The golden light slips through the thin, young trees and caresses her cheek. The warmth feels nice against her skin, made cold by the late summer morning. She hears the faint whistle of the wind as it makes its way through the leaves, the branches, the flowers. They all sway in unison, in ritualistic alignment, all one.
She breathes in, and immediately her lungs fill with fresh forest air, smelling of heady herbs and earth, and life. An adventurous bumblebee buzzes past her ear, clumsily bobbing up and down the small meadow, looking for its next sweet reward, settling over the wild roses budding by the side of the forest pathway.
The pathway, a grassy lane, worn down and made flat by years of weary travelers, forest dwellers and, as of late, herself, looks particularly ethereal today. Particles reflect the sun like gold specks, dancing to their own tune above moss so soft one could lie in it. Green dominates the landscape, but where monotony would be expected, various shades and textures speckled with the smallest white and purple flowers give the woods their magical atmosphere. The birds hop from tree to tree, sending waves of new movement through the scenery, their song in harmony with the whistling breeze.
A new and invigorated gust of wind rushes through the path and ruffles her hair, curls flying wildly about. She brushes the loose tendrils away absentmindedly as the peace from the forest settles deep within her bones, resonating with her being. In that moment, with the trees, the birds, and the bees, there is nowhere else she would rather be. She is home.
She looks at the small wooden cabin creaking quietly behind her. A thin trail of smoke floats languidly towards the heavens, the stone chimney covered in that same thick moss that now swallows the forest floor. It has also claimed the crevices between the tiles of the old roof, gaps in the logs that made up the walls, and the little stone steps that led one through the makeshift garden and ended at the foot of the cabin's heavy back door.
The old iron chair creaks as she stands, the hem of her skirt damp with dew. Her hand reaches for the delicate teacup, empty for a while now, and her fingers touch the chill, smooth porcelain surface. The design, blood-red poppies against a bone-white background is her particular favorite. She brushes crumbs leftover from her quick breakfast off the simple, white tea table, small ants already claiming the remains. As she makes her way through the garden, her skirt swishes against the moss, catching loose leaves. She grabs a handful of herbs she knows she will need later in the day and steps inside, stomping her boots on the ancient rug.
The cabin smells of freshly brewed black tea and old furniture, baked goods, mixed with cinnamon and leather-bound books. The floorboards, wasted from years of use, are covered in equally worn rugs that overlap and merge into one mismatched maze. The maze's walls are bookshelves filled to the brim and practically overflowing, towers of old, yellowing scrolls, and all sorts of curiosities given as gifts by grateful patrons hanging from walls, displayed over tables, hidden under piles of mayhem. All the many paths lead to the kitchen, where iron skillets and pots hang alongside drying flowers and garlic braids, used pans soaking on the sink basin.
With one hand, she grabs the bread left over from this morning's bake and wraps it in cheesecloth, setting it aside. The rosemary she picked she places next to the bread. She washes her hands quickly, drying them on a discarded apron. She turns around, grabbing her basket full of freshly made goods and heads towards the front door, her morning routine a well-known dance. She checks her reflection quickly on a small, stained mirror perched by the entrance, pinching rosy cheeks and taming loose curls before stepping out. Her boots make hollow sounds against the wooden porch and down the steps, basket swaying next to her hip, swishing against her skirts.
She hears the crunching of gravel and the snapping of twigs as she makes her way to the main road, easily falling into place next to the morning dwellers – farmers, with their braying donkeys hauling carts full of newly harvested vegetables, fermented fruits and jellies, and freshly churned butter. She hears the humming of the travelers, carrying their wares with them, bags and crates full of belongings, horses with their heads bowed low, eager for rest. All headed to town, the multicolored shingles of the higher buildings already visible from where she stands.
Passerbys greet her with a curt nod and a tip of a hat, some smile in recognition and even venture a ‘good morning.’ She returns the greetings accordingly, simultaneously listing the many errands she has to complete before the end of the day in her head. Business had been good as of late, so she hoped she had saved just enough to buy a new pair of boots before the snow fell.
As she walks through the town entrance, framed by three tall, wooden arches, her senses are immediately assaulted. Merchants from near and far have already erected their stalls and displayed all manner of breakfast foods, perfumes, spices, raw meats, and boiling potions. There is nothing that is not being pushed, bartered, or sold, the streets buzzing with the energy of the first light. She rejects multiple advances nimbly, snaking her way around tempting platters and outstretched palms, promising to return at a later time.
