《A Dove Amongst Harpies》


 Prologue

    Soft ivory feathers and swirls of white and brown refuse littered the stone floor in the top chamber of the tower. Gentle coos and purrs warmed his ears as Gigor shuffled through the aviary doling out honey-glazed nuts and globerries to his caged companions. A cruel thing, those cages, necessary as they were. He arrived at the endmost of the wall of pens where his Brightangel sat on her perch above the workstation awaiting her treats. Dozens of candles dripped wax from the heat of their flame on the station where he would tie the provided sealed letters to the hindlimbs of his darlings. Sending his dearest treasures out into the world of men whose hearts were corrupted with the stain of sentience pained Gigor. But, gods above, were their extended wings flapping through the heavens a marvel to behold.


    ¡°Good evening, my sweet,¡± he murmured in a gentle lilt. He held aloft the treats for the majestic white peace dove that knew his heart better than any man ever could. Brightangel purred with great strength of chest as she inclined her tender neck to meet his open palm.


    The dove aviary was Gigor¡¯s palace of respite and serenity. The symphony of the dove¡¯s song never failed to swell his heart with emotion and adoration for the known gods¡¯ little blessings. He did not possess such ardent love for the harpy and raven aviaries, though it would be dishonest to say his devotion did not extend to all winged creatures of the realm. It was much more preferable to confer with the angels of the heavens than to sour the tongue with the wicked words of men. Yet Gigor did find an earthly delight in reading the letters he was entrusted to dispatch on the wings of his birds.


    Master Aviaries of Ileth were bred to be illiterate, simple creatures who lived solely to fulfill their Born Calling. The sentiment of ¡®privacy of the words of noble lords is paramount to the Known Lands stability¡¯ had been pecked over and over into his brain as a child. Bah! Absurd. Unbeknownst to his lord, he had spent countless hours in the aviary tower learning to decipher the strange glyphs of men alongside his father as a wee boy. Keegor had been a poor Master Aviary due to the wretched genius that plagued his mind. Always tinkering. Always experimenting. Never content with the humble and docile life of an aviary he had been born to. It had amused Gigor as a young boy to watch his father rave and rant in the candlelight and feathers of their elevated dwelling. That was until his experiments had reached the birds. His death was necessary in the end, and Gigor happily took up the post of Master Aviary in his place. As his mind wandered back to that long-ago time, he couldn¡¯t find the little dropping of pity he¡¯d once had in his heart for the man. No matter.


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    There was a knock on his door.


    Gigor walked back down the walkway of his captive darlings and opened the wooden door to find the young page boy. Despite the unintended yet present corrupted nature of the boy, his hair was reminiscent of a magnificent greyhawk Gigor had seen through his long-sight scope once. The memory sent a shiver of delight up his spine.


    ¡°My, my, our lord has been busy with his letters of late,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder his hand has not fallen off from the labor of it all.¡± He took the letter stamped with the silver wax seal bearing the house''s sigil from the page boy¡¯s hands. The boy nodded his head in agreement but spared no words for the Master Aviary. Good. The boy was learning after all. Gigor bade him to take his leave and hobbled back to his station.


    A letter being sent to the Hrishelli Isles had come to his roost once upon a moon, and in it laid mention of a god of fortune. Some Hrishelli nonsense, he¡¯d originally presumed. He smiled to himself in the amber light of his candles. That foreign god must have Gigor in their favor, as the ritual of spying on the northlands lord¡¯s secrets was plentiful this winter. At least ten letters per day made their way to his feather-filled fortress, occasionally much more depending on the received responses. He did not dare to pry open the inbound letters for fear of his duplicity being unveiled to the wrathful lord he served. That man was far more cunning and shrewd than Gigor thought men ought be.


    ¡°The Stranger take my heart, Brightangel,¡± Gigor gasped, hand reaching for the comfort of his darling¡¯s feathers. He read the contents of the letter over once more. Dark words, indeed. Curious that he had not been instructed to fetch a harpy for this one. Gigor was not the only duplicitous one in this castle it seemed. There was a small comfort in that, though. As sure as the velvet feathers that played beneath his fingertips.


    He shook his head, troubled by his findings, and opened the false bottom to the lowest drawer of his workstation. In it lay the stolen cache of silver-dyed wax and signet ring of the ruling lord''s house. Carefully, he scraped a small amount of the wax into the metal tin wax holder then placed it over the flame of the closest candle and awaited its melt. He hummed along with the doves as a frosted wind blew in through the open window overlooking the snow-covered earth far below his pinnacle of solitude. Such a beautiful night. When would he next see such peace outside of his turret? In large part, his heart was overflowing with pleasure that his doves would find their rest and stay here with him for what he hoped would be a very long time. For the harpy''s time was imminent. War had finally come.

 ONE: Duty Before Dreams

    Silence gleamed in winter¡¯s morning sun. Its edge sharp enough to slice a stone like a tomato after the armorer was through with it. The brilliant metal shone so brightly that it glowed almost white, its breadth as wide as a grown man¡¯s palm and nearly the same height as its bearer. If Wrena took her eyes off the beauty of the sword, she would be forced to look at the grim reason for it leaving its sheath. The expansive, meaty hand that wrapped its rune-etched hilt was also familiar, for it was her lord father''s. White peppered his sandy beard and streaked through the honey wheat hair near his temples, making him look older than his thirty-two years. His face was unreadable in the light of the rising sun, mouth drawn in a tight line and ice-blue eyes shadowed. Her lord father did not have much use of Silence these days aside from evening the scales of justice in the westlands. Wrena had been born in the dove-winged era of peace and had never seen a message arrive from the wings of a harpy calling for war. She hoped they would stall their entrance until she was older and strong enough to wield a greatsword like Silence. If she could break free from the iron grip of nobility first, that was.


    The boom of her lord father¡¯s voice broke her from her thoughts.


    ¡°Higrin Falsen, you have been brought to charge for treason on account of abandoning your watch and desertion. What say you?¡± he asked the small sentinel who knelt on the melted snow-soaked earth in front of him. The boy couldn¡¯t be more than fifteen.


    ¡°I promise, m¡¯lord,¡± the boy said, ¡°I didn¡¯t abandon¡ªI would never think to abandon my post, m¡¯lord. There was a scream in the Stillwood and I went to spot the source, but I got turned around, see. I don¡¯t even know how it happened. Swear to the known and forgotten gods, I don¡¯t. Never got lost in those woods in my life.¡±


    ¡°No other man on night watch heard this scream you speak of, Higrin. You were in the Stillwood for a moon before a patrol found you tangled in a game trap,¡± Lord Terryn said.


    ¡°I swear on my life, m¡¯lord, my account is true!¡± The boy cried. ¡°She¡¯s still screaming¡ªshrieking like mad out there. Can¡¯t you hear her?¡±


    Lord Terryn looked over his shoulder to the sentinel¡¯s commander standing to his right beside Ser Eviyn. The man met her lord father¡¯s eyes and shook his head slowly. No one was enjoying this, but the accounts weren¡¯t adding up in the young boy¡¯s favor.


    ¡°In the name of Maddis Hightower, the First of His Name, King and Lord of the Five Kingdoms and The Known Lands of Ileth, by the word of Terryn of House Stillhour, Lord of Westermin and Justiciar of the West, I sentence you to die by beheading,¡± Lord Terryn said. ¡°It¡¯s my privilege to carry your last words with me, Higrin. Speak them now, if you wish.¡±


    ¡°Mum? Where¡¯s my mum? Please, I¡¯d like to hold her hand,¡± Higrin searched the small crowd of onlookers with desperation in his large bloodshot, and panicked eyes. Wrena turned her eyes down at her hands clasped in front of her. Her knuckles were white.


    A hand of a similar cast to her lord father¡¯s, though smaller, lightly gripped Wrena¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Wielding a Heritage Blade is not always without burden, little harpy,¡± Wes murmured in her ear. ¡°You must know both faces of the coin. That¡¯s why I brought you here today.¡±


    Wrena steeled herself to heed her brother and looked back up at the boy. He seemed so small now. A dark spot spread down his breeches on his thigh to meet the earth. Tears cast ripples in the growing puddle under his knees. Her throat ached from the strain of trying not to cry. The boy was probably only a couple of years older than her.


    Higrin Falsen, she chanted his name in her mind. His name would not be forgotten to her. She would not allow it.


    A breath midway through inhaling caught in her chest as Silence carved in an arc through the orange sun rising over the hill. Her lord father brought the sword down in a steady sure stroke. A few moments after the blade hit the earth, the boy¡¯s small and dirt-matted head slid from his neck. She flinched as it thudded on the ground. It rolled and landed with his face toward the blue and orange sky. Those once large eyes were now squeezed shut, his face frozen in a permanent state of fear. Instinct guided her to do the same, but Wes was watching her. She fought to keep her face passive like their lord father¡¯s. Higrin¡¯s body swayed and collapsed like a stack of cards.


    The mandated ten witnesses dispersed in a sullen silence. Fur cloaks dripped with the muddied earth wet from last night¡¯s snow that had promptly thawed. Spring may be nigh yet judging by the tiny sprigs of grass peeking up from the ground near the boy¡¯s body. It had been a long and dark winter. But this day felt twice as long and dark and it was only at its inception. Wrena had never seen a man die. Two years ago, Wes had forced her to chop a rooster¡¯s head off to have her participate in the circle of life. The blood had pooled off the block just the same as the boys had, but there had been so much less with the rooster. Blood still spurted in fitful gasps from the neck. The crimson mixed like oil with the puddle of melted snow below it. Her eyes were transfixed and locked on the scene, her body paralyzed but trembling.


    ¡°Wrena,¡± her lord father said.


    She snapped her eyes away from Higrin¡¯s headless body. In her shock, she had forgotten she wasn¡¯t supposed to be there.


    ¡°Yes, Father?¡± She asked.


    ¡°This is not an affair for a girl of twelve to be witness of. What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡± she started.


    ¡°I brought her here, Father,¡± Wes cut in. ¡°I thought it important for her to see the weight of House Stillhour¡¯s duty to maintain law and order in the westlands.¡±


    Lord Terryn raised an eyebrow. ¡°I don¡¯t recall imparting such duties on you, Westyn.¡±


    ¡°¡®We must find our duty in what is laid before us, not in what we imagine it might be¡¯. Is that not what you often tell me?¡± Wes replied.


    ¡°Aye, well, it seems you are imagining this duty, boy,¡± Lord Terryn said. ¡°If our Wrena were a young man I may commend you, but she is to be a lady of another great house once she is old enough to be wed. I will not abuse her with the violence of men.¡±


    ¡°Father, I¡ª¡± Wrena began.


    ¡°Wrena,¡± her lord father said. His voice softened and he bent a knee to look eye-level at her. ¡°I understand you like to play knights with your brother and Lori. And I know he entertains the foolish dream,¡± he shot a sharp glance toward Wes. ¡°You are a lady of House Stillhour. Your time of playing with sticks will come to an end soon, and it¡¯s best you start preparing for it now. I will not have your name¡ªnor your sister''s name¡ªtarnished and your prospects of a favorable betrothal scattered to the forgotten winds. I love that fire in your heart, the gods know I do. But it will be the death of me as well as your mother¡¯s if you insist on chasing the fantasy of becoming a lady knight.¡±


    ¡°Would it kill you to believe in me?¡± She asked.


    ¡°Aye, Wrena,¡± her lord father said. ¡°It would.¡± He gave her a pained smile as if to say he wished things were different; that she had been born a second son and could fulfill the Known Calling that beat in her heart like a war drum.


    ¡°What are our Words, wildheart?¡±


    ¡°Duty Before Dreams,¡± she answered. His grip on her dream tightened.


    You will see, Father, she thought as she stuck her chin up.


