Ilroya
The city of Ilroya loomed before them as their vessel crept into the crowded harbor, its decks bustling with sailors shouting in half a foreign tongues. The salt-laden air was thick with the scent of spice, fish, and something sweeter—roasting nuts, maybe, lush foreign flowers.
Tall spires of white stone stabbed into the sky, their tips glinting gold in the late afternoon light. Bridges arched over slow-moving canals; their edges lined with merchants hawking wares to well-dressed buyers who barely gave the ships unloading at the docks a passing glance. The sheer wealth of the place clung to everything—bright fabrics, gleaming copper cups stacked high on wooden stalls, the sharp glint of coin passing from hand to hand.
"Not Eysa, is it?" Eoin murmured; voice pitched low as he flicked a glance toward Ingbord.
Ingbord didn't answer right away. She took her time, gaze sweeping the city, measuring it before stepping in. Then, finally, she exhaled. "No," she agreed. "It's not."
They disembarked into a sea of movement—porters hauling crates, vendors thrusting goods toward passing travelers, sailors laughing over cups of something dark and strong. The sheer noise of it pressed against them. Eoin was accustomed to slipping through crowds unnoticed, but here - where his sharp-featured face and Ingbord's unmistakable height marked them as foreign – he felt exposed.
They moved deeper into the city, past tangled alleyways and broad, sun-bleached avenues lined with towering arches. Their ears caught fragments of speech—rapid, rolling syllables, clipped consonants. None of it familiar.
"Definitely not Eysa," he murmured, his voice low and amused.
"No," Ingbord agreed again, eyes scanning the city's towering arches, the slow-moving canals, the fine silks snapping in the wind.
Eoin tilted his head, listening to the voices and conversations weaving through the crowd. He caught only fragments, but it was enough to place some tones, rhythms, the weight of meaning behind unfamiliar sounds.
He grinned. "I just need a few more words and a drink."
Ingbord glanced at him, skeptical.
Eoin just shrugged. "Give me a day or two." His grin sharpened. "And a drink or two to loosen my ears."
Ingbord exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "This is going to be a problem."
"We'll manage," Eoin said.
They found an inn near the river, a three-story building of sunbaked brick with a faded blue banner hanging above the door. The common room was crowded with travelers, all speaking in the same quick, fluid tongue.
Eoin leaned against the counter, attempting his most winsome smile at the innkeeper—a short, weathered man with keen eyes and an air of impatience. "A room," Eoin said, tapping two fingers on the wood.
The man blinked at him, unimpressed. "Qaaní?"
Eoin sighed. He pointed up, mimed sleep, then held up two fingers. "Room. Two people."
The innkeeper's gaze flicked between them, lingering on Ingbord's broad shoulders and foreign-cut clothes. He said something—too quick, too fluid for Eoin to grasp—but the tone was questioning.
Eoin turned to Ingbord. "He wants to know if we're married."
She laid a firm hand on Eoin's shoulder, gaze steady.
The innkeeper huffed. Eoin fished out a few coins and laid them on the counter, then tapped two fingers against his chest, then against Ingbord's shoulder. He laced his fingers, tilting his head in a mockery of domestic affection.
The innkeeper snorted but scooped up the money. He jerked his chin toward the stairs. "Erënk—táhlan."
Eoin had no idea what that meant, but he inclined his head as if he understood.
Their room was small, but clean. A heavy wooden bed, a basin of cool water, a single window overlooking a narrow street bathed in golden light.
Eoin tossed their satchel onto the bed and stretched. "Well. That was easier than I expected."
Ingbord shut the door behind them and exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "We should figure out how to ask for food before we starve."
Eoin flopped back onto the bed, arms behind his head. "I think we're just going to have to point at things until they give them to us."
She gave him a long, dry look. "We are supposed to be subtle."
"Ah, but subtlety won't keep me from starving," he said with a grin, then patted the empty space beside him. "Come lie down, wife. We'll plot our next move after we rest."
Ingbord scoffed but sat beside him, tugging off her boots with a sigh.
Outside, the hum of Ilroya rolled on—unfamiliar, unknowable. But for now, they had a place to rest. That was enough.
