Charity A. Land
An Irithrian slave girl shares the reason for the season with her pagan captors.
Fisherman's Son
Water rippled around the small old fisherman’s boat in thousands of clear blue wrinkles.
Blond-haired Corbin, ten years old, stared over the side of the boat, not at the depth of the ocean or the little minnows swimming in and out of the net, but at the iron rivets and bars that held the boat together.
“Father?” Corbin asked, looking up.
The black-haired man in his later thirties broke from his own reverie. “What is it, Corbin?”
“As much as I like fishing, I would rather be a blacksmith.” Corbin said steadily.
“A blacksmith? Whatever would you want to be that for?” His father, Peter, said with a gentle smile as he turned to look back over the land.
“Because,” Corbin said, choosing his words carefully, “Blacksmith’s get to make a variety of different things, fix broken parts, work with horses, and even sometimes make armor or weapons.”
Peter looked back sternly. “What would you be wanting with swords and the like, young sir?”
Corbin shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Soon they pulled up a catch of fish and hauled the flapping, wet fish into their boat.
Peter looked out over the sea back to land. The red sun as setting over the trees, filling the sky with bright rays of orange and red. The other fishermen were already back on land for the day, cleaning their catch.
Peter grabbed the oars and began pulling their boat back to shore with strong arms.
Corbin watched his father’s steady expression and noticed above his dark brown eyes was that white scar slashed above his right brow.
Where did he get it? Was it at sea, when he was working aboard as a sailor?
Peter noticed his son’s gaze and smiled. “What is it, Corbin? Why are you staring at me?”
Blood crept up Corbin’s neck and he looked away with a sheepish grin. “No reason.”
Peter shook his head with a slight laugh. “You always say ‘I don’t know’ or ‘no reason’. I’m apt to not believe you.”
Corbin grew redder. “I was just wondering about your scar, Father.”
Peter’s smile faded and his brow creased. He stopped rowing for a moment, to touch the scar. After a moment he shook his head with a shrug and a smile, continuing to row. “You know that I don’t remember what it was from.” He said, slightly chiding Corbin.
They soon reached shore, and Corbin climbed out, helping his father lug the net filled with fish onto the sand.
Together they pulled the boat up on shore so that it would not float away.
The shore was void of other fishermen as it was getting dark out.
Corbin went through the cleaning task as one who has his chores memorized, but his mind was elsewhere. His eyes were studying the knife he used, the metal blade and the handle of bone.
I would love to make my own knife. I bet this one didn’t take very long to make.
As soon as they were done, father and son loaded the cleaned and gutted fish into a barrel and putting the lid on, Peter hoisted it up into his arms and Corbin followed him over the beach to a small hut.
Peter set the barrel outside, and Corbin ran in, the aroma of fried fish filling his nostrils.
The hut was small, with a fireplace in the middle, a large bed on one side and a small cot in the corner.
“Evening to you, Mother!” Corbin called to his mother as he grabbed a bit of fish and tossed it in his mouth.
“No snitching, now, Corbin!” the kind-faced woman said playfully, wagging her finger. She set a pot of beans on the table.
“How’s my pretty Jane!” Peter called as he entered the doorless entryway, tossing his fisherman’s cap on the bed with a grin.
A smile covered Jane’s face and she hurried over to her husband, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “As fine as any peasant woman in the land, but even finer when you are home, dear Peter.”
Corbin rolled his eyes and sat down on his cot, picking up an empty bucket, and studying the rivets on it.
“Oh, Corbin, the handle broke on one of my pots and I was wondering if after supper you could fix it with a stick or something?” Jane asked as her son. Peter sat down at the table.
“Corbin told me today he wanted to be a blacksmith.” Peter said.
Jane frowned and took of her apron. Looking towards her son she raised her eyebrows. “Whatever gave you that idea?” she said, motioning for him to hurry over to the table.
Corbin shrugged and pulled the chair back. “I like to make things. Especially useful things.”
There was a knock at the door.
Peter scooted his chair away from the table and hurried to answer the door.
Jane glanced towards the door and nervously smoothed her hair, her forehead wrinkled with worry.
Corbin sat down, ignoring the visitor. “See, mother, I could make a spoons with which we could eat your fine beans. Or I could make a knives to cut bread, even swords and—”
“Corbin!” Jane hissed. “We have a visitor.”
Corbin looked down, his eyes instantly watering. It was rare that his mother ever gave such harsh disapproval. He hated not knowing why he had earned it.
The conversation at the door came into focus as him and his mother were silent.
“The tax collector will be in Alscon in a fortnight. The count has ordered that all of his vassals come there with their tax.”
It was one of the count’s knights.
Corbin looked up at his mother. Her skin was pale and her hand covered her mouth slightly.
What was the matter? They had had good fishing this year, and lots of customers too. Couldn’t they pay?
“We understand,” Peter said with a polite nod. The man left, and Peter closed the door, returning to the table.
Jane took a deep breath. “Corbin, you are never to speak of swords or war, or anything of the sort again.” She uttered. “We are peaceful citizens.”
Peter nodded silently.
Jane began dishing up their plates.
“Perhaps Corbin shall come with me to pay the tax. It is a good thing to understand our humble position in life.” Peter said.
“I shall go,” Jane spoke quickly.
Peter stared at her with a light laugh. “I know the way to Alscon, my dear, there is no need to worry.”
“It’s not that. I just have some errands I should like to run and a friend I haven’t visited in ages.” She smiled to add ease to her words, and set Corbin’s food in front of him.
Peter shrugged and agreed.
But Corbin wasn’t so easily convinced that was his mother’s reason. At the age of ten, he had begun noticing things are wondering why things were. Like why did his mother not let Peter go to any of the big towns? Why wouldn’t she let him ever speak of swords again? In public settings, she had changed the subject when politics were brought up, and on more than one occasion had left a group conversation when the happenings of the royal family were being discussed.
The meal went by without further incident.
As the sun set that evening, Corbin went out to the beach to watch the reflecting orange waves crash against the blue-shadowed sand. He sat down, the cold from the sand seeping through his clothes.
There were quiet footsteps behind him. He glanced back and saw Peter.
“The orange rays of that sunset are enough to make royalty bow in awe to God the creator.” Peter uttered, sitting down next to his adopted son, and putting an arm around his shoulder.
Corbin liked hearing his father’s insight about the world. It encouraged him to understand things on a deeper level. He spoke softly in return. “I suppose the sunset is enough splendor for a palace. And yet God chose to give the wonder of it to rich and poor alike.”
Peter smiled and rubbed Corbin’s head, mussing his hair. “that’s right, son.” There was silence for a minute as each took in the breathtaking view. “You know, Corbin, your mother and I had a little talk. We’ve decided not to limit you to the livelihood that myself, your father, and his father all had. If you have an interest in blacksmithing, we will allow you to pursue that.”
Corbin’s eyes widened. “Honest, father?”
Peter grinned. “Sure.”
Corbin leapt up. “When do I start?” he exclaimed, his eyes glowing.
Peter laughed. “Calm down now! I’ll need your help with the boats for a few more years yet,you’re your mother will want you around. But I’d say when you’re fourteen or so, we could apprentice you.”
“I don’t mind a few more years working with fish!” Corbin’s eyes shined. “You’re the best father I’ve ever had.”
Peter’s smile faded. “That’s not fair to say, you don’t remember your real father.”
Corbin glanced sheepishly towards the cottage and then back. “Well you’re the best father I remember then.”
“I may not remember anything from before, but I’m certain you’re the best son I’ve ever had.”
The Forgotten Prince
A gloomy castle set against the backdrop of snow cap mountains, perched atop a hill. In one of the parapets, a middle aged man in noble robes leaned over a table, reading his pupils work.
Young Prince Kurtis dutifully copied the letters on the parchment paper without looking up. When he was finished, he dropped the feather pen, sighed and whined, “May I go play now?”
His tutor gave a smile and nod. “Go ahead. Just don’t leave the castle.”
Kurtis hurried out of the door and down the hall to the kitchens. The cook’s boy was his age, and they had great fun together.
As he was striding down the hall, one of Lord Dinadan’s knights came running around the corner and saw him.
“Your Highness, what are you doing out of your room?” he cried in alarm.
“I—I was just going to—”
“Quickly,” the knight said, taking him by the arm and dragging him back towards his room, “We must get you to safety at once.”
“What do you mean?” Kurtis demanded, trying to free himself from the knight’s grasp.
“There’s no time to argue, Lord Dinandan is dead, as are all my comrades! I alone have escaped!”
Kurtis then quickly followed the knight back to his room. So many questioned filled his head. Was the castle attacked? Who would kill Lord Dinadan? Would they want to kill him to?
When once he was in his room, the knight turned to leave.
“You’re just going to leave me here?” Kurtis cried. “What if they come to kill me?”
The knight huffed. “Now listen, I’m on a mission to go warn the Peers of the Realm that it appears a coup is taking place. If I don’t go, all of the nobles will be killed before morning, and His Majesty will not have a kingdom left when he returns from Irithria.”
“A coup!” Kurtis cried. “Doesn’t that mean that they will want to kill me?”
The knight heard cries down the hall, and glanced nervously about.
“Hide in your wardrobe, Your Highness.” He offered and then quickly dashed down the hall.
Kurtis heart beat furiously, and with terror he ran to the closet and threw open the door. Burrowing under some tunics he had left piled at the bottom, he closed the door. Huddled into a ball, he couldn’t see anything and he could barely breath in his clothing bubble. Shouts and footsteps were heard and then his door was thrown open.
“Search his room!” he heard a command given.
Kurtis clutched his knees to his chest, his eyes welling up in the darkness and fear clutching his stomach.
