A troop of armored guardsmen came jogging up to them followed by an equally numerous troop of children. While Teddy explained the situation, Metta rounded up the many children. A distinctive hooked nose and bright orange hair on every single child, toddler to teen, boasted Teddy’s paternity and apparent unchecked virility. Disappointed but obedient, the flock of tiny Teddys followed her out of the field.

Scooped up and shuttled off to the the “fort”, the evening passed with the women nursing ever deepening slouches while guardsmen tried to formulate a plan for the unprecedented occurrence. The fort consisted of two cobblestone structures. A large building the size of a barn and replica of the first but only large enough to hold a single empty room. It was in that room that they repeated their story for one person after another. Absent of cursed abominations and bejeweled deities, they told a simple narrative casting the forest as the sole aggressor and only point that saved their tale from being regarded as two idiotic travelers lost in the woods. Banality had been Timbrelle’s intention. She hoped to be just the right amount of pathetic so that she could hitch a ride to the capital. That ran the risk of getting people overly invested when she wanted to ultimately be disregarded and shooed away.

Eventually it was a small Teddy who halted the endless barrage of questions. One of his brood arrived at nightfall to fetch his father.

“Mom says you’re late.” He announced from the doorway with no introduction. When Teddy hesitated and the guards moved to carry on their questions the child repeated it louder. “Mom said you’re late, DAD. You. My dad. Mom says it’s too late. Mom says it’s time to come home.”

Teddy scooped up the child around the waist and dangled him at his side like a piece of luggage. “You know Metta. And you-“ He pointed to the guard leading the investigation, “know where to find me with more questions. It is late, Gren.”

Without another word, the Teddys were gone.

The head guard yawned in agreement with the departure. “Where should we send you? We can settle the more extensive paperwork and documentation after you’re settled again. Truth be told, we’ll need some time to figure out the protocol. Expect a thorough investigation but perhaps we can get you home before they lay into you.

“You sound Yostier, but you…” He eyed Timbrelle up and down. “You look Tesh, but you don’t sound it.”

“We’re headed to Yost Proper.” Timbrelle answered, skirting the question of ethnicity.

He nodded and finished the form he had been filling out during their conversation. He produced a capped stamp that, once uncapped, glowed with a faint bronze aura. The picture of a knotted snake it left on the page radiated the same corona of rusty light. He placed two thin metal chains atop the paper until they too shone faintly.

“There are your subpoenas. Please report to the Yost Proper City Guard upon your arrival in the city. They will be notified of your arrival whereupon you are allowed two days to produce yourselves. If you do not do so, the guard assigned your case may choose to find you.” He placed the chains around their wrists, allowing the chain to fuse its ends together into bracelets too small to remove.

Ping!

A happy note tolled, announcing a window that read:

You are in possession of ‘Subpoena’ a low level magical item.

*Access more information on the item in the description section of the inventory listing.

Timbrelle gasped.

“Your first time seeing a magic item?” The guard asked, startled at the reaction.

As she read the last of the text box, it blinked away leaving negative space and no clues on how to to call it back.

At her dead eyed stare into the air between them he sighed “I forget myself. Get some rest, we can leave tomorrow morning.”

***

Timbrelle awoke in the carriage strewn across Adna’s lap. On the bench opposite them sat the head guard, a mirror image of Adna with muscular arms folded, sleeping leaned against the inside of the carriage. He wore a new uniform, the same in cut and color but a step up in quality, it seemed. He’d even shaved and trimmed his hair. Now that Timbrelle had a chance to shamelessly inspect him, he was not nearly so oppressive as the night before. Gren, was it?

In a sleepy stupor she took in the clean, if still bruised and battered, Adna. Without the grime of their trek she sported a surprising amount of freckles focused along the bridge of her nose. Her stark white hair had been brushed and braided into a utilitarian knot that added its severity to her sharp bone structure.

Timbrelle froze. The head guard was fresh, Adna was looking fine as hell- was she the only garbage person in the carriage? Had she really allowed herself to sleep through an opportunity to bathe? A chill spread from her scalp slowly to prickle each and every hair across her body. Eyes locked on Adna, she carefully raised an armpit to her nose; this would need to be a stealth mission.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Fresh! Somewhere between roses and pineapples on the funk spectrum sat Timbrelle, a perfectly acceptable odor for a clean human to have. It was a feeling that she’d missed while traversing the Dorark. A diet of fruit, roots and mushrooms had given her a special stink, one she was eager to shed.

From her angle in her companion’s lap there was only blue sky peeking in through the windows. A careful few minutes later, she’d extracted herself from her spot without waking her company.

Outside the carriage, fields and irrigation ponds passed lazily. Like the field they’d climbed out of the canal into, they were all freshly tilled and in the early stages of sewing.

As she watched, houses began to pop up between fields more and more frequently. Soon there were clumps of them, additional roads, wagons, pedestrians and eventually, a gate.

Timbrelle coughed loudly when the carriage stopped and neither of the people with her stirred. They both opened their eyes and resumed function immediately as though they’d only been resting. The head guard clicked open a bag that was rigid like a briefcase on a long strap to go across his body. Inside were all the many papers they’d filled out together.