The market was already alive by the time Eoin and Ingbord stepped into the sun-drenched streets of Ilroya the next day. The air was thick with salt and fish, and a press of bodies and the heaviness of too many people breathing the same air. A hundred foreign scents clashed at once—spiced meat sizzling on iron griddles, brine-soaked crates of gutted fish, the sharp rot of something left too long in the sun. Sweat, perfume, and filth mingled into something both pungent and chaotic. A buzzing chatter of voices overlapped in unfamiliar language. Silks billowed from wooden stalls, gold glinting in the hands of merchants, the hum of trade a steady undercurrent to the city's heart.
Ingbord's Seeking had left tendrils of memory in her, echoes of knowing thrumming in her blood, guiding her with sure memory. Ink and parchment curled into her lungs, familiar before she had ever truly known it. They wove through the crush of bodies—traders arguing over weight and measure, sailors weighed down with sacks of grain, couriers darting between stalls with messages clutched in ink-stained fingers. She laid her hand on Eoin's arm, trusting him to weave them through the crowd, while she followed the pull in her veins.
He glanced at her once, barely tilting his head. Which way?
She blinked, the weight of the Seeking settling over her, pressing through her limbs like a current pulling her toward shore.
Left.
He turned smoothly, as though it were the most natural choice in the world, posture easy, stride unhurried.
Right.
Another turn, and the air changed—thicker now, rich with the scent of parchment, leather, and drying ink.
And then, there it was.
The half-shaded stall was a chaotic jumble of goods—careless stacks of books and scrolls teetering beside trays of tarnished jewelry, carved trinkets, and forgotten oddities. The scent of ink curled in the hot air, mingling with the tang of metal and dust. The map would be inside, waiting.
Ingbord recognized the stall it instantly. It was a memory made real, past and present, memory and reality coming together with a satisfying click.
Eoin stopped beside her, his attention drifting lazily over the stall, to all intents, a simple man taking in the sights of a foreign market with curiosity. Only Ingbord could feel the sharp, focused attention through the skin on his arm.
The map was exactly where she had Seen it, wedged in with a scattering of other rolled parchments and skins between a stack of cracked leather-bound books and a locked iron case. A careless thing, forgotten in the chaos of the stall. She stiffened slightly, her fingers curling at her sides. Even if she had the words to ask, even if she had the skill to haggle, Othmark and Ilroya had shown her she didn't have a tenth of the coin needed for it.
She swallowed, mind working fast.
Then—just beyond the books—her eye caught something else. A battered dusty torc, made in the Eysian style. A mere trinket made from tarnished copper and barely held together by frayed twists of leather.
She exhaled sharply and grabbed Eoin's arm, squeezing once before stepping forward, hand already reaching.
"This!" she declared, seizing the torc in both hands and holding it aloft as though it were a relic of kings. "This must be the Torc of Roric!"
The merchant looked up, blinking.
Eoin's eyes went wide, his hands flying to his head as though Ingbord had just unearthed a treasure beyond price.
"The Torc of Roric?" he exclaimed, half a question, half a revelation.
Ingbord's voice rang out, rich with reverence. "Roric the Bold, discover of our islands and volcano - he founded our very home! She clutched the torc to her chest, eyes shining with wonder. "And it has survived all these years? In a simple merchant's stall? Here? What luck!"
The shopkeeper, who clearly understood not a word of this, narrowed his eyes. Suspicious, but interested.
Eoin pressed closer, fingers grazing the torc with exaggerated awe. "It is magnificent," he breathed, shaking his head. "But is it real?" He turned on the merchant, brows furrowing, lips pressing into a skeptical line. Then, with a grand sweep of his arm: "I must know its history!"
The shopkeeper, catching the scent of a sale, sniffed, straightened, and launched into a rapid, rolling explanation in Ilroyan, his own hands sweeping through the air in grand, practiced gestures.
Eoin nodded along, understanding none of it, but responding as though each syllable was a revelation.
"Ah," he murmured knowingly, tapping his chin. "Yes." He shot a glance at Ingbord. "Do you hear that, wife? Incredible."
