Out of Place

CHAPTER THREE
The Interception

Miri waved for her trainees to tend the nobles' horses. Even the heavy sleepers had been woken up by the new arrivals. Through a chain of magefire Ghostwind had been able to request the help of a nearby healer. The healer and his friends had ridden fast and hard to get here so soon. Hopefully, Nealan of Queenscove could help, after all, he was the Royal Healer's son and he also had years of training under Alanna the Lioness.

"I'm not sure if there's anything he can do, but thank you for coming," Miri told Sir Owen of Jesslaw and the regal-looking man who accompanied him. Kings' Reach, she reminded herself, having written it in her journal earlier that day.

They both gave her weary-looking grins and dismounted. "Neal'll try his hardest," Jesslaw told her. When his feet hit the ground he smiled, and Miri saw a hint of the former squire's exuberance. "Now, what's this about not being able to speak with them? That sounds exciting. And odd. But definitely exciting."

Simmen waved the new arrivals over to the fire and offered up a cup of sweet tea. "It's not exciting," he groaned, "it's horrible. We can't get any answers to Their Majesties' questions!"

"We think we understand some, but can't be sure with no way to confirm," one of the other Riders added. She looked at Miri for permission, and continued with the Group Leader's nod, "they've never heard of Tortall, or Carthak, or Sarain, or anywhere. They're from a place called Emelan."

Owen gave a low, impressed whistle. "Exciting, like I said," he repeated with bright eyes.

. . . .

No, Tris thought as she felt her siblings itch at her barrier. She had wanted to spend her last moments in peaceful reflection about the people she loved. Instead, the last thought in Tris's mind when she died was wild distress over her siblings' foolishness. If they died while trying to save her, she would make their afterlives horrible.

She was flying again like she had four nights ago, but this time the descent was peaceful and slow. There was an absence of hurt or pain, and Tris settled on the ground as lightly as a feather. Black was everywhere, as inky and comforting as the space between stars. As soon as Tris had grasped the fact that she was here, and her body wasn't, a man appeared. He wore a cloak that was the darkest black she had ever seen, it hung over his face to obscure most of his features in shadow.

Somehow, Tris knew that this was a god. His gentleness pierced deeply into her heart and sung of warmth and compassion. "I am the Black God, keeper of the Realms of the Dead," he explained tenderly. His head lowered as he watched Tris complete a wobbly curtsy. "Thank you, especially as I know you must be tired, having travelled such a long way," he said to her.

"You're kind to think of me," Tris replied, unable to tear her gaze from deity. The Living Circle religion had no god for the dead, and this one did not fit the northern god of ice, or Tharios's Thanos.

"I am not a god of your world, as you are not in your world," the Black God informed her, not indifferently. "I suppose this is not your place or time to die, therefore I shall wait as my brother requested of me," he said in a soft voice that brought to mind the stillness of night.

"It would make me happy to return to my family," Tris stated, studying the infinite folds of the Black God's cloak.

He nodded slowly, "so it shall be, though I cannot send you back to your Pebbled Sea."

That settled a poignant hurt in Tris's heart, did that mean she could never return to Emelan? "Thank you, sir," she said graciously. It seemed too much to ask anything more from the peaceful god, but his presence beside her felt encouraging. "Might I ask how I am to get back to my worl-"

Her sentence broke off as translucent figures flickered into being nearby. The ghostly forms of her siblings made only the slightest imprint on the surrounding blackness. Spirits, thought Tris, they're dead too.

Briar's hazy form stood at the forefront, braced for a fight. She was reminded of how he had stood so stubbornly before the dead Rosethorn just a decade ago. "With all respectfulness and everything, we're not leaving without her," he interjected immediately.

"There are so many of you here, where you should not to be," the Black God observed. It was only now that Tris noticed another person had arrived, a man with a broad tip at the end of his nose. The Black God turned his head slightly to look at the newcomer. "How to get back to your world remains to be seen, but you have my leave to return to the Mortal Realms. Healer, help them," the god instructed. He gave a sweeping gesture with his arm, and the scene fell away.

