by JD Hart
By the time the Warrior and Sorcerer rode past, Conner had counted a full company of eighty mounted Defenders, followed by two companies of marching Defenders dressed to match their mounted comrades.
“The Harmonic spirits as my witness, Colonel, I do not think the left hand knows what the right is doing,” the Sorcerer chided, though the Warrior did not show much interest in listening. “How can General Grimwaldt expect to repel an Anarchic force with ours spread out along the eastern Borderlands?” The elder orderman did not wait for his companion’s response, but his voice was swallowed by the sounds of those marching after.
Behind the infantry came another company of foot Defenders. These wore a simple chainmail shirt and leggings over tight-fitting forest green clothes. More loosely organized than their comrades, these Defenders stepped in comfortable strides, thick longbows and overstuffed quivers of arrows slung across their backs. And about them, as with the companies before, came a parade of bonds.
At the rear of the long procession came a lone rider concealed beneath a dark-green hooded Ranger’s cape. A falcon bond perched on a leather gauntlet covering the rider’s forearm nervously scanned the trees. As the rider neared, the falcon jerked its head in the boys’ direction and ruffled its feathers. The Ranger’s hood turned, a long, thin staff appearing in the rider’s other hand. The glowing rays of Hemera low in the west caught the smooth, feminine features of the Ranger’s upturned face. Deep, piercing eyes stared straight into Conner’s, and a slight smile crossed her lips.
For some time, Master Ranger Annabelle Loris had been studying the backs of the Archers marching in front of her. She had surmised that these recruits were not ready to withstand, much less repel, the Anarchic assault General Grimwaldt was expecting any day. A forced march two days out of Cravenrock Keep, and they were already showing signs of wear. And they were another day from Striker’s Keep, where they would be assigned to defend the eastern Borderlands. Sadly, none were Ranger material, but at least they were strong enough to pull the Grenetian longbows they sported. One could only work with the resources provided.
This line of thinking inevitably brought her attention to Colonel Mooregain. Her eyes shifted to the back of the master Warrior riding proudly at the front of the battalion, her brightly polished armor the perfect target for an Anarchist’s arrow. At least this Warrior was decidedly more intelligent than the previous commander, who now occupied a ceremonial plot of dirt near Striker’s Keep. A distant relative to the royal family, this one had been trained well in the arts of elemental combat. She was competent in ground tactics and knew how to wield her weapons. She even showed some leadership qualities. But she lacked experience, and that inevitably got good people killed. Annabelle smirked, her face hidden beneath her hood. Count on the Warriors Order to rely on live combat to be their members’ primary form of training.
An intense alarm from Annabelle’s bond jolted her inattentive mind to the unusual shapes in a tree not far from the road. Safety is won with hand and arrow when the head forsakes all plans, her old preceptor would say. Annabelle reached for her wood staff. But something about the two forms gave her pause. Spies would not have survived long being so blatantly careless. The fact the two in Eastlander clothing had escaped every battalion member’s eyes did not bode well, a situation she would be sure to remedy. If she had to further this band of misfits’ inadequate training, at least she would have some fun. That brought a welcome smile to her dreary assignment. She shoved her staff back into its holster and rode on.
Conner held his breath until the Ranger had disappeared amid the trees to the east, then rolled onto his back. The sky was starting to darken. Judging by Hemera’s position, if he started home right away, he would only be half an hour late. That meant another long lecture about the importance of responsibility, but at least he would be alive to hear it. He tried to stand, but his muscles shook with unspent fear and he nearly tumbled from the tree.
“I believe that had to be the most incredible sight I’ve ever seen.” Pauli’s eyes were still glued to the east, where the last of the battalion had vanished into the deep shadows. “And we didn’t even have to pay ringside carnival price!”