Curtains were ripped, chests opened and the contents dumped out, the bed slashed.
Kurtis could hear the closet door open for a second, but just then a woman’s voice was heard.
“What are you doing!” she screamed. It was Kurtis’ nursemaid.
“Where is the prince?” one of the men demanded.
“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “He sometimes goes down to the kitchens after his studies, but—”
“Let’s go!” the command was barked, and everyone stormed out of the room.
Kurtis remained hidden for hours, but no more sounds came from the castle. Eventually, he fell asleep. When he awoke, it was to a woman’s voice.
“Your Highness,” she whispered as she shook him gently.
He awoke with a start.
“Come, we must leave the castle quickly.” It was his nursemaid, Kjatia. She took him by the hand and led him down the quiet halls. They snuck by the council room, where men were conversing, and out through the servant’s quarters gate. They left the strangely silent castle behind, and traveled through the night to a country cottage where Kjatia’s mother lived.
There they waited for several days.
Kurtis one day asked Kjatia, “Am I no longer a prince?”
Kjatia, washing dishes in a big wash tub laughed and shook her head. “Of course you are still prince. But it takes more than a week for a boat to reach Irithria, with news of the coup. And once His Majesty hears of the news, if he hurries back at once, it will take just as long for him to return to Krataria. And even once he is here, he will have to fight to take back all of his castles and for him to regain the throne from your cousin’s uncle.”
“What is my cousin’s uncle doing on the throne?” Kurtis said in surprise.
Kjatia shook her head with a sigh. “I guess a few of the nobles rose up and decided to put a true Kratarian on the throne. They quickly killed off any of the nobles that supported your father, and then replaced them with ones that would be sympathetic to their cause. Then they placed Lord Eritian on the throne, and are trying to get the council to crown him.”
Kurtis frowned. “If my father hadn’t gone away to Irithria, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Kjatia shrugged. “Perhaps, but who can know?”
Kurtis drew in the dirt floor, biting his lip. “Kjatia?” he said without looking up.
“What is it?” she asked patiently.
“If Father takes back the throne, do you think he will remember me and come looking for me?”
“Of course, Kurtis!” She exclaimed. She wiped her hands on a towel and hurried over to him, kneeling beside Kurtis and putting an arm around his shoulders. “You’re the crown prince, he can’t forget about you!”
Kurtis felt an emptiness that he couldn’t explain. “So, he’ll remember that he has a crown prince somewhere. But perhaps not his name, not what he looks like, not how old he is or when the last time he saw him was.”
Kjatia tried hard to keep the tears from springing to her eyes, and shook her head. “Don’t talk that way, Your Highness. I’m sure he loves you dearly.”
Kurtis shook his head and shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since two years ago when he was crowned king. Then I was sent to Lord Dinadan’s because it was safer that I shouldn’t remain at court.”
“Well, see, he does care about you. He wants you to be safe,” Kjatia said.
Kurtis shrugged and pulled away from Kyatia, standing and going to look out the window. “You’re just supposed to say that, you don’t really mean it.” He said with a sigh. Before she could respond he smiled and turned away from the window. “It doesn’t matter, Kjatia. I have you to be my mother, and Sir Malcolm to be my father. I know you both love me, for you spend time with me, talk with me, and miss me when you’re gone.”
Kjatia couldn’t help but smile even thougha tear slipped down her cheek. “That’s right, dear Kurtis. I have cared for you since you were a wee child, and I will always love you.”
Kurtis gave her a big hug and she ruffled his hair.
Weeks later, news reached the little cottage that King Derik had indeed returned and was back on the throne.
Kjatia bundled up the prince, hired a horse, and they rode to Tavalkoski.
Upon reaching the castle, Kjatia informed the gaurds, “I have come to bring Prince Kurtis back to his his Majesty the king.”
The guards looked at each other and raised eyebrows. “How do we know this is true? The boy could be anyone.”
“The boys’ father will recognize him,” Kjatia said firmly. “Just think, if he is the prince and you turn him away, the king’s wrath will be upon you.” The guards gulped and let her in.
Kjatia was escorted by a third guard to the throne room, and made to wait in the corner until some important matter was finished.
Kurtis looked across the room and could see his father sitting in a magnificent throne.
A noble kneeling at the steps to the dais, holding his hat in his hands and speaking quietly to the king.
“How can you say you have had no part in this coup, when you were not replaced like other nobles were?” King Derik demanded.
“My Lord, I was out of town on business! They could not find me, and so I suppose were waiting until my return. Please believe me, I am as true as your truest knight,” the man pleaded.
Derik stroked his beard and everyone in the room held their breath, wondering what the king would decide.
“I simply don’t believe you.” King Derik said with a frown. Then he nodded to guards, who made him to stand. “Take him to the dungeon, and see if the warden can’t get any more information out of him.”
“I am innocent, believe me!” he cried, but the men continued to drag him away. Suddenly, he overpowered the guards, smashing one into the wall, and drawing the other guard’s sword, impaled him in an instant.
Kurtis cried out in horror at the sudden turn of events, not being able to look away from the stabbed guard, who now lay in a lifeless heap on the floor.
The other knights rushed forward to protect their king, but Derik drew his own sword and with only a few exchanges of swordplay with the traitor, ended his life.
“Take his body away, along with the guard’s,” Derik said. His servants and knights quickly did as told.
“Come, lady. Now perhaps we can speak with king,” Kjatia’s escort said.
They were led towards the throne, but Kurtis wished to be back at the simple cottage. His eyes were wide and heart pumped. There was no way his father would recognize him, it had been 2 years! Would he have him sent to the dungeon as an imposter?
“Your Majesty,” the escort said, bowing to King Derik.
“What is it?” Derik sighed wearily, wiping his brow and taking a goblet of wine that a servant offered him.
“There is a woman here that claims she has come to return your son to you.” The guard said.
Kurtis kept behind Kjatia, even though his tall frame could not hide well behind her.
“That is impossible, it was reported that my son died in the coup!” Derik exclaimed.
Kjatia bowed deeply to the king as the escort stepped away. “Your Majesty, it is not true. I myself took Prince Kurtis from Lord Dinadan’s castle, and kept him at my mother’s lonely cottage until I knew it was safe to return. Here he is,” she tugged on Kurtis’ arm and brought him to stand before Derik.
Kurtis gulped and struggled to bring his eyes up to meet the king’s.
There was silence in the room for a full minute. Kurtis was relieved that there was no rage left in the king’s eyes, but he couldn’t understand the cold look he gave him. He let his eyes fall to the floor.
“Yes.” King Derik finally said. It was quiet, and low. “He is my son.”
Kurtis’s heart skipped a beat and he looked back up. Derik was no longer looking at him though, he was suddenly preoccupied with a message that had been sitting nearby, waiting to be read.
“Where should I take him? Is his room still free?” Kjatia asked awkwardly as he seemed to forget they were there, intent on reading the letter.
He mumbled, “Yes, yes. Have the servants take care of his room.”
“Father,” Kurtis said quietly. “Will I join you for dinner?”
Derik looked up startled that they boy had spoken. “Yes, of course.” He mumbled. Then standing, he called to his confidant, “Come, I must speak to you about the Eastern Precinct. They have asked that my nephews uncle be released to them.”
The two left the room, and Kurtis was left alone with the guards cleaning up the blood Kjatia and their escort. No one seemed to mind that two people had just died.
“Well, it looks like he is indeed the prince.” The escort said with a tip of the hat to Kjatia and a slight bow to Kurtis. “I must go back to the wall.”
Kjatia accompanied Kurtis down the hall. Two servants were going ahead of them to prepare a room for the prince.
“Kjatia,” Kurtis said.
“What is it?” she asked.
“What if I want to go back and live with you and your mother at the cottage?” he asked.
Kjatia laughed. “Don’t be silly, Your Highness. Here you will have servants, and delicious food, and luxurious things. You will have other court children to play with!”
Kurtis looked down, watching his feet trudge forward on the marble floor.
That evening, Kjatia helped Kurtis prepare for supper, dressing him in a fine gold tunic and brushing his gold curls that fell around his face and down to his shoulders.
Kurtis had been very quiet all day, even though Kjatia had tried to tell him stories and introduce him to some of the court children. As she brushed his hair, he said, “Do you think if I act as good as I can tonight, that then my father will like me?”
Kjatia scolded him gently. “He already likes you, Your Highness!”
They walked down to the supper hall, and found the dais filled with lords and nobles returned from the successful conqueroring of Irithria.
King Derik sat in the middle, his regal crown on his head. A feast was spread on the table, dogs laid on the rush covered floor, and conversation was plenty.
One empty chair was on the dais, and Kurtis was directed to this. He sat down, and some of the attention was drawn to him as a few nobles glanced at the lad.
“Ah, Your Majesty! Is this your son, the future king of Krataria?” one of the noble’s said with sudden interest.
“And of Irithria now too!” another lord added, causing light laughter and a cheer.
Derik glanced over at Kurtis, and nodded, taking a sip of wine.
“How are you, Your Highness?” Lord Bryce asked cordially, bowing to the boy.
He smiled and nodded. “I am well, My Lord.” He said in a clear voice.
The conversation soon took a turn, the matter of the remaining coup members that had gone into hiding, or were still among them and remaining undetected being brought up.
Kurtis left the hall after supper, and went to the garden to throw bones to the dogs. When he came back in, the candles were lit and the halls dark. As he passed by dinner hall, he could hear the nobles were still in there, conversing loudly from much wine.
“The boy is a fine heir, Your Majesty! He takes after his mother, and the people will love him, for they loved Princess Kiera.”