A tap on the window. “Papers! Immigration declarations, travel orders, personal identification- out the window!” He recited the line with the practiced ease of someone who’d ironed out all the inefficiency over many years in the position.

“Writ of passage. Declaration of judicial proceedings.“ He placed both into the waiting hand of the gate worker.

“Ah damn. Let me go grab the plate.” He returned with a small silver dish the size of a tea saucer. Upon coming into contact with their bracelets, the dish assumed the same bronze halo. “Your subpoena is active and updated with the city guard. I am required by law to remind you that you have two days to produce yourself for judicial proceedings. Please enjoy your time in Yost.”

He waved them through the first junction.

“This is where the morning market meets. We’re lucky to have missed the rush.” The head guard pointed out. On either side of the street vendors were folding tarps and sweeping up while a few stragglers were locked in negotiations with tardy customers.

Ahead loomed an even larger wall than the one they’d just passed through. The second gate was faster than the first. A woman in uniform brought over a metal stick that gave off a light green aura. About the same size as a metal detecting wand, she used it similarly, passing over the exterior of the carriage in broad strokes. She said nothing, but gestured the driver forward through the gate.

“She’s checking for undeclared magic items.” The guard explained.

“Is that a problem in Yost?” Adna asked.

“There was a terrorist attack in the winter. They smuggled in magic horns…” He shifted in his seat. “I’m surprised you don’t know about it. You could hear it all across the valley- I thought everyone knew.

“A huge portion of the city is magically deaf now. Can’t hear a thing unless it’s magic or magically enhanced. Even in the city few can afford a magic implant or hearing aid so most use the Deaf Language. It’s easier to learn than you’d think.”

He spent the remainder of their ride coaching them through a number of simple signs they might need around the city. Timbrelle sat politely through his lesson but couldn’t help watching the windows over his shoulder. The city looked to be dyed various shades of blue. From awnings to shutters to railings, everything was painted some variation of the primary color. The window behind him was often a mass of blue, making one feel more like they were traveling by submarine than carriage. She was deeply relieved when a knock at the carriage door cut their lesson short. A young man with long silky blonde hair whipped the door open before they could respond. He stood outside on a step that folded down in front of the door. A long cerulean wall passed slowly behind him.

“Gren, good to see you! I was told you would be accompanying our guests. Please introduce us!”

“Sir, the wagon is still moving, please come in.” The head guard, Gren, politely but firmly pulled the man into the carriage. “I’ve asked you not to do this, Sir.”

The man was what can only be described as “strapping”. Two baby blue eyes sat above apple cheeks and a firm jaw. Though his hair had been pulled back into a high ponytail, it still flowed over his shoulder in luminous stream.

“And I’ve told you that you won’t be held accountable if I split my head. You’re just a friend, not a bodyguard. That’s Francis.” He squinted out the window behind them. “He’s here somewhere.”

“Friends or not…” Gren grumbled to himself. “This is Timbrelle and this is Adna. They were lost in the Dorark for ten weeks and one week, respectively.”

The new man’s eyes went wide. “Ten weeks? That’s incredible!”

“Thanks. I didn’t mean to.” Timbrelle offered.

He laughed and Gren offered a rare, if tiny, smile.

“I am Trestovan Daliega, future Head of the Daliegas. You can call me Tovan.”

“Can I really call you that or should I be calling you ‘Lord’ and ‘My Liege’?” Timbrelle asked.

“Of cour-“

“Absolutely not.” Gren cut him off with a chop of his hand through the air. “It should really be ‘Young Master Daliega’ since you’re a commoner. People will think you are either a close childhood friend or a lowborn mistress if they hear you call him ‘Tovan’.”

Timbrelle shot a finger gun at Gren. “There we go. That sounds more like it.”

“You’re right, maybe it’s too soon for us to use pet names.” He winked at Timbrelle, earning a groan from Gren.

“At this rate you’ll be kicked out of the family long before becoming Head.”

“Don’t be angry at me for networking. The magic tower is going to lose their mind once they find out that someone survived the Dorark for over two months. You two are about to become very popular.”

Timbrelle shot a glance at Adna who didn’t notice and continued looking silently out the window, apparently unimpressed by their visitor.

“What do you mean? Why would they be interested in me?” Timbrelle asked.

“What makes a person survive where everyone else has died?” He countered.

“…I don’t know.” She replied truthfully.

“I suspect that’s the point. They’ll want to figure it out. Honestly? I would like to know the answer as well.” He said.

A bead of sweat snaked down her back before getting lost in the layers of skirts she sat in. “I suggest you temper your expectations. There’s nothing special about me. I’m just bad at directions. Speaking of which, where are we going?”

“To my house.” Trestovan said with a pleased look. “Gren informed me by telegram this morning that he would be using the guest quarters. Which, I have to say, I’m glad you finally took me up on the offer. I’ve been inviting you for years.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a bad friend.”

“No. I’d say you’re just… ‘elusive’.”

Gren was up and out the door before the coachman could come to a full stop. Trestovan chuckled and followed him out onto the gravel.