“I thought I saw an in-law, staring at the wench. I looked again and saw it wa… ACK! FUCK!” exclaimed d’Artagne, hitting his chest and coughing profusely. Kosian and Atho laughed hysterically, watching the short, blonde-haired man finally spit out a large dogfly. Wiping the spit from his lips, the young ‘poet’ looked at them both, his face a mask of hurt pride.
“See, d’Artagne! Even Mother Nature doesn’t wish to hear your horrendous rhymes!” Atho shouted, wiping a tear from his round cheek. Kosian wouldn’t have put it quite so harshly, but sadly there was no other way to describe their friend’s rhymes. D’Artagne looked to him, sputtering theatrically, but quickly grinned a satisfied smile. “Well, at least they’re not as bad as your ‘Abstractions’, lordling!”
Hearing the jab at his proud work, Atho suddenly grew quiet. Kosian did as well, looking at him worriedly. He noticed how the man’s right hand got uncomfortably close to the short sword he always had strapped to his saddle. Acting quickly, Kosian placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and smiled calmly at d’Artagne. “Come now, boys, calm down. No need to blow this out of proportion,” The two men looked at him, then at each other. Finally, both nodded and Atho lowered his hand. Kosian let out a sigh of relief. It was never a good idea to antagonize a lordling. The only good that did were endless calls for a duel or finding a knife in your back. Still, there were those like Atho who wasn’t totally beyond reason. That didn’t mean they were within reason. It just meant that they were somewhere in the middle. Looking to the lordling, Kosian patted his friend on the back. Atho sighed back to him. “You’re too soft on him, Kos. You should let me teach that air-headed midget a thing or two. Maybe, for once, he’d actually learn.”
“I’m not soft, Atho,” Kosian answered, his voice gaining just a slight edge for added effect. “I just know the idiot will learn the lesson better when he tries to use one of those rhymes in front of a merchant's daughter's window!” Turning back at them, d’Artagne put on an offended air. “Do you truly have such little faith in my skill, Kosian?”
“I would if you had any skill, to begin with,” Kosian answered as Atho chuckled at the response. D’Artagne looked indignant but soon joined in.
A chilly spring wind suddenly blew over them, flapping their long cloaks and ruffling the long hairs of their dogs. Though it was well into Olivefall, the trees had just now started to sprout, pockets of snow still clumping around in small mounds around stumps or the road's edge. It wasn’t the coldest spring Kosian had ever experienced, but it was definitely up there. Collecting his cloak in his free hand, he urged his pointer Jerod a bit faster. The black-haired dog was well trained but enjoyed keeping his nose down next to all the interesting smells rather than seeing where he was going or how fast. Kosian sighed. There were many things he found inconvenient and cold weather was on the top of that list. Even Atho shivered, his slight bulk visible through that black velvet cloak of his. The man always laughed at the others when they huddled around the dorm's fireplace in the dead of winter. But it seemed that even the northerner felt the bite today. That seemed like bad news. Atho never got cold, or, if he did, he shrugged it off. It must’ve meant that the year would be cold.
The three of them rode in silence, broken up by occasional banter or story. Half-listening about another one of Atho’s made-up whore house escapades, Kosian looked to the slowly setting sun. Four years he had spent with these two, surviving the boorish lecturers, the roguish assaults of wenches, their highborn classmates. This would be the last time the three of them would meet for a while. The thought made Kosian want to tear up. Here he was, riding back to that hellhole, counting every second he spent with the only two people in the world he could’ve called his friends. He looked at them. At d’Artagne, a short, blonde-haired merchant’s son, with a face and piercing sand eyes any would call handsome, dressed in his favourite white doublet. At Atho, a stout yet tall noble’s son, with long brown hair tied in a braid and a face that had seen many a tavern brawl, accentuated by that large broken nose of his and dressed in the finest blue velvet one could find. Looking at them, Kosian sighed. From time to time, he wished those days would never end. The thought even came to him now. He discarded it immediately, his mind set on that oath he promised to fulfil. A letter had reached him in Luberne before they departed. Everything was ready. Now that it had come to this, Kosian could hardly believe it was happening. Taking in the cold afternoon air, he let out a shuddered breath and tried to hide in his cloak. By the Band, he hated the country. At least that was the one thing to look forward to coming home.
As d’Artagne was about to poetically tell another of his great rhymes, the three of them turned to the sound of panting dogs and clinking metal. In a few moments, a group of fifty or so riders appeared on the ridge they had just past, their armour and spear points glittering in the early morning sun. Besides ten or so plate-clad knights, there were around forty men-at-arms or pages, each riding with a self-entitled and all-important air. Kosian recognized the black sparrow on the checkered red and white flag immediately as House Galaagne. As the party rode past, disappearing behind a bend in the road, d’Artagne leaned towards Atho in his saddle. “You hear anything about this?”
The man shook his head, his long brown braid swaying in the motion. “That was Lord Galaagne. He was the one riding in the middle of the knights. What in the Lord's name is going on?” he asked himself, sounding like he had just seen a ghost. Kosian scratched the small stubs on his chin. “Do you… do you think those rumours we heard in d’Auzen-Laborre were true?”
The three of them looked at each other. “War…” d’Artagne whispered, visibly shaking. Kosian gulped. All three of them had hoped the rumours were false. That the king wasn’t summoning a Diet. Spitting, Atho urged his blond pointer forward. “What in the Lord’s name are they thinking?!” he growled in a low whisper. Kosian wondered the same thing. He also wondered if Father had any hand in this. But no, that would’ve been preposterous. Nothing gives merchants a bigger headache than war. “Do you think the king is actually planning to back one of the pretenders to the throne?” d’Artagne asked. Like Kosian, he was a merchant’s son, rigorously taught the intricacies of politics from a young age. Such things were incredibly valuable when dealing with nobles. Atho thought for a moment but finally shook his head. “The king has no reason. He has no blood ties with either party and the only one he has, Baron Olinzh, has stayed neutral in the conflict so far,” he sank into thought again, “unless, of course, the old fool has finally decided to join in.”
“It could be the king may just be power hungry,” Kosian spoke, almost to himself. “After all, the Illin valley was partitioned in the last war. You highborn don’t take losing land too well.”
Atho shot him a glare, but nodded in the end, obviously angry he had to admit to it. “Most of the petty lords there already swore themselves to the king, only paying lip service to the Empire… no, it’s not that.”
“War…” d’Artagne whispered and laughed nervously. “Oh boy, I sure do hope my old man doesn’t make me take up that old battle axe!”
“I just don’t understand!” Atho shouted angrily. It seemed like he was about to let his dog into a gallop to catch up with the party. “Why would the king want a war now?!”
“…Maybe he wants to reunify the Nalingian empire?” Kosian suddenly said, his voice tinged with hope. “He is one of the Three Inheritors, and Ajou IS embroiled in the war,” Both d’Artagne and Atho looked at him sceptically. Chuckling, d’Artagne shook his head. “Calm down there, mister romantic. We all know that’s impossible.”
Kosian wanted to keep going but held his tongue. They were right. The Nalingian empire had fallen long ago, its reunification the dream of patriotic romantics such as himself. Sighing in the face of the cold truth, he spurned Jerod forward. “Come on,” he said, the edge in his voice returning, “The closest inn is still a ways off and I imagine none of us want to sleep on the cold dirt tonight.”