A faint glint catches her eye and against her better judgment, her head turns towards a line-up of silver trinkets and gold jewelry, precious gems sparkling delicately. She had promised herself she wouldn’t stop by, not with everything she had planned for the day, but her fingers automatically reach for a single ring of yellow gold, roughly crafted, a single opal at its center. The gold does not shimmer like the other pieces, the black opal glowing silently. She spins the ring slowly, her eyes fixed.
“Will today be the day, miss?”
She blinks suddenly and her eyes meet those of Bast, the Merchant. He smiles knowingly at her, his peppered beard almost reaching his chest. She stares for a split second before she returns his smile.
Shaking her head dejectedly, she places the ring back onto its velvet display. “Not today, Bast.”
“I’ll give you a discount,” he says, pretending to think hard about the matter at hand, a conversation they had had before, many times. “One thousand Krounen, in exchange for a year’s worth of your lovely boysenberry pies.”
“A generous offer, indeed. But I’m afraid I cannot afford it,” she responds with a polite smile, stepping back. “Even with your boysenberry discount.”
Bast tsks at her, his hands rising in surrender as he watches her walk away. “I’ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word.”
She waves her hand in the air dismissively, her back to the Merchant, knowing full well Bast would sell the ring to whomever was interested, whenever they were interested, safekeeping or not. She could hear his laughter as she strolled down the street, her feet leading her to the Apothecary, her first delivery.
As soon as she opens the door to the narrow shop, the rich smell of the spices and fried meats from the street vendors is violently replaced by the sour smell of vinegar and things steeped in it. Her nose wrinkles instinctively as she holds the door for a patron. When she finally steps in, closing the door behind her, her arrival is heralded by a single, silver bell. Standing in front of the large glass counter that runs the length of the room, she peruses the hundreds of brown glass bottles with white labels displayed proudly, promising to cure every ailment, heal all pain.
She hears the shuffling of feet behind the swinging doors that lead to the back of the establishment and the low whispers of someone giving instructions. She waits, her eyes traveling to the shelves above the counter where large jars filled with different colored brines full of preserved roots, tissues, and organs sit menacingly. The eyeballs, she found, were particularly disturbing.
“Now, how may I–.” Her own eyes meet those of the Apothecary as he emerges, doors swinging wildly behind him. His usual droll voice reaches her, a hooded gaze hidden behind thin glasses. “Oh, it’s you.”
“It’s me.” She says, lifting her basket and placing it on the counter. She opens its lid and pulls out three white boxes. As she places them in front of him, she lists their contents, “One meat pasty, no herbs. Another meat pasty, no olives. Two raspberry puffs. And one apple-rhubarb pie.”
The Apothecary sniffs one of the boxes, narrows his eyes, and says, “I smell olives.”
“That’s the pie,” she replies casually. With her chin, she points at a different box, “Those are the very olive-free pasties.”
“Well, it smells like olives.”
“There were no olives in my apple-rhubarb recipe last week” she answers, angling her head slightly, smiling kindly. “And there are no olives in my apple-rhubarb recipe this week.”
He scoffs quietly, his chest puffing slightly. Not one to admit defeat, he stacks the boxes in neat towers and pushes them aside. “I shall be the judge of that.”
“As you wish,” she says, holding her hand out, “That will be five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius.”
With yet another huff and a lot of pomp, the Apothecary kneels, his bald head disappearing underneath the counter. She hears the turning of keys and the unlocking of safes before the sweet, metallic clinking of gold Krounen fills her ears. The Apothecary makes his way up slowly, knees creaking loudly with the effort. His bunched fist grudgingly deposits five golden coins on her open palm, the rising sun emblem carved on each of them gleaming back at her. Without a second thought, she deposits the Krounen inside her small, leather pouch and grabs hold of the basket.
“May you have the best of mornings,” she says, bowing her head slightly at the Apothecary. “I thank you for your patronage.”
The Apothecary clicks his tongue as she opens the door to exit. “Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.”
“Looking forward to it, Mr. Tarpeius,” she shouts over her shoulder and she beams as a small blush creeps up his neck and reaches his ears. She hears the silver bell ring once behind her.
Her worn boots carry her up the street, the wind tossing her hair about wildly. She feels the resistance of the ground beneath her weaken as she veers towards a muddy alleyway, her next client an Old Maid who lives in a small flat above the town’s largest alehouse, the Alba Custodia. One of the Custodia’s many delivery boys is loitering in front of the entrance. He recognizes her basket and runs up the stairs to fetch the Old Maid.
