Valiant

Chapter 47: The Three Gifts

People stare as I stride into the sunlight.
I can feel their cautious faces poking at me from around dying nightfires and meager rations, and their whispers surround me in wary isolation. In spite of myself, I stare back.

I catch a worn maiden's sagging, hopeless face pleading with me. I see naked, filthy children chasing each other around the rawhide tents in utter squalor, with the kind of joy that defies possessions. Their bare feet send sharp gravel skidding off the caldera into shallow cooking pots, and off of unsuspecting shins of passerby. Two women with ratty, gnarled locks carry large basins of fresh snowmelt as they stroll, gossiping in strange, quipped directives. Priests in feathers and furs carry bowls of broth toward the elderly, who smile toothless grins of appreciation in payment, and offer places at their fires.

I see no beggars, or sick castaways. There are no gallows as far as I can see. In fact, the general mood of the mountaintop doesn't strike me as too dissimilar from that of the Vale.

I feel a short tug at the hem of my armor, soft and unaggressive, and turn to answer. A girl dressed in brown rags grins up at me, revealing two missing incisors. A fleas-nest of brown halos her angular face, casting a dark shadow across her nose.

"I'ch thei und'mar, Raziel ap-Rydir!" She exclaims proudly, before giving me a queer little bow.

Before I have a chance to ponder, a scrawny woman with dark eyes snatches the girl from my side and clutches her close, glaring silently.
"My apologies," I offer, stepping back toward the path. "I mean you no harm." To which the woman hisses and drags her daughter away.
Nora gives me a sidelong look, shaking her head bemusedly as she plods along beside me.
"What?" I object, turning my torso to face her and crossing my arms.

"Well," she explains, returning my gaze equally. "When somebody bids you good day, it is usually polite to return the offer, not to step back with your palms up like you've been caught peeping through a bath window."
"How was I supposed to know that's what she said?" I retort, feeling the bitter urge to kick something possess my boots.

"Well, what else would she have been doing, you pinhead? She wasn't exactly pulling a knife on you, now, was she? Besides, what she said was formal, and she curtsied for you. It's basic etiquette, really."

"You know," I growl, shouldering ahead. "For somebody whose life has been in jeopardy so many times, I would not have thought that you'd put courtesy in such high regard. Especially not with the way I heard you talk to those guards when introducing a certain chef."

"And I'd have expected the opposite of one whose life goal was to be a knight of the Royal House," she retorts, without skipping a beat.

"Whatever, M'lady," I grumble, rolling my eyes. "Can you tell me exactly what she said?"

"Yah. Directly, it translates to 'Light is yours and mine, Inheritor of Windcatcher'. Of course, 'Raziel' is also a name, as is 'Rydir', so it could have been 'Raziel, son of Windcatcher' or 'Inheritence of Rydir'. I'm unsure as to why she'd be calling you any of these, though. Perhaps she thought you were somebody else? Don't look so confused, Sir Knight! I met a lot of people in my past job, and learned snippets of many tongues."

Of course, there is no way of her knowing that the confusion festering within has nothing to do with her being culturally adept. "Don't look so smug, m'lady," I sneer. "It doesn't suit you."
"Nor does jealousy suit you, Raphael," she quips, snarky and cool as always.

With a flourish, I open the flap of Beck's tent, and hold it for her. "There's your damned courtesy."

"Much better," she grins. "A little chivalry never hurt anyone, did it?"