Kurtis leaned on the doorframe. Kjatia had mentioned once that he looked like the late princess, but to hear it from a stranger was a different matter.
“I don’t think it’s safe here for Prince Kurtis,” King Derik’s voice was quieter, but it still echoed in the hall. “I spoke again with Kjatia today, and she explained the story of their escape in deatil. Even if the people would love him, the coup henchmen had indeed tried to take his life, and I cannot risk losing my heir.”
The men all murmured in agreement.
“Where would you propose he be sent then, Your Majesty?” Lord Bryce asked.
There was a pause. “Perhaps Irithria.” Derik responded.
Surprise registered.
Kurtis felt like a rock had been dropped in his stomach.
“He will be safe from the coup trying to take his life, but Irithria is a newly conquerored country and the people may turn from you and dispose of your heir in your absence,” one of the lord’s objected.
“I will put him in Lord Gareth’s care. Surely the people will not storm the castle. Besides, the kingdom needs a royal figure to adore.” Derik responded.
Kurtis gulped and slipped off into the darkness. He was being sent away again. But this time to a kingdom not his own, to people he knew not. How could his father do this to him?
It was only a week later that Kurtis was boarded onto a merchant ship with a few guards, a trusty servant, a tutor, and his wardrobe.
He hugged Kjatia at the dock, trying not to cry. She had been ordered to remain in Krataria. After all, the boy was eleven, why should he still need a nursemaid?
Kurtis blinked back tears. She was more than a nursemaid to him. She was the only person in the Lands Beyond that cared about him. That loved him.
Kjatia wept openly and pressed a gift into Kurtis’ hand as he turned to go. “Don’t open the box until you reach Irithria, my sweet baby.” She said, daring to use her nickname that she had used privately when he was just a lad.
As Kurtis watched the dock get smaller and smaller, and finally the land disappear, his heart shrunk.
He didn’t eat or drink the whole journey, and when his servant or the guards tried to make small talk with him, he made no reply. By the time he made it to Irithria, he was weak and pale, and quite sick.
He was taken to his room and left alone. “Is there anything I can do for you?” His servant asked.
“Fetch me the small box inside my chest of drawers,” he said quietly.
The servant did as told and brought him Kjatia’s gift.
Kurtis scooted up onto his pillows into a sitting position, and opened the box. He let out a little smile.
“May I have some food? I must regain my strength and make my mother proud.” He said.
Filch's Last Voyage
Filch clutched Edward's hand in a strong embrace.
“You’ve been a good friend, Just Edward.” His one eye wandered carelessly, but he stared steadily at his friend with his other.
Edward smiled. “You’ve been a great friend as well, Filch. I hope that you find some closure on this journey.”
Filch grabbed his cap and doffed it with a grin, turning and walking up the teetering gang-plank to the ship. It was a large ship to be handled by only one man, but Filch insisted that he alone should take the journey.
The wharf was busy with other sailors and fishermen docking for the evening, but Filch pulled up the anchor and cast away from shore without another glance at the Irithrian sea port of Alscon. It was no matter that he had longed in vain for years to return to Irithria, now he had to think about the future.
Filch hummed a bard tune to himself, mixing up “Seven Senseless Spiders” and “Geoffrey’s Balad” in a humorous conglomeration as he unfurled the sails and watched the shoreline float further away.
Duke Edward waved, a small figure barely seen amidst sailors and merchants.
Filch grinned and waved back. His smile faded and he sighed. Walking to the other side of the ship, he leaned on the railing, letting the salty wind whip at his grey hair.
“If you would be so kind, please tell His Royal Highness the Emperor that his old friend and right-hand man is here to see him,” Filch chuckled aloud to himself, practicing what he would say when he returned to Akino’s bright palaces.
He checked to make sure the ship was headed in the correct direction, and then meandered down to captain’s cabin to check an array of maps laid out on his desk. He muttered to himself and crossed off an island that some flimsy cattail of a cartographer had put on the map. He traced an imaginary line with his finger and then drew a myriad of tiny islands closer to Akino.
A black and white cat stretched from it’s cozy position on Filch’s cot, and yawned with a slight meow.
Filch grinned and picked up the cat, petting him. “You and me, Buttercrumbs. We’ll tell those nasty islanders who’s who, and they’ll take us right to the emperor no problem. From there it’s smooth sailing to attain trade relations with Akino!” he stopped and snorted, slapping his knee and upsetting the cat. “Get it? Smooth sailing!”
His cat squirmed out of his grasp and bounded onto the cot, tail waving contentedly in the air as he sniffed out the blanket.
Filch sailed through the night and all the next day, using some crude instruments that he had seen in Akino and had tried to make from memory. Edward had thought he was crazy for trusting his navigation to some round thing with a needle, but Filch was certain it would work as well for him as it did when he was in the emperor’s army.
Towards the end of the second day, the sun was setting, and Filch was eating a hearty meal of hard tack and beans on the poop deck of the ship. As he shoveled beans into his mouth, one of his eyes caught sight of a ship—no it was a few ships—sailing towards him on the horizon.
Leaping up from his chair and slamming his bowl of beans down with vehemence, he cried, “You’ll never capture me this time, you fopdoodle pirates!” Bursting into action, he let loose the sails and steered the ship towards the North East. He knew of some schoals that would be hard to navigate-for himself included, but it would be better than getting captured.
His ship was lighter than most of the ships following him, so for several hour he contuned to be in the lead. But before long, onde of the ships began gaining on him. Filch grit his teeth and stomped his feet, his eyes flitting from the schoals closing in before him and the presumed pirate that got closer ever minute.
As he neared what he thought was a navigateable space, he discovered it had changed over the decades. Less water covered the sand bars—it would be impossible for him to get his ship in.
With a quick decision, he yanked the steering wheel to the right. The light craft creaked and groaned as it slowly obeyed his command. But the wind hit the side of the ship and its momentum came to a halt.
Filch groaned. The ship would never make up for the list time now—the ship in chase was almost upon him. Filch tightened his bdelt and ran pell mell down to the hold for some weapons. He would fight them off one by one if necessary.
Knocking over a lamp in his haste, he stashed two daggers in his belt, shoved a crossboe under one arm, and opted for a lighter sword—a cutlasss for his final weapon which he could more eaily weild one handed. Then he dashed up the stairs.
The other ship was abreast of him now, and a crew of seamen waited to throw boards over to his ship.
“You’ll never take my ship, you cattail-like fop doodles!” he cried, shooting off his first bolt in their direction and not pausing to reload before charging forward with his cutlass and a bvattle cry.
“We don’t intend to take your ship!” someone, presumably the leader of the fleet called out as Filch neared the railing.
Filch stopped short and snorted, “Whyever not? You be pirates, right?”
“No, we are in the service of His Majesty, King Alfred of Mythastersi.” The leader explained, staring cooly at Filch. “We are in search of a traitorous criminal who was last said to be sailing these waters. Do we have permission to come aboard and search your ship?”
Filch stared suspiciously at him, lowing the crossbow.
“A traitor, eh? Well. It’s just me and my cat aboard, Sir not-a-pirate. And neither of us are Mythastians, that I can assure you!” he laughed.
A few of the Mythastian soldiers laughed quietly, and the captaun glared at them.
“You couldn’t possibly run this ship by yourself. Let us aboard at once.”
“Well,” Filch said with one eyebrow raised and a confused look on his face, “Buttercrumbs might be of Mythastian descent, I guess I’ve never asked him.”
“Buttercrumbs?” the captain demanded.
“My cat, of course.”
The captain sighed in annoyance as his men tittered again.
“Well, tell me your name and your mission in these waters, and then I shall let you go.”
Filch rested his foot on the railing and leaned on his knee with a grin. “I am Sir Filch of Irithria. I intend to sail to Akino and obtain a trading relationship between the emperor and King Phillip.”
The words seemed to sail above the Mythastians heads as they stared at him blankly.
Then several burst out laughing, including the captain.
“Okay, what are you really doing sailing in the Mythasta sea though?” He said, rolling his eyes.
Filch’s smile faded. “I’m making up for lost years spent in mourning and useless wandering. Now, if you’ll get your big ole’ ship out the way, I can stop wasting both of our time.”
The Mythastian captain huffed and looked as if he might be offended, but just thenthe cout in their coolout called out, “The rest of our fleet seems to be in much confusion! One of our ships is sailing West, and another is—is sinking!”
The ship fell into chaos and the captain barked out orders. Soon the ship had cast away and left Filch behind.
Filch shook his head and returned to the helm of his ship. He was soon underway again.
Sailing by the light of the moon, Filch ticked two weeks off his calendar.
It was a bit of a trip to Akino, but this was nothing compared to how long it had taken him to get back home to Breanna--Or rather to Breanna’s gravesite.
Somedays he wished he had never returned to Irithria. That way he could have imagined his sweetheart and daughter as happy and alive for the rest of his life.
A shadow fell over his face as he remembered the small wooden sticks bound together in the shape of a cross, laid over a mound of dirt with grass growing over it.
Buttercrumbs wove in-between his legs and “meowed”, reminding Filch where he was.
He pushed his past aside and stood up, tucking the map back in his desk drawer.
“We should be reaching the outer Akino islands any day now, Buttercrumbs.” He announced with a grin. “Then we can go about doing what I should’ve done years ago.”
Two days later, Filch peered out over the water anxiously. He scanned the bright blue waves twinkling with overbearing white sunlight.
“Aha!” he cried.
There, and the edge of the horizon was a black strip. Land.
He ran down the steps and began throwing anchors overboard, furling the sail, and in all other ways preparing to land.
It was a good thing that he had spotted land when he did, because his supply of hardtack was running low.
