Legend of Ransera

Letters had been received, and it had been decided that Eitan would be the best point man for the job. If for no other reason, his wards were the finest anyone had seen, and so he would not be so easily manipulated by the elven oligarch and his pet sex worker. The sex worker was also a priest, which was the distasteful element. Sex work was, after all, merely work.

While Zaichaer was bouncing back with a velocity of which they were proud, it was still in a liminal phase. Perhaps all phases were, given the nature of time, but they remained in a heightened state. The bounded confederation of princedoms was not a near neighbor. Zaichaer had more to fear from the Gelerian Imperium than anyone else at this point, and yet it would behoove them not to make enemies of the greater powers.

Angevin's priorities were Zaichaer, then Karnor, and only then Ailizane. It was unlikely to be a Grand Design he could enact in his lifetime, but a man did want to leave his sons something greater than themselves, a banner to carry. It was sons now, plural, as Lucrece had given him another at the beginning of the season, when—his witches told him—the Eclipse had officially ended. Were he a religious man, he might have claimed his son's birth a miracle.

A corvette freshly minted from the Windworks brought the princeling and the whore to Onneifer Airfield, and they were escorted by airmen and Watchers to his office with its great floor-to-ceiling windows where he could keep an eye upon Searing Victory. A pretty young thing from the secretarial staff knocked upon his door and led the prince in. His attendant was to wait outside. Angevin rose from his desk, came around to greet them.

"Welcome to Zaichaer, Your Highness." He nodded with all due respect, though he would bend the knee to no man. The prince too was younger than he expected, though the ages of elves were deceiving. "I am Eitan Angevin, High Admiral and High Sentinel."

He was prepared to shake hands if he would, or not if he would take it amiss. What he knew of their culture was likely as much fiction as fact.

"This is my aide, Klaus-Dieter Lessnau." He indicated the man with an upturned hand. The man himself clicked his jackboots together at the heel and offered something between a nod and the impression of a bow.

"Please, sit." Angevin walked around his massive desk, its piles of paper carefully stacked and arranged. Lessnau returned to his seat in the corner, not scanning the guest so much as ensuring he didn't scan his master. "Would you like coffee, tea, water...? 'Tis early yet, but if you have a yen for something stronger, we will oblige."

The secretary waited to hear their desires, the better to fulfill them.

"Efficiency is a particularly Zaichaeri virtue, we believe," he said with crooked smile. "Thank you. Between the Kalzasern rift and the Eclipse, we have had quite the storm to weather. Thankfully, we are also an industrious people, and after a period of white-knuckled survival, we have begun to thrive once more."

The secretary busied herself with the electric kettle, powered by a little lytirisyte battery, at the sideboard. Lessnau made himself unobtrusive, though he would certainly have insights to share with his master after the interview. If he wasn't scanning the prince, he was, at least, paying attention to his body language, facial tics, and speech patterns.

"There was a short period where it seemed as though the Imperium would seek to annex us. With a bit of saber-rattling, we managed to prevent that. Well, it might also have been a silver lining of the Eclipse. The Emperor had to see to his own house before he could attempt to lay claim to ours.

"Now... you will be introduced to First Minister Dornkirk and the Minister of Foreign Relations, but we thought it incumbent upon me to speak to you first. Our detractors call us racists, but we simply seek to look after our human brethren, much as Hytori come first in Sol'Valen, as it should be. In fact, we admire your civilization and the feats it has accomplished. But we seek to keep our citizens safe from magical manipulation. We will observe a certain amount of diplomatic immunity, but please do not utilize your arcane powers at the expense of our citizenry, en masse or individually. We do want you to feel welcome and... uninhibited... but we don't want any incidents that would upset either of our governments or peoples."

Angevin paused as the secretary wheeled a tea service close to the desk where Lessnau could top them up later. She served the guest first, then the Admiral, and then Lessnau.

"Thank you, Else," Angevin said, and then she departed.

Angevin noted the prince's gaze; in fact, he was paying as keen attention to the elf as Lessnau was. He would want to prepare the other ministers for the foreign diplomat.

"Of course. It is not our desire that you be subject to the magical predation of others either."

At the prince's more pointed question, he took a sip of tea and leaned back in his chair.

"Not at all," he assured him over steepled fingers. "When the Order informed my father that I had a high probability of surviving runic initiation, he sent me to train with them alongside my academic and military educations. I understood the risks involved, both with initiation and should I grow too powerful or out of control. I have even weathered the psychological stresses of overstepping, necessitated in order to protect the Zaichaeri people from the rift that tore open our sky and tore our city asunder." This was a source of pride for him, clearly, though he understated the situation, perhaps.

"The experts deduced that my mind was strong enough to resist the psychological damage that is a danger from the Rune of Negation, and so I remain here doing my duty with one more tool in my kit. We do not doubt the existence of the gods and monsters. We merely reject their hubris, that might makes right. If they were just and benevolent, Ransera would be a just and benevolent place. Here, those with power are held accountable. If we were what most people think, then you would be strapped to a table somewhere, princely secrets being extracted, no? Instead, we welcome your presence and offer our hospitality. I should like to think I would be treated similarly were I in Aerion—as a guest treated with respect from whom respect is required."

"I like to think I make my own fortune," he replied with a smile. "But it was a burden I chose to bear, and it has been a boon for my people and, of course, for myself. I would not wish the mistborn mutations those beyond our wards suffered upon the pidge princes of Kalzasi."

Angevin paused, thinking to mitigate that statement.

"Not on anyone." By cleverly working shadow-weakening dragonshards into the anchors for the city defenses, it was hoped that Zaichaer might remain safe from such things in the future. They had lived, and they had learned. Now they had but to carry the lesson forward.

He stilled at the prince's monologue, and nodded.

"I do not know that my duties will ever take me to Sol'Valen, but I appreciate the sentiment, and I understand you. We are learning from our mistakes, from the harsh lessons of reality, and adapting as I can only assume your people continue to do, else they would not have survived." Indeed, while he wore the yoke of duty but lightly, he hardly had the ability to gallivant to the corners of Ailizane on a whim.

"But you are an honored guest. How might we best entertain you? Some of the former shine of the Brass City has been ruined, but we are building back better, I think."

"Then you shall have sport, theater, and music," he assured him. "I would invite you to dine at my home, but it has been less than a month since my wife brought our second son into the world and she declared a moratorium on entertaining for at least three."

Angevin smiled wryly. He didn't know Val'Kor's age or marital status; it was impossible to know with elves, he was certain.

"Well. I hope your lodgings are sufficient to your needs." He wasn't dismissing the prince, but he was indicating that, with their understanding on expected behavior where magic was concerned, the main point on the agenda was addressed. Val'Kor and his pillow princess had been given a West End townhouse with a staff of Hytori locals to keep their knickers clean and their table set.

The thought was that they would feel more at home among their own kind; whether those servants would be proud to serve foreign Val'Hytori or ashamed at their second-class citizenship was likely to be discovered on an individual basis.

Zaichaer's old polo fields were teeming with early crops, but Angevin himself was going to play a rugby match that week—officers versus enlisted men. The Pfenning Theater was rebuilt, along with several others, serving as barracks for their repertory companies. Most of their performances were low-budget, focused on supporting the revivalist animus of the people. Music was performed in those venues as well as in several open, public forums now that spring had finally sprung. It would not be what Zaichaer used to muster, but sport and art had not quit them.