Agatha was struggling.

The Earl’s flattery left her too self-conscious to complain about the weight. Even with the wonderfully cushioned saddle, her back ached. She was about ready to collapse.

Bernard wasn’t faring much better. The gambeson was as thick as his best winter coat had been, but he was wearing it in the height of summer. With the sun on the cuirass, he felt like he was cooking alive.

‘Agatha? Any chance you can smell water?’

Agatha had been so caught up in her own misery, she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. She sniffed. They were near a stream.

As soon as Bernard dismounted he started stripping off the armour. He regretted refusing to take any of Kaspar’s soldiers. He desperately needed a squire to help him. Agatha drank as she watched Barnard dance about, the top of the heavy hauberk flopping uselessly as he strained to get out of it. He threw the gambeson and his clothes after it, then splashed into the running water. Agatha was drenched. Once he surfaced, she said;

‘You alright there?’

‘Not even a little bit. How does anyone wear all that rubbish into battle? It’s so heavy! I could hardly breathe. If it had been a little warmer I’d have died of heat stroke.’

‘How do you think I felt?’

Bernard stopped himself. She was right. He only had to carry the armour. She had to carry him and it, and all his supplies. Once he was cool, he stepped out of the water to dry. He put his freshly repaired clothes back on. They were light and comfortable. He tucked the amulet into his shirt as he looked over the scattered pieces of armour. He didn’t know what to do with it. He said;

‘I should have bought a donkey to carry all this stuff.’

‘Absolutely not. I hate those smelly little mutants. You’re not getting one.’

‘What about a pack horse?’

‘No. They’ll get in my way when I’m foraging.’

‘Then how do we carry this stuff? It’s too much for you.’

‘Throw it in a ditch.’

‘I can’t. It was a gift.’

Agatha bared her teeth.

‘That stupid man gave it to you to force you to accept his band of soldiers and slow you down. Throw it in a ditch.’

Bernard didn’t think Agatha was being fair, but she had a point. It had already slowed them down considerably.

‘He wanted me to have it so I didn’t wind up like his dead son.’

‘You can’t. You’re invulnerable.’

‘He doesn’t know that.’

‘His guilt-driven mollycoddling has nothing to do with you. You don’t have to appease him.’

Bernard squatted down beside the cuirass, looking at his own warped reflection. He wasn’t Isoard. Kaspar wasn’t his father. He’d let himself get swept up in the older man’s emotional baggage.

King Luis hadn’t been all that interested in Bernard’s safety. Bernard was always acutely aware that he was an unnecessary spare. Two Princes was enough. Queen Judith had been hoping for a girl when Bernard was born. She never got her Princess. He said;

‘I’ll send it to Gertie and Ida.’

Bernard picked up the chest plate and pressed his lips to it. It vanished. He kissed the back plate and hauberk as well. He held up the gambeson, deliberating. It wasn’t too heavy or uncomfortable by itself, but it was bulky. He folded it as best he could and tried to pack it into his bag. It got cold at night, high up on the mountainsides. He could give Agatha the blanket and the gambeson would keep him from freezing. He said;

‘I wonder what they’ll make of all this arriving. Pity neither of them can read, or I’d send them a note to explain.’

‘What; Here’s some junk a weird old man gave me. I can’t throw it out because human manners say so. Could you dump it in the basement for me? Sorry if you get a hernia lifting it.’

Bernard laughed.

‘Yeah, I’d tell them that, word for word.’

Bernard wasn’t sure how often they were checking the courtyard. He hoped they would find it before it rained, or someone stole it. Then again, if someone did take it, he wouldn’t have to keep it safe any more. So long as the thief was smart and sold the armour somewhere far away, where Kaspar wouldn’t find out.

Bernard slung the lance back over his shoulder, beside his overstuffed satchel. He’d get rid of the lance the second it annoyed him. He wanted to keep it for now because it was kind of cool, but he knew it was too impractical to carry for long.

The road they chose was wide and well-tended.

It passed through a patchwork of fields, thick with an assortment of crops, tended by men carrying sickles and shears. Carts lumbered by, some full, some empty, some collecting passengers as they passed. Still feeling a little sore, Agatha carried on at a slow trot.

Bernard wished they had chosen a quieter road. They had drawn plenty of attention on the way to the mountain - Agatha couldn’t help being eye-catching. That was different though. People were looking at Agatha. Bernard received glances only because he had been in her vicinity. He hadn’t been interesting enough to pay direct attention to. Now that Bernard had become a spectacle himself, he felt vulnerable. Catching people staring at him was unpleasant enough when they had the decency to look away. Too many of these people just kept staring. They were people Bernard didn’t know and wouldn’t remember if he met them again - but they would remember him.

He felt his composure wearing away, bit by bit. The last straw was a worker standing in a field. His cape of scars was long and sinuous. It flew above his head like it was being carried by a strong wind from below. The man had stopped what he was doing to watch Bernard ride by, turning his whole body to follow the boy’s progression as he passed. Bernard’s resolve slipped. He got angry. He glared out at the worker, staring deep into his private affairs. Bernard felt the trauma of famine, the grief of losing siblings, the guilt of being the only child in his family who survived. He kept looking. Deeper and more personal scars surfaced. He understood them, but he didn’t feel the weight of them. The feelings were somehow muted.