    Lord Terryn nodded his approval, deeming the matter finished. He straightened himself, shifting his furs closer about him to ward off the chill of the winter morning, and rubbed his hands together to warm them. ¡°We should be off. You will be late for your studies and I won¡¯t have your mother¡¯s wrath for it.¡±


    Wes trailed their lord father and Ser Eviyn and his men as they walked the wet path back to Westermin. Their lord father¡¯s height had been bred into Wes, making him a head taller than most boys his age. Many were sure he would eclipse the height of their lord father and be the tallest standing man in the West. He stuck out like a nugget of gold in a mountain of silver with his golden and waved mane in extraordinary resemblance to the lion on the banner of their lady mother¡¯s house. Practiced with the sword and lance and riding, as well as excelling in his house management and fiscal studies, he was as well bred a son any lord could desire. For many such reasons, Westyn Stillhour was the Sunlit Son of the West, and loved dearly by its people.


    A song sparrow chittered gayly in the treeline south of her. What was there to sing about? A boy was dead for being touched by a plagued mind, for hearing the screams of a woman who did not exist, by the hand of her lord father. The same hand that threatened to warp around the neck of her dream and choke it to death. Wrena was numb to the cold around her. The idea of going back to the keep and fumbling through her needlework was torture. The entire party present at the holdfast that morning had moved on, she could hear the men laughing and joking ahead of her. All had quickly washed their hands and conscience of the death of a young lad whose only crime was hearing the cries of an imagined woman from the Stillwood. For a madness that could not be escaped. Her feet felt heavy in the sludge and she fell behind the retinue.


    ¡°Come, little sister,¡± Wes said. He had been yards ahead but now stood right in front of her.


    ¡°How old was Higrin, Wes?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Ah, so that¡¯s what troubles you.¡±


    ¡°No¡ªwell, yes¡ªbut I don¡¯t think he was lying. I think his mind was ill. I don¡¯t know that he could have helped it. He was only trying to do the right thing. Was killing him necessary?¡±


    ¡°If what you think is true, which it very well may be, do you think he would have a normal or easy life?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­.I don¡¯t know. Is it our right to choose?¡± That was the question that burdened her most.


    ¡°It is when it impacts the safety and stability of Westermin,¡± Wes responded.


    ¡°Why not remove him from the garrison then? He was a boy, not a monster.¡±


    ¡°Aye. Just a boy,¡± Wes agreed. ¡°Madness can spread throughout the lordship and fester in the minds of others in its wake. Not to mention the consequences of a soft hand for the crime of desertion. What you propose could jeopardize the stability of Westermin, Wrena. If Father were to let that boy go and pardon him, what precedent would that set for other would-be deserters? Deserters are the most dangerous lot. A man who knows his life is already forfeit if caught has ripped free from the leash that tethers him to honor.¡±


    ¡°That is if you believe a plagued mind is contagious,¡± she muttered under her breath. She had no retort to what happens to a man who¡¯s no longer bound to duty or honor, that line of reasoning was a stranger to her.


    ¡°Speak with Vitasan Marsun on it if you don¡¯t believe me. I¡¯m sure he can illuminate the finer workings of brain tempers for you to better understand. You still have much learning to do before you presume enlightened intelligence amongst men, little harpy,¡± he said with a wink. ¡°Now come, before Father realizes we¡¯ve dallied and begs the dinna to double your needlework time. Gods know that would be enough to bring the plague to your mind.¡±


    Wrena groaned. Wes was right, she was too young to pretend she understood madness. She was not a Vitasan. She wasn¡¯t even grown. The only way her lord father and Vitasan Marsun had even compelled her to learn to read was through war texts and the histories of Ileth¡¯s knights. But that morning felt like an injustice for the boy. It didn¡¯t sit right in her gut. The thoughts persisted as mud clung to her dress¡¯s hem during the walk back to the castle. The two-mile journey felt unending, her thoughts and mud weighing heavy on her. Towering oaks of the Stillwood came to focus as she crested the hill leading down to the village proper. The forest backed Westermin to the south while rolling grassy plains outlined the northern and eastern sides. To the west, the Cliffs of Unrest dropped two thousand feet to the shores of the Quiet Sea. She trotted down the rest of the gnoll to catch up with her brother making his way through the village that lay between the northern wild hills and their castle.


    Crisp and clean winter wind of the plain turned to steamy air laden with damp hay, animal refuse, spices, and fresh loaves being pulled from ovens. Mothers calling for their children, vendors shouting prices for wares and food items, goats bleating and pigs grunting were a familiar and synchronous choir in her ear as she ventured through the village. She wound her way toward the northern gate entrance of Westermin¡¯s grounds where the blazing forges of their smithy sat just inside. Still far off, Wes¡¯s laugh sounded in her ear as he spoke with Arlo, the blacksmith apprentice. As they came into view, Arlo was covered in soot as usual, his mop of thick blond curls damp and sticking to his forehead from the constant proximity to the swelter of the smithy. A leather apron covered the treated black woolen trousers and tunic he wore that was a stitch too small for the growth of his muscles underneath. He had a ready smile, and always let Wrena swing the test blades he¡¯d forged. She was not one to fancy boys, but if she had to it may as well be a craftsman of her one true love¡ªswords. Arlo noticed her approaching.


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    ¡°Lady Wrena!¡± He called. ¡°I made you something.¡±


    ¡°You made her something, did you?¡± Wes cocked an eyebrow.


    ¡°Aye. The best tiny blade in all of Ileth, I dare say,¡± Arlo said.


    Wrena squealed with excitement as she came up to them. ¡°A blade! To keep?¡±


    ¡°That is if Lord and Lady Stillhour don¡¯t find it, I reckon,¡± Arlo said.


    ¡°Oh, mate, you shouldn¡¯t have done this. I¡¯ll be to blame!¡± Wes protested.


    Wrena swatted Wes on the arm. ¡°They won¡¯t find it, so stop your whining.¡±


    She hopped from foot to foot, eager for the secret gift Arlo was digging for in the back of the smithy. Soon enough, Arlo reappeared from the side store room where he had most likely hidden it to ensure Fin Smith¡ªWestermin¡¯s Master Blacksmith¡ªdidn¡¯t find it. Her anticipation couldn¡¯t handle the slowness of his gait so she ran to meet him as he shut the door to the store room. In his hand was a sleek two-palm-length throwing dagger. It was plain, but the shine of it drew a gasp from her.


    ¡°Arlo, this isn¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°Aye, m¡¯lady,¡± Arlo said. A proud grin crossed his lips. ¡°Kleonese steel. Just like a Heritage Blade. Without the ancestral spell-cast runes and lightmage¡¯s kiss, of course. But the steel is of Silence all the same.¡±


    ¡°What¡­how¡­¡± Wrena was at a loss for words.


    ¡°I saved all of the shavings from Silence each time she was brought to Lucio for sharpening over the last two years, and got a nice sized bit off¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ho, now!¡± Wes cut in. ¡°No need to get into the thorny details of it. A blade¡¯s a blade, after all.¡±


    Wrena shifted her eyes warily from one boy to the other. She could push, but that may end up costing her the knife. Better not to press. For now. ¡°I won¡¯t bite the hand that feeds me. May I?¡± She held out her left hand and wiggled her fingers. Icy cold met the warmth of her palm. She was truly holding Kleonese steel¡ªthe faintest vibration tickling her palm affirmed it. Arlo took the blade, promising it was just to show her after she tried to snatch it back, and set her index finger out front then rested the middle of the knife across the tip of her finger. Its balance was faultless, evenly weighed on each side.


    Wes let out an appreciative whistle. ¡°You¡¯ve outdone yourself, Arlo. Soon you¡¯ll be taking over for Fin.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, Arlo, this is everything to me,¡± emotion bobbed in Wrena¡¯s throat. ¡°I don¡¯t know how I could ever repay you for such kindness.¡±


    Arlo looked as if he was shrinking under the weight of the praise. He smiled with his eyes cast down and his shoulders slouched as if her gratitude boasted the weight of a dragon. The poor boy wasn¡¯t used to so much. Fin was a fair, but brutal master to apprentice under, and Arlo had grown up in the Dorsey orphanage where affection and care were as rare as the metal in her hand. At ten he¡¯d left the eastern kingdom to find a smithy to train under, and tales of House Stillhour¡¯s Master Blacksmith in Westermin had prompted him to make the two-month trek to appeal to Fin. It had taken Arlo another six months of showing up at the forge before he arrived each morning for Fin to accept to apprentice him. He had been learning under him for the past four years now. The older man came across as a severe old codger, but he had a soft heart underneath it all. Wrena wondered if working in the inferno of the smithy day in and day out did that to a person¡ªthat they¡¯d become the iron or steel that they wrought. Fin was warm enough to her, though, thankfully.


    ¡°It was no trouble, m¡¯lady,¡± Arlo said as he shuffled nervously. ¡°Do you want to learn how to throw it?¡±


    ¡°Oh, gods, yes, ¡° she breathed out, ¡°but I¡¯m already so late for my lessons with Dinna Lestreyne. I¡¯ll try to come back here around three hours past midday and see if you¡¯re available.¡±


    ¡°All right, lady Wrena and lord Westyn. Fair tidings ''till then,¡± Arlo said as he gave a mock bow. Wes and Wrena shared a joint chuckle then raced the rest of the way to the main keep.


    The rearing onyx griffin holding the scales of justice in its fierce fore-claws folded over itself in waves on the golden banner of House Stillhour sitting atop the central tower of the moss-adorned keep. The large flag flapped a cheerful homecoming to her and her brother as they entered the courtyard. House Stillhour¡¯s Master Armsman, Lucio, and lesser armorers were hard at work on Silence and other weapon and armor repairs at the base of the armory gatehouse in front of them from where they entered the courtyard. Wrena loved the sound of the blade scraping in a rhythm on a whetstone and the clang of worked metal that rang out from one of her favorite places in the castle''s grounds. Familiar men of the Westermin garrison called out greetings to the little lord and lady of the house. Many smiled and greeted Wes by name with a slap on his back. He had naturally befriended all fifty men regularly on duty during the day. He was fast to remember the name and subtle details of the people he met, causing the men-at-arms, the bannermen of the surrounding vassals and strongholds, and most everyone in the westlands to favor the Sunlit Son. A small corner in Wrena¡¯s heart envied his comfort with smallfolk and noble folk alike. An even larger space envied his being born a man and heir of House Stillhour. But she loved him fiercely and buried those ill-mannered feelings, for he, along with Lori, trained her in the skill of the sword when they could.


    To look at their natural companionship one would assume they were the twins of the family. Many incidentally did, despite their two-year gap in birth. Wes didn¡¯t spend as much time with his twin sister. Neta was the living breathing mold of the perfect noble lady. She excelled in most all feminine arts, whereas Wrena was a pig in a maze with a needle and thread and her etiquette lessons. Their lady mother seemed to partake in everything but understanding Wrena¡¯s love of knighthood and honor, her mouth opening to admonish more often than to praise. Praise seemed to be reserved for docile and pure-of-heart Neta. She was adept in needlework, etiquette, dance, and the Hrishelli language of the western realm across the Quiet Sea. She was also accomplished in playing the harp and the viol. In the teeth of their many differences, Wrena could not be too sour with her sister. With at least one female success and with Neta being older, that allowed room¡ªdiminutive room though it may be¡ªfor her to slash a new and exhilarating path forward. If the torchbearer¡¯s light was on her sister succeeding in securing a favorable marriage, Wrena could theoretically glide through the shadows and pursue knighthood in earnest.


    Lady Joenn Stillhour, however, had hands enough for two torches.


    ¡°Wrena Stillhour,¡± her lady mother said, her arms crossed against her slender frame. The gold of her waist-length hair was pinned half back and muted in the cloud cover of the morning, though it still shined in a way uncommon to the westlands. Her grey woolen dress was layered with an emerald top coat with a golden and ringed clasp from which a charm of a dove dangled. The sleeves draped like raindrops at her delicate wrists and flared in billows at her hidden feet. Everything about Lady Joenn spoke of grace. Her face was another story, it spoke of the lioness in her. And Wrena knew that look; reprimands for her absence were inward bound.


