Orlan's Parley

[Sitah Al'hmet]

85th of Vintra, 1024 N.E

Sitah had ridden out hard this morning – Senya, her stubborn hawk she usually kept caged back in her hall followed lazily overhead. The fool probably thought he could afford to stretch his wings a little.

The meeting place was barren even for these blasted steppes: a bleached patch of scrub where a dead tree had once stood sentinel against the winds whipping this side of Voldas, leaving a circle of bare, cracked earth that looked like the bellybutton of some monstrous corpse. Two men sat there already, hunched beneath the scant shade offered by a covering sheet they had pitched.

They didn't rise to her approach. Sitah hadn't expected them to. A lord from Mohsal riding out into open Voldas country could not afford to dress in his usual splendor, but by the gods did he look miserable. He was entirely too fat and the color of his clothes had darkened all over from sweat. Even from this far she could smell the sourness on him. His company fared better, probably a mercenary she thought to herself, someone who knew the lay of the land and how to travel it. She had to admit, Lord Orlan had stones coming here with only a sellsword to guard and guide him.

"Orlan?" she called, voice rougher than grinding stones. She didn't bother dismounting yet. No point to giving these vultures any more purchase on her than necessary. Her mare shifted restlessly, nostrils flared against the sour reek of the foreign lout.

One man, the fat one, lifted his head slowly, eyes squinting up like a lizard burrowed in the sand. His skin had reddened and cracked in places under the unrelenting sun and even from this distance she could see the sweat streaming down his face in rivulets. A sly smiled played at Sitah's lips. Good, let him suffer. She whistled sharply between her teeth and Senya answered with a cry from above before she came swooping down to perch on her shoulder. "I see the journey has been hard on you."

[Thalion Orlan]

"Ah, the famous lady from Memosa," he greeted. He had to crane his neck a good half-foot to look at her when she finally brought herself down from the saddle. It was a damn uncomfortable thing for a man who had little neck to speak of. He had been told that the lady of Memosa was young, bold and unafraid, but he had not thought her bold enough to meet him alone.

Well, not quite alone. The bird-of-prey that perched on her slender shoulder had a vicious beak.

The smell of horse preceded Sitah on this god-forsaken plain. A vile, steaming reek that clung not just to flesh and hide but to the air itself like a festering wound. His own tunic, soaked through with sweat even in this meager shade, clung to his burning skin. Even his usually reliable tongue tasted dry and raw against his palate, the dust settled everywhere, burning and grating, and they were still several days of riding away from even entering the Sumir desert.

He hadn't intended for this meeting to be so rustic. His subordinates back in Mohsal had thought him mad to even suggest it. To make an overture to the Voldans, the lady of Memosa, and to meet her on her own turf of all places! They’d scoffed, their voices thick with wine and self-importance. "Let her and her ilk come to us, where men are decent and well-mannered." But his gut churned at that notion. He was not yet so bold or careless to invite the Kingdom's enemies into his own home.

No, he needed to come here, to brave the steppe and the desert wind, to show that he was Lord they could respect. He had picked the Lady of Memosa for this negotiation because he trusted her to smell the sweet odor of opportunity on him, because her star was rising and she was young and eager. He had heard tales of her – Sitah Al'hmet – the hawk-eyed girl whose prodigious rise to power had not been left unnoticed. A girl whose father had been carved into kindling by Cato’s men when she could barely stand. She smelled of it still, he thought, not blood as such – but vengeance, raw and dry enough to choke on.

"Sitah," he rasped the name out loud, tasting the foreign syllables. It had been years since he last called anyone by anything other than title or rank. He couldn't quite recall the way men spoke without formality, but she was Voldan, and he would not grant her the honor of titles just yet. "I admit, I had not thought it would be this hot in Vintra."

He smiled then and reached around for a saddlebag. He hadn’t brought gold for her, nor jewels – those were foolish things to barter with in a land like this. Sitah, he had estimated, wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted trinkets and baubles. Thalion Orlan fumbled for the pouch containing his token gift – a single ring plucked from dead King Cato's corpse, bearing his signet.

"I bring good news," he said, still carrying that broad smile. "King Cato is dead."

He flicked the ring toward her, a shimmer of gold in the beating sun.