( Please enjoy. Editing and critique is much appreciated)
One
The judgement had come sooner and swifter than Rygeir had expected. The Rymmyran courts were notorious for their long judicial processes, but they had come to a decision in only a day. Perhaps this was just his luck as of late.
He stood flanked by four armed guardsmen, wearing their ceremonial armor. Rygeir was held in shackles and had four long chains leading to each of the four guards, making it impossible for him to escape even if he wanted to. With everything that had happened in the whirlwind that had been his life for the past two months, he didn’t much feel like running from anything. With a heavy sigh Rygeir raised his eyes up to the three men announcing his fate at the top of the judicators podium, each man eyeing him with a stern glare as they continued to speak.
“…And by the city of Rymmyra, Lord Sovereign Pavell Halkier, and the Divines above who bless us with mercy, you are hereby sentenced to permanent exile.”
There was a low murmuring that came throughout the room.
So, Rygeir thought to himself with a small smile, that’s what you’ve bought me Pavell. A quick death would have been preferable. There was the hammering of a judicators gavel that came as the volume of the crowd began to grow. Silence. The judicator continued.
“…Forbidden from the lands of the west and all holdings under the Baleron name. You are stripped of your titles, your endowments, and all that befits your house’s name. Do you have anything to say for yourself before those of the court?”
Rygeir stood at this moment, the chains and cuffs around his ankles and wrists clinking in the immediate echoing silence. Everything he was, everything that he had done in his forty three years of life had come to an end in just one day. It was the end for him. There was nothing more to say. The man at the top of the three tiered judicial stand gave Rygeir a snide look.
“Even in guilt, you can say nothing for yourself such a man as you?” Rygeir simply stood still. Stoic, despite of it all. “You should consider yourself lucky that you are not meeting your fate at the headsman’s block.” The judicator continued. “It is only by the Lord Sovereign’s command that you are spared the penalty of death.”
“That’s quite enough Judicator Rees.” A booming voice said from the opposite end of the large courthouse. Rygeir stared back at the Lord Sovereign himself, who stood upon the royal dais across from the high judicators podium. The older man that had been one his best friends, and perhaps still was given the sentence. Rygeir returned his gaze to the high judicator
“I know what I have done.” He said without remorse. “Do not waste my time with talk.” He turned to the throng of people around him who had started shouting and jeering, with threats of violence and death coming from every direction. Calls for order rang in the hall, yet Rygeir didn’t hear any of it. He was searching for sapphire eyes and a long train of sandy hair. Of the woman he had once been betrothed to. The woman who had betrayed him. He found her sitting in a terrace section high above the court standings. Gods, she was still as beautiful as ever, and even her grimace of pain when their eyes met did not hide the beauty. Oh Tris, my love. How could you? Their eyes met and the events that had occurred flashed in his memory.
It had been a tourney on a warm day, full of laughter and revels, dedicated to the bravery of the acts Rygeir had committed during the war in Parsenius. He, being the Knight Captain of Lord Sovereign Pavell Halkier, Lord of Rymmyra, had fought with him and saved the Lords life from seven Seraphs, or the assassins of the sand kingdom in that southern continent. He had fought to near exhaustion as Lord Halkier lay injured behind him against a rock face. Rygeir held strong until forces arrived. They had dedicated this bravery with the tournament that many in the Rymmyra Province had come to see. There had been jousting, trials of the sword, even Faelyn magicians for hire had come from the great woods to the east. It had all been in great revelry until the night came, and the festivities retired. Rygeir had not seen his wife Tristan for many an hour, and when he came to his chambers looking for her, he found her entangled with another man. The fury had been blazing hot, and within his rage he did not find out the man he slew rabidly had been his own brother Ulrich. The chaos that had ensued still mystified him in its whirlwind.
Tristan wove the lies expertly shortly thereafter. She had to if she meant to save herself. How she had managed to spin the tale and implicate Rygeir had been masterfully done. She played the part of the confused, innocent woman perfectly. He remembered her shrills and screeches of how Rygeir had come in drunk to her and Ulrich simply talking. A jealous rage had come swiftly after, her dress has been torn to shreds and Ulrich posed as the gallant hero protecting her. Rygeir’s mind was a madness afterwords.
After he had been thrown into the Rymmyran dungeon under the palace, Tristan had visited him, explaining without remorse that she had been in her affair with Ulrich for many years when Rygeir had left for war, and five years later had come back to a changed woman who hated him for leaving, and had found comfort with a man who had been there for her and the children Rygeir and she had shared. It had been pure chance that Rygeir had found her in the throes of passion that night. Rygeir had almost killed her as well, and probably should have as he stared into her cold eyes. It was not mercy or rage that had stayed his hand.
Two men came and took his arms into their grip, leading him down the steps onto the path out of the court. He was pelted with jeers and calls of Kinslayer as the men lead him out of the courtroom. As he was led out of the main doors by his jailers, there were guards wearing the hard iron armament and red sashes of the Lord Sovereign’s house waiting for him.
“Lord Halkier wishes to talk to the prisoner. Leave him with us.” Rygeir said nothing as he was handed over. The soldiers escorted him through the gates of the judicial building and down its stairway. An ornate coach was waiting for him, flanked by more of the Lord Sovereign’s men. As the side door of the coach was thrust open for him, Rygeir saw Lord Sovereign Halkier waiting inside. He wore simple attire for a Lord, hard leather and a cloak made of bearskin and fur. The Stag of the Midlands embroidered in the leather of his vestment. Rygeir entered and sat opposite to him without a word, and waited for the Lord to speak. Pavell Halkier was an older man, not yet fifty but looking a decade older than he was. His grey hair spilled over his shoulders and was tied back in several places along his mane. His beard matched his hair as it settled a thumbs length from his face, deep brown eyes that looked rather innocently at Rygeir.
“You look like shit.” He finally said. Rygeir smirked.
“What would you expect?” He pulled at the chain between his wrist irons taut for the Lord to see. Pavell gave him a short smile in return. “I suppose I should be thanking you for the reduced sentencing.” Rygeir paused for a moment, thinking of the faces of his children. “Execution is not something a child should ever see.”
“It was the least I could do for you in all of your years of service Rygeir.” There was a short pause before Lord Halkier continued.”You’ve never told me much about them, close as we were. How old are they?” the older man asked. Images of Rygeir’s children flashed into his mind without hesitation.
“Gareth is fourteen. A strong lad.” Rygeir began, “Wants to be a soldier just like his father. Meryne is eight, and looks more like her mother every day. Talis is four, and still young enough to want to see faeries in her bedroom at night.” Rygeir felt a throbbing in his throat as he said their names. He would likely never see them after this. He brought his eyes to meet Pavell’s, the Lord looking onto him with pity. “If I could ask one last request of your Lordship…?” Pavell waved his hand and gently nodded to him.
“Don’t worry old friend, they will be looked after and well cared for.” Rygeir bowed his head to his old friend, whose face turned more stern like in appearance. “I thought of asking about your wife,’ Lord Halkier said, his voice angry. “but I figured she was nothing more than an afterthought in your mind as of recent events.” The grim tone won Rygeir over.
“It is better we not speak of Tris.” Lord Halkier laughed.
“You’re a better man than I. If my wife ever bedded another man, she wouldn’t live to see a new dawn.” The Lord paused. Rygeir knew that Pavell knew the truth about the events that had occurred the night of Ulrich’s murder. Ulrich had led the countries defense in Rygeir’s stead and the people had loved him. There was little Lord Halkier could do to sway them. “I wish the outcome had been different.” he said. Rygeir only nodded his thanks, his ability to speak leaving him as weeping threatened. Pavell leaned forward as Rygeir put his head in his hands for a moment.
“Where will you go?” he asked calmly. Rygeir shook his head.
“I haven’t a clue. Where do exiled men go to die?”
“I would rather this exiled man find new meaning for himself and live.” Pavell said. Rygeir looked up at him with confused eyes. “You are one of my knights, and you have been steadfast in that duty for twenty years. You’ve always been of loyal service to me and have saved my life on many occasions. If you cannot be welcome in my sovereignty than I would see you find new purpose elsewhere.”
“I am too old to start anew.” Rygeir protested. “I have a family...”
“You had a family.” Pavell stated. Rygeir heard the sympathy in his voice. “A family you must forget. You chose that when you brought your sword down upon your brother.” Pavell said without hesitation. “I do not condone your actions Rygeir, but you know the law. Even if the cause were just, kinslaying is punishable by death. I spared you that with what power I had. Your family, your old life, these things must remain behind you. You know can never see them again after today.”
“I know.” Rygeir whispered, tears flowing freely from his eyes. Had he been the man he had been before all this, Rygeir would never have taken the tone with his Lord. Pavell did not seem to mind.
“Have you thought of the other countries to go to? Some say Emberland is quite beautiful in the summertime. Perhaps Tamerlayn across the river?” Rygeir tried to give the older man a smile, and it came as a half one at that. Rygeir only shook his head as a knock sounded from the left of him. “My Lord Halkier, we must be away.” said the muffled voice of the coach driver. The doors to the Lord Sovereign’s carriage opened to Halkier’s guardsmen waiting patiently. They took Rygeir by the arms as he came out. The two shared one last look upon one another.
“Find peace, Rygeir. That is my final command to you. Find peace and live free.” Pavell said to him with a concerned smile. Rygeir nodded with a faked smile as the door closed in front of him, and he was led from the square.
The city of Rymmyra left him when the two men on horseback led Rygeir over the first hill. The fields and tilled farmland of his home spread before him within the setting sun as they led him down the dirt path to his home outside the city. He had loved this land ever since he was a boy, living on his family’s plot they had settled on so many years ago. The Baleron estate had been well built on a hill overlooking the rivers and byways that led to many a village and cottage to the north, much as Rymmyra itself had been built upon. As he walked the road, Rygeir wondered what his mother and father would have thought of him, were they still alive. Old age had taken them long before he had married Tris and settled. Would they be ashamed of him? Or was Ulrich speaking to them thusly in the heavens, damning him to the hellfire for eternity? Rygeir smirked at the thought as he was prodded by harsh words from one of his guards to move faster.
Another bend in the south road came before the Baleron estate was plainly seen on the horizon. Fifty three acres of wooded foothills alongside the Arrowrush river, along with three orchards and enough farmland to employ workers for the years harvest of grain. His home was the bigger house that lay on the top hill, surrounded by woods on three sides with farm land in the front. The building had been made from old stone and wood thatch from the trees. It was old wood, and as Rygeir stepped onto the path held by the wooden gate of his childhood, it smelled of sweet ash wood smell in his nostrils. The flowers and bushes that ran parallel down the stone path were tended by scowling gardeners and weeders, who watched him as he passed them, guards remaining in close proximity. The strong oak door with his families history came before him. He touched the wood with cuffed hands and pressed to open it.
The interior was of a recent warmth, yet the fires in their hearths had been put out from the summer heat. The rooms to his left and right were dark, and the long stair that led to the upper bedrooms only had a few lanterns lit. On the steps were three children, two girls and a boy, with a midwife in tow watching them. They all had a bevy of expressions as he walked through the threshold from the door.
“Father!” A young girl called. Rygeir could only smile as his youngest girl sped towards him and wrapped her arms around his leg.
“There there Meryne, it’s all right.” He ruffled her bright blonde hair and kissed her brow. The other two children were not as welcoming. Rygeir moved his gaze from the second youngest girl to her older brother. Gareth was fourteen, strong and tall for his age, and he shared his mothers scowl. Talis looked indifferent to him, as if he was more of a stranger than her father. Rygeir looked to the guards beside him as they dismounted, stern looks in their eyes. “Can I not say goodbye to my own children in some peace?” The guards shook their head.
