The sky over Crosset was painted in the blue of early spring, unblemished by clouds. Music and laughter flavored the wind as it circled the town square once before traveling on. Young maidens in white dresses with flowers crowning their hair danced arm in arm with jolly young lads to the tune of blaring bagpipes.
However, the visiting Baron Hadrian wasn't mingling with the festive folk, enjoying the May Day celebrations. Neither was his counterpart, Lord Crosset. Both remained in the castle on the hilltop, discussing their children's marriage.
A marriage that would end soon with his death.
Coris Hadrian clutched a white handkerchief to his mouth as he coughed, his thin frame shuddering and rocking. Searing pain like a river of hot acid sped from his bowels up his throat. He gagged and gasped for breath, drowned by his own bile.
Coris downed the waterskin at his waist to soothe his blistered throat, slopping the last drops on his tunic. He raised the handkerchief gingerly to his eyes, sighing in relief at the absence of shining crimson patches.
Still, it was piddling compared to the three nights of agony, the fate he'd saved Zier from. He reminded himself he would never regret it. He couldn't
Coris gazed over at Crosset Castle. The imposing stone fortress looming over the town belied its master's powerless state.
Father didn't have to bother getting Simon to masquerade as him to make sure Arinel would marry him. News of his frail condition had probably reached Lord Crosset long since, but Lord Crosset would be too desperate to worry if his daughter would be widowed young.
At least, widowed young by Lord Hadrian might be preferable to diminishing with Lord Crosset, a dying knight the King had forsaken.
Coris should have had no business strolling about this little country town, but Mother had beseeched Father to allow Coris to tag along, so he could breathe the crisp spring breeze and behold the delightful May Day celebrations. Coris welcomed the opportunity; it might be his last to fulfill his dearest quest.
Four years seemed a lifetime past; a life when he was spoiled fat as a pig for slaughter, when a Lady from a powerful family would be honored to be his bride, when the seven manors in Father's demesne were destined to be his, his to take from the moment of his birth.
He thought nothing of his people, his parents, his poor little brother, his servants, his dogs, or any soul apart from himself, a disgusting being who would never entertain drinking poison in place of his brother. Until four years ago, during the closing days of the Crosset Famine.
When Bailiff Johnsy invited Coris to hunt game in the Lord's Forest of Crosset, it had never occurred to Coris that Johnsy was planning to kidnap and ransom him for food. Coris would probably have been dead, or at least tortured, if not for the peasant girl who helped him escape. All she asked in exchange was bread for her starving little brothers and baby sister.
Coris inadvertently exposed the hushed-up Famine. Bailiff Johnsy was executed, Marquess Crosset was demoted to Lord and harshly rebuked by the King for neglecting his duties, and Crosset was added to Father's demesne.
As he recovered, Coris learned all this from Mother, but he never knew what became of the peasant girl. By the time strength returned to him, the girl had disappeared without a trace. Father was too busy feeding the whole of Crosset to spare men to search for a nameless, faceless little girl.
Coris closed his eyes as he paced the winding dirt roads. Try as he might, he couldn't recall the girl's face. His memory had been crystal clear that day, but he woke up a few days later with blurry recollections and shattered, disconnected events.
The girl hadn't revealed her name for fear she would be executed for trespassing in the Lord's Forest. Their parting had been brusque and abrupt, but his search for her hadn't been. Coris feared he'd never be able to thank her before he left this land forever.
During his visit to the town square, he had scanned the happy, dancing, drinking crowd for a familiar face, strained his ears for a voice from his past, and failed. Every girl in the town would be at the Fest, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Had he been too late? He didn't know if she survived the famine, even with the food he left for her in the forest.
Coris bit his lips at the worrying thought he often must sweep to the back of his mind. He refused to give up hope. If it were the last thing he'd do, he'd find the girl and reward her.
The town was silent and deserted, save for the occasional housewife bustling about completing chores in her daughter's stead and the tired old farmer snoring away in his hammock hanging from the ole oak tree by his garden.
The wind brushed by him as he approached the lasts of the mud cottages, sharing a snippet of song; a voice like the birds of Neverend Heights, lending a lilt to the dreary silence.
A voice so blessed with such ethereal grace, he could only imagine the beauty worthy to possess it. Coris sprinted as he had never done in three years.