. . . .

Neal did his best for the redhead girl. He had only caught a glimpse of the young woman's exchange with the Black God, but that made her importance fairly obvious. Although many of his thoughts were occupied by musing over the hows and whys of gods, Neal was also aware that he had been charged with looking after the foreigners, which had to mean helping the redhead survive.

As his magic flowed into a puncture in the girl's lung, the foreigners stood in a corner talking heatedly. When they got too loud, Neal shook his head at them. He needed to concentrate on knitting bones, muscle, and skin back together, and their noises weren't helping. They seemed to heed whatever look Neal had given them, and soon only one of them was quietly sulking around the tent.

Over the next few hours the honey-skinned boy hovered closely over Neal's casualty, but never got in the way. The stranger had obviously spent time around sick beds before, even though Neal couldn't glimpse any hint of healer magic in him.

"My name is Briar," the boy said after three hours of silent watching. The words were punctuated by vague gestures, as if he wasn't certain he'd used the right words. At that moment, Neal realised that Briar wasn't exactly a boy. In fact, he almost looked to be ages with Neal's best friend, who was in her twenty-second year. If Briar was still a teenager, it was just barely.

The noble allowed himself a moment to think of the deeds his friends and mentors had accomplished by the age of twenty, and suddenly it didn't seem so far-fetched that this boy had managed to travel to a different world.

"Hello Briar, my name is Neal," he replied. Neal offered his hand, which Briar shook tentatively, and then turned back to the injured girl. "What's her name?"

"Tris," Briar responded. His lips quivered as he searched for the new and unfamiliar words, "her name is Tris."

Tris had taken quite the tumble, and a few days without food or shelter hadn't done her much good. Neal couldn't help but regret that she hadn't had a healer tend to her earlier. Her wounds and breaks were easily tended to, and he expected Tris's fever to ease over a matter of hours. Although there was no bleeding in the girl's brain, Neal still couldn't be sure that it hadn't been damaged by the fall until Tris woke.

He drew blankets over Tris and gave Briar a small smile, unsure of how to explain things to someone who knew so few words of common. "Well, I've helped Tris as much as I can, and you have no idea what I'm saying, so I'm just going to use a nice reassuring voice and hope that you can guess she's probably going to be okay," Neal gave what he hoped was a positive smile and pointed at the girl who laid motionless on the bed. "Tris needs sleep," he added slowly.

Briar's slightly dazed expression gave way to relief. He nodded and reached a hand out to clasp the other man's shoulder for a moment. A string of garbled syllables came from his mouth, but the intent was clear.

"You're welcome," Neal replied gladly.

. . . .

Over the past ten years Daja, Sandry, and Briar had all suffered through Niko's lectures. Sometimes they were short and concise, but this lecture was not one of those. Sandry couldn't exactly hold it against her former teacher. He'd been given a fair fright, so she listened without protest.

"Eventually, someone in this quaint little family of ours is going to die and you'll have to let them," Niko told them, his voice wavering between reasonable and stern. It was his fifth lecture in the past two days, with the first few being so emotionally heated that everyone had stomped off to their own little corners of the campsite. Hopefully, this lecture on the matter would be his last and the entire situation would become one of those subjects that were never mentioned again.

Sandry felt Chime squirming around her neck and sighed. The glass dragon seemed as shaken by the recent events as any human. As soon as they had found her, shrieking and trilling in alarm as she kept watch over Tris, the dragon had tucked herself around Sandry's neck and hadn't left. The stitchwitch guessed that her neck would continue to be Chime's home until Tris woke.

"I want each of you to promise me you won't try anything so ridiculously hazardous again," Niko said, meeting each of their eyes in turn.

"I'll try," came Daja's soft voice.

"Same," Briar and Sandry chorused.