“We have our orders Kinslayer.” Rygeir sighed, shaking his head in disdain. He saw that at the foot of the stair a sack and heavy coat were ready for him. Meryne’s golden irises looked flush with tears as she clung to him.
“Do you really have to go?” she pleaded, her voice breaking his heart with every word.
“Yes. I’m so sorry I can’t stay, but you know the laws of our country. I have committed a crime, and must be punished.” He paused as he saw Tris standing at the top of the stair. She loomed over him like a slender shadow, her frame adorned in a gown of beige and brown linens, her arms crossed under her breasts. He glowered at her with as much venom as he could muster. Her gaze only looked at him with pleasure. “Even though the crime was not mine.” He lowered his eyes and gave his daughter a smile.
“You must take care of Talis for me. Make sure she doesn’t come to too much trouble. Remember to skin your knees, play in the dirt, and stand strong.” Meryne only nodded before throwing her arms around his neck. He pushed Talis off his leg and gestured for the guards to release him. They did so warily, with one having a steady, precautionary hand on the hilt of his blade. Rygeir rubbed the pain from his wrists and stepped towards the stair and his new belongings. The cloak itself was one of his fathers, and was tattered in some places. The sack smelled of food stored in the pantry. Rygeir reached down to take the coat when Gareth stepped to him, tears in his eyes. Rygeir gave him the same stern stare.
“You’re a monster.” Gareth choked. “I never want to see you again.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way Gareth. Take care of your siblings. They will need you now more than ever. Remember your training. Guard up at all times. Strike with instinct, not anger.”
“I know.” Gareth growled, spit coming from his adolescent lips. “You will never tell me what to do to keep my family safe again.”
“And he won’t my dear.” Tris’s voice called in the silence that came. Rygeir turned to see Tris, still adorned in her courtroom dress at the door. She stepped in and sauntered over to the children. “Everyone to the dinner room, I believe Alva has prepared a special treat for you. Be good for me and eat your supper before bed. Go on.” Talis and Meryne looked at him longingly before Gareth ushered them away. Rygeir only stared in sadness and in devout anger as his eyes followed his children around the bend into the dining room. Perhaps for the last time.
“Now.” Tristan began, standing her ground before him. “We come down to it then.” Rygeir’s anger refocused on the beast who stood before him.
“We come to nothing.” he spat. He saw Tris’s face morph into some form of quiet pleasure without any sort of annoyance at his comment. It did nothing to stay his anger.
“Where do you leave to?” she asked almost pleasantly, her lips curving into a small smile of gratification. Rygeir only shrugged his shoulders as he hefted the pack set aside on the stair onto his shoulders.
“Why do you care?” he asked with a growl. “If I go north into the frozen tundra or south into the riverlands, it will make no use to you. I’ll be gone.” As he turned the guards stepped in front of him. “And you will get all you have ever wanted in my stead. You will finally be rid of me as you had always wished. After all I have done for you.” Rygeir took a look at his wife, this woman who had been so much more and so different in the past, and yet it was all for naught. “Was I not a good husband to you? Did I not care for you during hard times when the harvest was bare and the winters grew cold? Did I not love you enough?” Tris stared into him again, like she had so many times this day.
“No, Rygeir. If you think that your death will ease my pain, you are sorely mistaken. I do not have everything I have ever wanted in this world. I do not have Ulrich. I do not have your brother to warm my bed and my heart.” Her eyes seemed to quiver for a moment as the name came to her lips, but she stifled it quickly. “My dreams of happiness died when you took him from me.” Rygeir’s visage became black with hate.
“At least that is the only blessing I’ll receive from all this. For I have nothing left to give.” He hefted the pack, his only thought being of his children, and passed her roughly, pausing for a moment at the threshold of the door. He turned and pointed an accusing finger at her. “I do not know whether the gods favor me after my treachery, but if they do, I beg them to guide you to a bitter end. And if all is truly just in this world, I will be there to see it.”
With that Rygeir took hold of one of the straps of his pack in one hand and a spare walking stick in another, and ventured out past the gate onto the dirt road. The sun was beginning to set, he would only have a number of hours until he would need to bed for the night, but he set out on a slow pace along an eastern road, towards the last brightness of the sun.
He had only his thoughts to comfort him as he began his trek east, past the rolling hills of his home. It was quiet on the eastern road, the crunching of the dirt under his boots the only steady heartbeat of sound. The road he was on began to run alongside the Arrowrush as he turned from another set of farmhouses. What had been the stream next to his home was now a wide berth of a slow moving river on his right, with a sparse wood of patchwork oaks and brown furs to his left. The golden sunlight still brightened the sky and gave Rygeir some comfort. Rymmyra had always been a beautiful country, and he had been very fortunate to have lived and grown in such a place. Now he would leave it all behind, bound for an unknown destination and possibility.
When the eastern road turned away from the sun, Rygeir found himself on the top of a hillside, overlooking a valley of rolling olive hillsides filled with grain and an expansive edge of a forest barely seen in the waning sunlight in the distance. The patchwork of trees ended where the road descended downward into the farmland. On the southern end of this vast and beautiful landscape, Rygeir could see just the edge of the outer wall of the main city. For a moment he stared at it, at the solid stone high tower that struck up from the wall ascended into the sky and put a shadow over the remaining path of the Arrowrush. The violet flag of Halkier turned black by the evening light. He stared at it, waving in the wind, and remembered a time when he held a banner with the Stag embroidered in gold on the cloth. The flag of the land he had sworn his life to, now nothing except the cloth in which it was made. He would never regain his honor. Not in this land.
He set down the cooled evening path and turned from it, taking his walk into the grasses of a farm, leading away from the city. It was here after another hour of walking, that the capitol city fell away and Rygeir set down for the first night. The sky was wondrously clear, and the three moons were bright in the sky as Rygeir sat down in the grass. Cavanos, Melar, and Trimane were so named by the historians that first documented them. Cavanos was the largest of the three, and close enough to see craters on its surface veiled by what Rygeir thought to be an oil of unknown universal make. Melar was a crescent form that rested just behind Cavanos, as if it were a son or daughter young enough to ride atop the shoulders of its father moon. Trimane was little more than a sliver seen in the middle of two bright star fields, each as encapsulating as the sky itself.
Rygeir removed the length of his cloak and laid it down over the grass before laying his pack down upon it. He fumbled with the opening clasp for a moment before it came loose, and he reviewed the contents. He was surprised to find that it was moderately full. Of his rations, Rygeir had a loaf of hard bread was wrapped in a thin cloth that rested against three apples and a large pouch of dried horse meat. He removed them and placed the food next to him as he continued his search. Beyond what he had removed was another set of clothes taken from his work wardrobe. Next was a leather bound booklet and a rolled scroll tied with string. When he took the scroll out and opened it separately, he found a strongly detailed map of the continent. The etchings of Rymmyra and its sister countries of Corvaal, Bower, Talinor to the north, and Emberland were displayed along the page. He mused over the map for another minute or so before rolling it back up and tying it closed. He opened the leather bound book only to find it empty. A journal perhaps? Rygeir shut it and moved it aside without a second thought. With the main compartment of the pack bare. Rygeir shifted his hands to the other pockets. A hard metal handle greeted his palm, and he withdrew a small shape razor. Rygeir almost broke into tears when he saw the carved sigil of his house on the flat side of the blade. It had been his fathers, and he wondered who had placed it so secretly into a pack meant for exile. Rygeir smiled at the thought that one of his children may have placed it.
He found nothing else within and set the items found back to where they belonged. He broke a small piece of bread from the load and began to eat, looking up into the starlight above. Perhaps it was a good idea to come up with a plan, Rygeir thought. Everything had happened faster than he expected, and now that he was a man of the path, he took the next hour to muse over where he might go. Rygeir also wondered just how far the news of his exile would lead him. He had been an important nobleman in Lord Sovereign Halkier’s regime, so staying within the boundaries of his own country was not a path. He wondered if Tristan would put a bounty on his head. He chuckled ruefully as the thought crossed his mind. If she sent someone after him, he would be even harder pressed to survive as he was.
He lay back and placed his hands behind his head, resting against his cloak and pack. It was midsummer, and the autumn colds would not come for many months. He could get reasonably far on foot, and had trekked many miles before. He was also younger then. Faster. Stronger. He made the map of the known world in his minds eye, and began to contemplate. Since his exile was well known throughout Rymmyra, his homeland was not an option to stay near unless he became some form of hermit within the various woodlands or townships. The likeliness of someone finding him or him becoming recognized was more than fair. The northland of Talinor was also out of the question. It was steeped in mysticism and magic of the Faelyn, a race of immortals more content with themselves than a human exile from the south. Their borders were well kept and guarded closely. Rygeir put it out of his mind almost as it came to him.
As he was on an easterly path, the kingdom of Bower was also less than appealing. Bower was a fractured country ruled by three brothers who had cut the land into slices after brief wars of cock showing. The eldest brother of the Bower Kings, Barastus Odeme had won decisively and now held the capitol of Brindenhall, giving his younger brothers Growen and Eward paltry states to govern. They were more like halls to die in, and the land given to those who survived their countries descent into crime and disorder. Rygeir may be welcome in such a place if his throat was not cut within the first year. That left the countries of Corvaal, to the west and in Rygeir’s opposite direction, and Emberland to the south. Both of which Rygeir had never been to and heard little about save for stories.
Corvaal had been the crown jewel of the continent for many hundreds of years. The steel wrought citadel of Adamantien ruling as an iron fist at the seat of a large expanse of mountains that stretched from the middle of the country to the ocean to the south. It was a flat country of sparse farmland and moorland, with keeps and outposts stretching along its borders. It was a harsher place than Rygeir had ever known, yet nothing consistent had been heard from that country since the old ruler had ceased communication from the other countries years ago. That left Emberland.
There were many reasons why the place was named the Land of Fire. Emberlanders were a hardy, tough people, prone to aggression and quick to anger. It was said the the fires that had made that country were inside the blood of their people, giving them protection against the sun scorched landscape of desert mesas, long stretching dune seas, and rocky crags. Those that lived within the country stayed to the rivers that carved long swaths in the landscape, creating large canyons teeming with life. Beyond those few cities was an impenetrable barrier of mountains that had never been successfully charted.
Rygeir sighed and rolled onto his side, thoughts of his future and many questions needing answering still in his mind. He would have to decide much over the next years of his life. That night, Rygeir knew he would have to create himself a new identity, and find some place to call home. He didn’t have much, but he did have a direction. East would carry him to the Ashwood Forest, and in it’s dense trees he would think and contemplate. Rygeir settled into his cloak and pack, and with a slight breeze on the summer air, sleep came to him.
Two
Crev was not a nice place. It was dirty and held most unsavory folk, and it was one reason why Corth Drogoon found it a more hospitable place than he had ever found. It was a first love of his, but tonight the city was becoming a rather annoying bitch in heat. Corth had set himself against the outside of the Elendrine Tap House, Crev’s more profitable tavern of swindlers and whoresons, and was watching his mark with apt attention. The Elendrine sat at the head of a five pointed causeway of mud street, teeming with far too many people. Merchant stalls were set parallel on either side of the main roadways, which meant all the shit that accumulated on those five outer streets came straight into the main wheel square. Far too many people occupied the square in most rowdy fashion. Since Corth stood with his back to the Elendrine, he had a masterful eye of everything that was happening. Corth fingered the pommel of the sword strapped to his waist and blew a strand of chestnut hair out of his face. He watched intently as he saw his mark, a young man in a drainage green doublet and dirt strewn leather trousers sleuthing his way from stall to stall, gazing at the vendors and their wears. Corth had followed this bastard all the way from Vaden, and the prospect of finally getting what was owed was stretching Corth’s patience thinner than he liked. What made things worse was that the bastard had himself a fivesome of sellswords that followed his every move.