He skidded to a halt before a small, crumbling cottage of wattle and daub. No smoke trickled from the chimney, but in the small cabbage patch cordoned by a low fence, beside a plump brown sow sat a young girl of no more than thirteen.
Her plain face was peppered with dirt and freckles. Her red-gold braid was falling undone. Her fading red woolen dress was patched and darned. Her eyes were an unnatural, glowing green. She caressed the sow as it dug its snout into the ground, but her song was for the lone thrush which had alighted on the fence. Her beauty was no match for his first love, Agnesia Graye, but Coris swore he had never beheld a more blessed sight.
I'm here to sing a song I own.
I wish to hear the birds sing along.
I'll sing my heart when none shall heed.
I've made my vow to the winds of Mays past.
I'm Meya, Meya. I'm born on May's Eve.
As my father grieves for my mother's song.
Oh Meya, they say what good is a lass
As unruly and poor as Meya Hild.
The song ended with a lengthy, ringing vibrato. The girl bowed her head and then sighed softly. Coris took a step forth, still captivated by the sight. His movement startled the thrush, which shot away into the forest. The girl spun around, her glowing green eyes wide with fear.
"That's sad." Coris greeted as he curiously approached the fence. Being a nobleman, he was used to people responding enthusiastically no matter when he called upon them, "Who's Meya Hild?"
Coris had forgotten he was now disguised as a peasant. The girl sprang up as if she had sat on hot metal. She sped to the back door of her cottage, vanishing inside without a backward glance. Coris scrambled after her,
"Wait!" He grasped the rocking fence, hollering desperately at the window hole, "I'm sorry I eavesdropped on you. I just wanted to talk."
Silence fell, but for the twittering of faraway birds crossing the sky, leaving Coris in despair.
"Please." He begged, his voice cracking from the sour tang of acid in his throat, "Let me hear your Song."
He had barely finished when another bout of hacking coughs overtook him. Coris clutched the fence for support as he retched and gasped.
A small, rough hand landed on his shivering shoulder. He surfaced to find unearthly glowing green eyes. The girl handed him a wooden mug.
"Mum always says honey pleases an angry gullet. And I added a dash of Grandma's secret spice powder, too."
Her regular speaking voice was brusque, snarky, and heavily accented. Coris froze with the mug halfway to his mouth, staring warily at the girl. In his panic, it had just occurred to him a deadly ingredient might have made its way into his honey drink.
The girl blinked, her face twisting into a scowl.
"What? You think I have gold to waste on poison to kill some nosy lad passing by?" She snapped. Coris shrugged, his voice hoarse from all that coughing,
"Well, I did peek on you singing."
The girl snorted, sounding very much like her pig, then leaned close,
"If I wanted to kill you, I'd just thwack you on the head with me week-old bread-bowl then feed you to Lady here."
She whispered through gritted teeth, jabbing a finger at her sow. Coris studied Lady, grunting away as she burrowed, dirt flying about her. How could she possibly devour him whole?
Before he could ponder further, another round of coughs overcame him. Coris clung to the fence, bent double as the girl looked on with a smirk. He glared at her reproachfully, but she merely smiled wider.
"Be sure to spew your fluff while you're at it. I can be here all day; me chores' all done."
Coris's common sense screamed in protest, but his gullet would probably burst if it endured another cough. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the bitter taste of blood and bile seared his throat. He couldn't wait for warm milk in Crosset Castle.
Coris grabbed the cup and downed the drink. So soothing, so cold, like water from Freda's Caldera. Sighing in relief, he set the half-empty cup on the fence. He took a moment for his breathing to slow, then continued pestering the poor girl,
"So, who's Meya Hild?"
"Nobody," the girl retorted. She glared at him, her nose inches from his as she seethed, "Dun you breathe a word of this to no one, hear me?"
The girl's nerve amused Coris. Should he let it be known she was talking to the Coris Hadrian? Not that he had power to brag of.
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"Why not? You've got a beautiful voice. And it's a pretty song." He argued with a laugh meant to torment, "I'd love to hear more of little Meya. Is there more?"
"No, 'tis all there is," said the girl brusquely. She shrugged, then gathered the buckets and farming tools scattered about the small garden.
