Her eyes blink open.
The soft, early light emanating from the top of her closed curtains heralds the start of a new day. She lays there for a few minutes, ruminating over what she had seen the day before. Perhaps her eyes saw nothing at all, standing beyond the meadow, staring straight back at her.
Liven.
Her chest constricts as her memory whispers the name, unknown to her ears. Images of shimmering metal and the echoing shriek that followed flash around her mind until they become unbearable, repetitive. She rolls out of bed, thick blankets bunching around her shoulders and hips, and stretches her arms upwards. Her eyes focus on the wooden floorboards above, some rogue cobwebs shaking precariously underneath the beams. Perhaps the stranger had lost his way in the woods and was seeking their order.
Liven.
A quick frown settles between her brows before she shakes off the dread that seems all too eager to settle on her shoulders, making her way to the kitchen. Perhaps it saw she wasn’t what they were looking for, and had resumed their search elsewhere.
She sighs quietly as she settles down on the same white creaky chair and takes the first sip of her morning tea. The same golden light that slipped through the thin, young trees yesterday, caresses her cheek today. The same pathway stares back at her, particles reflecting, magic undisturbed.
But she half expects to hear the laden weight of armored boots and the silvery swish of swaying chainmail. Instinctively, her eyes search the grounds for any sign of a lost stranger, but is instead rewarded with a waking forest, going about its day. Quite tired of the disturbance to her own daily routine, she tells herself decidedly that there was no point in reliving the experience. If there was to be any military presence near the area, she would surely hear about it soon enough.
Not willing to spoil her breakfast any further, and consequently her morning, she finishes her toast quickly, downs her tea, and heads over to the cabin. She hears the muted thump as her chair falls backwards and onto the yielding grass, but continues down the herb garden, already behind schedule.
She picks up her basket and heads towards the door, taking a brief moment to inspect her reflection. Same chestnut eyes, same brown hair, same rosy cheeks. She allows one single huff to exit her mouth before she heads out, fogging the mirror, her image dampened.
Her stroll-like steps become a speedy strut as she makes her way to the main road. The thorny feeling that accompanied her down the empty trail lifts as soon as she hears the low, amalgamated hum of voices, making their way to and from the town. She joins the farmers and travelers naturally, responding to smiles on known faces, grateful for the company and the distraction.
The towering white arches at the entrance of the town have never looked so welcoming before, and the sight of the vibrant shingles of Qadahl Road remind her of why she is here – to sell meat pasties and pies to her generous patrons.
With a single, stern nod, she perches her basket on her hip and proceeds to weave her way through town, dodging plates, waving away tempting offers. Unknowingly, her eyes scan the crowd for any presence of militia, of silver clad men resting by the side of the church steps, paying the merchants far more than what their wares are worth. But the townsfolk seem average, the usual crowd of onlookers, a mix of locals and pilgrims.
Perhaps her stranger had not entered town, and was instead traveling through, on to bigger, better towns.
“Will today be the day, miss?” Her train of thought interrupted, she stops suddenly, her eyes searching for Bast among the busy merchants.
He is standing behind his stall, his jewelry displayed proudly, a smile spreading underneath his beard. She steps towards his stall to make way for those walking behind her. Her eyes fall upon the opaque beauty of the golden ring, the black opal swirling gently at its center, pink, blue and yellow specks flashing faintly. The same longing warms her chest and she wonders if the ring, rather than new boots, was what she really needed to survive the winter.
She dismisses the thought immediately. “I’m afraid not, Bast.”
“I’ll give you a discount,” he says, on queue, hand stroking his long beard. “One thousand Krounen, in exchange for a year’s worth of your lovely boysenberry pies.”
She steps away from the velvety stall, with its silver earrings and gem encrusted bangles. “As always, I am grateful for such a considerate offer. But I’m afraid I still can’t afford it.”
His tsk reaches her ears as she turns to leave, followed by his customary shout, “I’ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word.”
She raises her hand to wave away his half-hearted promise and accompanying laughter but stops mid-air, an idea suddenly crossing her mind. It occurs to her that she could ask Bast for any information on lost knights wandering the nearby woods. If anyone were to have information regarding the comings and goings of a noticeable stranger, it would be the talkative merchant.
She turns halfway, her lips parting to shout after him only to find that Bast has stepped away from his stall. In his place stands another vendor, making sure the merchandise is safe.