Corth turned away from his mark when a familiar scent of rose petal sand wine came to his nostrils, and the lovely sight of Jessabine’s tailored finery sidled up next to him.
“Well? Did we find him?” Jessabine asked, pulling the length of her tanned hair behind her head.
“Aye, I did. He’s been sifting through the trader merchandise for the better part of the day. Looks like he has some hired help with him too.”
“How many?” Jessabine questioned anxiously.
“Not sure. Maybe eight guys. More than I’d like.” Corth’s eyes traveled the length of Jessabine’s figure, sleek and curved in all the right places. She caught his grey eyes in her own brilliantly intelligent blues before flicking a finger towards the street.
“Hey. Keep your eyes on a swivel, Drogoon.” Corth smirked and folded his arms, returning his eyes to the mark.
“Just enjoying the landscape Jessabine.” She smirked and set her back against the wall.
“Figure out a plan yet?”
“A few come to mind yes.” Corth said. The mark and his protection began moving through the crowd toward one of the three south streets. He would be out of eyesight in a moment or two. “Come on.” Corth said with a smile before nodding to Jessabine. The two began walking as casually as possible away from the Elendrine, following the marks path. The streets were crowded enough that Corth had more than a little trouble following the man, but as he came down the tight street the mark had come down, the crowds began to let up. Corth checked over his shoulder to find Jessabine in tow, a good distance behind. They shared a short lived smile before something halted Corth’s walk. A bald man a head taller than Corth and all manner of ugly stood in front of him with a grimace. Corth took a step back and adjusted his leather trench coat.
“You following me?” The bald man said. Corth thought he heard the crack of a knuckle as the man stood over him.
“Not at all. Mind must’ve gotten away from me there, didn’t see you just then.” Corth replied, taking a step forward before being pushed back by a heavy hand. The area around the two of them seemed to widen as people around them began giving them a wider berth. “Do we have an issue needs addressing?” Corth asked as politely as he could muster. His eyes came wider as the mark, the man in the green doublet and leggings, came up beside the bald man. Corth sighed and took a step back, only to see the other four members of the marks posse circle him.
“I believe we do.” the man in green said with obvious pleasure. “I apologize, where are my manners? I don’t believe we have been introduced.”
“We surly haven’t.” Corth said. He put on the air of someone who was profoundly pondering why someone would be at all interested in him. “Not sure why upstanding citizens of Crev would be looking my way. Especially on a beautiful day such as this.”
“Cut the lies out of your tongue friend, I know you’ve been following me. Am I really that pretty for a sly boy like you?” the man growled. Corth scoffed and out his arms out in a mock defense.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. You say following you? Why I haven’t been in this lovely shit hole of a city more than a day. Certainly wasn’t following you.” The mark and his cronies stepped closer, some slid their hands deeper into their pockets. He gave Corth a wicked smile of semi broken teeth before stepping away from the five surrounding him.
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you, sir. We’ll be taking your purse and possessions now, as a downpayment for future misunderstandings.” They drew wicked looking cutlery from their sides and gave him a wide berth. Corth only sighed and drew his own. A moments movement from his left and Corth sank the blade of his sword into the side of his first attacker, blood spraying from the wound as Corth slid the blade forward through his abdomen. A second moment later and Corth blocked the haft of an axe aimed for his shoulder, sliding his blade up the leatherbound wood into the man’s fingers. With a howl of pain the axe was dropped and he fell back into the mud. A breath in the wildness came, giving Corth more than enough time to adjust to the three remaining.
“Didn’t I not make it clear that I did not want any sort of unkindness among folk?” Corth growled as a halfhearted thrust from the scrawny looking fellow with a blade too heavy for him came. An easy flick later and the man’s hand along with the blade was tossed into the dirt. A swift kick from Corth’s boot shut him up and put him out of the fight. With two remaining, the men had the good sense to come at him simultaneously, causing Corth to back step and parry. They backed him against the archway to the square where they had just been and Corth took an uneasy step back as a blade to his head. A duck and roll came after along with bits of the broken brickwork of the archway as Corth came to his feet. He was about to launch his own attack when a whirling dagger faster than the wind lodged itself in the neck of one of his attackers. Corth smirked as Jessabine came from above the archway, long daggers in either hand, and sank both into the shoulders of the other man, her tanned hair matching the dirt that mucked about the garments of the people of Crev. The man collapsed to his knees as Jessabine slid the daggers up into his neck, snapping them together at his throat before removing them. Corth tipped his fingers in a mock bow to her.
“Thank’s for the assist my dear. Now onto business.” Corth smiled as he approached the mark, his own sword had been drawn yet the man looked in no shape to fight. A certain, familiar stench wafted into Corth’s nose and he smiled. The bastard had shit himself muddy.
“Now where were we. I must apologize and admit that I was indeed following you. You see, we’ve been following you all the way from Farrowstone once we got our contract.” Croat withdrew a small leather square from his coat. He dangled the badge of the Hunters in front of the man’s face, two red serpents entwined at the neck with gold flowing from their mouths. The man’s eyes fell in shock. “We’re Hunters you see, and we get paid good coin to do it. A client in Bower has been upset by your current dealings. Six hundred gold was the price for you, Mr. Fletching.” Corth brought his blade up under the man’s sweating, fear stricken head to meet his chin. “And the contract didn’t say you needed to be alive for me to claim it.”
The Elendrine Tap House was bustling with joyous music and was packed to the brim with the commonfolk returning from the days work. The Elendrine was a three tiered old tower of Bower’s history that had been crafted into the best inn in the eastern kingdom. It was named for the housemistress that had run the place for most of her live, and when she passed the inn was named in her stead. The Elendrine was a marvel among the tavern industry. It boasted a six round keg backbar with the longest stand Corth had ever seen, as the thing could sit more than fifty at a time. It certainly kept the barmaids and matrons on their feet, especially with the normal rabble that came after sundown. Numerous booths lined with wood and emerald cushions surrounded the large stage that sat in the middle of the tavern. Minstrels that danced and played a number of flutes, stringed instruments, and drums were beating away a lovely half drunk song, supposedly named “The Charm of Lydia”, as the crowd around them sloshed about in a mosh.
Corth sat with his feet on the wooden settle of a booth on the second floor, a mug of a dark ale in his hand and the long end of his tobacco pipe in between smiling lips. Jessabine sat across from him, picking at her nails with one of her wicked daggers that had been washed clean before they sat down to revel in their good fortune.
“You know,” Jessabine said in a half lament as she pried dirt from her fingernails on her right hand, “I’m surprised you kept that poor sop going for a bit rather than stick him good as soon as we seen him.”
“Manners Jessabine.” Corth sad dryly before taking another long draught of his ale. “The game was still afoot, and I didn’t know if those men with equally large stickers were among his employ.” Jessabine scoffed.
“Then why didn’t you let me have a go at him then? I could have made quick work of him and his men. Especially since the damn bounty didn’t require him to be breathing before turning in.” Corth cleared his throat and gave her a devilish smile.
“Where’s the fun in that? Besides you’re often a bit hasty with those knives in your grip.” Corth put his feet down and under the table before leaning forward, wiping his brow with the side of the hand that still gripped his mug. “We did the job. We got paid what was owed. Now isn’t the time for idle chit-chat about the mark and how we might have done things different. Now’s the time for drink and well won revel.” With a smile Corth took the larger tankard next to their empty plates, and with a smile he poured the remainder of the ale into Jessabine’s cup, eliciting a rueful smile.
“Six hundred gold is hardly a healthy sum Drogoon, as I remember keenly that our last job offered double at first haggle.” Corth only sighed and sat back, gazing down at the players atop the stage finish their lay to the sound of thunderous applause.
“Not every job can be glamorous Jess, you of all people should know that.” Corth mused when the noise died down some. “Fletching was weak tea compared to some of our more prestigious work, but he was the only one worth going for in Farrowstone’s bounty House.” Jessabine raised one of her eyebrows.
“And that doesn’t worry you?”
“Why would it?”
“This seasons culling of unsavory types has been leaner than usual, don’t you think?” Corth shook his head and shrugged, tipping more of his ale into his mouth.
“These things happen sometimes. Some Houses have no contracts at all, then you have to go on and do respectable tasks for savory folk or move on to the next House in some other city. Reputable work has a certain uncurling of one’s bowels if I may say so. Especially for the likes of us.” That seemed to placate her for a moment. The thought of reputable work for sneak thieves and bounty hunters was not a thing that Corth nor Jessabine had much stomach for. That line of thinking was dangerous. If you started taking jobs that had more reputable standards, you would get noticed. Nothing was worse for a Hunter than being noticed. Renown only came so far within the others in the guild, and that was only spoken among those folk. Any other kind was bound for things of an ill nature.
“Besides,” Corth said, regaining his smile from before, “I’ve already found another job for us.” There was a perk in Jessabine’s manner that made Corth smile broaden. The feel of the unknown as well as the thrill of the chase was a drug Jessabine wouldn’t be kicking any time soon. Corth took another sip before continuing, lingering the ale’s nutty taste in his cheeks before swallowing. “We’re to meet Cassan at the river docks tomorrow morning.”
“Do we know anything about the job?” Jessabine questioned. Corth shook his head.
“Not a word so far. Only that he want’s us there bright and early before the cock’s call.” He noticed Jessabine’s eyes pierce his when they met his own. He cursed in his mind. The girl always had a knack for knowing when he was telling her less than she wanted.
“There’s something up with you. You might as well tell me what Cassan said. I can always tell when your being less than honest.” Corth pursed his lips before shaking his head.
“I don’t think it’s anything to be looking at, but Cassan did seem a might on the skittish side when I read his letter briefly. Someone or something’s got him spooked, but then again Cassan is more than the jittery type.” Jessabine’s face was unreadable as Corth finished the last of his ale. He leaned in after setting his upturned mug on the table. “We’ll be fine.” he said reassuringly. “I wouldn’t mind going after something more interesting this time around.”
“Interesting oftentimes means dangerous.” Jessabine rebuked, giving positive inflection on the last word. Croat laughed.
“And thats a problem for you?” Corth asked with mock surprise. Jessabine feigned a smile before sipping out of her tankard.
“Of course not. I’m all for a good scrap, but ones that I can see coming. I’m not much for ones that spring from the blue. We’ve been through plenty of jobs that went south. As much as I love stitching you up after you’ve been stuck Corth, I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite pastime.” Jessabine’s eyes lowered when she finished, and Corth made his way out of his chair and sat next to her on the other side. He placed a gentle hand along her cheek, shifting her eyes to meet his.
“You know I love you for it.” Jessabine gave him a small smile before he leaned up and kissed her softly. After they parted, she gave him a playful slap across the shoulder.
“Why mister you wouldn’t be trying to seduce me would you?” Corth only smiled as strong strums of wood instruments and the singing from below started again.
They left the Elendrine at first light the next day. The streets of Crev were relatively silent as Corth and Jessabine came through the emerald doors of the Elendrine and into the main square. The clocktower made of masonry ascended into the sky in their wake, the hands pointing to the early morning. As they passed through the township, several constables in burgundy and silver patrolled the street that had been the scene of the previous days scrap with their mark. As Corth and Jessabine passed them, Corth took notice that the eyes of the constabulary were beginning to take note of them. Yet the continued unhampered by them. When they turned the corner from that road onto another, Corth sighed uneasily. Jessabine only smiled and continued onward.
