Loyalty
Immediately after the exiles arrive at Five Mines Hold, Nera and Derek present themselves to Lord Odern. Derek provides Odern a certainty that the ousted lord craves, while Nera expresses gracious displeasure. Stay tuned for the aftermath.
Nera looks at Derek for a moment, then nods once and smoothes her trousers with a sweep of one hand, turning to accompany him toward the Hold. E'sere comes along, to make introductions to the Lord and his council; when these few words are said Derek turns to the bronzerider and asks in all solemnity for him to see to the weyrlings J'lor can't tend. It is Morelenth, though, with his dolly-ornament, that Derek glances back at. In moments more the island king, headwoman, and their Lordly host move off into the Hold to confer.
Nera looks at Derek for a moment, then nods once and smooths her skirts with a sweep of one hand, turning to accompany him toward the Hold. E'sere comes along, to make introductions to the Lord and his council; when these few words are said Derek turns to the bronzerider and asks in all solemnity for him to see to the weyrlings J'lor can't tend. It is Morelenth, though, with his dolly-ornament, that Derek glances back at. In moments more the island king, headwoman, and their Lordly host move off into the Hold to confer.
Although they're accompanied inside by the whole Lordly complement, the Council retires long before they get to the meeting room, leaving Odern as their sole representative. The last to go is Turald, the man who introduced himself in terms of his Five Mines Blood; the young holder is the one to open the door, usher the guests through (Odern knows his way well enough), and elegantly close off the pleasantries with a few gentle words as he steps out. By this time, Odern has already taken his place at the seat nearest the door, and merely waits with great impatience for Turald to hurry on out.
Perhaps surprisingly at home in such surroundings - walls, a roof, straight lines and square edges - Nera smoothes her skirts one more time, and matches her pace to Derek's as they enter; the headwoman spares a glance for those departing, and then lifts her chin to inspect the hall. She does not, however, speak.
The mention of Blood - or the attachment of Five Mines' somewhat unillustrious name to the term - wins only a sidelong flash of Derek's pale eyes at Nera, a check to see if her face tells him anything of what -she- makes of that. Then the island king's eyes forward, moving with a preternatural quietude through the Hold's halls, worn old boots that were once a guard's best making the most sparing leathery noises while the man himself is otherwise entirely silent. It might be the tendency of places like this to echo that keeps him unbreathingly quiet, or the tendency of places like this to be full of ears. In whatever case, it is not until Turald has closed the door - Derek watches to be sure he does - that the aging captain-that-once-was turns his mustachioed smile, such as it is, on Odern.
"My Lord," he says, first and simply. "I am Derek. This is Nera, our headwoman." It is necessary, he deems it, to apply a title to Nera and not himself. "Thank you for meeting us outside." And then the smile goes away and Derek falls into a rest posture, hands back, shoulders back, self back; an empty, grey-eyed shell that waits.
The greetings roll off Odern's back, failing to change his sour expression any. "Some show you made of it." His narrowed eyes dart to Nera, making no effort to hide his appraisal. "Some show. Not interested in shows, I want signs. Your loyalty. You swear it to me." He leans back in his chair and folds his hands together over his stomach, expectant and prickly.
Nera accepts the appraisal, returning it only in a quick glance; she's more interested in the tapestries, and in catching at her skirts so that she can sink into a seat near Odern, settling them as though it was only yesterday she was in an armchair. The word 'loyalty' draws a response of sorts, however. Her lashes lower an abrupt inch, and one hand comes up too quickly to tuck her hair behind one ear, where it's falling from its usual, loose knot.
"Six dragons dead is not for show," Derek observes in his greyest of demeanors, unmoved enough that he makes the words sound recitative. There is scarcely more life in his saying, "We will prove our loyalty with deeds, my Lord. Until we can do so, I do of course understand your comfort in an oath." He has been looking not at but through and beyond Odern this time; now he lifts his chin a little, and draws back his focus to the here and now. For this moment he might as well be alone; Nera, his headwoman, has the advantage of being female and therefore occasionally invisible. "Will you tell me to whom, formally, I swear to? Lord - ?"