Two hours later the small Akinese Island loomed ahead, covered in lush vegetation. Filch waited for the onslaught he had experienced years ago—the islanders rushing out on canoes and taking the ship. But there was none.
So he sailed around the island until he found a natural cove where the water was deep enough drop anchor.
Sailing in he found the island strangely quiet. He kept his eyes on the tree line as he slowly unwound the winch to let the rowboat down. Then he slid down the rope and into the bow boat, rocking it gently.
Taking an oar in hand, he suspiciously dipped it quietly in the water.
He rowed quietly to shore and began looking around. He walked upriver until he found a village. But to his surprise, it was abandoned. There was no ruin, everything was in perfect shape. The banana leaf roofs of the huts were caved in and browned, and animals had made nests in the fireplaces. He crept forward and lifted the flap of a hut door.
A wild jungle animal darted away through a gap in the back and disappeared.
“Abandoned.” He said aloud. “No one has lived here in years.” He clucked his tongue.
He traveled around the small island for several hours, stopping to gather fruits and fill water canteens along the way. He found two more villages—both abandoned.
When the sun began to set he uneasily made his way back to the ship. He must stay on the ship at night, or wild animals would make sure he never told the tale to a soul.
Harsteocki Christmas
he twinkling stars faded as dawn broke over the valley with a thin pink line across the sky. The small huts huddled together around the misty lake were all silent in the early morning.
A tall fortress with blue and yellow flags hanging from the windows towered over the town. Frost covered the rows upon rows of stone steps leading up to the Smanchei Citadel, undisturbed except by the leather-clad feet of blond warriors trekking dutifully back and forth in front of the huge entrance.
Inside the castle, Amee hurried noiselessly up the marble steps, barefoot. She was dressed in a dull brown chiton bog dress with a sleeved underdress for warmth. Her brown hair was plaited into two long braids down her back that bobbed as she ran lightly up the stairs.
Even though this time of year meant nothing to the Harsteockis, Amee smiled to herself knowing that Christmas was in 12 days.
Out of breath, she reached the large wooden intricately carved door of the High Lady’s bedchamber and opened the door without hesitation.
The room was cold and dark despite the large window facing where the sun was soon to rise.
Amee wasted no time. She crept to the fireplace and started a fire, the crackling wood soon sending warmth into the rest of the room. Next, she lit candles, and pulling a fine vibrant yellow gown from a wooden chest, she laid it out upon the chair. Then she warmed the water in a pottery basin, and placed in on the table by the chair.
A minute later, two other servants entered the room, and said quietly, “Good morning, Amee. Is the High Lady awake yet?”
Amee set down the towel and turned to them with a nod. “She is not.”
One of the two servant ladies stepped over to a large carved bed with heavy brightly colored curtains draping it off.
The High Lady was wakened with some effort, but was soon sitting in front of fireplace.
While Amee knelt to help her don her stockings, the one maid handed the lady a damp cloth to wash her face with, and the other set to work on the lady’s long blond hair with a sheep’s horn comb.
“I hope you slept well, Your Highness?” one of the maids asked.
High Lady Muirne gave a smile. “Not as well as one could hope, but well enough. Amee, have you put out my gown for today?”
Amee nodded. “Yes, Lady Muirne.”
As the maids worked, Lady Muirne turned to the servant brushing out her hair and said, “Let Amee do that. She has such a tasteful way of plaiting it.”
The servant curtsied and Amee raised her eyebrows in surprise, but rose to do her lady’s bidding.
Amee took the comb from the other girl and gently began pulling out the tangles.
“Tell me Amee,” the high lady said with sudden interest, “where did you learn such braiding techniques? Is it common in the land of Irithria?”
“Not altogether common, My Lady, but somewhat popular in the higher classes. The year before—before I was captured, I was taught this braid style by my mother, a courtier at the royal palace.”
The Lady nodded coolly. “And it is worn by any lady at the royal court at any time?”
“It is more common for a Holiday or some other special event at which there might be a feast.”
“A Holiday?” The lady said with eyebrows raised. “And what exactly is a Holiday?”
“It’s our holy days. They are days when we celebrate something Holy, and all people from free men to peasants have no work all day so that they may feast and celebrate as well.” Amee hurried to explain.
One of the other servants laughed. “That seems frivolous, letting all of the working people have a day off! How then is the royal family to get prepared for the feast you mentioned on such a holiday, without a servant to help them?”
Amee shrugged. “The servants either help them willingly, or for one day the royalty have to help themselves.”
“And what is Holy in Irithria?” The lady asked with a slight laugh. “Do they also have Masters of Art?”
“No, My Lady. We worship the one true God and his son. Most of the Holidays are to remember something that he did, or about someone in the past who served God devoutly and should be remembered.” Amee said. She had just put the finishing touches on the masterpiece of art she had created with the High Lady’s hair.
“Interesting,” the lady said with a slight raise of the eyebrow. “Hilde, my shoes please.”
Amee hurried across the room to grab the golden gown from the chair. She paused to stare out the window. The sun had now risen over the frosted valley, and golden rays spread out across the Harsteocki territory. She breathed in a breath of fresh air, closing her eyes. Gorgeous winter mornings made her think of her family’s cozy castle in Irithria, and the excitement of Christmas coming. Her favorite Holiday was probably only a few days away, but here in pagan Harsteocki territory, everyone went about their life without even knowledge about it.
“Amee?” The high lady called with a curious laugh.
Amee blushed, grabbed the gown and stalked over to them. With the help of the other two servants, they pulled it over the lady’s wool shift.
With the lady dressed and ready for the day, they accompanied her out of the rom. The rest of the castle was now beginning to awake, with servants hurrying here or there.
The High lady and her servants walked down the halls to the throne room.
Two warriors bowed to the high lady and threw open the doors for her.
The room was shining with the light of the sun coming in from all of the large open windows.
A table was set up to the side of room, and large pewter vats of oatmeal provided breakfast for the entire court.
High Lady Muirne took her place beside High Chieftain Slaughadhan, and her three maid servants retreated a few steps. Amee, her favorite servant despite being but an Irithrian slave, stood closest for when she should call on her.
Amee could clearly hear the words Slaughadhan spoke to his close advisors and lords.
“When we fought in the battle of the cliffs of Morceana, I was told it would stop these foreigners from taking over our land. And now that the lad, Phillip, is safe on his throne, he leaves us Harsteockis to fend for ourselves!” he spat.
“He’s a Master of the Arts, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t speak against King Phillip.” A lord across the table from the High Chieftain humbly suggested.
“I could care less, Aed! Our own Masters of the Arts haven’t been able to divine the traitors in our midst. How are am I supposed to fight King Kierkegaard off from all sides?”
“Snow will come before long, just as it did last year, My Dear.” Lady Muirne said gently. “Then when the Boarlonians cease their battle with us until spring, you can relax and make your plans.”
High Chieftain Slaughadhan sighed and took a deep draught from his goblet. “If only the snow would come.”
There was silence at the table, and everyone reflectively ate their porridge.
That evening, Amee was finishing brushing out Muirne’s long hair, when Muirne dismissed her two other servants.
The fireplace crackled warmly, the only sound in the cozy room. Amee carefully stroked the long blond hair.
Amee was helping the Harsteocki queen get ready for bed, Lady Muirne turned to her. Her eyes were wet in the candlelight. “Amee,” she said quietly, “Tell me more about this Holy God that you claim is the only true one. What do you mean by this?”
Amee slowed her pace, her heart rate increasing. Would the High Chieftain become angry with her if he found out she was teaching his wife that their gods were not true?
“Well,” she said slowly, “All other gods are not real. Our God is the maker of the heavens and the maker of the earth. And yet he knows us each by name.”
“He knows my name?” Muirne said, her eyes widening.
And so Amee answered her questions and told her as much as she knew. Sometimes, she wished someone with more understanding about God tell her. But that night, after walking down the stairs to the slaves quarters and crawling under the covers on her cot, she closed her eyes tight and said a simple prayer.
God, help me to say the right things to the High Lady.
Tasarla's Wedding
“Go on Olanga, get in your cage,” Tasarla coaxed.
The monkey, dressed in a little red velvet vest and hat, shook his head emphatically, screeched, and scratched himself.
Tasarla tapped her foot impatiently and grabbed the monkey’s hand, leading him up the steps to the red wagon.
He screeched again, grabbing at each step to try to stop their steady progress.
“I have to go get ready, Olanga!” Tasarla said, her voice rising with frustration. She grabbed onto his hairy hand with both of her dark-skinned ones, planting her feet and pulling.
Olango squawked and let go, sending them both flying through the door of the vardo.
Tasarla landed on her back and Olanga flew over top of her. He jumped back and forth between the bench and the bed, grinning toothily, and shrieking with mischief.
“Tasarla?”
Tasarla scrambled up from the floor, straightening her hair and poking her head out the door.
“Yes, Mother?” she called.
The Phuri Dai was carrying a box underneath one arm, and a child on her hip with the other.
“Gregore’s sister-in-law, Daciana, sent this gift to you and insisted you open it before the wedding.” She huffed, setting the box down on the edge of the vardo porch and shifting the gypsy child to her other hip.
Tasarla knelt by the box, raising an eyebrow. “What could be so urgent, do you think?” she mused, prying the top of the box off. She gasped with delight and pulled out a heavily beaded headdress and veil.
“Mother, look at the design! This must have cost a fortune!” Tasarla declared, setting it on her head.
The Phuri Dai set down the squirming child. Then, with a smile, she carefully helped rearrange the veil and adjusted Tasarla’s long black locks of curly hair.
Attention caught by something else, the child ran off towards the next wagon.
