She didn’t say any more. The beautiful blonde mir—who literally and figuratively stood between Hadrian and Royce and death, looked uncomfortable as she faced Mercator with pleading eyes. Villar shifted impatiently. He likely wanted them dead, their bodies jammed down a sewer shaft, and while Hadrian obviously preferred to avoid that future, he was also curious to understand why this girl was so adamant about saving his life.
“Seton,” Mercator said gently. “You have to tell the story.” The blue-stained mir looked out across the crowd. “I know this isn’t the—I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to explain.”
Seton nodded but still struggled to find her voice, and when it came, her words started faint and so low that Hadrian strained to hear. “I was living in the village of Aleswerth a few miles north. That’s where I was born. Lord Aleswerth had defied King Reinhold. I don’t even know about what or why, but one day the king’s soldiers arrived.”
“Louder!” someone in the back shouted.
“We can’t hear you,” someone else said.
Seton’s embarrassment showed, but when she resumed her story, her voice was louder, and as she spoke it grew even more so. “Everyone was called into the castle. We were told that anyone left outside the walls would be slaughtered. I didn’t think they would let me in, but I guess with my hair covering my ears they didn’t notice I was a mir, and I slipped in with everyone else.” She paused and swallowed hard.
“The battle went on all day and on past sunset. I hid behind the woodpile. Then in the middle of the night, the gate burst open. They set fires everywhere, and men in chainmail carrying swords ran through the courtyard, killing everyone. They didn’t . . .” She stopped, her eyes searching the dark for the words. “They didn’t look human. They looked like monsters, cruel and horrible. One was worse than all the rest. He was tall, powerful, and covered in blood. Among my people there are legends of vicious creatures called rasas: terrible fiends, part elven, part beast, wholly possessed of evil. That’s what he looked like to me.”
She paused, regained her composure, and then continued. “He charged in swinging this incredibly long sword. Lord Aleswerth’s men attacked him from all sides, strong men, good men. I was certain they would kill this savage invader. Instead, they all died, their blood adding to his gore. He cut them down, cleaving off arms and legs, beheading, and in one case, he cut a poor man nearly in half, slicing him from the shoulder to hip.” As she spoke, her eyes focused on Hadrian, squinting as if she peered into a painful light. “He killed the horses, too, the ones the lord’s knights rode when they came at him. This man—this rasa—took down mounted knights with no more difficulty than a butcher slaughters a lamb. Before long, they were stacked around him, bodies in a pond of blood.”
The crowd was quiet as she spoke. Only the faint crackle of the campfire broke the stillness, the sound and the flickering light adding to the imagery she conjured.
“When all the soldiers were dead, the invaders came for the women. I was discovered. They liked my hair and how young I appeared. In the dark, they thought I was human.”
She paused, her face tense, her sight dropping to her own feet. She took another breath. “I could smell the beer on their breath. The battle was over, the celebration begun. Everyone was drinking. I held onto the hope that I might survive, that if they continued to think I was human, they would let me live. I feared they would . . . would . . . but they didn’t want me for themselves. Instead, I was dragged to the rasa. The blood-soaked man was in the middle of the courtyard beside a barrel of beer, his giant sword still in one hand, a cup in the other. He was drunk.
“The soldiers threw me and three other girls down at his feet. ‘To Hadrian Blackwater, the hero of the battle, go the spoils,’ they yelled. ‘Pick your favorite, Blackwater.’ He picked me.”
Seton paused there and began to cry. “I was terrified. After seeing what he’d done to the knights of Lord Aleswerth, I was certain this man was capable of unspeakable horrors. I knelt in the dirt, made muddy by the blood of so many, and I waited. All around me was fire, smoke, and screaming. My stomach was so bound in knots that I vomited. I didn’t care if he killed me. I just wanted it to be over. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”
It took her a moment to find her voice again, and when it returned she looked directly at Hadrian, as if she were speaking only to him, like they were alone. “Then he did something so unexpected, so unfathomable, that I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly. He said, ‘I’m sorry.’ The rasa’s voice wasn’t what I expected. It was soft—soft and gentle, and sad. I thought he was speaking to me. I thought he was telling me that he regretted what he was about to do, but he never moved. He just kept saying it, repeating those two words. I realized he wasn’t talking to me at all. He was looking at the pile of bodies. Staring at it, he drank and repeated his apology. Finally, he did look my way. He acted as if he’d just noticed I was there. I was sobbing, and he stared. I thought my life was about to end. When he reached out and grabbed me, I screamed.”
