by Kal Spriggs
Bulmor grunted, but he didn't argue the point.
“What about Arren Smith?” Katarina asked.
Bulmor pursed his lips in thought, “Complicated man.”
Gerlin snorted, “He's an outrageous liar, a scoundrel, and I'm pretty certain he cheated me at cards last night.” The halfblood gave a broad grin, “I really like him.”
“He keeps the rest on the Starborn Strictures, which has prevented disease,” Katarina ticked off on her fingers. “He's clearly planned some kind of insurrection already, he seems to be a foreigner, and he has military and leadership experience.”
“If he was even twenty cycles younger, I'd say he had aims for himself,” Gerlin said. “But at his age, honestly, the whole seizing power is a game for someone who would live to enjoy it. He's not Starborn, it's not like he has a century or two to wait.”
Katarina winced at the reminder. Even if this group of hers won, all of them would be long dead, and their children and grandchildren as well, before Katarina died of old age. There was a reason that most Starborn lived separately from normal men. It hurt to see friends age and die long before their time. It was different for nobility, who had a duty to interact with those they served. Not so for the isolated villages such as Watkowa, where the people would associate with only a handful of outsiders and live their long lives away from others.
That, in some ways, made the murder of it's people even worse. The villagers who'd died there had been robbed of not just decades, but centuries. Then again, it's the quality of life, Katarina thought, and dead is dead, regardless.
Either way, it didn't matter in this case, Arren Smith was no Starborn, not with his advanced age and his claimed history. Or for that matter, anyone with eyes to see, Katarina thought, mindful of his long gray beard and hair. “So what's his game?” Katarina asked.
“Maybe he's an instigator?” Gerlin asked. “Some of the nobles in other Duchies might see a chance to stir things up, rattle the Usurper, maybe see if they can bite off some tasty portions?”
“Ryft Guard,” Bulmor said, a reference to the fortress that sat astride the Ryft and the only bridge across that channel.
Gerlin nodded, “Boir or Marovingia would be glad to have a chance to seize it.”
Katarina frowned, “That's a little... cold blooded. Send a man in to rouse some rabble and maybe even civil war, just to seize one fortress.”
“It controls the Ryft Passage, my Lady,” Gerlin said. “That alone makes it worth far more than any other fortress in the Five Duchies. Whoever controls it has his hand on the trade between Boir and Marovingia by sea as well as traffic in and out of Masov by the only land route.” He glanced at Bulmor, “Honestly, I'm surprised that the Duke of Marovingia didn't offer you some kind of deal, an army in trade for the fortress as a concession.”
“So am I,” Bulmor said.
“He did,” Katarina said. She remembered the two visits she'd had to the Marovingian court and the cautions of her uncle, General Menaos. I miss him, his advice, and his soldiers just now, she thought.
Bulmor raised an eyebrow, “Tough offer to refuse.”
“If I came with an army from Marovingia, I'd lead an invading force,” Katarina sighed. “I would not appear as a source of strength, merely as the tool of another power... and I'd give up a fortress that my family has held for generations to another, sometimes hostile, duchy.”
“Makes sense,” Bulmor agreed. “The Marovingian Duke might not have taken no for an answer.” His gruff voice sounded harsh, yet then again, Bulmor knew Marovingia and it's lands even better than she did.
“He sent Arren?” Katarina asked.
Bulmor nodded, “You heard his story, he served in the Legion.”
“So has Gerlin,” Katarina said.
Gerlin laughed, “I've served everywhere, my Lady.” He shook his head, “But you have a point, lots of sell-swords serve in the Legion from one time to another. They provide good training, solid pay, and you can do your stint and get out without questions. For that matter, they don't ask any questions about where you're coming from, so many a man running from the law has taken shelter there.”
“Which suggests he could have any background or motivation,” Katarina sighed.
“Or none,” Bulmor said.
“You mean someone might have put him up to it without him realizing?” Gerlin asked. He considered it for a long moment, and then he slowly began to smile, “That's devious, even for you, friend.”