Bernard glanced around, picking another slack-jawed worker in a field. He was the same. Then he chose someone just ahead of him on the road. The intensity of the man’s hatred for his father felt like a kick to the gut. Bernard shut his eyes. He opened them and chose another, then another.

The further away they were, the less their feelings impacted him.

That small discovery made him feel more in control than he had since he got the crown. Knowing how to keep himself safe would let him experiment freely.

Hours passed this way. Bernard grew more confident. He learned to switch between the kind of restrained look that let him see the colours without feeling anything, and the far more painful and intimate examination that let him experience them.

He still couldn’t make much sense of what he saw. He didn’t know what affected the shape of the manifestation. He didn’t know why some people had huge cloaks that trailed behind them while others barely had a ribbon. He didn’t know what animated them all so differently. He didn’t know why some emotional scars tangled together while others formed discreet coloured patches.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He instinctively assumed that size would be related to the number of scars or, perhaps, their severity. That didn’t seem to match what he saw. He had already observed that there was no correlation between age and cloak size beyond about the age of ten, so more experiences didn’t mean bigger cloaks. As for severity; A lot of the people he passed had lived through famine - the different experiences of watching people waste away at a distance while personally unaffected, losing someone they loved, or nearly dying themselves didn’t correlate with the size of the coloured patches. They seemed to be random. If the patches were random, then worse experiences wouldn’t necessarily make the manifestation larger. The patches might just resize to fit inside the space they had. Without watching someone go through a traumatic event, he couldn’t presume to know how it worked.

Bernard’s attention was drawn to a person, almost completely cocooned in a thick blanket of hurt, approaching from a distance. Their face was barely visible, a little spot peeking out from under a deep cowl. It was the second person Bernard had seen wrapped up like that - the first had been the dairyman in Hochenberg. The blanket’s colour was murky, and the associated feelings were hard to isolate. With a little effort, he found the now-familiar sense of failing as a father. As they got closer, he picked out impressions of failure as a husband and a deeper failure as a man.

Closer still, Bernard was able to look at the man himself. Even obscured by the blanket, Bernard could see he walked slowly, like he was dragging his feet through snow. When Bernard finally caught a glimpse of his face, he wished he hadn’t. The man’s expression was hollow and the blanket pulled tight around his neck, like it was trying to choke him.

He was too close to examine safely, but Bernard couldn’t help himself. He looked and felt the horror of watching his wife die of fever. The dread of an oncoming winter knowing he didn’t have enough to survive. He felt the terrible need to sacrifice everything to protect his child. There was more. It came in a jumble. Too much, all at once. Bernard’s chest filled with searing pain as he was crushed under the weight of the man’s feelings. He shut his eyes tight. The pressure released.

The man wasn’t wrapped in a blanket. It was a death shroud. The man would die.

Bernard tapped Agatha to stop her beside the man. He had to do something.

Mikel walked, but without consciously knowing where he was going. His whole body felt heavy. He could barely hold his head up. His feet dragged. They still knew the way back to his farmhouse, and that’s where they would carry him. If nothing stopped him, he’d find himself at home well past nightfall.

He felt something touch his shoulder and looked up. It was a Prince or a young King. He wore a gold crown. Mikel thought he must have gone mad or died. Royalty doesn’t stop for peasants. The Prince spoke;

‘What happened?’

Distantly, he understood that he couldn’t ignore a Prince. He’d be executed. He could also be executed for speaking to one. He wasn’t sure he minded. At least execution would be quick. The only reason he’d survived this long was because he held out hope that he could still get his daughter back. That was gone now. The Prince reached out and touched his shoulder again.

‘Please, tell me what’s wrong…’

The words didn’t come easily. It felt like he had to sift through sand to find each one. Haltingly, he said;

‘It’s my fault. She’s going to die there.’

‘Where? Who?’

Mikel tried to point back the way he came, but he couldn’t bring his arm up high enough. He pointed at the ground a few feet behind himself.

‘The Knight’s house. He has her.’

‘Why does the Knight have her?’

‘I sold her.’

Mikel collapsed on the road with a wail. He started sobbing loudly. Bernard saw the shroud pull tighter around the man’s throat. He’d made it worse. He dismounted and knelt by the man.

‘What if I go buy her back?’

Mikel looked up at the Prince through bleary eyes. He was a cruel delusion. Nobody would help. Hope was a lie. He didn’t bother answering. The Prince shook him gently.

Bernard turned to Agatha;

‘What do I do?’

Agatha regarded the skinny, dirty pile of a man. She said;

‘What’s her name? Who is she?’

Mikel sobbed louder, barely managing to form the syllables;

‘Lise, my daughter.’

Bernard couldn’t see where the man’s arms or hands were under the shroud. He had to make do with the shoulder he’d already found. He gripped the fabric of the man’s shirt and hoisted him up as best he could.

‘Get up, I need you to take me there. Take me to Lise.’