    ¡°Please do me the honor of telling me truthfully where you have been off to this morning. Imagine my shock when Dinna Lestreyne relayed that when you were not in the solar with Neta, she went to your bed chambers to fetch you and you were not there either. Now you come traipsing in the courtyard with your brother, covered in filth and hair mussed like a brambleweed.¡±


    ¡°Good morning, Mother,¡± Wrena said, her voice light and proper in an attempt to defuse her lady mother¡¯s admonishments. ¡°You see, there was a,¡± ¡ªwhat could she say to get herself out of this mess? She scrambled for a new excuse¡ª¡°a family that has been faring poorly this winter. They have six children to feed and the father died. Tragic death, really. He¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, Wrena.¡± Her lady mother tilted her head and placed two fingers against her temples. ¡°If you¡¯re going to weave falsehoods, at least make them somewhat believable. I know where your father and brother were this morning. It¡¯s a fair assumption that you found your way there, too. I may have been born during winter but I was not born this winter, child,¡± Lady Joenn said, the exasperation in her voice as clear and chilling as the morning¡¯s air. ¡°You will go to the solar immediately and begin your needlework. And Westyn, I assume your lord father will handle your part in this if he hasn¡¯t already. But do not mistake me for an ignorant. As heir to House Stillhour, you have a duty, even now, to your sisters to do right by them and model their path. Do not steer this house to ruin.¡±


    Wes kept his head held high. ¡°Yes, Mother.¡±


    ¡°Now, off, the both of you,¡± their lady mother said. ¡°And Wrena, wash up and put on a fresh dress. Dinna Lestreyne will have a fit if you soil the cloth and thread.¡±


    ?


    Everything was crooked and wobbled. Damn that needle and thread to the unknown. Wrena sighed and looked up at the stone ceiling. Her face relaxed, the ache in her brow easing from the furrow of concentration she had held for the past hour. If the unknown realms existed, surely that room was one of them. The Stranger and his minions placed her in purgatory every day for hours and hours there. Without the haunt of her required work in the solar, the chamber was quite comfortable and inviting, however. Tapestries woven and embroidered by the ancestral ladies of House Stillhour adorned the walls. Scenes of famed hunts, honorific deeds, and grand feasts of their house gifted vibrancy and color to the space. The family¡¯s private sitting chamber boasted a large hearth surrounded by four supple leather winged chairs and two settees, each draped with sable and fox furs for added warmth in the mild westlands winters.


    In the chair to Wrena¡¯s right, Neta chatted contentedly with her friends as she worked. She didn¡¯t need to look over at Neta''s project to know that it was perfect. Everything Neta touched seemed to turn to gold. Dinna Lestreyne called her hands delicate and soft, often cooing about how her needlework was as beautiful as the artist¡¯s face. It was true that Neta had been blessed with the lion¡¯s share of beauty in the family, taking greatly after their lady mother. She had Lady Joenn¡¯s vibrant golden hair and high cheekbones and rose petal lips, but held their lord father¡¯s ice-blue eyes. As she had blossomed in her entrance to womanhood, her lovely fair face was known to make war-hardened men weepy and soft. The dinna¡¯s glowing praise did not often make it Wrena¡¯s way. Once, Dinna Lestreyne had compared her hands to warhammers. That had made Wrena smile, which had earned her a swat on her scrutinized hands.


    She studied her work again, looking for some way to salvage it. She deemed it a lost cause and set the needle down. Neta, Lissa Wilburn, and Elynor Case were whispering in conspiring tones, stooping their bodies towards one another from where they each sat. Wrena glanced furtively around the room and noted that the dinna was absent. Maybe she could slip out and go to the yard to watch the boys practice before she went to meet Arlo.


    ¡°Where are you going, eunuch?¡± Lissa asked her. The girl had a face like a rat that twitched in contempt just the same as one sniffing out rotten meat. The red fire of her hair matched the temper of her soul, which seemed appropriate to Wrena. She was the fifth-born child and sole daughter of House Wilburn, vassal to House Stillhour. As the only girl in her family¡ªher mother having died in childbirth to her sixth son¡ªshe often spent time in Westermin claiming to see her older brother, Lori, who was a ward of House Stillhour. In truth, Neta was Lissa¡¯s closest friend and companion and she loathed being surrounded by only men at House Wilburn. But the girl was cruel to Wrena. A few years ago, Lissa had started calling her a eunuch, saying that she was secretly an ugly sexless little man due to her proclivity towards masculine arts. Wrena had dubbed her the Rat of Westermin in her mind.


    ¡°Please stop calling her that, Lissa,¡± Neta said.


    ¡°I don¡¯t need your protection,¡± Wrena grumbled. She sank back down into the settee. There was no use in trying to leave when the attention was on her. ¡°What were you all whispering about, anyway?¡±


    Elynor looked up at her from where she sat at the hearth''s edge with her doe-like grey eyes. The daughter of Ser Eviyn Case, Westermin¡¯s master-at-arms, had a sweet face framed by chestnut ringlets and a mild temper. Neta and Wrena referred to her as Ely the Sweet after her kindly spirit and pleasant company in the castle¡¯s cold halls. Of all the girls in Westermin, Wrena favored sweet Ely, despite her affiliation with the Rat. Elynor looked about the room, likely ensuring the dinna¡¯s continued absence. ¡°We were talking of the news from the Crownland,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°The rumors, you mean,¡± Neta corrected. ¡°The news of the babe being born is old, even Wrena who never pays attention to court and house standings knows of that. The color of its hair, though, is what spreads across Ileth like a storm.¡±


    ¡°The color of the baby¡¯s hair? Surely it¡¯s black like that of the king¡¯s and Princess Maddelyn¡¯s,¡± Wrena asked with slight interest. As long as it kept her from her needlework.


    The Rat snorted. ¡°Do you think we would be discussing the baby¡¯s hair if it were simply black, lady Wrena?¡± She said Wrena¡¯s title like it was a disease and turned up her nose.


    Neta gave her friend a warning look. She had a difficult time being dominant even if circumstances allowed her, but she did not tolerate discourtesy. Lissa crossed her spindly arms and rolled her muddy green eyes, sitting back in her chair. The Rat was checked. Wrena allowed a small lift to the corners of her mouth.


    ¡°Why so much dramatics around a little hair color? Out with it,¡± Wrena said.


    Elynor leaned in closer towards Wrena¡¯s legs, her hands holding each other in front of her chest. ¡°The baby¡¯s hair is silver!¡±


    Confusion blanketed Wrena¡¯s face. Silver? But that would mean¡­


    ¡°I see your brain is struggling to work it out, so let me help you. That further cements the rumors of Ser Fenner and Queen Priar,¡± the Rat said.


    ¡°But the queen and baby have not ended their seclusion, how can we know the color of his hair?¡± Wrena asked.


    ¡°Stewards and servants talk just like the rest of us, I suppose,¡± Neta replied. ¡°I don¡¯t know that I¡¯ll believe it until the viewing procession and rites of knowing happen. These whispers of the queen and Ser Fenner have been taking on wilder lives each time they pass lips. I worry for the knight when they reach the king¡¯s ears. He¡¯s so beautiful. It would be a shame for him to die such an ignoble death.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t his lord father the Justiciar of the North, Lord Cyril Cressane?¡± Wrena asked. She was terrible at remembering anything not involving knights and great battles, but she hadn¡¯t recalled hearing of the northern heir becoming a knight. She really ought to pay better attention to court gossip.


    ¡°Obviously,¡± Lissa said.


    Wrena shot the Rat with a threatening glance. ¡°I¡¯m asking because I thought he was the only heir to House Cressane. They¡¯re the ruling house of the North, how was he able to become a knight?¡±


    ¡°Who knows what goes on in that fox den,¡± Elynor shivered. ¡°I hear they¡¯re all conniving savages who slit their bastard¡¯s throats when they sleep in the cradle.¡±


    ¡°Miss Elynor!¡± Dinna Lestreyne said aghast as she shut the door to the solar. ¡°What troublesome talk for ladies and young girls. And to not even have the decency to work your needles while you gossip like smallfolk.¡±


    Silence fell in the chamber as all four girls quickly picked up their projects and resumed their work. Wrena was dismayed to find that her thread had slipped the needle. Stranger¡¯s hells, she loathed threading the needle. A shadow fell over her lap as the dinna approached from behind the settee. The reproving click of her tongue filled Wrena¡¯s ears as she tried in vain to get the thread tip through the eye.


    ¡°Wrena, Wrena, Wrena,¡± Dinna Lestreyne said in dissatisfaction as she surveyed Wrena¡¯s stitches. ¡°These are horrendous, child. Crooked, wobbled, loose. Take them all out and try again.¡±


    She moved over to look at Neta''s. ¡°Absolutely exquisite as usual, my Lady Neta. Such beautiful foxglove flowers you¡¯ve crafted.¡±


    Tears welled in Wrena¡¯s eyes. She did not want to bring shame to her family, but she hadn¡¯t the first clue how to mold herself into the perfect lady like her sister. She gazed glumly at her sister and her friends who each had neat rows and cross-works of perfect stitches. The thread finally acceded to the eye of the needle. Wrena ripped out all of her disastrous stitches and tried not to think about how the red reminded her of Higrin Falsen¡¯s head falling to the ground.

 TWO: Little Harpy

    ¡°That was fairly close that time, Wrena!¡± Lori yelled out from his spot in the stillwood trees nine meters from the group. He pulled the knife from the ground and brushed off the dirt with his moleskin gloves.


    ¡°Quite right, if the target was on the ground,¡± Wes laughed.


    ¡°I say she¡¯s doing right well,¡± beamed Arlo.


    ¡°Shove off, Wes. You couldn¡¯t hit the target if it was a pair of golden teats an inch from your face,¡± Wrena said. Wes stared slack-jawed at his sister as the other boys¡¯ laughter played through the trees.


    She heaved a great sigh. ¡°I¡¯m no good at this, Arlo.¡±


    ¡°You know, I said the same thing to myself when I started at the smithy. But Master Fin kept pushing me and I¡¯m blessed for it. I wouldn¡¯t have been able to even dream of making you that knife if I hadn¡¯t kept at it.¡± Arlo said. He had such a kind look in his eye it made Wrena resolved to try again.


    Before dawn, Wes had pulled Wrena out of bed and told her to dress in her trousers. They¡¯d ventured under the quiet yawn of the moon¡¯s surrender to morning to the Stillwood with Lori in tow. Arlo had been at the entrance of the south gate waiting for them with his usual toothy grin and hopping with excitement. He had brought more knives to practice throwing, ten in all. The only thing that gave Wrena hope was that her brother and Lori were not skilled at throwing knives either. Honestly, they were just as poor at it as she was. The group had been practicing their throws for the past hour in the dim light of dawn with only a few marks landed on the swath of leather padding tied to a large stillwood tree.


    The drowsy appearance of the sun woke the sounds of the forest; the chatter and skitter of birds and other woodland creatures that called the Stillwood their home. The Stillwood forest, homonymous of the trees that inhabited it, was comprised of monstrous trees as old as the ten thousand year old realm, maybe even older Vitasan Marsun often said. With a deep black bark that towered up to a canopy of golden leaves in the height of summer, to tread under the cover of its leaves was to walk closest to the known gods in their honeyed realm, it was said. The sun spilling through the gilded canopy cast an ethereal glow to the air, and with the outstretch of your arm, your hands could touch the golden rays of the heavens. As a small child, the stillwoods had inspired awe and a sense of panic in Wrena. The expanse of their trunks was too wide for her father to wrap his larger-than-life arms around, and with such a blackness to them, she worried if she fell into it she would be sucked to the unknown. Their limbs bare in the winter as it was and at the bold age of twelve, the trees were not as foreboding to her. The air was not golden today, for the leaves of last year and the thousands of years before littered the forest floor underfoot and the light shined uninterrupted¡ªits normal spirited air laid to rest for the winter season.


    Lori walked up with all of the slender blades in his arms for another round. Arlo offered to be the fetchman this time, so Wes, Wrena, and Lori practiced their throwing stances.


    ¡°You should probably hold the blade like so, Wes,¡± Lori said. He pinched the pointed tip of the blade between his index and pollex fingers.


    ¡°Oh? And how would you know how to hold it?¡± Wes asked. ¡°You realize we¡¯ve both received the same training, none of which included how to hold daggers for throwing, you twat.¡±


    Wrena chuckled. ¡°Should we have invited Ser Eviyn to train us this morning?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Lori said, his voice wary. ¡°He¡¯s been growing strange about you joining. I believe your lord father may have had a talking to him.¡±


    ¡°He loves Wrena like a daughter¡ªer¡ªor perhaps more like a son since he sometimes entertains her swordplay,¡± Wes said. ¡°So, I think he may be agreeable if we were in the Stillwood like this and not the yard.¡± The end of his sentence sounded more like a question than a statement.


