dangerous, not to be trusted, and yet still they were welcome here, in the city that was to be her home. It was a fact that she would need to accept, albeit begrudgingly.
“Thandar is full of engineers, too.” Samira began, seeking to change the subject. “And not engineers like the types that design bridges and the like. Did you see the carriage we, that is, my Dastena and I, arrived in?” Róisín shook her head in the negative. “Right, well… I suppose imagine a normal carriage, the type drawn by horses. Mine, we call it a steel carriage, is all metal, and drawn not by horses but by… well I’m not too sure how to expin it.” She winced as Róisín pulled a braid tight. “It burns fuel, mp oil, wood, coal, as long as it burns hot, and uses the heat to cause a wheel to spin. That wheel, through a mechanism more complicated than I can describe, is connected to the wheels of the carriage, and causes them to spin.”
The servant looked lost, but nodded for Samira to continue, and so she did. “Mine was special, a prototype, but most such carriages require steel beams to be id out for it to travel across, so that the surface is smooth and ft. These beams have been id out connecting most of the major cities in Thandar.” Samira looked to the side, this time actually missing her home, rather than using that expnation as a deflection. “You can cross from the East coast to the Border of Odhran’s Reach in a matter of days, rather than the weeks it would take by horse.”
“Could such a pathway be made between Thandar and Seighart?” Róisín inquired, finishing with Samira’s hair and moving to grab pigments from a bag she had brought with her.
Samira paused, thinking. “It’s possible. The tracks need to be maintained carefully for them to be used, it would take quite a bit of work and people but… yes, it could be done.” She considered it for a moment. “It would certainly make visiting Thandar more feasible. If we could ensure that the creatures in the Reach don’t interfere with the tracks, that is.”
“Creatures? What-” Róisín’s reply was cut off by a knock at the door.
“My Lady is expected in Her Highness’ sitting room.” A soft voice intoned. “I can show her which one, if she is not yet familiar.”
Róisín scoffed, beginning to apply pigments to Samira’s eyelids. “Give us a moment, and I can show My Lady the way, Aislin.” She called, not turning towards the door. To Samira, she said, “The Princess’ servant. She’s insufferable when you noble lot aren’t around. I would say we should take longer if only to make her look bad, but probably best we not keep the others waiting.”
“Others, plural?”
Despite her best efforts to rush Róisín, Samira was still the st to the sitting room. It was the first room on the bough, just off of their nding of the staircase, and it was cozy, a room Samira could imagine herself setting up in on a chilly day by the firepce. The inclusion of a firepce seemed unwise given the fact that the entirety of the structure in which they resided was made of wood, but it was well insuted with bricks and the pace had stood for hundreds of years and she had not heard tale of it having burned to the ground, so who was she to question it. Besides the firepce, the room held two tall arched windows like the ones in Samira’s own chamber, several long low upholstered sofas, a scattering of chairs, an tables arranged in such a way that they could be easily reached to pce food or drink, or, perhaps, be moved to provide a surface for reading or writing. The walls had evenly spaced glow-spheres—what she had taken to calling them, since she had yet to be told anything else—that gave off a warm light, slightly dimmer than the rest of the pace, which added to the homey feel of the space.
The others, it seemed, had referred not just to Princess Aoife, but the portrait painter, which Samira supposed she should have expected, but also Oriole, who scowled as soon as Samira had stepped into the room. Samira gave a tight smile and a slight nod in return, attempting not to let the situation seem like the surprise that it was. It seemed that, as King Adrian had commented, the two really were inseparable, for better or worse. Samira was leaning towards worse.
Aoife was reclined on a chaise, and Samira’s breath caught at the sight of her, a slip that Oriole noticed as her own lips parted in a snarl. The Princess herself looked annoyed, though not nearly as displeased at Samira’s arrival. The suit she wore, a turquoise thing that matched Samira’s own cape, was fttering, the sharp colr accentuating the angle of her jawline. She had an arm slung up over the back of the chaise, and looked for all the world like she had never had anywhere important to be in her life, so rexed she was. This was the Princess in her element, it seemed, not the uptight woman of the Court, but a handsome noble at ease in her private chambers. Samira cursed herself internally for conceding so easily to Oriole’s demands, but what was done was done, and things were better off this way, she assured herself.
“Apologies for my tardiness, Your Highness. Róisín,” Samira shot a pointed look at the shorter woman, who looked not guilty in the slightest, “Insisted that she make up my face to be more appealing to the eyes of the Court.”
Oriole leaned over the back of the chaise, casually draping her arms around Aoife’s shoulders. The Princess raised an eyebrow at her, but did not protest. “A fool’s endeavor.” The Tíreile crowed. “Cosmetics cannot make a commoner noble, no more than a ck of them could make dear Aoife common.”
