CYRDEL SONASSON IS AFRAID. When cannons and flintlocks open-fired on the pacifist territory, Alkara, signaling an invasion by Synketros, he is left with no choice but to watch destruction grip more than he is ready to let go. With his fiance and her...
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2412 Iclis 18, Briss
Cyrdel hooked a finger against the collar of his frilly costume, blowing out the strands of fake hair that kept getting stuck to his mouth. He could never understand how Ravalee corralled hers even after being with her all these years. Airene's voice speared into his mind, coming from miles away. Remember—just like we practiced.
His lips curved down in a frown. Yeah, easy for her to say. Unlike him, she's sitting pretty in their getaway carriage, whistling her merry days away. But him? He had to squeeze into this dress and pretend to be someone he's not.
Yeah. Dress. A few days ago, after holing up with Airene near the border of Zalgend and Toreza, she came up with the plan without his permission. She had propped her hands on her hips in pride and she turned to him. "The only way we'll get into Toreza is by getting a young thyminka and introducing her to the head priestess for training. That way, she can scour the place without too many eyes on her back, and she can bust Ravalee out in time."
Cyrdel remembered being confused at the way Airene's gaze honed into him until it registered. "Oh, no," he waved his palms in the air and scrambled away as if it would do anything to prevent his fate. "I'm not doing that."
A dangerous glint flashed in the older brownie's eyes. "Oh, but you will," she said. "I'll get your measurements and procure the necessary disguises. In the meantime, learn how to change your voice."
"Why a girl?" he demanded. Up until now, he couldn't believe how ridiculous this idea was.
Airene rolled her shoulders and brushed loose strands off her face. "Most of the thyminka population are women," she said. "If we want to avoid scrutiny as much as possible, a girl is our best bet."
Cyrdel had crossed his arms over his chest then. "But why me?" he asked. "Can't we find some random girl and convince her to help us?"
"Last I checked, you and I are public enemies in Umazure and in the Sovereign's eyes," she reminded him rather unabashedly. It did slip his mind for a second. "We can't saunter around like we used to, kissing flower-children or opening Temples up for ceremony."
Of course. Nobody would want to be near a criminal, much less associate with one. Make those two. His mind tried coming up with more excuses but it came sputtering. Airene beamed at him then, knowing she'd already won.
The next few days were spent with Airene hand-making the dress she'd make Cyrdel wear. Meanwhile, he had disassembled one of the trinkets in his belt and fashioned another device out of it. The lesium band around his wrist had long ago been smashed into pieces and ground into fine powder. He'd rather not see that purple ore and anything made from it ever again.
Then, the morning of the "day" came. Cyrdel whined all the while Airene worked on his clothes and later, his hair. When and where she got this disgusting fake hair was beyond him. He swore he could smell noure fur though. Going out of their makeshift hut was enough torture. Imagine walking into Toreza's wide courtyard and into the Head Priestess' office, with all those acolytes and priestesses looking at him. He'd rather go back to the stable and wither away assembling rifles.
