Spinning in place, she spotted the guard standing patiently, "Ma'am, if you please." The woman waved towards the exit. Myra knew that there was a good chance if she refused she could be dragged kicking and screaming out of the carriage. Her dignity wouldn't allow that and even as her limbs turned to jelly, she eased out of the seat to plop into mud. Red mud. It was so vibrant, Myra tried to vainly search for blood that mixed into it but there didn't seem to be any bodies. Her next thought was to take her shoes off and dig her toes into it.
A bag landed near her feet and Myra practically jumped out of her shoes. Catching her breath, she picked up her only luggage. There wasn't a lot to her name, but her mother let her pack only half of her clothes. Was that a sign she'd be back home soon or...?
"Could you step back, ma'am?" the guard asked and good little girl Myra, her luggage clutched in her fingers, shifted out of the way. Without so much as a bye or leave, the woman swung back up into the driver's seat, turned the carriage around, and drove the damn thing back to the road.
Her jaw dropped, Myra frozen as her only connection back to the real world bounced and jangled its empty way to return to her home without her. "Wait..." she began, but by the time her voice returned it was too late. Even running at her top speed wouldn't help her, the horses having reached a gallop to freedom.
Nervously, she worried her fingers tighter to her luggage's handle, staring around at this strange place. What if it was wrong? What if the owners didn't know who she was? What if they kicked her out and she had to find a way to get back home by herself? She had a bit of coin but how much did it cost to travel cross-country? Could she even find her way back home if...?
"Myra?"
Her head whipped around to find the voice and a small woman stepped out of a room on the second floor. A puff of purple smoke followed, which she quickly shut away behind the door. Gripping tight to a cane, the woman slowly eased herself towards the staircase while Myra remained rooted in the spot. Should she climb the stairs to greet her? Was that the polite thing to do? It didn't matter because her bones were fully boiled to soup by now. Taking a step would end in her face down in the mud.
"Forgive me," the woman continued, "I thought I heard a carriage but I was in the middle of a...it's not important." She smiled wide, her teeth so white against her dark brown skin it reminded Myra of the moon. At first Myra chalked it up to the shadows, but as the woman limped to the ground floor and into the sun, her skin only lightened a shade. "Maker's breath," the woman tipped her head back, unable to reach Myra's eyes, "when did you get so tall? Alistair never mentioned you reaching his height."
"I'm not as tall as..." Myra began before her eyes cinched up and she shook her head, "Excuse me, who are you?"
"Ah, sorry. I'm Lana, Lana Rutherford if you need the whole spiel. Well, that's not quite all of it," she dug her cane in and reached a hand out. It hung a moment until Myra thought to release her tight grip upon the luggage and shake it.
"You're..." Myra blinked, unprepared for this. Sure, she knew what the Hero of Ferelden looked like. She was a seven foot tall statue made out of onyx with a death date that her dad called more of a guideline than a rule. This woman was so tiny Myra feared she might step on her. She was supposed to believe this woman with smiling wrinkles and grey hair who barely skirted to her chest stopped a blight? Was the greatest mage in thedas?
"Let me have a look at you," the woman ordered. Myra expected her to do the usual once over so many of the Queen's sisters and relatives did. Spin around, show your teeth and eyes. They in particular honed in on her ears, but this one didn't seem to care. Instead she drew her fingers together, then yanked them apart, and tiny, blue glowing threads appeared between them. It looked like a ball of yarn that exploded but made out of light.
"Touch this please," she asked. Slowly, Myra's trembling finger slipped into the light strands and, as it glanced upon one, the entire mass lit up bright white and began to hum. Myra yanked her hand back afraid she started an explosion but the woman only smiled.
"Hm, your father doesn't know the half of your power."
"Can...?" Myra's eyes lit up, sad when the mage brought her hands back together to cut off the glow, "can you teach me how to do that?"
"Of course, it's nothing too spectacular. Looks rather impressive I suppose, but it's a simple veil testing spell. Though I do put my own spin on it."