Her eyes search for the bewhiskered man briefly, deciding then that it would be best to ask him tomorrow – his presence at the market a sure thing.
Resuming her speedy path to the Apothecary, and already expecting blatant disapproval at her tardiness, she hears the sound of the silver bell as one of the Apothecary’s many customers exits the shop, the door closing behind them. She watches them walk away, a neatly packed parcel under their arm. As she pulls on the handle, the acidic smell of old brine beckons her in. She steps towards the counter and waits, staring at the Apothecary’s well-rounded display.
The eyeballs seem to be staring directly at her today, their pupils a milky white, the red tendrils that used to attach them to their human, a diluted pink. She stares back, her face a disgusted grimace. What they were useful for she would never know, and wouldn’t dare ask.
“Now, how may I–.” The wooden doors swing open and the Apothecary’s hunched figure appears, his eyes unrelenting, his spectacles perched dangerously low on his nose. Those same half-hooded eyes look up at her and his slumped shoulders slump even further. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Always me.” She smiles curtly, her eyebrows rising as she says this, placing her basket atop the counter and proceeding to unload the three white boxes. “One meat pasty, no herbs. Another meat pasty, no olives. Two raspberry puffs. And one apple-rhubarb pie.”
The Apothecary sniffs once and crosses his arms disapprovingly. “I smell olives.”
“Wrong box. Again,” she replies before she can stop herself, a dash of impatience seeping into her voice. She pauses briefly before she continues, her tone a degree or two calmer, and points at a different box. “These are your pasties, olive-free.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Well, they smell like olives.”
Another breath in. Another breath out. “Nope, only cinnamon, nutmeg and now and then a dash of cardamom. Secret recipe,” she replies, winking once.
“I shall be the judge of that,” he replies haughtily, stacking the boxes meticulously, his nose high up in the air, as if smelling something foul and not the welcoming scent of her notorious goods.
“And I await your sentence,” she responds casually, holding her hand out. “With bated breath.”
As soon as he hands over the five Krounen, she bows quickly and makes her exit, unable to stomach the sickening smell of ammonia for much longer. Before she forgets, she turns around and shouts, “I thank you for your patronage, Mr. Tarpeius.”
“Not a single oliv–.” The door closes behind her, the silver bell singing its parting song.
“Looking forward to it, my Lord,” she whispers to herself as her feet carry her forward and away from his scrutiny.
She finds herself tucking her chin closer to her chest, bunching her shoulders, the air turning oddly chilly. A sharp wind nips at her ankles, bringing loose leaves in its wake. She looks up at the sky, a dull gray settling in between the clouds. It seems autumn will arrive earlier than expected and she wonders how this will affect the harvest, the laboring farmers, and as an aftereffect, her business.
As she broods over what ingredients she would have access to throughout the rest of the year, and what ingredients she should buy in bulk now, she continues down her route – the Old Maid clicking her tongue at alleged foreigners who, in fact, had lived in town all their life and owned a shop down the road, the Blacksmith, receiving his dose of honey balm and meat pasties without a single glance shared between them, and the cook, sniffing at her strawberry tart as if it were made of rotten meat.
Her pouch twenty-six Krounen heavier, she rolls her eyes as Ketevan serenades her with more of his usual antiques, juggling his jar of orange-mint jelly from one hand to the other, pretending to drop it, only to have it reappear from above his shoulder. The show was as much for her as it was for the rest of the maids and ladies-in-waiting, all of whom understood how useless it would be to ever engage with a man of his nature – but willing to undertake the challenge nonetheless.
The same bewitching gaze lands on hers as she places her foot on the first step. She fights the urge to return his smirk, his hand rubbing his ribs after another one of her blows, as she says, “That’s eight Krounen now.”
He calls out after her but she ignores him yet again, instead counting the steps as she makes her way up Qadahl Road, grateful for an end to a busy morning. She hears the rolling of wooden wheels on cobblestones, followed by the neighing of horses, and a woah from the coachman as he halts the carriage. She brushes her skirt, her mind abstractedly reminding her that it’s about time for the family members to go about their luncheons and fittings.
The mother, whom she had never caught a glimpse of till that day, walks out of the house in a striking dress of deep maroon, its tail trailing delicately over the white entry steps. A subtle pang of something settles within her heart as she watches the mother disappear into the carriage, the woman’s profile, gentle and delicate, engraved in her heart. While the feeling is diluted, she cannot help but wonder if she is coming down with a case of homesickness.
