The winds of Oriental highlands were as violent as a summer storm. Ingrid, however, was thankful to them for taking the edge off the heat. The wide plain of hard soil seemed as if it was a smelting furnace. A three-horned bull banner was swaying on the mast outside a war tent. Her palms clenched around a ceramic jug that she carried, she hurried toward the tent. But her fingers were becoming slick and losing their hold over smooth surface of the jug. She knew it was not the heat of the earth.
Inside the tent, the ground was carpeted and wooden chests were stacked along the rim of the canvas. She sighed in relief seeing the space empty. No more guards—no more scrutiny.
To the right corner was a wooden bath sink, whereas to the left, long and heavy, hale-navy curtains danced to the high winds. Shuffling past them, she entered an open bed chamber. Across a large bed of silk covers, she saw a girl standing by the window and staring at the wide battlefield outside. Her thistle gown was embroidered with gold threads and the deep black of her hair was braided with elegant, sparkly chains of a pricey metal.
“Your Grace,” Ingrid mumbled to the windy silence.
The Sewells princess turned to her abruptly. Shuffling forward, Ingrid placed the jug beside the goblets lying on a wooden stand on the bedside. Dipping her head nervously she withdrew a few steps.
“Who are you?” asked the princess.
Ingrid fell to her knees with a gasp. “Your Grace, my… my name is, is Jane… I came to you to plead mercy.” She curled her fingers into fist when she realised she was trembling. Her lies were not to be caught.
“Mercy?”
Ingrid drew her head up, but kept her eyes to the ground and reflected on the lies that she was supposed to make seem like truth.
Good god. She was going to ruin this completely.
“Your Grace, I trade fresh fish in the capital, my brother accompanies me. But… but a few days ago, my brother… he was imprisoned by the city guards. For what—I do not know a reason… or a way to free him.”
There seemed to be a moment of bewilderment for the princess before she began with a snort. “What on earth made you think that you can just barge in and bawl for mercy? This is a battlefield… the country’s issues are solved in the castle court, not in a war-tent.”
“Pardon me, Your Grace… there were only lords in the castle. I found no noble women—”
“Don’t you like men?”
Ingrid snapped her head up and stared at the smirking princess in daze. Soon, her smirk had turned into annoyance. “There is a war at hand—do you even understand what a war is?” the princess hissed. Quickly enough, her screwed face had relaxed. “Well, Prince Segric has taken over the governance of the state… there is nothing I can do. It would be good if you returned to the capital and tried something better.”
Ingrid stayed with her eyes fixed on the Princess’ whitish, round face. Her lips quivered as she tried to form words. Letting out a troubled breath, she began to murmur. “Your Grace, I came with hope—”
“How did the guards let you in? Those worthless turds!” Fuming, the princess was stomping her way towards the heavy curtains that a woman barged in from them at once.
“What is all the fuss about—” the woman stopped short when she saw Ingrid. “Your Grace,” she bowed at the princess.
The princess screwed her face down at Ingrid. “Seems like we have a trespasser,” she told the woman.
“Your Grace?”
“She brought me mead, says she wants… mercy in return.” A dry chuckle left the princess’ throat.
The woman’s narrow gaze skimmed over Ingrid before she stepped forward to her. “Who are you?”
Ingrid was baffled when she found herself at loss of words. Stammering faintly, she dropped her head back to the carpet.
Was this the woman she was supposed to see here?
“Are you dumb?”
Ingrid stayed wordless. Her mind was a disarray of thoughts. All that she had concocted was now scattered into pieces. She sucked the warm air in to compose herself. It was of great need that she stayed calm now. She could not afford a mistake—she was warned.
“I need fresh mead.” Hearing the princess’s lazy mutter, Ingrid raised her head to her. Flopped on her bed, Vivienne Sewell was playing with her silky black hair. The woman was still glaring down at her. She was dressed in a red kirtle patterned with black beads. Her skin was tanned, and her nose, long and thin, similar to the young princess.
High maid Antsill Avery, the name came to Ingrid quickly—it was the name she was told to look for. Antsill Avery was said to follow the princess like a shadow, even down to this battlefield. Could this be her?
But Ingrid could not make a firm decision if the woman was the same person. A little doubt still lingered in her mind. Because the woman she was going to see was told to be as poised as a queen, flaunting corals and rubies… and had freckles under her eyes…
Ingrid noted the freckles under the woman’s eyes instantly. She should not miss her odds now. There was no harm in trying to see if this lady was really the one she was out seeking. If there was going to be any harm, at the most, it would her being thrown into the prison, once again.