No longer able to resist the urge, Conner slugged Pauli’s shoulder, then shook the numbness from his knuckles; Pauli’s eyes didn’t even waver from the road. Next time he’d bring a mallet. “We nearly paid with our lives, Pauli! Hiding in this tree had to be the most ridiculous idea you’ve had since you convinced me to help you steal Farmer Windtree’s blackberries.” After hesitating, he added, “And you’ve had your share of foolish ideas.”
Pauli’s eyes widened. “How was I supposed to know they were rashberries?”
Conner bit his lip, not wanting to pick at old scabs. The two had spent a fortnight covered in rashes after gorging on berries Pauli was convinced were edible. Not allowing his comrade to distract him from his point, Conner continued. “I thought for sure the Ranger was going to shoot us out of this tree. Wouldn’t that be a fine sight, our bodies dragged home looking like human porcupines.” He began sliding down the branch, adding, “If they ever found our bodies.”
Pauli blinked, the realization of what could have happened seeping into his dense skull. “You don’t really think she would have killed us? I thought you said that was all a fable.” He watched Conner skip nimbly down the branches, then leap the final few paces to the ground. “Nice, Conner,” he added with a hint of envy.
Conner peered up at his immobile friend. He would not let Pauli smooth talk his way back into his graces that easily. “Why do I let you drag me into these adventures?” He sighed, considering the terrain he had to cover. “I suggest you get yourself home quick as a spit. Your dad is no doubt looking for an excuse to skin you after the last time you got home late.” Conner turned to start the long run home, then paused. Glancing back to be sure Pauli didn’t miss his words, he called out, “And yes, if the Ranger had truly thought us spies, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The Guildsman’s Apprentice
Conner slipped nimbly over the short stone wall of the Stonefield cottage. Thanks to the rusty hinges on the wrought-iron gate, taking the normal route was a sure way his parents would know he was just arriving. The welcoming glow of soft candlelight and the smell of burning oak drifted through the kitchen window. He ascended the slated front entrance, evading the two steps that needed repair, and crept into the light of the lamp near the wooden front door.
Just as he reached for the handle, a raccoon waddled into view, looking quite pleased, which was nothing new for the creature. Dark eyes sparkled gleefully and she chortled as she patted her paws together. A moment later, the door swung open.
“Thanks, Notorius.” Conner sighed at the raccoon.
A balding middle-aged man wearing shabby farm clothes and a solemn look stepped back into the hall to usher his wayward son in from the dark. “Don’t be upset with Notorius. Unlike me, she’s happy to see you.”
Conner forded the entryway, glancing nervously at his father. Notorius scampered through the portal on Conner’s heels. Even though Anton Stonefield was a full hand shorter than his son, it was clear where Conner got his lean frame. Long years in the fields had given him sinewy arms and calloused hands. Time under Hemera had aged him beyond his years.
Wondrous smells of hot stew, fresh-baked bread, and sharp spices assailed Conner’s senses. Before he could say a word, his stomach moaned. Between morning chores and the afternoon with Pauli, he had forgotten to eat since breakfast.
His father caught the signals and jabbed Conner’s midsection with a finger. “I’ll tell your mother to put an extra ladle of stew in your bowl. Supper will get cold, so wash up. We’ll talk later.”
Conner nodded and trudged up the narrow steps to the upper level. Turning into the washroom, he poured water from a decorative ceramic pitcher into a large tin bowl and turned the water dark with grit and dirt from the day’s work. He opened his eyes to find a chipmunk inspecti
ng him. Lifting its tiny paws wide in the air, it chirped.
“Mom doesn’t need your assistance, Ignatius.”
Seeming to understand the remark, Ignatius spun about and flicked his tail so Conner knew who had the final word. Then he hopped from the counter and disappeared down the stairs.
Once certain he would meet his mother’s approval, Conner tossed the brown water through a window and headed down toward the delicious smells. Even though the kitchen was large, it was far from roomy. An iron wood-burning stove, cooking counters, and a long, plain-cut table and chairs consumed nearly all of the space. Pots, skillets, and cooking utensils of every size and shape adorned the wood-panel walls. Conner’s parents and two younger sisters sat around the table scrutinizing him.
