Steelfated, page 41
“Nothing. Plenty of people prefer armor and axes to silks. I meant only that she was an odd one regarding Tryvayn. He’s almost… Chelsian, sometimes in his ‘sensibilities.’ She snorted. Chelsians were known for being prim, and having much stricter views of gender roles in their society. It was why they’d never won a war against any of the Tuathan Highland countries- they refused to fight against women, and let their ‘chivalry’ get them killed. The Highlands could also field close to twice as many soldiers as the Chelsians, despite Chelsia having a larger population, and a much more hospitable climate, because for every five men that served in the military in the Highlands, there were slightly over three women.
“What caused their split?” Morgain asked. Radyn glanced at her sideways.
“Why?”
“Curiosity. I’ve not been a part of the court gossip for more than a year.” She grinned beatifically at him and batted her eyelashes. He coughed twice, but his “cough” did not completely cover his muttered “women”.
She punched him in the shoulder. He let her.
“What happened between Lissa and Tryvayn? From what I know of him, he’s rigid and does not break a promise once he’s made it.”
“He got another woman with child.” He said with a shrug. Morgain’s eyebrows arched sharply.
“Ooh, now that is juicy court gossip! Who, pray tell?” Radyn eyed her sideways again, then shrugged slightly.
“Are you sure you aren’t Thyrian? No, no, you’re too tall, and not nearly frilly enough.”
“Who?
“Constance Caldwell.”
Morgain spat her water on the road.
“Tryvayn blew up his betrothal to Lissa Tarethman for that… that-”
“Bramble bush? Hawthorn?” Radyn supplied dryly.
“Close enough.” She said with a shrug and a wry grin. “Why? Tryvayn is a decently handsome man of high birth, and Lissa is at the least pretty. Given a few years, she might even grow to be beautiful. But Constance is no great beauty, or even anything more than plain. She’s over thirty and has a personality as bland as dried oats. Honestly, I’m surprised she even knew what to do with a man to have a child-’’ Radyn’s eyebrow arched further as she spoke, and she choked off as she realized what she was saying. Heat rose swiftly up her cheeks, and she blushed so crimson that she’d have disappeared into her father’s banner if she’d been standing in front of it.
His smirk widened into a lupine grin.
“Bland as dry oats. I’ll have to remember that one.” he said.
“Radyn I-ah-” she stammered. His grin continued to widen becoming positively evil.
She crossed her arms and huffed at him, trying to decide what her best option to save face would be at this point.
“Wouldn’t it have been less embarrassing just to acknowledge the bastard in a few years? All noble houses have them, and no offense, but the Halstraad have more than most.” She asked. “At the least, wouldn’t it have been more pleasant, and less like sharing a bed with a bag of damp sawdust?” He threw back his head and gave a full-throated laugh at that. A man on a passing cart turned to look over at them and scowled. The poor fellow had an unfortunately oversized nose and ears, and was likely the target of many jokes among those he knew.
Before she knew it, she was laughing too.
After a few moments, their laughter slowed.
“You aren’t wrong about that.” He said after a few moments. “I don’t know why he did what he did. What Tryvayn does or doesn’t do is his business, and that of my father. It’s none of my concern, so long as he doesn’t get himself killed. I’ve got no desire to be the heir.”
“Anyalys would be next in line for the seat, wouldn’t she? She told me to point out the fact that she was like eight minutes older than you at my funeral feast.” Radyn’s eyebrow twitched.
“If she wasn’t set to inherit my mother’s lands, yes. If something happens to Tryvayn, Vynteria becomes my problem. Assuming I survive being dead.”
“You sound thrilled by the prospect.” She teased. He arched an eyebrow.
“Oh who wouldn’t be thrilled to have their brother die just so they can inherit a giant headache and a fantastic sword?”
“Nobility has had family members assassinated for less.” She pointed out. He nodded in acquiescence to that.
“Oh, come on. We’d best get to Bhen Rhil before it gets too late to find a room at an inn. Let’s try to lie low, eh? I’d just as soon our families not figure out where we are or what we are doing.” He said, holding out a hand to pull her to her feet. She smiled radiantly at him as he did and got a lopsided smirk.