Although Niko's dark eyes implored them, none of them gave way. "We can't make a promise like that unless we're sure we won't break it, Niko," Sandry told him gently, "but we can try to keep out of trouble, and try to think clearly if we manage to get in any."

Although it didn't seem quite enough for him, Niko nodded anyway.

"It's not like we do it for fun," Briar added.

Nilkaren Goldeye, great mage and member of Lightsbridge's governing board, frowned. "You shouldn't be able to do it at all," he scowled, "not once, and certainly not twice."

Through their mage-link (to save poor Niko the effort of being concerned) Sandry told her brother and sister, life would be sad if everyone always did the expected.

. . . .

Squire Alan of Pirate's Swoop was not pleased by the current state of affairs. As much as he liked adventure, he had no patience for running around the countryside in late autumn. Northern Tortall was cold, wet, and muddy in November, and if there was anything in the world that Alan hated most, it was mud.

The Scanran War had officially ended a year ago, but a great portion of Tortall's force was still stationed in the north. Third Company was supposed to leave in two weeks, before the snow made travelling impossible. Instead, here Alan was, being rushed out of Northwatch with two squads of Third Company to attend some absolute emergency.

Raoul, Alan's knight master, was frustratingly quiet about their newest task until the squads were assembled before the gate in two long, snaking columns. The twenty soldiers, standard bearer, and Knight Commander all looked rather impressive in their clean uniforms, but Alan knew better than to believe the illusion would last throughout the journey.

"A small foreign delegation arrived in Tortall unannounced a few nights ago, and our good King Jonathan wants us to escort them safely to Corus," Lord Raoul explained to his men. Some of them, like Alan, were irate at the brief explanation, but it took a few hours in the saddle for any of them to kick up a fuss.

"I thought we'd have a nice, easy ride back to the capital," one of the men jokingly groaned after a heavy shower of rain. "I thought we'd huddle up with pretty girls in a nice inn whenever the weather bothered us, toasting our ice-cold toesies by the fire."

"You thought wrong, Wolset," Raoul barked with amusement. He tossed back his curly mop of black-and-grey hair and laughed, "if it's any consolation, Miri says they're nice. Well, nice enough for people that don't speak a recognisable language, in any case."

Alan did not find that reassuring.

The following day, Alan was even less pleased with the circumstances. The Own's business with the foreigners was apparently going to be very official, because the chain mail was brought out. They reached the Riders' camp at noon, only to find that answers were still far and few between.

Alan sullenly watched Raoul trot off to a private meeting with Miri Fisher. Although he knew that Raoul would share whatever had been said with him later, Alan hated waiting. He kept himself busy, firstly by tending to his and Raoul's mounts, and then he helped to prepare lunch. Lunch was as good an excuse as any to make his way into the tent where Raoul had disappeared half an hour ago.

The tray he carried was heavily laden with broth, flat bread, cheese, and cured meat. "My Lord," he called at the entrance of the tent. As strange as it felt to use such formalities with his near-Uncle, it was always how Alan acted around unfamiliar people. It was probably best to help the foreign delegation realise just how important Raoul was in the Realm.

"Come in, oh Squire of mine," Raoul called back. Alan grinned, happy that he was finally going to catch sight of the foreign delegation. Would they have dark skin like the Southern tribes, or resemble Yamani Islanders? It seemed impossible that they would be from the Copper Isles, but if so Alan was sure he'd have plenty to talk about, having visited his sister Aly there just months ago.

Alan eased his way into the tent elbow-first and managed to keep the broth from spilling. There was no table in the room, but a few logs allowed for some makeshift seating. An occupied bedroll lay next to a small cluster of rocks, which Alan forced himself not to stare at. "Lunch, my Lord?" he offered.

"Better serve our guests first," Raoul instructed. "Lady Sandry, Niklaren, please eat."