“It is the perfect addition to your wedding gown. You will make such a gorgeous bride!” Her mother beamed. “Come, let us go get you ready.”
Tasarla’s heart thumped excitedly in her chest. She put the headdress back in the box, and clamped the lid on, following her mother down the steps.
They arrived at Iona’s wagon, and she welcomed them with a kiss on the cheek.
“Our gowns are ready, Tasarla!” she exclaimed.
Tasarla stepped into the wagon, eager to see what wedding dress her closest female relations had sewed for her. Orphaned Revecca proudly showcased one gown, while Betina, her mother’s namesake and sweet niece, held up an almost identical one.
Tasarla gasped. “The embroidery on this must have taken you girls a month!” She fingered the delicate fabric.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Iona said. “I still can’t believe Gregore wants me to be your so-called ‘maid of honor’ though. It seems like he’s taking the Irithrians’ traditions a bit too far.”
Tasarla laughed and shrugged. “Bless him, he wants me to be safe. I find it very sweet.”
The Phuri Dai smiled and motioned to the dresses. “Hold them up, I want to see.”
Iona and Tasarla held up the matching dresses to themselves, and Iona raised an eyebrow.
The Phuri Dai chuckled. “I daresay you two shall look very similar to each other in those dresses, someone could certainly mistake Iona for you, Tasarla.”
“Beniamen isn’t so sure about the plan, but I’ve assured him that no one is going to try to kidnap the bride,” Iona chuckled.
“Speaking of Beniamen, does he have Dorin with him?” Tasarla asked, glancing around the vardo.
“I thought Dorin was with you, Phuri Dai?” Iona said, concern covering her face.
_______
Gregore buttoned a red velvet embroidered vest over his white blouse. He looked in the mirror and combed out his long black curly hair one last time.
There was a knock at the door.
“It’s Frederic, can I come in?” a muffled voice said.
Gregore hurried to open the door and smiled at the young earl. “Yes, do come in. I was hoping for your approval on my wedding attire.”
Frederic laughed. “Why do you need my approval, Gregore?”
Gregore shrugged and fiddled with a cap that matched his vest. “I want to make sure that our customs don’t contradict with Irithrian ones. I am determined to show my new neighbors that I can and will follow reasonable rules.”
Frederic grinned and clapped Gregore on the shoulder, glancing over his outfit. “You look dashing.”
Gregore breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. And thank you for agreeing to be my best man. I think that is a wonderful Irithrian tradition and it will bring me much peace of mind.”
Frederic adjusted his sword belt. “I do not think I am even close to being the best swordsman in the land, Gregore. I’ve barely been a knight for a week. And besides, since you aren’t royalty, I don’t see why anyone would want to interfere with the wedding or harm you.”
Gregore strode back to the mirror and placed his cap on his head. “You’ve seen Tasarla, Frederic. Anyone would kill me if it meant having her.” He said with the grimmest of expressions.
Frederic grinned. “You will go down in history as the most prepared groom who had the safest wedding ever.”
Gregore grinned. “You really think so?”
“I do. Now let’s head to the chapel, the priest will want to say a few words to you before the ceremony starts.”
Gregore swallowed apprehensively. “Of course. Might we stop by my Vardo first? I want to make sure all is ready so that Tasarla and I may set off immediately after the wedding feast.”
Frederic nodded and muttered, “Someone’s anxious for the honeymoon,” under his breath as he led the way out of the room, which was his own bed chamber he had offered for Gregore’s use in getting ready.
The two exited the castle and mounted horses. They rode their horses easily through Spearthville and passed the chapel, which was being decorated by gypsy women.
Gregore’s brow furrowed. “I hope it’s okay that the clan’s women are strewing flowers all about the chapel. That won’t anger the townspeople or the priest, will it?”
Frederic shook his head. “It’s fine. It is often done for Irithrian weddings as well.”
They left Spearthville and reached the gypsy camp just outside.
Children ran after dogs, women cooked over campfires, and men tended to the animals.
Gregore’s vardo was parked in the shade of a tree, a little separate from the camp.
“You told me that Irithrian grooms usually get their bride a gift for the wedding. I hope that the vardo I made for us is enough.” Gregore said.
“Usually it is a gift of jewelry, sometimes rings,” Frederic mused, but quickly added, “but a vardo is far more wonderful than that.”
As they approached, Gregore pulled up on the reins of his horse. Frederic stopped abruptly.
“What’s the matter?”
Gregore dismounted, and studied the ground. “The grass is all bent like many people have been through here.” He said in a low tone, looking around.
Gypsy men burst from behind the wagon, shouting, “Happy wedding!”
Gregore threw his hat and yelled, “You know I hate surprises!”
The men laughed and surrounded Gregore, all talking at once.
“Come, we thought we would share a toast with you before the ceremony!” Beniamen exclaimed good naturedly, producing a bottle of wine.
“No one hates surprises,” Costel laughed, slapping Gregore on the back. “It’s your wedding day, and you’ve got to have some good advice from us married men.”
Gregore looked back at Frederic with a look that said “help.”
“I think I’m staying out of this one,” Frederic called with a nervous laugh, and muttered under his breath, “I don’t need to hear any marriage advice yet, thank you very much.” He wheeled his horse around and rode out of camp, leaving Gregore to his cousins, uncles, and friends.
“I told them you would hate this,” Eugene, Gregore’s brother whispered to Gregore.
“Come, let’s have a drink!” Fane exclaimed, moving to walk up the steps of the vardo.
Gregore scowled and placed himself in the way.
“No one in the vardo. Come on, I don’t have time for this.” He complained.
Costel shoved a lute towards Ramzi. “Let’s sing a song for the groom!”
Ramzi reluctantly strummed a few chords, and the men all broke out in a tune.
Costel ran to a vardo a little way away, and came back juggling three burning sticks.
“Marriage is like fire!” he declared as the men finished their tune. The men laughed and applauded his skills.
“Yeah, it’s really amazing until it burns you!” Fane guffawed.
“It beckons you, but you can’t touch it,” Ramzi said quietly.
Gregore crossed his arms. “Stay away from the vardo with those, Costel.”
A monkey leaped towards the vardo with a screech, chased by a dog ferociously barking, which in turn was chased by a laughing child.
The monkey sprang onto Costel’s shoulders. His balance wobbled, and a flaming stick flew from his hand straight through the door of the blue vardo.
Gregore watched in horror as it hit the bedding inside and lit up.
“No!” he cried. “Water, someone get water!”
The men rushed in all different directions. Gregore burst inside the vardo, tearing the burning blanket off the bed and stomping on it. His white leather embroidered shoes blackened with soot and threatened to burst into flames—along with his ideal perfectly safe wedding.
__________
Tasarla spun in her gown and stepped out of the vardo with a beaming smile, Iona behind her.
The Phuri Dai gasped and hugged Tasarla to her, with tears stinging her eyes. “You are so gorgeous, my dear. Your papa would have been so proud.”
Tasarla felt a sudden lump in her throat. She could not remember the man her mother was probably referring to, but the absence on this day of the man she had called Papa was enough to bring tears.
“I hope that Revecca has found Dorin,” Iona said quietly behind them, putting hand to her forehead to peer across the camp.
Already groups of gypsies were leaving the campsite to head to the chapel.
A commotion on the other end of camp caught Tasarla’s attention for a second, and then she suddenly clenched her fists.
“I forgot to put Olanga in his cage.” She declared, silently berating herself.
“Don’t worry about it—” her mother began, but Tasarla cut her off.
“No, I must go find him and lock him up. He is prone to causing mischief, and even if he doesn’t, I don’t want him to come looking for me during the ceremony.” Tasarla started across camp, holding her skirts as best she could, stepping around fireplaces, and weaving her way through vardos.
Iona caught up to her and scooped up some of her voluminous skirts, hurrying after her.
“I hope he didn’t wander far from the vardo.” Tasarla huffed as she carefully stepped around a mess a goat had left behind. “I wanted to make it to the chapel early and make sure the flower arrangements are impeccable and be certain that there is a pew saved for the Voivode. Oh, and I wanted to instruct Makena and Sofia to make sure that the feast afterward will include a roasted duck; it’s tradition on my mother’s side you know.”
Iona grabbed Tasarla by the shoulder and gently turned her so she could see her. “Tasarla.” She said with a gentle smile. “Take a breath. Your wedding doesn’t have to be a perfectly check-marked schedule of events.”
Tasarla took a deep breath, her eyebrows furrowed. “I just want it to be perfect.”
“It will be. It will be perfect in it’s own unique, memorable way, as long as you enjoy every moment instead of constantly fretting.” Iona squeezed Tasarla’s hand, and she nodded, letting out a big sigh and closing her eyes.
Just then a little boy was heard giggling nearby, and Iona looked up.
“Dorin!” she exclaimed, dropping Tasarla’s skirts and running to a nearby vardo.
Tasarla’s eyes followed her to Gregore’s parents' vardo.
“Olanga!” she exclaimed, following in Iona’s footsteps.
Olanga dropped a bucket he had been dumping in front of a horse, and screeched, leaping onto the vardo and dashing away.
Dorin giggled and stood up to follow him.
“Dorin, come to Mama!” Iona declared. She moaned, “Your tunic is marime, you naughty boy!”
Tasarla hurried after Olanga, dashing around the wagon, and forcing herself passed a few grazing goats.
_______
Gregore sat on the edge of his vardo, with Eugene and Costel leaning against it with empty buckets and soot faces.
“I’m overcome with defeat.” Gregore said in a low tone, laying his sooty hat on the porch. “How can I start my new life with Tasarla in this charred wagon?”
