Page 117 of Halfling
The air caught in Orek’s lungs.
He’d never imagined her home was essentially a town unto itself.
His nose tried to sift through the myriad of scents, sparking a headache behind his eyes. He was grateful when they passed into the house, cutting off the smells of horses and industry. He’d barely had time to appreciate being in a human home for the first time before they were shuttled into what he supposed was a front parlor.
The house was all dark, rich woods polished to a high shine. At about waist height, the walls became white plaster, and many were decorated with framed paintings and tapestries. Brass sconces mounted strategically along the walls kept the rooms from being too dark, though Orek found it made all the eyes in the portraits follow him as they made their way through the house.
He set down the packs where the mother indicated with fluttering hands and followed Sorcha to a settee piled high with cushions and pillows. This room faced south, catching much of the afternoon light. It was full of overstuffed chairs and settees and cushions, all upholstered and embroidered in rich jeweled tones. A stone fireplace dominated the east wall, the mantelpiece littered with trinkets and baubles, most of them some sort of horse.
The family arranged themselves around the room, and even though there were plenty of seats, it still felt crowded with all of them there, waiting to hear more of Sorcha’s story.
She pulled him down to sit beside her, the settee creaking ominously under his bulk. He held very still, horrified at the thought of the furniture breaking beneath them.
He listened with half an ear, trying not to breathe too much, as Sorcha spoke of how Orek had found her in the camp and they’d made their escape.
She told her tale as the afternoon waned and the shadows grew longer. All the while, they were plied with plates of small foods, slices of bread, meats, and cheese, bowls of foul things Sorcha called olives, and even a handful of her favorite dried apricots. It was around a mouthful of orange fruit that she spoke of their river crossing and fight with the slavers. She extolled Orek’s bravery through it all, especially his fight with Silas.
“I thought I’d lost him, but I managed to pull him out,” she said with a wink, making her siblings smile. They all watched her raptly, even the older ones. As the story unfolded, the brothers began to soften, the fairer one, Connor, the eldest male, even shooting Orek a grateful look to hear how he’d defended Sorcha.
She told them of Cara and Anghus, a chorus of agreement going up at the mother’s suggestion of sending something in thanks for their help. “We’ll send them a horse,” her mother declared with a decisive nod.
“You can’t send awhole horse,” scoffed the haughty sister. Maeve.
“I can and I will. Anything for my firstborn.” She patted Sorcha’s freckled cheek affectionately. “You pick a horse out tomorrow and we’ll send it to them.”
“Yes, mama,” Sorcha said with a grin.
When she made it to the caves in her story, she told all about the hot springs but not what she and Orek had done in them. In fact, her story got far less detailed from that point on. Perhaps it was less exciting than the first legs of their journey, but they were the best days of Orek’s life.
Still, he was grateful that she didn’t divulge the details, wanting to hoard those. He didn’t miss how the parents and older siblings passed looks between one another, noting the change in Sorcha’s storytelling.
Her tale drew to a close as she recounted recognizing the landscape, how she knew she was almost home.
A ringing silence filled the void when she finished, her family blinking at them as the truth of everything that had happened soaked through like water in thirsty soil. A new kind of light shone in their eyes, as if they all finally believed Sorcha truly sat before them, returned.
Everyone spoke at once, shouting questions, and Sorcha laughed, waving her hands in surrender.
“Fates, one at a time, you pack of coyotes!”
A sharp whistle silenced everyone, and the family looked to the father where he leaned against the mantelpiece. His look was grave as he regarded his daughter, twisting a pipe between his fingers.
“We need to tell Lord Darrow about this immediately. Slavers in the Darrowlands, it can’t be borne. We’ll need—”
“What they need is dinner and a good night’s sleep,” said the mother, rising from her chair. She winked at Sorcha. “Made your favorite, sweetheart. Like I knew you’d be home for dinner.” Both her and Sorcha’s gazes went watery.
“You’ve made it almost every day,” muttered Maeve.
“Worked too, didn’t it.”
“Aoife,” the father cajoled, “this is important. It can’t wait.”
“Yes, it can. Send a rider to Darrow letting him know, but give them a few days to rest. They’ve only just returned.”
The mother and father stared at each other across the parlor, a silent conversation passing between them, until finally, the father nodded stiffly.
“Dinner, some rest, and then we ride to Dundúran.”
The mother waved her hand in assent before leading a parade of children for the other side of the house. Orek took Darrah from the littlest girl as she passed, thankful for the familiar comfort of the kit’s slight, furry weight in his hand again.