"No one knows I can sing; 'tis me little secret. And I dun mean to let them know anytime soon. Just forget everything you heard."
Coris said nothing. Considering his health, she wouldn't have to worry about him knowing her secret for long. Until then, he wouldn't want to forget such a beautiful voice. Perhaps it would console him on his deathbed as he sailed for Neverend Heights. Or sink in the Black Lake if these years of repentance weren't enough to atone for his sins.
"Who are you? You dun seem to be from 'round here."
The girl asked, her eyes narrowed with suspicion, shaking Coris from his morbid ruminations.
"I'm from Hadrian," He said. He saw little point in lying; his accent would betray his hometown. Besides, the people of Crosset loved all things Hadrian; they were their saviors.
As expected, the girl's distrust melted into delight. She leaned closer,
"Hadrian? That's six days away from here, innit?" Her eyes sparkling, she dragged over the small stool she'd been sitting on, propped her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists.
"What're you doing all the way here? Ain't there beauties back in Hadrian?"
Coris smiled as he lied smoothly,
"I've journeyed to countless towns on May Days. My father's a merchant."
"Merchant?" The girl's eyes widened, then drifted as dreamy bliss brightened her muddied cheeks.
"I've always wanted to be the merchant's daughter like me friend Jezia." She sighed wistfully, "All the adventures, imagine! What d'you trade?"
Coris thought fast, picking something he knew well enough about; Mother's favorite food in the three lands,
"Oils. Spices and herbs. We're importing white truffles."
The girl was beside herself with excitement. She sprang to her feet and rattled the fence.
"Truffles! They say 'tis food from the Heights! You dun happen to have one in your pocket, do you?"
She bobbed about, scouring him head to toe for a lump in a pocket somewhere. As he stifled his laughter, Coris tamped down a twinge of guilt,
"No, I'm sorry." Her face fell at that. Coris wished he'd nicked some from home like he used to when he was a gluttonous brat. All he had with him was a string of codswallop,
"My father never lets me near the shrooms, never even ate one himself. He said if you eat what you sell, you're eating your gold."
The girl looked as if the sun had baked life out of her. She slumped down on her rickety stool, kicking glumly at the dirt with worn-out straw shoes.
"Wish I could eat a truffle 'fore I die," she mumbled.
"You can dig yourself some truffles with Lady." Coris gestured at the oinking pig beside her. The girl spared it a glance, then shook her head.
"No, I tried. There's none this part of the country." The girl sighed as she patted the pig lovingly, "I'm afraid this one's for the slaughterhouse as usual. We only keep 'em for the year."
The girl lugged the sow close, leaned down and hugged it, caring nothing of the dirt and mud caked on its wiggly back. It was but a piglet, a snug fit for her narrow embrace.
"You're so like me, Lady. But at least your meat would help us through the winter. I swear I'd never touch a sliver of you."
She cooed as it squealed and thrashed in her arms, then marveled at the blue sky above,
"If only I could be just as useful."
Coris tasted the bitterness in her voice. Harrowing it must have been to plump your pet for the family dinner, year after year. The pointless, endless task no doubt left her wondering how she was any different, save for being born a human.
Even as she smiled, her glowing eyes were etched with loneliness and long suffering. Coris's heart pained at the sight. He cast his eyes about him in the loud silence and heavy emptiness, struggling to strike up a conversation,
"What are you doing here all by your lonesome? The whole village's at the Fest."
"That they are. Me three sisters, too." The girl grinned as she freed the pig to its feeding frenzy, gesturing vaguely at the house, "They usually do the chores around here, so with them gone, someone has to do it."
"Then why you? Why not your brothers or your parents?" Coris asked, puzzled. The girl glowered, disgruntled.
"They gotta be at the Fest, that's why. 'Cause Marin will get the May Queen Crown again this year. And next year. And the year after that. And every year 'til she's married off to some rich, handsome landlord's boy. And after that it'll be Morel and Mistral's turn."
Those three names were probably her three sisters. Coris saw three pretty young women at the town square who resembled each other and their mother. The eldest and prettiest sister was laden with twice more flowers than any other lady, surrounded by admiring men. Perhaps that was Marin.