Costel swallowed and glanced inside. “It’s not too bad. Just, uh, a charred floor, soot-covered walls and—well, I admit it’s not the best.”
Frederic rode towards them.
“Gregore, I have some bad news for you.” He said as he approached. He dismounted, and barely noticed the condition of the three gypsy men as he continued. “The friar has left on a sudden pilgrimage for Mythastersi.”
Gregore stood and slowly walked down the vardo stairs, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
“That can’t be.” He said, slowly shaking his head.
Frederic sighed, his brows furrowed. “He told me he would perform the marriage, but just now when I went to his chambers, the scribe told me the news. I can’t imagine what sort of an emergency would cause him to break his word and leave in such a hurry. I feel terrible about this.”
Gregore shook his head. “There must be some mistake. I will go with you to the chapel and we will search for him.”
The two set off through the camp and made it to Spearthville.
Gregore picked at his sweaty groom’s clothes, and rubbed a finger across his eyebrow as a stab of headache shot across his temple.
A group of townspeople cheered as Frederic rode into camp, and gathered around his horse.
“My lord, may I have a word!” one cried.
“Your lordship, I have a matter I’d like to bring before you.” Another said.
Gregore cleared his throat and shrunk back at the group, trying to repress his ideology that gadjos were marime.
They all pressed around them, talking at once until Frederic held up his hand.
“I do not have time for this right now, now please make way.” Frederic said in an authoritative voice.
The people backed away silently. Frederic led the way for Gregore to the chapel.
Gregore gulped at the looks the people were giving him. Here he wanted to stay on their good side, and all he had done was spark enmity.
They both dismounted at the chapel and Gregore followed Frederic into a side door where the friar lived.
“That’s odd,” Frederic said in a low tone.
“What?”
“This place is a mess.”
The small chamber was disheveled, papers lying scattered about the floor, the wardrobe open with clothes thrown everywhere, and the table stacked with crates of some sort.
The door opened and someone said from behind them, “Can I help you gentlemen?”
Gregore spun around, eyes piercing the new comer with suspicion.
He was dressed in brown broad cloth tunic with a cowl, and wore a cap and a cross.
“Hello, father, we were looking for Father Jeremiah.” Frederic said, addressing the stranger.
“Oh, he went on a sudden pilgrimage to Mythastersi. He sent his scribe to me ask that I fill in for him while he’s gone.” The man said with a wide grin.
Gregore tried to appear polite, but something told him he should not trust this man.
Frederic nodded. “Very well Father…what’s your name?”
“Oh, uh, I’m—Father Lewis.” He stuttered.
“I’m sure Father Jeremiah told you about the wedding taking place today?” Frederic asked.
The man swallowed and glanced from Frederic to Gregore. “oh, oh yes! Of course! I must go get ready.” With that he turned around and left.
Gregore turned to Frederic. “I am uneasy, Frederic. Are you sure we can trust this man?”
Frederic smiled and shrugged. “He did have an odd mannerism, but since he is a friar, I’m sure we can trust him. Come, your guests are gathering in the chapel already. Let’s get you to the platform.”
________
Olanga shrieked with his sneering grin and jumped from the back of one annoyed goat to another.
Tasarla groaned in frustration and dashed around the group of goats to head him off.
The camp had almost emptied as everyone had headed to town for the celebration.
Olanga reached the last goat and leaped into the air, reaching for edge of a vardo.
Tasarla grabbed him mid jump.
“I got you!” she exalted, pulling the monkey to herself.
Olanga screeched and squirmed out of her grasp. With one fatal flail, he got tangled in her veil and went crashing to the ground with the expensive headdress.
Tasarla lost her balance and cried out. Her headdress fell right into a goat mess, and Olanga, in a hurry to get away, tore a long rip in the delicate embroidered fabric.
Then he dashed off on all fours.
Tasarla stared in horror as she carefully picked up her gorgeous expensive headdress. Her hands shook with anger and she felt like crying.
“Tasarla! Tasarla, where are you?”
Her mother’s voice rang across the camp. A second later, she walked in between vardos and saw Tasarla standing there.
“Everyone is gathered at the church, they’re waiting for you.” She said. Her smile faded as she drew near.
Tasarla sniffled and walked with slumped shoulders toward her mother. “It’s—it’s ruined.”
The Phuri Dai took it in her hands, assessed the damage and then wrapped an arm around her daughter. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Did Olanga do this?”
Tasarla nodded and sniffled, leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder.
The Phuri Dai took a deep breath and said with a too-cheery voice, “Well, there is no need to cover your lovely hair anyway. Come, let’s get to the chapel. Soon this little mishap will be all forgotten, and you will be off on a grand adventure with your new husband.”
Tasarla nodded and regained her composure, gulping and standing tall.
________
Music streamed from the chapel as Tasarla arrived outside the large wooden doors.
Balaz was playing the flute, Ramzi the lute, and she could hear Revecca singing.
Gregore’s three little sisters were gathered in beautifully bright dresses outside the chapel, waiting with baskets of rose petals, per Irithrian traditions.
“You look so beautiful, Tasarla!” one of the girls with a missing tooth said with shining eyes.
“Gregore says you’re going to be our sister now. Is that true?” another of them asked.
“Yes, it is. Hazata, you’re tipping your basket.” Tasarla said to the third and littlest, who quickly righted it.
Tasarla took a deep breath and smiled, closing her eyes.
Iona rode into town on a horse, followed by her husband holding Dorin. Her hair disheveled, she dismounted and ran to Tasarla.
“Oh, I’m so glad I’m not late!” she exclaimed. “Dorin was marime, so I had to bathe him and redress him.”
Tasarla squeezed Iona’s hand. “Don’t worry about it. We’re all here, and that’s what matters.”
The Phuri Dai opened the door, and the three girls walked in first, spreading the petals everywhere down the aisle. Then Iona walked in.
Tasarla tried to peek in through the door to see Gregore, but the Phuri Dai closed the door.
Horse’s hooves galloping could be heard from the other end of town, and then there was shouting.
Tasarla paid them no attention, focusing on her thundering heart.
“Your wedding will be perfect in it’s own way.” She said quietly to herself.
Then the door opened, and the Phuri Dai escorted Tasarla through the door.
Everyone stood and cheered.
Tasarla looked down the aisle at her fiancé he tried to smile, but she could see he was tense.
The chapel ceiling towered above them in an array of arches and intricate carvings. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows. Revecca’s voice reverberated through the air as she sang the traditional gypsy wedding song.
“May the sun shine on your path,
No matter where it goes,
The two of you in love, through the highs and lows.
May your hearts grow ever fonder
With each and every passing day,
Your happiness increasing, in the Planqi Gypsy way.”
Just as Tasarla reached the bottom step of the platform, the doors slammed open.
Gregore’s face froze on the intruders, his hand resting on his sword.
Tasarla turned around, as she heard hundreds of people craning their necks in their pews to see what was going on.
A group of Irithrian guards in chainmail and leather armor stormed into the room.
“Excuse me, I am the earl of Montalspery.” Frederic, standing beside Gregore, said. He stepped in front of Gregore. “Is there something I can help you with?”
The leader of the group looked up in surprise and bowed towards Frederic.
“Pardon us, Your Lordship. We had an escaped prisoner, a dangerous highwayman escape. Do you mind if we look around?”
“Can’t you see there is a wedding being performed?” Frederic asked in annoyance, motioning towards Gregore and the friar.
Just then a monkey leapt through the open doors, his screech echoed through the chamber.
Chaos descended, as guards drew their swords, and the monkey leapt among the guests causing screams and shouts.
Tasarla watched with wide eyes as Olanga swung through the air, straight for her. She tumbled backwards onto the stairs as he landed on her.
Father Lewis lifted his long robe and drew a sword, grabbing Iona by the arm.
“Don’t come any closer, or the bride dies!” he shouted to the guards who were rushing down the aisle.
The chaos deepened as terrified screams filled the air.
The guards froze.
“That’s not the real bride,” Frederic said.
The outlaw posing as the friar let down his sword for a second of surprise, and Frederic shoved terrified Iona out of the way and drew his sword in an instant.
Frederic attacked the imposter, but the duel didn’t last long. The outlaw’s sword flew from his hands, and Frederic placed the tip of his sword at the man’s throat.
“You’re not a friar, you’re the outlaw they’re looking for!” Gregore declared.
The audience cheered.
The guards rushed up the platform and began bounding their escaped prisoner.
“Thank you for your help, Your Lordship,” the captain said with a deep bow to Frederic.
“Of course. Keep a better eye on him this time.” Frederic said with a bit of a reproach in his voice.
As they hauled the man down the aisle, Gregore looked around.
The wedding guests were all talking among themselves, children huddled under their parents’ arms and men shaking their fists in the outlaw’s direction.
Iona had left the platform and was crying in Beniamen’s arms.
Olanga was swinging from the rafters.
The pulpit held no friar to marry them.
And Tasarla—where was Tasarla?
He looked desperately around the room. There she was, running from the chapel by a side door.
_______
Tasarla ran outside. Her perfect wedding was ruined. Nothing was as it should have been!
The horse Iona had ridden to town on was tied by the chapel.
Tasarla grabbed the thick mane with one hand and swung her leg over. She tapped his flanks and galloped out of town, her black hair waving wildly in the wind.
Her shoulders shook as she sobbed, the tears in her eyes blurring out the road before her.
The horse slowed its pace. They walked silently through a small wood, Tasarla trying to sort her thoughts out.
They reached the edge of a stream. Tasarla dismounted to allow the horse to go drink. Then she sunk onto the mossy ground at the base of a huge tree trunk and pulled her forehead to her knees, sobbing.
If only she had locked up that naughty monkey! This was all her fault.