The other two didn’t say anything, but they did kick their dogs forward, riding through the country rode in a quick trot. Aimlessly watching as the landscape changed from the dense forest of oak and pine into meadows and one-off farmsteads, Kosian started thinking about the war. He imagined Atho and d’Artagne did the same, considering the two weren’t at each other’s throats again. Seeing a far-off village, Kosian imagined armies marching through these lands. Pillaging and burning would be followed by brigands and looters, endlessly preying on merchant caravans or travellers such as them. Out of reflex, Kosian looked at a nearby promenade of trees and checked the hidden pocket in his coat for his knuckles. There had been a few times he had to use the things during his stay in Luberne, but he still trained every day. Still, he doubted he could’ve taken on five desperate men with axes or spears. Why in the Redhells would the king start a war?! Even if his blood kin joined, he could just stay out of it. SHOULD stay out of it. Or maybe… Kosian did remember hearing about trouble brewing in the south. Tales at best, but they did say that the Reino of Giralta was amassing armies again. King Henri had many relatives in the Iberi kingdoms. If war had broken out. Kosian could vividly imagine as young men signed up or were forcefully dragged off by recruiters, as armies of bloodthirsty men ravaged the country, raping and pillaging wherever they went. Kosian had not seen war in his lifetime. He hoped he never had to. He still hoped he didn’t have to. Though… a war wouldn’t hinder his plans. It might just help him. Kosian pondered for a moment, then sighed at the face of the grim reality. Even if he and his plans would profit from it, his friends and his country certainly wouldn’t. Considering the tales from the other students that he had heard in university, Kosian understood that this ‘War of the Axes and Horns’ was even bloodier than the last one.
After three hours of riding which were spent making dozens of different theories and hypotheses, the trio finally reached their destination. Roche-en-Terre was a small hamlet of around twenty houses, all huddled together on a rather steep and rocky hill, overlooked by a small church. A promenade of trees leads up to the main gate of the small village, itself a remnant from Antiquity, made of marbled columns and a red tiled roof. During his short yet lengthy travels, Kosian had seen quite a few different villages, ranging from slum-like hovels to rather well-kept small towns. But he had never seen a hamlet which was so full of activity. Even in the late evening, men walked hurriedly through the streets, carrying timbers or stones, women accompanying them with bags or slabs of clay. The only ones truly free seemed to be the children, running around playing or out in the fields tending to the cattle. Soon enough, Kosian found the reason for the bustling – a large area, sectioned off by wooden posts, where a large tower-like structure was slowly yet steadily being built. “It seems someone is taking this whole talk of war rather seriously,” said d’Artagne melancholically, jumping out of his saddle next to the stable of the inn. Atho nodded in agreement. Watching the men on the wooden railings placing stones into the wall, filling the gaps with mortar, Kosian couldn’t help but feel pity for the townsfolk. He saw the untended fields around the hill, some barely touched by ploughs. It seemed that the mayor of the village wasn’t about to take any chances, even if it meant his people would starve.
Leading Jerod into the stable, Kosian watched as some of the people stopped to look at them wearily, only to go and continue their work. Absently looking around, he noticed the inns sign, a small hanging board with a woman carrying a basket of grapes. The words ‘Mildred’s Vine’ was proudly written in bold letters by an untrained hand. One of the more interesting inn names Kosian had seen. Unsaddling and placing some feed in the dogs’ trey, he got a lick from the old pointer. Jerod was always more comfortable sleeping in a warm stable than outside. Wiping the dirty saliva from his cheek, Kosian walked inside. The common room, furnished with good stout tables and benches was eerily empty, the only sign of life being the fire that crackled in the hearth. Atho and d’Artagne had quickly made themselves at home. While the lordling sat on the bench closest to the fire, his feet and hands thrown onto the stone lip just in front of the fire, d’Artagne had sauntered behind the bar’s counter, carefully inspecting the vintages on the wooden kegs in the wall. Taking off his cloak, Kosian approached the fireplace, his gloved hands already feeling the soothing warmth. Crouching down by the fire, his hands outstretched, he let out a sort of satisfied moan. He dreaded the thought of what would’ve happened to them if they hadn’t reached Roche-en-Terre. He didn’t know the first thing about starting fires and he doubted the other two were well versed in the knowledge.
“What was that?” Atho asked, chuckling at the moan. “That, my friend, is the sound one makes when he is pleased and content!” Kosian answered calmly, watching as the tongues of flame danced around the timbers. Atho scoffed at the reply, but noticeably relaxed, slowly taking off his gloves.
“Ahhh! There we go!” exclaimed d’Artagne, his words followed by the sound of a popping cork. In a few minutes, they already had hot wine quickly boiling in a pot over the fire, the three of them hungrily sharing some cheese d’Artagne had found unattended behind the bar. It was then that the sound of creaking doors and heavy footsteps interrupted them.
A tall, muscled yet ageing man, wearing a long-sleeved tunic and apron, walked through the main door of the inn. Looking over the trio, the man sighed. “F’rgive me the late hospitality, misiers. The name’s Konrad and I be the innkeeper. What may I offer ye fine misiers?”
“We would like rooms,” Kosian said immediately.
“And food!” Atho chimed in quickly stuffing his face with the stale cheese. As Konrad nodded, d’Artagne tsked, looking at the two of them disappointedly. Turning to the innkeeper, he cleared his throat. “My good man, don’t you see? The three of us, oh, such misery. Not only rooms, we want beds, adorned with maidens and wine scents. Not only food, we want a feast! One even a king would not resist! So do tell us, good sir…” as he went on, Kosian noticed the growing impatience and irritation on the innkeeper's face. It seemed that Atho had caught on too since he immediately jumped up and elbowed d’Artagne in the stomach. As the young poet cursed under his breath, crouching, Atho smiled worriedly at the innkeep. “We’ll also have a few mugs if that’s okay. At least, enough to get this one to bed early.”
The old man smiled at the comment and nodded. “Aye, c’ming right up! And ye bett’r watch ye frend. Folk ‘round here don’t ‘ppreciate those types.”
As the three of them waited for the food, the inn slowly filled up. Men and even women gathered at the tables, shouting for ales or wine, or food, as children darted around the tables playing. Some spoke in hushed tones, clearly tired from the day’s work. Others spoke freely, telling silly tales or old stories, laughing raucously. A few wearily watched Kosian and his friends, who were kept rather isolated from the townsfolk. As the ale came though, everybody got rather comfortable. Soon enough, Kosian happily chimed along, watching as d’Artagne and a few of the village men sang an old galfrian song, while a lovely pair of serving girls danced to their rhythm. Looking around, he noticed the bar empty. Quickly darting through the small throng that now surrounded the small dance floor next to the hearth, Kosian approached the bar.
“A refill, please!”
The innkeep smiled at him as he poured the foamy liquid into Kosians mug, apparently having drunk one or two himself. Smiling back to him, the young man drank, looking at the now lively common room. “A question if I may, innkeep,” he suddenly said, his back turned to the bar.
“Shoot, lad.”
“Why are you and your neighbours building that tower out there?”
The innkeeper fell silent. For a moment, Kosian thought he might have to apologize and try another group more intoxicated, but finally, the old man sighed. “It be the fear of war, it is, misier. See, a lordling rode through here just’a few days ago, with proper knights and such! Told us King’s, blessed be he, ‘ave summoned the Diet, told us to prepare. That tower’s been n’thing but rubble since the Shatter, so the mayor decided it was as good a place as any. Put as all to work the momen’ the lordling left, even the farmers! Ol’ Nivarre had a fit, ‘e did, ‘old him they had plantin’ to do, but the mayor wanted none of it. It must be easy fer you, misier. Ye must be some lordling as well.”
Kosian laughed at the comment. “If I was, my good man, you would have lost your tongue the moment you referred to any nobility as ‘lordling’,” he chuckled, trying to calm the situation a bit, “No, I’m just a merchant’s son. The only highborn out of the three of us is Atho over there,” he said, nodding to Atho as he took another sip of ale. He had to say, the innkeeper had good taste. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was Magran beer.
“Ah, ye mean the one who’s bleeding me food store dry.”