They had to wait at the drawbridge to let a barge go by, and during that wait, their entire plan to not draw attention to themselves nearly fell apart.
“Lady Morgain?” Morgain stiffened, and shifted her eyes sideways to Radyn. The speaker was behind the pair of them, but she recognized the voice and groaned inwardly. Radyn did not show what he was thinking, but one of his eyebrows twitched slightly. It may as well have been an open expression of amusement.
“It IS you, my lady I-”
“Lady Morgain is dead, Gael Mallory, it would be well for you to remember that, and to keep silent.” She hissed coldly as she spun around to face the erstwhile captain of her guards.
29
Bhen Rhil
(37th Spring’s Bounty, 675 3rd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times passing in Talys Rae)
Gael grinned at her sheepishly when she turned a glare on him. The lean young man, though a few years older than she was, mayhap of an age with Radyn, looked even more youthful than her companion did. He was lanky, about six foot four, and his brown hair was mussed and unkempt, and his face darkened by a day of missing shaving, but he looked… happy. And that nearly rocked her back a step.
It was not so much that Gael was ever unhappy when he was serving, but he was always serious and on edge. It made him an exceptional guardsman. Today he seemed- well with anyone else she’d have called the difference, drunkenness. But she did not think he was drunk.
Morgain’s eyes flicked to Radyn for a heartbeat, then back to Gael.
“Keep silent. I-we- are here on a task set for us.” Morgain said to Gael quietly. “No one is to know where we are or what we are doing.”
“I- ah- yes, of course La- um.” He stopped and scratched his head. “How should I refer to you then?” Morgain’s face flattened, and she saw Radyn’s eyes sparkle mischievously.
“Call me-”
“Call her Wyn, and I’m El.” Radyn interjected. Morgain turned her glare towards him. She was not sure why exactly she was glaring at him. They weren’t awful names as it was, but not what she had been planning to call herself. Gael turned towards him when he spoke, and the smile slid off his face. His hand darted for the hilt of a sword that wasn’t there, then leapt back to the other side for his belt knife. Frustrated, Morgain acted without thinking. She knotted the leather, wrapping Gael’s knife handle to the leather of his belt, to keep him from drawing it.
Immediately, it felt as if she had both been punched in the sternum, and as if someone were trying to rip her intestines out through the small of her back. A wave of nausea rolled through her, and she staggered, losing her breath. Radyn caught her by the elbow without apparent thought, or even looking at her, though when he did, his own face seemed to blanch and draw out.
“Gael,” she managed, with bile rising in her throat and saliva running off her chin. “Don’t.” He dropped his hand, and she let go of the knot, and relief washed through her like a bucket of cold water dumped over her head. She stayed doubled over for a moment, though, trying to catch her breath.
“Lady M- Wyn, are you alright? Has he done something to you? Why are you here?”
“Enough, Gael. I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment to catch my breath. Thirteen hells, that was unpleasant.” She muttered.
“That’s why I never wanted to learn to use magic.” Radyn muttered. “When it’s accessible to you, you use it without thought, and when it doesn’t work, you don’t have the wherewithal to adapt on the fly.”
She looked at him and gaped. That might have been the longest opinion he’d ever presented to her. Whatever happened on his end of their knot must have been unpleasant, or he’d never have admitted that much, but he glanced over at her with no expression on his face, though perhaps there was a flicker of concern in his stormy eyes.
“Wyn, are you alright, if he’s done something to you-”
“Gael.” A voice with a faint Thyrian accent broke in suddenly. “Whoever your friend is, she said to give her a moment, and she already looks much better.” A moment later, with her equilibrium restored, Morgain glanced up. Standing next to Gael was a tall young woman with honey gold hair and blue eyes. She was thin, and so fair she was nearly pale, but her round face was sprinkled with freckles, and she collected her hair into a long braid behind her head, tied at the end with an eight colored ribbon. Morgain blinked, then glanced down at Gael’s hand.
