Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga Regina Watts (e book reader online .TXT) 📖

would write these women off based on nothing more than the failings of their cultural environment. The ways of the durrow as a species may be distasteful to us aboveground, but our friends are not to be held accountable for the sins of their people.”

“Really? None of them? Not the queen who ruled them, or the slavers who sold you to her?”

Very well! So she had a point—but I was still by no means ready to concede that ethical failings such as the tacit support of slavery signified anything about their individual inner nature. “Had they been born in another place and time, they would abide by different standards. Not a one of them knows anything truly different. Slavery and all the unfortunate problems that come with it are normal to them.”

“Normal! “Unfortunate problems.” You mean like beating and murdering and raping slaves? Those kinds of unfortunate problems?”

While my nostrils flared, my back against the proverbial wall, Branwen folded her arms.

“The durrow are different from us. They can’t be trusted, Rorke, no matter how seductive they are—in trusting them, we hamper ourselves by being forced to travel at night. We’re risking our necks for some ring when all you want is the scepter.”

“You’re a fine one to speak of trust!”

Realizing the volume of my voice, I forced it to lower while I told the elf, “You shot at me with a crossbow. Then you left me for dead just as much as Hildolfr and Grimalkin did. The durrow, meanwhile, have done nothing against me that was not quickly resolved or clearly ordained by Weltyr.”

“Oh, yes…very convenient that Weltyr ordains you to do whatever you please, up to and including keeping a harem of women around.”

“We keep telling you, durrow culture is different—are you jealous?” Her expression transfigured at my question and I almost laughed, catching myself at the last second lest my mirth bring her rising rage to the surface. “You are, aren’t you? You know, Branwen, these durrow are exceedingly reasonable. They are not the least bit jealous of you. Did you not enjoy yourself with Valeria last night? Did she show you any ill will or unkindness? For that matter, have any of them?”

“Well.” Branwen fell back upon one foot, her weight shifting with the stance to make her appear somewhat off-balance. “Well, no.”

“That’s right. It would seem to me that they’ve treated you as one of their own—whatever the normal standards of their culture would be. The fact is, Branwen, they are not among their own culture anymore. They left it. If they were the types of women who truly fit in there, don’t you think they would have stayed?”

Her nose and ears pink with a combination of frustration and embarrassment, Branwen said nothing. My tone gentler now, I advised her, “I am disappointed to see that you have yet to change, Branwen, and I hope that you will soon. You know you don’t have a valid argument against these women, which is why you can’t say anything to their faces. Instead you would rather run away with me; risk facing Hildolfr and Grimalkin without their help. Perhaps you ought to investigate in your heart why such danger is preferable to you.”

A footfall alerted us both. We turned to find, shielding their eyes from the torchlight positioned upon the outer walls of the stables, the subjects of our current discussion.

“Ho, Burningsoul!” Odile’s hair was drawn up in a bun that left her neck and collarbone attractively exposed within the confines of her light leather armor. “We were just looking for you. Ready to give us our first lesson?”

“Certainly, if you three don’t mind a walk. Come along, let me show you how to introduce yourselves to the horses, first…Branwen?” I looked at her in as genuine a welcome as I could muster in that moment. “Would you care to come with us to the base of the mountain?”

“I think I’m still feeling a bit tired tonight.” Baring teeth in a forced smile of her own, Branwen passed me, then the durrow on her way from the stables. “Perhaps next time.”

While she disappeared, the durrow paid her no mind. Only I looked after her. Instead my lingering companions hurried into the stables with a series of delighted noises to be surrounded by animals that were to them so very strange.

“Phew! They’re awfully smelly.” Indra laughed and wrinkled her nose while Valeria delicately sneezed.

“That’s only the stables,” I assured them, drawn out of my reverie by the charming sound of the Materna’s allergy. “Once we’re out in open air, you’ll hardly notice.”

That much was true…if only because there was so much more to focus on when one was learning the art of horseback riding for the very first time. Somehow I didn’t realize how much there would be to explain until I found myself out there at the base of the mountain, demonstrating the mechanics of saddling, mounting, and riding the beasts. In the Temple I had been responsible, after a certain age, for helping teach new students the basics of sword-fighting, so I was not a terrible teacher—and Odile, praise Weltyr, was delighted by how quickly her vague familiarity with the act of riding returned to her in the blue light of the wisps arranged around our field. She proved a competent assistant to me after the first hour.

Valeria and Indra, however, were not quite so fast when it came to learning. I soon found myself cursing Branwen for her refusal to come along. Such an absence meant that, until we were all comfortable with the idea of more independent and unsupervised riding, the two most unseasoned trainees would be forced to take turns and thereby extend the lessons. Nevertheless, it was exhilarating to see the delight on the women’s faces as they gradually grew adapted to the act of climbing astride the beasts; glorious to see the bounding of Valeria’s flowing white hair as she urged her horse into a canter about the field.

Were it not for