City of Silveryloop; the year of disgrace 1352

The sun was nearing the end of its daily pilgrimage, as the stallholders at the market square packed up their unsold wares. Shadows stretched across the cobblestones, and beggars began retreating into the arcades of two-storey houses, seeking shelter before nightfall. A fresh breeze arrived with the evening, cooling the sweaty faces of the citizens of Silveryloop. For those whom it was not refreshing enough, the taverns beckoned, promising to drown their memories and hard-earned coin in ewers of wine and ale. Others sought relief from the heat in the brothels, hoping to live in the moment, if only for one night. The rest trudged to their homes or hideaways, where they could dream or dread what tomorrow would bring.

A fair-haired girl, dressed in a plain flax linen blouse and a madder red skirt, walked down the dusky street toward the square. Her long, wavy hair hung loose, the wind gently brushing it as she trod with downcast eyes. Her fourteenth name day had passed with the last winter month, yet she paid little mind to it. Every day felt the same—endless, tiring, and filled with the grim certainty that nothing in her life would ever change. But something was changing, after all—her.

Hilda had reached that age when young ladies from noble families were already wedded and often with a child, while curious girls from poorer origins beginning to gather their first experiences behind their parents’ backs. But she was not among them, though a potential marriage could break the curse of her desperate situation. She had not been naïve for a long time and was well aware that there were few people willing to marry a girl without a dowry. And that was not her only problem.

More mentally than physically exhausted, Hilda moved almost like a sleepwalker, her bodice loosely laced, yet instinctively dodging a passer-by who would have otherwise bumped into her without a word of apology. The sound of cheerful giggling drew her attention, and Hilda looked back, her eyes falling on the cobbler’s store. A little girl holding a pretty doll sat in the display window behind the counter. She had a delicate face and large umbra-coloured eyes framed by fans of thick eyelashes. But what Hilda admired and envied most about her was the girl’s sienna hair.

The girl was the cobbler’s daughter, Maja, a beautiful child accursed by gods with a stutter. The doll, the size of a grown man’s foot, was a miniature version of her. Maja moved her lips silently and manoeuvred the doll around the counter, letting it navigate between the displayed footwear, jumping over shoes, climbing into them, or trying to put them on the doll’s tiny feet.

Hilda walked closer to the store, stepping aside to avoid the flow of passers-by, and watched the girl playing with interest. The memory of the ragged doll her mother had made for her when she was about Maya’s age briefly came to Hilda’s mind. She shook her head, banishing it back into the depths of oblivion, and glanced at the cherry-red, pointed women’s shoe adorned with golden embroidery.

It’s gorgeous. What does it look like on the soft, white foot of a noblewoman? she wondered. At this thought, Hilda turned her head and gazed towards the towering house rising above the other buildings.

There was the home of the burgrave, Julian Goldblum, for whom her father worked. As a child, Hilda used to believe he was the burgrave’s herald, and she could not wait for him to come home in his tabard—a surcoat decorated with the coat of arms of his master. Her disillusionment was all the greater when she discovered the sad truth that her father was a mere messenger.

My lord has a little daughter with the same golden hair as you, Hilda. Her name is Alexandra, she recalled her father’s words, spoken one evening in a husky voice.

How old is she now? Six or seven, probably, Hilda counted on her fingers and turned back to Maja, but she was gone. Instead, the cobbler, Roch, stood behind the counter, ogling her with a creepy smirk.

He was about five feet and five inches tall, with a rectangular body shape and receding short hair. He wore a leather apron over his grey tunic, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing his sinewy arms and hands covered with scars and calluses.

“How’s Matej doing?” asked Roch about her father.

Hilda glanced at his cracked, bottom-heavy lips, glinting from the bush of ginger hairs as he licked them, revealing his carious teeth. The stench of his bad breath, wafted by the wind, made her shudder.

“He still owes me for those two pairs of shoes,” Roch’s voice turned snide, his gaze travelling down to her feet. “I see you’re wearing one. Are they comfortable?”

A shiver ran down Hilda’s spine. She felt the urge to tear off the shoes that did not belong to her, ashamed and fearful. She lowered her eyes and her feet beginning to ache as if she had shoes filled with sharp stones.

