In Ale Veritas
Eoin drank steadily. Lift, sip, swallow, set down. Repeat. He kept his head down, elbow braced on the table, fingers wrapped loosely around his tankard. Drink. Breathe. Drink again. His thoughts settled into a hazy stillness, where he could half-forget his station. Edges blurred enough that that collar around his soul didn't chafe so much and he could pretend, just for a bit, that his life was his own.
He was comfortably slumped over the table, head pillowed on his crossed arms. He was not yet drunk enough to stumble. But he was sunk in a leaden, hazy stupor that made the world quieter and his own thoughts bearable. That was all he wanted. Numbness and a little peace.
He didn't bother opening his eyes when the weight of a body settled across from him. A whiff of fine soap. A whisper of fine wool. The familiar sense of Torsten.
"Go away, Torsten!" he muttered, voice thick with drink. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
And then, the tang of silver. Cold and bright beneath the wool. Eoin's gut twisted. He cracked an eye open and groaned, slumping deeper into the table. ""Go away, Ingbord! He muttered. "Can't you see I'm not fit company?"
After a long pause, she said, "Torsten has orders."
Eoin sighed dramatically and dropped his head onto his arms. "Of course, he does."
"He's sending us to Ilroya."
Eoin went very still. The words drifted down through the fog of drink, cutting through the heavy, slow crawl of his thoughts. He blinked at the table, slow and deliberate, letting them settle. Then, at last, he lifted his head, fixing her with an unfocused stare.
"You're serious?" he said.
She nodded. "Yes."
Eoin blinked again, slower this time. He scrubbed a hand down his face, willing the words to make sense. "Ilroya." His tongue rolled over the syllables tasting them. "As in, across the sea, on the mainland, Ilroya?"
"As in, Ilroya," she confirmed.
Eoin shook his head in blurry confusion. "Why?"
"There's a map in Ilroya that Torsten wants very much. He's sending us, well me actually, to go and get it for him. You're to accompany me. We're to island-hop to Othmark and then from there hire passage to Ilroya." Ingbord tilted her head slightly. "Are you sober enough to be taking any of this in?"
Eoin sniffed and tried to clear his head. "Probably not, no. This makes no sense." He blinked, tallying up the distances, the weather, the craft and coins Torsten had as his disposal. "Do you know how far it is to Ilroya? Do you have any idea how much a trip like that will cost? Torsten just snaps his fingers and decides that we're going to all the way to Ilroya? To buy a map?" He let out a low, disbelieving sound. "That's madness. He barely has enough money to buy passage! It will take weeks, months even to get there and back again. Tell me you're joking."
"I'm not," Ingbord said simply.
Eoin dropped his head forward, rubbing his palm down his face. He looked at her—really looked at her now—and there was no amusement in her expression. No smirk. No teasing glint in her eye.
For a long moment, he just sat there, absorbing it, his thumb running absentmindedly along the rim of his tankard. "So let me get this straight," he said finally, tilting his head toward her. "Torsten wants us to take a fishing boat across to Othmark. Then hire passage on a proper ship. Then spend weeks on the open sea. Then what? Stroll into a foreign city and then somehow find this map he's never seen, and buy it with what, sheer force of will?
He held up a hand, expression incredulous.
"Then, somehow, sail back to Othmark, map in hand, and from there, what? Wend our way from there to Eysa, by swimming?!"
Ingbord nodded. "Something like that."
"He's gone as feeble-minded as his uncle!" Eoin picked up the empty tankard again before remembering it was empty. "Or you're one hell of a magician!"
Yet, Eoin's stomach tightened and his pulse ticked up. Torsten had actually ordered this.
He hadn't stepped foot beyond this wretched little island in fifteen years.
Eoin rubbed at his jaw, processing. The open sea. The sun. A proper city, full of proper drink, and proper entertainment. Not a place where farmers compared sheep and textiles and debated whose lamb was the most succulent. His gaze slid across the table to Ingbord, taking her in, the sharp line of her profile in the dim light.
Now that was a whole other problem. He shifted in his seat. Fifty days or more alone in her company. Weeks at sea, trapped on a ship with her. Sharing close quarters, sharing space, breathing the same air. Weeks of watching the way she moved, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she tilted her head when she was thinking. Weeks of resisting the aching hunger that coiled deep in his gut when she was near. Weeks of somehow not shoving her up against the nearest bulkhead and devouring her whole.
Fucking hell.
