*Weekly updates* "There are no leashes now, no bindings," she says, her voice a dark lullaby in the flickering candlelight, "and it is their sacrifice that gave us this. Nothing can ever repay it. No one can ever take it from us. So now, in this hal...
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Hiran had forgotten how beautiful the halls of Ithil Inshur are. High, vaulted ceilings, long spindling ivory columns, and thin, stretching windows of sparking colored glass stretch down the corridors, throwing prisms of greens, blues, and yellows across the gold-flecked granite floor. It is an entrance made to impress, and it never fails.
Hiran walks these corridors in dirt-caked boots and a threadbare green traveling cloak, enough of an oddity here that others stare as he passes with the castle guards, heads turning and backs leaning to look, to wonder, and maybe think: Is that...?
The guards show him to his chambers—all fine, wide rooms with large windows and vine-twined terraces. Beautiful spaces, with lush settees, ornate chairs, and a magnificent, many-pillowed bed.
He washes in the white-marble bathroom, eschewing any assistance from the servants who reluctantly leave, turning back again to look as they do. The clear water muddies as his pale limbs slip in, as the dirt and the dried blood sift off into the depths of the tub.
His head dips under, his cakey brown hair turning smooth and golden again amongst the bubbles and soap. All along his body are bruises, new and old, and scabs.
Ankles propped up on the lid of the tub and neck nestled against it on the other side, Hiran sighs.
He looks an awful mess.
He almost smiles because it's such an awfully arrogant thing to think, in the face of all that is in front of him. He pulls the bell by the tub.
He asks the manservant for directions to the Sprinkled Sparrow and allows himself to be dressed in a light green tunic and beige pants. They supply him with a leaf-engraved leather belt and small satchel as well as a pair of finely made boots. Hiran dons it all and makes his way out the door. It's only noon, the High King will expect him at four.
Tazdahur is as lovely as he remembers: sandstone streets and tall, white buildings; walls adorned with flowered vines, sprigs of trees, and colorful glass. Bright splashes of red, yellow, purple, and orange flitter through the streets, in the ribbons and flowers woven into women's hair, the backs of men's tunics. Vibrant banners drape across the walls, beautifully carved wooden chairs sit out on stoops and steps. The air is fresh, spiced with the smells of the little inns and bakeries and shops around the town. It is a place of quaint tranquility and, in Hiran's mind, immense beauty.
He finds the Sprinkled Sparrow in a little nook just off a main road, a small shop tucked in a sliver of a corner with a shower of bourgainvillea over the open door. Inside is all tans and pleasant browns—patches of smooth stone covering the floors and columns, opening up to a back end wall that stands high with large windows and potted plants.
It's much larger than it initially looks, Hiran realizes, and he makes his way over to the woman standing behind the counter. She's turned away from him, toward the immense wall of small brown slots with little labels on them—cinnamon, thyme, sage, ginger, hibiscus—and he watches as she pushes a strand of lavender into a nook with its kin.
