Aodan

I add my count of grain barrels to the list of festival leftovers and set my quill down in favor of a spoon.

“So who was she, Dan?”

I glance up from my stew. It's the day after the festival. My mattan must have been sitting on this question, waiting for a moment when we were alone together. This is that moment: the middle of the day as I eat a late lunch, worn out from moving the last of our supplies down from the city.

“Who was who?” There are only one or two people she can mean besides Kitaryn, but playing dumb will make her seem less significant. I did manage to dance with one or two other ladies, and that was plenty for the mousy suitor, but not for my mattan.

“The girl you brought back to the stand with you. Who else?”

 I try to hide my surprise as I take another bite. She had noticed, then, even if she had pretended not to at the time. “Just a friend who was avoiding a poor match. That’s all.”

Mattan gives me a knowing side-eye. The rumors of the snub Kitaryn had given that noble, apparently named Tromchusec Dewglint, had spread like rats in the grain barns. My cousins have joked about little else for most of the last day, though outside of our circles, few know who it was by name. Mostly, they speak of the poor Cultivator who was dragged into it.

I wouldn’t trade that dance for anything, not even for peace and quiet from Ionin and the others.

“You know, my great uncle was nobility before he married my great aunt.”

I choke on my stew, hot broth shooting into my nose. “Is that so?” I hold my sleeve against my dripping nose.

“Sure as the roots of the mountain,” she says. “He was some big-cat in the upper tier. I think he may have even served in the House of Tradition. But he ran off and married my great-aunt. Eventually, they–” She clamps her mouth shut suddenly. “Nevermind what happened to them. My point is love can come unexpectedly. They decided it was worth sacrificing everything. And they did sacrifice everything, Aodan. Their very citizenships, by the end.”

My spoon grows heavy in my hand. “They were forced out?” Is that where this little daydream leads?

“I can’t say.”

When she says those words, I'm not sure if she doesn’t know or is sworn not to say. Something about the way she closes off tells me the latter.

“Mattan, why are you telling me this?”

She faces me, her deep blue apron wet from the washing tub. It’s tubers, not dishes, that she washes. “Don’t chase a vixen just to be caught in a trap you did not account for. That’s all.”

I set aside my bowl, my appetite gone. “I don’t intend to give chase, Ma,” I confess. “I’d be the eighth fool.” I'm not chasing after an untimely death on the seas with the seven.

“You think she’s a siren?”

“No, she’s no huntress. I think of her like a crystolath.” I name a mythic creature of another realm, as beautiful as the sun and the moon, clear as crystal, and larger than the horses of the rolling hills. Perfect. Unattainable.

She nods. “Glad I won't be losing you to–”

A rapping on the door interrupts her.

She swings it open to see a thin girl with a satchel. “Message delivery for Aodan, and one for the Barleyblossoms,” the young elf says.

Mattan is handed a wide scroll with a smaller note affixed to it. “Lovely of you.” She waves. “May the winds carry you swiftly, messenger.”

The young she-elf dashes away with a bow.

“Well, well,” my mattan pulls the yarn that ties the two together, “news from the House of Tradition, it seems. This one’s for you.”

I unfold the small card.

Greetings Aodan,

You’ve done me many a favor, and I must ask for one more. Please inform the House that the only available day for an appointment is Tuesday. My sanity and the mercifulness of the visit depend upon this favor. Besides, you did invite me to dinner on any night I wished.

I would be ever in your debt, though I cannot guarantee your repayment.

Kitaryn Willowbirth, Fyr-Ceann

I chuckle at her mentions of favors and dinner.

“Frosts!” Mattan gasps from beside me, a hand on her chest.

I jump up from my cushion. “What is it?”

Ionin pokes his nose through the door. “Did I see a messenger swallow fly through here?” He holds a basket of more radishes and yams for our mattan to clean. As soon as he sees her expression, he drops the basket on the table and peers over her shoulder at the note.

“The House of Tradition requests we schedule a drop-in appointment one evening next week. They require the attendance of your Mho-mattan. Regarding the use of unregistered potions.”

“Potions?” I clasp the letter with her. That's what it reads. Potions. That means magic. It explains why Kitaryn had worried over it. Potions.

“What’s this, ar-deten?” Big-brother. Ionin plucks up the small note from the table. “Lover’s message?”

“No, that’s–”

He laughs aloud. “By the Everglow Sunset, you’ve got a friend in high places. Mattan, I don’t think you need to panic. How does a nice Tuesday dinner with Danny’s new suitor sound?”

“She’s just a friend.” Even as I say it, my eartips heat.

Ionin’s stomach shakes with laughter and he slaps my back with a strong hand. He's of age, fully into his strength, and I feel the sting of it. “Beauty’s sake, I was joking about you having been fox-nipped by the Fyr-Ceann, and now she’s coming for dinner! Just wait til I tell–”

“Don’t make it more than it is. We are unlikely friends. I doubt it will extend past this investigation.”

“Investigation?” Mattan’s demeanor has changed, no longer shocked, but confused.

So I explain, from the beginning, the conversations about the fertilizer, and that we doubtless would need to provide a recipe.

Ionin whistled. “Mho-ma is never gonna to give that to the House of Tradition. She barely tells us a thing about it, and their Libraries are public.”

“Not all of them,” Mattan corrects him. “If we ask, they may keep it private.”

They both looked at me expectantly. I sigh. “Well, if anyone would do that for us, it would be Kitaryn.”

Ionin's nose wrinkles in amusement while my mattan sends me a warning glare. It takes me a moment to realize I called her by her given name, Kitaryn. No titles. Just as she'd told me to do before she bobbed for apples. It came to me naturally, though I have yet to call her that to her face. Kitaryn. I will see her one last time to sort out this potions misunderstanding, and then mercy will remove her from my life. A bitter mercy it will be, but a mercy nonetheless.