Eoin's head ached dully. The morning light streaming through the narrow windows of the keep was a shade too bright for his liking. He had slept, tried to make sense of Ingbord's absurd words, cleaned himself up, and was now in search of Torsten to hear firsthand what exactly the prince expected of him.
He trailed his fingertips idly against the stone wall as he walked, trusting instinct to guide his steps.
He found Torsten in one of the keep's quieter chambers, standing at a heavy wooden table, studying a map of the mainland. At the sound of Eoin's approaching footsteps, he looked up, lips pressing into a thin, unreadable line.
Eoin spread his hands. "Torsten," he drawled. "I hear I'm summoned for yet another errand. Ilroya, this time, no less. Do enlighten me—Ingbord gave me the rough sketch last night, but frankly, I can't believe half of it."
Torsten controlled the urge to roll his eyes, as he sometimes did when Eoin was in a mood. Instead, he nodded, meeting Eoin's gaze steadily.
"I do want you both to go to Ilroya," he said. "There's a map there, and I need it. It's very important. I need you to accompany Ingbord and help her bring it back." He huffed out a breath, tracing a finger down the path a ship would need to take from Othmark to Ilroya. "It won't be easy. You'll have to row, island by island, to Othmark. From there, you'll need to buy passage on a ship. Let Ingbord tell you what she needs along the way and make sure she gets it."
He paused, licking his lips, then added, "I don't need to tell you how important Ingbord is to me. Keep her safe, Eoin. Bring her back."
Eoin squinted against the lingering ache in his head and rubbed at his ear, as if that might somehow make sense of this absurd scheme. "Why not just send me to fetch your godsdamned map?" he asked, more seriously now. "Why put Ingbord at risk for this?"
Torsten traced his finger once more across the route. "I don't know what it looks like. I've never seen it. I couldn't tell you what you'd be fetching. Ingbord has seen it in a Seeking. Only she knows which one is the map I need."
Then Torsten lifted his gaze, sharp and steady. Eoin didn't like that look.
"It is my fondest desire," Torsten said, his voice even, measured, "that you accompany Ingbord on her journey and deliver her safely back to me here in Eysa."
Eoin felt the words settle over him like a weighted rope being draped across his shoulders. It itched. He scratched the back of his neck as the binding took hold. He nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line of reluctant agreement, accepting the burden.
"You'll need this." Torsten pushed a leather purse across the table. Eoin caught the scent of gold, copper, and silver before even touching it. Heavy, but not too heavy. Enough to get them there and back—barely, if they were careful.
"Ingbord will determine what is needed along the way. It is my wish that anything she asks from you, you provide. It's not a lot of money. What she needs, beg, borrow, or steal - even buy it if you have to. Whatever she needs to complete this trip, she will get."
The words coiled around Eoin like a second rope, binding tighter knots around the first.
He inhaled slowly, carefully. The shape of the geas pressed against the back of his closed eyes.
Torsten let the silence stretch before adding, just as measuredly, "Finally, it is my wish that you return home from Othmark with three chests of rocks."
Eoin's eyes snapped open.
He stared at Torsten. Blinked.
Then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Are you serious? Three boxes of rocks?"
Torsten nodded once.
Eoin knew the difference between a request and a command. These were commands. All of them. Bring Ingbord home. Give her everything she needs. Bring back three chests of meaningless rocks.
He narrowed his eyes at Torsten, searching his face for something—some explanation, some flicker of humor, some indication that this wasn't an absurd joke being played on him.
Torsten remained impassive.
Eoin clicked his tongue against his teeth and sighed. "You know, I really hate it when you do that."
Torsten's lips quirked. "I know."
Eoin exhaled sharply. "Three boxes of rocks." He let the words hang between them again, as if they might somehow make sense the second time. They did not. Muttering under his breath, he added, "Torsten, if you wanted to make my life difficult, you could have just ordered me to stop drinking."
Torsten snorted. "Would that even be possible?"
Eoin gave him a look so dry it could turn the tide to salt. "And what am I supposed to tell Ingbord about this little... mineral obsession of yours?"
"Nothing," Torsten said smoothly, shaking his head. "Accompany her to Ilroya. See that she has whatever she asks for. Bring her home. And when you do, bring me my three chests."
Eoin dragged a hand through his curls, already regretting everything about this.
"Utterly ridiculous," he muttered.
Torsten remained silent.
Eoin scowled at him, then sighed one last time, then turned on his heel.
"Fine," he grumbled. "I'll go pack."
