It was impossible. Women weren’t allowed to join the castle guards—or anything else resembling a position with a title. But the proof stood right in front of them: Dellon’s sister, plainly dressed in a guard’s uniform, a sword on her hip, a shield on her back, watching Garrin as if daring him to question her right to them.

Dellon took pity on him and explained. “Elonie was always more suited to fighting than I was. Our father trained us both, but when it became clear that she was far more talented, he started bringing her to sparring matches with him. By 12, she could beat most of the men in the castle. And thank the goddess, because it freed me to focus on my studies.”

He smiled at Elonie, who shrugged back. “I’m a guard in name only. Marshal Renton won’t assign me any duties, even though Father and Captain Mornar keep telling him I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for my chance to prove myself.”

“I’m not sure this will be your chance,” Garrin said. “There’s little glamor in walking us down to Gillesport and back. But we welcome your company, and I’ll put in a word with Renton when we return.”

Her face brightened. “That’s all I can ask, sire. I won’t let you down.”

Garrin was certain she couldn’t, but he didn’t say so. Having Dellon’s family member as their escort was better luck than he’d hoped for. And if nothing else, Elonie looked intimidating. He doubted they’d have any more trouble with bandits preying on the unarmed, unsuspecting nobles with her standing nearby.

“I’ve called for horses,” Dellon said helpfully. “Shall I bring them?”

“We’ll all go,” Garrin said. He hadn’t ridden in some time, but it would certainly be faster than walking. And it would give Arya a chance to show off the horseback riding skills he’d requested for her (all part of the standard princess set). As far as he knew, she hadn’t been able to try it yet. Would she enjoy the activity? Did she enjoy any of the skills she’d been given? He’d never thought to ask before.

He turned to ask, but before he could get the words out, Arya was hurrying ahead to walk at Elonie’s side. The two quickly fell into conversation about Elonie’s experience as a guard, about her favorite weapons and drills and the soldiers who supported her. “Most of them see me as a kind of mascot,” Elonie explained. “You know, something to show off to visitors, but not really a part of the team. But there are a few who take me seriously. I just want a chance to prove myself and make them proud.”

“I think that’s very admirable,” Arya said. She flashed a brilliant smile at the guard, who smiled back and dipped her head respectfully.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Please call me Arya. At least when we’re outside the castle walls.”

“My father would kill me if he knew,” Elonie said in a loud whisper.

“I promise not to tell,” Arya laughed.

Elonie nodded, grinning. A twinge of jealousy made Garrin look away, feeling as if he was intruding on a moment not meant for his eyes. He’d never been easy with people the way Arya could be. Friendship was something he’d only ever observed from a distance, and to see the two women interacting so naturally and comfortably during their first meeting filled him with envy. There were plenty of people that he liked, but none that he was certain liked him back. Lliane had been an ally in the past, Senjay an annoyance, Dellon a tutor, Jakin a servant—there was no one who could look at him and see Garrin the poet, the musician, the person. Whatever he had with Arya was probably the closest thing he had to a real relationship, and even that was only one-sided. She hadn’t shown any feelings of love or even affection, besides her willingness to help him unravel Renton’s plots toward him.

That was why he wanted to travel. Why he had to travel. No one was ever going to respect him for who he was here in the castle. He had to get away, find some place new where he could be himself and earn his own friendships. His own love.

“I had them saddle Iole,” Dellon said, jarring Garrin out of his thoughts as they reached the stables. “My father said that was the horse you preferred during training, but if you have another favorite I can have it changed.”

“Iole is fine,” Garrin said. It didn’t matter to him which horse he rode, but at least Iole was familiar. The tall gray was ready and waiting as they went inside, along with three other horses of varying heights and dispositions. Dellon’s and Elonie’s horses were taller even than Iole, while Arya’s was a delicate white mare that tossed her head haughtily when the others approached. The stable hands backed away to give them room to mount, and Garrin paused to help Arya before swinging up into his own saddle. She accepted his hand without a word, but he got a smile of thanks as she arranged her skirts over her lap. He tried to ignore how the sight of it heated up his chest.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“I’ll take rear guard,” Dellon offered. “If you want to lead, El?”

Elonie nodded, and the four of them fell into formation and trotted out into the yard. Garrin adjusted his position on Iole’s back, re-familiarizing himself with the swaying gait and pulling his cloak tight against the biting wind. Iole didn’t seem to mind it. He tossed his head and gave an impatient stamp as Garrin nudged him after Elonie. On a warmer day, Garrin might have let the horse run off some energy on the way to town, but the wind was already cold enough. He would try to make more of an effort to exercise Iole in the spring.