    ¡°Have you heard of the wandering sword who is staying at the inn in Moss Shire?¡± Lori asked Wes.


    ¡°Aye,¡± Wes replied. ¡°From Brunyre the other day, I believe. What¡¯s he have to do with anything?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Lori started, ¡°I¡¯m wondering if he would help our little harpy, here.¡±


    Wes and Wrena were silent as they looked at each other, then both burst into laughter.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious, Lori,¡± Wrena said.


    ¡°What are you lot waiting for? I haven¡¯t got all morning!¡± Arlo called out from the target.


    Lori ignored Arlo¡¯s call and leaned in toward Wes. ¡°Listen here, I know it sounds bloody ridiculous¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re correct on that,¡± Wes cut in.


    ¡°¡ªbut no one knows our Wrena like the three of us. She¡¯ll never make it as a lady wife cooped up in a keep managing the house, rearing children, and hosting lords¡ªno offense meant, Wrena,¡± he paused. ¡°It¡¯s our duty to help her, lord Westyn.¡±


    Addressing Wes with his honorific conveyed the seriousness with which he spoke. When the four of them were all alone together such courtesies were dropped and they were simply childhood friends. The Stillhour children saw him more as an older brother than the ward that he was, and Wrena knew Lorens Wilburn as anything but a serious boy. Every memory of him was him smiling and chatting animatedly to everyone, telling wild tales, and flirting with the women of Westermin. He was the dance of a merry flame in the hearth, in spirit and the likeness of his auburn hair. He had been a ward of House Stillhour for all of Wrena¡¯s life, having come to their house after the death of his lady mother when he was three years old¡ªthe same year Wrena was born. Lord Wilburn had sent his youngest children to be wards at various westlands houses while mourning the loss of his lady wife. He had been unable to care for all seven of his children without her, so had parted with the youngest three aside from his only daughter, Lissa, the Rat. Would that he had shipped her off to the Hrishelli Isles or the deserted Nordal continents so Wrena never became acquainted with such a loathsome creature.


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    Lori sounded close to desperate to make his case for her and this wandering sword, though she had no clue why. The tension in his jaw conveyed an anxiety he wished to remain hidden beneath the surface. There was something he wasn¡¯t saying. Wrena was about to ask as much when Arlo came up to the group begging answers for their hiatus in practicing.


    ¡°We were being lulled to sleep by Lori¡¯s chatter, that¡¯s all, Arlo,¡± Wes said. The look in Wes¡¯s eye as he stared at the ward conveyed that Lori¡¯s odd demeanor was also troubling him.


    ¡°Right¡ªwell, I should be off now, sadly. Sun¡¯s fully crested and Master Fin will have my head if I¡¯m late again,¡± Arlo said.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Wrena said and inclined her head to Arlo. ¡°Thank you again for bringing the practice knives. Say hello to Master Fin for me, please.¡±


    Arlo nodded his head in reply. He flashed a sheepish smile and retrieved the knives from Lori, then darted off through the stillwoods.


    ¡°He¡¯s smitten with you, you know,¡± Wes said.


    Wrena wrinkled her face. She, of course, knew that Arlo favored her. All of Westermin seemed to, if Wrena¡¯s observations were correct¡ªwhich they were more often than not. Romance and love did not play a role in her interests, heedless of how kind or handsome a boy was. And Arlo Smith was very handsome and kind, even for a lowborn craftsman. She was far too young to be expected to think of these things yet. And she was grateful for that. Romance, courtship, beautiful and strong knights dueling for a lady¡¯s hand were all Neta seemed to care for. Though Wrena recalled that Neta had always had those interests regardless of her age. Perhaps aspiring for love was the key to being the perfect lady, thus why Wrena was such a wretched one. She had no dreams of being wooed by a prince or a knight kissing her warhammer hands and begging to wed her.


    ¡°What do you propose she do about it?¡± Lori asked. ¡°He¡¯s a good lad, he knows his place. He won¡¯t be trouble to Wrena.¡±


    ¡°Aye, I have no doubt about that. I just find it¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, shut up, Wes!¡± Wrena cried. Heat blossomed in her cheeks and she quickened her pace to be ahead of the boys. It was bad enough that everyone knew about it, worse still that now they spoke to her about it. She¡¯d never imagined this would be an issue for her. Wrena could not boast the graceful beauty of her sister and had been made aware of that fact by Dinna Lestreyne and the boys when they were younger and cruel, and, of course, the Rat. She had taken more after her lord father but with hair the color of sandy yarrow plumes and a more slender jaw. Her eyes were the strangest of the four children, more like a sea storm than the glacial blue the rest of them possessed. Granny Clem had said her eyes were more akin to the grey eyes of the North than the westlands. She had cried when Granny Clem first told her that at eight years old, thinking she wasn¡¯t a true born Stillhour but a ward like the Rat claimed. While she knew she wasn¡¯t a breathtaking beauty, she didn¡¯t find herself horribly ugly, though rather small for one of her lineage. Those things were better left to other people to worry about, she thought. Her looks didn¡¯t matter if she never planned to use them for gain.


    Lori caught up to her and placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. ¡°He¡¯s just being a big brother. Don¡¯t mind him.¡±


    Wrena let the silence stretch between them as they walked.


    When the expanse of Westermin filled the line of the horizon, Wrena asked, ¡°Why were you so insistent on the sellsword in the Stillwood?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a free sword,¡± Lori corrected, ¡°but I suppose it¡¯s because I wish for you to have the proper tutelage to fulfill your Known Calling.¡±


    ¡°Ladies don¡¯t have Known Callings,¡± Wrena said. ¡°It¡¯s just a stupid dream.¡±


    ¡°Stop that,¡± Lori whirled on her, his face stern. ¡°Don¡¯t let their words poison your well, Wrena. You¡¯re the bravest person I know¡ªlord or lady. I see you standing up for Arlo and other lowborn children in the village against cruel men when no one else will. Wes told me about that young guard yesterday, how you couldn¡¯t bear the thought that he had to die simply for being mad. And remember that time you climbed up the highest ironwood on the castle grounds to save that sparrow whose wing had broken in the branches? You were shaking like a leaf the entire time but continued despite it to save that little bird. That is who you are. You¡¯re a protector and a savior, Wrena. The Stranger¡¯s hells with your sex; being a knight is your bloody Calling.¡±


    She cast her eyes down, unsure how to respond to the conviction in his voice.


    ¡°Then why do you and Wes call me little harpy?¡± She finally asked. The way he¡¯d just spoken of her made her feel more like a dove. A harpy was a bird of war and wrath and vengeance, not the peace, innocence, and salvation of the dove. She¡¯d never asked why they called her that, assuming it was because she was argumentative and brash, often flying into danger and the unknown with little care for the consequences.


    Lori smiled at her and tipped his head to the side. ¡°I believe that¡¯s something you¡¯ll discover when your feet tread the right path. And right now, that path is finding a way to train with the sword¡ªand that little knife¡ªany way you can.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± Wes puffed out as he put his hands on his knees and breathed heavily. The leather target pad laid at his feet where it had dropped after his dash. He must have turned back to grab it then ran to catch up with them at the gate. ¡°I think that wandering sword may be a prime idea, Lori. So may the whole of Westermin¡ªI heard you yelling your case to Wrena from easily a mile out.¡±


    Lori chuckled. ¡°I¡¯m pleased you¡¯ve acquiesced to my sentiments on the matter,¡± he said as he looked behind him into the grounds and rubbed the back of his neck. ¡°Because he may or may not already be here.¡±


    ¡°What!¡± Wrena and Wes cried in unison.


    ¡°How are we going to explain a wandering sword to our lord father? How did he even get past the bloody gates?¡± Wes said.


    ¡°I told Brunyre he was coming, naturally,¡± Lori said. ¡°He¡¯s on the eastern gate watch today, thank the known and forgotten gods.¡±


    ¡°And Father?¡± Wrena asked. She jittered with excitement and apprehension. A trainer. For her. The dinna and Neta would lose their heads. Her lady mother might rap the rod across her hands herself. She couldn¡¯t think on what would happen if someone found out. Her mind was whirling like wine in a goblet.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a solution to that yet, but I¡¯m working on it. Wes will help me,¡± Lori said.


    ¡°Oh, of course,¡± Wes said. ¡°Wes will help. Wes doesn¡¯t have burden enough being the heir to the ruling house of the West.  He has all the time in the realm to help Lori untangle his messes.¡±


    ¡°Where is he?¡± Wrena asked.


    ¡°I requested him to wait in the guest keep. Shall we go introduce ourselves formally, little harpy?¡±


    ¡°Aye, I think we shall, Lord Lori,¡± Wrena smiled.

 THREE: The Torment of Grimstone Crag

    ¡°Stranger¡¯s hells,¡± the man cursed. ¡°You didn¡¯t say it was to be the bloody daughter of Terryn Stillhour.¡±


    The man was tall and broad, muscled like a bull, filling most of the cramped quarters of the bare chamber. A brutal white scar slashed across travel-hardened and pale skin covered in dirt from just beneath the lower lashes of his left eye, down across his lips, and then ended somewhere on the right side of his chin. Half of the path of the scar was walled by a thick beard resembling black and steel wire that covered most of his face and neck. His eyes were hard on Lori and her, two blood rubies shining violently in the torchlight. It appeared as though he had been traveling along the red road for many moons based on the state of his armor and lack of grooming. There was no identifying sigil on his breastplate or the black surcoat draped over the chair, and neither bore obvious house colors. This did not look like a standard wandering free sword she had ever seen. He looked far more menacing and feral.


    ¡°Aye,¡± Lori said. ¡°And you¡¯ll train her just the same.¡±


    ¡°Lori¡­¡± Wes choked out from behind her and Lori. Wrena saw tremors in the fist he had clenched at his side.


    ¡°Wine before talk,¡± the man said curtly. The three children of House Stillhour did not move. ¡°Now. Or I take my leave.¡±


    The three of them stumbled out of the small chamber into the sunlight of the courtyard. Wrena was all but gasping for air. She hadn¡¯t realized she was holding her breath the entire time they were in the room. Wes looked pale as he turned to face Lori. ¡°The fucking Torment, Lori?¡± He was shaking¡ªfrom anger or terror she did not know. ¡°That is who you bring for her? Where in the unknown realms is your head at? You¡¯ve brought a damned black knight to our keep!¡±


    Realization of what Wes had said about torment came over her. He was not talking about the feeling, but the near-legend of horror. The man inside their guest keep was the Torment of Grimstone Crag. And Lori had brought the unoathed beast right to their castle.


    ¡°I swear it on the known and forgotten gods, Wes, I didn¡¯t know who he was,¡± Lori said, his voice pained as he held his palms outstretched in front of him. ¡°I never laid eyes on him. I overheard the lads in the garrison talking of seeing a wandering sword at the alehouse, so I sent a dove beseeching his services and to train a young apprentice. Even so, we cannot be completely certain it is him.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m certain,¡± Wes said through his teeth. ¡°That scar and blood-soaked eyes tell me all I need to know.¡± Wrena had never seen him angry, and it frightened her to witness the Sunlit Son shake with fury towards their lifelong friend and heart-brother.