Aoife batted at Oriole’s hand. “Enough, Ri, you embarrass yourself more than my fiancée.” Oriole herself was dressed impeccably, a light grey dress with ruffs at the neck and wrists that made her seem all the more the preening bird that she behaved like. The Princess spoke again, “Lady Char, the wait was short, and we are not in any hurry. This is the only thing on my agenda today, and, I would hope, yours. Mister Quinlevan is an impeccable artist, and so we must give him the requisite time to do his work. I expect we will be indisposed for the next few hours at the very least.” Her tone was cool, and she regarded Samira the way one would a particurly uninteresting insect.
The artist in question, a Mister Quinlevan, apparently, was an unassuming man in his ter years, a pair of spectacles banced somewhat precariously at the tip of his nose. He nodded, looking somewhat like a mouse caught in a room with a swarm of cats. “I would estimate as much, Your Highness. I’d like to make a few sketches to give some options, and once you pick one I’ll block in the basic colors today, the final piece should be finished in about a month’s time, though if the date for the ceremony gets moved forward I can rush the job as needed, though I may need time with it afterwards for the final touches.” The words rushed out of the man in a single breath, one long sentence. Quinlevan gnced awkwardly back and forth between the three women, and then nodded, beginning to bustle about setting up his easel.
“Much appreciated, Mister Quinlevan.” Aoife said coolly. “Where would you like us for the first sketch?”
The artist did, it seemed, know how to assert himself, if only when it came to posing. So it was that Samira found herself lost in her thoughts, sitting beside the Princess, a respectable distance. Behind them stood Oriole, who had selected a regal pose, one hand behind her back, the other resting on Aoife’s shoulder. Samira attempted not to notice those cws curling whenever she gnced over. It looked like it ought to hurt, but each time the Princess only smirked slightly, once shaking her head with amusement, gncing briefly back towards the Tíreile. Samira instead focussed on Quinlevan, if only for a pce to rest her eyes without constantly looking at her bride to be and the person with whom she clearly shared much more affection.
Samira was pulled from her musing by Aoife, who hummed thoughtfully. “What have you thought of Seighart thus far, Lady Char?” She murmured.
“It is… different than I expected, and different from home. All the same I am quite taken with it, I think. It is unfamiliar but I will make a life here.” Samira said. “Everyone has been quite hospitable, Your Highness, I could not ask for better treatment.”
“A non-committal answer.” Oriole scoffed.
“An honest answer, Lady Oriole.” Samira rebutted, eyes still watching Quinlevan, who blessedly was too focussed on his sketching to take notice of their bickering. “Or would you rather I lie?”
Aoife cut off Oriole with a soft ugh. It was a coarse sound, as though she was unused to making it, and already Samira wished to hear it more. “Do you intend, Ri, to hassle Lady Char over everything she says for the remainder of our lives?” The Princess said, “Or is this merely until the wedding, upon which you’ll treat her with more respect?”
Oriole huffed, but said nothing, cws once again tightening, threatening almost to pierce the fabric of Aoife’s beautiful outfit.
“Apologies, Your Highness.” Samira said, willing herself to calm. “I forget myself. I do not intend to cause more trouble for you than I already have.”
“It isn’t possible to do so, I think.” Aoife hummed, looking towards Samira, who did not meet her gaze. “There is little you could do now, Lady Char, that would worsen my own situation. Do not feel the need to censor yourself for my sake.”
Insult and permission to speak both, then. “Lady Oriole has made as much quite clear.” Samira muttered, not bothering to keep the bitterness from her voice. “You needn’t bother with talk of respect then, if my presence causes such issue for you. Oriole is justified in her treatment, if I am to be anathema to the pair of you.”
That coarse ugh again rang through the room, the sound a shock to each other individual present, if Mister Quinlevan pausing his sketch and Róisín’s open mouth were any indication. “You misunderstand, Lady Char.” Aoife chuckled, steadying herself. It was a spiteful sound now, not one of cheer. “Make no mistake, you are the problem, but it is of no fault of your own.”
“I don’t follow.” Samira said, brow furrowing with confusion.
“You are an insult, Daamaret.” Oriole sneered.
Aoife clicked her tongue. “An unkind manner of phrasing it, though not inaccurate.” She leaned back on the sofa, looking upwards for a long moment before looking back to Samira. “My grandfather is no stranger to arranging marriages, as I’m sure your family isn’t either.” This wasn’t the case, but Samira didn’t feel it was an appropriate time to point that out. “He has chosen to wed me to a woman. Superficially I suspect he may consider that a kindness, as I have not been… secretive, as to my preferences. The insult, Lady Char, is that my need for companionship had already been filled. The purpose of being wed, when you are royalty, is for legacy.”
The pieces suddenly clicked into pce. “This is a punishment for you as much as it is for me.” Samira exhaled.