“Aye, him.”
“So where are you young’uns coming from? We don’t get many visitors ‘ere, ‘least not often,” the innkeeper asked. Kosian saw as d’Artagne started making moves on one of the serving girls and decided it was best to keep the bear of a man occupied. Turning to him, he smiled. “Travelling home, good innkeep. The three of us just finished Luberne university.”
“Luberne, eh? Felicitation! I ‘ear only four out of ten students finish it,” the innkeep said while wiping one of the mugs and throwing glances into the kitchen. A group had just ordered some salt cakes. Kosian also sneaked a peak. The sound of clanging utensils and shouts escaped through the doorway, most likely made by the innkeeper’s wife, as Kosian noticed a rather large woman hustling through the room.
“True, but it isn’t as bad as the rumours make it out to be. The one thing a person has to look out for while there are all the noble’s sons,” Kosian said, sighing. “Some are worse than their fathers.”
The innkeeper barked a laugh at that and turned to him, a strange glint in his eyes. “I’ll drink to that, lad!” he said, taking a long swig from his mug. Nodding to him, Kosian continued, chatting up some of the other locals. He didn’t learn much – the planting had been poor, a festroen bear had been recently seen in the forest, groups of noble entourages passing through to Baye. It wasn’t anything any normal traveller would find interesting. But Kosian had been taught to pick the details from the lines. He made himself look interested in the news about the bear. Any good-to-do merchant who made his living off of selling furs did. But what truly made him lean in was the news about the village Father, who was called to Baye as well, the only one left being a Brother in training. Though thinking about the Church and the Faith usually made his stomach churn, this was worth looking into. After all, it could affect his plans.
The moment he heard the news, however, d’Artagne, already in a stupor, found him and pulled him up to the main ‘dance floor’. As the people around him cheered, clapping to the beat of an old country song, Kosian gave in, dancing with a rather beautiful serving girl.
“Kosian! Kosian! Hey, Kos!”
Kosian slowly opened his eyes, groaning. He felt sick, his stomach roiling in pain. How much did they have him drink last night? Looking around bleary-eyed, he noticed d’Artagne, already dressed and ready to leave. A faint blue light painted the wall just across the only window in his room. “What are you doing, d’Artagne?” Kosian asked, yawning loudly, “The sun isn’t even up.”
“We need to go,” said the man in a hushed yet quick tone. Kosian immediately noticed the worry in his voice. Forcing his eyes open, he looked at d’Artagne. “What did you do?” d’Artagne averted his gaze from Kosian’s and started to quickly pack his things. Walking up to him, Kosian placed a hand on the short man’s shoulder. Of middling height himself, he was only a forehead taller than d’Artagne, but he knew that height wouldn’t make d’Artagne spill it. What would were those piercing blue eyes of his, the very ones he had inherited from his father. Looking at his friend again, Kosian made him stare into his eyes. Slowly, he asked again. “What did you do?!”
“Remember the girl I led up into my rooms?” d’Artagne quickly asked. Kosian slowly nodded, barely remembering seeing d’Artagne leading a rather plump yet beautiful blonde-haired girl into his rooms. Then it dawned on him. “Don’t tell me…”
“She’s the innkeeper’s daughter. She’s alright, I didn’t put my moves on her, but I believe that if we want to leave this place with our hides, we have to go. NOW,” d’Artagne said, words spilling out of his mouth like spilt soup. Kosian nodded quickly. “I’ll take care of myself. You go wake up Atho. Considering how much he ate last night, I imagine he’ll be sleeping VERY soundly.”
“Good idea!” d’Artagne said, quickly disappearing into the corridor. As Kosian packed, he made sure to leave five silver laurels on his room's small table.
The Band still faintly shone in the early morning sky as the trio hurriedly walked out of the inn, each one still fiddling with their clothes or checking their bags. As the three of them saddled their dogs, Kosian suddenly heard the sound of screaming and cursing coming from somewhere on the second floor. He saw the complete horror on d’Artagne’s face as the three of them suddenly froze. “Well don’t just stand there, you idiots! Move it!” Atho said, quickly saddling his dog and jumping on. Scrambling, d’Artagne followed him, urging his pointer faster. As Kosian nudged Jerod into a gallop, he heard the sound of a door banging open behind him. He got a good look at the furious innkeeper with a huge knife in his hand, his daughter, covering herself in only sheets, running after him. “Forgive us!” yelled Kosian, waving his hand at them. He heard the innkeeper scream something back, but the wind carried it away. He felt guilty. Maybe they could’ve explained the situation, and made d’Artagne apologize. They should’ve stayed. They should’ve made amends. Sighing wearily, Kosian rode on, passing the last few houses of the hamlet.
In a few moments, the three of them were once again on the main road, all three wearily glancing back and keeping the pace at a fast trot. The Band was still in full view of the sky. Looking up, Kosian felt his skin being bathed in the faint luminescent blue light of the stars. Considering how well they’re day had started, he thought the Band should’ve been shining red. Watching as the great river of shining stars slowly flowed through the night sky, he picked out the many constellations. Pygmy, dragon, bird, dog, virgin, fool. Watching as that great torrent of shining lights edged through the sky, getting dimmer and dimmer, Kosian once again felt giddy inside. He felt so every time he looked at the Band. Even with the blue hue, you could’ve still picked out the nine colours of the Starbow, each one blending to form the uniform blue that they were now bathed in. Still, he was able to pick out the violent stars of scarlet, the black stars of onyx, the ones made of iolite or azure. He felt that he could easily keep looking at that great tapestry for days and never tire of it. Noticing a rare constellation or star, seeing a dead star, its shine long ago snuffed out or even the rare phenomenon known as the Band waters. It made Kosians skin tingle just thinking about it.
Sadly, there were more important matters to attend to. Looking down, Kosian rode up to d’Artagne, who was still looking around as if for a bandit ambush. Knuckling his fist, he gave the man a good hit on the head. Before the short man could even yell out, another blow came from Atho. Grabbing onto his head tightly to block other blows, d’Artagne let out a loud yelp. Turning to the two of them, he put on an indignant air. “What’d you do that for?!”
“You damn well know why!” Atho answered, “We should’ve left you there! Maybe then you would’ve finally learned that it is not OKAY to go after innkeeper daughters!”
D’Artagne stayed silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, alright? Look, I didn’t even know she was his daughter! How could’ve…”
“You ASK!” Kosian said, his voice like a grinding iron. Turning back to d’Artagne, he made sure to lock gazes with the man. “You ALWAYS ask.”
The three of them stopped, the only sound being the chirping of birds or the panting of their dogs. Finally, d’Artagne relented. Looking away, he nodded. “Sorry.”
Kosian sighed. Turning away, he urged Jerod forward. “You have to remember, d’Artagne. This is the last time the two of us will go along with your whims. The last time you’ll have someone to go along with your sorry hide!”
That silenced all three of them. As the sun slowly rose from the east, bathing them and the surrounding plains in scarlet light, the Band finally dimmed, becoming a barely visible white line in the sky. They rode for around five hours, passing lone farmsteads, ploughed fields and small glades, forks that led to villages or south, towards the border. Riding past promenades of trees, Kosian could see blossoms decorating the branches of trees. Even in such a cold spring, life hanged on, still trying to sprout and bloom. It made him feel strangely optimistic. Besides the singing of birds and the panting of their dogs, all three of them stayed silent. Sometimes, Kosian would look back at d’Artagne, who rode at the very back. He felt bad for yelling at him. He knew that d’Artagne didn’t mean harm, his antics just got out of hand sometimes. And yet, he had once again slept with an innkeeper’s daughter. Once again he had woken Kosian and Atho in the middle of the night and made them scram as if they were common thieves. The man had to learn. And so Kosian said nothing, only urging Jerod forward. He would have his chance to apologize soon enough.