    ¡°He will take his leave by the time we finish our lessons today. And you will tell him so after bringing him his wine and a purse of coin. There will be no ill blood between House Stillhour and the bloody Torment of Grimstone Crag.¡±


    Wes stormed off towards the practice yard. Her eyes followed him, and the faintest movement caught in the corner of her eye. A quick, unassuming search of the area and Wrena spied Ser Eviyn standing in the shadows of the sheltered walkway above the yard. He had watched the feud unravel with his shrewd eyes. Fellow comrades and rivals alike whispered the gruesome and cunning tales of the Bloody Hawk around the hearth fire. On and off the field of battle his all-seeing eyes observed and tallied every score with a steady, cold patience. When he deemed the time right, his enemies would pay with their lives for whatever treachery his observations unveiled. Whether the deed called for the sword or not was not up for determination, as the Bloody Hawk only sought payment in blood. It wasn¡¯t mere blessed fortune that led him to be her lord father¡¯s master-at-arms, but also the brotherhood between the two. Ser Eviyn had been the ward of her lord grandfather, Merryn Stillhour, and remained faithful to their house through the Battle of Brothers and his knighthood shortly after. Most often, Wrena only saw him as Ser Eviyn, their stern but amicable master-at-arms who had played hiders-and-seeker with the Stillhour children in the yard, with the bushy black mustache and pale head free of hair. Where he stood hidden from unknowing eyes under the shroud of shadows, it was made aware to her that she now bore witness to the Bloody Hawk. Their business with the Torment would not stay secret from their lord father for long. She added Ser Eviyn to her mental list of people to contend with ¡ªa list that was swiftly becoming more difficult to manage with each passing day.


    ¡°I will get the wine and talk to the Torment, Lori,¡± Wrena said softly.


    ¡°Wrena, I honestly wasn¡¯t sure. Or maybe I hoped he wasn¡¯t, I don¡¯t know.¡± Lori shook his head. ¡°Either way, you shouldn¡¯t be with him alone.¡±


    ¡°Why, because I¡¯m a lady?¡± Wrena said as she poked his chest. ¡°I have my knife on me, I will be all right. You have mending to do with Wes, and Ser Eviyn has his eyes on you.¡±


    Lori worked his jaw, the battle of duties warring in his mind apparent on his face. He didn¡¯t want her to brave the Torment of Grimstone Crag alone, but also didn¡¯t want to face Ser Eviyn¡¯s usual method of punishment¡ªclimbing down and back up the Cliffs of Unrest on the thousands-of-years old ill-maintained Path of Pain. Wrena had thought to walk it once to see what all the fuss was about after the lads had come back weeping and complaining from their first encounter with the Path. When she saw the devilishly steep and winding pass stretch beneath where she stood at the edge of the cliffside, she had turned back. And she¡¯d never made light of it again.


    ¡°If that really is the Torment, I don¡¯t trust him. I¡¯d sooner face the Path than your death, ¡± Lord said with a wink.


    Lori split off on their way to the kitchens to tell Ser Eviyn that he would be late due to helping Wrena with a problem. That was one way to put it. Wrena entered the kitchens that sat on the northwest side of the castle and found Granny Clem sitting at the workbench with her grandson Jornyn on her lap in the pantry outside the main cooking area. She was peeling potatoes and talking amicably with Mourna, one of the scullions, and her young daughter, Lily. The smell of fresh loaves, onions, and garlic cloves filled her nostrils as she entered the limewashed chamber. White walls with high arched ceilings and wooden shelves and drawers gave the room an open and temperate air. She had loved the kitchens as a younger girl, having dreamt of becoming a baker before her eyes first laid on Silence outside of her sheath. Cold steel had taken the place of ground wheat and the warmth of the hearths, though she still took pleasure in coming to them.


    ¡°Lady Wrena,¡± Granny Clem said. ¡°What brings you to the kitchens, dear?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in need of a flagon of wine,¡± she replied. ¡°And discretion.¡±


    ¡°Bit early on in your life to develop such a thirst, my lady,¡± Granny Clem said. ¡°Will your guest also be in want of some bread?¡±


    ¡°We have a guest?¡± Wrena asked with feigned surprise. That was a quick one, she was getting better at that.


    That notion was quickly squashed like a beetle.


    ¡°That might have worked on your lady mother, but it won¡¯t work on me, child,¡± Granny Clem said. She handed two-year-old Jornyn over to Mourna who quickly took her and her daughter¡¯s leave. The sudden departure did not bode well for Wrena. With a quick inhale, the beloved crone of their family pushed herself up from the workbench. Joints cracked as she righted herself and inched her way towards the far end of the pantry cupboards where the ready-to-drink wine was kept waiting for its chance to jumble the minds of men.


    ¡°You needn¡¯t have gotten up, Granny Clem!¡± Wrena shrieked. She winced with each crack of her aged bones as she walked. ¡°I only needed to know where it was stored. Please, sit.¡±


    When the old woman made no move to heed her, she rushed to Granny Clem¡¯s side and offered a supporting arm. It was swatted away by gnarled hands. ¡°Bah! I chased you and your siblings around the great hall with these bones, I can certainly fetch some wine from across the chamber with them, child,¡± she chuckled.


    Stubborn old crone. Wrena grinned to herself at the fierce nature of the woman who¡¯d had a strong hand in rearing her¡ªwhich was no painless duty. Few in Westermin understood the wild heart that drummed in her chest, and fewer still had the means in which to temper it. Granny Clem was a woman cast-iron forged by the benevolent gods of the Stillwood, lending her formidable will and soft heart to the children of House Stillhour for four generations. The twisted, knurled hands speckled with dark spots and creased like rumpled silk had helped bring twelve Stillhour babes into the light of the world, cradled them by the hearth as she whispered stories of the faeries of the Stillwood, and issued due discipline. Muddled brown hair was long ago replaced with the white of a dove that crowned her head, and was rolled into a simple bun that was mainstay to her. She still wore the gold and black livery that marked her as a servant of House Stillhour, though she had long been retired. Her father had said once that Granny Clem was mythed to have been a great beauty when she first arrived at Westermin to become his lord grandfather¡¯s wet nurse. That was hard for Wrena to imagine when gazing at the withered and age-bent form in front of her. She did not enjoy imagining herself becoming an old woman, unable to climb the outside walls of the aviary tower, wield a sword, or ride a great destrier. However, advancing in years was not an honored privilege common to knights.


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    Granny Clem brought the flagon of wine to the far left counter that housed the castle''s bread and placed a day-old loaf in a basket with dried and salted venison. Arriving back at the table she bade Wrena to take a seat before she delivered the goods to the Torment. ¡°Now,¡± she began, ¡°I haven¡¯t a need of knowing why that black knight has taken up in our guest house. But I¡¯ve enough wits about me still to warn you of what a dangerous predicament you¡¯ve tangled yourself in.¡±


    Wrena stared at the waves of grain in the ash-colored ironwood table. Would that Lori hadn¡¯t brought the beast here and she never offered to resolve it. The Stranger take him and his ill-fortuned favors. Despite the dread she felt when considering the Torment, curiosity coursed through her like a cur on the hunt. ¡°What do you know of the Torment, Granny Clem?¡±


    The crone¡¯s gaze on her seemed aglow like the fires of the hearth around which she told her stories. ¡°They say the northlands house of Grimstone Crag has giant¡¯s blood running through their icy veins¡ªtall and broad and hale as the forgotten rulers of the Winnowing Peaks. Long ago, when the Nordal people crossed the Newkings Sea and found purchase on the eastern shores of Ileth, giants had reigned masters of this realm. The formidable natives of Ileth stood as tall as our wall around the fortress, their skin the hue of a storming sky and their eyes made of fire and blood. In a wave of fury and desperation for Ileth¡¯s fertile land, the mighty warrior Nordals took fate by the sword and decreed that all five kingdoms run red with the blood of the giants. Seeing the end of his kind in a divine dream from their gods, the king of the giants, Ruli¡¯aath the Wise, went under the cloak of starlight to beseech a compact between the sons of Norda and its clans. They favored the impregnable passes of the Winnowing Peaks to the north, and vowing to forever bend the knee to the Nordal king and lord of the known lands of Ileth, took ownership of that land for thousands of years until only whispers of their kind remained.


    ¡°That same blood is believed to run through the veins of the lords of Grimstone Crag. They are the descendants of Ruli¡¯aath the Wise and¡ªalong with our Stillwood and the creatures of the Stygian Wastes¡ªthey are the dying embers of the forgotten gods. They are a brutal and fearsome people, the most savage of the northlands houses. Who you know as the Torment was at one time a young child, not too unlike yourself. But the rearing of their little lords is a cruel and vicious affair that twists the souls and minds of their young, ensuring to breed the fiercest warriors and fighters in the realms when the duty calls. Prior to his renown, the Torment was known as Montayne Fiuress, third son of Lord Wyzn Fiuress of Grimstone Crag¡ª¡±


    ¡°Third son?¡± Wrena asked. ¡°Vitasan Marsun told me that House Fiuress only has two sons; Wycell the heir and his younger brother, Viktar.¡±


    ¡°Aye, and I was getting to that, girl.¡± Granny Clem chided. ¡°Vitasan Marsun did not speak in err as now there are, indeed, only two Fiuress sons recognized. The second-born son was cast out from the vassal house and declared forgotten to the family for the grave sin that Montayne committed. Even the descendants of brutes have lines they do not cross. ¡®What wicked wile did the young lord enact¡¯ you might be asking yourself, for I see the question ready to squeal like a burning kettle from your lips. Patience, child. There¡¯s art to a story, after all.


    ¡°Shortly after his eighteenth name day, his lady mother died under what the realm knew only as mysterious circumstances. The fearsome Lord Wyzn cast a shroud around the fortress, commanding absolute silence of his people on the matter of his second son and the mistress of the Crag. And yet, whispers of the manner of Lady Hermina Fiuress¡¯ death leaked and trickled in small streams down the Winnowing Peaks, spreading as ink in water throughout the five kingdoms. In those whispers the realm learned that Montayne Fiuress had thrown his lady mother from her favorite tower in their castle, the one now known as Starfell after her untimely death, laughing and howling in revelry as she plummeted ten thousand feet to her death. His lord father and his steward found him on the balcony of the turret, his eyes shining in the light of the full moon with a muted oath of chaos, covered in blood and laughing like the Stranger took his heart. There, with the stars above that his mother cherished as his witness, Montayne swore to forfeit the life of his brother, Wycell, along with every member of the house and vowed to be the torment of House Fiuress and Grimstone Crag until he was the last to draw breath. They cast him in the dungeons that night, though at dawn of the next day, his cell was found empty. Who had helped him, no one knew or gave tell of. The man has been a black knight since, wandering the realm, looking for a house to ally with him for the chance to sate his thirst for vengeance. But honorable lords will not openly have a black knight in their service for fear of ill repute and drawing on the wrath of the North.¡±


    ¡°But¡­why? Why kill his mother?¡± The thought of the unknown woman falling from the renowned heights of the Crag¡¯s Starfell tower made Wrena sick. What level of madness could drive a boy to inflict such an atrocity against his mother and vow to end his house, she did not know. The world felt darker with this knowledge, of learning what men without virtue are capable of.


    ¡°I suspect no one other than your guest would know the answer to that,¡± Granny Clem responded. ¡°I would advise you not to ask him¡ªit¡¯s said that mention of it sends him to fury and lends him the blackened hand of the Stranger.¡±


    Wrena nodded slowly and took all that she heard in. Going back to that small chamber and standing in the shadow of such a man turned her bowels to liquid. Thankfully, she would not be alone. But she did not think Lori would be enough to stay the Torment¡¯s hand if he did erupt. ¡°Thank you for your council, Granny Clem. I should be on my way, then¡­and wash my hands of our guest.¡±


    ¡°Wise choice, girl.¡±


    She had returned to peeling her potatoes. As though Wrena¡¯s chore was to send a letter on the wings of a dove from the aviary, and not release a harpy from within an adder pit. ¡°You won¡¯t tell Father, will you?¡± she asked. Fear of her lord father¡¯s disappointment rivaled her fear of facing the Torment.


    Granny Clem snickered. ¡°Oh, my sweet dove-winged child. If you think your Father lacks awareness of the goings on of his castle, your hopes of reaching that senseless dream you claw so blindly for are far lower than you¡¯d like. You¡¯re much too smart for that, lady Wrena, so act like it. You¡¯re of an age now, so put these childish ways behind you where they belong.¡±


    Heat spread through Wrena¡¯s cheeks and she clenched her jaw, barring it from a childish retort that climbed up from the fire that burned in her chest at Granny¡¯s insult. She snatched the basket and flagon from the table and stormed out of the kitchens. Her feet smacked across stone, and then the wet earth of the yard, anger snapping at her heels. No one in Westermin believed in her. Her lord father and lady mother, the servants, the guards, nasty Dinna Lestreyne, Ser Eviyn¡ªno one. She was looked at as a young and foolish girl, steadfast in her immaturity and refusing to accept the cup being passed to her as she comes of an age. She would not drink from that cup. Her tongue would shrivel up and fall from her mouth before she quenched her thirst and accepted the chains of a lady¡¯s duty. Let them laugh as they drown her in it. She would not yield.