When he reappears, his eyes are fixed on his newly acquired Krounen, paying no mind to his surroundings. She steps to the side quickly, but not quickly enough, and she winces slightly as his sharp shoulder hits her side. The boy tips his large hat in apology but does not slow his pace, disappearing down the alley.
“Coming!” The Old Maid’s voice echoes as the elderly woman struggles to make her way down the stairs, both hands holding on to the walls of the narrow staircase, her feet sticking to the dirty, wooden steps.
“Good morning, Miss Mirah,” she says to the Old Maid once she is finally close enough to hear her say the words. The Old Maid beckons her closer.
“Oh my sweet, are you quite alright?” She clucks once towards the alley’s general direction. Her shoulders shake in silent rage, the many layers of fabric, tassels and lace quivering alongside her. Great, great, granddaughter of one of the town’s founding families, fortune lost by many an incorrigible heir, one could still sense an air of grandeur about her, her nose held quite high, her eyes watery and unforgiving, her world limited to her situation.
“These outsiders, I tell you. Never a thought for those around them,” she continues, eyeing the set of travelers walking past them, raising her voice. “It’s all take, take, take, I tell you.”
“You forget, Miss Mirah. I’m a foreigner myself.” She gives the Old Maid a chastising look which the Old Maid then waves away with her handkerchief.
“Oh, but you’re nothing like them.” The Old Maid spits on her handkerchief and swipes at the general air around her shoulder, as if to dust away the collision. Her eyes travel down the alley again, pursing her lips. “Nothing like them – Oh, thank you, pet.”
The Old Maid’s thoughts are distracted as she receives her order – three blueberry tarts, one meat pasty, and a jar of apple jam. The Old Maid produces seven Krounen pieces and hands them over. They sit for a second on her palm, cold and hard, before they join the others in her leather pouch.
Stolen novel; please report.
“May you have the best of mornings,” she replies to the Old Maid, curtseying. “I thank you for your patronage.”
The Old Maid swats at her shoulder playfully once more before turning away, the jar of jam balancing precariously over the rest of the boxes. She hears the Old Maid mutter nothing like them under her breath as she makes her way back up the stairs, floorboards creaking loudly.
Without a second to lose, she turns on her heels and, as soon as she steps out of the alley, begins weaving her way through the now growing throng of townsfolk. Everyone seems to have a place to go, and somewhere important to be, not unlike herself. Most are making their way to the center of town, where a vast majority of the tradesmen have set up permanent shop. From carpenters, to tailors, to the well-known bookbinders, they all line the town square, bringing the small town to life.
She follows the long row of horses, led by their masters, towards a set of large stables, often let by the innkeepers and tavern owners for a few Krounen, and purposely stationed next to the Blacksmith – her next patron.
She hears the loud clash of metal against metal before she sees the white sparks take wing and disappear like fireflies. The deafening sound mixes with the neighing and braying of animals, the rising voices of a busy crowd going about its business, the clopping of hooves against stone. The forge stands out like a sore thumb, made of dark wood that juts out at odd angles, seemingly dark and cool on the inside but for the glowing of the large furnace that sits at its center.
Clang!
One of the apprentices catches her eye and nods in acknowledgment, a bright, new horseshoe in hand. He is busy with the new arrival, the owner looking worriedly at his mare as the apprentice surveys the state of the old shoes, so he motions for her to walk in.
Clang!
The forge is neither dark nor cool, and she feels the warmth toast her cheeks and shoo away the last of the morning chill.
Clang!
The Blacksmith stands at the center of the forge, his hammer at the ready, hot metal glowing before him. His back is broad, his build large and looming like a mountain, his hair black as night. He raises what she believes to be a sword up into the air, the steel glowing bright white, and assesses his work. A master of his craft. Time stops, and it seems to her, surrounded by all the metal and fire, that he is as much a part of this forge as the furnace itself.
Clang!
The Hammer falls with great might. Another apprentice, a young lad of no more than fifteen, takes notice of her and points at a thick, wooden table. Hammer rises in the air.
Clang!
She steps forward and begins to unpack box after box of her meatiest pies and pasties. The apprentice counts each box and nods appreciatively, handing over her due. She slips the fourteen pieces onto her leather pouch and loops her arm through the basket, noticing how significantly lighter it feels.
Clang!
Before she leaves, she produces a small jar, its contents amber honey mixed with thin sprigs of thyme. She hands it to the apprentice who looks at her for direction, his blonde hair flopping dangerously close to his eyes. She points at the Blacksmith with her head and mouths the words burns. His eyebrows rise in understanding and as he moves to pay for the balm, she shakes her head once, already walking towards the entrance
Clang!