This was her. The great mage, the one everyone else thought was dead. "Lady Rutherford," Myra began, but the woman frowned.
"That's a bit too formal for my tastes, Lana will do."
"Uh..." Myra staggered, her tongue locking in her jaw.
Lady Rutherford's head tilted to the side, confusion increasing when she seemed to suddenly figure it out, "Let me guess, your mother. Or Alistair pulling one of his jokes."
"It's my mom, like you guessed," Myra raced to protect her dad, but she needn't have bothered.
The woman smiled brighter, her face so inviting -- like a pancake breakfast during a snow day when the syrup sat warming on the stove. "It seemed a bit too sophisticated for him. If Lana's out, how about teacher?"
Nodding, Myra smiled, "Okay teach."
"You seem to travel light," she tipped her eyes down at the luggage and Myra shrugged.
"Ma'am, um, teacher, how long do you think this will take?"
"I cannot say for certain, learning spells requires time, study, but I think we can make real progress for the next few summers."
Myra blinked at that, "Summers?"
"Your father didn't tell you? Maker's blighted sake, I told Alistair a dozen times over I..." she waved her hand through the air and Myra was even more bowled over. No one treated her dad like the bumbling fool he could be because they were all worried about the king part. No one except for her mother, anyway. "We can only take time out during the summer for teaching you. Well, I. My husband is around here somewhere, I imagine you got the briefing."
"Don't call him Commander," Myra repeated.
She snorted at that, "More or less. There's a special area set up for you to practice in. Protected from any spray off, and to allow you to fully let loose. I imagine you're itching to see how high that fire of yours goes."
That drew a smile to her face and she tipped her head down. "I am, ma'am. Uh, teach." It was strange to have someone who wanted her to use her magic, to encourage it.
"But," Lana patted her arm, "that can wait until tomorrow. First things first are getting you settled, oh and Maker's sake you must talk to your parents."
"My..." Myra stuttered, glancing around as if she expected to find them hiding behind one of the doors. "My parents?"
"Alistair's been calling through the sending crystal every day. As the week grew on, it became every hour. Your mother too. They're very worried about you. If you..." the woman paused and she folded her hands together. An aloofness wrapped around the inviting mage like she was trying to protect herself from something. Weary eyes, the kind that looked as if they were staring back at themselves in a mirror, turned to Myra, "If you need me to do it because you're not in the mood to speak to them, I can for you."
"Uh," Myra gasped to find a strangely shared sentiment between a woman so much older than her. The woman her father and mother were in cahoots with. "No, that's okay. I can do it."
"Good," she smiled, but the sting didn't vanish. Was she one of them? One of those people the neighbors turned into the templars? Or a kid? Did her parents send her to a circle knowing they'd never see her again? Myra ached to ask her, but it seemed impolite to call out on the first meeting. Maybe later, maybe in a few days time she could bring it up and ask her about the old ways of the mages.
Lady Rutherford glanced up towards a door and groaned, "Ah, blighted void, your room's not quite finished yet. Alice!" She waved to a woman passing in and out of the narrow doors. "Grab some fresh linens and meet me in 5." Turning back to Myra she added, "Give us a few minutes and you can settle in properly."
Unable to offer anything
, Myra nodded limply as the woman took the grueling steps up to what would be her room for the summer. Slowly, Myra spun around the courtyard, trying to take in this new home. At least the Hero seemed nice, nice enough. Her tone would probably change after having to deal with Myra for more than a few days. A few younger adults continued to shuffle around, eyes darting towards her, but most too dedicated to whatever they were doing behind the doors. Something told Myra it wasn't anything interesting. What could be out here?
Aside from learning magic and having to fill out her studies for back home when she had free time, the abbey stank of boredom. People were quiet, holding their breath and softening their words while they passed in and out of passageways. Even the doors barely squeaked. Back home she'd have already heard a good five curse words through the walls before getting out of the door. Her ears itched from the silence. What was she going to do here all summer?