As the three of them rode past a cobblestone bridge, the road before them forked. Adorned with a small statuette of a horse on top, a lone signpost stood between the two forks. Two arrow-like signs pointed to the right fork, the names of ‘Roshelle’ and ‘Limuz’ carefully etched onto them. Only one sign pointed to the left. It read ‘Baye, 5 leagues’. Seeing the name, Kosian let out a shuddered breath. He didn’t think they were this close. Looking back to Atho and d’Artagne, he felt strangely melancholic. He wondered if he would ever see the two of them ever again. Suddenly, d’Artagne dismounted his dog. Atho did too. Kosian hesitated for a moment, but immediately realized what they were doing. Smiling, he jumped off Jerod and approached the two of them. All three embraced each other. It felt… warm. Kosian felt a tear running down his cheek as they separated. “Don’t cry, you empathetic idiot!” said Atho, a tear rolling down his cheek, “You’ll make me cry.”
Suddenly, d’Artagne placed both hands on Kosians shoulders. “Thank you, Kosian,” he said in a serious tone that seemed just on the edge of whimpering. “Thank you for looking out for me!”
Wiping away his tears, Kosian smiled. “What happened to you two? You’re acting as if we’ll never see each other again! Didn’t we promise we’ll write to each other?!” Atho and d’Artagne nodded. Smiling, Kosian patted d’Artagne on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, d’Artagne.”
The short man looked at Kosian, confused. Suddenly laughing, he embraced him again and lightly slapped Kosian’s cheek. “Don’t apologize, you lout! I deserved it! Lord knows I did!”
“You shouldn’t worry so much about yelling at other people, Kos,” Atho added, patting him on the back. “Lord knows they deserve it when you do it.”
D’Artagne nodded. Wiping away his tear, Kosian chuckled as he embraced both of them again. “Thank you. These past years have been the best years of my life.”
“Aye, mine too,” Atho chimed in.
“Mine as well!” d’Artagne added.
After a few more minutes of sniffling like little girls and saying their goodbyes, Kosian urged Jerod towards Baye. Turning back to the two of them, he yelled: “Atho! Take care of d’Artagne for me!”
“You got it!” the stout lordling answered, seemingly flashing a dubious smile to d’Artagne. As Kosian passed the next bend, both of them disappeared from his sight, hidden behind the small forest. Sighing, Kosian faced forward. He hoped, for both of their sakes, that the three of them will never meet again. Suddenly stopping, he thought of turning Jerod around, just to see them one last time. ‘Stop,’ he thought to himself, ‘don’t. It’ll only get worse.’
And so Kosian rode on along the forested road. As the landscape slowly changed from wooded lowlands into rolling hills of worked earth, dotted with farmsteads and mills, all he could do was steel the inevitable, the only solace is the thought that, after all these years, he would finally do it. Riding up a hill, Kosian finally saw it – Baye, the capital of Bollardia, and his home. Those white tiled roofs shone as brightly as he remembered, even from where he was standing. Riding closer and closer, Kosian could slowly make out the white towers of the Giseaux castle, the sharp spires and great roof of St. Thomus cathedral, and the great astral clock tower of city hall. The sparkling waters of river Bordo and the Storming sea beyond it shone on the city’s left, blinding him even more. Squinting, he could see small ships sailing downriver, while larger vessels set sail into the bay and the sea beyond. A small patch of forested hills, the Kingswood, loomed lonely just outside of the city walls to the north of him. Watching the large limestone city walls grow higher and higher as he approached, Kosian ran through the steps he would’ve had to take one more time. The letter had told him to go to the Jerma quarter on the first night of his return. He was to enter a tavern called ‘Jerma’s touch’ on the ninth toll of the cathedral bell. There, he was to say the password to the innkeep, whereupon he was to be led to the meeting site. He took a deep breath, making sure he got everything right. He wasn’t about to lose his chance now, not after getting so close. Everything would be alright.
As Kosian rode, the hard-packed turned road turned to cobblestones. Merchant caravans, farmer wagons and groups of mounted mercenaries or travellers slowly filled the road, emerging from other smaller paths which joined with the main one. Kosian felt slightly perturbed by this. After a week on the road, he had gotten used to seeing the occasional passerby or the rare merchant, but this was something he had forgotten about Baye. In truth, it felt comforting. The calmness of the countryside and the studiousness of Luberne had often made him feel lonely, even anxious. In contrast, all this busyness made him feel right at home. Which made him even more anxious, knowing what was coming. Still, he had not expected such activity outside the city gates. It truly seemed like news travelled fast. Looking around, Kosian could see some of the villagers had more than just produce for the morning markets in their carts and wagons, their families huddled away behind the canvas. There were none too few mercenaries among the flow of people, which made the merchant and caravan guards especially watchful. It seemed that by now, everyone had heard the rumours, and it also seemed that many weren’t willing to risk them being just rumours. As Kosian rode, he noticed a few families of villagers, carefully walking amongst the throng. He noticed a mother, most likely even younger than he, walking barefooted through the cobblestones with her baby in her hands, her husband carrying large bags thrown over his shoulders. Along with them walked crippled elders and oxen who mooed at the smack of the whip, and large bags were thrown over their backs. Kosian felt his heart clench at the sight. Most likely, the elderly would be dead within the year while their families tried to eke out a living in the slums, working any job they could get their hands on. Riding, he kept looking at them. He felt his heart ache more and more. Sometimes, he hated this part of him, this empathy of his. But, as Jon always said: ‘No use in crying about spilt soup!’. Tapping his saddlebags, he found his purse. Pulling five golden laurels, he carefully forced his way through the throng towards the leading cart. Riding up, he saw the frail elderly man driving the cart, his weaved hat almost white, most likely faded from years and years under the sun.
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“Can I presume that you are the leader of this group?” Kosian asked. The old man looked at him suspiciously, his silvery brow furrowed. Slowly, he nodded his head. The man must’ve thought Kosian was a noble’s watchman, sent to find them and force them back to the fields. Smiling, Kosian extended his hand. The man looked at it for a moment, before extending his own. It shook slightly from the effort. Five golden laurels fell into the old man’s hand. It must’ve been the first time he had seen gold since the old timer’s eyes almost popped out of his head. Looking around to make sure any mercenary didn’t notice the transaction, Kosian leaned towards the man, waving a finger for his ear. “Use these to buy your folk some medicine and housing. I suggest looking around on the fringes of the Jerma quarter. The prices there aren’t outrageous, at least as I remember. Once you’ve settled in, tell your men to find work at the docks or Smithy street. Save the rest for an emergency. Good luck.”
With that, he rode away without looking back. He had done all he could. Looking back at that young mother, he remembered once helping a similar group of refugees by giving them aid and even misleading a group of watchmen. Atho had called him an ‘altruistic idiot’ then, but he didn’t fully agree. Altruistic meant that he did such things selflessly, without hoping to get anything out of it, but he did. He expected to get gratitude. He expected the people he helped to see him as their saviour, to honour him. He had noticed this strange yearning once he got into university, and had still not decided whether it was bad or good.
Pondering the question, Kosian finally reached the gates. Being a city of remarkable size, Baye had four main gates, with the one he was now in front of, the Kings, being the largest one. The great spikes of a portcullis loomed high above him, covered from view by a great banner of a silver horse on a checkered orange and white field – the Great Banner of Bollardia. A group of men, clad in the tidy armoured uniform of the city guard, blocked the way into the city, the only way in being through the small man that sat by a table in the middle of them. Wearing a chain mail coat, the wizened man – the custodian - seemed well into his sixties, his kettle-like helmet hung on his chair's ear as he checked the papers handed to him by a hooded man. Finally nodding, the guard quickly dripped some wax onto the papers and stamped it before nodding for the man to go.