Ingbord pressed a hand to her heart, eyes misting. "Unbelievable," she whispered, shaking her head. "You must buy it for me."
Eoin turned back to the merchant, tapping his fingers on the counter. "Price?"
The merchant wrote a number in chalk on his counter.
Eoin recoiled as though struck, staggering backward. "Thief!" he bellowed. "I am robbed!" He clutched at his chest, at his belt, at his very soul. "That price would beggar a king!" Angrily, he snatched up the chalk, crossed out the numbers and wrote a much lower figure.
The merchant scoffed and scribbled a counteroffer, jabbing a finger at Eoin's chest.
Eoin gasped, affronted. "Are you mad? Who could meet such a price!"
The merchant threw up his hands, snapping something sharp, frustrated.
Eoin turned to Ingbord, hands splayed wide. "He insults us!"
The merchant bellowed something back.
And so the game began.
They haggled extravagantly—Eoin gesturing wildly, sighing dramatically, the merchant shaking his head, slamming his palm on the stall, his voice rising, his face darkening with the sheer audacity of this ridiculous foreigner.
As they bickered, Ingbord moved toward the back of the stall.
Eoin paced in exaggerated frustration, dragging his fingers through his hair, and in doing so, took half a step back—filling the space between Ingbord and the stall keeper’s line of sight.
She sidled sideways toward the stack of scrolls. Slowly, she reached for the map, fingers fumbling at the vellum. She nearly knocked the stack over, caught her breath, hastily pressed them back upright. Heart hammering, she adjusted her grip and pulled.
The scroll crinkled, loud as thunder.
The rest of the stack settled, slithering and hissing into a new arrangement.
Ingbord stiffened, then shoved the map beneath her jacket under her arm. She took a swift step away, and stood, breathing quickly.
Eoin's arm brushed her wrist—warm, steady, his fingers curling firmly against her skin.
"Final offer," he said firmly, dropping a handful of coins on the stall keeper’s counter with a nod.
The merchant huffed, muttered, then snatched up the money with an irritable wave.
Eoin beamed. "A pleasure." He pushed the battered loop of leather and copper into his pocket and then hustled Ingbord out into the street and away from the stall, past the riot of voices, past the sharp-eyed merchants and the weight of too many watching eyes.
Only when they were three streets away, breathless and fast-footed, did Eoin finally murmur, "Gods, Ingbord. That was painful to watch. Have you never stolen anything before in your life?"
She exhaled hard, pressing a hand over her ribs where the map sat, crinkling and safe. "Certainly not," she said primly.
Eoin huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Painful."
Ingbord shot him a glare. "But done."
His grin widened. "Truly terrible."
But his fingers were still wrapped around her wrist, firm and warm, shielding them both as they melted into the city beyond.
The market swallowed them whole, a shifting, restless thing of voices and movement. Eoin's fingers ghosted over Ingbord's wrist—a touch so light it barely registered. The eyes that might have flickered toward them before—merchants sizing them up, traders noting their passage—now slid past them as though they were nothing. Not invisible, just unremarkable. A pair of ordinary travelers, faceless in the crush of bodies.
Returning directly to the inn was out of the question. To leave, visit the market, and return within the span of an hour? That would set tongues wagging. Eoin led them deeper into the market, slipping into the rhythm of the city with practiced ease. The market stretched in long, winding avenues, spilling into sun-drenched courtyards where fountains trickled cool streams of water into stone basins. Cloth awnings flapped overhead, striped and bright, shading the vendors below.
Ingbord slowed before a sprawling stall laden with colors she had never seen in nature before—gold, crimson, deep violet, bright green. The air was thick with scent, heavy with sweetness, ripeness, something almost intoxicating in its richness.
She had eaten apples, pears, even once an orange from an Othmark trader. But this—this was something else entirely.
She touched a dusky purple globe with the tip of her finger. It was soft, almost delicate, its thin skin yielding slightly to pressure. Beside it, another fruit, round and deep red, its surface smooth as polished stone. And something yellow—curved, ridged, not round at all.
She looked at Eoin. "What are these?"
Eoin grinned. "You don't know?"
She shot him a dry look. "If I knew, I wouldn't have asked. Are they edible?"