The pervading silence was broken out of nowhere by the sound of someone smashing into a low bar and then cursing. When Myra turned around, she spotted a boy rubbing his curly head. A book lay open in his hands; no doubt he was so engrossed with it he wasn't paying attention to where he was going. After checking himself for any serious damage, he glanced around to see who spotted him. Over the left shoulder was safe, but when he turned to the right, breathtaking amber eyes landed right upon Myra.
A blush rampaged up his brown skin a shade or two lighter than the Hero. Who, she just realized, was probably his mother. He awkwardly glanced down at the book, stuffing the pages higher to try and hide his defined chin and thick lips struggling through a horrified smile. Still, those amber eyes remained focused on Myra, peering over the top of the book as he attempted to slide backwards to get away from his humiliation.
"Gavin!" a man's voice echoed from a lean-to set up on the side. The boy whipped his head over to the taller man in the shadows and he gulped.
"Yes father," Gavin called, racing to vanish inside with whatever work he was needed for.
Myra smiled to herself, the amber eyes clinging to the back of her eyes like a vision. Maybe there were a few things interesting here after all.
A New Hero
Who thought being the son of two great war generals, the bastard daughter of a King, or the future Queen would be easy? Action, humor, romance, and a wily assassin all await inside of this new story.
Gavin Rutherford dreamed of one thing -- becoming a Knight. His and his parents plans are thrown into chaos when he's sent to Denerim. He finds himself embroiled once again with Myra Sayer Theirin who's struggling to figure out her magics and place in the world. In the middle of it all is Princess Rosamund neé Spud who's doing all she can to prepare for the hurdle of leading a nation.
No one expected so much trouble to befall them, but that's what happens when you're the children of King Alistair and Commander Cullen. Trouble has a way of finding you.
CHAPTER ONE
Future
He heard nothing save the shift of feet and jangle of leather slapping into thighs. The roar of the crowd, the other fighters squaring off in their own circles around the arena, all of it faded away to just his heartbeat pounding with assurance. Gavin stood in front of nearly the entire Arling all peering down from the stands to watch a 17 year old show off his prowess, but in his heart he was back at home trying to best his father in a little sparring before dinner.
A sword whipped towards his head, but he dodged out of the way, the blade harmlessly flailing towards the ground. Spinning on his toes, he rammed his own dull edged blade towards his opponent's shield arm. It should have barely touched it, but the boy's stance wilted like flowers in high summer. Gavin had to pivot fast to keep the blade from slicing up and knocking into the boy's teeth.
In doing so, he spun closer to his opponent. Lifting up his own shield as both protection and to mask his face he whispered, "Pst, Evans. You have a shield, block with it."
The boy who was a good head or more shorter seemed to stare at his arm in shock before nodding that he did in fact have a shield. Greener than the Hinterland meadows, Evans limply lifted up his shield towards his opponent as if to assure him that he still held it. Gavin nodded that it was the right idea then folded tighter behind his.
"Okay," he ordered the boy a few years younger than him. "Now, charge at me."
"Charge you?" Evans muttered, clearly out of his depth. He spent the entire sparring time whipping his sword around like a scythe to mow hay. Which wasn't that surprising. Nearly everyone there was a farm kid or the occasional chantry orphan who couldn't hack it as a priest.
"Yes," Gavin tried to hone all his strength through his arm, forming his brick for a shield wall as his father taught him. "That's what it's really about."
"I thought I was supposed to cut you, ya know, with this," Evans' wrist twisted the blade around a bit more, failing to flow with it so the heavier metal waned to the ground.
"Just...give it your best," Gavin said.
Nodding, Evans dropped his shoulder down and ran full bore at Gavin. The kid's ropey shoulder stuck hard against the wood, rattling Gavin's body from the unexpected source. Evans was at most 100 pounds soaking wet, but he threw his all into it. Scrabbling, Gavin dug his toes into the sand, trying to stop the runaway kid from knocking him onto his ass. That'd be rather the spectacle in the end. The most promising squire beaten by a fifteen year old kid that could vanish in a birch forest.