They made it to Crev’s main waterway within the next half hour, and already fishermen, traders, and dockworkers were bustling about their duties. Corth took the lead and began walking down a stairway into the undercarriage of one of the long bridges that spanned the north side of Crev from the south. Jessabine followed close behind as they made their way, careful not to bump into the many workers around them. Another tight corridor between two large crate carts flowing with interesting smelling boxes came before they saw the familiar visage of Cassan standing alone at the edge of the long dock. He was a broad man, twenty stone and brimming with a long, shaggy beard that descended from a mug that wasn’t that far off from a pigs. He turned as the two approached, breathing long into a elongated pipe tube and spewing foul smelling smoke into the air around his bald head.
“You’re late.” Cassan said, smoke trailing from his mouth. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t be coming.”
“Oh come now Cassan,” Corth joked half heartedly. “We’re here on time. Dawn and at the lower wharfway was the meet, and I do believe I hear a cock-a-callin’. Since your already looking to put us on the defensive about us being late right away, means something’s gone wrong.” Corth stared at Cassan for a moment, taking the vile looking man in with sharp eyes. “Now we have had our fair share of unpleasantness since we arrived in this little shit hole of a town, tracking the mark that you sent us after all the way from Vaden. You even followed us to make sure we did the work, which by the way, doesn’t make me feel as appreciated as I might be inclined to considering our history. So why don’t you cut things clear for us and speak your piece?” Cassan snorted and spit a foul looking globule into the river. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment with a wax seal. He held it up for Corth and Jessabine to see.
“This particular job is a sensitive matter Drogoon. If you were me I think you would also be a mighty tetchy with it.” Corth rolled his eyes and walked up to Cassan.
“In that case I’m glad I’m not you.” he said before snatching the parchment from Cassan’s weighty fingers. He eyed the seal on the wax marking with keen interest. Two stags, one dancing the other grazing on a soft line below that Corth assumed was a hill. “Who’s the client?” Corth asked, breaking the seal.
“Not anyone we know in House.” Cassan stated, watching closely as Jessabine circled them both and began laying her belongings in a small boat tied to the dock. “That parchment is not to leave your possession Drogoon. Orders from Dagger Brond himself.” Corth turned to him with wider eyes than he had before.
“This comes from the Housemaster?” Cassan nodded.
“Aye. One of his agents gave it to me personally.” That immediately brought Corth to attention.
“I thought he didn’t like me very much.”
“He doesn’t, yet some things in life cannot be avoided.”
“Then why aren’t you taking the job?” Corth asked, a chill running through him. Cassan’s expression of lingering fear gave Corth reason to be alarmed before the words came from his mouth.
“See for yourself.” Corth unrolled the parchment and began to read.
This contract, obeying the laws and rules of the Hunter’s of Annara, is to be given directly to Hunter Corth Drogoon. Should another Hunter come into possession of this contract, any action taken to make the contract complete is subject to severe penalty. All payments for said Hunter’s completion of the contract are considered void.
Signed,
Liore Uldan, Archivist for Housemaster Dagger Brond.
Corth whistled and lifted his gaze to Cassan, who had begun to nod in understanding. Corth returned his gaze the page and continued to read. There was a scrawled drawing of a man later in his years, with blunt, but handsome looks and a grizzled face that Corth recognized. He knew that visage only belonged to military men. As he continued to read his eyes grew wider and wider with every flourished line.
WANTED DEAD BY A CLIENT OF THE COUNTRY OF RYMMYRA
For the crime of Kinslaying, Sir Rygeir Baleron, Former Knight Captain of
Lord Sovereign Pavell Halkier, is wanted dead for the crime of Kinslaying.
This man is considered extremely dangerous and has high ranking martial experience. Proceed with caution. The contractor, who has chosen to remain anonymous, has placed the bounty for this man at 20,000 Rymmyran gold, to be retrieved with evidence of
the mark’s demise and placed to Housemaster Beylen Rook in Brighthome. The use of discretion has been approved to the Ninth Tenet.
Signed,
Housemaster Dagger Brond - Bower House
Corth finished reading and silently rolled the paper back into its previous form.
“I’ve heard of this man. Tale of his trial went from this side of the land to Tamerlayn and back again. Halkier exiled him from Rymmyra as a kindness instead of taking his head. The man was apparently one of the Lord Sovereign’s greatest knights. Why would someone put a bounty on this man’s head if he’s already been exiled?” Cassan shook his head.
“That’s the rub Drogoon. The House in Rymmyra does not have this bounty on record, nor does any other House for the matter. All information and action is considered Ninth Tenet from here on.” Corth turned and looked pensively into Cassan’s eyes. He caught Jessabine’s eyes grow wide. “The Ninth Tenet? You mean someone actually wants to keep this under the covers?”
“That doesn’t make any sort of sense.” Corth commented. “If it isn’t on record, then how did the Guildmaster come by this?”
“You’re as blind as a shriek-bat Drogoon, can’t you see? This isn’t some back alley mark. Hell this isn’t even close to a respectable mark. Someone went through channels Corth. Someone in the right circles went to a lot of trouble to make this as quiet as it could be. By invoking the Ninth Tenet, whoever propositioned the House is important enough, not to mention wealthy enough, to get away with placing a bounty contract on kings. ”
“Surely the guild would never touch a contract like this.” Jessabine protested from the dingy. “It goes against almost every guild law.”
“I thought the same.” Cassan said. “No one invokes the Ninth without the job being something most important to the security of the realm.” The man turned and gave Corth a sideways glance. “This contract came from the top. You can see Housemaster Brond signed it himself.” Corth shoved the parchment back into the large man’s meaty hands.
“Have it then. I want no part of it.” Cassan didn’t take it and shoved Corth’s hand back.
“I’m afraid you both don’t have a choice in this matter. The contract was not for anyone else. It’s for you.” Cassan said gravely. “You see Corth, unlike your fellow hunters, your pedigree for getting things done efficiently is more renowned than any other. You’re the best damn Hunter in the guild.” Corth looked down to Jessabine, whose eyes were now glaring in his direction.
“I never asked to be good at what I do. I just wanted to go my way and earn coin the only way I know how. I’m no ones fool either.” Corth shook the parchment in his hand in Cassan’s direction. “I always have a choice. You can have it back. I don’t want this. Not even for the promised price.” Corth rebuked. He proffered the scroll and held it over the waters. Cassan didn’t flinch.
“I wouldn’t have guessed that Corth Drogoon would refuse a contract, especially of this magnitude. Didn’t you see the purse on that piece of paper. Twenty thousand Rymmyran gold for a single man.”
“Twenty thousand!” Jessabine exclaimed loudly, getting more than a few eyes from some of the dockworkers around the river. Cassan shut her up immediately with a stern glare before turning back to Corth.
“That’s more money than anyone in our employ has ever ventured for. ”
“Can’t spend a dime if you’re dead, Cassan.” He unfurled the parchment once more, looking over its contents. “But I can’t exactly refuse, can I?”
“I’m afraid not. Not unless you want a price on your own head.” He gripped Corth’s shoulder and gave him a small smile. “Good luck my friend.” With that the large man began walking away towards the stairwell. Corth gripped the parchment tightly in two hands, looking out into the amber dawn that was beginning to rise from the east. Jessabine stood and came to his side.
“I thought we were in the clear.” she said, all remnants of her excitement now receded. Corth shook his head.
“Not anymore.” He slipped the parchment into the interior pocket of his coat and placed his hand on his hips, sighing heavily. “This contract will either be my...our greatest payday yet, or it could be the death of us. Worst part is, it’s non-negotiable, otherwise I wouldn’t have taken it. That much coin for a single man is bound to mean more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Yes,” Jessabine said slowly. “But that is a lot of bloody money. Imagine where we could go with that much coin in our pockets?”
“You want to carry that much?” Corth laughed before taking her into his arms with a smile. “I’m glad I’ve got you to share it with. Well best we get going westward back to Vaden, speak to Massani for more information on this Rygeir Baleron. ”
They stood there for another moment basking in the warmth of the rising sun before setting about their boat, and soon they were off down the river westward.
Three
It was by a soft clearing with a shallow pool that Rygeir began trimming his identity into something new. He stared down at the small water basin and looked into it’s reflection, wondering which way to shape his new identity to. He had thought long and hard about this decision, and with the fact that his face was a notable one in Rymmyra, and possibly it’s sister countries, it seemed wise to look like someone else. Perhaps then he could find himself some work somewhere, shape a new personality and live the rest of his days without hearing the name Rygeir Baleron ever again. That man was dead.
He proffered the small razor he had stolen from a nearby homestead the day before. It had been the first time Rygeir had ever stolen anything in his life. He had mused before the verdict of exile was set about how he would become someone he had fought hard in the city guard to protect against. He thought becoming a sneakthief or a vagabond would be his new future, rather than just the drifter he had now become. He steadied himself with razor in hand, and while facing his reflection Rygeir began to trim his beard. What was once the noble fashion became relatively smooth cheeks, chin, and lips. His shortly cut hair would come after that at a later date, but for now his newly shaven face would have to do.
He swept up a cupful of water between his hands and splashed it onto his face, clearing any loose charcoal and grey hairs that remained. Afterwords he picked up the razor and admired it for a moment. It was a crude thing of barely sharp iron and a wooden haft, yet there were markings along the grip that possibly told a story. This could have been someone’s heirloom, passed from father to son. If he kept it, Rygeir would stop that trend. He wavered on that thought for another moment before tucking it into the breast pocket of his tunic, hearing Pavell Halkier’s words of finding new life before death ringing in his ears. He would repay the man whom he had stolen from one day, somehow.
He set off down the road after a thin breakfast. He had taken account of his supplies beforehand, and already most of the loaf he had been given was gone, he would have to find more food soon. Finding fresh water was not hard, as the Arrowrush still flowed nearby and he could fill his water skin when needed. A week he had been on the road east, and as he walked he found himself within sight of a distant woodland that stretched north to south along the horizon. Rygeir knew this to be the Ashwood. It spanned most of the middle of Rymmyra, encompassed three rivers, and ended into a large plain that spilled into another woodland. Little hamlets spanned this lush farming country until one passed through the second wood. The Heartwood was smaller and shorter, but on the other side of it lay keeps and a rugged countryside of rocky hills and a mountain range than ran into Central Bower. The keeps were the more worrying part of the road east. Coldspring and Riverhall were sisters that ran north to south along the mountains edge with many leagues in between them, but the roads that led to them were often teeming with patrols. Rygeir would find it harder to avoid them should he decide to continue to Bower. He shook the thought of the future off his mind as he continued his walk down an east road. Keeping his mind fixed on where he was going an not the journey was foolhardy, especially when his food stores were nearly dry.
One of his first thoughts that came to his immediate attention was money. Even though he was walking within the midst of summer, Autumn would rear it’s head soon enough, and after that Winter. Winter’s in Rymmyra were cold and snow ridden. Most didn’t come out of their homes save to field livestock or visit the inns. It was a hibernation of a country so to speak, and Rygeir had very little to protect him from those elements. He would need to find coin somewhere. Coin would give him food, lodging, and with enough luck a place to call his own one day. The looming threat of staying in Rymmyra still lingered, but its voice was softer than it was the week before.
He crossed over a small bridge that was built over the Arrowrush and passed into a small village. It was a modest place, sparsely built into the brambles and thickets around it. Rygeir passed through without much notice, though some of the other villagers gave him a wider berth. Rygeir decided to take a chance and walked to what looked to be a loggers cabin. It was a small place, cozy and tight to the tree line and made of stone and thatch. Rygeir knocked softly and was greeted by an older looking man.