His mother’s eyes narrowed, with Ignatius near her elbow watching smugly. In any normal situation, he thought Oshan Stonefield’s eyes kind, a calm deep-blue sea on a face with a pale complexion that would have been beautiful with a gentler lifestyle. His sisters—Miyra, fourteen, and Sayra, twelve—could have passed as twins. Both had their mother’s eyes and golden hair, a stark contrast to the narrowness of face they had inherited from their father. They often wore the same clothes and expression, which currently was the self-righteous You’re late and are you in trouble!
He cautiously slipped into the vacant chair, eyeing the bowl of thick stew and bread roll before him, a king’s feast for a starving boy. The family linked hands around the table. Sayra flashed Conner a quick smile she knew her inattentive sister would not approve of and squeezed his hand to let him know she was glad he was safe. As always, the family gave thanks to the Cosmos for the bounty of food before them, their safekeeping, and all the gifts of life, bonds, family, and community.
Dinnertime was the one opportunity the Stonefields had to stay connected. Questions were seldom needed to prod conversation, which often flowed without direction or purpose. By the time the last bits of food were scraped from their bowls, each had shared the significant events of the day and the important plans for the next. Miyra and Sayra were in school. Neither found their studies particularly challenging. But at the moment, their adolescent awkwardness demanded their parents’ attention. Conner recalled sharing similar troubles as his parents recited the same wise guidance that had helped him through his challenges; that is, when he was smart enough to listen.
Through all of this, Notorius sat by the kitchen entryway, chattering while consuming a boiled egg and portions of meat she washed ceremoniously in a bowl beside her plate. Ignatius sat on the table, packing his cheeks full with the remaining seeds amid his dinner’s shells.
Without verbal cue, everyone carried out their assigned chores of clearing and cleaning the remnants of the night’s meal. By the time all the bowls had been washed, and nearly all the pots hung in their assigned places, important conversations had reached their fruition. Only then did Conner’s mother usher his sisters upstairs to prepare for sleep and the next day’s schooling, giving his father a well-orchestrated moment to speak with Conner.
While Conner dried the remaining pots, his father sat at the kitchen table, absently rubbing Notorius’s ears. “Don’t forget you are to go to Karlana Landcraft’s home the morning after Erebus’s full for guidance on bonding. She does it as a service to the community, and surely won’t like it if you don’t arrive on time. She’s very particular about that, you know. She has always considered you special, but that won’t help if you’re late.”
This was not the conversation Conner had expected. Like everyone in the Harmonic Realms, he had spent most of his adolescence in anticipation of what would happen sometime in his seventeenth year. When would he receive the Calling? What kind of bond would he get? How would they relate? Was he ready to take care of a bond? His father knew of Conner’s eagerness, and that Conner would not forget something so significant. Impatient to get to the real lecture, he took the plow horse by the reins to get the furrow dug. “I’m sorry about this afternoon. After I finished my chores, I went into town to meet up with Pauli. The next thing I knew ...” His arms waved about, unable to find words to make their adventure palatable to his father.
Anton let out a sudden, quick titter at Conner’s gawky gestures, then cut it short at the thought that Oshan might overhear. He leaned forward to speak softly. “Conner, anytime you tell me you’re meeting up with Pauli, I resign myself to the fact that trouble is going to happen. Separate, you boys are good. But mixed together, you are green bales of hay on a summer day.” He winked. This was his father’s way to say he did not want to know anything more about what had happened. “I’m glad you two are safe.”
Notorius, content with food and attention, hopped down and waddled back to the social room. Anton continued. “When you reach the age of Calling, Conner, you are an adult, in the eyes of Realm law and in mine.” He nodded his approval, then stood. Looking up with pride, he placed his hand firmly on Conner’s shoulder. “I have given you everything you need to meet your destiny, whatever that may be. I can teach you nothing more, and no punishment I could exact will change the path the Cosmos guides you on. You are a man now.”
