Lux Tenebris: Moontree - Part Four

The city had been through a terrible conflict. Everywhere Malora turned, she saw the same scenes she'd seen in cities across the world during her mercenary days. Destruction. Desolation. Hopelessness. 

Moontree had been burned but the city was working hard to restore itself. Already, the defensive walls had been rebuilt.  Malora had seen teams of dwarf-led combat engineers assessing the work. From the scowls on the dwarves' faces, she assumed the humans' work did not meet their standards.

Of course, she thought, any work that wasn't dwarf-rought would never meet a dwarf's standards.

Malora had found an inn in the rebuilt section of the Celnimeir District. It was occupied mostly by traders, but she'd spotted quite a few mercenary officers breaking their fast in the common room each daybreak.  Their uniforms bore the sigil of a familiar company, the Ironhawks, from V'resh. They were a long way from home.

Most of the mercenaries didn't even give her a second glance, when she made her way through the district. The locals did look, but as long as no one had scales, they didn't seem to care overmuch that she was drow.  Master Dusk had been right about the city's openmindedness, compared to their neighbors.

Malora wondered, though, in the aftermath of the Draconic attack how that egalitarian spirit would fare?

Her comrades were not due to arrive for another week, so Malora busied herself  tracking down Isteban Mirelle. It was easier than she had anticipated. The address on the letter was in the Silver Hill District. The most honorous part of the experience was getting by the watchmen at the district's new-built gates. She got the distinct impression from others that no one was pleased with Silver Hill's new security. Even the watchmen working the gates seemed unhappy.

One of them gave her directions to Mirelle's home. If he recognized the man's name, he gave no indication. Mentally, Malora shrugged, and continued on her way.

Silver Hill was an elegant district. Cobblestone streets wound their way around the gently sloping hill that gave the neighborhood its name. The houses near the new-built wall and gates were small, but comfortably appointed near shops and entertainments. The higher up the hill one went, the larger and more lavish the homes became, as well as more secure. Modest lawns and front gardens soon vanished behind high stone walls. At iron pedestrian gates, sharp-eyed guards watched Malora amble past, but did not accost her.

On the northeast side of the hill, Malora found her destination. Isteban Mirelle's house was set back from the street, sequestered behind an iron fence and a lavish front garden. It was a bulky, solid-looking affair, reminding Malora more of a fortress than a wealthy man's home. Given what she knew of Mirelle's history she was not entirely surprised by this.

There was a pedestrian gate that was unguarded and, when she tentatively pushed against it, unlocked. It swung open on well-oiled hinges. A concrete path led from the street to the front of the house, weaving through aromatic flowerbeds. She stepped onto the path and approached the house. Behind her, the gate closed with barely a sound.

In fact, as she approached the front doors, Malora realized she could no longer hear the hum of the city. She frowned, but continued to the front of the house.

The door was tall and narrow, wide enough for a single person to enter at a time. There was a bell chord handing outside. Malora tugged on it, once.

A moment later, the door opened. Standing in the doorway was a small human woman. She had short, jet-black hair but, despite the flawlessness of her honey-colored skin, seemed quite old. Her eyes were cool gray, giving nothing away. She wore a long dark gray tunic over a darker gray skirt that fell to her ankles.  Her hands were folded in front of her. Malora almost didn't notice the faded ink on the old woman's nuckles.

"Can I help you?"

She spoke Common with a peculiar accent.

"Well met, ma'am," said Malora, inclining her head. "Can you tell me if this is the home of Master Isteban Mirelle?"

"It is," said the old woman. "Why do you ask?"

"I bear a message for Master Mirelle, from the Chief Archivist of the Adamantine Archive."

The old woman stepped aside, gestured Malora forward. "Please, come inside. I will let Master Mirelle know you are here. Miss?"

"Malora."

"Miss Malora." The old woman nodded. "Please, follow me."

The old woman led Malora through a marble tiled foyer with cream-white walls, through a set of double doors, into a cozy parlor. Tapestries of Elvish design and make hung on the walls, depicting pastoral scenes. A small marble fireplace occupied one wall. Its mantle was adorned with seashells and geodes. The furniture, when Malora sat, was firm but comfortable.

The old woman excused herself, leaving Malora alone in the room. Her first impulse was to rise and check the double doors. They opened at her touch and she felt a flush of self-recrimination. She turned back to the fireplace and was examining the shells when she heard the doors open again. Malora turned. The old woman was there, standing behind a tall, muscular man in a dark blue tunic and trousers.

"Master Mirelle, may I present Mistress Malora of Fallen Baramir," said the old woman.

"Thank you, Esther," said Mirelle.

He stepped into the room and Malora fought the urge to step back. Isteban Mirelle had a charismatic aura about him that was almost like a physical presence.  His hair was reddish gold and his eyes were pale green, flecked with gold and brown. His skin was rosy, his features handsome and Malora was certain that Isteban Mirelle was not human.

"May I offer you a drink, mistress?" asked Mirelle. "Tea, perhaps? Or wine?"

"Tea would be appreciated," said Malora.

Mirelle glanced at Esther who vanished from the room. The man gestured at the couch and they sat. Malora handed him the leather tube containing the scroll.

"The seal has been broken," noted Mirelle, examining the scroll.

"I was robbed by bandits on the road," explained Malora.

Mirelle's red-gold brows shot up. "And you retrieved the message?"

"Yes, among other things," said Malora.

"Interesting."

The man unfurled the scroll and began to read. Esther returned with a tray containing tall crystal glasses of iced tea, a pot of honey and a small bowl of sugar. Malora accepted a glass and sipped the cold tea while Mirelle read the scroll. Esther retreated to a corner of the room, near the doors, hands clasped before her, head inclined as if the floor was a subject of intense interest.

"Tell me, Mistress Malora, do you know what this message says?" asked Mirelle.

She didn't even consider lying to him.

"Yes, sir. The Regent wants you to come home."

"Fallen Baramir hasn't been my home in almost five hundred years," said Mirelle.

Malora regared him for a moment before asking, "Forgive me, sir, but what exactly are you?"

Mirelle hesitated. "That's . . . complicated."

In her corner, Esther snorted.

"Why do you think Swann wants me to return?"

"Because of the war," said Malora. "The Draconic armies are fortifying their positions in the east, and the nation-states of the west are preparing to move against them."

"And the Regent wants me to marshall the defenders of Fallen Baramir."

"I suppose."

Mirelle shook his head. "What would you do, mistress?"

"Me?"

"You're an adventurer. A mercenary. A woman of the world. I can tell. What would you do in this situation?"
"I suppose it would depend on how much I cared about the war and the city. Do you care what happens to Fallen Baramir? To the west?"

"In the abstract," said Mirelle.

Again, Esther snorted. This time, Mirelle shot her a hard glance.

"Thank you for delivering the message."

Mirelle stood and offered her his hand. She took it, somewhat reluctantly, and stood.

"I hope it wasn't too great an inconvenience."

"Not at all," said Malora. "I was on my way to Moontree anyway."

"Oh? You have business in the city?"

"I'm meeting friends," she said.

"I hope you have a pleasant reunion," said Mirelle. "Esther will show you out."

She nodded and turned away, followed Esther back across the marbled floor to the front door. The old woman opened them and smiled at Malora.

"Fair travels, mistress."

"Thank you," said Malora. She hesitated on the threshold, glanced behind her at the parlor doors. "What is he, miss?"

The old woman lay a hand against the small of Malora's back and gently pushed her over the threshold. She smiled at the drow.

"He is the Son of War."

Then she shut the doors, leaving Malora feeling perplexed and confused in the afternoon sunlight.