“Oh, Gael, congratulations on your marriage!” Morgain said with a warm smile. “You must be Caoimhe.” Caoimhe glanced at Morgain, her large blue eyes taking her in. She was a few inches shorter than Morgain herself was, but still tall for a woman.
“I am. Where do you know my husband from, miss- Wyn, was it?” The woman’s voice was cool, and more than a little flat. Was she jealous of Morgain knowing Gael? The man worked for her father and had saved her life on two separate occasions. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch all of your conversation. From the way he dropped my hand and raced over here, you’d have thought you were one of the-” Gael hissed through his teeth at Caoimhe. She glanced over at him, and her mouth formed an ‘O’ and she shifted uncomfortably.
“Ah- I… sorry my-”
“There is no need. Please call me Wyn. My companion and I are here on business for our employer, and we would really rather not draw too much attention to ourselves, and certain… individuals who are no longer with us… that we may or may not resemble.”
Caoimhe kept her equilibrium remarkably well. Much better than Gael had.
“But what is he doing here with you? If you don’t explain why to me… I’ll have to report this to your-”
“Caoimhe- I take it the pair of you are on your honeymoon, yes?” The woman nodded with a slightly confused look on her face. “Good, keep your husband distracted- and don’t let him think about work for a while. He’s a wonderful captain, but he’s far too dedicated to his job if that’s what he’s worried about right now.” Caoimhe blushed slightly, but she took the hint and grabbed Gael’s hand. Gael flushed furiously.
“Of course… Wyn. We are only passing through Bhen Rhil, anyway. We are stopping for the night, then moving onward to visit my uncle in the Maisons des Fleurs in Thyria.” Gael blinked twice. Chains clinked and rattled as the drawbridge began it’s descent.
“Hey, wait I-”
“Look- Gael. You are not on duty. I am. I can’t explain everything, but if you know of a decent inn, somewhere relatively quiet, but that won’t pay undue attention toward a group of four travelers, my companion and I will join you for a meal and explain what we can.”
“The Miner’s Pick will do just fine.” Radyn said. Gael’s eyes narrowed slightly. Morgain cut him off before he could speak. The bridge was down, and people and carts jockeyed for position to cross.
“Look, we’ll meet you there in three hours, alright? Get yourselves a room, enjoy each other for a while, then I will explain what I can.” Gael saluted, but Caoimhe caught his hand in both of hers.
“Of course, Wyn.” Gael and Caoimhe walked across the bridge.
Morgain and Radyn waited a few moments, allowing the heaviest of the traffic to clear, then they walked across the bridge and into Bhen Rhil.
The rest of their morning turned into a small “shopping” spree. They visited two butchers, a baker, a charcoal burner, and though she didn’t see why, the dockmaster.
Morgain supposed it couldn’t truly be called “shopping” as they didn’t pay for anything, so much as commandeer it. No shopkeeper in the Highlands charged coin to the Steelfated, at least up front. Though they kept a meticulous record of the transactions that the Steelfated made, and sent the bill to the High Council, who either paid it up front, or offered a reprieve on taxes equal to what they “sold”. Each of the houses had a fifth of the Steelfated that they handled upkeep on. And the Steelfated were each issued a carved brass disk with their service number on it that acted like a seal. The shopkeepers would write up the “bill” and the dead man or woman would “seal” the document with their service number, which the shopkeeper would then turn into the High Council to satisfy. Radyn had thought ahead though, and the Steelfated disks he presented were not their own, rather they belonged to Valdemar and Retz.
Two hours later, with their newly appropriated acquisitions placed in a dry well aboard a curragh they had bought, the pair strolled into the Miner’s Pick and met with Gael and Caoimhe.
Morgain told him as much of the story as she dared, and while she didn’t lie, she left the better portion of it out. She and Radyn were here on orders from the Lord Captain, Radyn as one of the Mistwalkers was an important figure for his freedom of movement, and lack of a true command structure, and Morgain as a druid, and one that the Fey did not particularly know, had been chosen to go as emissaries to seek their aid on these orders. They could do whatever they needed to do to get that aid, and that was why they were in Bhen Rhil, looking for a renegade fey who was terrorizing the area.