“And then?” another from the crowd asked, a woman who glared at Hadrian with hate. “What did he do?”
“He . . .” Seton lifted a hand in Hadrian’s direction, reaching out. “He held me. He held me tight, but gently. I was still terrified, expecting the worst at any minute; he, too, was crying. Then he let go. A couple of other soldiers came up. They saw he wasn’t doing anything with me, and they tried to pull me away. Said they didn’t want the blond bitch to go to waste. He told them no. They weren’t happy with that, but he said if anyone touched me—anyone—that he would kill them and their horse.”
“And their horse?” Hadrian asked. “I really said that?”
Seton nodded. “You did.”
Hadrian started to remember now. It was seven years ago, not long after he had joined Reinhold’s army. Most of the memories from that night had been mercifully washed away with beer, but some returned to him in nightmares or came in flashes triggered by fire and screams. The last time was when Queen Ann of Medford died, when Castle Essendon went up in flames.
“The next day,” Seton went on, continuing to look at Hadrian. “I was alone. Just me and the ruined castle walls. The army of the king had gone, and so had the rasa who had protected me. I searched. I looked everywhere. Not a single person was left except me. I later heard folks who said the king was teaching his nobles a lesson. I only learned one thing—that I, too, would have died if it weren’t for this man. This man who scared me so much that I vomited out of fear. He protected me. I’m the only survivor of the infamous Sacking of Aleswerth Castle, and I walked out with my life, dignity, and virtue all intact. And all because of him. Now, for whatever reason, fate has seen fit to swap our places, and so help me Ferrol, I’ll fight anyone who tries to harm him.” She peered into Hadrian’s eyes, and added, “And their horse.”
Seton took Hadrian’s hand, kissed the back of it, and rubbed it along her cheek. “Thank you,” she told him, and lifting his fingers to her lips, gently kissed each one. “Thank you, thank you.”
Hadrian couldn’t imagine that a young mir, even given her gift for storytelling, could dissuade a mob bent on killing two outsiders threatening their existence, and yet the demeanor of the crowd had markedly changed. Whoever this girl was, she held significant status in this underground society of theirs, one that exceeded her apparent age.
“They still must die,” Villar demanded. “Seton, you’ll have to step aside.”
The blonde, who had appeared so shy and gentle until then, sharply spun to face him. “You want him dead? Fine, but don’t ask others to do it for you.” Seton pushed one of those holding Hadrian aside. “Let go!” She pulled on the fingers of another man. The others released their grips, and she pushed them back.
“There! Go ahead, Villar. You kill him, but by your own hand. Show us the way to your bloody revolution. Be the first to draw blood. Go ahead. Don’t let my foolish little story worry you. The man is unarmed. Surrounded. Go on!”
Villar stared at her, not Hadrian. In his eyes smoldered a seething hatred.
“Do it!” The girl’s voice rose to a shout.
“We don’t have to kill them,” Mercator said. “We only need to keep them from informing the duke or his guards of our intentions. If we vote for revolution, our actions will make what they learned here moot. If we take no action, then there is no crime, and no one will believe a crazy story of murderous plots from two foreigners.”
“They know about the duchess,” Villar reminded them. “The duke will kill us for that.”
Mercator nodded. “Yes, us. You and me. No one else. Her abduction was our doing and our responsibility. Even so, they have no proof, and it’ll be our word against that of outsiders.”
“But if we kill them, then we—”
“He’s right here, Villar!” Seton exploded again. “No one is stopping you. Go ahead.” She took a step toward him, staring him down. “You tell us that we must fight. You say we have to stand up for ourselves, but what you really mean is we have to die—to die for you, for your pride, your hate. You want us to sacrifice ourselves so you can have a better future. That’s not leading, Villar, that’s exploitation. You want any of us to listen to you? To follow you? To risk our lives for your vengeance? Then give us more than words. Risk your own life first. Take his life yourself—or shut up.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Villar was shaking. Sweat glistened on his face in the torchlight. Hadrian thought he would attack her, hit the girl, make her stop. Instead, without a word, Villar turned away, pushed through those watching, and disappeared into the crowd.