“NEXT!!!” he yelled in a shrill voice. Quickly dismounting, Kosian approached the custodian and drew a rolled-up letter, tied by a sealed leather strip. Handing it, he noticed the man’s surprise. Letting out a weak whistle, the custodian carefully unrolled the parchment, making sure not to break the seal on the strip. “Important, are you, lad?”
“I guess,” Kosian said, shrugging.
“No swords or other weapons I should be checking papers for?” the man asked, his face hidden by the piece of parchment. Kosian checked his bag and pockets. Smiling, he placed a small hunting knife on the table. His brass knuckles, of course, stayed in their hidden pockets in his coat. Peeking past the sheet, the old man analyzed the sheathed blade. “How long?” he asked, returning to reading.
“Around a finger and a half.”
“Safe,” said the man and Kosian threw the knife back into his bag. Finally rolling up the parchment and retying it, the custodian smiled at him. “Welcome home, master Woolen.”
Kosian nodded in thanks and took the rolled-up letter. ‘Master Woolen,’ he pondered, hearing as the custodian yelled for the next in line. He always found the name comedic in a cunning sort of way. The Woolen guild, his father’s guild, was the largest tradesman guild in the city, but it didn’t deal in just wool. It might’ve been during his great grandfather’s time, but by now the Guild was practically responsible for the selling and importation of any sort of fabric in the city, its influence felt in all the major cities of Bollardia and even many beyond. Before leaving, Kosian remembered hearing Father talk about a para-military alliance with the guilds of other cities to protect interests and caravans. Kosian hoped those plans didn’t come to fruition. The thought of a mercenary army controlled by greedy merchants and tradesmen made his stomach churn.
As soon as he passed the gates though, Kosian was immediately hit with an assault on his senses – the distinct scent of sweat, perfume, waste and spring breeze, the sounds of rolling carts, hurrying passersby, vendors shouting or haggling with their customers, town criers or plain madmen making their announcements. Kosian took a moment to gather himself. He didn’t expect the city to have such an effect on him. He truly had spent too much time in the countryside. Still, it was good to see Baye. Riding through the large boulevard that was Kings street, Kosian could see groups of maids, hurriedly walking home from the market with full baskets, women dressed as housewives sweeping the cobblestones in front of their or their husbands’ shop and scaring away the occasional vagabond or beggar. He could see rows of carts riding along the road hurriedly, most likely driven by merchants trying their best to get to the Great market. He saw workers repainting the white plaster of a house, a group of porters unloading wagons, squads of city guards walking in unison, suspiciously eyeing hooded riders or groups of mercenaries. All this never ceasing activity made his blood boil again. It was a pleasant feeling, knowing you were finally where you belong. Looking around, Kosian saw the three-storied houses that flanked the wide boulevard, their white plaster walls framed by colourfully and intricately painted beams of wood. He had missed these houses, with their white tiled roofs, chimneys and windows. Just thinking about those one-storied hovels he had seen so often in the countryside made him appreciate the looming buildings even more. His feet ached to run on them again.
Sadly, though, there was one house Kosian dreaded seeing. One that he was approaching very fast. The Woolen Guild was not just a single house. Rather, it was what one would call a mansion, its walls decorated with small turrets domed with tall, thin roofs, complete with wind pointers on the top. Wide, pointed glass windows decorated the mansion façade as beautifully carved or painted wooden beams and pristine white plaster filled in the space. A sizeable gate, with the coat of arms of the guild above it, enshrined in a stone shield, stood proudly under this show of power, holding the building up with the entire base floor. Kosian felt his mood darken the moment he saw the large structure. Ever since he was six, since the incident, he was never able to feel at home in this place. The city was his home. This was just the mouldy corner which dampened it. The mouldy corner of years of trauma, neglect and bad memories. The mouldy corner where a bed was always waiting for him, no matter the day or hour. Taking a deep breath, Kosian approached the main gates. As he did though, he was mortified to find two men, clad in mismatched armour and holding halberds, blocking his way. Normally, the gate was watched over by city guards! Had Father done it?! Had he actually managed to form that league of his?
“Halt!” shouted one of the men in a thick Iberi accent. “This…”
He quieted himself, slightly paling. Before Kosian could even say anything, the guards bowed slightly. “Welcome back, Master Kosian! Missus Jon has prepared everything for your arrival,” said the Iberi man, his soft and quick accent making the words slightly slurred. Kosian sighed. Of course, Jon would’ve had something prepared. Waving at them dismissively, he spoke: “Just open the gates.”
“A-At once, sir!” answered the man and the two guards went to quickly open the large wooden portal. As they let him in, all Kosian could think about was the sheer amount of bureaucracy Father probably had to go through every day just to keep those two by the gates. Hired muscles or thugs were simple. You pay the leader and they stand around looking however you wanted them to look. With mercenaries, you didn’t have that luxury. Contracts had to be signed, and supply lines formed and agreed upon. Some captains even demanded the ability to produce war gear should the need arise! His head felt like it could explode just from the mere thought of it.
Riding in, Kosian was surprised to find the courtyard empty. Knowing Jon, he had expected all the servants lined up in neat rows, saluting him like an honour guard salutes a returning prince, complete with those fool mercenaries saluting or holding up their weapons for him. He would’ve wanted to vomit at that. Just the mere thought of it made him feel sick. He wasn’t good at being in the centre of attention unless he had been warned and was able to prepare beforehand. This was, in truth, a much nicer and warmer welcome than any parade given to a king. Though he thought of the courtyard as empty, it was far from it. Maids and servants still ran around, quickly passing from one part of the base floor to the other, stable hands joked with a nearby guard, the gardeners hard at work in Mother's now diminished garden. There were newcomers of course. Kosian picked out faces he hadn’t seen before, and a pair of guards stood slouching by the grand staircase that led up to the first floor, sometimes eyeing a passing maid. Still, it felt like home. Riding to the stable, Kosian greeted some of the servants he knew, and smiled at a pair of maids that were gossiping by one of the doors. Dismounting Jerod, he noticed a familiar face walking up to him. Feeling a smile bloom on his face, he came up to embrace the old and wizened man that had approached him. “By the Lord, Brit, it’s good to see you!”
Brit, usually called Old Brit by most of the serving staff, had been their family's stable hand since Kosians grandfather’s days, which showed in the old man’s face. Wrinkles and moles made him look more like a carved statue than a man, his head almost completely bald aside from a few loose strands. Wearing his iconic fur vest over the long brown breeches and the beige tunic of a stable hand, the old man embraced Kosian as well. Smiling, Kosian looked him over. “By the Band! You look exactly like the statue of Klidipides we had in the university!”
The old man raised a bushy silver eyebrow but chortled. “I will take that as a compliment, misier,” he said, looking over Kosian again. He seemed… sad as if reminiscing about something. Patting him on the cheek, Old Brit smiled. “The spittin’ image of your Father, you are.”
That… was not a tactful thing to say. Kosian felt himself freeze for a moment, looking at Brit's old, grey eyes. It seemed that the old man realized what he had said, as he grew eerily quiet. Smiling, Kosian patted him on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Brit,” he said, trying to sound consoling.
“Aye. You too, master Kosian.”