    Blind with ire and shadowed by her thoughts, she had not seen Lori where he stood awaiting her near the entrance to the side yard where the guest house sat.


    ¡°What held you so¡­Wrena, what¡¯s the matter?¡± Lori asked, changing course when he saw the fierceness of her gait and the redness of her face.


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± she bit out. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±


    ¡°All right¡­are you sure there¡¯s nothing¡ª¡±


    ¡°I said it¡¯s nothing,¡± she said. She released a shaky breath. It felt hot on her tongue. ¡°I don¡¯t wish to speak on it, Lori.¡±


    ¡°I will do this alone, you need not enter the harpy nest with me,¡± he said and gave her a lopsided reassuring smile.


    ¡°But I¡¯m a harpy, remember?¡± She forced a smirk back. There wasn¡¯t ¡®no one¡¯ who believed in her in Westermin, really. There was Lori, with his hair made of fire and his heart brimming with faith in her.


    ¡°Aye,¡± he said and tousled her hair. ¡°That you are, my lady. Let¡¯s be on with it, then.¡± They both looked to the plain, wooden door that presently shielded them from the Torment of Grimstone Crag. Nothing to do but open it. Yet there they both stood, mute¡ªtwo minds lost in contemplation of what would happen when that barrier was removed.


    He¡¯s only a man, Wrena reminded herself. Only a man renowned for his horrid nature and fondness of torture. She threw up a wall to those thoughts and turned the knob of the door, pushing it open.


    In the modest ironwood chair in the back right corner of the chamber sat not the overbearing form of the Torment, but an imposing man nonetheless¡ªcrowned by honey and wheat hair streaked with white, bearing a strong boxy jaw lined with a neatly trimmed beard of sand and snow, and eyes that sparkled the same shade of blue as the Quiet Sea beneath them.


    The man that sat before the two was Wrena¡¯s lord father, Lord Terryn Stillhour of Westermin.

 FOUR: Sandwalking Sword

    The silence was deafening. Crackles of the small torchlight were the only indicator that there was life in the room. Wrena fought to keep herself from breaking the prolonged stretch of it. This was her lord father¡¯s way. A man who let the air speak for him. She had seen him do this with others during the westlands lord''s assembly¡ªthe Summit¡ªwhen she¡¯d spied on one a few months ago from a moon window on the roof of the great hall. Her father had told his children that weaker men broke beneath such silence. That a man who bore guilt or ill intentions in his heart could not handle the weight of it. The bulk of the weight was in his gaze, Wrena now realized. It was severe, cold as the Quiet Sea that sprawled beyond their shores. As though ice was splicing through her thoughts, like he could read them if he stared long enough. All the while the firelight of the small chamber pranced and flitted in his eyes¡ªa dance of fire and ice. To be on the receiving end of it was unendurable. She was close to giving in, her tongue ached with the burden of her voice pounding on it for release.


    The Path is Bright, Words of House Glidehave, ruling house of the South. A shining sun and silver sword, she busied her mind on anything other than the elemental storm in her father¡¯s eyes. Let the Harpies Come, Words of House Cressane, ruling house of the North. A fox with a dove in its mouth. If Lori was as close as she was to crumbling she didn¡¯t know, she couldn¡¯t spare a glance. But it was just as difficult to keep her eyes forward.


    ¡°I would speak with my daughter alone,¡± he finally said.


    A puff of air escaped Lori¡¯s mouth and his shoulders dropped. He nodded once, turned, and left Wrena to bear that gaze on her own. Her swallow was loud.


    What small reprieve the break in silence had brought was forgotten to the chamber. High-pitched ringing sounded in her ears. She thought she could hear the blood running through them if she tried hard enough. The room was spinning from the effort to remain steadfast, but she and her father remained deadly still, eyes on each other.


    ¡°Your mother would have me send you to the southern or eastern courts for refinement,¡± he said. ¡°She feels I¡¯ve been too lenient with you, that I¡¯ve watered the wild roots of the westlands in your heart. I cannot say she¡¯s wrong.¡±


    The thought of being shipped off to a foreign court sent a spike of panic through Wrena¡¯s chest. She knew little of the south kingdom, only that the sun beat viciously there and the boiling black sand could burn through plate and steel if a man fell to it. The east kingdom was the home of her lady mother, where House Lynhart presided. They called it the lion¡¯s den. She saw enough of the lion in her lady mother to know she did not want to go there. The westlands were her home, with its wild hills and gilded Stillwood forest, the misted rain and moss-covered castle, the people she loved. Her father wouldn¡¯t send her away. Would he?


    ¡°I have a mind to heed her after what you and Lori have conspired,¡± he said.


    ¡°Please, Father,¡± she said, almost a whisper. ¡°I¡¯ll be good. I¡¯ll be better. Please, don¡¯t send me away.¡±


    Her lord father looked on at her, his face unreadable. Would that she was a mage of the forgotten gods and could cast a spell to release her from those eyes and this prison. She didn¡¯t know if she could bear the punishment that fit the crime, but she also would not pass the sole blame to Lori. Death would claim her before she turned into a rat.


    ¡°Do you understand who you brought to our court?¡± He asked.


    ¡°Aye, I do,¡± she said and dropped her chin to her chest. ¡°Though I did not know it was he who was the wandering sword before my eyes laid on him, Father. I swear it.¡±


    ¡°My daughter will show strength when she speaks. Bring your eyes up, child. Stillhours do not fear justice,¡± he said. ¡°Now, whether or not you knew who he was before you brought him here holds no meaning to me other than a total lack of forethought on your and Lori¡¯s part. I know you did not send for him, Bynor confirmed the dove was issued from Lori. What I would know is what you wanted with a wandering sword. I¡¯ll have the full truth or you can be assured your lady mother will have her wish.¡±


    The threat hung in the air as Wrena weighed her options. There weren¡¯t many. Gods, what a day of dread this was.


    ¡°I wished to learn the sword. He was to teach me.¡±


    Her father sat back in his chair and sighed. ¡°All this for a trainer, Wrena.¡± It was not a question. ¡°I allowed Ser Eviyn to humor your presence in the yard for as long as I dared. I¡¯ve turned a blind eye to you and the lads congregating in the Stillwood at dawn to practice. Perhaps I am a fool. Perhaps my lady is correct when she says that my heart is too soft for my wildling daughter of the West.¡± He spoke more to himself than to Wrena, so she held her tongue.


    Quiet stretched between them anew as the lord of Westermin considered his daughter, the daughter he called his wildheart. Wrena¡¯s heart felt wild in the present moment, pounding on her ribs in the frantic rhythm of her prayer that he not send her to the south or eastlands.


    ¡°Your lady mother is of the east and understands not the ways of the westlands. I would not like to see the known spirit of the West wrested from you. There¡¯s more of the West in you than any of my children; I see it in the misted storms of your eyes and the Quiet Sea¡¯s sand of your hair. You are as fierce and unyielding to the rain and winds of life as I once was. As true folk of the westlands are. I would not have you lose that for all the gold or silver in the five kingdoms, my wildheart. But it must be tamed. I admit I have done a poor job in containing your spirit, for duty has never sung in your ear so sweet as honor has.¡±


    Wrena¡¯s eyes were wide, her jaw dropped behind faintly parted lips. She had never heard such words from her lord father in her life. All she had known was the admonishments of her lady mother, the dinna, and the girls of the keep. The mocking snickers and whispered jibes of Westermin¡¯s men and servants as they saw her slashing the padded wooden practice swords in the heavy rains when all else stayed inside. The feeling of her lord father¡¯s sword hand around her dream as he choked it and stuffed the duty of their house down its throat to silence it. A weight felt lifted from her, his hands had softened their grip and she could breathe. Yet she was wary of how he meant to tame her nature. The westlands people¡¯s idea of harnessing a strong spirit could be brutal, to say the least.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look so troubled, Wrena. I think you¡¯ll favor what I have in mind for you,¡± he said. A smile played across his lips. ¡°I won¡¯t be sending you to the eastern or southern courts.¡±


    ¡°Oh, thank the gods,¡± she said, her shoulders sagged and her body leaned forward with the urge to run and jump in his arms in her relief. She held back when she saw the look in his eye.


    ¡°Aye,¡± he said. ¡°Instead I¡¯ll be bringing the South to you.¡±


    She furrowed her brows. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°What do you know of the sandwalkers?¡±


    ¡°They practice an unusual style of sword fighting. They¡¯re said to move like the wind over the sands of their deserts,¡± she said. ¡°Masters of their style are called Sandwalking Swords of Stygia, and some say they are the best fighters in all of the realms. Ser Drydin Lorne of Rhone traveled to the Wastes to find them and learn their art to defeat Pryzn¡¯Raa the Usurper.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve always shined in your histories,¡± her father said.


    ¡°It¡¯s my favorite subject,¡± she said and lifted her chin, smiling.


    ¡°Do you know of the differences between the fighting styles of what they view as the North and the South?¡± He asked.


    ¡°All kingdoms north of the southern kingdom fight in a strength-focused combat style, prizing efficiency, and brute force,¡± she said, recalling the lesson with Vitasan Marsun. ¡°The sandwalkers of the South emphasize the art of fluidity, stealth, and swiftness of their fighters. They believe one should become the wind that blows the sand in their movements. It seems silly to me.¡±


    ¡°It seems silly because you have not seen it, wildheart. The style of the sandwalkers favors smaller, leaner fighters who can dodge and dance through the strikes of their opponent while sending their own at maddening speed. It does not rely on strength in the way the men of the other four kingdoms do. That does not make it any less lethal,¡± he said.


    ¡°So¡­you would like me to be like a sandwalker?¡± She asked, confused.


    Her lord father leaned forward, a serious look in his eyes. ¡°I will send for a Sandwalking Sword to train you if you swear an oath to me that you will cease your open talk of becoming a lady knight, and will never breathe a word of this to your lady mother. You will continue your feminine studies alongside, and I¡¯ll not hear a breath of protest when you¡¯re of an age for betrothal and the training comes to its end. We will think only of this as practical self-defence training, not of me blessing your dream of knighthood.¡±


    Stranger¡¯s hells. Stranger¡¯s hells. He really meant it. The Justiciar of the West, who seldom let dreams eclipse the duty of the realm and known lands, was going to give Wrena her dream. She ran and leaped into his arms. She wrapped her own around his neck as she buried her face in his neck and breathed in the smell of the salted sea in his hair.


    ¡°Thank you, Father. Thank you,¡± she chanted into his neck like a dinn in his temple. He held her in his large, herculean arms and stroked her back once over.


    ¡°I would hear that oath, little one,¡± he said.


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


    Wrena pulled herself out from his neck and kissed his cheek, looked straight into his eyes, and said, ¡°I vow it, Lord Father. I will do all that you ask of me from this day, until my last day. And I will be the best Sandwalking Sword Ileth has ever seen.¡±


    Her father barked a laugh. ¡°That wasn¡¯t part of your oath, child, but I¡¯ll take it all the same. You will be a harpy in a dove¡¯s feathers. Of that, I have little doubt.¡±


    Wrena smiled to herself. ¡°I already am.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± he said. ¡°But you should save your celebrations for later as the matter of your punishment remains.¡±


    Wrena looked at him aghast.


    ¡°Surely you did not think me that soft of heart,¡± he said. ¡°Fetch Lori and tell him to get two water skins.¡±


    ¡°Water skins?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll both be climbing the Path of Pain this afternoon. If you start now you may make it back before supper. See that you do, otherwise I¡¯ll instruct the kitchens to be closed to you both tonight.¡±


    Wrena stood there in a state of shock at her and the Path of Pain and the word ¡®climbing¡¯ being strung together in one sentence. The unknown realms take her but she hadn¡¯t seen this coming after being blinded by the gleaming rays of her triumph.