If he was still there in the spring.

The castle gates were open, and the soldiers on guard there let them through after a brief conversation with Elonie. Garrin didn’t hear all of what they said, but he caught “Marshal Renton” and “escort” repeated several times. Whatever Elonie told them was apparently acceptable, and Garrin wasn’t about to question it. He would take his luck any way he could get it.

They made good time, and before long they were stabling the horses and making their way toward the Teller’s Guild. It was in the business district, tucked between the market squares and the university, crouched on a hill overlooking the ports. All the city guilds shared the same few blocks, with the Tellers’ building set on the opposite end of the row from the Sages’. The two groups had had their differences in the past, though Garrin had never understood their animosity. Both involved the study of history, after all. But where the Sages focused more on the facts, dates, and philosophical influences of history, the Tellers were more concerned with the stories of Fyrest’s past.

Garrin had always preferred the Tellers.

Despite the cold, the streets teemed with people pushing their way through the markets. Arya pressed close to Elonie as they walked, since the mass of people gave her a wide berth as they swarmed down the street. Garrin couldn’t blame them; Elonie stood several inches taller than most of them and made an intimidating figure in her uniform and helmet. Much as Garrin hated to admit it, having an armed escort was making a difference. Only the market vendors were brave enough to call out to them; everyone else just moved aside and continued on their business.

The Teller’s Guild was a low, long building littered with windows and covered in iced-over vines. Elonie led the way to the heavy oak door, pushing it open with ease and holding it while the rest of them filed in. The warmth of a fire greeted them as they entered, crackling cheerfully from the back of the small lobby lit by wide, tall windows. A man sat behind a long desk to their right, a half dozen books spread out before him.

“Welcome!” he said brightly, peering at them over his pages. “Do you have an appointment with one of the Tellers?”

“We’re hoping one might have time to meet with us,” Dellon answered.

The man gave him a long, curious look. “Blue robes, hmm? We don’t get many Sages here, though that’s not to say they’re not welcome. Personally, I think the Sages and the Tellers should collaborate more, but no one listens to the clerk.”

“I agree with you,” Dellon said. “That’s why we’re here. We’re hoping to see the man they call the Teller Sage. To collaborate.”

The clerk tilted his head. “Is that so? Well, let me see... you’re looking for Talys if you want a Teller who used to be a Sage. He doesn’t get many visitors.” He paged through his book until he found whatever he was looking for, and then he snapped it closed and smiled. “His schedule is free. Come, I’ll take you to him.”

During their brief conversation, the clerk had focused entirely on Dellon. He hadn’t asked why Garrin still had his hood up, or why a Sage had come to the Teller’s Guild with two guests and a castle guard—he simply got up from his desk and led the way down the hall until he reached a door with the name “Talys” printed on the front. The clerk knocked and opened the door before there was an answer, then stepped back and smiled at Dellon.

“Good luck with your collaboration. I wish you success.”

“Thank you,” Dellon said. The clerk bowed to each of them without seeming to notice any of them before returning down the hall to his desk. Dellon met Garrin’s eyes and hesitated, giving Garrin the chance to enter first, but Garrin shook his head. This was Dellon’s project—his and Arya’s—and Garrin was content to observe from the background.

“Can I help you?” The voice came from behind a stack of papers and held just enough of a bite to let them know they were interrupting.

Dellon stepped inside and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re hoping you can help us with something.”

“What would a castle Sage want with an old man?” the Teller Sage grumbled. He swept his eyes over the rest of them, frowning. “And I see you brought company from the castle, too. A soldier? Seems a bit unnecessary. I haven’t violated any terms of my release.”

“We’re not here about that,” Dellon said, but the old man stood suddenly and slammed his hands on his desk.

“You listen here,” he snapped. “I’ve done everything the council asked of me. I moved out of the castle, I left my research behind, and I never told—”

He stopped, his eyes stilling over Arya. His shoulders went rigid, and Garrin felt the same shocked stiffness settle over his own body as he searched the man’s face. There was something familiar in the height of his cheekbones, the set of his brows, and the shape of his lips, but it was only a vague resemblance. It was his gaze that made Garrin freeze, and he sensed a shared surprise rush over his companions when they noticed the same thing.

The Teller Sage had Arya’s eyes.