Patting the man again, Kosian took Jerod's saddlebags and moved to the staircase that led to the first floor. Brit didn’t say anything, instead shooing the young workers away and taking Jerod's reins himself. He had raised that dog since he was a pup, and Jerod was almost as old as he was, counting in dog years, of course. Passing the two guards, who had quickly stopped slouching and saluted, Kosian started climbing the wide stone brick steps that led to the first floor of the mansion. Walking along the railing, he looked out, seeing the long, jettied wall of the mansion. Just looking at it made his skin shiver slightly. This place may have been his home, but it was also the prison, the box he had to endure since… well, since that summer day ten years ago. Kosian remembered the last time he was here, just before leaving for university. He still remembered thinking he could hear echoes from that day, still lingering in the walls of the mansion. It made him want to turn back and ride as hard and as fast away from this place. And yet, he kept moving forward. Nearing the heavy oak door, he remembered a passage from Klidipides’s “On the Nature of Man”. ‘One suffers dark to see light again,’. It was a bit too poetic for his taste, as with any other of Klipides’ writings, but he hoped the ancient philosopher was right this time. Breathing in, Kosian pushed the heavy doors open.
Entering the small foyer that led into the house, Kosian immediately felt as if star-struck. The last time he had been here, the foyer was decorated with nothing more than a few flower pots placed by the entrance and a shield with the sigil of the guild hung on the far wall, between the portals to the smaller ballroom and main gallery. Now, long, expertly made tapestries hung on the walls, depicting hunts or city life, the flower pots placed on intricately carved wooden pedestals, while the entire wall where the shield once hung was now ornamented by a large, unfinished fresco. Looking at it, Kosian could see the start of the sigil, a bear hidden in a red field, being painted with richly ornamented fleurs-de-lyse and stylized, heraldic leaves. ‘Have I just entered some noble’s estate?!’ he thought bitterly, looking around. Even the staircase to the second floor, which curled just over the entrance to the offices of the guild, seemed newly decorated and lacquered, gilded steel inlaid in the richly dark wood. Kosian felt anger and confusion slowly boil and merge inside of him. His Father was many things. A good leader, a cunning merchant, a sorry drunkard and a terrible family man, but he was always humble. It was probably the only aspect Kosian still found admirable in him. ‘But this? This is too much,’ he thought, looking around with wide eyes.
“Ah, so you’ve finally returned.”
Kosian turned on his heel towards the staircase. Standing on the dark wooden steps and holding onto the railing was Jon, her motherly face beaming with a warm smile. Kosian smiled back, watching her descend. She had aged, the last few dark brown hairs in her bun finally giving in to silver. With every step, she seemed to shake slightly and Kosian noticed a stout cane in her other hand as she rounded the stair corner. She seemed worse off than Old Brit, and that old stableman was over seventy. Finally coming down, Jon brushed away some imaginary dust from her long white apron and smiled at him. “Welcome back, master Kosian. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your return.”
Not able to hold himself back, Kosian leapt to her, embracing her tightly. The elderly woman yelped but chuckled as he held her up. “Look at you!” she said, cupping his face once he put her down, “You’re a man now.”
Kosian nodded, smiling at her. He then looked around. “What is all this, Jon.”
Looking around, Jon chuckled, tapping his shoulder lightly as she moved away. “Don’t worry, your father hasn’t gone senile. This was the guild's idea. They said the main entrance to the heart of the League should look imposing, considering their current standing.”
Kosian harrumphed. Those greedy bastards had no right to do this to their home. Still, it meant something he feared even more. “Then, judging from all of this and the guards I saw outside, I guess Father’s done it, hasn’t he? So, what is it? A league? An alliance? Or did they just strong-arm a few guilds to hire one mercenary band to have them paraded around the mansion?”
Jon frowned. In a sudden flash, Kosian felt something hard smack him on the shin. He should’ve guessed she wouldn’t have lost her quick harsh discipline just because she looked senile. “Don’t disrespect your father or the guild, young man. Soon enough, both will be your responsibility,” she said, glaring at him. Kosian looked back at her, but relented, nodding. “They’re calling it ‘The Baye league’. Already, over a dozen guilds and even ten cities have entered. Last I recall, the league's influence stretches from the Cork coast to the Dragon Tooth Mountains. Even I’m surprised at how quickly it has grown.”
Kosian felt poleaxed. Even cities?! This was unprecedented. With this much power at his fingertips, Father could’ve challenged even the League of Heinekburg with that much power. Even the trade cities of Rappela and Roliegno would feel threatened. His merchant brain suddenly started turning, thinking of how this could be leveraged against the other guilds and even the nobility. New trade deals, guild alliances, agreements on import and export quotas and tax. With so much power, Father could most likely fund half of the war effort and not even feel a dent in his purse! Still, this was a momentous undertaking. The sheer amount of paperwork that Father was required to read through must’ve been staggering. It made Kosian feel even more happy and safe about his plans. With this, the Faith may not even be able to touch Father and even the entire household!
“Why didn’t you have someone take your bags?” Jon suddenly asked, bringing Kosian back to reality. He saw her disapproving glare. With the snap of her finger, two maids immediately came out of the nearby room. Waving to his bags with her cane, Jon spoke in her usual commanding yet low tone. “Take these to master Kosian's rooms.”
“At once, Head Maid,” said the two girls in unison, quickly, if a bit roughly, snatching Kosians bags from him and climbing upstairs. As the two climbed, Jon smiled at him and motioned towards the gallery. “May we walk, master Kosian?”
Kosian said nothing, only smiling and nodding for her to go ahead. From her tone alone he could’ve discerned that this walk was going to include a very important talk. Following her through the large portal at the very end of the foyer, he entered the gallery. Tapestries and old frescoes decorated the long corridor, its floor decorated by fine phoenixian carpets depicting eagles, lions and phoenixes. As they walked slowly to the left end which led into the main ballroom, Kosian could see Jon fidgeting with her hands. She always found it easier to talk about issues when doing work. Not knowing what else to do, she finally gripped her white apron tightly and let out a shuddered breath. Whatever this was, it weighed heavily upon her. Taking a deep breath, she spoke without turning to him. “How were your studies?”
Kosian grew tense for a moment. He had written to Father regularly, informing him of how he was doing without divulging too much about his own life there. Jon must’ve read those letters. ‘She must be trying to warm herself up,’ he thought, remembering how she used to talk anything mundane, only bringing up the real topic after a few minutes of idle chit-chat. Whatever it was that she had to say to him, it seemed serious. Sighing, Kosian wiped away a loose strand of hair from his face.
“Better than I imagine even Father expected,” he said, smiling to himself, “Past philosophy, law and the four liberal arts with flying colours. Theology was the only thing that truly held me back.”
“I see… good, t-that’s… that’s good,” Jon said, distracted. Drawing her lips to a line, she turned to him.
“Your mother…”
…Kosian couldn’t hear Jon. He could see her lips moving, her expression serious and worried. And yet, her voice sounded so muffled to him that he couldn’t even understand a single word. He could feel it. That stare… of-of hers. That dead-eyed stare, as if you were being looked at by a corpse. He could feel its piercing dead eyes gazing at him from the ceiling. No, from behind the tapestry just in front of him and from the window beside him. He could hear its howling, its screeching. Its insistent calls for him to join it. He knew it blamed him for the incident. After all, who else was there to blame? Father had fought, Jon had fought. And he? He just stood there, watching them take his little brother. He even got a compliment from the-the bastard that took him. If he had just done something. If-if he had moved, jumped in. If he had just done anything! Anything at all!
“Kosian!”
Kosian snapped out of it. He felt dazed and tired. Where was he? Oh, right. He was walking through the gallery with Jon. She was asking him to… to. Looking at him, the old head maid looked so worried. Cupping his cheek, she checked if he didn’t have a fever. Sighing, Jon opened her mouth to say something but closed it immediately. Kosian did two. They stayed like that for a little while, each not saying a word. Finally, she patted him on the cheek, smiling consolingly.
“I’m just asking you to go and tell her you’ve returned. You don’t have to if you think it’ll be too difficult.”
