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In the return from Blackrock’s pock-marked scar there were no songs, no laughter, no joy. It was exhaustion and the gravity of her own stance in the saddle that kept Maryem upright on the journey. The mission to raid the Slag had been a grand success, but a harrowing one at that to see so many enter its depths and to fear that some, or none, might have returned. One did not, and though their short acquaintance suggested there could be no other end for him she yet wondered if by her choice of targets she had chosen one life over another.
For once the First Rider felt no inclination to raise her voice and bring about some semblance of gaiety, but as she looked to the ranks of Draenei her champions had freed, hobbling just ahead, she finally saw faces that looked greatly pleased. They were free. What price in loved ones, however ghastly, could dampen their spirits now? There would be time to mourn later.
Two moons loomed over Fort Blackwing with their gaze cast down to the fading red sky. Cursory orders were given to bring the prisoners to the pen, ready them for their disturbing fate. She dispersed the rest. If anything, not listening to prattle about foundries and camp followers would do something to improve her mood. The fire lit before her tent cast streaks of red light over the broken ground, like the churning glow beneath the Slag’s boiling rifts. Ilyce had at least done her duty as a squire but again, she was nowhere to be found.
Maryem closed her eyes, opened them again, in the action finding the energy to find her squire. A quick look through the camp betrayed no sign of her presence, neither from the soldiers she asked nor the presence of her effects. That spurred her on more, and after half an hour of searching she felt a frantic pounding in her chest that quieted the protesting of her aching muscles. The girl could have been lost in any shadow of the fort, in some easily-overlooked crook in the wall or shadow, or…
“Ilyce!”
Hunched over, her gaze following some track or creature on the ground, the willowy Ilyce Bone shot up like a hungover soldier on parade as she was caught. Even in the dark Maryem could see the fire glint in the girl’s wide, guilty eyes from her place as she turned back to camp to face her. The knight looked past her, noting that her route would have eventually led her out of the camp’s front gate.
“... What are you doing?”
She folded her hands over her front in response, almost looking pious. “Nothing!--Well, it… doesn’t matter now.”
“Interesting, a squire telling her knight her question is not important.”
Though certainly a creature who needed constant supervision, Ilyce was not hard to control as she had soon found out. Just enough sternness to remind the girl of her duties, just enough humor to keep her from feeling any resentment. For now, at least, the tactic seemed to work.
The squire ran her fingers through her hair nervously, a soft glint of something hanging from her hand. “No--certainly not! I didn’t--!”
“--What’s that?!” Maryem interrupted, making several quick strides to Ilyce before she could retreat or hide the offending item.
Coral, bone, claw. The simple necklace was without any particular decoration or art, just as the homes the Saberclaw called their own, but in that simplicity there was the reagent needed for the reward bestowed upon her by the clan leaders. As soon as she recognized the talisman her hand clenched around it, the other covering Ilyce’s own, making her let go as she took it back.
Before she could even ask what it was Ilyce was doing she scrambled for an answer. “I--there was a… lizard--and one of the bones--!” The more she tripped over herself to explain the less Maryem wanted to hear, a sharp pain in her head driving her to wave her off.
“I--I do not want to hear anymore. Come.” But as she turned to leave Ilyce fell by her side and kept going.
“Dame, I’m sorry, but… why is this so important to you?”
She stopped again. The necklace was balled into her fist but she loosened her grip, allowing it to fall and dangle from her fingers. The far fire glinted through the loop and made the coral dance with specular stars.
“A boon, from our most recent ally.” One we needn’t have sacrificed anyone to befriend. “It’s not a toy, Ilyce.”
“I wasn’t--!” The young lady looked close to pouting like a child but swallowed her indignation. “I was… curious, and you never told me anything about it. You never took me to the Saberclaw in the first place!”
She sighed. “They were savage creatures, you know that. Tell me, would House Bone forgive me for letting their youngest daughter be killed?”
“You said they’re our allies!”
“Yes, and you can thank Miss Atwood for that--else we would have had to fight our way out of the camp.”
Her eyes settled on the necklace again. Bone, coral. Feathers, fangs. Horsehair and twine. That was the first gift she remembered giving Szera Sonan, as a little girl in the village below the hill. With a touch of lingering embarrassment she could even remember arranging the pieces of the charms carefully, to make them all symmetrical, chasing after the hawks that clung to the hillside just outside Szera’s hut until one of them dropped a second feather. There was no complex incantation to pair with it, no special power within the childish craft, but it was the first time--one of the few times she had felt like a speaker.
“The Saberclaw are great shaman, Ilyce,” she finally said, with a look to the girl that witnessed her sparked imagination. “They may be primitive, even untrustworthy, but they have something that reminds me of home.”
Understanding crossed the squire’s face. Shame was not an emotion she wished to instill on her, but all the same she was glad the girl at least cared that much. “The necklace…”
“They can access rites, rituals that my people only speak of in stories…” To call on spirits to fill worthy warriors with a great boon--it was an art that had been practiced in the past in Azeroth, and it was said the mystical knights, part Azat, part speaker, who claimed such power could have made kingdoms, or turned back time with the force of their will. It was the art of the first Golden Banner champions, of Adrykase Doktar. It was the art that Kovis Adrys, her namesake, sought when he cut Orazio down. Perhaps the soldiers were right, too, and he had indeed called upon it in that fateful duel.
Ilyce was silent, her attention fixed on the talisman. A thought struck Maryem then as she took in the sight of the Lordaeronian made, transfixed by the simple ornament dangling before her. No one here would ever learn to care about the exploits of a long-dead woman. Adrykase Doktar meant nothing to them and never would--but Kovis Zarrin might. Clan Adrys might.
And if that name was fated to mean anything at all to the outside world, it would need to be a better legacy than war and murder.
“Would you like to know more? About how this works?”
At Ilyce’s bounding nod she pulled another pendant, this one around her own neck. A piece cut from the femur of a well-aged warhorse, carved herself, the bone the shape of a gust of wind, green pigment rubbed into the relief until it was permanently marked. The girl outstretched her hands instinctively and caught the simple talisman as it fell into her hands.
“We’ll start simple, then. Tomorrow. You need to start work on the bow, leave your crossbow behind for now--don’t worry, you will have help.