Mikel rose with difficulty. The physical pain of being dragged to his feet by his shirt cleared some of the dark fog in his head. This delusion was too real. He didn’t dare allow himself to hope.

Hope sprang up without his permission.

Mikel staggered, then walked. After a few paces, the mental fog dissipated enough for him to consider the bizarre situation with more clarity. He looked back, uncertain he had really seen what he thought he saw. The Prince with the talking horse followed behind him, stubbornly refusing to fade away. He asked;

‘Who are you? Why are you helping me?’

‘I’m Bernard. This is Agatha.’

Mikel waited, but Bernard didn’t elaborate. He knew he shouldn’t demand answers. He wasn’t in a position to do so. It didn’t matter why they were helping, just that they did. He needed to see Lise again. He heard the horse whisper;

‘Why are we helping him?’

The Prince whispered back;

‘I saw something. I can’t explain it now.’

Mikel politely pretended not to hear. Out loud, Bernard said;

‘If you sold her… I’m assuming Lise is an indentured servant. Slavery only applies to prisoners of war and criminals.’

Mikel nodded.

‘Yes. It was a three-year contract. Today marks the end of the fourth year.’

‘Four years? Did he pay you for another?’

Bernard was surprised. His Father had kept plenty of indentured servants over the years. Buying an indenture was cheaper than normal wages, and the people who sold themselves or their children into service were desperate. Desperation turned into gratitude when the King fulfilled his side of the bargain; providing medical treatment, paying off debts, interceding in disputes… Gratitude made people loyal. He might hire people after their period of indenture was over, but never extended their indenture. Even if they begged. He said it was dangerous. People were excited to be free again. Keeping them indentured turned their excitement into apathy, and apathy lead to disloyalty. Mikel said;

‘No. The first time, he said her debt had grown because she broke something. This time he refused to see me. His gatekeeper told me he didn’t think she would ever be returned, and I should give up.’

‘That’s illegal. Indentured service lasts a period, then the worker has to be released. He can pay to keep her, or if her debt increases somehow, he’s supposed to give you receipts for it. He can’t just extend the contract however he likes.’

‘What good are receipts to me? I can’t read them.’

‘But, without proof of the debt…’

Bernard broke off. He was arguing with the wrong person. Mikel said;

‘Who would I complain to? Sir Ailbern is the highest-ranking man in these lands. He isn’t going to take himself to court.’

‘What about Earl Kaspar?’

‘I’m not one of his farmers. He doesn’t have time for someone like me.’

‘Did you try-’

Agatha interrupted;

‘Stop, Bernard. This stuff happens all the time. Commoners can't win against nobles. That’s why I wound up in the royal stables.’

‘But the law…’

‘That’s the King’s law. It’s only enforced when the King is watching. Nobles are the arbiters of law in their lands, so they can choose how closely they follow his law, and how much they invent on their own. If the commoners fight back, they’re treated the same way as people who commit treason against the King.’

She meant that they were executed.

Bernard felt nauseous. He had dealt with injustice in his life. He was the youngest sibling. His brothers did whatever they wanted; getting into fights, spending money they didn’t have, shirking their studies. They got away with it. Sometimes, they were even rewarded for it. Bernard was the only one their Father truly criticised. It made him angry. It wasn’t fair. But - he was still a Prince. If he got upset about something, people listened. When she was still around, he could go to his Mother. When she was gone, he had uncles and servants. Some even spoke to the King on his behalf. Bernard thought he knew injustice. It never occurred to him that there were far worse injustices happening just outside his field of vision.

‘I can’t talk to Lothar… but we could go to Earl Kaspar.’

‘Kaspar likes you, but he’s not the King. Ailbern could just make some fake receipts and claim he forgot to have copies made. What’s Kaspar going to do? At best, he’ll scold Ailbern, and once Kaspar is gone, Ailbern will retaliate against the girl.’

‘Then we have to break her out.’

‘Where will she go? She’s indentured. She’ll be arrested and dragged back as a criminal for avoiding her service.’

That was a problem. She wouldn’t be able to go home. Bernard could only send her to the courtyard with the magic ring. She would be safe from the Knight there, hidden by the fairy’s magic, but she wouldn’t be able to leave the area. Not until the indenture was dealt with. She also wouldn’t have a job or a place to stay long-term. He could give her some money to rent a room at the tavern for a while, but it wouldn’t last forever. She would have to find a way to survive on her own. He couldn’t guarantee her an easy life. A difficult life there might still be better than her life here.

‘I could send her to Hochenberg.’

Mikel had heard of the place. It was once a normal town, but it had been lost when something moved onto the mountain above it. People who went looking for it were either turned away by a force in the forest, or never returned. It was as good as sending her to fairyland. He asked;

‘Will she be free there?’

‘She’ll live free and die an old woman if she stays there.’

‘If she stays? So she could leave?’

‘If she chose to, I think so. We left without any trouble. She would be risking arrest if she left before this was resolved, though.’

Mikel felt relieved. Even if he could never see her again, knowing she was safe and free might be enough. He’d atone for his failures and wait for her to come back on her own. He said;

‘Do it. Send her to Hochenberg.’