“There now. It is a mother’s job to warn her daughter of such things. Reality is rarely to our liking.”
A tear freed itself, sliding down her cheek. Another followed. She knew her battle with Lady Redwynn was lost. There would be no volunteering. How silly she’d been to foster the slightest hope her mother might acquiesce.
Noticing her upset, her mother’s face softened. “Dear heart,” said she. “You may not see it, but you are luckier than most. Many would gladly trade places with you, especially those volunteering tonight.”
She doubted it.
“Those volunteering do not have governor fathers like yours. Yours is the Lord of Redport and all its lands. Tell me, how many governors are there in Dragonwall?”
It was a frustrating question—a question everyone knew the answer to. She sullenly replied, “Twenty, Mother. There are twenty governors in the entirety of Dragonwall, one presiding over each of the twenty Dragondoms.”
“Precisely, and you are the daughter of one. The hopefuls volunteering for selection do not have duties to fulfill for their family name—the Redwynn name—you do.” Her mother sighed in exasperation. “There now. Last one.” She pinned a broach into place. “You look stunning Tamara. Lord Rhal will be pleased.”
Before she could take a breath, her heart stilled. Her vision blackened. She nearly fainted and placed a hand upon her dresser to steady her spinning head. Her corset was so tight she could hardly breathe, no matter how erect she sat.
“I do not understand,” she managed to gasp. “Who is Lord Rhal, and why should I care what he thinks?” She already knew the answer; she was appalled but she asked anyway. Lady Redwynn held her silence, failing to meet Tamara’s eyes. “Tell me, Mother! I want to hear you say it.”
“Lord Rhal is your betrothed.”
“How could—”
“He is an honorable man, Tamara—Governor of Squall’s End and its accompanying lands.”
“I know who he—”
“You would do well to see this for what it is and cease your squabbling immediately.” The Lady Redwynn raised her voice to be heard over Tamara’s protests. “Few get such an opportunity for an alliance like this one.”
She cared little for the implications imposed by such a union. She saw only one aspect: her womanhood was not yet upon her, and already her father had traded her away. It was a betrayal at its deepest. A vicious hate welled up within her directed entirely at her father.
“Well!” she spat, forgetting her place. “I hope the return father gains will be worth the loss of his only daughter.”
“Tamara!” She was fortunate her mother did not strike her. Such would be the case in these circumstances. In this, her mother showed patience.
“You let him do this? How could you?”
For the first time, her mother looked upset. Was there some part of the woman that felt remorse? “I had no say in the matter, Tamara.”
“But you are his wife—you are my mother! You are supposed to protect me.”
“This is how situations such as these go in noble families. Gods only know, I certainly had no desire to marry your father when your grandfather arranged it.”
Tamara bit back her words, momentarily stunned. The idea that her mother and father’s marriage was arranged was unexpected. “But you and father love each other so much. I never knew…”
Her mother laughed genuinely, shaking her head. “Trust me, dear heart, we did not always. Love develops with time, as many things in life do.”
She was at a loss. Lady Redwynn was not the deciding factor in the matter. She knew she was fighting a losing battle.
As if reading her mind, her mother staunched the matter. “Save your words, Tamara. There is nothing more I can do.”
She was overcome with numbness. She could do little more than gaze at her mother’s reflection with vague awareness. Was this to be her future? Truly?
“There now. I have a few obligations before the festivities start. Do not be late or your father will be upset,” said her mother.
When Tamara next looked at the looking glass, only her reflection remained. Company aside, she was indeed alone. There was no one to champion her case—not even her doting mother. That loneliness was a stab to the heart.
Not long after she finished getting ready, the time to feast came. She was still fuming as she made her way through the stony corridors. No short amount of time would cure her dour mood.
Redport’s dining hall was the second largest in the region, next to Squall’s End. Her father took great pride in that and made sure to tell any new-comer of interest. Hers was an old family, one who ruled the ports of Stormy Bay for many thousands of years. Because she was a Redwynn, for which Redport had been named, she was to do her duty at the bidding of her family, so she found herself seated in her place at the head table on time, just as her mother instructed.
The food that night was spectacular by the highest standards, fit for King Talon’s table. To her, every bite tasted like gravel and went down like gravel too. How could she enjoy the simple pleasures of food when her life was shattering to pieces? Even if she prayed to the gods, begging that they withhold her womanhood (as they already had), it would merely mean remaining in Redport longer. She wanted to be gone from this place as soon as possible, but neither did she wish to find herself in Lord Rhal’s halls.
She threw her father a mean look. It was of no use; he did not notice. He sat merrily chatting at the table’s center, presiding over the hall. How lovely it must be to enjoy the night at his daughter’s expense.
At last when the food was cleared away, she was glad of it. Her plate left the table nearly full. Perceptive Lady Redwynn took note, imparting upon her a look of dismay and warning. She pretended not to notice, feigning interest in the new excitement, but she was neither excited nor interested in what came next.
