“She spoke the oath,” a low voice says behind me. The first troll from the bridge.
“Another one?” spits a hard baritone. A beat passes. “I’m going to find this singing louse and rip his tongue out. Well, what is it?”
The words dance around me like drunk fairies.
A low woman’s voice barks, “Oh, for Regret’s sake, give her some water.”
My thoughts catch on the use of that word, regret, but my mind pushes forward to the more crucial offering. Water?
My dry eyes struggle to blink clear. Something hits the stone beside me with a tinny ring. It takes a moment for me to recognize it as a pitcher of water.
A soft squeak escapes me as I grab it and drink, the water stale and metallic and wonderful. Some of it sloshes down the front of my dress. I drink until the pitcher is empty and my stomach aches.
“Thank you,” I wheeze as I set the pitcher down.
I try again to survey the room. It’s about three times the size of my father’s sitting room in Lucarpo, with a higher ceiling and higher doorways. It’s lightly furnished, with wide swaths of fabric hanging from the ceiling and connecting to the walls, reminding me of a bed canopy. An enormous fur rug swallows the center of the floor—it comes from a monstrous creature I cannot name, for it is all one hide. I sit only a couple of paces from its edge. On its other side sit five elaborate chairs made of stone, each cushioned, each bearing a terrifying troll. Their skin varies in shades of gray and green. They all sport wide features, though the one on the farthest left throne is a little narrower than the others, with shorter tusks and longer hair—the woman who demanded I be given water. If they have the same bulges of strength as the trolls who brought me down here, it’s hidden beneath their robes.
“Thank you,” I repeat.
Her heavy brow lowers.
The troll in the center throne leans forward. He’s the largest of the bunch, with enormously broad shoulders covered by a fur stole. His hair is short and slicked away from his face, emphasizing the bony nubs trailing back from his forehead. His tusks—or feasibly large lower canines—are massive.
“Do you even know the words you speak, human?” he asks. His is the baritone voice.
I nod slowly, though in truth, I can’t possibly understand the oath based on a single story told when I was thirteen. Remembering myself, I reposition onto my knees and bow.
The troll snorts. “A polite human, at least.”
“We’ve enough of their kind, Qequan,” the troll to his right says. His voice is so low it reverberates through the stone. Qequan must be the name of the center troll. Judging by his position and size, I assume him to be the leader. The bass continues, speaking now to me. “Sniveling humans who can’t work their own land come crawling across the desert to take what is ours. The trollis kingdom grew in the cracks of the earth to avoid your kind. And the moment Regret no longer favors you, you beg for help.”
I shiver. I don’t understand his meaning of regret, but his words are not untrue. Yet it seems wise not to respond.
Qequan frowns and studies me. I focus on the fur rug, for I know I will unabashedly stare at him otherwise. Sounding amused, he says, “She made the oath. Will you not honor it?”
The bass doesn’t reply.
Louder, Qequan adds, “Ichlad makes a most excellent point. You sit before the council of Cagmar unharmed. We have fulfilled the words of our ancestors. You will now be escorted out.”
“No, please.” I prostrate myself. “I’ve come a long way to find shelter within your city. I can work. Anything you need.” Silently I pray to the South Star. I need to know I chose correctly. I need the brightness that the Cosmodian promised me eight years ago, and I don’t know where else to search for it.
One of the other trolls scoffs.
The woman says, “We do not make a point of housing refugees.”
I lift my head. “Have so many come?”
She exchanges a glance with Qequan.
“Some come.” She doesn’t look at me. “Few have even the worth to clean our commodes.”
I believe her. Very few humans would be as daring as I, coming to a place rumored to be riddled with war. The home of our ancestors’ mortal enemies. The monsters of the canyon.
But monsters lurk among humans, too.
“Please,” I press.
Qequan sets his elbow on his armrest and leans into his palm. The room is lit by austere sconces that cast his skin a dark olive. “What is your name.” It’s an order, not a question.