“Tidings good sir,” Rygeir began awkwardly, “My name is Narmeth and I’ve been traveling the road a while on my way , I’m looking to make some coin for my journey’s east.”
“I have no charity to give to you sir.” the man said gruffly, before moving his hand against his wood door to close it.
“Please sir, I’m a fair hand with a hammer. I’m willing to work for food if not coin.” the man shook his head and closed the door in front of him, leaving Rygeir to stand alone in it’s threshold. Rygeir sighed and walked back to the road. He made inquiries to the other homesteads and made little progress with the people inhabiting them. No one in this place seemed to want to help a stranger, least of all a wanderer. So Rygeir made his way from the little village back onto the east road. There were sparse more homesteads in the hour that he walked, the sun midway through it’s setting. The ones that he did find looked more unsuitable than the ones he found in town. He was beginning to lose hope for shelter when he saw a last, lonely home sitting atop a hill that looked over a wide range of wheat grass. It was housed in better looking wood and thatch than it’s predecessors, and it’s chimney lead a small strand of smoke from its tip to the outside. Furthermore, Rygeir saw faint shadows of life bustling within. As he came closer, there was an older woman tending to a garden in a large square plot next to the path that led to the door.
“Good eve, my lady.” Rygeir said loud enough for her to hear. Her head popped up from her work. She was looked older at first glance, but now that Rygeir could see her features, she appeared younger, perhaps nearer to his own age. Dirt was smeared over one cheek that led down to a stiff jawbone, and her auburn hair was tied tightly in dual buns behind her head.
“Good eve sir,” she replied, smiling slightly. Her voice sounded noticeably tired no doubt from the days work. “What can I do for you?”
“Well my lady,” Rygeir began, “I’m journeying eastward towards the Ashwood and was looking for somewhere to hang my cloak for the night and rest.” The woman looked at him oddly.
“The tavern in town wasn’t appealing? That’s strange. Raina makes a fine roast this time of year, plus they’ve got barrel aged ale from the south. Heavy stuff for travelers like you.”
“I’m sure they would be if I had coin to purchase them.” The woman nodded in a knowing fashion.
“Then you look for charity this eve.”
“Not at all.” Rygeir quickly affirmed. “I’m a fair hand with a hammer if a board or two in your home needs fixing. I was trained as a smithy by a barracks man long ago, so if a horse of your’s needs shoeing or your furnace needs new parts, I can be of help there as well. If nothing else, let me tend to your garden.” After his speech Rygeir waited for the old woman to rebuke him as so many others in town had done. She only looked at him with eyes that held a hint of pity.
“Oh sir, there’s no need for that kind of talk. Please, come.” she said, beckoning him to come through the homesteads wood and wicker gate. Rygeir smiled and bowed before walking through the threshold of the gate to her. She gave him a small smile and stood. “Gods know I could use the help of an able body. What kind of gardening and planting came about in your history?”
“My mother held a garden much like this one,” Rygeir said, putting his pack down alongside the pathway. “She used to plant many a potato and vegetable in our little home.” The woman laughed and wiped grime from her brow.
“Sound’s like a woman I could have a glass with.” She held out her hand to him. “Theresa.” Rygeir took her hand in his and shook it firmly.
“Carrow.” She smiled and took a step back from the plot in front of her.
“This part is to be filled with carrot seed.” she started, pointing to patches of fresh earth waiting to be tilled. “Hoe it till the ground churns nicely. Shouldn’t take too long. If the sun sets fully before you’re done we can pick it up in the morn.” Rygeir smiled and unclasped the ends of his cloak before folding it next to his pack. He was about to roll his sleeves before Theresa put a hand on his arm.
“Don’t fuss over that. Take it off, your clothes look to be needing a wash.” Rygeir shook his head.
“It’s really no trouble at all Theresa.” She gave him a firm look that reminded Rygeir of his mother.
“Trade goes both ways.” She wiggled her fingers wantonly. “Hand it here. I’ll take your pack and cloak in as well.” Rygeir sighed once before he removed his shirt and handed it to her. She frowned as she looked over his naked torso and made a face. “There’s a stream that runs down a brook, just a short walk that ways. See to wash off the dirt before supper.” Rygeir smiled and nodded.
“Thank you.”
Rygeir worked at the soil and planted most of the seeds before the evening began. It felt good to work. To plow the soil into firm funnels and sprinkle seeds inside before topping them. The familiar strain of labor gave him a certain warmth, one he had not felt since beginning on the road east. When he was finished, he placed the hoe on the side of Theresa’s home before heading down the hill towards the stream. It lay and ran quietly alongside a thicket of elm, and as it twisted south Rygeir could see the line of it run through two more hillsides into the horizon, following a denser wood a league away. He washed himself clean in the chilled waters before heading back to the home. When he knocked on the door, Theresa opened swiftly, and to Rygeir’s surprise, she was not alone.
An older gentleman perhaps in his later years of seventy sat with pipe in hand overlooking a steady flame that flowed in a brick hearth place. His wizened appearance gave no note to his otherwise stocky frame. Theresa smiled and gestured for Rygeir to enter.
“I looked over the garden when you were washing up, well done. You’re mother would be a proud woman Carrow.” Theresa went to the older man overlooking the hearth. “Come on Ferrich, supper’s nearly done. And we’ve got ourselves a guest.” At those words the old man seemed to perk up, rising from the armchair he sat in and turned to Rygeir.
“Oh ho there stranger!” Ferrich boomed boisterously. He swung one of his great arms out and caught Rygeir’s hand before shaking it with surprising strength. “Tidings to you this eve. Come and sit by the fire now and rest those aching bones.” Rygeir nodded and thanked him profusely before doing just that. The warmth of the fire heartened him as he sat with his back to it. Ferrich sat back down in his chair with a long wooden box in his hands. “Do you care for a smoke?” he said, pulling open the lid and producing a long stemmed wooden pipe, much like his own save for it’s mahogany finish.
“That would be wondrous, thank you.” Rygeir said with a smile. As the Knight Captain, he had been forbidden to smoke within the walls of the keep of Rymmyra. Now without those walls, it was something he longed for. Ferrich stuffed the bowl of the pipe with an dark tobac before handing it to him. Rygeir placed the tip of the stem into his mouth as Ferrich brought a match alight, placing it to the bowl. Rygeir took a long draught and smiled as the fresh smoke poured out of his lungs into the open air. The tobac tasted of herb and a slight spice and the smoke smelled surprisingly fresh.
“This is good.” Rygeir said after another puff. “Where does it come from?”
“South,” Ferrich boomed, taking a long puff of his own. “from Vaden I believe. Riverlander’s have fine tastes if you ask me.” He took another puff before resting the bowl to his knee. “Where do ye hail from sir?”
“North, near Rymmyra.” Ferrich’s booming laugh echoed in the small home.
“Then you should know, Riverlander! Damned decent people. Keep the kingdom in order. Keep the villagers safe. Fine people.” Rygeir smiled.
“Not one’s for drifters sadly, save you of course. None in the township would take me in.”
“Bah! Those damned fools don’t know good men from bad.” Ferrich argued.
“And you do?” Rygeir asked with a laugh.
“Aye! I’ve got Bower blood in me. I can smell foulness from across the seas to Kresh and back again! Theresa too.”
“Then I’m glad the road guided me to your step, for you seem as fine of folk as any I’ve met.” Ferrich nodded with a broad smile and stuffed the stem of his pipe back between his lips.
“Many thanks young sir. Now what brings you this far south and east?”
“I’m not sure exactly. The road east for now.” Rygeir replied. Ferrich smiled.
“Bound for Bower are you?” Rygeir shrugged.
“Perhaps. I’ve never been.” Theresa brought a large bowl filled with warm stew that looked of cabbages, carrots, and a dark meat. It smelled of salt and fresh herbs and the taste warmed Rygeir’s insides as he brought the bowl to his lips after a swift thank you. Ferrich gnawed on a piece of bread and scoffed.
“Loathsome country, Bower. Full of ingrates, bastards, and whoresons. Not a damned decent person to be found amongst them, and those are pecked out easily enough by the Hunter’s.” Rygeir understood little about the workings of the Bounty trade, only that it was very dangerous and very rewarding to those who took on contracts. He wondered how much of the world he really knew. His days as Rymmyra’s Knight Captain were spent in training new recruits, doing his duty to the city, and fighting in a long war ended only months ago.
“Have you traveled much Ferrich?” Rygeir asked. The older man sighed and drew back into his chair, setting his bowl of stew and bread down on the floor.
“Aye I did, when I was younger and had the energy. I’ve been as far north as Snowcrest near the Aurulian Sea, and I’ve been as far south as Searen on the border of the Blazewood. Had a bit of the hot and cold of the world you might say.” He said with a loud laugh at his own cleverness. “I apprenticed as a carpenter under a man named Delving, and he took me north to south as it were for the better part of ten years. It was a hard life on the road.” Ferrich pointed towards the corner of the small home to where an old scabbard lay against the brick. “Had to watch out for roving bandits that would raid those too small to defend themselves and attack traders on the northern roads.”
“Would you mind?” Rygeir asked, pointing to the sword. Ferrich nodded and continued as Rygeir went and picked it up.
“He gave me that blade as we were venturing close to Ravensridge near my twenty-third naming. Taught me how to bury it into another man before he buried his own blade in me.” His voice trailed when Rygeir pulled the blade free, the steel singing as it slid out from the old scabbard. “Good man Delving, bless his old soul.” Rygeir examined the blade with a keen and experienced eye. It was well worn and had seen battle more than once considering the small nicks and chips on the blades edge, yet it was remarkably lightweight and fit comfortably in his hand.
“This is an officers sword.” Rygeir said at last. “Lightweight and well tempered despite the nicks. It’s seen battle and blood if my eyes don’t mistake me.” He looked from the blade to Ferrich, who had gone a little pale.
“Aye,” he said quietly, “There was a night when we heard voices coming from all around us on our way back south. We were with a caravan of traders that we had met and journeyed with for the season. They came from the darkness like wild things, killing our escort before we had a chance to react. All I remember from then on was the screaming that came, the sounds of slaughter. The women being dragged away from the camp and the men being skewered where they stood.” Ferrich bristled with a phantom chill and tried to shake his discomfort away.
“You know what?” Ferrich said proudly, standing from his seat. “Why don’t you take it?” Rygeir was immediately taken aback by the request.
“I couldn’t...you barely know me, and you’ve already given me enough.” When Rygeir offered the sword to Ferrich, the older man pushed it back gently into Rygeir’s hands.
“Since you’re on the road bound eastward, you’ll need it more than I will. Here it’s just gathering grime and dust. Bandits, rovers, vagabonds abound on that easterly way. Take it.” Rygeir clasped the scabbed tightly in his grip and nodded to the older man.
“You are far too kind for your own good Ferrich.” The old man guffawed and began leaving the hearth.
“I’m old son. It doesn’t take a long look at me to know I’ve almost reached the end of the line. Any small kindness, like giving a old warrior a sword that might save his life,” Rygeir paused and the two shared a long look of knowing. “Well that’s a kindness I’m wiling to give.” Ferrich said finally as he walked away.
Light of the morning peaked its head over Ferrich and Theresa’s small homestead. Rygeir was up and awake almost instantly, and his eyes were greeted by a dimly lit living room where he and Ferrich had talked most of the night.
The man knew who he was, and though it had startled him before, it did not do so now. The man had given him a sword, which in a way the man was unusually kind and incredibly trustworthy. Rygeir left the home in a hurry and began walking along the east road. Better to leave those who knew him behind and venture forward. As he walked, Rygeir hoped that word of his stay would not spread to the other farmers and give unwanted attention to Ferrich and Theresa. The last thing he wanted was to give good people trouble.