A hush fell upon the room as her father rose from his chair. Lord Redwynn cleared his throat before speaking. “As you all know”—his booming voice echoed around the hall—“it is the Drengr who keep Dragonwall safe.” Many responses of “Aye” and “Yes” broke the silence. Men sat with their cups of ale, while women watched, secretly dreaming of what it might be like to become a Drengr’s mate. “These protectors and their Riders are always in need of those willing to lay down their lives in support of the forts. Not only that, as our young Drengr mature, new Riders are needed. That is the reason for the Search.” His speech was hardly necessary. Everyone knew enough of the Search to forgo pretenses. They waited patiently nonetheless.
“Without further words from me, let those who would volunteer themselves for selection step forward.” A loud clapping rang out and the hall doors opened. Some of the women rose from benches, but many others less fortunate in birth streamed in through the open hall doors.
It was the first Search Tamara was old enough to witness, for none under the age of fifteen were permitted into the hall that night. Just as none under the age of fifteen could volunteer. As she watched, she gripped her chair arms so tightly, it felt as if her fingers might fall off. It was all she could do to keep from rising to join the line.
A sudden flash of rebelliousness coursed through her. What if she rose? What if she ran from the head table and placed herself within the group of volunteers. What would her father do? Surely he would refrain from dragging her away—a scene would be embarrassing for the Redwynn name.
A hand gripped her arm. She looked beside her to her eldest brother, who afforded her a warning shake of his head before turning his attention back to the volunteers. His hand did not leave her arm. Whether there for comfort or restraint, she did not know.
Taking note of those who shyly presented themselves, she realized that her mother was right. There were none of great nobility present, only those of lesser birth like merchant’s daughters, craftsman’s daughters, servants, and farmers. Each hoped that within the fort they might find a better life.
Several Drengr rose from the crowd and be
gan walking along the line of volunteers. Nearly everyone earned a nod from those Drengr. How did they choose? Maybe the Drengr had a way of sensing an honest heart. All too soon it was over, and the applauding crowd grew rowdy. She exhaled her pent-up breath. How she wanted to cry! But she could not bring herself to do so in front of an audience.
In came the minstrels, strumming and plucking away at their instruments. Loud cheers of greeting went up around the room as tables were hastily pushed back towards the walls. It was time to dance—something she had wanted to do for a long time. The lively indulgence no longer held any appeal.
Happy conversations and shrieks of laughter wove themselves together with the loud music. Everyone was having a wonderful time, everyone except Tamara. She sat scowling from her seat, watching the circles of dancers as they changed formation, skipping across the floor.
As the night wore on, still she remained seated, with no interest to mingle, not even when she saw her friend Josie beckon her across the room. The head table had emptied long ago. Her brothers were off socializing while her father and mother happily led the dance. She watched them together. Every time she saw her father smile, she became angrier. Was her happiness of such little regard to him?
Her father, Lord Aaron Redwynn, was everything a good governor should be: honorable, just, and kind, except perhaps towards his own daughter. The city of Redport flourished under his meticulous rule. Over the years he mastered his title well, just as his father had done before him, and just as his sons would do after. She finally understood her place.
Married against her will! It felt like a crime. She had yet to meet this Lord Rhal of Squall’s End, and she certainly had no desire to. For all she cared, he was a guilty party in the matter.
Gods! He was probably some wrinkled old man, fat as a pumpkin, and aging faster than a plucked flower. And now she would have to be with him. The idea was revolting. Even if he were young, even if he were handsome, she wanted no part in it.
As if the gods heard her musings, she hadn’t long to wait before these questions were answered. Her watchful eyes followed her father as he approached a finely dressed young lord near the edge of the room. They cordially shook hands and began discussing something important. She knew it was important because the expression upon her father’s face was serious. The man smiled and clapped her father on the shoulder in a friendly manner. It was only when they both looked her way, catching her eyes, that she realized the subject of their conversation. Her face flushed and she quickly averted her gaze, feigning interest in a group of gossiping women huddled beside the dancers. So that was Lord Rhal? He certainly wasn’t what she expected.
The two men quickly parted and Lord Rhal directed his attention upon her, walking directly over. Her heart began to pound powerfully. The man’s gaze remained fixed upon her as he approached. With every step he took, her stomach rose further into her throat.
“Greetings, Lady Tamara.” The lord spoke as he came to a stop before her. His voice wasn’t unpleasant as she hoped it might be. “I have not yet had the privilege of introducing myself. I am Lord Rhal.” He dropped into a sweeping bow. It was an elegant show of respect, one which he was not obligated to pay in his elevated position, for she was lower in rank than he. As was proper, she rose and curtsied, but her mouth was frozen shut.
When Lord Rhal stood, he eyed her for several silent moments, waiting for her to speak, yet she could not. “Forgive me, but might I have the next dance with you?”
Further still her stomach rose. “D—dance?” she stuttered like a blithering idiot. Was she to dance with him now? Marriage was not enough?
“Yes, my lady. It would do me great honor.”
In that moment, she thought she might vomit. The lord was handsome in his own right—that was not why she felt so unsettled. It was reality crashing down upon her that left her head spinning.
“For—forgive me, my lord. I—I think I might be sick.” Placing a hand over her mouth, she nimbly stepped around the table. Before the shocked lord could say another word, she dashed away, pushing through the crowd.