Sweat dripped down his back, Gavin getting a grip with his toes in the waning footing. With a little twist, he turned in place, surprisingly light on his feet. Evans stumbled onward, while Gavin playfully touched the blunt flat of his blade against the kid's backside. The kid wasn't able to stop as easily, his feet flopping in the sand as he fought for the brakes while Gavin spun right back to face him.
Never take your eyes off your opponent.
Flailing, Evans dropped his sword and had to spread both his legs far apart to catch himself. But, he finally stopped. Chuckling, he turned around and shouted, "That was amazing! How did you do that?"
"It's not very difficult," Gavin said. He tried to keep the smile off his face, to remain taciturn in such simple matters, but there was no denying the pride at his hard work. "I can teach you how later."
"Maker, yes you will," Evans shouted again, the enthusiasm infectious. He wasn't the youngest one here, that was a girl barely even 14 who apparently was terrifying with a spear, but he seemed the most naive. A bit like a puppy, Gavin wanted to pull Evans under his wing and set him up with a nice warm box to sleep in.
"Pick your weapon up," Gavin said, jerking the pommel of his sword at the ground. Evans gulped and fumbled around for the metal at his feet when a horn blared through the arena.
Every would-be squire froze in their little test-at-arms, some dropping their weapons same as Evans did, others sheathing them. Gavin preferred the latter, having been taught to appreciate his tools. As the dust settled along with the stilled feet, the Knight-Commander stepped out into the middle of the ring.
He was a friendly sort who Gavin met on occasion at his parents urging. While the others gulped at the shine on the man's armor, the rank insignia and the crimson cape stretching off his shoulders, Gavin noticed that a bit of mutton stew remained in his snowy beard.
"Please," the commander said, "line up here before me."
All the squires nodded at each other and, one by one, fell into an uneasy line. It was foolish, they'd already been accepted. This was a simple matter of tradition and a bit of spectacle before the tourney began. Still, Gavin couldn't hide the small swell of excitement as he lifted up his chest. He'd been working for this day for years. Since he was ten, really, and his mother caught him trying to figure out how to unsheathe one of his father's old swords.
Squinting in the summer sun, Gavin caught sight of the fancier chairs near the Arl's box. Sitting in one was the white-blonde hair of his father, the man with his back straight and no doubt a grit in his jaw. Beside him was a dark skinned woman, her hair spill
ing off both sides of the blue clothed chair. Gavin's mother kept waving at her son as if he couldn't see her, then turned to his father to nudge the man in the ribs to join in. One was happy for him, the other...cautious.
"Step forward, Erin Womack," the Knight-Commander ordered. A girl from Redcliffe skipped towards him, her head bent. "You shall squire for Ser Quentin."
Erin's eyes grew wide, before she reached out and with both hands grabbed the Knight-Commander's hand in her own. That caused the man's scroll to shake a moment. He hadn't expected such a response, but after a time returned it.
"He's over there, if you can get to your Knight, please," the Commander chuckled, getting a laugh from the audience.
Blushing hard enough her freckles turned bright red, Erin waved at the crowd while turning to her Knight. She'd be trained in all the proper ways, not just fighting, but culture, serving the crown and chantry, and be on the fast track to her own knighthood. The moment Gavin expressed an interest in having a Ser before his name, it was squirehood he strived for to get his boot in the door.
Evans nudged an elbow that was all bone into Gavin's side, "Whatever Knight gets you is gonna be so lucky. You're the best one here."
He should have been here a year ago, maybe two, but his parents keep insisting it wasn't the right time. That he wasn't strong enough, or ready. Perhaps they had a point when he was fourteen, but now Gavin stood taller than his father and could carry bricks from one side of their lands to the other all day should the need arise. He was more than ready, he was meant for this.
Tipping his head up, he kept the idiotic grin off his thick lips but he couldn't hide the shine in his amber eyes. One by one, the Knight-Commander called people up to him and gave them their assignments. The people they'd serve for two years, no questions asked. It was how they learned discipline, and the decorated Knights didn't have to lug around their heavy armor all by themselves.
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