“Griswold, can you get some rope?” Mercator asked. “We can—”
In the drama, nearly everyone had forgotten about Royce, who hadn’t said or done anything. Those holding him had relaxed their grip, likely believing they were in charge of the quiet one. They discovered their mistake when one cried out in pain and another doubled over as the thief twisted free of all the rest. In a flash, Alverstone appeared, followed by gasps and a sudden retreat of those closest to him. “Sorry, don’t like ropes.”
“Royce.” Hadrian spoke in a measured voice, the same one he would use when calming a spooked horse. “Don’t . . . don’t do anything that you’ll . . . I mean . . . that I’ll regret.”
“Would be more productive if you told them that.” Royce spun, blade out, and everyone took another step back.
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” Mercator said. She was one of the few moving toward him, but not quickly.
Smart woman, Hadrian thought.
“Not going to tie me up, either.”
“We can’t just let you walk out. If you were to tell the duke—”
“Who said anything about walking out?” Royce fanned the dagger as he moved closer to Hadrian. “We came for the duchess, Genny Winter. You’re going to give her to us.”
Mercator stopped and folded her arms, staring at him. “Or what? You’ll kill us all with your dagger?”
Royce frowned, glanced at Hadrian, and sighed. “Why does everyone jump to that conclusion with me?”
Polka dots, Royce, Hadrian thought. Polka dots.
“Look,” Royce told her, “I don’t care for being locked up or killed. Big surprise there, right? And I’m guessing you’d prefer that we don’t reduce your gathering’s population by even a single life, true? Given her story”—he indicated Seton—“I suspect you understand it’ll cost you at least that if you force the issue. So, let’s try something else. How about a trade?”
“We have the duchess, I get that,” Mercator said. “But what do you have that we could want?”
Royce smiled. “The duke.”
###
No one returned Hadrian’s swords, but neither did they attempt to tie the two up. Mercator left the crowd in the main meeting hall with a promise to update everyone before morning. Then she sent a runner to fetch someone named Selie, convinced Griswold to come along, tried in vain to discourage Seton from doing the same, and chose a dozen of the larger Calians and mir to act as guards. Then the entire entourage escorted Royce and Hadrian across the street.
They entered a small dilapidated building with a partial roof, broken windows, and a mostly intact wooden floor. A well-worn path had been cleared through the debris down the stairs to the cellar. Four stone walls without a single window, six wooden chairs surrounding a rickety table, and the stub of a candle melted onto an overturned cup made up what Hadrian suspected to be the headquarters of the revolution.
Mercator took a seat and gestured for Royce and Hadrian to join her.
Seton looked at the dozen men and mir who were trying to look as tough as possible. “You don’t need them.”
“Not all of us share your unwavering faith,” Mercator told her.
“It’s not faith. I’m just saying . . .” Seton smiled shyly at the guards. “No offense, but if Hadrian wanted to kill us, they wouldn’t be able to stop him.”
“He doesn’t have his swords,” Griswold said.
“I know.”
Mercator puzzled on this a moment. As she did, an older, dark-skinned woman entered in a rush. “Mercator? I was told you needed me.”
“We do.” Mercator motioned to the open chair. “This is Selie Nym, Erasmus’s widow. She will be acting in her husband’s stead as a representative to the Calians, agreed?” She looked to Griswold, who nodded. “I’m sorry to impose on you at a time like this, Selie, but we have an emergency.”
The widow shook her head. “Don’t go to worrying about me. This is bigger than an old widow’s problems. Erasmus would never forgive me iffen I didn’t pick up his part in this.”
Mercator folded her hands on the table and took a breath. “Okay, we’re listening.”
Royce straightened up and faced the three. “Hadrian was telling the truth. We were hired to find and, if possible, rescue Genevieve Winter, the Duchess of Rochelle. If she’s still alive, we can help each other.”
“She is, but it doesn’t matter; her husband doesn’t care what happens to her. Or he does, but not enough to meet our demands.”
“Or there’s a third explanation.”
“Which is?”
“That he doesn’t know anything about your requests, and he thinks his wife is dead.”
Mercator’s brows knitted, her eye shifting in thought. “That’s not possible . . . is it?” She looked to Griswold, who only shrugged.
“How were your demands relayed?” Royce asked.
“We wrote them down and left a note in the carriage the night she was taken.”
Royce shook his head. “Maybe it got lost in the debris, or it blew away, but in any case, the duke knows nothing about the note.”