Alan surveyed the room and picked out the lady immediately. She was poised, even when perched on a log inside a floorless tent. He sensed that the young woman was the type to exude elegance, no matter the circumstance. Like Aunt Cythera, and Thayet, he thought to himself as he studied her face and bearing.

"Thank you," the lady gave Alan a beautiful smile and reached out to pluck a bowl from his tray.

It was harder to decide who Raoul wanted him to serve next, but Miri was able to give him a subtle gesture and Alan offered the tray to the eldest man, who looked to be a scholar through and through. Alan would recognise the slightly pallid cast of skin and astute eyes anywhere, he'd grown up seeing such things in his brother.

There were seven foreigners to serve in the cramped tent, then Raoul, Miri, and a very familiar knight. Alan smirked when the tray at last reached Nealan of Queenscove, who had once been squire to Alan's mother for four years.

"We've just finished discussing plans," Raoul told Alan, "our friends here are from another place and they'd really like to get back to it. We've showed them where Corus is, and I think we've successfully established that it's best to go there."

"The questionable part being that they can each only speak about ten words of common, but we think they understand the concept," Neal admitted as he dipped flatbread into his broth.

"They don't understand common?" Alan repeated with confusion. "Where are they from?"

"Possibly another world," Miri replied smugly, "Numair believes it's plausible and wants to meet us up as soon as he can, but Daine is just about ready to give birth, so it might just be that he'll wait anxiously for us in Corus." Alan had witnessed Numair's fretting before Sarralyn's birth and had no doubt that his Uncle would be a wreck. Not only would he have a birth to worry about, but he was also being kept from very important magical something-or-rathers.

He wondered whether the foreigners knew just how lucky they were to have a week of peace before reaching Corus. Once they reached the capital they would be poked, prodded, and interviewed within an inch of their sanity. Poor, poor people, Alan thought wickedly, they have no idea that Numair is going to subject them to a lifetime of questions.

. . . .

Tris's eyebrow itched horribly. She moved her hand to scratch it, only to realise that there was some kind of strap across her chest. You're in a stretcher, she thought to herself with the hazy sort of calm that only came from a long sleep.

Memories came back to her- she had fallen from a floating ship, been found, died, and then her idiot siblings had leapt in after her. Tris gave a small moan and opened her eyes, only to have a flood of images flock to her. Hundreds of sights and snippets raced through her magical sight in seconds, making her head feel like it was going to tear apart. She gritted her teeth to stop from crying out in pain, and it worked for a moment, but she gave an undignified squeak of pain.

Suddenly the straps that had been holding her in were released, and hands were helping her out of the stretcher. "Glasses," she whimpered, trying to cover her face. This new land with its new breezes and their sights was too much without the filter of her tinted lenses. Colours and sounds were rushing, rushing, rushing around her head far too quickly for any of them to properly register.

Tris dropped onto her knees, not even caring that the ground was slick. Her stomach emptied itself as she steadied herself with one hand and clamped the other over her eyes. A male's voice called out words that she had never heard before, and all Tris wanted was her glasses.

You're safe, came Sandry's reassuring voice in Tris's head, we're coming from the head of the line.

Soon miraculously cool fingers brushed against her neck. The sudden assault of visions, and dizziness that came with them, stopped. "Your glasses broke in the fall," Niko said softly, "we didn't think about what would happen when you woke with your magic fully restored. Let me know when you want the blindness lifted."

Tris opened her eyes, but it was as if they were still closed. She nodded in understanding and reached for Niko's hand. "Sorry," she croaked, "for the mess and the noise."

"I'm just glad you're awake," he replied, helping Tris to her feet. "We've been in Tortall for a week now, and you haven't even stirred since your healing three days ago," Niko explained.

We're glad too, he's been worrying and yapping at us with lectures because of it, Daja informed Tris. She slipped her arm around the shorter girl's shoulders and helped Niko direct Tris away from the horses. "I can make you a frame for new specs when we stop for the night," she offered, "but I don't know about the glass."

