CHAPTER SEVEN

Where Journey Begins

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As the auto-carriage pulled to a stop, a panel in the upholstered wall slid open.

“We’ve arrived, Your Highness,” said the coachman.

“Thank you,” Bram replied from his heavily cushioned seat that had barely protected him from the bumps on the rough road. “And you did as I asked?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the coachman answered worriedly. “But are you certain you would rather not have me drive you to Reise’s gate?”

“It’s a short walk, Baer,” Bram assured his coachman. “We’ll manage.”

“But…” Baer’s brows stitched together. “…If the seneschal hears that I dropped you and Lady Rowan in the outskirts—”

“—Ser Anthony won’t hear it from me,” Bram was already pulling the carriage door open.

The prince got off the auto-carriage and then offered his hand to the trickster who’d somehow convinced his household while he slept that she was a daughter of a fallen noble house from the north of Lotharin who’d rescued Bram from bandits two nights ago and then chose to serve him after they’d escaped death together.

“Lady…Rowan.”

Saying her name felt uncomfortable to Bram’s tongue. It was, after all, the name of a dead girl. Whether she’d taken it for convenience’s sake or if there was another more interesting reason, Bram wasn’t sure.

“Thank you, My Prince,” said the trickster—no—Rowan, for that was who she now was to his household. “It was a comfortable ride.”

Rowan gave Bram a playful smile as she put up the hood that kept her face veiled from the eyes of strangers.

Bram did the same. “Comfortable…”

He eyed the dirt road they’d passed and scowled. Compared to the paved stone highways of the imperium’s wealthier kingdoms, the roads of Lotharin were awful to travel in. Bram’s sore bottom was proof of this.

“We can make this better,” he whispered. “Even better than the roads of central Atlan.”

“We will,” Rowan agreed. “Now, how far to our destination?”

“The town of ‘Reise’ is half a mile to our east,” Bram answered.

Rowan wrapped herself in the dark green riding cloak Bram had given her as part of their disguise for visiting the countryside without catching the attention of the nobles who were constantly on watch for the prince’s whereabouts.

“I do enjoy a leisurely walk,” she said.

“So do I,” Bram agreed. “Though I enjoy riding just as much.”

His thoughts turned to Renfri who now had a cozy room in his bastion’s stables.

Fortunately, Rowan, who’d tasted Bram’s blood on the night they met, managed to retrieve Renfri from the stables of the town Bram had left the hart in, and then used it to bring the prince back to Bastille.

“Renfri is a good companion,” Rowan said as if she’d read his thoughts.

“He is,” Bram agreed. Then added, “But I did want you to experience this invention of the modern world too.”

The prince spent a long moment admiring the auto-carriage that had taken them from his bastion to the eastern outskirts of Bastille Shire where the quaint little town of Reise lay nestled underneath the shadow of the very mountain Bram had scaled to find the cursed cave. A sleek coat of bright scarlet enveloped the four-seater carriage with its four wooden wheels wrapped in supple leather, the internal sorcerite engine growling noisily underneath the driver’s seat—truly, the auto-carriage was an ingenious invention, a marvel of modern-day life in the Atlan Imperium.

“We can improve on its design,” Bram mused out loud, his thoughts drifting to the sleek otherworldly carriage that had rammed into him in his most recent dream. “Add springs to the undercarriage or swap out the tires’ leather wrap for ones made of hardened sap from a rubber tree might help absorb some of the shock that comes from traveling on a rough road.”

“Rubber…tires?” the broad-shouldered coachman chuckled. “That’s a daft idea.”

But then Baer’s face turned the same color as his auto-carriage.

“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” he added quickly. “I only meant—”

“—you’re not wrong. It is a mad idea.” Chuckling, Bram turned his back to the coachman. “Wait for us here, Baer. We’ll return in the afternoon.”

They walked in silence while their feet carried them closer to the split in the road that marked the entrance to the town. In that time, Bram contemplated his coachman’s lack of imagination—the spark that fueled innovation and progress—and wondered if the commoners of his shire were of a similar mind. Would the people of Bastille even appreciate what he was trying to do for them?