The water hisses as it touches hot steel. From the corner of her eye, she follows the apprentice as he makes his way towards the Blacksmith. He places the small jar next to the Blacksmith’s tools and points in her general direction, but just as the Blacksmith's head begins to turn, she steps out into the sunlight, instantly grateful for the cool breeze.
The same wind carries her down the street and towards her last stop for the day – Qadahl Road.
The row of houses, all perched closely together, cast a shadow over one of the few cobbled roads in town. The infamous multicolored shingles stand proudly above all the other buildings, the smoke floating from their chimneys a sign of equally proud owners stirring within. Every house is decorated in the same fashion, with heavy columns of white stone and large, glass windows allowing onlookers a glimpse of intricate chandeliers and grand staircases within. Here, trees and flowers decorate the entrances of the grand homes, and the absence of soot and dun is noticeable.
Her boots tapping away at the cobbles, she reaches a thin, black railing located at the side of the tallest house and heads downstairs. She emerges onto a generous kitchen, several stoves already boiling away at today’s lunch. Maids bustle about busily, the last of the late breakfast already sent out, trays being returned half-full. The cook shouts order after order in the general direction of two delivery boys, bringing in crates of fresh food.
She places her basket next to the crates and takes out the last of the boxes – a delicate strawberry tart topped with honeyed almonds. A family favorite, particularly the youngest daughter, Alma.
The cook eyes the box once with disdain but otherwise does not acknowledge her presence. Instead, she barks another curt order at her helper, who scurries away and back, handing over twelve Krounen, and thanks her quietly so as not to disturb the cook’s delicate pride. Pouring the last of the coins onto her pouch, she bows her head slightly at the cook, who, in turn, shifts her body so that her back is towards the offending tart.
“Ever the optimist, my friend.”
She resists the urge to roll her eyes, keeping her face as neutral as she possibly can. She does not need to look to know that a tall man was now leaning against the kitchen door, a piece of used cloth resting on his shoulder, his gaunt shoulders angled, his mouth twisted in a signature smirk.
Her hands reach down and pull out a single jar, her basket now officially empty.
“Oranges. Mint.”
“You’re no fun.”
She turns to look at Ketevan and his brown eyes, sharp and penetrating, are already following one of the maids as she makes her way upstairs. When he looks back, he shrugs his shoulders unapologetically at her disapproving stare – perhaps neutrality was escaping her at the moment.
“You owe me a Krounen,” she states, knowing full well he could not pay her, and would not pay her even if he could. Ketevan was well-liked by the family, and had managed to secure this delivery deal for her. She felt a degree of indebtedness to him.
The orange and mint jelly was also relatively inexpensive to make and he knew that as well.
Ketevan brushes the comment aside with another shrug, leaning slightly forwards, hands in pockets. “What is a Krounen between friends.”
“In fact.” The sense of obligation did not overpower the need to wipe that smirk off his face so she adds, gesturing to the jar he had already hidden somewhere. “You owe me seven Krounen.”
“Have I told you,” he says solemnly, stepping forward so that he is standing right in front of her, the serious expression not sitting quite right with his bright features. “What an excellent baker you are.”
Like a flash of lightning, he ducks as a single piece of dough flies through the air and sticks to the wall behind them, the cook’s glare a powerful thing. He grimaces under the weight of her wrath, anticipating a very scant bowl of soup and very stale bread for supper tonight.
“Seven,” she repeats, resting the basket against her hip before heading towards the exit. But Ketevan is faster and slithers his way in between her and her escape.
“Come to the Alba Custodia tonight,” he purrs, the invitation to the well-known tavern dripping with mock seduction. “I’ll make it worth your while. Seven Krounen’s worth–”
With a swift movement, her elbow connects with rib and she is rewarded with a cough, a swear, and an opening. She looks back at Ketevan as he rubs his side, grinning unapologetically, the cook rolling her eyes behind him.
She points at him once with her basket. “Seven Krounen.”
“You have to leave that damp, little cabin sometime,” he shouts after her as she works her way up the stairs. She does not respond. Returning to her damp, little cabin was all she could think of at the moment.
When she surfaces, she is greeted with the slow rolling of wheels and the neighing of horses. The family members seem to be heading out and among them she recognizes Alma, blonde hair shining silver under the sunlight, her green eyes devastating. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and in that pocket of time, Alma’s eyes crinkle in vague recognition.
She responds with a slight nod.
The coachman cracks his whip and the carriage is pulled forward and away. She watches as it disappears around the corner before she heads that way herself.