He walked through the day along the east road without seeing or hearing a single person, and thought it a blessing as he bedded down in a wooded glen for the night. He set himself and his belongings on the edge of the thicket that lay on a hill, overlooking a vast and wide woodland that sprawled south and eastward. He had made it to the Ashwood.
Deep was the Ashwood forest, as extensive as the mountains that were seen on the horizon before it when Rygeir spied it the night before. One could see the tops of the peaks on that far horizon only in the morning before the clouds came to fog them from view. Though the eastern road leading parallel to the Ashwood continued for a long ways, Rygeir decided to continue east through the Ashwood instead of the road. Unknowns laid before him as he began the slow walk through the treeline, but the majesty of it all took away his cares as he shed them.
The trees and leaves of the Ashwood were unique and seemed to be intermingled in an eternal summer, with the wind clean and clear basking in a warmth never unknown. As Rygeir ventured, he saw and followed a river that cut through the forest as a jagged knife. It rushed slowly but firmly, and Rygeir followed it long until it finally lead to it’s source. The river flowed into a bountiful lake that spread out, encircling into a glade, a pocket of the forest untouched by man. As he walked through the brush on a seldom travelled path, Rygeir found himself among the ruins of watchtowers and temples of old design that dotted the far off hills and dirt laden byways of the forest. He remembered tales of the old Rymmyran kingdom that had once stretched this far into the forest the the Olden Age. Thousands of years passing, and yet this passage of time and the mending of nature won the long battle and encompassed these once great towers and buildings of old. None of the ruins however came close to the lake itself, and Rygeir finally saw the last one fade as he passed into the clearing. The water reflected the early afternoon sun and beautiful blue sky, giving that natural warmth to Rygeir’s heart as he stared at it. The smell of the Ashwood around him, that earthy scent that made mens hearts bold with its strength made him smile. He wondered if he should simply stay and enjoy this paradise until the end of his days.
It was here, as he stood upon the hill that looked over the lake, that Rygeir first laid eyes on something he had never seen.
There, astride the lakeside on the opposite bank were a band of small carriages, all turned with their horse hauls to the lake. Many fireplaces filling the golden summer leaves with their dancing light were spit in the sand, each a ways from the others. More to Rygeir’s surprise was that there were many people here, some bathing and swimming in the lake, some performing various duties about their campfires, and some simply resting in the sands. Rygeir heard music as well as hushed, distant voices. A delightfully flowing melody, much like the river before, sung throughout the trees and into Rygeir’s t ears. It was a blossoming melody that bloomed in his mind and reminded him of the old festivals his mother and father would have at there estate when he was a boy. The days when old friends would come and these revels would be had in such a way that a boy would become lost within them. For a moment, Rygeir almost felt like weeping for the beauty of it. He sat himself upon a rock overlooking the lake on the opposite shore from them, and begun simply watching the revelry that played before him. The few who were playing the instruments were of a wide variety. Some played small drums attached to cords that wrapped around their patchwork coats, while others, mostly women, played stringed instruments and flutes, delighting Rygeir’s senses with their happy notes. The horses that drove the carts remained auspiciously nearby, grazing and wandering without fear. The lake dwellers themselves relaxed and watched the sun set upon the lake, giving dark ruby and sunburst light that simply sang of peaceful being.
Rygeir was alone in his enjoyment of the songs sung, and settled on the opposite bank for a while, simply watching the peacefulness of the lake. Songbirds flew past him at stunning speeds, whistling their happy tunes. He looked to his left and saw a beautiful hart grazing in a nearby glade dipping its snout into a patch of grass to nibble on something. There was a stream of fading sunlight that encapsulated the creature, giving it a silhouette, an aura of golden light in amongst the summer trees. The lake, the hart, and the folk that settled across the water simply could not have been a more beautiful combination for the moment in Rygeir’s mind. He was utterly content. Utterly at peace.
Rygeir brought his pack to bear and dug into it. With the last of the loaf of dry bread in his hands, he sat comfortable against the rock and began to eat. He mused on how his life had become simplified since his exile, and it somehow the thought heartened him with a rather unique resolve. It seemed the lake itself in it’s pristine beauty leant his heavy heart relief from his troubled past. It had only been a fortnight since his departure along the long and lonely road south from his home in eastern Rymmyra.
From the corner of his right peripheral, Rygeir heard a rustling of bush. He swiftly stood and looked around the brush near where he was sitting at. For a moment or two the rustling became louder until there in amongst the woods, two figures emerged. One was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties with dark scarlet hair that ran down in a ruffled shag down the length of her back and over her shoulders. The other accompanying her was an older man nearer to Rygeir’s age, perhaps older. Both wore the patchy coats and loose fitting trousers and tunics of the others across the lake, and had a dirtiness to them, some of it present on their faces. Rygeir himself could not judge them on their dirtiness, as his tanned leather trousers and traveling cloak were beginning to tatter themselves. They looked at him with a warm curiosity and not a hint of danger. The older man put a protective arm around the young girl and greeted Rygeir with a wave.
“Peace, stranger. We did not mean to startle you.” Rygeir did not realize he had the dry bread loaf clutched tight in his hand, almost ready to throw.
“My apologies.” he said gruffly, a sharp cough coming after. “You surprised me is all.” The older man smiled warmly. Rygeir noticed the younger one behind the old man was watching Rygeir with an intense curiosity.
“Forgive my daughter.” the man began, pulling the woman close. “I don’t think she’s ever seen, well, a man like yourself.” Rygeir caught her gaze and gave her a small smile. She was beautiful despite her grime. Her frame was rather slender but her form fit her patterned trench coat that she wore. The old man wore the same kind, though his looked considerably more worn and tattered. She wore a tight lamb colored doublet that was pattered with dirt underneath the coat.
“A man like me?” he asked, ceasing his surveying of both the strangers.
“A man outside of the troupe, just there.” The old man pointed across the lake to the others among the carriages and carts. Their revelry had not abated. “We don’t often get the pleasure of company on our long journeys from forest to village to keep and back again.” He approached Rygeir with open arms. “But where are my manners,” he said kindly, extending his hand. “My name is Quinn Rotherby, and this is my daughter Terys.” Rygeir took Quinn’s hand and shook it firmly.
“Rygeir, a pleasure.” Quinn smiled and brought the grubby town hat from his head to his chest and bowed slightly.
“Tis all mine.” Quinn said with a laugh. He gestured to the slab of rock Rygeir had been sitting on that overlooked the banks of the lake. “May we sit with you?” Rygeir nodded and watched his newest acquaintances sit themselves down. Quinn brought a small sack from inside his coat and reached in, pulling out an apple. “Here,” he said with a smile, “a supplement to your bread. I insist.” Rygeir bowed his head and thanks, taking the apple from the man’s hand. He bit into it and almost groaned at the pleasure of its taste.
“May I ask what brings you along the Ashford?” Quinn asked when Rygeir had a moment to swallow. He and Terys sat themselves a ways away and were biting through their own apples. Rygeir only shrugged.
“I suppose you could say whatever purpose the road will take me.” Quinn smiled and guffawed loudly.
“Another trudger then!” he looked proudly at Terys and back to Rygeir. “It is a wonderful way to live is it not? Living by the road. No master but the wind itself?” His enthusiasm and cheer brought a warmth to Rygeir’s heart.
“I suppose so.” he replied with a chuckle. “I haven’t been on the road long. I’d forgotten how quiet the Ashford was when walking alone. Hell, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be alone anywhere.”
“It has a wonder to it, I’ll say.” Quinn said with a smile, looking up into the golden leaves. “We’ve come through these woods many times before, never long enough to see the seasons pass, but time enough to enjoy the pleasure of its beauty.”
“Where do you hail from?” Terys asked, her voice was most lyrical and had a musical tone, quiet but sincere. Rygeir had to think for a long moment before answering. How much could he tell these strangers? Exiled men of stature like Rygeir were not often seen, but often heard of in the nobility. The wrong sort could even consider him criminal if chance was unkind to him. Perhaps he was already considered a criminal to Rymmyra already.
“North.” Rygeir ended up saying, which was a half truth. “A small township outside of Rymmyra.” He saw Terys’s eyes flash with wonder.
“A city man then!’ Quinn said with a grin. “I’ve a mind to bet you’ve enjoyed Rymmyra’s beauty many a time.”
“Once or twice.” Rygeir acknowledged. “It certainly has it’s own unique beauties. The way the river Theren runs through the east township and seems to wind down certain streets as a snake would. The bustling of the main tradeway in the merchant quarter. Even the noble quarter was a wonder.” He stopped for a moment. “I do the city little justice. Have you ever been on the west road that leads up to its gates?” Quinn and Terys shared a look.
“Not as it is no.” Rygeir motioned towards the others of Quinn and Terys’ kind across the river.
“Are you part of this, troupe, as you call it?” Quinn smiled and nodded.
“Indeed. You see Rygeir, we are not a people of villages, or keeps, or castles. Actually, we have never been known to stay in any one place for any length of time. We do not hail from any one city or country, but rather them all if you catch my meaning.” Rygeir shook his head, wondering what the man meant. Quinn pointed across the lake to the other people, still abiding in their revelry. As Rygeir watched them dance, sing, and eat, he began to notice things that otherwise might have been passed over. From where he sat, Rygeir could tell that they were perhaps twenty in total, and in between them he picked out the discrepancies. A slender figure that Rygeir could only assume was a female Faelyn danced with such grace he had only seen a handful of times. A small Edrun with a stout frame and hardy stock was sitting amongst those around a fire pit. there were others too, but Quinn’s voice brought him back. Rygeir had not seen those of the Faelyn or Dwarf kind in many years, and the sight brought a childlike excitement in his heart. He heard Quinn’s voice as he watched the Faelyn woman dance, flowing perfectly with the tune of the musicians around the far off fire.
“You see, we are not one people. We are all people.” Quinn explained with a proud voice. “We have traveled east to west, north to south, any byway or road that would take us anywhere we pleased. We want for little, but for the pleasure of each others company. Some join our group and some leave to seek other things. Some consider us a troupe of misfits. I cater us more toward a colorful family that simply wish to live free.” Rygeir smiled to himself.
“You’re Wayfarers” he said with wonder. “The Freefolk.” Quinn nodded.
“A band of cheerful people that only seek the road and good company. Yet there are many in the world from the highest reaches of those snowy peaks up north to the center of civilization in Lyr that consider us little more than vagabonds. Pilferers and sneak thieves they call us. Pah!” Rygeir had heard what amounted to myths and travelers tales about the Wayfarer’s, and though not all of the stories he had heard before described them as pleasant, most wrote them to be peaceful nomads. Rygeir shook his head and bit into his apple once more.
“From the kindness you’ve shown me thus far master Quinn, none could sell me a tale of vagabonds offering a stranger the comforts of an apple on a warm evening. I look over to that bank and see only what you’ve described. Cheerful folk.” Quinn studied him for a moment before smiling.
“And cheerful folk that would certainly welcome a lonely stranger walking the roads of the Ashwood, if he would be so kind.” Rygeir looked at Quinn and studied his older face.
“That is kind of you, but I would not want to intrude…” he began. Quinn let out another guffaw.
“Pah! It would insult me to let you go off on your own as you are. I insist good man, at least let us fill your belly with hot stew and a red warmer, perhaps a good nights sleep as well. We have more than enough food and if my eyes permit me, you could use the company.” Rygeir could only smile as he took Quinn’s large hand and nodded, shaking it warmly. Terys smiled at him beautifully.