“I sense your doubts,” Rowan said as she matched his quicker pace.

“I have no doubts.” Bram took a deep breath and then let it all out as if he were expelling doubt from his body. “I’m not allowed to doubt.”

“True, doubt cannot exist on the path we walk,” Rowan agreed. “Though it is admirable that you would consider the opinions of others, remember that someone’s point of view is often shaped by their surroundings, meaning—”

“—they can be changed,” Bram deduced.

“Exactly,” Rowan answered.

“Change doesn’t always happen. Some biases take root too deeply in a person’s mind for it to accept change,” Bram argued.

“True enough… ‘Tis the age-old question of nature versus nurture.” Rowan eyed Bram curiously. “Would this not hold true as well for those mortals of the other world you wish to employ?”

“I have an idea about that, but first…” He stopped walking. “…Time to see if Reise is a suitable destination to host our future guests.”

They arrived at the split in the road. A short distance to their right lay the town of Reise with its high stone walls casting shadows over the surrounding grounds. Beyond these walls, Bram saw the tops of straw thatched roofs with the tall steeple bell tower of the sun god’s temple further in.

“Reise… ‘tis a word of the old tongue,” Rowan’s face turned contemplative. “Do you know its meaning?”

“It means journey.” Bram grinned. “It’s why I chose the town.”

Getting into Reise wasn’t difficult because the prince could don a disguise as easily as slapping dirt across his face. Today he had dyed his hair a bright red, though he couldn’t quite copy the luster of Rowan’s scarlet locks. He wore a red cape too, though it was nothing fancy. Just something bright a bard might wear. His favorite lute—which Rowan retrieved along with Renfri—hung on his back. These were enough to convince the two guards protecting Reise’s wooden gate that Bram was indeed a bard looking for work inside the town.

“You’re a bard, but you’ve got the build of a mercenary too,” noticed the older-looking guard whose shabby spear floated in the air at his side, proof that even commoners possessed more magic than Bram did. “I hear the mercenary guild’s looking for recruits. You’re welcome to find work there too so long as you don’t cause no trouble with the locals.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He eyed Bram up and down—impressed by the young man’s physique—before switching his gaze to Rowan.

“And—”

It was hard not to stare. For even with her hood covering most of Rowan’s face, one couldn’t help but imagine the beauty hiding underneath. Her allure was that potent.

“Venna’s breath…” The younger guard invoked the name of the Goddess of Love for he too couldn’t help staring.

Bram chuckled.

He stepped between the guards and Rowan to shield her from their gaze with his body. The effect was immediate. With the trickster hidden from view, both guards began to blink as if they’d just woken up from a daze.

“We’ll head in now if that’s alright, bruv,” Bram said in his practiced commoner’s drawl.

“S-Sure,” the older guard replied.

While the younger guard said, “W-Welcome to Reise!”

They crossed through the gate and into a wide cobblestone street enclosed by quaint-looking buildings on either side of it. These buildings were mostly two to three-story houses of timber framing with stone or plaster between their wooden frames. They looked shabby compared to the tall manses and manicured lawns of Bastille’s Hightown, but the variety of colors painted on each dwelling’s wall gave the town a festive feel that Bram didn’t dislike.

“They call Reise the rainbow town,” he recalled. “Now I see why.”

Rowan’s eyes lit up with wonder at the sight of the street and the people walking it; the locals who hung close to their homes, and the travelers wearing clothes different from the styles of the region who wielded sorcery to carry their heavily laden shopping bags aloft in the air around them.

“I like it,” she said as if that settled their choice. “Shall we go exploring?”

It wasn’t long before they found a line of shops and stalls further along Reise’s main street. Smithies and apothecaries that seemed busy with mid-morning shoppers, as well as storefronts with a variety of offerings which filled the air with many scents that drew in visitors like moths to a flame. The curious Rowan was no different.

“What’s this made of?” the trickster asked as she picked up a small, pink bar that smelled of roses.