"You should go, nevertheless. It's May Day. Boys would want to dance with you." He shrugged at the fuming forgotten sister. She was feeding acorns to Lady, perhaps to stop her from wrecking the garden any further.
"Marin. Morel. Mistral. They're all so beautiful. And they're good at something. Just like Mum." She muttered softly, her face scrunched as if battling tears. Her voice trembled,
"Who would ever look at me? Ugly, dirty, reeking pig, weird orange hair full of leaves and bugs, and these stupid glowing monster eyes."
"They would no longer fear you once they have seen past your eyes," said Coris gently.
"I hate festivals." The girl declared, harsh and final, "And someone's gotta feed Lady. She likes acorns from the forest."
Coris cocked his head, but the girl said no more as she wiped her hands shining with pig drool on her apron. She wasn't telling the whole truth. Sighing, Coris decided he should first offer his honesty,
"I'm Simon," Well, almost honest, at the least.
The girl welcomed the change of subject. She grinned, then stuck out her grubby hand,
"Nice to meet you, Simon. I'm May-lah. I can't spell it, so just call me Meya."
Coris blinked at those mischievous, glowing green eyes, then laughed heartily,
"So you're Meya Hild!" He swallowed his disgust as he caught and pecked her hand. He loved dogs, raised an army of them, yet he still rushed to wash their drool off his hands. He leaned against the fence.
"I've heard of a word in Glennian: Maelaith. M-A-E-L-A-I-T-H. It means May Queen. Is that right?"
"Told you; I can't spell." Meya shrugged, her glowing eyes straying as her face fell. She crossed her arms on the fence, propping her chin upon it. "But that's probably it. Today's my birthday."
The words barely escaped her lips. Then Coris remembered her song. Suddenly, it became clear why she was left sitting here alone while her whole village was at the Fest.
I'm Meya, Meya. I'm born on May's Eve.
As my father grieves for my mother's Song.
"Me mother used to sing at the May Fest every year, until the year I was born, when I stole her Song away." Meya mumbled, shaking her head,
"I can't be there. 'Tis just too hard. Song Thief, they'd call me. And they'd chuck pebbles and rotten fruit at me."
She hid her face behind her arms, leaving only her eyes, staring straight ahead.
A wave of sympathy welled up in Coris. How must she have felt, reminded every birthday of the misfortune she brought upon her family with her birth? As if being shunned to the shadow of her sisters wasn't enough. Yet, hating May Day would mean hating her own birth, her very existence.
He understood why she chose to hide her Song from her people. He'd tasted the bitterness laced into its beauty, and it had drawn him to her. Perhaps it would be best for the three lands to hear her at her happiest.
And perhaps, there might be something he could do to comfort her. He was a weak, powerless, wretched creature with little time left. He couldn't do much for ten manors, but perhaps he could be a friend for a young maiden for a day at least.
"I know a jolly Hadrian song. I'd be honored if you'd join me for a dance, Meya Hild." Coris proposed. Meya perked up.
"You sure?" She gawked, shaking her head like a dog fresh out of a bath, "I can't dance like they do in the Fest!"
"Dance whichever way you like, milady." Coris laughed as he offered his hand and smile, adding with a tilt of his head, "It's your birthday, after all."
Meya stared at him, mesmerized, then raised her trembling hand to his. She screamed when Coris instead grabbed her waist then hoisted her over the fence.
Coris overestimated his strength, however. He toppled back, and the two ended up sprawled on the grass, laughing and rolling about. They helped each other to their feet, their hair tousled and sprinkled with earth, then joined hands and danced clumsily to Coris's awful voice,
Little Lord Coris Hadrian.
As plump as Betty the Sow.
But he ne'er dig for truffles.
For lazy and greedy is he.
His meals are laid on gold.
And his belly draped in silk.
His father spoils him rotten,
As his subjects sing in praise.
Behold young Coris Hadrian,
These lands you shall ruin.
"You sound like Myron in the bath!"
Meya giggled all through the song. Whether it was because of his voice, the lyrics or both, he'd never know. Once he was done, Meya serenaded him with Crosset's local rhymes.
They danced until they were both gasping for breath, then moved on to play checkers with rocks on the dirt. Meya taught him simple games the peasant children play. Coris taught her chess from her father's old chessboard. She almost beat him once. Almost.