“Then I would be honored.”
When Rygeir gathered his things and followed Quinn and Terys from their bank to the opposite, he became ever more the happier when the sound and smells of other folk came to him. As they got nearer to the group, their arrival seemed akin to returning to a long lost home from another land. Quinn announced their arrival with a glorious roar of approval, and the people welcomed him with open arms. It was here that Rygeir got a full look at the band of Wayfarer’s.
They were a happy lot, and as he had seen before on the opposite bank, the revel they partook in was grand.
“Welcome to our home.” Quinn began, leading Rygeir with a hefty hand on opposite elbow. Some of the other members of the troupe came around the two of them, eager to see the new arrival. Others were content where they were. Some younger ones were playing in the trees above crisscrossing light-boxes that strung from tree to tree. The four musicians sat by a fireplace and continued drinking and singing and playing their instruments with happy expressions. They stopped when Quinn brought Rygeir to the fire. The entire troupe gathered.
“This,” Quinn said gesturing to Rygeir, “is Rygeir, a wanderer who we happened upon and was kind enough to tell us his name and share with us good hearted talk. What do we say to our brothers of the road?” The response was unanimous and glorious.
“We welcome you.” they all said with a chime. It was then the crowd parted, and a tall, slender woman came and stood in front of Rygeir. The woman was the Faelyn Rygeir had seen from the atop the rock, and true to their foretold majesty, she was magically more beautiful than any human woman he had ever seen. She was lithe and held a relaxed but regal appearance. She had sandy blonde locks that seemed to be made of silk, an came down in waves from her head. Her eyes were blinking starlight amongst a novae. Her skin was milky and clean, with the other features of her face giving her a natural foxlike expression like others of her kind.
“Mathendalen kynsen.” she said, her voice as music to Rygeir’s ears. This was the formal greeting from Faelyn to human, and Rygeir remembered the formal response and performed it as he was taught while in the Lord Sovereign’s service. Rygeir bowed his head and touched three fingers to his chin. A sign of respect.
“Tanendalen rynsen.” he said. The Faelyn woman’s eyes grew wider slightly, and she returned his greeting with a smile.
“You know our words well.” she said before bowing and stepping back. There was another parting in between the others of the troupe. An older woman came shuffling up through the group, a cane in a shaky hand as it held her weight. Wispy silver came from a leather wrapped bun of her pulled back hair, and her smoky eyes greeted Rygeir with mystery. Rygeir thought she could have been in her late seventies before he saw the age in her eyes, and thought her much older.
“It seems another stranger has joined us.” The woman said, her voice raspy but firm. “Will you never halt your recruiting Quinn?” Quinn smirked at her and put a hand on Rygeir’s shoulder.
“We came upon him while taking a walk. He is another wandering road-brother just like our own. I would not turn him away Lena.” The old woman shuffled closer, eyes squinting in the feigning sunlight that peered through the trees and splashed onto the lake. After moment taking in Rygeir’s appearance she pointed a wiry finger in Quinn’s direction.
“That’s what you said when we found that young boy with a pension for pilfering our coffers. He ran from the troupe after your had caught him and you didn’t even have the good sense to retrieve what was taken!” There was a bustle of quiet laughter amongst the other members of the troupe, but Quinn did not seem distracted by them. The woman called Lena turned to him and jabbed him firmly with her cane. “Eh? What about the maiden from Tamerlayn whom you rescued from the pillories in Tresswell six months before, simply because of her eyes and her skirts?” Sniggers blanketed the other troupe members, making Quinn blush with embarrassment. “Or perhaps we can talk about the Boundary Brothers of South Hill, who so graciously lit one of our caravans alight with fey flame in the middle of the night to escape with my glory box!” A swat of Lena’s cane on Quinn’s thigh made him yelp, much to the thunderous applause by the others. Even the Faelyn woman laughed.
“I am not one to swindle you madam,” Rygeir began with an easy tone. “or those in your company. Quinn was kind enough to offer food and conversation to someone who was truly in sore need of it.” Quinn smiled proudly at this. Lena’s old eyes stared up at Rygeir with her darker. She proffered her hand, gesturing him closer.
“Well let me take a look at you. Come on now, no need to be shy.” Rygeir stepped forward and came to one knee to match her size. With a studious gaze Lena gripped his chin firmly with a wiry hand and twisted it from side to side, as if searching for something hidden in it’s contents.
“A handsome face for a wanderer, not yet too weathered by the road.” she mused. “Strong jaw too, good for the ladies.” A few women huddled around them began to blush slightly. Lena brought Rygeir’s hands to hers and moved her thumbs across them. “You’ve known hard work too. Strong hands that, if my eyes are correct, have seen work of the sword before anything else.” Rygeir felt a small rush of nervousness, but to his chagrin Lena continued. “I see scars too,” she said while sliding a bony finger across a slash from elbow to wrist on Rygeir’s left arm, twisting across his flesh. He had received it from a glancing blow from a spear it in his first battle. “Both inside and out.” Her gaze went to his silver eyes and she put a hand through his rustled hair, giving him a small smile.
“You are much like our own, on a wayward journey of which you know not the length nor the path of, and none of it was asked of you.” she leaned closer with a grave expression and whispered into his ear. “I fear you bring danger with you.” Rygeir’s eyes went wide. Before he could say anything, Lena had turned and addressed the troupe before them.
“Get this man a hot meal and a fresh set of clothes. Let us show this outsider our Wayfarer’s way!”
With that the others in the troupe hurried back to their tasks, though Rygeir’s eyes only followed the older woman as she hobbled back to her carriage, shutting the shade as she did so, her haunting eyes still fresh in his mind.
Rygeir was taken into Quinn’s carriage to rest. The inside was spacious enough os that he could lie flat. He was told that his meal was being prepared within the hour, and that if he needed rest that he should feel free to. Rygeir did not know the man’s name, but thanked him as he was shown in. He was in the carriage for perhaps another ten seconds before three soft raps upon the door sounded.
“Come in V’Layn.” Rygeir said. The door opened and the Faelyn that he had spoken to before came in. He had to admit that he had not recognized her at first. But the eyes, the shape of her ears, the tattoo of the Dahlathren, a Faelyn design of streaks in emerald ink cascading down her left side, Rygeir spotting it on her legs and torso as she came in.
It has been a long time, my friend. V’Layn said not unkindly. That voice, familiar and mysterious, echoed as the tongue of the Faelyn did. You are looking well. Despite what the rumors of certain circles in the world would say. Rygeir chuckled. The news had already gotten out that quickly then.
“I suppose my reputation precedes me.”
Are the rumors true? V’Layn asked. Rygeir looked into her eyes, which seemed to dance and glow slightly as he looked at them.
“Yes.” Rygeir said with a nod. “I killed my brother. I was angry and I killed him. Simple as that.” He saw V’Layn’s face remain stoic. “It is to remain between us V’Layn.” Rygeir said bluntly. He realized his tone and sighed. “My apologies. It is good to see you.” A smile came to the Faelyn’s lips and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a hug.
You as well. They parted and the woman came to sit up a cushioned seat opposite him.
“Where have you been keeping roost?” Rygeir said with a smile. V’Layn’s musical laugh came again.
I spent sixteen years in Rymmyra, three in Bower. Rygeir’s eyebrows raised. Yes I understand. V’Layn said with sarcastic scoff. It was an odd noise that still held beauty, as everything did about her. But I came here only two years ago. I was in a small village in Emberland. I followed a Bard’s troupe as they performed around the country. Then they found out I was Faelyn and the men became…enamored with me. Rygeir nodded. It was something that the male of the species of Men had not, or perhaps could not, be swayed from. It was the Faelyn magic. Men had become primal beasts when exposed to a Faelyn for too long. Priests and clerics had without the protection of Wards, but not the populace.
I could not stop them, so I had to leave. I came across Lena soon after and I’ve been with the troupe ever since. Rygeir smiled.
“They have a magic of their own I can tell.”
They do.
Rygeir scratched the top of his head absentmindedly. “Well if you’ve been in Rymmyra most of the time you’ll know what I’ve been up to these past twenty odd years.” It was here that V’Layn produced something from behind. A leather pouch skin with a stopper on top. Rygeir’s eyes widened. “Bless you for that.” He said with thanks as he took the skin and popped the stopper. A delicious violet liquid filled his mouth and coated his throat as it went down.
“Wine,” Rygeir said with a smile, basking in the taste. “I haven’t had wine in weeks.” V’Layn smiled and gave him a kiss on the top of his head.
You will be well fed tonight, I guarantee it. We even have our own Stillman.
“Thank you V’Layn.” She turned and gave him a warm, welcoming smile before leaving him be in the carriage.
After Rygeir had been given fresh clothes and his meager belongings stowed into one of the many compartments of Quinn’s carriage, he was brought out to watch the wonder of the waning evenings festivities. The sun was nearly set over the lake, giving the Ashwood’s tree’s and leaves a wondrous color of firelight, if only for another little while. Three fire pits had been made by the offset sand and dirt lakesides, each having it’s own spit with the nights catch of smoked venison being roasted on crudely made spits. The smell of the fresh meat that wafted through Rygeir’s nose reminded him how hungry he was, as well as the grumble that came from his belly afterwords. He pulled the sleeves of the tan tunic that was given to him to his elbows and readjusted the boiled leather breeches he had also been gifted around his waist. A rough leather belt tied everything together and was more than comfortable. Quinn had been more than generous indeed. With Quinn’s carriage perched on a low hanging hill furthest away from the lake, Rygeir began walking towards the fires.
The carriages themselves had been spread out after he had arrived, and now were dotted with lanterns that lit his path. Some were tied to strings that spun out from tree’s, and in between them torches stuck in the grass lined pathways to the other carriages. Rygeir had been completely bewildered with the carts. They were extraordinarily ornate and made of a hardy wood that could withstand the bump and bustle of travel and the harshness of all seasons of weather. As they had to be. He had inspected Quinn’s with rapt interest when he saw what he thought to be chiseled embroidery along the flanks of the carriage. Except they were not simple embroidery at all. To Rygeir’s astonishment, each carriage had in the etchings of the wood their own woven story of the people and the places the carriage had been to. The depictions of events were incredibly carved along the wood, with such details and embroidery that spoke of none other than a masterwork of craftsman. When he asked Quinn about the man’s own story that had been etched along the cart, he found the histories to be even more surprising. Quinn recounted the tale, tracing his finger over each carving as it went.
“We came to Lena and the troupe in a midwinter nearly twenty years ago. We had lost our village to banditry and were forced to go south into Emberland. Though that countries name rings true through most of the year, it is devilishly cold in winter. Half of us dropped from the freezing ice and sickness within the first week. All of my hope of refuge seemed lost until Lena found us.”
“Terys must not have been more than a small child.” Rygeir had said in lament. Quinn only nodded.
“She was only three when we lost her mother to the cold. Had Lena and the troupe not found us in time...” the older man grimaced for a moment but shook his discomfort off. “No matter,” he continued, “She did and we joined up with the troupe. We’ve been all over the world since then, and our stories are recounted thusly.”
Quinn has also shown him where the histories of the fellows before him and his daughter had put their own mark. “People come and go, depending on their path. There were three families before Terys and I ever traveled with this company.” He pointed whereabouts these other families had carved their own histories. Each had carved from left to right along the flanks of the carriage, each no higher on the wood than a foot. To his surprise, some had been symbols that Rygeir recognized to be of Faelyn ancestry, others were simply pictures and passages written by the families themselves. Quinn’s carriage had been previously owned by families of northern and western descent. The first purveyor of the carriage had been, to Rygeir’s reckoning, a Faelyn Artisan. The symbols and ornate iconography of the Faelyn language was the most diverse and interesting. There was a long blank stretch near the bottom of the carriages flank. Quinn moved his hand along the smooth wood with a smile. “This is where Terys and I will leave the last of our markings, so that whomever gains this carriage after we depart it will know of our story as well. Perhaps it will be you.” he had said with a smile.