"We're bound to stop at a town along the way, but good luck explaining what you want," Sandry said simply, "they don't speak a word of any useful language."

"Well that's not true," Briar protested. He shoved a water gourd into Tris's free hand and grinned, "some of the blue fellows wanted to learn some swear words, and they're picking them up quite well!"

Tris snorted and shook her head, trust Briar to go to foreign lands and share the worst parts of Emelan's culture. She shook the gourd suspiciously, not quite willing to bring it to her lips, "this is just water, isn't it?"

Briar threw his hands up. "You have no faith in me," he exclaimed.

"Because she's sensible," Daja noted.

They stopped for just half an hour, which was long enough for everyone to fuss over Tris. Sandry came up with the idea of making a veil to help Tris's eyes adjust to her scrying, and worked on it while the lanky healer, who introduced himself as Neal, checked Tris's response to stimuli.

Tris watched the scene through Daja's eyes and tried not to be disgusted by her wild mass of unkempt hair, or the splatter of vomit on her dress. He's good sort, Daja told her sister, he never gets impatient like some others do when we ask about words, and after healing you that first day he went and fixed all of our bruises.

Tris allowed herself to be poked and examined in the no-nonsense way that was so distinctive of healers. Never mind about that, Tris thought back, have you got a comb?

Daja laughed and left to fetch some things that would help Tris groom herself back into a human state. Briar soon claimed the spot next to Tris that Daja had left. "Are you going to braid it again? I forgot how… curly it is. And now that I've remembered I'm going to miss it," he announced with a grin.

"If you're looking for accuracy I'd choose messy over curly," Tris retorted, "and there's the small matter of sparks."

"Think of it like a warning device! You know, similar to how poisonous creatures are sometimes bright colours," Briar exclaimed happily.

Tris gave him an unimpressed scowl, "wonderful, I'm a scaly poisonous creature. Thanks ever so much."

"You're welcome," Briar replied.

. . . .

Miles away in the Royal Palace, King Jonathan studied the shocked faces of his council. "All reports say that the group are friendly, compliant, and seemingly just as confused as we are. They're picking up some key words and phrases, but not enough to thoroughly explain how they got here, or where they're from. I've called all of you here in the hopes that one of you will have an idea of what to do with them when they arrive in five days," he spoke carefully, trying to pre-empt questions for which there was currently no answer.

Discussion went on for a while, but few of Jon's councillors had real opinions, the others simply marvelled over the situation. "I say we welcome them with open arms," Myles declared, "keep them close and try to demonstrate that we don't believe they're a threat."

"But they could be a threat," Gary replied evenly.

Myles tapped his fingers against the table, "which is why we pretend we don't see them that way. Friends close, enemies closer, it makes sense to treat them as we would an ambassador from a hostile country. Show them our hospitality, keep them happy, but at the same time find out what they want." His gaze was sharp as he presented his logic, knowing that years as the spymaster informed his opinion.

"We'll give them elegantly styled rooms in the palace. I know it will be tight with the social season coming up, but if we show them kindness and charity, if we make them our allies, I'm sure we'll get answers sooner," Thayet agreed.

Numair had only one concern, and when he voiced it the others laughed. "Can their rooms not be too much of a walk from mine?" he asked innocently.

A/N: There's a reason behind my prolonged lack of updates, I promise. In early February my house was broken into and my (uninsured) laptop and external hard drive, amongst other things, were stolen. I lost the 40,000 something words I'd already written for Out of Place, as well as three completed chapters of Resurrection, not to mention a dozen original works, countless drafted one-shots, my digital photos, and 10 years worth of music.

So, you see, it took a while to save up and buy a new laptop. Then it took an additional while to build up my morale enough to write again. Hopefully you can forgive me and continue to read.

The stats counter is currently down so if you could do me a favour and just drop me a small review so I know whether people are still interested in this story, I'd love you forever!