Aoife smiled wryly. “Forced into a barren marriage, guaranteed, unless, I suppose, you die, no children who could ascend to the throne, or any position of power.” She spat, “His Majesty has elected to use me as a political tool to serve the country, at my expense. I shall leave behind nothing but this portrait, no legacy but whispers amongst the servants about the deviant princess whose taste in partner left her childless.”
“If she dies though-” Oriole cooed pcatingly.
“Enough, Ri. I’m serious. I want you two to get along.” Aoife sighed. “So no, Lady Char, my misfortune is not your fault, though you py a role. I must ask,” She said, “You mentioned that this is a punishment for both of us. You hadn’t seemed the type to be particurly concerned with child-making.”
“My mother, the Dané, she knows of my distaste for politicking, for matters of the court.” Samira said. “Make no mistake, Thandar needs an alliance with Seighart, and our union will serve that purpose. But she chose me as a punishment. One I deserve.”
Aoife’s expression softened somewhat, Samira saw as she looked towards her now, not as detached or cold as it had been. “I’m sure my grandfather would say the same. Too headstrong, too ambitious. I deserve this, in his eyes, I’m sure.” She said, “What could you have done for your mother to think as much? Call me curious, maybe it will help us make the best of our situation.”
“I am the reason my brother is dead.” Samira rasped, words catching as they leapt from her lips unbidden. “I made a mistake, and he died, along with his Dastena.”
Aoife’s expression remained cool, but Oriole’s perpetual distaste was colored first by pity, and then by disdain.
“Lady Char, we had heard that the younger prince had been killed, but-” The Princess began.
Mister Quinlevan chose this, of all moments, to look up from his sketch. “The first sketch is finished, Lady Oriole, perhaps you could sit on the other side of Her Highness, to better bance the composition. If we could move the sofa, Róisín, then I could catch better light from that window…” And so the artist’s vision continued to take shape.
The Pact Keeper’s chambers were eborate. Aed was, after all, the oldest living person in Seighart, if what was said of them was true, and Samira was beginning to believe that cim. The room in which she, Aoife, and Oriole now found themselves was a massive library that dominated the majority of the Pact Keeper’s branch of Drachlás, and each shelf held evidence of a space that had been lived in for centuries. Knick-knacks shared shelves with books old enough that the cracked leather had been repaired and rebound multiple times over, pages seeming just on the edge of crumbling to dust.
The glow spheres in here were brighter than they had been in the Princess’ sitting room, but were still warm in color. As the Pact Keeper led them past row after row of shelves, table after table scattered with books and hand written notes, the lights pulsed faintly, as though in time with their steps as they progressed. Aed had welcomed them in, not seeming at all surprised by their visit despite the ter hour. Conversation had lightened after each, besides Oriole, had gotten things off their chest, so to speak. Once Quinlevan finished with his work and they had selected a sketch, he had dismissed them, and Samira had dismissed Róisín, who had dutifully stood by and fetched refreshments for the better part of the day, despite Samira’s requests that she do otherwise.
“I am pleased to hear that you’re already willing to move forward, Lady Char. Many newcomers to the pace are reluctant to be bound, which I do not begrudge them for.” The Pact Keeper said kindly. They turned down a row, and as Samira followed she saw that there were fewer books on these shelves, but the ones here somehow looked older still. At the very end the shelves opened up into a rger round space, curving around a central table, which was set with a deep purple tablecloth, and on which sat a pot of ink, several quills, and a stack of perfectly white paper.
“To be honest, sir, I simply long to get back into contact with my brother. This is what has to be done to do so. That it conforms with Seigharthan customs is all the better.” Samira responded. She reached towards one of the books, gncing at Aed for permission as she did so. They nodded, eyes crinkling at the corners as they smiled. Samira pulled it from the shelf delicately, flipping to the first page, and then to a random one. Each was full of the same winding, nonsensical script that was used in the Thomonds’ tattoos. Tíreile nguage, she supposed, since the Seigharthans at least used the same alphabet as Thandar. This was something else entirely, the letters complex and almost seeming to move as her eyes scanned across the page.
Aoife smirked. “I was going to remind you to wait until you are ready, Lady Char, and that this seems rather impulsive for a magical contract you’ll be bound to for the rest of your life.” She began, “But I created a pact with Oriole nearly as soon as we had met, so I am hardly the one to be advising caution.” She tugged up the sleeve of her suit, revealing that her left arm was covered in swirling bck text. Sections seemed to have been altered over time, and one portion near her elbow had been bcked out entirely with ink.
Aed sighed dramatically, turning to pull a variety of other tomes down and pcing them gently on the table. “I will remind you, Songbird, that doing so without the guidance of one of the elder members of the Court, let alone without me, was both reckless and dangerous. The editing we had to do afterwards-”
“Entirely unnecessary.” Interrupted Oriole. “When the terms said that I would be able to turn her enemies inside out, that was meant literally. You butchered the intended meaning with your ‘edits’.”
