Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
“Should I have brought my own?”
The woman stomped into the house and returned with a small, embroidered quilted pad, which she placed on the stone tiles in front of the door. Just the rug. No stool to go with it.
Fine.
I knelt on the pad, resting my weight on my bent legs. Lute tried to catch me, but I waved him off.
The woman stared at me.
“Please let the orsi know that I’m here.”
The sentry disappeared into the house and shut the door behind her.
“What are you doing?” Lute murmured.
“Showing them courtesy,” I said. “Just because they are rude to me doesn’t mean I will be rude to them.”
“You shouldn’t be kneeling in front of them,” Lute said under his breath.
“This is their custom.”
Sometimes stools weren’t available, and the Okula sat straight on the pads, but this usually happened when they were traveling. They should’ve brought a stool. Not offering one was rude.
“I’m not kneeling,” he told me.
“Nor should you. Your job is to look menacing and glower at everyone who approaches. Maybe do that thing where you put your hand on your sword.”
Lute widened his stance and put his arms behind him in a textbook parade rest.
“Perfect,” I told him.
“How long are we going to wait?” he murmured.
“Until they see me.” I put some volume into my voice. “I’m not Harzi, but I’ve done everything the right way. They do prize ceremony and hospitality, so they won’t throw me out. They will delay, hoping I leave.”
“Should you lower your voice?” he asked.
“No. They are listening to us right now. Now they know that I know and also that I know that they know.”
Lute blinked a couple of times, shook his head, and fell silent.
After ten minutes, kneeling was not comfortable in the slightest.
After half an hour it started to get painful.
We were about an hour in, and my legs hurt like hell.
The doors swung open, and an older man in an ornate Harzi tunic stepped out.
Lute put his hand on his sword.
“We welcome you to the House of Morning Sky. The orsi will see you now.”
I looked at Lute. My legs had gone numb. He bent down, grabbed me by the elbow, and lifted me to my feet. Ow.
Blood rushed back into my feet. Every step sent needles through my soles all the way through my calves. Ow, ow, ow.
Lute half helped, half carried me up the three steps and inside the house. We walked into a large room with glossy wooden floors stained dark blue and ornate wooden columns. People in Okulan attire waited on the sides: a few retainers in embroidered overtunics and a handful of guards, their swords in plain view. Most of them were tall and long-limbed, with beige skin warmed by a peach undertone and dark brown, auburn, or red hair, worn in half-ponytails or braided away. Rellasian hairstyles emphasized elaborate lattices and flattering curves, while the Okulan hairdos seemed to mostly revolve around getting the hair out of your face and securing it, so it didn’t fly around.
In front of us, on a raised platform, the orsi sat in a carved wooden chair. Each Okulan clan was led by a tair, the clan lord, a gender-neutral term. The orsi were their deputies. The word literally meant “hand.” They looked after the clan’s interests at their assigned posts and spoke with the voice of the tair.
This orsi was young, only twenty-two years old. Unlike most of the Harzi around her, she was on the shorter side, a couple of inches taller than five feet and slender. Her outfit, the same style as worn by the sentry that had met us, was decorated with exquisite embroidery depicting a white bird with long feathers amid red flowers. She had a heart-shaped face with delicate features and chestnut-brown hair that rested on top of her head in an elaborate crown of braids, secured with golden cords and clips carved out of bone. A thin band in matching Harzi blue crossed her forehead, identifying her status. It looked tattooed, but it wasn’t. It was drawn on with a plant-based dye similar to henna, and they had to redraw it every couple of weeks.
Digi Dareel. The first daughter of the Harzi. Smart, gifted, diligent, and shrewd. Everything the heir to the clan should be.
A simple stool waited for me in the center of the floor. No mat to pad it. Assholes.
I gave everyone a shallow nod and sat. Lute parked himself next to me.
The orsi regarded us with large brown eyes, traced with dark eyeliner and accented with gold powder. Four people stood next to her chair: on the right, a tall woman in her thirties and an elderly man whose hair had gone completely gray, and on the left, a middle-aged man in warrior garb next to a tall younger man with sharp features and a mane of auburn hair. The young man wore an expensive outfit. A cascade of gold loops dripped from his left ear.