A horse neighed in the trees, and Tasarla looked up.
Gregore rode through the trees, looking around. When he saw her he quickly dismounted and ran to her side.
“Tasarla! There you are.” He knelt gently beside her and took her hand in his.
“I’m sorry Gregore.” She sniffled, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. “I couldn’t take it anymore. Today was supposed to be perfect, and instead, it’s been nothing but chaos.”
Gregore put an arm around her shoulder, nodding. “I know. It isn’t what I would call ideal either.”
“Maybe—maybe this is a sign.” Tasarla said in a trembling voice, her tears threatening to overflow again.
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps if we get married, our life will always be chaotic and full of things going wrong.” She said in a low tone, fear showing through her eyes in all its raw hideousness.
Gregore swallowed and shook his head profusely. “You’re wrong, Tasarla. Besides, even if our life together would be chaos, at least we’d be together! I’d rather go through chaos with you by my side than live a secure life and be without you.”
Tasarla melted into his arms, silent tears drenching his velvet vest. When she finally caught her breath she looked up at him and gave a smile.
“I love you, Gregore. You are my one and only, and I promise to be by your side through the highs and lows. On the quiet days and the hectic days. No matter if we are healthy or plague hits. If our wares are profitable, or if poverty strikes. It doesn’t make a difference if we are overflowing with joy, or sorrow lends us grief, I will hold your hand and we will get through it together.”
Gregore swallowed a lump in his throat, his own eyes wet. He stood and helped her to her feet, tucking a wild curl behind her ear. “And I promise to provide for you, care for you, and protect you until my dying day.”
Tasarla’s smile shone like sunshine. “Let’s go finish the wedding then.”
The two gathered the horses and headed back to town. The sun was already beginning to set, leaving the sky painted in gorgeous orange and pink tones.
When they rode into town, Tasarla’s eyes widened and Gregore’s mouth hung open.
A royal escort with guards, servants, and fine noblemen were riding in on the opposite side of town.
Gypsies were streaming out of the chapel, all chattering and pointing, while the townspeople all came out of the houses, exclaiming to one another with excitement.
“There she is!” a young voice cried, pointing to Tasarla. “Come, Lady Garthia, perhaps we aren’t too late!”
Princess Matilda rode her horse towards Tasarla and pulled up on the reins.
“Did I miss the wedding?” Matilda asked with eyebrows creased. “I tried so hard to get here in time, but we were held up by a highwayman for a while, and then he escaped, and then the guards found him again—and well, anyway, I sincerely hope I didn’t miss the ceremony!”
Tasarla smiled and bowed. “Your Highness, what an honor! As a matter of fact, you did not miss the ceremony. We were just about to begin.”
The townspeople all worked together to clean up the chapel which had been made marime by the monkey, while the gypsies lit lamps and candles and set up a wedding feast in the city streets.
Matilda and her entourage of maids and noblewomen gathered at the guest chambers of Montalspery castle, and Matilda bade Tasarla come visit while she waited.
“I am still shocked you came to my wedding, Your Highness,” Tasarla said, sitting down across the fireplace from the princess.
Matilda laughed. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Mother and Father are grateful that you treated me as well as you did when I was your slave, and of course want to strengthen our friendship with gypsies. So they agreed that I should come, and present a wedding gift to you and Gregore.”
Tasarla gasped as Matilda bestowed her two gold rings set with rubies.
“They were going to do sapphires, but I told them that wouldn’t be appropriate at all, and that red meant love in gypsy culture.” Matilda grinned.
“I don’t know how we can thank you!” Tasarla exclaimed.
The wedding was soon underway again, but this time Iona and the Phuri Dai had cleaned and repaired Tasarla’s wedding headdress, the gypsy men had helped Gregore repaint over the damage done to the vardo, Frederic had found Father Jeremiah tied up in herb garden, and the townspeople joined the celebration to follow the example of their kingdom’s princess.
But most importantly, Olanga was sleeping soundly in his locked cage after a long day of mischief.
Tasarla and Gregore said their vows, exchanged the beautiful wedding rings as gifts, and then the whole town celebrated with a huge gypsy feast, accompanied by music and dancing in the streets.
As Tasarla and Gregore rode off that night, leaving the lights, music, and laughter behind, Tasarla leaned on Gregore’s shoulder and looked up at the stairs.
“Who knew that such a horrible day could end up so happy?” Tasarla laughed gently.
Gregore chuckled. “Looking back, I’d say we wouldn’t have had such a wonderful wedding if all those other not-so-perfect things hadn’t happened. The height of the mountain is measured by the depth of the valley.”
Tasarla smiled and nodded. “I’m ready for any mountain or valley as long as I’m with you.”
Final Island Visit
A fine war horse trotted down a cobblestone road, surrounded on both sides by strange jungle trees. Wallace peered suspiciously into the thick jungle vegetation. His horse neighed uncomfortably and pinned his ears back.
Wallace urged his horse into a faster trot. If a cheetah or some other wild island creature burst out upon them, it could easily be the end. And even if he could fight it off, he would be convicted by the villagers for killing an island animal, and Queen Isabel might shun him to save face.
He rounded the corner, and breathed a sigh of relief. The little village of Sanita nestled among the trees, crude huts contrasting the tall stone castle that rose up in its midst.
Villager women shouted at their children and shot glares at Wallace as he rode down the street at a trot.
He took a deep breath as he pulled up his horse in the courtyard of the small but elegant castle.
Here goes another awkward and unnecessary visit with my dull and ridiculous sister. He unmounted with a sigh and flicked his black hair out of face. At least she has invited William as well this evening.
The stable boy exited the stable and cautiously approached. “Do you want me to take your horse, Sir?”
Wallace glared at the boy and unbuckled the saddle bags, slinging them over his shoulder with a grunt. “You may, but be careful. He is a stallion with an unbreakable spirit, and he could trample you to death if you don’t treat him with respect and give him oats.” Wallace said, smiling at his fib and at the terrified expression the boy displayed.
“Uncle Wallace!”
Wallace spun around, startled. A little boy was running across the courtyard, freckled spreading across his grinning face.
Wallace’s surprise melted into an unwanted smile, but he knelt down and accepted a hug from the boy.
The Khutulun's Inheritance
Rich furs from wolf, fox, and bear, draped over a low couch. Golden lanterns hung from rings fitted into the poles of the tent, orange flames dancing within them.
Khutulun Sarnai sat on a stool in front of a large silver medallion held by two servants. She studied her reflection for a moment, but her foot tapped impatiently.
Another servant wearing a silk deel carefully adjusted the heavily beaded gold headdress on the Khutulun’s head.
The tent flap opened, and an older woman in equally elaborate garb stepped in.
“Ah, you’re lovely.” The woman beamed, studying Sarnai’s outfit with satisfaction.
Sarnai stood gracefully. “Are you attending the feast tonight also?”
“Of course. I am your father’s first wife, he cannot refuse me attendance at the victory celebration.” Her eyes narrowed and she grabbed Sarnai by the shoulder. “Tonight is a very important one, Sarnai. You have helped Batsaikhan gain great victory, and he will ask you what you want in return. What will you say?”
“Perhaps another war horse.” Sarnai said firmly, her thin eyes alive with pride.
“You are wrong!” Her mother scoffed. “You want your inheritance. Everything that you can touch, every tree, village, and animal is yours as the rightful heir of Batsaikhan.”
Sarnai stood a little taller and peered off into the distance, imagining every foreign man woman and child bowing in her presence. Every horse, dog, or cat a gift just for her.
“Yes, Mother. I understand.”
The two left the tent under the guard of two warriors whom Sarnai had battled beside earlier in the day.
They wove their way through tents to the great tent silk set up for the khan. A large feasting platform had just been completed in front of the tent, and pillows were being set on this and a fire started in the middle.
“I, ruler of everything I desire, have conquered you! If you had been humble and accepted your fate, I would have been a reasonable leader, but now! Ha!” Batsaikhan was speaking towards the platform…it looked as if he was speaking to the platform itself. He stepped on the platform and sat on his royal cushion with dignity.
Sarnai squinted as they reached the edge of a crowd of warriors laughing uproariously. The warriors split to make way for the Khutulun and the First Queen.
When they reached the platform, Sarnai’s stomach sunk like a rock and she held a hand to her stomach involuntarily.
The platform was made of men. Prisoners. They were all tied together in a mass, with heads sticking out here and there, and they were alive.
“What’s the matter, Khutulun? Are you surprised?” one of the guards escorting her chuckled.
“No.” Sarnai snapped, balling her hands into fists and steeling her emotions.
Boards had been placed on top of them to create a smooth surface on which the khan could dine. The prisoners groaned with the weight as each of the khan’s top warriors and respected leaders stepped up onto the platform. They would suffocate to death before the end of the night.
Sarnai chanced a glance at her mother’s face. It too was steeled against this cruelty. She stepped forward, and Sarnai followed. She carefully placed her slippered foot in between two heads and onto the platform, and stepped up, regaining her regal composure.
“Quilia, welcome to our victory celebration.” Batsaikhan grinned at his wife. “Ah, and you’ve brought the hero of the day! Khutulun Sarnai, you have brought much honor to your people today.”
The warriors on the platform cheered at this, slammed a fist at their chests and then pumping it in the air with a shout.
Sarnai hid a smile and raised a hand in acceptance of their praise. She then boldly sat next to Widenei, her father’s right hand man.
Musicians came to dance and play for them, and servants stepped on and off the platform to serve them smoked beef, fruits, and wine.
Sarnai adjusted herself on the fluffy pillow and set down the meat ribs she had been trying to eat. It was hard to concentrate with the groans of the prisoners beneath them. Finally her father turned to her.