Conner could have listed a dozen directions this conversation might have taken, but this one was not even in the same county as any of them. Speechless, he did the only thing he felt compelled to do. He reached out and hugged his father close. For the first time since he was little, he felt his father’s strong arms around him.
It was several moments before they became aware of Oshan standing at the kitchen entrance, regarding them with pride, fisted hands on hips. They released each other awkwardly.
She swiftly masked her smile with a stern look. “When you two are done with your father-son moment, maybe we can discuss the matter of Conner’s entrance into the Apothecaries Guild.”
Conner gawked at his father with bulbous eyes. For years, his parents had worked to set aside the funds necessary for him to achieve his lifelong dream—to be accepted as an apprentice to a master Apothecary. His mother had learned to weave baskets from dried cornstalks from the corn Anton harvested each fall. Twice a fortnight, she sold her baskets at the town marketplace. After each trip, they saved half the coins for this goal.
Anton beamed. “This morning, I met with Master Apothecary Merich Cleaverbrook. A fortnight ago, his apprentice Jess Tandoor successfully advanced to the rank of student, so Master Cleaverbrook is without a pupil. When he met you last year, he was quite impressed with all you knew about plants, and believes you have the smarts to be a good guildsman. He has agreed to take you on as his next apprentice.”
Conner was dumbfounded. A freeman becoming a guildsman was extremely rare and a significant jump in social status. He knew of only three in all of Creeg’s Point history who had won the honor of acceptance into a non-fighting guild. Of no lesser significance was the fact that with this new status came money. An Apothecary guildsman, Conner could work in a town or city guildshop, make a comfortable living, and still give back to his parents what they had provided.
More moved than before, he grabbed his surprised mother with a long arm and hugged her tight. She did not even try to protest.
Ignatius, perched at the end of the table with pouches bursting with seeds, lifted his tiny paws wide in the air and squeaked.
High Law
Princess Veressa of Griffinrock sat grimacing, only slightly aware of her ring-adorned hands straightening and pulling restlessly at her blue silk dress. It was tight and loose in all the wrong places in a way she would never get used to. Was it really so difficult to design royal clothing to fit more like hunting clothes? She was certain that Gareth Nantree, the imbecile her mother referred to as the Royal Chamberlain, had commanded those of the Tailors Guild to design this monstrosity purely for her discomfort. Nothing pleased the man more than to know Veressa was in distress.
But it was the hardness of the intricately carved chair that held most of her brooding thoughts, or rather the tension in her back and numbness in her seat. The
idea of axing the horrific chair into pieces and burning it for kindling brought a welcome smile. She nearly giggled wondering whether she could wait for the first winter snows to have the splintered wood warming Graystone’s banquet hall.
The cold, hollow sound of closing doors echoed through the queen’s lavish reception hall. Someone was calling her name.
“Veressa!” the queen repeated, whispering and yelling simultaneously. Only after Veressa dropped her hands from her dress and looked up did her mother continue. “You could show some semblance of respect and at least act like you are interested in learning how to deal with affairs of state.”
Veressa regarded her mother. Izadora, the queen of Griffinrock, exuded a regal presence Veressa was certain she would never attain. From the precisely placed hands in her lap to the slightly lifted head and dark, piercing eyes, Izadora’s posture on the royal throne stated without question she was in complete command of the Realm. Her long, dark hair fell in unbroken waves across bare shoulders, accentuating a face of radiant complexion. The royal crown of Griffinrock, bulky and round, rested perfectly on her head. A warm, caring smile completed her regal face, despite the discomfort maintaining such a majestic pose—and the anger she felt at the moment toward her daughter. She always spoke with a voice as commanding as her appearance. And she used that voice to full advantage.