“My lady!” Lord Rhal called. She could sense him in her wake, following her, worried perhaps by her unusual behavior. She did her best to lose him. Navigating between all the bodies was difficult as she squeezed through the tight spaces others afforded her. If she did not escape soon, she would vomit in front of everyone. There! She could see the door not far from her. She focused entirely upon it as she took deep breaths, squeezing between the smothering bodies.
She was nearly free when she ran forcefully into the back of a man, causing both of them to stumble. As he jolted forward, he sloshed ale all over the floor. Her next step brought her upon the slippery mess and without further warning, both legs flew out from beneath her. Cries of surprise rang out as she landed hard upon her back.
“Gods be damned!” the man roared just as he turned. His eyes fell on her, briefly growing wide before relaxing into a friendly smile.
“My apologies, my lady.” He held out his hand to help her up. She gladly took it, her upset stomach all but forgotten. A slight tingle passed through her fingers at the touch of his skin, making her blush. Did he feel it too? He gave no notice.
Instead, he pulled her upright. She stood frozen before him. It was only now that her mind made a surprising realization. This was no ordinary man. He was one of the Drengr. His tall build and muscular frame gave him away. All men paled in comparison to the Drengr—such was common knowledge.
“My lady, you must forgive me. Are you all right?” he asked with clear concern. She remained motionless and speechless, becoming suddenly shy. This was the first Drengr she had ever met. Before now, she admired them from afar.
“My lady?”
Suddenly remembering the events that led to this meeting, she glanced to the open hall doors, which stood a mere several paces behind the Drengr. This was her escape route. Any moment Lord Rhal would catch up to her, find her, ask her again for a dance, or worse—talk of their impending marriage. She had to get out. Without answering the Drengr, she imparted upon him an apologetic look and fled.
Once she was through the doors, she did not stop running. She raced across the flagged stone entranceway, down an empty corridor, and flung open the garden doors, sprinting out into the night.
The openness of the outdoors alleviated the building pressure within her chest. Few things in life weigh as much as responsibilities did. It was only now that Tamara was learning this. Hers were crushing. So she ran and ran. She ran until she was gasping for air. Only then did she stop. Hands on her knees, she let her blood rush back to her head until she felt it pounding in her ears.
A familiar red brick wall greeted her. She was near the south end of the garden where the large willow tree stood. It was older than Redport, and likely far wiser than the lords within. Underneath its cloak of leaves sat a garden bench—her garden bench. Her father put it there when she was young, when he constantly found her sitting beneath the wispy branches. She went to the bench and plopped down in a very unladylike manner, sighing loudly, as if that would make things better. She often found herself here, whenever she was in trouble, or needed a place to think. It was no surprise that her feet knew where to go.
She sat still in the garden’s peaceful silence, with only the sound of her hard breathing to break the calm. Even with running, her emotions were still too pent up. She was a full bottle, heated over the fire until the liquid within was forced to burst. The way she felt towards her father left her furious—furious enough to cry out. And why shouldn’t she? There was no one around. So she did, letting her frustrations mix with her voice as a guttural yell fled her chest. Even the willow groaned in response. Lord Redwynn had sons enough to marry. Why did it have to be her?
“No,” she whispered to herself. “No! I won’t let it happen. I cannot bear it.” Whatever was necessary she would do it, because she could not allow her father to trade her like property. Just as she thought it, a new idea dawned
upon her. It was a simple one. In fact, she was surprised it had taken so long to think of it.
“He cannot marry me off if I am not here…” There was a hint of glee in her voice. “He cannot marry me if I am gone…” A slight breeze ruffled the branches surrounding her, as if the wise tree was agreeing. It was answer enough from the giant. She would run away.
Better still, her opportunity would come very soon. She would pass as a volunteer and sneak out with the others when they departed. In this way, she could escape undetected. It would be a large group of people. Surely no one would suspect her so long as she disguised herself and used a fake name.
Excitement coursed through her body until she was trembling. How thrilling such an adventure would be. After a life pent up in a castle, never allowed to do the things her brothers did, it would be an adventure indeed.
The sound of boots scuffing on the stone path captured her attention. A man was approaching: She could tell by the gait and sound of the shoes. Lord Rhal had found her. It was too late to scurry away, and she was hardly in the mood for company—especially his. Unease crept back into her.
Much to her surprise, it was not Lord Rhal. It was the Drengr from earlier. He stopped just outside the veil of the branches. “My lady?” he gently called, attempting to coax her out. “I truly am sorry about what happened.” His apology was sincere. “I feel responsible for the mishap. I do hope you did not injure yourself or ruin your beautiful gown.” His voice was rich and deep. She liked it very much. “There was no need to run away as you did. I was not upset.” He smiled at her as he parted the willow branches.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Taking a deep breath, she replied as a proper lady would. “You are not at fault, sir. And I am fine. As it stands, it was I who bumped into you.” She paused, contemplating her words. Speaking to him felt so natural—so comfortable. “Can you keep a secret, sir?”
Talon the Black Page 33