And in between it all, they simply talked. Coris couldn't talk much about himself, of course. He was content listening to Meya's endless stories of her daily shenanigans with the church dog Fartmouth and her dreams of someday becoming great and famous.
He, in turn, recounted the towns he had visited and the people he had met as Meya drank it in with sparkling eyes. She asked about his violent coughs. Coris admitted he had little time left.
Meya wanted none of it. She insisted he'd live long enough to travel the whole of Latakia and sail beyond Everglen.
Despite his intention to comfort her, Coris was emboldened by her company. Beneath her rough shell, weathered by poverty and years of tilling and plowing in the harsh climate, Meya was witty, humorous, and unsettlingly kindhearted. Her strange ideas, her strong will, her inherent yearning for adventure, her burning desire to become more than what was expected of her. They all spurred Coris to look back at the resigned life he'd chosen since the day he sacrificed his future for Zier.
Outcasted by her people for being a Greeneye, struggling to find footing in a family barely scraping by to feed seven children, this peasant girl still hadn't lost her will to live and her sight of her dream. Given the chance, would she achieve more than he ever would?
The church bell chimed. The sun dipped low over the dark wall of evergreen pine trees of the forest. Coris spun around to the black spires of Crosset castle. Father had given him until the seventh hour to return to the castle.
"Goodly Freda. I must go. My father will be leaving soon."
Coris hastily fished out his pocket sundial, trying to hide its golden gleam. Meya was crestfallen but soon brightened,
"Well, you know who I am. If your caravan comes around to Crosset again, then come visit! I did enjoy our little spell together."
She shone him a wide smile bursting with innocence and life. Coris couldn't help but return the favor,
"I did too. Thank you."
Meya blushed, although it was difficult to see against the colors of gathering dusk. Wringing her hands, she leaned in with a whisper,
"That was the first dance I ever got from someone other than me brothers," Her breath tickled his ear as she giggled, "So thank you, too."
Underneath the sour reek of pig, she smelled of fresh grass and honey. A strange sensation took hold of the young man; it compelled him to brush his lips against her cheek as she drew away. As their eyes met, Coris stammered out the one truth he was desperate to impress upon her before he left, perhaps for the last time.
"You're worth more than a pig. Or simply your mother's song, Meya. Don't ever think otherwise."
He clasped his hands over hers, leaving behind a small stone embedded with shards of raw emerald. He'd bought it hours ago from a portly Tyldornian merchant and his daughter at the town square; its verdant gleam was familiar.
However, looking at little Meya, he realized it was meant to be hers. A raw emerald, gleaming courageously in the deepest, darkest cave. Awaiting the day one would stumble upon it and make it the crown jewel it was destined to be.
Meya blinked at the gift in disbelief. She closed her fingers over it, clutching it tight to her heart. For a glimpse, her glowing eyes gleamed with tears before the fire burned them away.
"And I'll wait for the day you're ready to sing for the three lands to hear, not just the birds. But until then—"
Meya smiled. She pressed a weathered finger to her lips, then touched it to his.
"—Remember, 'tis our little secret."
Coris closed his eyes at the "kiss." He held onto the warmth of her finger for a moment longer, then drew back and trudged away. The heat of her eyes burned steady on his back. He shivered against his cloak as the chilly evening wind overtook him. His body was aching and drained, but his heart was content and refreshed like it hadn't been in a long time.
He turned around for one last look, but Hild Cottage had vanished behind rows upon rows of tiny houses. His heart deflated. Then, he heard it again—The most heavenly voice in the three lands, blowing after him in the wind, sending him on his way. The Song of the May Queen.
I'm here to sing a song I own.
I wish to hear the world sing along.
I'll sing my heart for all who'll heed.
So lend your ear to the wind as it blows.
Heeding the words of hope, Coris soldiered on with rekindled fire in his heart. He'd comforted a fair maiden and witnessed her Song. In turn, she reminded him of the beauty of this land, hidden in the most unlikely, unremarkable places.
He could still be of use to this land, no matter how small. And if he could stumble onto little Meya, an emerald buried in the mud of her pigsty, one that refused to let her light die, perhaps hope still lived that he would find the girl whose fiery courage and unrelenting kindness had changed his life forever.
He would find her someday, and he would live on the best he could until then.