His grin widened. He turned to the vendor, tapping his fingers against the wooden stall, then held up three fingers. The merchant—a wiry, sun-baked man with keen eyes—rattled off something in Ilroyan, then scooped up a handful of fruit, trading it for a few of Eoin's coins.
Eoin turned back to Ingbord, juggling the unfamiliar offerings in his hands. "Alright, let's start easy." He held up the small, deep-purple fruit. "This is a fig."
She took it from him, turning it between her fingers. The skin felt soft, almost alive. "And?"
"Bite into it," Eoin said, amused.
She did, breaking through the delicate skin, her teeth sinking into something almost honeyed. It was soft inside, richer than any fruit she had ever tasted, tiny seeds crunching slightly as she chewed. The flavor burst across her tongue, deep and syrupy, unlike anything from home.
Her brows lifted. "That's..." She swallowed. Licked her lips. "That's very good."
Eoin laughed. "That's one."
He handed her the smooth red fruit next. "This one's a plum."
She bit into it. Tart and sweet, juice spilling down her chin before she caught it with the back of her hand.
Eoin barked a laugh. "Oh, beautifully done."
She shot him a glare and licked the juice from her wrist. "It's very juicy."
"Mm, yes, you've demonstrated that thoroughly."
He handed her the last one—the strange yellow curve.
Ingbord turned it over, frowning. "And this?"
"Banana," Eoin said. "You have to peel it first."
She gave him a look. "Peel it?"
He took it from her, split the skin with a flick of his fingers, and pulled it back to reveal pale flesh. "Like this." He broke off a piece, popped it into his mouth, then handed it back.
Ingbord mimicked his motion, peeling it carefully, then took a hesitant bite.
She chewed. Paused. Chewed again.
Then frowned. "It's... strange."
Eoin grinned. "You don't like it?"
"I don't hate it," she said, still chewing. "It's just..." She swallowed, searching for words. "It's mild."
Eoin laughed. "Mild?"
She considered. "Figs are decadent. Plums are sharp and bright. This just is."
Eoin shook his head, grinning as he took the half-eaten banana back from her and finished it himself.
"You have very strong opinions on fruit."
"I do now."
She reached for another fig, biting into it with far more confidence this time, savoring the burst of sweetness. The tension in her shoulders had eased—just slightly. The market, the stolen map, the weight of risk pressing against her ribs—it was all still there, but the world had softened around the edges.
Eoin wiped his fingers, watching her.
"Well," he drawled, "now that we've expanded your culinary horizons... tell me, Ingbord—have you ever had wine?"
She gave him a look. "Of course I've had wine. I've had it a handful of times."
He grinned, cocking his head. "Oh, but I mean real wine."
Her brows lifted. "I've had real wine."
"Mm," he murmured, unconvinced. "No offense to the fine vintages of Othmark, but I'd wager whatever you had from Othmark tastes more like vinegar than pleasure."
Eoin grinned like a fox and steered Ingbord back into the moving river of people. "You've been deprived, and I simply won't stand for it."
He found what he was looking for just a few stalls down—wine, dark and rich, sloshing into clay cups from a fat-bellied jug. The vendor, an older woman with silver-streaked hair and a shrewd gaze, rattled off something in Ilroyan, gesturing broadly at the wares spread before her.
Eoin leaned against the counter, nodding along as if he understood.
The woman gave him a questioning look.
Eoin held up two fingers and the woman held out her palm for payment. Eoin handed over a coin. He turned, pressing one of the cups into Ingbord's hands, then lifted his own in a toast.
"To your education," he said, voice low, playful.
Ingbord eyed him. Eyed the wine. Then took a sip. The taste bloomed warm and ripe across her tongue—deep, velvety, sweet. She swallowed, blinking. It was nothing like the thin, biting stuff from Othmark.
Eoin was watching her with a knowing glint in his eyes. "Mm?"
She took another sip, slower this time, rolling the flavor over her tongue.
"Alright," she admitted. "Not like what I've had before." She paused. "Can we take some back with us?"
Eoin sighed, blissful. "Finally. A victory."