“He’ll pay you soon, I’m sure,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Roch leaned forward, his face inches from hers. “Someone will have to,” he growled, slamming his scarred palms on the counter with a thud that echoed through the store. “Or perhaps you’d like to work off his debt? I have... uses for a girl like you.”

Hilda jerked back, her cheeks reddening, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Cat got your tongue?” Roch scorned, his piercing gaze never leaving her.

“N-no, I will—remind him, I promise. He’ll pay,” she stammered, words sticking in her throat.

Then she started retreating from the store, pivoting on her heel and running like the clappers. She dashed until she was out of breath, forced to stop at the gate of the Spring temple, surrounded by a fenced garden with an old graveyard. Hilda caught her breath for a while, calming herself, then turned her gaze to the ecclesiastical house. It was a large stone building with a gable roof, narrow windows, and a bell tower used to call believers for sermons.

It had been a long time since she had visited the temple to hear God’s voice from the mouth of a mortal priestess or to make rogations for her father’s soul, asking the higher forces to free him from his desire to gamble. For her regularly repeated pleas had not been answered for many years, it was difficult for Hilda to continue believing in the mighty power of the omnipresent Spring, represented only by a spiral symbol or a sable lake with a dozen stars.

As a child, the spiral paths in the temple garden, winding towards the four winds, fascinated her. She felt the same about the tombstones, with worn-out names of people resting in the shadow of sweet cherry trees hemmed with violet and white grape hyacinths, purple heather and scarlet red pheasant’s eyes. Hilda loved watching the bees and butterflies pollinate the flowers, curiously examining the sprouting vegetables and herbs cultivated by the clergywomen in raised beds.

In the deluge of buildings and city streets reeking of heaps of garbage and the contents of chamber pots poured out of windows onto the cobblestones, the well-kept garden with its cypresses and aspens, and the temple partly covered by ivy was a veritable paradise. It was a place that offered peace to her desperate soul and soothed her mind, full of worries that came with the disconnection from nature and the harshness of city life.

Hilda sighed under the weight of memories and the hopelessness that this place now evoked in her. The last reason she had for coming here—the kind-hearted priestess Beatrice, who unflaggingly tried with her gorgeous voice and strong southern accent to awaken in the faithful a love for their neighbour and a desire unselfishly helping those living in poverty—had crossed the great divide. Beatrice’s replacement was an embittered, ascetic priest who, in his religious speeches, denounced the wedlock of humans and non-humans, single-parent families, and those who expressed love for the same sex.

According to Beatrice’s last wish, her body was transported to her native land and buried near the vineyards beside her parents and younger sister. Or at least, that is how people explained her missing grave on Silveryloop’s grounds.

“There’s nothing left here,” muttered Hilda, no longer having any tears to shed for the loss.

She looked up at the sky. The sun was almost gone, a rouge glitter at the edge of the blue night. Oh no, they’ll all be packed now, Hilda worried she would not make it to the market square in time. She hitched up her skirt and ran up a storm.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

***

Panting, Hilda halted in the square, her eyes skimming the surroundings. Most of the stands were already gone, and the few remaining stallholders were hastily wrapping their goods, eager to protect them from the inscrutable weather and the sticky-fingered vagrants. Candlelight began glowing in the windows of the abutting houses, and bricks-and-mortar shops closed for the night. The nearby tavern, Thunder in the Keg, came to life with the raucous voices of drunkards.

The strong odour of horse droppings with tones of rotten meat, bespeaking the poor animal that left it behind, was sick. But a girl like Hilda, despite her love for steeds, could not discern such things, never having worked with or ridden them. She wrinkled her nose, arched her back, and turned away. Then, two turquoise flashes lit up the heavens above the rooftops. Hilda blinked, her chest tightening with fear of the unknown.

“Drat! Sodding mages and their bloody sorcery!” swore a vagabond from the shadows of the arcade.

Hilda twitched, glancing at the source of the gruff voice before looking back to the spot where the lights had appeared.

Somewhere in there is the sorcerers’ guild house, she realised, biting her bottom lip. Does it really look like a castle in the sky, as troubadours sing? she recalled the lays she had heard during the Midsummer feast. It’s a gateway to hell or another world from which mages irresponsibly bring things and creatures, disturbing the balance of our world to wreck it one day! Her father’s warning words echoed in her mind, one of the few things he agreed on with the Spring worshippers.