    ¡°I see the ways of men are falling hard on your shoulders. Best you get used to it if you¡¯re to be a knight,¡± there was humor dancing hand-in-hand with the fire and ice in his eyes. ¡°You may take your leave, Wrena.¡±


    There was nothing left to do but to do as her lord father bade, so Wrena relayed the order to Lori and donned her wool coat. Before she knew it, she was walking towards the cliffs and the infamous Path of Pain.


    ?


    Ominous grey clouds burdened with the promise of a storm rolled overhead. Lori called up at her to pick up her pace, worried that the storm would roll in and they would be trapped, or worse, slip from the slickened rock face and plummet to their deaths. She was slowing him down, she knew she was. Her feet bled in her boots at the heel and the sides of them near her toes, along with her palms which were raw from catching her in a slide or clutching jagged stones when she lost her footing. Her thighs burned with the fires of the Stranger¡¯s hells from effort to stay crouched in the descent on the impossibly steep and perilous pass. In front of her and miles out, she could see a wall of rain descending from the shadowed heavens to meet the churning waters of the Quiet Sea. Many, many miles out, she hoped.


    This was just the descent. Known and forgotten gods, this was just the descent. Only one-quarter of the Path remained, and below it, the serenity of the sanded and pebbled shores awaited her. The final leg of the Path was a series of outcropped stone shelves that could only be leapt from one to the other. She now had a full understanding of the incredibly apt names of both the Path of Pain and the Cliffs of Unrest. To the right of them, the cliffs formed in a cruel point leading straight down to a rocky bed where the shoreline ended. Waves were slamming in force against the rocks and spraying the frigid salted water to ridiculous heights in its power. Her heart thundered as loud as the breaking waves in her ears as she slid a few feet toward the lip of a shelf and grabbed blindly for a purchase. Her hand met the razored edge of another damnable stone protruding from the surface, she winced in pain as it dug into her raw and weeping palms. Her feet almost slid off the ledge and she could not see how far it dropped to the continued path. Lori¡¯s shouts fell on deafened ears that were overwhelmed with the violent breaking of those waves and the howling of the winds that smashed her to the side of the cliff. She was lost in the unknown realms, almost longing for her needle and thread and the fire of the hearth.


    ¡°Wrena,¡± Lori yelled over the wind. His breath was labored as he came up to where she clung to the rock. ¡°We have to keep going. The storm is coming.¡±


    ¡°How will we get back up?¡± She asked. Panic threatened to freeze her there, she didn¡¯t know if she could move even if she wanted to. And she desperately wanted off this gods forsaken cliff. She had never had such a stark fear of heights as was present in this descent. She loved to climb, to feel the crisp air at the top of a turret. This path was too steep to find anything other than pain and dread.


    ¡°We won¡¯t until the storm passes, the rock will be too slick to get purchase on and these winds are too strong. We can shelter in one of the caves,¡± he said. ¡°We¡¯re almost there. You¡¯re the best climber in Westermin, this is old hat for you. And I¡¯ll be right in front of you. I¡¯ll catch you if you fall.¡±


    Wrena nodded her head as she shook from terror and the cold of the winds and seawater that drenched her right side where the spray had reached her. She slowly let go of the rock and continued her descent with Lori staying right in front of her, like he¡¯d promised. When she jumped from the final six-foot-high rock shelf and her blistered feet hit the earth, she nearly wept with joy and kissed the sand. Lori urged her forward along the left side of the beach as the tide was rising and the rain had reached them. They ran along the shore for a few hundred yards until he indicated they were upon the destination he sought. They would have to climb.


    Pain such as this was foreign to Wrena, her palms and fingers so raw and slick with blood and water she could barely hold a steady grip as they climbed the twenty feet toward the mouth of the cave in the cliffside. She had seen plenty of caves at sea level in their dash but understood why this one was necessary. They would be flooded out or drowned in the swelling tide in the lower caves while waiting out the storm. A calloused hand reached down to hoist her up to the lip of flattened stone. They panted on their backs in the pitch of the cavern as the storm began to rage beyond.


    ¡°You and Wes do this as a regular punishment?¡± Wrena asked in between breaths.


    Lori laughed. ¡°Aye. It¡¯s not normally so bad as today, though, what with those storm winds. Ser Eviyn is a glutton for torturing little lords in the yard. He says it''s a tradition of the westlands. I say he¡¯s not been properly bedded and takes it out on us instead of the missus.¡±


    Lori picked himself up and started looking around the cave, feeling the walls and ground in the nearly complete darkness. He let out a small whoop of victory, and Wrena heard steel striking flint. The flame caught and ignited a small torch in his hand. He found another one, lit it, and handed it to Wrena.


    ¡°Why are there torches here?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Wes and I got caught in a storm like this once and had to sit in total darkness of the bloody cave for hours. It was enough to have us bring these and some other supplies the following day. Wanted to be prepared for the next time we got caught with our breeches down around our ankles,¡± he said. He had stacked some sticks and kindling between them as he talked. A touch to the bundle with his torch brought fire, and as the flame grew, he fed it more wood to nurture its growth. She was grateful for the added warmth and shrugged off her boots and outer layers to dry them a bit before they headed back out.


    ¡°What a sorry lot you two are,¡± she said. ¡°To get punished so often you have to prepare a pack with supplies for your home-away-from-home in the stinking cliffs.¡±


    Lori threw a stick at her. ¡°And you¡¯ll be grateful for it! Our suffering is your gain, you little wildling.¡±


    ¡°Aye, I imagine I¡¯ll enjoy reaping the rewards of your blunders for years to come,¡± she laughed. He dug in the bag and produced a cloth with twine around it and tossed it to Wrena. She unwrapped it and found salted venison. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t happen to have any lemon cakes in there, would you? I could use a sweet right about now.¡±


    ¡°You and your sweets,¡± Lori said. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder you¡¯re not the size of Big Ubba.¡± Lucio¡¯s son was a gentle soul, but his love of sweets and the ladies of the kitchens had made him rather rotund¡ªand the butt of many jokes in Westermin, to Wrena¡¯s dismay. ¡°Sadly for you, no sweets are lurking in any corners of this pack or cave. The salted meat will have to do, and I would eat now if I were you. We¡¯ll have a slog of it getting back up the Path.¡±


    The rumble of her stomach grew loud at the mention of food. The last time she ate was before dawn that morning, and her hunger stirred powerfully inside of her. She yanked at a piece of the meat from between her teeth and strained to bite a piece off. It wouldn¡¯t budge. ¡°Stranger¡¯s hells, Lori, how old is this meat?¡±


    ¡°Come to think of it, it may have been down here for a year¡­or so.¡±


    ¡°Naturally,¡± she said. The damned meat wouldn¡¯t break off. She sucked on it to soften it, which for the added wait time her stomach wasn¡¯t particularly cheerful with.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see those hands,¡± he said. She held them up to him in the firelight. ¡°Gods, Wrena. Those are bad. It looks like you¡¯ve been flayed by a devil.¡±


    ¡°They hurt like a devil, all right,¡± she said around the venison. In truth, she hadn¡¯t realized how bad they truly were, nor felt the full extent of the wounds during the frenzy of survival on the beach. Now that she was settled, they were beginning to throb something fierce.


    ¡°I can¡¯t find any bandage cloths. We¡¯ll have to wash your hands in the sea and wrap them in that venison cloth until Vitasan Marsun can take a look at you.¡±


    She nodded. A chunk of the meat finally broke free and she chewed it for what felt like centuries. Kingdoms could have risen and crumbled in the time it took her to get that piece of meat ground enough to swallow.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Wrena,¡± Lori said after some time had passed.


    ¡°The meat is bad, sure, but I won¡¯t spill blood over it.¡±


    ¡°No, you twit. I mean¡­I got you into this mess. If I hadn¡¯t brought the Torment to Westermin you wouldn¡¯t be here, and your hands wouldn¡¯t be in that state,¡± he said. ¡°Gods, they look dreadful. I might be sick.¡±


    ¡°I thought you Wilburns were supposed to be tough westlands men¡ªmade of fire and all. Wouldn¡¯t have expected you to be a little prickling about some bloodied palms.¡±


    ¡°Wrena!¡± Lori let out a shocked laugh. ¡°Your tongue grows sharper by the day. Though, I suppose I deserve it right about now,¡± he paused. ¡°With fullness of heart, I¡¯m sorry. You shouldn¡¯t be here. I never would¡¯ve thought Lord Terryn would send his own daughter on the Path. Strange, that.¡±


    Wrena smiled to herself. Lori didn¡¯t know that he had ultimately given her a gift. ¡°He gave me the same punishment because he wants me to understand the violence and pain of men.¡±


    ¡°That man makes no sense at all. He and the lioness have been pushing for just the opposite this past year,¡± Lori said. ¡°¡®Lady Wrena of House Stillhour has a duty to wed into a great and noble house in some forgotten corner of the realm. She must be a perfect lady! With perfect needlework! No lord will have a woman who cannot embroider his bulge in impeccable resemblance!¡¯¡±


    Wrena and Lori¡¯s raucous laughter bounced in echoes down the tunnel of the cave. His impressions were her favorite, especially as they were always a stretch more exaggerated and silly than the subjects themselves. He had a way of making things feel lighter than they had been, or could be. Like the flame in this cave. The sound of the fading storm returned in the ebb of their laughter.


    ¡°This day may have ended up being the best day of my life, Lori,¡± Wrena said.


    ¡°That¡¯s downright gut-wrenching if this is to be the best day of your life. This is shit,¡± Lori said.


    ¡°No, you¡¯re right. Second best day.¡±


    ¡°Still depressing. But then what¡¯s the first best to be?¡±


    ¡°The day a Sandwalking Sword of Stygia comes to Westermin,¡± she said.


    ¡°What in the unknown realms would a Sandwalking Sword come to Westermin for?¡± Lori asked.


    ¡°For me,¡± Wrena stuck her chin up and grinned.


    ¡°You¡¯re talking out of your arse. That old meat¡¯s gone straight to your head,¡± Lori said.


    ¡°Father is to send for one, and the sandwalker will teach me. He believes their style may be best suited for me, being that I¡¯m so small and vicious and deadly.¡±


    Lori leveled a flat look at her. When she didn¡¯t admit to a ruse, his jaw went slack. Then he flashed the widest, cheek-splitting smile Wrena had ever seen and held out his hand to her. ¡°Off your arse, little harpy. We¡¯ve a celebration to commence at the castle.¡±

 FIVE: Honors Price

    Worry about making the grueling journey in the coming darkness lapped at Wrena¡¯s mind like the waves on the beach in front of her. They had left their torches in the cave since they¡¯d need both of their hands to climb the Path, but clouds concealed the last light of the day and the shadow of night was crawling forward above her. Salt of the frigid seawater bit into her palm, and she couldn¡¯t help the whimper that escaped as Lori scraped out the unwanted stony guests embedded in them. He was calm and reassuring in his words, but worked as efficiently¡ªand brutally¡ªas he could. After the last of the debris was freed from her palms, she braced herself for a return of the blinding pain of salt and ice in her raw wounds. With strong and steady hands, Lori tore in half the linen cloth that had housed the salted meat and wrapped each piece around her hands. The rain had lessened as the tempest of the storm moved east past the cliffs.


    ¡°You ready for Path of Pain round two?¡± he asked her.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to require about twenty lemon cakes when this is through.¡±


    ¡°Too bad the kitchens will be closed to us. You¡¯ll have to ask Big Ubba if he sneaked any out for his midnight treat. He might be willing to part with one if you ask nicely.¡±


    ¡°Bloody hells, I completely forgot they were to be closed!¡± Wrena groaned. Her stomach was a knot of pain from hunger. She stuck a chunk of the barely edible leathery meat back in her mouth in a feeble attempt to sate it.


    Shouts sounded down the shore, and orbs of red light danced in the air as if by magic of the forgotten gods. A breath of wind brought the words of the next shout to her¡ªthey were calling her and Lori¡¯s name. Curious. Her lord father would not send his men to come looking for his daughter and ward who were to be facing their punishment.