“First of all, Lady Oriole, doing so would have been a huge breach of etiquette, especially given that the young Princess’ primary enemy was one of her cousins, as I recall. Second of all, the terms of your pact, especially given your own young age at the time, would have killed one or both of you had you actually attempted to perform any magic.” The Pact Keeper admonished. Their words were still kind, especially towards Oriole, a fondness in their voice that almost seemed out of pce given his serious demeanor.
Samira looked up from the book. “So it is magic then? Real magic? You said at the time, is it possible for them to do something like that now?”
“Would you like to find out-” Oriole quipped, but was cut off by a smack on the shoulder by Aoife.
Aed hummed thoughtfully. “Magic is what we tend to call it, yes. The Tíreile word is drathesìthe, which transtes to something like…. ‘arcane exchange’?” They opened one of the tomes on the table, turning the pages reverently until they came upon one with an array of that shifting text, each accompanied by something that almost looked like a mathematical equation. The letters and shapes themselves were foreign, but the format of it reminded Samira of the arithmetic one of her minders had guided her through in her youth. “It is not magic in the common sense of the word outside of Seighart,” Aed continued, “You cannot get something for nothing. In order to obtain a result, to perform “magic”, something must be given in exchange. It is why we, that is, the Tíreile, bind ourselves so to a human partner. We are fonts of raw power, but without that exchange, we cannot use it.”
“In exchange for the power to turn people inside out, for example,” Aoife ughed, “Oriole gave her oath to be my best friend for the rest of our lives.” Oriole reddened at that, already rosy cheeks blushing pink.
Samira looked over at the Princess. “Why haven’t I seen you perform any magic yet, then? I haven’t seen much magic at all here, aside from the pace itself, I think.” She asked.
Oriole scoffed. “Most drathesìthe is subtle, Daamaret. You’ve seen plenty, you just didn’t know it. But if you must see-” She dramatically flourished with her hand, and Samira expected to see something bright, something that looked magical, for a ck of a better term. Instead, Oriole’s cws—her whole arm, actually—extended uncannily, the sound of shifting bones and sinew punctuating the transformation. With another flourish, Oriole now stood before Samira with a long, gangly arm, oddly muscur fingers capped by foot-long talons that hooked wickedly. “It’s not quite as fun as magically turning someone inside out, but it does the job just as well, I think.” Oriole grinned.
“Lady Oriole is correct, though her choice of example is a bit of an outlier.” Aed said. “Most of the magic in Seighart is small and unnoticed. King Adrian ages more slowly than most. Aoife’s mother, Lady Niamh, can make pnts grow from barren soil. Many of the Thomonds have such an ability, actually. Their collective will is how the Fraylough Oasis exists, if you hadn’t surmised as much.”
Samira returned her own book, stepping over to look over the one that Aed had opened. “So it can just be anything? As long as I exchange something for it?” She asked.
“A pact uses Tíreile words in the form of a contract, but it’s more of a blend between a legal document and an equation. The more you are willing to give, the greater the value of that which you receive. For example,” The Pact Keeper scanned a finger down the page before stopping, “This is the symbol for silence. It is the key part of one half of the pact you’ll be making today. In conjunction with a few other terms, agreeing to your pact will render you unable to speak with those who do not already know about the Tíreile and the true structure of the Seigharthan court. There are hundreds of such terms which can be used in combination for a near limitless variety of results, if you know how to arrange and bance them.”
Samira tilted her head quizically. “One half?”
Aed smiled at her. “Restricting your ability to communicate is a cost you’re paying that must be banced for the drathesìthe to work, Lady Char. You will need to choose something that you’d like to receive in return from your pactbound.” They gnced over at Oriole. “Speaking of which, I assume Lady Oriole will be your choice here? Prickly as she is, she is well versed in pact structure, and given that she’s already bound to your fiancée she would be the most obvious choice.”
“That was what I had thought, assuming, of course, that Lady Oriole agrees.” Samira remarked dryly.
“If I must, I will, if only because the Princess asked me nicely to do so.” Aoife said, her affectation disinterested, though Samira could sense some sort of excitement just beneath her outward demeanor.
Aed nodded, and grabbed one of the bnk sheets of paper, and the quill. “If that’s the case, then we may begin constructing the contract. It can be minorly edited in the future, but only minorly, so please be precise with what you want. We can also add more to it ter, as many of the Thomonds have.”
Samira gnced again at the book lying open on the table, and its esoteric symbols. “And I can ask for anything?”
“So long as it can be constructed in the contract, and is banced in value with your secrecy, yes. Did you have something in mind?”
Samira grinned, and nodded.