Like many other citizens of Silveryloop, she had never seen the building herself. Only mages had access to their guild and the wisdom beyond the understanding of common folk like Hilda, for whom even the construction itself was invisible.

Perhaps it’s better not to know, she thought, filled with dread of mysterious powers that seemed more realistic and terrifying than support and protection from the hands of any god.

“Move your arse! I’m not going to unload this at dawn!” barked a potter nearby, pushing the heavily loaded handcart towards his apprentice, who struggled to drag it.

“If you had the wheel fixed last week, it wouldn’t be so much trouble now,” retorted the young man, sweating profusely.

“What?! You think you’re going to tell me what to do, you damn thickie?!” the potter got heat up. “Shut up and toe the line!”

The harsh words jolted Hilda back to reality, reminding her that the future of the world was the last thing she should worry about in her situation.

She sighed, looking around desperately for a familiar face. Infallibly guided by instincts similar to the innate abilities of magical users, her gaze landed on a girl at the last standing stall.

Hilda’s heart started racing and sweat covered her palms as she set her peacock-blue eyes on that gal. She didn’t know her age, but she assumed they were the same. Although her name, Zuzana, was carved in a secret chamber of Hilda’s heart.

The mere sight of Zuzana evoked in Hilda the euphoria she only experienced when singing songs during the feasts or eating till her bellyful. She admired Zuzana’s visage, marked by the unmistakable touch of elven blood. Zuzana had a diamond-shaped face, accentuated by her copper brown hair worn in a fishtail plait. Her rosy pink, heart-shaped lips stood out against her maple sugar skin, and her olive-green eyes gave her the appearance of a wood nymph. Though Zuzana’s ears were small and round like any human’s, it did not detract from her allure.

Hilda admired Zuzana not only for her beauty, which she knew she could never match, but for something deeper. A different, more profound feeling easily overshadowed the faint sense of jealousy towards her idol.

The feeling Hilda heard about in romance ballads, yet none of the ones she knew spoke about love between the two girls. She could not identify with noble knights, wealthy merchants, or bold sailors struggling to capture the heart of their chosen one, though she understood the part about being interested in the fairer sex. Unsure how to express herself without a model situation described in the story, and scared of rejection as well, Hilda kept her emotions under wraps. There was no one in her life she could confide in or ask for advice anymore, and she knew it was not right to turn to her father on this matter.

It was said that several couples consisting solely of men or women lived in Silveryloop, but Hilda knew none of them personally. She was too shy to seek them out, let alone ask personal or intimate questions. After all, she was still a virgin who had never given her first kiss to anyone. Despite her innocence, growing up in a city like Silveryloop exposed her to many things, most of which she did not want to know about. Hilda was no longer a child, and adult phantasies began pervading her dreams—phantasies about Zuzana, and sometimes other girls. This made it even more difficult for Hilda to approach her, although she had come to the market square for a different issue.

Hilda breathed in and out several times, trying to gather the courage to move, only to find her body so stiff she could not take a single step. Her hands started shaking, and she looked away, fearing she might meet Zuzana’s eyes.

I have to surpass it, Hilda tried to convince herself.

But before she could bestir herself to come closer, a hunched old woman hobbled up to the stall with a basket in her shaky hand.

“Thank Siblings! You’re still here,” rasped the old woman, her voice like badly greased wagon wheels.

“Of course. I was waiting for you, grannie,” Zuzana replied with a joyful smile. “The usual?”

Zuzana’s voice, a little deeper than other girls’, made Hilda shiver. The unmistakable voice Hilda often heard in her head a few moments before falling asleep. It made her feel feverish, weak, and vulnerable. She barely noticed the old woman nod, pay for the bag of beans and flour, and slowly leave.

Zuzana nimbly scooped the coins into the small coffer under the counter, then froze as she felt someone ogling her. She frowned and stared back at the person jutting her chin. Her gaze fell on the fair-haired girl with an oblong face and a long nose in dingy garments. Recognising Hilda, her expression darkened, and the corners of her lips drooped down.

Curses! What does she want this time? Zuzana shuddered, and goosebumps covered her skin.

Hilda walked shufflingly to the stall with downcast eyes. “Good evening,” she muttered civilly, for they were not friends, and she would not pronounce Zuzana’s name without stammering either way.