Katarina frowned, “What do you mean?”
“Well, he looks the rabble-rouser type, a natural born troublemaker,” Gerlin smiled. “The type who doesn't like bullies or tyrants.” He climbed to his feet and started to pace, “So lets say you're a skulking, manipulative type, and you want something done. But you don't want anyone to realize it's you, because that would get you in trouble. But... say you have a spy, who tells you about this troublemaker. So you have the spy tell him about how awful the Usurper is and how downtrodden the people are, and then you wait for him to go do what he does.”
“So he's a cats-paw?” Katarina asked. She frowned, “He seems a little sharp for that...”
“Smart men can be predictable too,” Bulmor grunted. “Especially if they're fed the right information.”
“So... the control would be someone close,” Gerlin frowned. “Maybe not someone in the camp, perhaps a merchant or messenger... Someone in a place to make disappear in case this looks to fall apart.”
“Great, so whoever his mysterious benefactor is, he could betray us to Lord Hector just to hide his own involvement!” Katarina shook her head. “So we've got to worry about noblemen from the other Duchies, anyone else?”
“Might be internal,” Bulmor said. When both Gerlin and Katarina looked at him in puzzlement, he gave a deep sigh. “Some of the nobles in the Duchy are just as scheming. Start a rebellion. Put it down, show they're loyal to the new Duke and maybe get something for their troubles.” He shrugged.
“Or maybe start a revolution and if it goes well, join in and take over in the end,” Gerlin gave a sour snort. “Or anything in between. You can't trust a nobleman, not when there's power to be had... no offense intended, my Lady.”
“Thanks,” Katarina replied dryly. She looked between Bulmor and Gerlin. “So, if I understand correctly, we're probably being manipulated... but there's nothing we can do about it, besides carry on?”
“Well, there is one other thing...” Gerlin said as he stopped his pacing in front of her. He had a unusually serious look on his face and his low voice caused Katarina to lean forward.
“And that is?” Katarina asked.
He kicked her feet out from under her. Katarina let out a squawk of her own as she landed on her backside. She glared up at the grinning halfblood.
“Don't let your guard down,” Bulmor said with a much put-upon sigh.
***
Lieutenant Karl Gunnar
Aboard the Mircea, the Boir Sea
Eighteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Lieutenant Karl Gunnar looked over the 'special' prisoners and bit back a sigh. “Please insure that you get them some clothing, Midshipman Havensonne.” The fifteen women wore little more than rags, and in some cases, not even that. The Armen who'd held the ship had brought them along either as entertainment or captured them along the way.
“Yes, sir,” the redheaded midshipman blushed furiously. “I had the men get them blankets, but they don't seem to realize that they need to cover themselves.”
“That's not a bad thing, is it?” Midshipman Randal Schultz said. The leer on his face sent a spike of rage through Lieutenant Gunnar.
“Midshipman Schultz,” he said, “The Armen beat them, raped them, and kept them as slaves. We will not emulate that behavior, am I clear?”
Schultz nodded sharply, but his gaze remained fixed on the scantily clad women.
Lieutenant Gunnar bit back a sigh. He had already transferred the wounded Armen over to the Ubelfurst. T
hat included all of the men, and one or two women who the Armen had tried to kill rather than let them be captured or freed. The Armen didn't seem to think highly of an honorable surrender.
Unfortunately, that meant he had no one aboard who spoke the Semat dialect, and he must somehow manage the women. Karl stepped forward, and he looked around at the women, “Do any of you understand me?”
The women returned his question with flat, expressionless faces. He gave another sigh, “I will offer a promise of freedom and payment of five hundred Solars to anyone who can understand me and will translate to these other women.”
Slowly a woman near the back stood up, “Five hundred solar, my Lord?”
Karl nodded slowly, “And your freedom, when we make a safe port.”
She looked around at the other women. Like most of them, she had the dusky skin that marked her as Armen, though the lighter cast of her hair and skin marked her mixed heritage. “They said you would rape us, and dishonor our families, that we would be tortured to death if we surrendered.”