Kosian still felt dazed. It had been a while since he had one of those. Taking a deep breath, he nodded understandably. Jon smiled at him, then embraced him again. “Welcome home,” she said, whispering in his ear.
Walking away, Jon left Kosian to look around for himself. Pacing through the long corridors and rooms, he became more and more convinced that Jon had said the truth. Besides the foyer, everything else had stayed the same, almost as if it had frozen in time. While walking, he tried not to think of what had happened to him in the gallery. The mere thought of it made his body want to freeze up again. He thought he had defeated this fear. But now he knew better. He hadn’t defeated it. He had just buried it. Climbing up to the second floor, he looked around for any servants before quickly ducking into Father's study, shutting the doors behind him. Like the rest of the house, the room hadn’t changed much – the bookshelves were still packed with scrolls of important deals or agreements and the odd book or two, the fireplace still flickered with embers, the sword on its mantle just recently oiled to shine, the singular couch and armchair furnished with the same padding. Even the marble statue of what Kosian now knew to be the ancient goddess Geia looked as if it was never touched. It was the exact copy of the room on… on that day, with the only thing different being Father's workspace. As he had expected, his work table was almost buried in stacks upon stacks of parchment. Picking up one of the pages, Kosian was surprised to see the city of Brestyv asking to join the league, the end even signed in elfish by the city’s mayor. Crumpling the paper, Kosian threw it into the fireplace, the embers slowly eating away at the parchment. It was for the best for Father to not see that letter. Elfs were not to be trusted. Still, that was not what he was here for. Combing through the bookshelves, he quickly located an old, dusty tome, the name on its back slightly faded. Pulling it slightly, Kosian heard a satisfying click. Turning, he approached the wall just beside the fireplace. A part of the segmented wooden panelling, which lined the entire room, had moved in deeper into the wall. Carefully holding it, Kosian turned the panel clockwise once, then two times counter. The panel clicked back into place, while a panel just next to it popped open. Kosian smiled to himself. Carefully prying the panel open, he looked inside. The small cubby hole was filled with large, heavy bags, each one tied with a piece of barbed twine. Reaching in, Kosian pulled out three bags of about the same size. By the mere weight of it, he could tell each contained around a hundred golden laurels, money enough to buy an entire castle and still have some left over. This ‘safe’ was the personal savings of his family, guarded and kept secret by almost five generations of Nocamius. It would serve him well. Strange… he thought he would’ve felt guilty taking this. Yet, all he could think of was the preparations he still had to make for the night. Those people were asking for a large sum to do what he had asked. Placing the sacks into his bag, Kosian closed the safe and looked around. He felt his teeth grit, his fist clench. ‘If you won’t save him, I will!’ he thought, looking at that overburdened table.
Prying the office doors open, Kosian checked to make sure nobody was in the corridor before walking out. He froze instantly, his heart pounding and sweat running down his face. There, at the end of the corridor, its room lay open. Kosian felt as if the gloom of the room was inviting him in, beckoning him to join in. Suddenly, pale fingers appeared from the gloom, gripping the doorway as if for support. They were followed by the ghostly shape of a woman dressed in a plain velvet dress, her long black hair slick with sweat and what looked like coagulated blood. Kosian felt as if his blood froze in his veins, his feet sticking to the ground as if iced over. He wanted to scream. To run and hide away from the ghost that had haunted him all these years. He knew it blamed him for what had happened. After all, he had done nothing. Nothing at all. All he could do was sit and watch as his family was beaten down, their ray of light taken away from then forever. The figure approached slowly, deliberately her hollow sand eyes eerily lit by the sun. Kosian felt mortified as he watched it moving toward him intently. He wanted to fall to his knees, to plead for its forgiveness. Yet all he could force out was a quiet stammer of ‘Forgive me,’. He wished he hadn’t frozen that day. He should’ve fought. He should’ve lunged at that robed Father the moment he was given Pietre. Why didn’t he fight then?! Why! Why! WHY!
Falling to his knees, Kosian felt tears forming around his eyes. He felt the cold stare of his mother’s ghost as it stood before him, judging him, cursing him. Sobbing, he looked up at her. ‘I will suffer for these crimes. It’ll make my redemption all the greater,’ he thought, trying to console himself at least a little. He still tried to stammer out a simple ‘Forgive me…’
“Look how big you’ve grown,” a calming, soothing voice suddenly said. Kosian couldn’t believe the words. Looking up, he felt as if star-struck. There, standing just in front of him, Mother held his hand. Her skin felt cold, chilly. Like Kosian was touching the Reaper's scythe. And yet, those eyes of hers shone. Dimmed though they were, to him they shone brighter than the sun. Smiling, Mother cupped his cheek. Though he felt the coldness on his face, he also felt… warm, calm. He was barely able to hold back his tears. Mother didn’t say anything. He didn’t say anything. They just looked at each other, blissfully ignorant of the world around them.
“Mother, I…” as he spoke, Mother's face paled even more. Snatching her hands away, she started coughing, sounding as if something was stuck to her throat. Kosian immediately jumped to her. “Mother?!” he looked down at her hands. Scarlet blood covered her pale skin and velvet dress. Mother had always been sick. He remembered her once telling him that almost every woman in her family had had the sickness. Still, looking at her like this, he froze for a moment. He remembered the pale ghost that used to stalk next to him and Father during important visits or special occasions. He remembered her gaze on him, weighing him. Judging him. Feeling his fear. Throwing it on his shoulders as punishment for what he hadn’t done. Kosian felt as if he unconsciously started moving back, trying to distance himself. Mother coughed again, the blood spraying onto her dress. And Kosian leaned forward. Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he handed it to Mother. As she looked at him, disoriented, he heaved her up. He had done this before, both with an intoxicated Atho and an Allmanii serving girl he had taken an interest too. She felt so light in his arms, almost like she was more a large pillow than a person. Carrying her through the corridor, he felt her confused gaze on him. It made him want to fall into tears again. ‘To think, that I considered my Mother something inhuman,’ he thought, holding back his tears and putting up a strong face.
Pushing open the doors to his parent’s rooms, he laid Mother down on their bed. He knew that the two of them hadn’t shared a bed for almost ten years, with Mother locking herself into the mansion's chapel, its antechamber becoming her bedroom. But that was farther than this and she needed rest. Lying Mother down, Kosian felt déjà vu. He wanted to drop everything and run. To forget this room and the howls its wall echoed. But Mother was unwell. That was something more important. Throwing the silk blanket over her, he checked her for temperature. She was getting hotter and hotter by the moment. Crouching down to eye level, he looked at her. For a singular moment, their eyes locked. Looking at her, Kosian tried to speak as calmly as he could: “I’ll go tell Jon you need your doctors. You stay here and rest.”
For a moment, Mother seemed to slip back to her ghostly self, her dead gaze making Kosian want to prostrate and hurl. Letting out a shuddered breath, she nodded. He felt her gaze on him as he left the room, quickly opening the shudders and leaving the door open to let in some fresh air. As he hurried downstairs, Kosian felt himself growing more and more ashamed, disconcerted. He had to call it off. He was needed here, to help Father… to care for Mother. Yet, at the same time, he felt more and more convinced of his plan. ‘At least this way, Father won’t be alone to face the repercussions of my actions,’ he thought, tightly gripping his sleeve. He had to atone for it. For his sin.