“Good evening,” repeated Zuzana in a stern, unwelcoming tone. “Are you here to pay your debt, or shall it take until the cows come home?”

Hilda jerked and raised her head, then gulped. Her beloved idol glowering at her, lips tightly pressed, and gripping the edge of the counter with nails scratching the wood. The aura of hostility surrounding Zuzana was like the sharp thorns of bramble lacerating Hilda’s soul.

“It’ll be soon. I promise,” answered Hilda in a trembling voice.

It was a lie. She was familiar with her father’s behaviours, knowing he would bring home a few coppers at best. But Hilda repeated the phrase over and over to people and herself too, because she wanted to believe her wish would come true. She just needed some hope to survive another forlorn day.

Zuzana said nothing but drew air into her lungs through her nose, her eyes popping in disbelief. Her chest heaved, and her arms slid off the counter. She exhaled through her mouth and put her hands on her hips.

Hilda glanced at Zuzana’s hands, resting on her apricot, sleeveless kirtle—one-piece garment over her blouse—seeing her finger joints scraped and her fingernails gnawed.

These are not the hands of a wood nymph, but of a working girl, she realised, and bit her bottom lip.

“It’s an embarrassment for me to ask,” started Hilda after a while, guilt written all over her face. “I need a few things. It’s not much...”

“Can you see green in my eye?” Zuzana replied with derisive laughter.

Her reaction elicited a twinge in Hilda’s chest. She felt as if she had been stung by a bee right in the heart. It was not a mortal injury or one that would leave a deep scar, but it would hurt her for a long time. She could not look Zuzana in the eyes.

“My father is a burgrave’s servant. He’s only waiting for the payday,” Hilda tried another of her hackneyed phrases. It was hard for her to find words, let alone new excuses.

“Your father is a compulsive gambler who robs Peter to pay Paul,” Zuzana shoved the harsh truth in Hilda’s face without mercy. “Why don’t you ask the burgrave to lend you these few things? Or start working on paying your father’s debts? You probably didn’t notice it, but I’m here to earn a crust almost every day,” she hurled reproaches at Hilda, who barely held the tears. Before she could answer Zuzana, footfalls approached. Both the girls turned at the sound.

A young man wearing a brown kirtle with long sleeves, dyed with gallnuts and girdled at the waist, waved to them. He was straight and slim as a sword, with sun-kissed hair falling a little below his shoulders. A fine stubble covered his face, and he smiled cheerfully, showing his nice teeth. Zuzana returned his smile, shining as brightly as Mornstar—the brightest star in the night sky. Hilda blinked in surprise, recognising the tax collector’s son in the man.

People say he’s one of the most handsome men in Silveryloop, crossed her mind, and she began eying him. He ignored Hilda and headed straight to Zuzana.

“Hello, Vlado. It’s nice to see you around,” Zuzana started chattering, fidgeting and playing with her fishtail plait.

“I promised I’d come here tonight to see you,” he answered in a self-confident tone and leant at the counter. “To help you set up your stall.”

Hilda shivered. Not because of his words or voice, but because of the strong woman’s musky scent filling the air—the scent of Zuzana’s body.

“That’s very sweet of you,” said Zuzana, unable to take her eyes off him.

“Shall we get to it?” Vlado arched a brow suggestively.

“O-of course,” Zuzana nodded avidly, her cheeks burning.

They started packing, treating Hilda as if she was a waste of space. She stood there, barely breathing, as her mind refused to accept what her eyes were seeing. Vlado did not seem very attractive to Hilda; however, she envied his confidence.

Maybe, when hell freezes over, I’ll be able to act like him, she thought bitterly, and was about to leave when Zuzana bent over the sacks.

Her protruding bottom drew not only Hilda’s attention. Vlado chuckled and stretched out his hand, stroking Zuzana’s buttocks and tracing her bum crack with his fingers through the fabric.

Hilda’s mouth dropped open, her eyes bulging. The intimacy of the gesture made before her eyes was hard to swallow. Jealousy, the green-eyed monster, alighted on her shoulder and started whispering in her ear. Her body moved faster than her thoughts. She seized a small bag lying on the counter and pressed it to her chest. It made no sound, being full of peas. Hilda did not wait for anything else and fled at a rate of knots.