The palatial Hadessian estate was second to no other manor in Lyrique. Even the servant’s quarters, a long building inside the dark iron gate, dwarfed the homes downtown. The gate itself drew a long oval around the entirety of the Hadessian family's property. Gardeners maintained the orchard between the quarters and the house itself. Small, red-yellow apples had already begun to drop from the neat rows of trees. A ranch overlooked the manor from even further north.
Though his character was not in question, Wakahn’s uninvited presence still demanded a chaperone to accompany him. The chaperone was a burly man with narrow eyes and a handsome sword attached to his belt. Wakahn noticed that the guard did not like walking side by side with him. He preferred to stay a step behind so as to follow the young boy. They did not talk very much.
Wakahn never much liked the inside of the manor. It burst with small wonders. Expensive carpets haphazardly covered the tiles inside. Gold framed foreign artwork. A different marble sculpture seemed to protect every corner. Two men in gloves carried another sculpture, the bust of a young woman. Wakahn found the wide, carpeted stairs and climbed them up to the manor’s third floor. There, only the Hadessian daughters lived. He had no scruples about the glitzy abundance, but in how fickle the family treated their many, many treasures. When Wakahn's father hung something on their walls, it stayed there for a long while.
If Wakahn were any less familiar, traveling towards their rooms would be strictly off limits without the company of Soraya or one of her sisters. Even the guard stopped himself and only watched Wakahn as he traveled into their territory of the manor. Wakahn wasn’t actually sure which of the rooms belonged to Soraya, but one bedroom was helpfully adorned with a golden “S.” He knocked.
A faint voice responded. “Come in…”
Wakahn opened the door into Soraya’s room. Two wardrobes overflowed with dresses and socks and scarves. Thick, marigold curtains prevented the morning light from flowing directly into the bedroom. Yet, it still cast a dim glow upon the two kids. Clumsily rolled maps and illustrations were pinned to one wall. Each piece of parchment depicted a wondrous city or some marvel inside of a wondrous city. A chandelier of dozens of glass crystals surveilled the kids from an iron chain overhead. Its many different points all aimed at Wakahn as he passed underneath it.
Soraya herself was a prisoner to her bed. Only her head and hair poked out from the puffy, rose gold covers. Wakahn had to move a translucent curtain aside so that he could get a proper look at her. Wadded handkerchiefs rolled off the bed to his shoes.
“Wakahn?” She finally recognized him, but did not get up.
“I wanted to check in on you after what happened yesterday,” he said. “I hope this isn’t too discourteous of me.”
Soraya shook her head and sniffed something. “I dunno what happened,” she said. Soraya’s words were thick with a congested nose. “I was fine and now I feel dead.”
“Master Cyril warned you there could be symptoms that came with the assimilation. I suppose I’ll have to tell him you’re taking the day off from training.”
“Thank you…”
“But, that’s not the happening to which I refer,” Wakahn said. He looked at the opened bedroom door behind him and lowered his voice. “I meant about the letter.”
Soraya shrugged. Under the covers the gesture was completely unrecognizable. Wakahn waited for a real answer from her. The question had made her uncharacteristically shy. She buried her head into a soft pillow (one of many) and then pulled it free again.
“I still wanna learn from him,” she admitted. “Does that make me stupid?”
“You’re not stupid,” Wakahn insisted. He considered his own feelings on Cyril’s past many times. The man had committed evil. Wakahn didn’t know if that made him evil. He didn’t know if that made Cyril a traitor, or Soraya stupid or himself heartless for not reporting Cyril’s actions to his father. His feelings oscillated back and forth between extremes. “I just think we all need to accept that we could be learning from a very dangerous man.”
“Aren’t wardens supposed to be dangerous?” Soraya asked.
“I’m so telling father,” a distant voice claimed. Two women entered Soraya’s room. Wakahn instantly recognized the one who spoke. Raqiyah, Soraya’s eldest sister. She was about twenty years old. The girl was tall and sharp. Her dark hair had been coiled into an elaborate fishtail and her mouth had become an ugly grin. Wakahn’s mother had tried to get him and her married once before. Years before.
“Miss Hadessian,” Wakahn said. He stepped away from the bed and nodded his head. The sadistic satisfaction fled Raqiyah’s face. Tattling on a meeting between Soraya and the governor’s son wasn’t going to give her the response she wanted from her father. Raqiyah hoped her sister had fostered some secret romance that she could divulge. “Please pardon my intrusion.”
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The girl with Raqiyah spoke as Wakahn tried to remember her name. She walked in the same social circles as the big families of Lyrique, though her family had garnered considerably less esteem. The girl was fair and blonde of hair and she looked to be dressed for riding horses. She carried a plaid cap under her armpit. Wakahn racked his brain. Yellow hair, thin limbs, thin smile… it all clicked when she spoke again.
“Many things I’ve felt towards your sister, but never envy,” the yellow hair girl said to Raqiyah.