Gael, of course, wanted to join in their hunt.
Morgain refused him.
30
To Hunt A Huntress
(38th Spring’s Bounty, 675 3rd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times passing in Talys Rae)
The water of the Shimmerrill lapped softly against the side of their curragh. Morgain was still rubbing sleep from her eyes, while Radyn was moving as if he had been awake for hours. The eastern sky was just tinged pink with the dawn, and to the west the air was brisk, and a thick fog was curling up from the river. Without a word, he poled the curragh away from the dock and out into the slow, inexorable current of the river. Once the current took hold of their craft, he moved to the tiller and sat.
After a few moments, he tossed her a small cloth-wrapped bundle. She caught it by the providence of the bundle landing in her lap. She glanced at it, then at him, and arched an eyebrow. His eyes got that glittering twinkle in them, and his face curled into that damnable smirk of his, but he said nothing.
She unwrapped the bundle to find a half a loaf of soft dark bread, two slices of ham, a bit of cheese, some half melted butter, and a piece of honeycomb about the size of her thumb. It was all still warm. She glanced up at him.
“Breakfast.” he said with a shrug. Her smile widened significantly, and she bolted the food before it could get cold.
The day seemed to trickle as quickly as an icicle melting in the sun on the first day of spring. There wasn’t much to do on the boat, and the Shimmerrill to the west of Bhen Rhil was just treacherous enough that Radyn couldn’t hold a steady conversation with her.
She had to admit, the two small waterfalls that they encountered had actually been rather fun. Neither of them had had a drop of more than her height, and after a bit of deliberation, they stayed in the boat and rode the current.
In the early afternoon, however, they reached a third waterfall. This one had a drop of over sixty feet, so there was no rowing their wooden currach over it.
Radyn beached the boat, and they had a quiet lunch of dried meat and fruit, and lukewarm tea.
In the end, they had to portage the boat over two miles through the muddy, rocky, mossy river basin to put the boat back into the pool below the falls.
They pulled out of the water for the evening about an hour before dark, and made camp on the top of a high, flat rock close to the banks.
The next morning, about two hours from where they had camped, the Shimmerrill ended when it split, with a branch turning North to become the Mariseau which ran through Thyria and the Maisons Des Fleurs, where Gael and Caoimhe had been heading.
They stayed on the westward flowing branch, which became the Gwyndant.
Just as they were rounding the bend that would take them out of sight, Morgain looked backwards and saw a barge floating along behind them. It was crimson and black, with gold railings. She tapped Radyn on the shoulder, and he turned to look, but the barge turned along the Northern branch, and before long it was out of sight and headed for Thyria.
“That was one of my father’s barges.” Morgain said quietly.
“Does that surprise you?” Radyn asked. “We are in Muirdoch lands, on the major river for trade in the area.” She slapped him half-heartedly.
“You are very fecking funny, you know that.” She teased. “And it was not the presence of a barge that surprised me, so much as THAT barge. It’s one of my father’s personal barges. He won’t usually send them along the Shimmerrill. It’s too much of a pain to move them up and down the river, or portage them. It’s probably nothing, it just seemed- odd.”
Radyn looked at her and glanced back over his shoulder at the barge.
“Hmm.”
“Your garrulousness is legendary.” She teased.
“Thanks.”
Early that afternoon, they entered the Shimmerril’s most famous feature, Seònaid’s Gorge.
Grey schist cliffs climbed steeply for thirty or forty paces on either side of the river, and the current picked up as the river narrowed sharply.
Morgain would have loved to see the place as a bird, or even as a seal, but doing this in their small boat required too much attention to the water and what was ahead to look at the scenery.
She risked a few glances at Radyn, who had a fierce, wild, grin of excitement on his face, one that she only saw on his face when he was facing a real challenge of his skills, which seemed to be a rare occurrence for him.