Her ears perk as the last of them strolls gracefully towards the carriage, her near-white locks falling over her shoulders, her heart-shaped face made perfect by her rosy complexion, her emerald eyes glistening. She watches as the young lady steps onto the carriage, her long dress disappearing within its doors.
The coachman cracks his whip and she watches the carriage amble away into town.
Alma was not someone she knew personally, outside of her predilection for strawberry tarts. That she was the youngest daughter of one the wealthiest families in town was known by all, her beauty was unmistakable, and, although she had not been witness to the fact, her demeanor was said to be kind and upstanding. She surely looks kind and upstanding, she thinks as she marches steadily towards the market, spotting Gródur Un’s stall almost immediately.
Wasting no time, she strides towards the proud display of both local and foreign produce, the wise woman already hard at work, selling her goods to anyone close enough to listen. As she nears the crates, she can already recognize some of the ingredients she would have to store to make it through the dawning winter season. She ponders over whether she should ask Gródur Un after fruits known to last and how to better preserve them.
“What is it you seek, child?”
“The usual, memán,” she replies, watching the elderly woman prepare her satchel, smiling as she slides an extra batch of bitter currants to her order. As the satchel twists under Gródur Un’s crooked hands, she looks up, mischief in her eye.
“Shall we test fate today?”
“Not today, memán,” she says, eyeing the ripe pears in front of her, her thoughts returning to a knight standing by the edge of a meadow. She clears her throat. “Although, it would have been of more use to me after we saw each other last.”
“Oh?” Gródur Un replies and gestures for her to continue.
“I saw a knight by the violet meadow, down the forest path,” she shares, the words sounding odd even to her own ears. “Or rather, I think I saw a knight.”
“A knight by the violet meadow,” Gródur Un repeats after her. “How peculiar.”
“He seemed,” she pauses, trying to find the right word to describe the encounter. “Lost. Or seeking something. Someone.”
“It spoke?”
“I am not quite sure. He called a name.” Her eyes narrow as she fails to remember the name, widening when she finally grasps it. “Liven!”
“Liv–,” Gródur Un moves to respond but halts. Gradually, the wise woman’s expression changes, her features shifting. Her hand reaches forward slowly and her calloused palm wraps around her wrist, her touch gentle.
As if a veil has been lifted, Gródur Un’s eyes widen in realization. They shift at lightning speed, taking her in – the basket, the satchel, her hair, her boots. A yelp escapes her lips as Gródur Un’s fingernails bite into her skin, pulling her forward.
The wind shifts slowly, almost imperceptibly, but she feels it. A cold, shrieking thing that caresses her neck and leaves her shaking. The trees around them rustle violently and the breeze pushes at her skirts. Her hand tightens around her basket.
Gródur Un’s face darkens, her cheekbones deepen, and she can feel the woman’s ragged breath against her cheek. Gródur Un’s many bracelets jangle violently, her frail frame quivering. Her mouth opens but not words come out, short squalls escaping her throat.
“Memán?”
The wind stops.
Gródur Un blinks once, inhaling a large gulp of air. She looks around, her gaze lost. Her frail hand reaches for one of her carts, stroking the wood gently, grounding herself. When she looks up, her eyes brighten and her mischievous smile returns. Gródur Un gestures at her satchel and repeats, “A little extra for you, hmm?”
She nods slowly, an unsettling feeling burrowing itself somewhere between her ribs.
She opens her mouth to ask if everything is alright but Gródur Un is already moving towards her next customer. She stays and watches her for a few moments, her eyes searching for any signs of ill health as the woman goes about her business, speaking in riddles and overcharging for last week's fruit.
Hardly convinced that Gródur Un is well enough, she steps away slowly, concern accompanying her all the way back home, the satchel heavy against her side. She knew Grodúr Un was not without her eccentricities but perhaps there was something she could conjure up to help the aging matron. Looking down at her reddening wrist, her boots crunch against the gravel of the main road, the same frown that she had purposely kept at bay all day returning.
She walks by the entrance to the small path, with its meadows and its evergreens, and decides to take the long way home. She had experienced enough unconventionality today and the last thing she needed was another unscheduled meeting with an iron stranger.
With thoughts of knights, gales, and a cackling, old witch, she returns to her cabin to prepare one powerful brew.