“Sarnai, tell me. What can I give you for your great service today?” he said with pride in his voice.
Sarnai stood and walked before her father, kneeling. She looked him in the eyes. “Give to me that which is rightfully mine, oh father.”
Bastaikhan ran a hand through his tiny black braids and his black eyes narrowed. “And what do you think is rightfully yours?”
The entire platform of warriors held their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Sarnai didn’t waver. “Promise me my inheritance. I want a name as great as yours that not only my actions may strike fear into the heart of all nations.”
“You want to be Khan after me?” he played with his beard and then turned to Widenei. “She has nerves, doesn’t she?”
Widenei smiled and nodded, sweating a little.
The khan turned back to Sarnai and shrugged. “This one thing I cannot grant you.”
Sarnai’s mouth parted in surprise, and a mixture of anger and embarrassment crept into her cheeks. She slowly rose, diverting her eyes.
“Is your promise worth nothing?”
All eyes turned to the First Queen as she rose in her spot and slowly advanced towards the khan.
“Sit back down, I have spoken.” The Khan said quietly, lifting his wine glass to his lips.
“When you and I wed, you promised me that our child would rule the world.” She continued, stepping around the campfire.
“But you gave me so many girls, my next wife gave me a boy before you.” The Khan chuckled. “I had not imagined you wouldn’t give me a boy.” He quaffed his wine.
Quilia stood in front of the khan, her eyes flaming. “I knew when I married you I wouldn’t be your last wife. But I thought you would at least honor our child, even if you forgot about me. You’re a savage, Batsai, a senseless brute who cares not for any of your people, but only yourself.”
Sarnai shuddered. She had never seen her speak so severely with the khan.
The khan stood up, looking down at his wife with a scowl. “How dare you confront me like this in front of my men? Go back to your tent, now.”
Quilia’s lip trembled and she slowly turned around and left the platform.
Sarnai swallowed. This is why she would rather be a warrior than anything. At least she was respected. She slipped back to her seat, and the khan motioned for musicians to keep playing.
Several minutes of uproarious conversation among the warriors commenced, the scene forgotten for the time.
Sarnai’s stomach churned though. She wished to go back to her own tent. Or better, go find her little half-brother and show her father that he wasn’t worthy of the inheritance.
“Sarnai!” the Kahn called out in a chuckle, leaning around Widenei to see her.
“Yes, father?” Sarnai said.
“You’ll never guess who just made an offer of marriage unto me for your own hand.” He grinned, motioning to a suddenly embarrassed young warrior.
Sarnai clenched her teeth. After the way she had just seen her mother treated by her own husband, Sarnai hoped she would never be forced to marry.
“If I am to marry anyone, let me first challenge them to a wrestling match, father. If I lose, then I shall marry them.”
The warriors around her laughed crudely.
Her father raised an eyebrow, a twinkle in his eye. “I accept your conditions, Sarnai, as a favor for your excellent work on the battlefield today.”
Marian's Choice
Droplets of dank water rolled down the cave wall and dripped quietly into the molding straw.
Marian hugged her knees tightly to her chest, rocking back and forth whilst whispering, “The grave shall not swallow you, nor shall your enemies triumph over you.” She repeated this over and over, her eyes clamped shut and chin quivering.
But she did not believe the words, and soon broke down crying, her forehead pushing into her knees.
She had tried to be the best servant she could be for the princess. She had worked hard. She had cared as much for Eleanor as she would a sister. And now here she was. In the very pit of darkness and misery.
She didn’t know how many days had past. But it had been enough time. Enough to know that her punishment had surely already been decided. She would stay in this cell forever, never to see the sun rise over the hills, or watch birds take off towards the ocean. Instead, her hair would grow scraggly, her nails long and unkept. She would eat dry bread crumbs and breath the moldiness of her scratchy straw bed until one day she would get a cough and then waste away in a heap of infected misery. And then she would die.
Marian bit her lip at that last thought. She was a martyr. She would be known in history for trying to save the princess-and failing.
A door creaked open down the hall.
A few ladies in the corridor began crying out to get the visitor’s attention, while other wisely scooted far away from their cell doors.
Footsteps echoed against the stone walls until they stopped in front of Marian’s door, and jingling keys told her the door was about to be opened.
Marian stood, her heart thundering. There was no good reason for why anyone would come to her cell.
A man stepped into the cell, holding a lantern that illuminated the room, which was not an improvement.
“What are you doing here?” Marian cried angrily, after studying the man’s face.
Odekiah shut the door and locked it, setting the lamp down.
“I know this seems very strange, Miss Marian.” He began in a low tone, his eyes meeting hers. “But, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Wallace told me to leave you alone, but here I am.”
Marian’s cheeks flushed. “Just leave, you rotten Boarlonian.”
“I’m worried about you in here.” Odekiah said in a low tone. “I don’t want you to live out your days here. I think I could convince His Majesty to let you out, but I must know first whether you would accept the conditions, or whether I am disgusting to you as you continually say I am.”
Marian tilted her head. “I’m listening.”
He took a big breath as if nervous and looked her in the eyes. “Would you marry me?”
Marian laughed outright, the sound harsh in the dimly-lit space. “Isn’t there any other women in this kingdom, or do you Boarlonian nobles only marry prisoners?”
“I don’t love any other women, Marian,” Odekiah said, grabbing the hat off his head and wringing it between his hands. His look was one of desperation. “Your witty sarcasm and backhanded spunk make me smile when I don’t expect to. Your very determination against me has caused me to yearn for you all the more, and your beauty—I can’t even begin to compare you to another woman. Please, Marian—if you agree to become my wife, I promise I’ll make you happy.”
Marian’s defenses came down as she realized he was sincere. She of all people could certainly tell when someone was faking it. And he was baring her heart to her in such a way that she could hardly bare to speak.
“Odekiah…” she began quietly, unsure how to refuse him without breaking his heart. She looked back up at his eyes, pleading with her.
Why must she refuse? Marian reviewed the facts. First of all, she hated him. But did she? Second of all, he was a Boarlonian. But that didn’t really matter, not at this point.
Marian swallowed and continued. “Odekiah, I have to say I am shocked by your proposal. But considering my other option is to rot in a cell, I must confess I am considering it.”
Odekiah’s eyes brightened. “I’m sorry that is your only reason for considering. I would give you more time to make a decision, but truth be told, I only dare to bribe the dungeon warden once to visit a maiden that may not wish for my hand in marriage.”
Marian bit her lip and her feelings tore at her insides. She never imagined this would be the way she would be proposed to. She never imagined marrying a Boarlonian. But then she hadn’t pictured living and dying in a dark hole either. If he was insincere about his feelings towards her, and she turned out being miserable with him, at least it would be easier to escape when she was out of the dungeon. And if what he said was true, she would regret having turned him down for the rest of her life. She must take the risk. It was the only way.
Marian’s eyes met Odekiah’s and she gave a slight smile. “If you care for me as much as you say you do, I am sure I can learn to care for you too. I agree to marry you, Odekiah.”
The next few days were agony as she waited for him to return, and wondered if she had made the right decision. When at last he did return, a guard was there to unlock the door.
“Marian, the King gave his permission!” Odekiah called, a wide smile across his face. Marian felt a wave of excitement and relief wash over her as she stepped out of the cell and took the arm Odekiah offered her.
“He has instructed however that we leave at once for my family’s estates. He doesn’t want you near Princess Eleanor until she is wed to Wallace.”
Marian felt her stomach clench. She felt a little as if she had betrayed Eleanor. But then, there was nothing else she could have done.
They exited the dungeon, and came up in the courtyard, where two empty horses and a squadron of knights awaited them.
Odekiah helped Marian to mount. She glanced longingly towards Klapilton Tower. If only she could at least say goodbye to Eleanor.
“Please, Marian,” Odekiah whispered, looking her in the eyes, “Don’t look for an opportunity to escape. Give me a chance.”
Marian smiled weakly. Everything felt different now that she was out in the bright sun again. But she nodded her head and whispered, “I promise.”
The long journey commenced through hill country, where once Harsteockis had roamed.
“I hope you’ll love my family,” Odekiah continued as they rode side by side. “Mother might be a little bit concerned if she finds out that you were an Irithrian and a prisoner and all that…so maybe don’t mention it to her. But my sister will be quite happy to have a woman her age about the castle.” Odekiah looked at Marian after she had not replied for a minute.
“What’s wrong? Where’s your sarcasm and spunk?” he asked quietly.
Marian’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know. This is a big adjustment for me, and you must give me room to let it all sink in.”
_______
A year had passed since that first dungeon proposal. Marian found marriage with Odekiah to be pleasant enough, even though he was gone quite often in Kargrith.
Marian knitted by a roaring fireplace, pausing to smile at her round belly as a little one inside her kicked.
Her sister-in-law, Frasia, embroidered beside her. “Did you hear about the royal wedding held in Irithria?” she asked.
Marian’s eyes shone as she grinned. “I suspected there would be one after the Irithrian princess escaped last year. Tell me about it!”
Frasia, the only one of her new family that knew Marian was originally Irithrian, smiled and continued. “Princess Eleanor married a duke two weeks ago. They say that he was the one that broke into the Kargrith castle, tied up Prince Wallace, and carried her off!”
Marian’s eyes twinkled. “I’m sure Prince Wallace is sulking right now. That’s probably why Odekiah was called to Kargrith yesterday.”
Frasia raised an eyebrow. “The things my brother has to go through is ridiculous. I’m sure you know better than anyone. If that spoiled prince becomes king anytime soon, Boarlone is in trouble.”
Marian shook her head and sighed. “That will be a tough day indeed.”