“What makes you say that?”
“We’ve been investigating her disappearance, remember? And Villar was right about us meeting with Captain Wyberg of the city guard, but he didn’t say anything about finding a note. And Leopold had the guard searching the city, and none of them knew about any demands. In fact, Wyberg thinks she was most likely killed by some rival for the crown.” Royce leaned in. “If you could prove to the duke his wife is alive, and make your case for reforms, he might agree in exchange for her return. Your original plan can still work, which means there would be no reason for the revolt tomorrow. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Mercator’s eyes showed a momentary glimmer of hope, but then it vanished. “Except there’s absolutely no way to get to the duke. I can’t enter a shop to buy a loaf of bread at midday, so there’s no way anyone is going to let me into the Estate at night, especially to have an audience with the duke.”
Royce looked at Hadrian. “I’m guessing the captain could get us an audience, right?”
He nodded. “Wyberg could manage it, and he owes me favors much larger than this.”
“So, all we need is proof that his wife still lives. If we had that, I think he would listen to what you have to say. Then, if I could persuade him to agree . . .”
“Royce can be very persuasive,” Hadrian explained.
The thief nodded. “I have a lot of money riding on this job, so trust me, I’m motivated.”
“You want me to speak face-to-face with the duke?” Mercator gave a little laugh. “That sounds incredibly risky. What’s to stop you from handing me over and saying, ‘This is the kidnapper!’”
Royce shook his head. “If we did that, you’d have the duchess executed, right? The duke would lose his wife, and I’d be out a fortune. Where’s the benefit in that?”
Technically, Royce could make even more money if he let them kill her, then gathered up the heads of those responsible and carried them back to Gabriel Winter, but Hadrian imagined such a debate was for another day and a different crowd.
Hadrian watched Mercator. She was no fool; nor was she one of the typical meek elves he so often saw on the streets of Medford. While appearing not quite middle-aged, she had a demeanor that suggested otherwise. Her eyes surveyed them with a careful judgment born of wishful thinking but tempered by years of disappointment.
Mercator looked to the widow Nym and Griswold, both of whom shook their heads.
“These boys have no skin in the game that they’re setting up.” Selie said. “We’re betting the house and they’re tossing in a copper din.”
Mercator nodded. “She’s right. Your fortune doesn’t stack up against the gamble we shoulder in this proposal. I need greater assurance. Lives are at stake, mine being the least of my worries. But the two of you—the architects of this grand plan—have no serious risk.”
Royce faltered, searching the ground for ideas.
Hadrian noticed Seton was still watching him. She wanted a solution almost as much as he did. His time in the east had always been a dirty stain on his life, but she’d showed him there had been at least one pinprick of light. Another one would be nice.
“I’ll stay,” Hadrian declared.
“What?” Royce and Mercator asked together.
“I’ll spend the night here, under guard, as insurance. Royce can escort you to the duke. If he betrays you, has you killed or whatever, then your people can kill both me and Genny Winter.”
Griswold pointed at Seton. “According to her, that’s not too easy.”
“But unlike Royce, I’ll let you tie me.”
Mercator looked surprised at the offer and nodded. “I could agree to that.”
“Yes,” Griswold nodded. “That seems fair.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Royce said. “In fact, that sounds really stupid.”
“Why?” Hadrian asked. “Do you plan on betraying anyone?”
“No, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I don’t like working under pressure, okay? And what guarantee do we have that they won’t . . .”
“Won’t what?” Hadrian asked.
“Won’t kill you anyway?”
Hadrian looked at Seton. “I have a protector.”
The blonde smiled. “Yes, you do.”
“I’d be happier if it were someone a little taller,” Royce said.
“Does everyone agree?” Hadrian asked.
Griswold nodded.
“Selie?” Mercator turned to the Calian. “What do you say?”
“Old Eras, he never did like the idea of fighting. Couldn’t even bring himself to argue with me. Just said, ‘Selie, there’s no reason to be that way,’ and he was usually right, too.” Her lips shifted as tears slipped down her cheeks. “People got the wrong impression because he was always haggling, but he just liked the sport of it. Couldn’t understand why folks refused to get along. He would’ve wanted to find a peaceful solution.” She looked around to nodding heads. “We agree to this.”
Mercator gave a single nod. “So it’s decided. Let’s pray to each of our gods that this will work. We’re going to need all the good fortune we can get.”