Bram, who’d come up behind her, sighed.

Unlike his practiced commoner’s drawl, Rowan sounded like a noble. The curly-haired, middle-aged woman manning her stall noticed this too.

“It’s soap from the port of Norfolk,” explained the shopkeeper offering Rowan a sly smile. “Most highborn ladies pay a premium for it, but I’ll give it to you at a discount on account of how pretty you are… lass.”

It seemed she’d chosen not to bring attention to the trickster. Bram thought this was a show of discretion rarely seen amongst commoners.

Rowan seemed to think so too when she glanced over her shoulder to wink at him. “Buy me this.”

So, Bram returned the shopkeeper’s smile. “How much, love?”

“Venna’s breath…” His smile was so pleasing that the shopkeeper couldn’t help but blush. “For such a lovely pair, forty copper griffins a bar. Sixty gets you two.”

Despite her compliment, one of Bram’s eyebrows twitched upward. “That’s a little pricey for soap, ain’t it?”

Ten more coppers and he could afford to buy himself a decent dinner in the town’s inn.

“The craftmanship’s worth that much, lad,” the shopkeeper insisted. “Plus, goods from up the Rhyne have gone scarce on account of the north lessening trade with the center.”

Bram frowned.

It was true that trade with the northern region of Rhyneland had lessened since he took office weeks ago. Bram thought this was just the northern nobles expressing their discontent with him, but what if there was more to it than that?

“Aye, we’ve heard these rumblings in Bastille too…” He leaned in as if to whisper in the shopkeeper’s ears. “Seems silly to me that they’d stall trade just to start a pissing contest with an imp.”

“It’s more than simple piss they’re looking to deal him…or so I’ve heard.” The shopkeeper rapped her fingers conspicuously against the wooden counter.

Bram assumed this gesture meant her information was worth something, and so he planted two silver griffins on the wood. An extra hundred and sixty coppers worth of information was a generous deal in his opinion. Enough at least to loosen one’s lips—and the shopkeeper seemed to agree.

“The mercenary guild’s sent out a call for strapping young lads like you,” she began in a low tone, “and they only do that if they need hands, which only happens—”

“—In wartime,” Bram deduced.

“Aye,” the shopkeeper nodded. “Now, this isn’t confirmed, so take it with a grain of salt, but I’ve heard it’s the northern nobles who’ve been hiring all the famous mercenary companies in Lotharin. Only, we’re not at war with any kingdoms bordering us…”

“…So, the coming conflict’s internal,” Bram guessed.

“Just one thing’s changed these past months, and that’s the imp prince taking over as guv’nor…” She leaned over her counter so that only Bram and Rowan could hear her. “The northern nobles haven’t been this riled up since”—she paused for effect—“the fall of House Wolfe…”

Bram glanced sideways at Rowan. From what he recalled; Wolfe was the house of the dead girl whose name she took.

“You ask me, they’re getting greedy challenging an imp,” the shopkeeper chuckled nervously. “He may be an ill-fated prince, but he’s still the sovereign’s pup.”

Bram’s eyes twitched at hearing his ill-fated moniker. “…And your source?”

She tried taking the coins from the counter, but he wouldn’t let go.

The woman cast a nervous glance on both sides of the street before she admitted, “My husband. He’s a clerk for the mayor’s office. Heard it from his lips myself.”

“Thanks for the soap.” Bram let the shopkeeper take the coins while he straightened up. “And the kind words.”

The hooded pair continued along the cobbled road, making sure they were out of earshot from the shopkeeper with her loose tongue before Rowan spoke her mind.

“Do you think the northern nobles sent the assassins?”

“The White Rose moves only at the behest of a royal… Although we can’t discount their involvement, I doubt Lotharin’s nobles have the nerve to murder me without the support of one of my siblings.”

“Then why court war?”

“The ill-fated prince is a weak governor without allies to call on. I would be the perfect hostage for the northern nobles of Lotharin to control.”

“So, a show of force to change your point of view and turn you into their puppet.”