Odern's prickles go up further when Derek speaks to him in that dull voice, and any satisfaction that may have been implied in the pose of his folded hands is quickly lost to peevish fussing as his fingers pluck loosely at his skin. Nera is forgotten now; for a long moment of silence, he simply squints at Derek and tries to discern some measure of emotion in the man. "Lord Nabol," he snaps finally, but suddenly, a sharp wave of his hand dispelling the prolonged wait.
Look, fingernails. Restored to the mainland, and to the position in relation to these men that she once occupied, the woman who has spent a decade ordering her world now slides seamlessly into another role. Nera has no response to make of her own accord; she studies her hands where they are spread on her worn skirts, and then lifts her chin with a sniff. She looks not to Odern, but across to Derek, in quiet deference.
This time, Derek glances at Nera. It is an unweighted glance, as though her presence neither pleases nor troubles him; as if he might have forgotten her, and remembers now, and must ascertain that indeed she came along. If there is more to that glance than that, it is a subtlety designed to be lost on anyone who knows the dark-browed man less than intimately. When he returns his eyes to their Lord-that-be, it is with the least trace of a twitching smile that worries the level lie of his moustache. "My oath," he provides, with a simple, stiff salute, ten turns old and probably unchanged in the interim. "So long as I serve at your pleasure, I swear loyalty to Odern, Lord Nabol." A beat, in which the tiny increments of formality slip away from him: his shoulders sink a millimetre, his hands fall to his sides. "We will help your new people be settled now, my lord. Call upon us when you wish."
Derek has not bowed in a long time, not seriously. He has not, however, forgotten how. He puts a hand back and a foot forward and bends; then he turns, and makes the one move toward Nera which is meant for Odern, not she, to interpret. His hand. By it, he will attend her out.
Nera rises, and in the moment before she demonstrates that the art of the curtsey has not trickled out of her, and into the island sands, she turns her head to look across to Derek, and his bow. Then she sinks herself, fingers gripping her skirts, to give the Lord his self-announced due. Derek's hand is permitted to shield the small of her back; it is not permitted to touch her, as they make their exit.
Nera looks at Derek for a moment, then nods once and smoothes her trousers with a sweep of one hand, turning to accompany him toward the Hold. E'sere comes along, to make introductions to the Lord and his council; when these few words are said Derek turns to the bronzerider and asks in all solemnity for him to see to the weyrlings J'lor can't tend. It is Morelenth, though, with his dolly-ornament, that Derek glances back at. In moments more the island king, headwoman, and their Lordly host move off into the Hold to confer.
Nera looks at Derek for a moment, then nods once and smooths her skirts with a sweep of one hand, turning to accompany him toward the Hold. E'sere comes along, to make introductions to the Lord and his council; when these few words are said Derek turns to the bronzerider and asks in all solemnity for him to see to the weyrlings J'lor can't tend. It is Morelenth, though, with his dolly-ornament, that Derek glances back at. In moments more the island king, headwoman, and their Lordly host move off into the Hold to confer.
Although they're accompanied inside by the whole Lordly complement, the Council retires long before they get to the meeting room, leaving Odern as their sole representative. The last to go is Turald, the man who introduced himself in terms of his Five Mines Blood; the young holder is the one to open the door, usher the guests through (Odern knows his way well enough), and elegantly close off the pleasantries with a few gentle words as he steps out. By this time, Odern has already taken his place at the seat nearest the door, and merely waits with great impatience for Turald to hurry on out.
Perhaps surprisingly at home in such surroundings - walls, a roof, straight lines and square edges - Nera smoothes her skirts one more time, and matches her pace to Derek's as they enter; the headwoman spares a glance for those departing, and then lifts her chin to inspect the hall. She does not, however, speak.