The chilly evening air blew over the white tile roofs, the Band illuminating their surfaces, its blue light bouncing from the white as if from a mirror. The streets of Baye quieted, the constant movement of wagons and people changed by lonesome travellers covered in hooded cloaks or groups of drunkards, raucously singing some half-intelligible song as they walked through the cobbled streets. To them, Kosian was just another hooded traveller, most likely let in just before the closing of the gates and in search of an inn or tavern that would let him stay the night. Passing straight across Kings street in a quick step, he ducked into the nearest back-alley. Looking back to make sure nobody was looking, he quickly rolled up his sleeves and pushed his long cloak through a wide loop he had hanging on his belt. Then, taking a deep breath, he leapt into motion – running to gain just a bit forced, he started wall running. As soon as he felt gravity pulling him down, Kosian immediately pushed his back on the opposite wall, suspending himself in midair. Resting on both walls, he started to slowly scoot his way up. He grimaced as he felt the muscles in his body tense up, his muscles aching. It had been a while since he had done this. Grabbing onto the edge of a white tiled roof, he pulled himself up, careful not to slip on any of the tiles. Quickly running up to a nearby chimney, he stopped to catch his breath. In front of him, Baye stood, bathed in the calming blue hue of the Band, its shining stars illuminating the streets and alleys of the city. He had missed this view. Leaning off from the chimney, he sprinted along the white tiles, making sure to primarily use the main beams, chimneys or terraced roofs. Running across a strong metal wire that was usually used to hang festival décor, Kosian jumped and plunged into a dark alley. Landing on a wooden balcony’s railing, the wood groaning from his weight, he jumped to the other building's second-floor entrance and breathed. He should’ve trained before doing this again. his muscles ached and his head spun slightly. He cursed for not being able to train during university. Sure, these skills of his came in handy when he needed to sneak into his room after hours or steal some highborn prized sword for a laugh. But besides that, the university town of Luberne had little to offer in sturdy houses. But this sort of thing needed almost daily practice, something he didn’t have the chance for these past years. Irritated, Kosian stopped thinking about it. ‘What’s done is done,’ he thought simply, rolling down the sleeves of his shirt and loosening his long cloak. Walking down the steps and out of the alleyway, he was greeted by lights and roaring crowds.
Unlike the rest of the city, the Jerma quarter didn’t sleep at night. Lights emanating from brightly lit rooms mixed with the blue illumination from the Band, giving the streets calming, joyous lighting. Strumpets and whores walked in scandalous clothes, taking willing men into street corners or back alleys while mercenaries, caravan guards and other men of ill repute diced or drank in the streets, laughing at coarse jokes and seeing their buddies getting kicked from taverns. It made Kosian feel alive. The allure and effect of the quarter hooked him even more, after four years of absence. To most of them, he was just some merchant’s son who snuck out to have some fun. To others, he was an enigmatic figure who had once saved them or partied with them. To him, they were his saviours, his breath of fresh air. Walking through the streets, he felt the sweetening aroma of beer and snacks luring him to the nearest taverns, eyed barely dressed girls by the corner and laughed at a man who had just lost at dice. Though Jerma was known to be the place one went to get his purse cut, such things, by an old tradition, only happened during the day. The night was reserved for, as people who lived here said: ‘A good time,’ That was something Kosian could get behind. Sadly, though, he couldn’t just grab the nearest girl to him, go to the inn just by her and spend the night whoring and drinking. No matter the traditions, Jerma always was a place for secret deals and favours. It just so happened to be that tonight, he was taking part in one of them.
Quickly walking along the winding streets, trying not to look too suspicious, Kosian finally reached it. A small inn stood before him, its old and barely hanging sign depicting St. Jerma on a beer keg, with the faded words, “Jerma’s touch” written above. Opening the doors, Kosian quickly let through a thug throwing out some drunkard who kept cursing in Allmani and went in, the sound of the ninth toll of the cathedral bell echoing outside. Like most inns in the quarter, the common room was packed with raucous laughter, half-intelligible songs and curses. Passing through the wide room quickly, Kosian approached the bar. The lanky innkeep approached him immediately, his bulbous eyes eyeing the new recipient of his bar. Looking around, Kosian leaned forward a bit, sweat trickling down his face. “I’d like a ‘Hunters Horn’.”
The innkeeper looked at him then sniffed. Nabbing some serving girl who had just walked out of the kitchen, he pulled her behind the bar. “Take care of this while I’m gone,” he said in a slightly squeaky voice. Without the girl even nodding yes, the innkeep motioned for Kosian to follow him. Quickly passing the kitchens, the man led him up a long flight of stairs which were hidden by the bar. Stopping in front of the door, the innkeeper quickly opened the doors and let Kosian into a dimly lit room. A single lantern hung above a large table, barely illuminating the space, the windows boarded up or closed with some blue light peeking in through the cracks. Stepping in, Kosian heard the doors behind him shut.
“Misier Kosian, I presume?” a purring, womanly voice asked from the other side of the room.
“…Yes.”
Suddenly, the room lit up with dim light. Squinting slightly, his vision still adjusting to the sudden light, Kosian could see a rather large maoren female sitting behind the table, flanked by two guards that loomed in the small room. Kosian stayed in his place, sweat running down his neck. He had never seen a maoren before and he had expected to never see one. The large cat woman, covered in luscious golden fur, squinted at him, her strange cat-like face smiling. “You have notthing to fear from me, munta. Despite what you have heard, our kind do not eat yours,” she said, seemingly perplexed by the notion, “Why would someone waste such fine goods.”
Kosian gathered all the knowledge he knew of the far-eastern species. In truth, there wasn’t much. To him, the creature sitting in front of him was almost as mythical as the Divided or the Urians. All he knew was that the maoren are a very scrupulous, trade-oriented people. They were rather xenophobic, but otherwise not easily offended. Though he did remember reading they were very mindful of even the slightest grudge. Thinking remembered once reading that the catmen considered slowly blinking at each other a form of expressing gratitude and respect. Carefully parting his cloak, he made a formal, if slight bow. “I am grateful you’ve allowed us to meet, Lady Aysu,” as he said the words, he looked straightly at her and blinked slowly. It almost seemed as if the woman flushed, as she pulled her red velvet dress closer and started fiddling with a short braid. A wry smile appeared on her strange, cat-like face.
“As am I, Misier Kosian. Please, sit, sit,” she motioned, as one of her goons quickly set a chair for Kosian. Sitting down, he started fiddling with his cloak, trying to push it through the loop again. He used this to analyze the woman sitting in front of him. Dressed in a red velvet dressed crossed with intricate geometric patterns, Lady Aysu loomed tall over the table, her long golden fur, tied into long flowing braids between her standing ears, she seemed almost imperious. Kosian felt unnerved by that cat-like face, with those human-like, piercing blue eyes. Finally fixing his cloak, Kosian relaxed and turned to Lady Aysu. “Straight to business then, if I may, madame?”
The maoren shook her head, her long braids tossing slightly. That wry smile of hers stayed as she spoke, “Yes, misier. As you know, my services do not come cheap. Sadly, I will require a fourth of the agreed upon price up…”
She quieted as Kosian threw a pouch onto the table, the laurels inside clanking. Aysu looked at him, then at the pouch. A sliver of gold shone, peeking through the tied hole. As she took the pouch and pried it further, Kosian leaned forward. “Twenty golden laurels now, the rest once the job is done.”
Aysu looked at the pouch, then at him. Taking out a single golden laurel, she handed the rest of the pouch to one of her men. Analyzing the small coin in the dim light, she looked at him, her eyes serious. “You know, I am putting much at risk for agreeing on this… scheme of yours. Wouldn’t you rather look through my merchandise? I may even part with ten of my most exquisite pets for even this single pouch.”
Kosian sneered, his eyes growing grim. Seeing her sudden wish to fix her skirts, he knew that piercing gaze of his was having an effect. “I do not care what alternative you could offer me,” he said bluntly “I gave you time, I gave you funds. Now, I want one thing and one thing only!” he breathed. Looking at her, Kosian remembered the oath he made to himself. Gritting his teeth, he spoke, his voice serious but with a hint of pleading: “Bring me back my brother.”