“Nature versus violent nurture…”

“A rebellion for power… How like your gods you humans are,” Rowan giggled.

“It’s not just for power,” Bram reasoned. “The port cities of Rhyneland provide most of the trade in Lotharin, which means they’re better off than the rest of the kingdom, but even with all the trade they do with the other kingdoms, the north can’t escape the decline that’s gripped the rest of Lotharin…”

“You speak as if you understand them.”

“They seek change, a chance to uplift their people, through violence or coercion if necessary… It’s not so different from what we’re planning.”

“The one difference is that you want what’s best for the whole kingdom. The north does not. If they did, they would have attempted to work with you before considering more drastic measures.”

“You’re not wrong…”

At this point, the pair had passed the shops along the main street and moved on to the residential area which was in the same lane.

“‘Tis as if this town grew on a single stretch of road.”

Many of their fellow commuters cast sidelong glances at Rowan and her burly companion. Such gazes followed the duo’s backs long after they’d walked past.

Feeling the heat of their stares on his spine, Bram sighed. “Can you do nothing about your…whatever it is you do?”

“Could you ask a butterfly to polymorph into a moth?” Rowan countered. Smiling, she added, “You’re no better. I’ve noticed more than a few young ladies giggling at the sight of you.”

Bram couldn’t help feeling a little smug. “I guess I’m a butterfly too.”

Past the residential area of colorful dwellings was Reise’s town square; a cobblestone expanse of thirty yards in length and width that was surrounded by grand buildings on all sides. Amongst these important structures were the mayor’s manse, the sun god’s temple, and the town’s only inn.

The mayor’s manse was a gaudy display of color—a façade of reds, blues, greens, and indigos—that demanded the attention of first-time visitors.

“‘Tis like a painting made by one locked in a fever dream… Your otherworlders will enjoy seeing such a novelty.”

“Any attraction that catches their interest is good for us.”

Beside the mayor’s manse was a well-manicured lawn, the only one Bram had seen since he arrived at Reise. Behind this lawn was a temple to the sun god; thick round pillars held up a domed portico at the front of a raised rectangular building made entirely of expensive white stone. There was also a steeple bell tower whose golden bell had begun to announce the arrival of noonday.

“Excessively extravagant,” Rowan whispered, “so like Phoebus, the arrogant prick.”

The temple’s obvious extravagance wasn’t the only issue—it was the smell.

A stench of recently burnt flesh wafted toward the pair who stood by the road, neither of them unable to turn their gaze away from the sight of a corpse that had been burned on the stake erected to the side of the temple’s front lawn.

“What crime deserves such an ignoble death…?” Rowan asked.

“Heresy,” Bram answered.

The burning of heretics at the stake was a common sight throughout the Imperium whose gods’ demanded piety from nobles and commoners alike. It was an especially regular occurrence here in Lotharin where the sun god’s influence was great.

As if her earlier excitement for Reise was but an illusion, Rowan’s crimson eyes flared with hate. Bram noticed this physical change that came with the heavy pressure of magic leaking out of her. Others would notice this too if the trickster’s irritation wasn’t quelled quickly.

“If it annoys you that much, then why not give them a taste of their own medicine,” he suggested.

“I enjoy the way you think.” Rowan’s face lit up like a candle was alight inside her head. “Wait here. I’ll only be a minute.”

She crossed over to the edge of the temple’s lawn and then knelt to touch its grass. This curious scene lasted but a moment, and then Rowan was back next to Bram and smiling impishly at him as if her earlier tantrum had never happened.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.”

He noticed the cut on the forefinger of her hand. Seeing the bead of blood leaking from it sent his gaze drifting back to the temple’s lawn. It was a small change, but the grass that Rowan had touched was beginning to wilt. Bram didn’t doubt that the rest of the lawn would soon follow.

“Bloody hell.” He couldn’t help smiling. She was a trickster after all.

“I seem to have worked up an appetite,” Rowan said as she linked her arm around his. “Shall we have luncheon?”