Cinder Bound

5 - Rising Tides: Eleos

The coast was a coral reef of colour and company; that particular brand of chaos only Southerners could achieve. The sky was seamless and black. The moon wide and scandalised. The ocean sparkled like a sea of lost pearls and the tide preened across the beach, a peacock with feathers of luminescent blue and green.

Under a canopy of ribbons and painted bowls of moonfish, the high tide celebrations were held aloft on stilts. A forest of platforms where sea met sand, crowded with sloshing drinks, spinning skirts and the glint of gaming money. Below, vendors sold fried jam cakes, kids chased crabs, and gossips huddled around cooking fires to roast their fish and cluck their tongues.

The panther was late (poor clueless soul). A development which suited Eleos fine.

It was hard to find a mate within specie purity laws, so seduction wasn't an art she practised often. She didn't mind it, even found it entertaining at times. But that night, all Layce's buffing and polish wore at her sense of humour.

The rushed hour of silks, diamonds and creams had been more miserable than she'd expected. The elaborate hairdo alone required a whole spool of stitchery to stay in place. It pulled at her scalp like ill-fitting reins on a horse. Beneath all the silk and gold, she was reduced to paint on a mirror to be wiped off at the end of the night. Making this whole ordeal feel foolish and petty.

Siel had been entrusted to Romna and promptly shooed off, which made Eleos nervous with that prickling, taunt-thread awareness that mothers gained over time. Layce had scolded Eleos for her scowl (creases the creams, see), so Eleos had retreated to the stilts of an outlying kitchen platform to excavate her patience from the kohl and creams—creased creams.

She listened to the restless current weaving in snakes of foam through the platforms legs and resisted the urge to wipe off Layce's paints.

She'd come prepared for her own restlessness. Beneath the silk of her skirt, her pocket remained strapped to her waist. And inside: the Threshing's missive. Nothing like rebellion to coax her temper back in her chest.

As the current wove around her ankles, Eleos leaned against a pillar and broke the small letter apart. Orange chips of wax fell to the tide at her feet. A cooking fire toyed with the edge of the tide at her back; it caught in the opal rings on her fingers and watched her with yellow eyes. She smoothed the letter and tilted it toward the light for a read.

Lion: Eleos of Kana,
I will try to be direct, as I understand our lengthy correspondence can be taxing on Southern eyes.

Ah, yes. Patronising letters from the North would calm her temper right down. They always managed to squirrel away their meanings in endless nests of useless words and still insult their audience in the process.

In the spreading of our movement to the South, we find ourselves in need of a Thresher of your own people. However, our venture to your province is funded almost entirely by a coastal dragon vein. Courtesy obliges we offer the role of liaison to them (and we feel they would most readily accept), but they are on the Coven's vial, which, like all drugs, steal a scrap more of their loyalty than we can spare.

Caught between courtesy and politics, we have decided to seek an outside voice in this matter. You are renowned along the Southern Coast for views on Coven law. Your politics speak to courage.

Eleos' heart beat faster.

We feel a well-timed comment from a Southerner at our first rally would be advantageous for everyone involved. It could possibly sway the vote away from a scaled liaison with no dragons offended, no allies lost, and our cause undamaged.

Unfortunately, agreeing to this arrangement would exclude you as a potential liaison.

Her grip on the paper tightened.