“Miss Stenger,” Wakahn addressed the blonde girl. “Embry,” he added.
“So formal,” Embry sighed. “Must even the sons of politicians lack in charm?”
“I lack only in time this morning, Embry,” Wakahn said. “Feel better,” he told Soraya. The girl nodded meekly. The pair of women hardly parted for Wakahn as he walked out of the bedroom. “Excuse me, ladies.”
Soraya watched Wakahn leave her stranded with the two buzzards. They both planted themselves on Soraya’s bed to gossip.
“You’re a hopeless flirt,” Raqiyah told her friend.
Embry only grinned. “He’s gotten so boring lately. I need someone new to play with.”
“Horses cure boredom,” Raqiyah told her. “Men are only good for drama. Unless you’re Soraya. How’s the latest obsession taken to you?”
“You’ve moved on again?” Embry asked. “What happened to beekeeping? My mother asked me to bring back some of your honeycomb for her.”
“She felt bad for the bees,” Raqiyah laughed. “Let them all go."
“Stop!” Embry covered her laughter with her hand. Even before these girls her age, Embry never forgot her station as coming from a "lesser" family. She still needed to preserve some dignity and grace, even while teasing them. Soraya pulled the covers over her head.
Raqiyah continued to talk while her friend was still giggling. “My little sister’s going to be a warden! Didn’t you hear? At least for the next month or however long it takes for her to get over this fad.”
Embry revealed the young girl hiding under her blanket. “Is that why you had a gentleman caller so early in the morning?” She looked to the open door through which Wakahn had already passed. “You’ll have to show me around your guild some time.”
The positivity bored Raqiyah. “I’m going to the stables. I don’t want to catch whatever she’s got.” She pulled herself off of Soraya’s soft bed and straightened her clothes. Without an invitation or a goodbye, Raqiyah left the bedroom. Embry winked at Soraya and followed the older girl outside.
“And you… try not to sound so desperate,” Raqiyah said to Embry. “One of these days I’m going to have to teach you how to really get the things you’re after.”
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Rain assaulted the town Bathala. Its roads turned to mud and its houses bled water through unknown cracks. Water fell so hard and so quick that one could not see far in front of their face. It turned the people blind and deaf.
“Get inside, you nut!”
Hagen ignored the voice of the man running by. He held his coat over his head to shelter what hair he had left from the downpour. It had arrived suddenly and surprised the people of Bathala. The town's farms would be turned to swamps. Hagen regretted this, especially as the farmers had only just begun to rebuild. For the city to be defeated by rain of all inconveniences. Hagen spat and the phlegm disappeared with the water.
A hunched man with oily black hair approached Hagen. He too, was undisturbed by the weather. The rain drenched him, soaked through his shiny hair and his black shirt. The man had a strong nose and brown skin. He did not speak when he handed Hagen the small pouch of gold pieces. Hagen shielded its contents from the rain while he counted each coin.
“S’all there,” the hunched man promised.
He was once introduced to Hagen as “Chum,” but Hagen never believed that was his real name. Hagen never asked after it either. They only met to conduct business. Any kind of investigation beyond that didn’t breed familiarity. It stoked suspicion.
Hagen didn’t mind the rain as much. His wide-brimmed hat deflected the water off of his bald head. He was tall and muscular and didn’t get cold very easily, especially not under his long, forest green jacket. Hagen’s light eyes pierced through the rain like stars through a night sky. They were unmissable and themselves missed very little.
Hagen ignored him and kept counting until he reached thirty. He stashed the pouch inside the pocket of his coat. “You’ll let me know when there’s more work,” Hagen told the man known as “Chum.”
“Always work…” Chum said. His voice made him seem disinterested in the conversation, though that wasn’t really true. “For those that want it.”
“Don’t play games,” Hagen ordered. “You know we need the money.” He sneered at the repulsive man. He was not repulsive to Hagen for his appearance, though some might blame that aspect. Hagen’s hatred ran deeper than skin.
Chum nodded as if to tell the other fellow that this was news to him. “Here then. Out on the coast. Lovely place. But… I’ve never been.” The hunched man offered an envelope and Hagen snatched the parcel before the rain completely soiled it. Hagen scoffed at the other man’s ineptitude.
“Go on then,” Hagen ordered. “Before you drown the whole place.” The hunched man nodded and left. As he walked from Clondé, the sudden rainstorm seemed to ebb. In the ailing weather, Hagen inspected the envelope. The job inside would promise more pouches of gold. More rewards. He could not turn it down.
The envelope was sealed in red wax. It had been stamped with the seal of a guild, a fist clutching an iron chain. So long as the seal remained unbroken, the job was also untaken. Hagen could pursue the man called “Chum,” and return the envelope. He could return the job and never have to know what horror might befall some stranger out in the world. Hagen’s hands could stay clean. That idea faded with the weight of the gold in his coat.
Hagen ripped open the wax seal.