    ¡°Are they calling for us?¡± Lori said, as confused as she was at the prospect.


    ¡°Our names are on their lips, so I would assume so,¡± she replied.


    She and Lori called out to the Stillhour men and jogged to reach them. Her blisters were on fire with each pound of her foot on the wet beach, yet she persisted. They reached the party, and the light of the torches they carried revealed House Stillhour¡¯s honor guard captain, Kerrik, and three of his men. Relief flooded Kerrik¡¯s face as he took in the two.


    ¡°Thank the gods you both are in one piece,¡± he said. ¡°We worried we¡¯d find your bodies smashed against the rocks.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re quite well and chipper, Kerrik. We were just out for a stroll, enjoying the lovely westlands weather,¡± Lori said.


    Kerrik leveled a bored look at Lori. The captain¡¯s woolen black cloak with a collar of sable pelts blew in the wind, forming against the left side of his broad and combat-honed body. Gold trim lined the thickly padded black gambeson he wore above his tunic and trousers, displaying the colors of their house. His shoulder-length hair matched the umber pitch of his eyes, which held the flame of the torch dancing in the wind. The women of Westermin, Neta most of all, fawned over the beauty of the hulking young captain. If she had to listen to Neta talk of his ¡®glistening muscles¡¯ on one more occasion, she would cut off her own ears. Wrena preferred the beauty of the blade sheathed at his hip, Honor¡¯s Kiss. While it was no Heritage Blade, the steel sang sweetly nevertheless.


    ¡°Right. Well, all the same, I¡¯m happy you¡¯re both unharmed,¡± Kerrick said.


    ¡°What brings you to the shores, Kerrick?¡± Wrena asked. ¡°Father knew we were out here. He sent us, after all.¡±


    ¡°Aye, and he¡¯s the one who sent us, my lady. He saw the rising storm on the horizon, and when you did not return before dusk, he feared the worst. We are to locate you and bring you back to the keep.¡±


    A crease formed between Wrena¡¯s eyebrows. She had no illusions that her father cared greatly for her safety, but he was not one to intrude on the course of a sentence. Heat burned in her chest. She went to clench her fist but sucked in a breath at the sharpness of pain of the movement. The presence of the house guards aggravated her. If it were Wes and Lori, her father would not have sent for them and trust that the lads would make their way back hale, if not a bit wet and worse for wear.


    ¡°You have my thanks, Kerrik. But I will be making the journey back to the keep. Unassisted.¡±


    Lori shuffled his feet in the sand and chose to admire the waves.


    ¡°My lady, you needn¡¯t take the Path back up. We will escort you back to the grounds from the southern trails. You look¡­weathered, lady,¡± Kerrik said. His men stood like the stone ancestors of their crypt behind him, following Lori¡¯s path of uninvolvement in the matter.


    ¡°I¡¯ll not take the quite literal easy way out. My lord father bade I climb the Path of Pain, and I would be glad to complete my sentence." She lifted her chin.


    ¡°Wrena¡­¡± Lori hesitated. He leaned down to her ear and spoke in a low tone. ¡°Your hands. This would not be cheating your punishment. You¡¯ve suffered, it¡¯s done.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be done when I reach the top of the Path. Go with them, if you wish,¡± she said to Lori. She turned to face the guards. ¡°Thank you all for searching for us, you may return back to the castle and inform my lord father that I¡¯m alive and in one piece and will return as quickly as I¡¯m able to climb.¡±


    With that, Wrena turned on her heels and hiked back down the beach towards her hands¡¯ gallows. She sent a prayer up to the known and forgotten gods she would still be able to wield a sword after this. Behind her, Kerrik cursed under his breath, then ordered his men to find the other search parties and return to Westermin to inform Lord Terryn that he would be accompanying lady Wrena up the Path at her behest. A single, dull thump on leather was heard as Wrena continued her march ahead of them.


    ¡°Welcome to the party, Kerrik,¡± Lori said. ¡°How long has it been since you¡¯ve tread the pass?¡±


    ¡°Long enough,¡± the captain muttered.


    ¡°Fear not. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s only slightly worse than you remember. And in the dark, no less? We may have to have you in the rear.¡±


    ¡°And why¡¯s that, little lordling.¡±


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know that Lord Terryn would be too pleased if his daughter returned home covered in his Captain of the Guard¡¯s shit,¡± Lori said. The remark made Wrena suppress a laugh. Typical Lori to transfer her soreness to another with such ease.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°To the Stranger¡¯s hells with you, boy,¡± Kerrik said.


    ¡°Aye, I¡¯ll be right there with you in a few minutes.¡±


    Wrena didn¡¯t need to see Lori¡¯s face to know that he had that grin he got on his face when he ruffled the captain¡¯s feathers. Lori viewed Kerrik as his sole competition in Westermin for the attention of its ladies. Unfortunately for him, there really wasn¡¯t much of a competition¡ªthe captain was four years his senior, held a prestigious position in the ruling house of the West, and had double the beauty. But people did say Lori was handsome, and where Kerrik faltered in his charm, however, Lori excelled. That seemed to be enough for a good portion of the women in their grounds, for he had no shortage of admirers.


    Wrena¡¯s neck craned upward to look at the beginning of the Path. It was six feet up on a ledge that was surrounded by smooth rock with no handholds. It required the climber to begin with a leap. This damnable path was cursed. All of her weight would be on her ruined hands holding her while she attempted to right herself. She stared at it as if that would change its course. Kerrik and Lori stood patiently behind. No doubt awaiting her concession to the stupidity of her own stubbornness. They would be there until the cliffs fell to the earth before she did that. She rallied the spirit of her father¡¯s wild-hearted daughter and jumped. Fire shot into her hands and sent spiked currents up her arms as she dangled there. Her vision turned dark at the force of it. To be rid of the fog, she shook her head, then swung her left leg up near the side of her left hand on the ledge and pushed up on all three limbs with every ounce remaining of her strength, rolling to her back once mostly crested. Dark blue clouds swam in her vision, accompanied by the stars of starvation and blood loss. She worried she would faint if she tried to sit up. This was a stupid, stupid decision she had trapped herself in.


    ¡°Are you well up there, my lady?¡± the captain asked.


    ¡°Aye,¡± she managed. Gods, even her voice sounded weak.


    ¡°It¡¯s not too late to turn back and head for the southern trails.¡±


    ¡°You truly don¡¯t know her at all,¡± Lori said.


    She heard flesh meet stone and a grunt of effort, and then Lori was sitting with his legs over the ledge next to where she lay.


    ¡°He¡¯s right, you know. Much as I loathe to admit it. What he¡¯s not saying is that your current state of hunger, loss of blood, and fatigue could cost you your life,¡± he said. ¡°Your life is more valuable than a point made, little harpy.¡±


    ¡°What honor is there in forfeiting when the journey grows difficult, Lori?¡±


    ¡°Honor is not always worth the price.¡±


    ¡°Then what reason is there to live? To become a knight if I would choose the well-traveled road over the road that may lead to pain and loss, but a stouter heart? Ser Henmyre the Honorable wouldn¡¯t shy away from his duty¡ªfrom his sentence. So why must that be demanded of me?¡± she said. A tear slipped down the side of her face as she stared up at the night sky, though she knew not from where in her heart it came. Whether it be anger, sadness, pain, or weariness¡ªit was all tangled in a giant knot inside her chest.


    ¡°Let me rephrase; honor is not worth the price when the only person affected by the deed is yourself, and the cost outweighs the lesson learned. Ser Eviyn taught me that,¡± he said. ¡°I won¡¯t claim to know honor as a friend yet, but I have known men who do. Your lord father is one. I¡¯m sure if he were here, he would tell you this price is too steep for a girl of twelve with the wild spirit of the West in her and a Sandwalking Sword yet to meet.


    ¡°I won¡¯t demand you turn back. I¡¯ll stay with you the entire journey if you decide to make it. The choice is yours, Wrena.¡±


    Lori¡¯s gentle words rattled around in the fog of Wrena¡¯s mind. She did not have enough energy to consider her choices for the hundredth time that day. This never-ending day. A day of light-hearted adventure, then of terror and duty, of excitement and triumph, of pain and punishment, and of choices. So many bloody choices. Her mind turned to the stories of Ser Henmyre the Honorable, a knight long passed and hero of the known ages of Ileth. He had chosen his honor over his own life. Pryzn¡¯Raa the Usurper had taken his head for refusing his sword to the bastard king and ushering in the tide that later brought the usurper¡¯s death at the hand of Ser Drydin, the Sandwalking Sword of Rhone. Many claimed that the choice of death over bending the knee had been simple for Ser Henmyre¡ªthat he was steadfast to the end, never wavering. Wrena now doubted that claim when faced with a choice that was not nearly so harrowing as his.


    I choose honor, she thought. I will always choose honor.


    Wrena sat up and let the lightness of her head pass. With as much strength as she could gather, she pushed herself to her feet and shared her decision aloud. Lori held a strange look in his eyes, one that she had not ever seen shine there. It looked like disappointment. In a blink, it vanished, replaced by acceptance and of being stalwart in his promise to accompany her. Her own found the next outcrop of the path she needed to reach. She leapt into the air. The burning and stabbing of her raw and weeping wounds amplified to extraordinary levels as they met the bite of its edge. Her sight was black the next moment. Her fingers slipped from the shelf. She heard a shout and felt the slam of her body into another. White-hot pain burst across her skull. Every remaining sense joined her vision in its retreat, and her world faded to nothing.


    ?


    She was floating. Bouncing and floating. Wool scratched her right cheek, and a chilled wind kissed her left. She was in the arms of Kerrik, Wrena realized, as he strode back to the keep. She felt so small in them. Like he could crush her if only he brought them together. The idea of it sent her heart racing, and she shifted as if to ground herself. It appeared those glistening muscles were for more than show, for she could not wrest free from his grip.


    ¡°You may let me down, now,¡± she tried. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±


    ¡°All due respect, my lady, but no,¡± the captain replied.


    She wanted to thrash and pound on his chest, but her hands and head throbbed with heartbeats of their own in a violent rhythmic pain. Neta would be swooning if she were in her stead, feverish with delight at the prospect of being a damsel in distress in the arms of the dashing captain like the tales of old. Did all women enjoy feeling so fragile? The thoughts of the curse of girlhood persisted as she lay begrudgingly in Kerrik¡¯s arms.


    Westermin came into view, and her eyes felt like stone doors. Exhaustion took charge of her, and she fought to keep her lids open as she looked on at her home. Moss painted the grey stone in verdant splendor of the walls that towered so high above as if to greet the clouds surrounding the grounds. The sentinels on the wall and in the watchtowers of the western gate yelled commands to open the gates. She wished to walk through the gates on her own legs, head held high, but her eyes were so heavy. It was warm here, cradled in strong arms against a sturdy chest. With startling clarity, she understood what she felt was safety. She had never known such palpable fear and panic as she had today. The realm was bigger, more cruel, than the one she had been a child in only the day before. And it was a jarring discovery.


    ¡°Wrena!¡± A frantic shout came from the other end of the grounds, and she swivelled her neck to look for the source. Her lady mother ran up to her, her lord father and the twins not far in stride behind her.


    ¡°Oh, my girl,¡± her lady mother said. The soft angles of her face held relief, but a weariness as she took in her daughter bundled in the captain¡¯s arms. ¡°Wes, fetch Vitasan Marsun and bid him to meet us in her chambers. Be quick about it, please.¡± Her brother took off running back to the keep.


    ¡°It¡¯s not so bad,¡± Wrena murmured.


    ¡°You look terrible, Wrena¡­gods, your head.¡± Neta lifted a shaky hand to her mouth as Kerrik continued past where she had stopped in place.


    She had lost sight of her father, for which she was glad. She bit her lip to stop the tears that wet her eyes as she thought of facing his disappointment in her. She¡¯d not proven herself worthy of a sword today. She prayed he would not change his mind on the sandwalker.


    Wrena¡¯s fatigue overwhelmed her. What little energy she had found upon regaining consciousness fled her. The hand of the maiden reached down from the unknown realms and closed the stone doors of her eyes. She drifted into darkness in the captain¡¯s arms and did not rise again that night.


    6