Ingrid turned to the princess. “Your Grace, I beg for your mercy,” she said trying to cry.
Princess Vivienne rolled her eyes. Her fingers played over the lace work on the cape sleeves of her gown as she muttered to the woman. “Get her out of here, please.”
Like father, like daughter—heartless and vile, Ingrid thought.
A yelp left her mouth when the woman yanked her slender arm. “Leave, now…” she hissed, forcing her to rise.
Ingrid was cautioned. She was supposed to make Antsill Avery know she could dare to kill. Staggering, as the woman dragged her out, Ingrid craned her head back to the princess. “I could do anything for you… Your Grace, I could kill for you! Believe me when say it. I shall kill the enemies if—”
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“Keep it down girl!” The woman yelled, drawing her across the curtains.
Ingrid muffled her voice when a dagger came pressing against her neck. The pinch from the cold blade on skin made her shudder.
“Kill, is it?” The woman sneered, nudging the dagger to her throat. “I do not quite remember taking you in as the princess’ maid. Tell me, who are you?
You will address her as my lady, so that she would not know that you are aware of her being a maid—the gruff voice of Knight’s partisan ringed in her head.
“My lady, I am a fisher girl… Jane by name…”
“And how is that you got past all those guards? Do not try to fool me here—I’ll know if you do.”
“The maid, Amice is a friend of mine… I had been asking her to tell about my brother to the princess. But she did not. So today, I decided to meet the princess myself and plead for my brother’s freedom.”
“Your friend sent you in her place so that you could trouble the princess, is that what you want me believe?”
“No, she did not—I put her to sleep… used her pass… But, I did it all solely out of desperation, my lady… the lords in the castle wouldn’t hear me out, I—”
The woman’s hold on her neck loosened at that. “How did you do that? Put her to sleep?”
Ingrid felt her throat go dry and her heart picked up instantly. “It's… the Oriatis fish blubber to her drink—I apologise… my lady, but… I found no other way to save my brother’s life. He was imprisoned by the city guards—”
“He must have done something wrongful,” the woman muttered.
“No, my lady, he is stymied… spends all his days slouched in a corner. He cannot move without an aid. They cannot imprison him... it is against the orders.”
“Stymied?” the woman paused for a moment. “Where are you from?”
Ingrid swallowed nervously. “Psyane,” she mumbled.
The woman narrowed her eyes at her. “A Croftside?” her voice was wary.
“Yes, my lady,” Ingrid's voice fell to a whisper.
The woman’s face was losing colour. Heart racing, Ingrid prayed in silence.
Let her be Antsill Avery, let her please be Antsill Avery...
Her heart skipped a beat when the woman jolted the dagger back at her and prodded it against her chin, craning her neck up. “You brought mead for the princess…”
“Yes,” Ingrid swallowed. “It was meant to be Amice—” Her words broke off with a shudder when the woman called out for guards.
“Keep her outside,” she barked the command at them.
A horrified yelp tore out of Ingrid’s throat as one of the burly guards hauled her. He then threw her out to the sun, away from the tent. Unable to face the rays, Ingrid closed her eyes. Sweat trickled down her forehead and her mouth began to dry up by the heat. After a while of struggle with the bright patterns forming behind her closed eyelids, she opened her eyes and squinted to the vast battlefield that laid sombre in the far front. The Oriental highlands had ever been the battle field of Gladizona. Because the enemy troops decreased by syncope alone than by swords and spears here. That was how the kingdom of the Marshalls had been unbeatable for centuries... before their fall to the Sewells, which was however, not by a fair war.
The sun in Oriental was as harsh as fire in the foundries, she recalled her father saying. She could not face it more. Her face was starting to burn. Thrusting her hands to the heated ground, she tried to face away from the west. But the guards stopped her by pointing their pikes at her. Ingrid scowled at them. Their skin was bronzed and their blond hair was sun-kissed to dry and weak, just like her uncombed auburn tresses. They withdrew their pikes once she coiled herself pulling her knees to her chest, and went back to put their brave faces to the sun rays.
The clatter of crashing swords mingled with the shrieks of training men and the neighs of their horses came from behind the tents. The lords of Gladizona trained the men from a young age under this prickly blaze, perhaps for years, to form the most resilient army possible. The forces of Gladizona were known to be the strongest in all of continent Astador, the land above the Great Oceans. Or maybe even in the lands below it. It would be made known the next day, when the Alabars, the largest island country among the nine lands below the Great Oceans would charge in for the battle.
