The Lies We Tell Ourselves : Pistachio y Mead
Title: The Lies We Tell Ourselves
Main Story: Cryptomancy
Flavors: Pistachio #18: I should have known; Olde English Mead #10: To thine own self be true.
Word Count: 700
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which Chaill and Albion make common cause. Again.
Notes: I'm going to go back and write what happened earlier that day with Bug and how Chaill killed the bird next, since going in order is clearly entirely too logical for my brain to comprehend.
I found him in his cell. He had scarcely moved, but he had clearly continued to avail himself of the Lady’s wine: there were three new bottles on the ground besides him. I wasn’t sure who it was that kept bringing him wine in the dungeon, or why; but at the moment, the question was amongst the furthest from my mind.
“Are you ready?” I asked him. I wanted to sound confident, but the words were little more than a squeak.
Albion opened his eyes with a bit of a grunt. “I thought you’d made new plans,” he said. I was stunned, and not a little annoyed. How was it that everyone seemed to know everything before I did, even my own plans?
“How did you know?” I blurted.
He gave me a wry smile. “A little bird told me.” If we had been any other place but the Rookery, it would have been a patronizing answer. Here-well, it was possible, and that was enough to keep me from snapping back. Still, I didn’t feel like going into the gory details about Octavian’s betrayal.
“Things have changed.”
He didn’t press further, for which I was grateful. I was in no mood to recount the day’s events to a stranger. His interest shifted to getting out, and I shifted along with him.
He seemed rather well acquainted with the dungeons. The directions he gave to find the gaolers in possession of his cell’s key were impeccable, I noted with some amazement. Of course, my amazement faded when I remembered that I was dealing with the sworn retainer of the Red Lady. I wondered what kind of work Albion had once done in these dungeons, and thought of my father’s own work in the laboratories of the Esoteric Brotherhood. It made me shudder.
When I came upon what appeared to be the only gaolers in the entire dungeon, I was amazed to find them both asleep. Could I really be so lucky? I plucked the huge chatelaine off one of them and hurried back to Albion’s cell as noiselessly as I could.
“They were sleeping,” I told him as I began to try the various keys in the lock.
“Good,” said Albion as he stood. On the fourth try, the key found purchase and the lock clunked metallically. “How many were they?” he asked as the door ground open and he stepped past me and to the peg where his belongings had been hung.
“Two,” I replied as the rider wrapped his cloak about himself and removed his sword belt from the peg. I was startled that for all the wine he had drunk-and clearly smelled of-his fingers were sure and steady as he buckled the belt around his waist.
He nodded. “The Red Lady says you can read thoughts,” he said, removing a lanthorn from the wall.
For a moment I only gaped stupidly. Did he think he was reading his thoughts? That could get me into big trouble, so I stammered, “That’s-that was-Bug.”
Albion frowned. “So you don’t know how? This changes things.”
I bit my lip. “Well. I can. Sometimes.”
Albion pushed past me and headed off down the corridor, and it was clear that he meant me to follow. I did. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t care how you do it, or who you do it to, but I need you to do it now.” He stopped and turned to face me as I scrambled along behind him.
“And child,” he added, not unkindly, “you have a useful skill. Use it more often, and you won’t have to do this again.”
I didn’t understand what he had meant by “this,” but my stomach dropped as for the second time that night, I recognized a hard truth. I’d had the tools I’d needed to know Octavian’s mind all along. I’d trusted him to tell me truth-no, I had wanted to believe him. I had avoided reading Octavian’s thoughts not because I trusted him, but for the same reason Bug hadn’t read mine: I did not want to know what he was thinking.
I nodded, and took the lanthorn when Albion handed it to me and drew his sword.
Main Story: Cryptomancy
Flavors: Pistachio #18: I should have known; Olde English Mead #10: To thine own self be true.
Word Count: 700
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which Chaill and Albion make common cause. Again.
Notes: I'm going to go back and write what happened earlier that day with Bug and how Chaill killed the bird next, since going in order is clearly entirely too logical for my brain to comprehend.
I found him in his cell. He had scarcely moved, but he had clearly continued to avail himself of the Lady’s wine: there were three new bottles on the ground besides him. I wasn’t sure who it was that kept bringing him wine in the dungeon, or why; but at the moment, the question was amongst the furthest from my mind.
“Are you ready?” I asked him. I wanted to sound confident, but the words were little more than a squeak.
Albion opened his eyes with a bit of a grunt. “I thought you’d made new plans,” he said. I was stunned, and not a little annoyed. How was it that everyone seemed to know everything before I did, even my own plans?
“How did you know?” I blurted.
He gave me a wry smile. “A little bird told me.” If we had been any other place but the Rookery, it would have been a patronizing answer. Here-well, it was possible, and that was enough to keep me from snapping back. Still, I didn’t feel like going into the gory details about Octavian’s betrayal.
“Things have changed.”
He didn’t press further, for which I was grateful. I was in no mood to recount the day’s events to a stranger. His interest shifted to getting out, and I shifted along with him.
He seemed rather well acquainted with the dungeons. The directions he gave to find the gaolers in possession of his cell’s key were impeccable, I noted with some amazement. Of course, my amazement faded when I remembered that I was dealing with the sworn retainer of the Red Lady. I wondered what kind of work Albion had once done in these dungeons, and thought of my father’s own work in the laboratories of the Esoteric Brotherhood. It made me shudder.
When I came upon what appeared to be the only gaolers in the entire dungeon, I was amazed to find them both asleep. Could I really be so lucky? I plucked the huge chatelaine off one of them and hurried back to Albion’s cell as noiselessly as I could.
“They were sleeping,” I told him as I began to try the various keys in the lock.
“Good,” said Albion as he stood. On the fourth try, the key found purchase and the lock clunked metallically. “How many were they?” he asked as the door ground open and he stepped past me and to the peg where his belongings had been hung.
“Two,” I replied as the rider wrapped his cloak about himself and removed his sword belt from the peg. I was startled that for all the wine he had drunk-and clearly smelled of-his fingers were sure and steady as he buckled the belt around his waist.
He nodded. “The Red Lady says you can read thoughts,” he said, removing a lanthorn from the wall.
For a moment I only gaped stupidly. Did he think he was reading his thoughts? That could get me into big trouble, so I stammered, “That’s-that was-Bug.”
Albion frowned. “So you don’t know how? This changes things.”
I bit my lip. “Well. I can. Sometimes.”
Albion pushed past me and headed off down the corridor, and it was clear that he meant me to follow. I did. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t care how you do it, or who you do it to, but I need you to do it now.” He stopped and turned to face me as I scrambled along behind him.
“And child,” he added, not unkindly, “you have a useful skill. Use it more often, and you won’t have to do this again.”
I didn’t understand what he had meant by “this,” but my stomach dropped as for the second time that night, I recognized a hard truth. I’d had the tools I’d needed to know Octavian’s mind all along. I’d trusted him to tell me truth-no, I had wanted to believe him. I had avoided reading Octavian’s thoughts not because I trusted him, but for the same reason Bug hadn’t read mine: I did not want to know what he was thinking.
I nodded, and took the lanthorn when Albion handed it to me and drew his sword.