And with that, they stood in the golden light of Ilroya's streets, sipping wine, blending into the endless hum of the city.
The two of them stumbled into the inn's entryway with all the clumsy enthusiasm of a young couple several cups deep in wine. Eoin's arm was wrapped low around Ingbord's waist, fingers splayed wide against the small of her back, pulling her close as though he couldn't bear the thought of a single inch between them. Ingbord, not to be outdone, had her arms slung around his shoulders, fingers tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck.
They were laughing, though over what exactly was unclear—Eoin's voice rich and low, murmuring nonsense into the curve of her ear, while Ingbord smirked, tilting her head back invitingly.
To anyone watching, they were exactly what they needed to be, a young couple, drunk on wine and each other, eager for the privacy of their room.
Eoin waved grandly at the Innkeeper, his movements loose, exaggerated. "Ah! Master of beds!" he declared, sweeping the wineskin in his free hand as though bestowing a grand honor. "We return to you victorious!"
The innkeeper barely looked up from counting his coins, unimpressed.
Eoin leaned heavily into Ingbord's side, grinning against her temple as he pulled her toward the stairs. "Come, love," he murmured, voice thick. "Shall we retire?"
She sighed like a woman long-suffering but indulgent, carding her fingers through his hair. "Before you embarrass yourself further? Yes."
They made a great show of half-stumbling, half-dragging each other up the stairs, Eoin's hands roaming in a way that looked indecent but was, in truth, nothing but careful stagecraft. At their door, Eoin fumbled with the latch like a man too drunk to function, laughing under his breath.
They tumbled inside, the door clicking shut behind them, locking out the world.
And in an instant, the pretense dropped. The laughter died.
Eoin set the wineskin down with deliberate care, his movements suddenly sharp, sober.
Ingbord pulled the stolen map from beneath her jacket.
They stared at it.
"Should we wait for Torsten?" Eoin mused.
Ingbord didn't look away from the roll of vellum in her hands. "Should we?" she murmured. What if it's not the map?
Neither of them moved.
Her fingers tightened around it. She met Eoin's gaze.
And unrolled the map.
Relief hit her like a wave the moment she spread it open. The shape of Eysa—familiar, unmistakable—etched in crisp, inked lines. The chain of Eysa's smaller islands was beautifully rendered, along with the complete shape of the main island. All of it, the jagged coastlines, the rivers, the towns nestled in their valleys, and at the heart of it all, the volcano. Small. Smaller than she had expected. A remote cluster of islands in an ocean far larger than she had ever imagined.
"It's Eysa," she breathed, shoulders sinking as tension drained from her spine. "It's really Eysa."
But then she blinked.
The map had more lines than she had expected. Whorls, delicate as a fingerprint, wrapped around Eysa and traced intricate webs on water. Depths, ridges—patterns she didn't understand. And as she looked, the land shifted in her mind's eye, rising, falling—
Not changing. Not moving.
She was simply seeing it properly.
Her breath hitched.
The volcano stood out in concentric rings, marking its height, its shape. The valleys dipped; the ridges lifted. She could see the island as if she were an eagle circling overhead.
Eoin, watching her carefully, tilted his head. "What does this map suggest to you, Ingbord?"
She traced her fingers over the tight lines surrounding the volcano, the narrowness of the harbor, the sheer walls of stone that held the island like a fist curled around its people.
She swallowed. A shiver of goose-flesh crawled up her arms and made her scalp prickle.
"It suggests," she said slowly, "that all of Eysa is a veritable fortress."
Eoin hummed low in his throat, gaze sweeping the page, drinking it in with an understanding she couldn't yet reach.
To her, it was a fortress. To him—a sailor, a navigator—it was that and more. His fingers followed the delicate web of lines stretching beyond Eysa, out into the vast, unknowable ocean. Depths. Currents. Unseen pathways traced in ink. What was written here was worth more than gold.
Carefully, he rerolled the map and solemnly pressed it into Ingbord's waiting grip.
"It's priceless," he said quietly. His fingers lingered over hers, pressing the vellum into her palms.
She held it carefully, fingers tightening around its texture.
Eoin met her eyes, solemn now.
"Guard it with your life."