Retracing his steps to his chamber, Eoin ran his fingers along the stone walls, feeling the rough texture catch against his skin. Little unseen hitches here and there, tiny, unexpected snags making the path of his fingers dance. As he walked, he turned Torsten's words over in his mind, rolling them like river stones, testing their edges, searching for the places they fit together—and the places they didn't.
Torsten, he admitted to himself, was no longer a clever little princeling. Not only had he grown tall and broad, but he'd also grown sharp and patient. Eoin could sense it now—he wasn't just setting geasa like a man thinking plain. He was playing with fate. Weaving it. Trying to shift the balance of the world with the careful pull of a thread here, a little push there. Eoin had seen men try to break fate before. They always failed. The clever ones learned to bend it instead.
And Torsten? Torsten was learning.
In the years they'd been bound together, Torsten had come to understand what geasa Eoin must obey and what he could ignore, discard, or reinterpret. Some requests Eoin could put off indefinitely. Some itched at the back of his mind like a persistent worry. Some felt heavy, like a chain laid across his shoulders. Some were painful. The only way to relieve the itch, the burden, the pain—was to obey. Torsten had chosen his words carefully. These were commands. Eoin almost had to admire it; Torsten wasn't just giving orders—he was setting a board. And though Eoin could practically smell the scheming on him, he couldn't quite see the plan.
He climbed the narrow stairs to his chamber, anticipation and exasperation twining together in his chest. Fifty days, at least. Fifty days away from the mind-numbing boredom of Eysa. Fifty days of hard travel with Ingbord within arm's reach.
For most of the journey, he'd have to pose as her husband—carrying her things, doling out coin into her palm, playing the dutiful spouse. Rowing a godsdamned boat all the way to Othmark. He huffed a laugh at himself as he pushed open the door to his chamber. Fifty days of discomfort, in close quarters with Torsten's heart's fondest desire, and a set of three heavy geasa knotted tight around his ribs.
He tossed open his chest, pulling out shirts, boots, a coat—travel-worn, practical things. Then, unfastening the purse from his belt, he rolled it over in his palm before tipping the contents onto his bed.
Coins spilled in a muted scatter. Copper. Silver. Gold.
A shiver crawled down his arms, prickling at his fingers. His breath caught—shallow, quick—as his hand ghosted over the scattered coins. It had been years since he had touched gold. Real gold. Years since he had heard it sing.
The little copper pieces hummed, a quiet, steady sound, warm and familiar. The silver trilled, sharp and bright—a quick, clever whisper. But gold—gold thrummed deep and low, like the first note of a bow drawn over taut strings. It curled in his chest, filled his lungs like the scent of honey on a summer wind.
Ah, gold. Gods, how he had missed gold.
Eysians hardly used coin. They hardly had coin. Hard to tell if they didn't use it because they had none; or if they had none because they didn't understand its value. Instead, they bartered, and their barter was a tangled, impossible thing—built not on numbers, but on feeling. Value was not fixed; it was fluid, shifting with need and sentiment. The concept of mine and yours was a thing of soft edges, defaulting to ours unless something was truly claimed.
Except when it wasn't.
Metal things—blades, tools—were mine, except when they were needed more by someone else, at which point they became yours. Clothes, boots, even the very shirt off an Eysian's back—mine, until someone admired it, and then it became yours. Unless someone admired it too much, in which case it stayed mine out of sheer stubbornness.
The balance in Eysian barter all relied on what felt right.
In fact, Eoin had never, not once, paid money for his debts at Jorunn's tavern. He simply drank until his need was met, and when all was said and done, Torsten would arrive—eventually—to count out copper coins into Jorunn's hand, slow and deliberate, until she closed her fist, satisfied that the debt was settled. Or she set Eoin to fetching and carrying, to mending and thatching, until she felt the balance was even.
Eoin flicked a gold coin between his fingers, feeling the weight of it, the resonance of it vibrating up his bones. Delight curled in his chest as he rolled the coin over his knuckles, then flicked it into the air, catching it again with a flick of his wrist.
He began counting, stacking, weighing options in his mind. Passage would take the lion's share. Food and lodging in Ilroya would bleed the rest away before they even thought about the return. There was no room for comfort, no room for mishaps. There was just enough—barely—to make the trip if they were very careful, and nothing went wrong.
In Eoin's experience, something always went wrong.
He reached back into his chest and retrieved a thin leather pouch. His smirk deepened as he loosened the tie, letting a set of dice tumble into his palm—exquisitely made, ivory and bone, their pips inked in fine, near-imperceptible detail. A work of art. Expertly balanced. Expertly unbalanced.
He added the dice to the stack of belongings.
It never hurt to nudge fate a little.