Rygeir walked through the trees and grass until he found himself along the lakeside. The bustle and busywork of the troupe came to Rygeir in waves, and their personalities and trades were made present by the way they had all set themselves up. The meal tables were set near the fires, and two cooks were handing out bowls of smoking hot stew filled to the brim. On the other side were wooden plates piled high with deer meat, small tomatoes, and a variety of cheeses. One of the Dwarf’s Rygeir had spied from across the lake was by two large barrels spouted at the bottom of the table, and was filling metal tankards high with foaming ale. Rygeir had seen few Dwarves before, and most of them were as he would suspect the mountain folk to be. Battlehardy and strong. This one looked more pleasant to simply be around the folk of the troupe than near a battle.
As Rygeir took in his surroundings, delightful music came from the central fire that seemed bigger than the others. Men and women played drums, stringed instruments, flutes, and harps that brought merriness of a sort Rygeir had only known in tourney’s of the Lord’s court to the lakeside, and they were equally impressive. What caught his eye was the slender Faelyn woman that had spoken to him when he arrived, and Rygeir became entranced by her dancing with magical grace. As with Dwarves, Rygeir had seldom seen many Faelyn in his life, and again only in the bigger cities that dotted the land. This one was ever beautiful, and danced with the music not only perfectly in time, but with the rapt attention of the onlookers of the troupe. The dance and song was merry, and the laughter and and music sounded throughout the Ashwood. With his stomach rumbling of hunger, Rygeir made his way to the food. He found Quinn there, metal tankard in hand and talking loudly with the Dwarf. When Rygeir approached, Quinn waved his hand and beckoned him to join them.
“Ah the newest of our company has finally come to supper!” He brought Rygeir in with a harm shoulder embrace as he gestured to the Dwarf with his decanter. “Rygeir, I’d like you to meet someone. This,” he said with a broad smile, “is Baern. The finest stillsman the lands abound.” The Dwarf guffawed. Like the rest of his kin, Baern was small of stature. He wore a long, burgundy tunic that had bits of ring mail dotted around the vestment. The Dwarf had a barreled chest that spoke of his kinsman’s strength, and his thick ginger beard sprawled in no particular direction save them all down to the middle of his chest.
“You’re too kind Quinn. A pleasure to meet a newcomer.” Baern said with a boisterous guffaw. The Dwarf proffered his arm, which Rygeir firmly gripped with his hand.
“Strength to your swing.” Rygeir said. Baern hesitated, seemingly surprised by the traditional exchange between strangers. He returned the cultured gesture.
“Light to your halls.” he returned with a snorting laugh. He brought a full mug of ale to Rygeir’s hand and grabbed his own. “It is not every day you meet a human that knows of our customs. Especially one that wanders the road as we do.” He proffered the mug and took a long draught, which Rygeir followed in suit. Of it’s dark amber contents, Rygeir brought the ale to his nose first and was delighted to smell nut, woodsmoke, and caramel. As he drank, Rygeir noted happily that the ale was truly of the finest Dwarven stillmanship, and burned heavily and heartily as it traveled down Rygeir’s throat, warming his entire body as only Dwarven ale did.
“I’ve met your kin on many occasions in…” Rygeir started, halting himself as truth reared its head. He had only met Dwarves in battle and in company of the Lord Sovereign. “…in passing.” Baern looked at him oddly for a moment before taking another long draught. Quinn smirked and refilled his mug.
“Well we will certainly know more of you. Rygeir will share with us at supper.” Rygeir turned to Quinn with a puzzled look.
“What do you mean?”
“When Terys and I joined the troupe, we learned from Lena of the custom of sharing one another’s tale with the others. It instill’s trust and takes down the barriers of strangerhood.” Thoughts of telling this troupe of Wayfarer’s of his exile weighed heavily in Rygeir’s mind. How much could he reveal? Lena’s words of warning ringed ever clearer in his mind as well. You bring danger with you. Quinn must have seen Rygeir’s obvious discomfort, as he brought his hand to Rygeir’s shoulder. “You don’t have to share everything about yourself of course,” he explained. “But we ask for at least something to know after Lena’s had a look at you. Parent’s names, your trade, a little history. Nothing fanciful or anything deep rooted. Not until you wish it to be heard.” It didn’t make Rygeir feel much better.
The music that sounded from the fires came to a conclusion followed shortly by the loud clapping that surrounded the performers. Quinn and Baern both clapped and hooted in joy as the players began another song, one simpler and less lively. Quinn topped off Rygeir’s mug. “Let’s get you some food.” Rygeir nodded his thanks to Baern.
“I hope we get a chance to talk more master Rygeir.” Baern said with a broad smile.
“And we shall.” Rygeir replied as he was quickly swept away by Quinn to the stew cauldrons. They were large, built from strong iron cast and were bubbling lively with a deep red colored liquid that smelled of game and herbs. With his mouth watering, Rygeir took one of the wooden bowls set beside the cauldron and began scooping a large portion into it. He nodded his head thankfully to the cooks before taking a place beside Quinn alongside the lake to watch the dancing around the campfires.
Everyone present was watching with rapt attention as the musicians turned from their simpler song into playing a fast, more whimsical tune, that brought a energetic dance from the Faelyn woman and, to Rygeir’s surprise, Quinn’s daughter Terys. Though Rygeir had only been in this troupe company for a few hours, he was not certain that he was watching the young woman he had first met on the other side of the lake. Terys had shed her dirty coat in favor of a long, sapphire dress that flowed deeply at the elbow and thigh. The grime and dirt on her face was gone, and instead her complexion radiated and flickered her youthful beauty in the firelight. She had brought her deep scarlet hair out of its former bun, and it hung naturally and beautifully down her shoulders and back. The Faelyn woman wore a similar light green garment that flowed from her frame, and she and Terys embraced their hands to one another and began to dance, skipping and twirling with joyfully smiling faces. The others watching began to clap. Rygeir found himself looking at Terys with wonder the same gaze that he had shared with his former wife when they had first courted. Tristan had had this same affect on him when they first met, so long ago. Though now when he thought upon her, the feeling only darkened into coolness. The familiarity was remarkable, and for the second time in his life Rygeir found himself entranced by another woman.
“They dance so well together.” Rygeir lamented to Quinn as they watched.
“Aye. V’layn taught Terys when she was young.” Quinn said with a smile.
Terys and the Faelyn woman known now to Rygeir as V’layn grasped arms and began to circle one another. Quinn gasped and took Rygeir’s shoulder in his hand. The music began to weave into a crescendo when, without a moments notice, V’layn sprung off her feet and flew into the air, arcing in a wide double flip and landing on Terys’s other side. The music stopped with a shocking drumbeating finish. Rygeir stood agape at it all. Terys and V’layn embraced as the thunderous applause rang out from the onlookers.
“Brava!” Quinn thundered with a glorious smile. Rygeir found himself once again and joined in the clapping. V’layn gave a deep bow to the audience and then to Terys before retreating from the fire. Terys came over to Rygeir and Quinn with a wide, prideful smile.
“That was…quite something.” Rygeir said with awe. Terys smiled and curtsied before him.
“They are all warmed up for you now.” she said. She took his hand and led him to the front of the fire where she had been dancing. Rygeir looked around him to see that the majority of the troupe was now standing about the fire. “Now it is time for sharing.” Terys said with a smile before leaving Rygeir to himself at the center. Quinn came up to him and circled the fire, raising his voice to the people around them.
“As you know, Rygeir is a newcomer to our home. And as every stranger that has walked outside of our life only to come and make a home with us, so shall we know them as if they were our own. Let us hear him and his story.” the others around them applauded and smiled eagerly. Rygeir had been no stranger to speaking publicly within the court of the Lord Sovereign, but this crowd before him made him blush. Or were that his mind had wandered back to Terys’s dancing and beauty. Rygeir steeled himself. There was no backing out now that he was at the center of attention. He looked around to the large group around him and spied the wiry face of Lena atop one of the caravans. She only gave him a curt nod.
“Well…” he began slowly, rubbing his hands together. “First, I would like to thank you all very much for taking me in this night from the road. Your hospitality and graciousness have been the last thing I had expected would be in my future. Even being with you all for less than a day has widened my gaze of what I know of the world.” There was a round of applause before he continued. Rygeir’s eyes found Quinn’s, and he saw a reassuring nod as he began again.
“My name is Rygeir. I was born here in the east, in a small village not a mile from the river city of Rymmyra. My mother and father, heavens rest them, were from the north. I have…” he paused as a the image of Ulrich’s face flashed in his mind. “…no siblings that are alive today.” He shook off the memory of his brother and continued. “My life has not been the smoothest road. I faced many troubles and hardships in my mid years than most of you have known in your entire lives. I feel that you have trusted me in a special way with your generosity, and again I thank you. It seems only fitting that I tell you what I am.” A silence came in the moments that came after Rygeir had stopped speaking. He looked down at his hands, seeing the firelight dance in between his shadow and heard the crackling of the wood in the pit.
“I used to be a military man. I was fostered in the city of Rymmyra as a young boy. There I learned my schooling and was trained in the sword. I eventually served with Lord Sovereign Halkier during the war in Parsenius.” There was a silence that crept out as his words left him. Many were wide eyed. “I have had my fair share of violence. I have taken many lives and spilled my share of blood, as I was commanded. I have done…many terrible things.” His gaze came to rest on Terys. “And for my actions, I was imprisoned upon returning to the mainland. Death by blade, however, was not to be my fate for the crimes I committed. I was exiled instead. My family, my fortunes, my home was all taken from me. All I have is what you see.” Rygeir felt a welling in his throat and a tear betray him by falling from his eyes to his chin.
“I wished only to live out my life in peace, but it was not fates decision for me to do so. What you have all shown me is true companionship. True beauty. I feel only one thing in the wake of seeing something so pure, and that is how much I do not deserve to be in your company.” There was silence by the end, and as Rygeir broke down he saw wider eyes, and sad, pitying faces. It reminded him of those he knew from his sentencing. As he pressed tears from his eyes, an arm came around his shoulders and as he looked up from the sand, he saw that Quinn had come next to him. Like he had so many times before, the words that came from Quinn’s mouth were kind.
“Wayfarer’s have a saying, Rygeir. The road only ever goes forward. What you are is the man I see, and the man I see is a man of humility. We have all done things in our past that scar our souls, and you are no different. What I see is a man repentant. A man who wishes himself peace.” Quinn stood, his voice booming to the crowd around them.
“What I see is a lonely traveler who has now shared a piece of his past, so that we may trust him like we have done for so many of our own who have come to us. He, like so many of us, is on the path that lays ahead of him, wherever it may take him. Just as I was. Just as you all were.”
“Just as we all were.” Lena’s voice came from the darkness outside the firelight. She had come down from her perch and was slowly wobbling to the circle of folk around the fire. Rygeir looked up into her old eyes, and found them accepting of him.
“I have been with this company for most of my life.” she said. “There have been some who have joined us, and only brought fell deeds upon us. There have been some who have brought light and joy to us.” Lena gestured to the group around them both before resting a hand on Rygeir’s cheek. “You are no longer that man of pain, of sorrow. You are reborn as one of us. A wanderer. A Wayfarer. Do not let your heart be troubled. You are home now.”
Rygeir could only smile as tears came to his eyes.