“I swear to you, our intention is to take you to someplace we can put you safely ashore, safe and unharmed. I don't know the Admiral's full intentions, but he has said that prisoners will receive proper treatment.” Karl Gunnar said.
The woman stared at him for a long moment. Her dark eyes seemed unreadable. “You swear, by the Dark Warrior?”
“I swear by the spirits my own ancestors,” Karl said.
She turned to the other women, and she spoke rapidly. Karl didn't recognize any of the words, but the women showed obvious relief. Several clutched at each other and broke into tears, while another crawled forward and hugged Karl's legs. He awkwardly tried to push her back. “Please, tell her to relax, we will bring clothing and food, but we need you to adhere to our orders.”
The Armen woman nodded, and she barked out a series of commands. The women clustered, and then assembled into ranks. In a matter of seconds they stood in a formation as good as any group of sailors Lieutenant Gunnar had seen. Except of course, for the rather prominent display of feminine flesh, most of it quite good looking.
“They form up like they trained, sir,” Midshipman Havensonne said.
“They have a military society,” Karl answered, “I imagine they require such of even the lowest of their slaves.” He looked the line of thirty women over, the one who had translated stood braced in front of the formation.
He stepped forward, “What is your name, miss?”
“Siara, my Lord,” She said. She kept her eyes straight ahead.
“You may call me Lieutenant, or Captain,” Karl said. “I am in command of the ship, but I am no nobleman, nor a nobleman's son. My father ran a tavern in Port Riss.”
He saw her flinch at that and he nodded, “He died in the attack there. Something I do not hold against you or the other women. Now, Miss Siara, some of the sailors will return soon with clothing. We are shorthanded here, so once the women are properly dressed, I want you to find out what skills they have. Cooking and sewing are useful, it will free up men for other tasks. Do you know how to read and write?”
She nodded slowly, “Yes, my Lord – Captain,” she corrected herself. “My father, Marka Pall had no sons, so he used me to keep his records, translate to slaves, and write messages.”
“So you are Siara Pall?” Karl asked.
She shook her head, and her eyes went wide, “No, Captain, an unmarried woman has earned no last name, especially not that of her father. I am just Siara.”
“What other languages do you speak?”
She frowned, “Semat, Southtongue, Sepak, Solak, Vendakar, and Krastongue. I know a bit of some other Noric tribal dialects, but just enough for trade.”
“That's... quite impressive. Well, Miss Siara, I must return to my other duties. Thank you for your assistance, and please assist Midshipman Havensonne as he requests.” Karl turned to Midshipman Schultz. The older man's gaze had settled somewhere south of Siara's face. “Midshipman Schultz... Please go forward and assist Bosun's Mate Millar in finding the leaks in the bilge.”
The Midshipman looked up sharply, and he opened his mouth to protest.
“Now, Mister Schultz.”
“Yes, sir.” He said, voice sullen.
Ah, the joys of command, Karl thought dryly.
***
Lady Amelia Tarken
The Eastwood
Eighteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Lady Amelia Tarken brushed the comb through her blonde locks and stared into the small silver mirror. She hardly recognized the woman who stared back. A couple days in the camp had allowed the bruises and scratches to fade. She wore a green dress of silken smoothness, sheer and without the frills and lace so common to Boir. It's low neckline would have caused her to blush, but she no longer had it in her to feel embarrassment, not after what she went through.
While the body under that sheer dress might seem familiar, the haunted blue eyes seemed foreign things. She could see the doubt and pain in those eyes, so different from what she'd seen every cycle of her previous life.
That last thought reminded her of the only conclusion that made any sense any more, Its a shame I've gone mad, but at least its a madness of comfort. The thought made tears well up in her eyes. She wiped them away with a muttered curse. She might have gone mad, but if so, she should enjoy it.
“Lady Amelia,” a woman's voice spoke from outside the tent, “May I enter?”
