jeriendhal | Andrea's Story, cont.

Yes, I actually finished a scene in this, in between silly AU drabbles on the Terinu forum.

142

Andrea took a deep breath to compose herself before she rapped on the door of the ambassador’s guest house. A human servant opened it, took one look at her ears and very nearly slammed the door in her face before she was able to blurt out her request to see Count Veritelli and Jonathan. A few moments later the Count himself came to the door, his face dark and angry.
“You can tell your master he can stick anything he has to say to me up his damned elven…” he began.
“I didn’t come here on behalf of Master Tez, Ambassador,” she quickly said, “only myself.”
“What for?” he asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.
“To see your nephew, to make sure he was all right, and to just tell him…” her voice trailed off, further words stuck in her throat. The bloody mess that had been a brave, if foolhardy, young man had been rapidly carried away by the elven healers. Magery and priestly magics could work literal wonders in healing, but they had their limits. Her mind’s eye recalled the image of poor Arthur, his own arm bloody and smelling of deadly infection, stumbling into their camp that night so long ago. The elven healers, despite their ancient arts, had not been able to save the ogre’s arm, despite Master Tez’s furious demands to them. Was Jonathan to be so permanently crippled as well, never to walk or to have the use of two hands again?
“Well…” the ambassador cleared his throat and appeared to rein in his temper. ‘If you come only for yourself, then I suppose you have a right. But you may speak only briefly and don’t overtire him.”
“I won’t, Ambassador,” she promised. He then led inside to his nephew’s sickroom on the second floor, where Jonathan lay abed, arm and foot in heavy splints, and propped up into a sitting position with a mound of pillows in front of a wide window. His skin was gray, appearing nearly drained of blood, but his eyes were open and he had the strength to turn his head towards Andrea when she entered the room and gave him a dignified curtsey.
“Andrea, how did you come to be here?” he asked, his voice raspy.
“Your uncle let me in,” she said.
He chuckled weakly. “I mean… how did you get away from your master?”
“I didn’t sneak away or anything, I just asked his permission to come here,” Andrea told him. Which he’d granted with nothing more than a “Very well” and a wave of his hand, before he went back to the book he’d been reading. “Honestly, you act like he keeps me in chains in the basement. He’s not like that at all.”
“And you chose that outfit you wore at the duel from your normal wardrobe?” Jonathan asked.
She felt her face color. “Well, it certainly wasn’t my first choice,” she partly admitted. “Anyway, I think he had me wear that mostly to distract you.”
“It worked.”
Andrea cleared her throat. “Yes, well, anyway, I just came over to make sure that you were recovering well.”
“Mmm, well, three huzzahs for elf healing magic. Supposedly I’ll be walking again in four months. I’d have been crippled for life if we’d been in human lands.” He sighed. “Why would they keep such secrets to themselves?”
“Because until recently the human kingdoms would have killed them if they tried to enter their lands?” she pointed out.
“A point, madam,” he conceded. “But they kept those secrets to themselves long before relations had gone so sour.”
She shrugged. “I don’t have any answers to that, except that part of it might be just that elves have a closer connection to magic in the world than humans do. I’ve seen elven mages create spells of such complexity that would put a human mage who had studied half of his life to shame. But my master tells me human mages are better at sudden improvisation. Most elven enchantments are more reliable, but they take far longer to implement.”
“That makes a certain amount of sense,” he allowed. He let his head sink down onto his pillow, apparently content to be swallowed by goose feathers.
“So was it worth it?”
“What?”
“Damned near being killed on my behalf.”
“Yes,” he said.
“You were going up against the Eldest,” she said. “Didn’t it occur to you that he just might be slightly better at swordplay than you?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Then why?”
He took in a deep breath. “Wrongs, no matter how big or how small, must be answered for. You wearing a collar about your neck for the sole reason that your supposed master had saved your life over a hundred years ago, is one such wrong. A woman of your skills, judging from the intricacy of that collar about your neck, could easily find your place in the world, without being dependant on a patron. In the larger, more cosmopolitan cities, you could live as you please and hardly attract attention, half-bred ancestry or not. It is wrong that you are owned. It is wrong that you are subject to another’s will without your consent. It is just wrong.”
“You really believe that?” she asked softly.
“With all my heart,” he gasped, out of breath from his lengthy speech.
“Thank you,” she said. “Rest well.” Then she took her leave of him and headed back to her master’s house, her mind whirling.