A sigh of relief escapes her lips, her orders over and done with, her basket weightless. Desperately yearning for home, she produces the list of ingredients she will need to fulfill tomorrow’s orders. Walking past the town square and through the alley, she is soon ducking the town merchants once again, her shoulder brushing against many a late riser. She holds her leather pouch tightly in her hand, knowing light fingers hide well in large crowds.
She approaches the fruit stalls with the same studied discernment as the Apothecary would his concoctions, Bast his jewels, and the Blacksmith his steel. The harvest had been good this year, and the array of colors and variety excites her. She could already envision the different recipes she could try in the coming weeks.
“What is it you seek, child?”
Gródur Un appears at her side, her unique, raspy voice inviting, her presence undetectable. Located at the farthest corner of the market and run for generations by her family, her rickety stall held the greatest diversity in town, a well-kept local secret. Everyone knew there was nothing one could not find at Gródur Un’s, and nothing she could not acquire for you – at the right price
“The usual,” she responds, unfazed by the woman’s sudden emergence. “And some bitter currants, if you have them.”
Gródur Un ignores her reply and instead takes her hands and stares into her eyes. The wise woman’s hands are riddled with fading tattoos. They feel rugged and warm. “Shall we test fate today?”
There is an intensity in her voice that is almost tempting, but she feels no immediate need to unfold the future, and no interest in unearthing the past.
She was content, just as she was. “Only apples today, méman.”
One hand rises, bangles sliding down a wrinkled arm, and pats her cheek affectionately. “My child, always such a hard worker. All business.”
Gródur Un steps away and around the stall, producing a satchel already full to the brim with the season’s growths. “I give you a little extra. For yourself, hmm?”
“Thank you, méman,” she responds, taking the satchel with one hand and hoisting it over her shoulder. “How much?”
“For you, special price,” she raises both palms. “Ten Krounen.”
She purses her lips at Gródur Un to stop the smile from fully blooming. She hands over six Krounen. “A little extra, hmm?”
A cackling laugh escapes from deep within the wise woman as she accepts the currency, her long robes vestiges of a colorful life. “Sharp as ever, this wicked child.”
She smiles in return and bows slightly. “May you have the best of evenings, memán.”
Gródur Un responds with a warm grin, waving leisurely and watching as she walks away from her stall. She keeps to the edge of the frail wall that lines the village and quickly reaches the town gates, the great arches towering above. Soon arriving at the main road, she merrily joins the progression traveling away from town, deciding to cut through the forest.
She follows a little-known path through the evergreens, breathing in the sweet smell of the changing seasons, the path as familiar to her as herself. Reaching a small meadow perched in between her cabin and the main road, she stops to admire the wildflowers. The purple heads bob with the wind and she is transported to this morning. The sun now heading west, coats the tree tops with its rich, orange hue. She closes her eyes to it and stands there, basking in the pulsations of a space full of living things.
Something light and feathery brushes her cheek and when her eyes open, a single black butterfly bats its wings vivaciously, fluttering around her, every flap a kiss. Too stunned to question the appearance of the hovering insect, she raises her hand as if in a trance, the butterfly balancing delicately on her fingertip.
And there, in the stillness of the meadow, she hears a soft whisper.
“Liven.”
Suddenly, a flash of brightness. A violent, persistent thing, blinds her and she raises her empty hand high over her eyelids, trying to make out the source of the light. It takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the glare, her senses in disarray.
Slowly, at the edge of the meadow, she begins to make out metal greaves attached to sturdy shins, thighs covered in the shiniest of cuisses, the metal engravings on the armor's tassets so delicate they boast of the highest of craftsmanship. Her gaze continues northward, processing the broad breastplate and the gauntlets, one silver like the rest of his armor, the other pitch black.
Her heart beats loudly against her chest, the air stuck in her lungs.
When her eyes finally fall upon the gleaming helmet, time seems to hold still. She no longer hears the birds chirp, the wind does not whistle, and the trees do not sway. Under the rays of the setting sun, with the vastness of the forest behind him and the expanse of clear blue sky above, she feels as her soul falters.
"What the–," her whisper barely leaves her lips when, with a quick, loud metal shriek, fast as lightning, the knight's neck twists, and his visor now points directly at her. Her knees buckle.
Her ears register the far away thump of the satchel landing on the forest floor. Against every instinct, she breaks eye contact with the knight as she reaches for her satchel, struggling to stop the fruits from rolling in every direction, the shriek still reverberating in her ears. She looks back up and freezes.
In a field of purple flowers and singing birds, she stood completely alone.