Amelia spun at the question. The beautiful voice that asked seemed unearthly. No one could sound that beautiful in real life. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you,” the woman who stepped into the tent had to bow her head to pass through the opening, which made Amelia instantly jealous. Amelia was short, tiny, in comparisson to her father. Most of the other Wold she had met were not much taller, at least, but of course the beautiful stranger would have the height that Amelia had always wanted..
Her guest stood, slender and graceful in a way that made Amelia feel fat and sluggish. Her long, straight tresses of raven black hair fell in a cascade down her back. unlike most of the Wold, it was not interwoven with beads and feathers, almost as if she had no need of such decorations. She had similar green eyes to those of Simonel, though hers were a pale green that reminded Amelia of flowers. Her skin was a lighter shade than most of the Wold, a rose-gold tone that almost made her seem to shine and she somehow filled a deep blue dress in a fashion that made Amelia feel both inadequate and dumpy. Dragon's Bane, she not only sounds beautiful, she makes me look like a fat cow.
The woman gave a graceful bow, “I am Tirianis, Princess of the Eastwood. I am a skilled enchantress, and Simonel asked me to speak with you, and to see to any healing you need.”
Beautiful, talented, and a Princess, Amelia thought. She felt a surge of jealousy burn through her and she thought, at least I know why their King seems so happy. The irrational feeling seemed petty to her, yet she couldn't help it. Simonel had shown no signs of interest in her, had in fact, shown none of the flirting she encountered from young noblemen in Boir.
Even so, and despite her current state, she'd felt an attraction to him and with the knowledge that he had this unearthly beauty at hand, she understood why he'd shown her no interest. “I'm fine, thank you.” The words came out more sharply than she'd intended.
The princess smiled slightly, “May I call you Amelia?”
Amelia frowned, “You may, of course, your highness.”
“Good, and you may call me Tirianis then, Amelia, I have heard of what you've been through and I wondered if we might talk,” The Wold princess even had perfect dimples, Amelia noted with something like despair.
“There's not much to talk about,” Amelia said. She felt her fragile state of calm begin to fray. She didn't want to think about what had happened, didn't want to talk with this strange, beautiful woman, and she definitely didn't want to awaken the darker emotions that lurked inside her just now. “Perhaps you should go,” Amelia managed
to give something of a polite smile.
Tirianis sighed. She looked over to where a braided rug lay in the corner of the tent. Without asking, she knelt, in a single graceful motion, her legs folding beneath her. “Amelia, please...”
“I said you should go,” Amelia snapped, suddenly angry.
“You did say that,” Tirianis said. “But I am able to sense your emotions... I can feel your wounds, Amelia, and I can sense your hurt. Please, let me help you.”
Amelia turned away. She could feel the dark emotions, pinned up in the back of her mind. She saw her attacker's faces every time she closed her eyes. She didn't dare to sleep, for the return to civilization, even the Wold equivalent, had unraveled the thread of peace she had managed to acquire in the forest on her own.
“You obviously have received horrific trauma. Truly, Amelia, it's a wonder you're still alive and sane. I cannot imagine your pain, right now, and on top of that you have been displaced to a foreign land, far from your home and family.” Tirianis's gentle voice seemed to batter at the defenses that Amelia had put around herself. “You need healing, not just of mind, but of spirit. I am one of my people's best healers, for I can sense emotion and even use mind magic to facilitate healing... let me help you.”
Amelia met Tiranis's green eyed gaze and despite herself she let out a sob, “Oh, now I know I've gone mad.” She felt her defenses crumble. Amelia wondered again if she had become lost in delusion while wandering through the forest and if she had merely conjured up the Wold out of some combination of children's tales and old histories.
“Madness lies at the edge of greatness or so we say,” Tirianis said. “Please, take a step back, then, and become the woman I see you can be. Talk to me, Amelia, let us become friends.”
Amelia gave a semi-hysterical laugh, “Of course, why not?”
***
King Simonel Greeneye
“How is she?” Simonel asked, later that afternoon. He gazed at Tirianis as she sipped at her wine and snacked on some nuts and cheeses.