The mention of Blood - or the attachment of Five Mines' somewhat unillustrious name to the term - wins only a sidelong flash of Derek's pale eyes at Nera, a check to see if her face tells him anything of what -she- makes of that. Then the island king's eyes forward, moving with a preternatural quietude through the Hold's halls, worn old boots that were once a guard's best making the most sparing leathery noises while the man himself is otherwise entirely silent. It might be the tendency of places like this to echo that keeps him unbreathingly quiet, or the tendency of places like this to be full of ears. In whatever case, it is not until Turald has closed the door - Derek watches to be sure he does - that the aging captain-that-once-was turns his mustachioed smile, such as it is, on Odern.
"My Lord," he says, first and simply. "I am Derek. This is Nera, our headwoman." It is necessary, he deems it, to apply a title to Nera and not himself. "Thank you for meeting us outside." And then the smile goes away and Derek falls into a rest posture, hands back, shoulders back, self back; an empty, grey-eyed shell that waits.
The greetings roll off Odern's back, failing to change his sour expression any. "Some show you made of it." His narrowed eyes dart to Nera, making no effort to hide his appraisal. "Some show. Not interested in shows, I want signs. Your loyalty. You swear it to me." He leans back in his chair and folds his hands together over his stomach, expectant and prickly.
Nera accepts the appraisal, returning it only in a quick glance; she's more interested in the tapestries, and in catching at her skirts so that she can sink into a seat near Odern, settling them as though it was only yesterday she was in an armchair. The word 'loyalty' draws a response of sorts, however. Her lashes lower an abrupt inch, and one hand comes up too quickly to tuck her hair behind one ear, where it's falling from its usual, loose knot.
"Six dragons dead is not for show," Derek observes in his greyest of demeanors, unmoved enough that he makes the words sound recitative. There is scarcely more life in his saying, "We will prove our loyalty with deeds, my Lord. Until we can do so, I do of course understand your comfort in an oath." He has been looking not at but through and beyond Odern this time; now he lifts his chin a little, and draws back his focus to the here and now. For this moment he might as well be alone; Nera, his headwoman, has the advantage of being female and therefore occasionally invisible. "Will you tell me to whom, formally, I swear to? Lord - ?"
Odern's prickles go up further when Derek speaks to him in that dull voice, and any satisfaction that may have been implied in the pose of his folded hands is quickly lost to peevish fussing as his fingers pluck loosely at his skin. Nera is forgotten now; for a long moment of silence, he simply squints at Derek and tries to discern some measure of emotion in the man. "Lord Nabol," he snaps finally, but suddenly, a sharp wave of his hand dispelling the prolonged wait.
Look, fingernails. Restored to the mainland, and to the position in relation to these men that she once occupied, the woman who has spent a decade ordering her world now slides seamlessly into another role. Nera has no response to make of her own accord; she studies her hands where they are spread on her worn skirts, and then lifts her chin with a sniff. She looks not to Odern, but across to Derek, in quiet deference.
This time, Derek glances at Nera. It is an unweighted glance, as though her presence neither pleases nor troubles him; as if he might have forgotten her, and remembers now, and must ascertain that indeed she came along. If there is more to that glance than that, it is a subtlety designed to be lost on anyone who knows the dark-browed man less than intimately. When he returns his eyes to their Lord-that-be, it is with the least trace of a twitching smile that worries the level lie of his moustache. "My oath," he provides, with a simple, stiff salute, ten turns old and probably unchanged in the interim. "So long as I serve at your pleasure, I swear loyalty to Odern, Lord Nabol." A beat, in which the tiny increments of formality slip away from him: his shoulders sink a millimetre, his hands fall to his sides. "We will help your new people be settled now, my lord. Call upon us when you wish."
Derek has not bowed in a long time, not seriously. He has not, however, forgotten how. He puts a hand back and a foot forward and bends; then he turns, and makes the one move toward Nera which is meant for Odern, not she, to interpret. His hand. By it, he will attend her out.
Nera rises, and in the moment before she demonstrates that the art of the curtsey has not trickled out of her, and into the island sands, she turns her head to look across to Derek, and his bow. Then she sinks herself, fingers gripping her skirts, to give the Lord his self-announced due. Derek's hand is permitted to shield the small of her back; it is not permitted to touch her, as they make their exit.