She blinked catching a vague sight of brick red tunic by the fluttering canvases of far tents stretched to the other side. He must be one of the men who had sent her down here. They were called the partisans. They worked under a knight and were ought to remain loyal to him until the end of their days. Although she was not one of them, she was involved in their complot, only to not have her days ended by the knight this soon.
The brilliant orange beams from the west tortured her eyes more. She had pursed them shut only for a split second and the man was gone. But she did not wander her eyes around the place more. The partisans would not want her give a suspicious attention to them. With the passing time, her throat felt baked and the urge for water was exasperating. The thought of running back to her horse and getting back to her city was still raw in her mind when the noises behind the tents began to muddle. Her head was feeling light. She was about to slump over the heated ground when she heard the woman again.
She walked her back into the tent, gave her water, followed by the mead she had bought for the princess.
“So you’d fight and kill… what was your name again?” The woman asked her after she was convinced that the mead was not blighteled.
“Jane… Jane Dalise,” Ingrid mumbled.
“And how exactly would you do that, Jane? Are you trained to fight?”
“Killing does not always need a fight, my lady.”
A crooked smile crept to the woman’s lips. “People who play with deadly blightels would say that.”
As the woman kept her stare, her artful gaze spoke to her about a complot. It is her—the nursemaid of the royal twins, Ingrid was very positive about her notion now. At last, she was able to appreciate herself for not being the cause of her own death by the knight.
“Do you have any of it?” The woman spoke in a low and wily voice. “The blightel?”
Ingrid gave her a weak nod. She was amazed to know how the partisans had predicted this woman’s moves beforehand, and so precisely. They knew that she was going to ask for blightels. And for once, all these guile, murderous people, one wiser than the other, frightened her. All she wanted at the moment was to run back to her city, off this horrific ordeal. But she knew well that she could not hide from the knight for long. If there was a way for her survival, it was this.
“You know this is not a child’s play, don’t you?”
Ingrid nodded again. It was not, it was a game that the Lords and knights played for power and silver, one in a mission to defeat other, and she was just a pawn.
“The Croftsides have their loyalty vowed to the king and his orders. Also, you’d be aware that King Sewells has banned blightels all over Gladizona, whoever breaks the rule is bound to suffer a death in dark dungeons,” she told her.
Ingrid felt her nape singe. Her head was muddled by the inquisitions and she faltered to speak. “My brother, my lady… is my only family… if I have to risk my life for this, I will. It is always better than seeing him do an ordeal by fire, or more, having all of my village pay the fine, when he has done no crime… trust me, my lady… it was a drunken guard—”
The woman raised her hand. “I trust you. I can understand how hard it must be for you. But, as you see, I do not hold the castle court. Well, that does not mean that I cannot help you. It is a tough task—wrangling with the lords… Which is why I’d need a favor in return—I’d need some of your stash.”
Ingrid bowed at her.
“You are a clever girl, I must say that.” The sides of the woman’s eyes wrinkled when she smiled evilly. “Well, what about the vow of loyalty then?”
“I did not vow, my lady,” Ingrid replied sharply. “I shall be loyal to whoever frees my brother.”
“That is good to hear,” she sighed and rounded the tent once. “I promise to have your brother freed in no time, once you get me the thing.”
“What kind… would, my lady, prefer?”
“Whatever works, quickly… and… quietly.”
Ingrid nodded and took a narrow glimpse at the hale navy curtains. The woman’s face turned stern at that moment. “No one can know,” she uttered in a steely voice.
The cotton canvas of the side walls waved under the heavy winds from the eastern lowlands. Ingrid woke up from her short rumination at noise of the flap. The woman was staring at her. Her keen eyes were boring into her face. Ingrid moved her head awkwardly, confused if she should bow or nod or speak. Hopefully, her work here was done. The partisans had wanted this woman think her to be a Croftside and then ask for blightels.
Yeah, that was all, Ingrid reassured herself, now it was time to beat a quick retreat.
“I hope you shall not deter and risk your brother’s life. If you chose not to, then, it must be finished here—before the king returns to Sycamore,” she told her. “Keep the pass, and you shall not meet your friend as you return.”
Bowing at her again, Ingrid gathered herself to leave.
blightel: mystical poison