The unsettling chill sinking into his chest was more than just the damp evening cold. It was in the lingering fog that wrapped its wispy tendrils around the village’s wooden palisades. It was in the empty silence that dragged across the mossy thatched roofs of the unoccupied dwellings and peered into those rooms from the decomposing windows.
With his palm pressed firmly against the outer walls of the village, Kytes inhaled slowly, drawing fire from his heart. Writing and imagining intricate lines in his mind, the same engraving began to carve into the center of his palm. It was a mild discomfort for him, but out of habit, his teeth began to gnaw against one another. And yet, his umber eyes did not leave the back of his hand, so focused on the spell he was casting. Even when the front of his dark brown hair fell inconveniently over his straight nose.
A faraway whisper murmured for him to burn the cursed village to the ground, to engulf it in fire. But he knew better. Flames, even one of holy quality, would do little to pacify these souls ambling about their former homes. Within time, they will begin to drift, fueled with a want to seek out the living and share their untimely demise with others through an ode. A Threnody.
It was spreading. The song that afflicted the mind with grief and the body with phantom pain. Emotions that were not mankind's but the nymphs. Simple runes should have been enough to protect and ease life, but man wanted more conveniences. They imagined harvests that could flourish beyond seasons and time. Clean water that could be assessed without ever leaving home. Waste that could easily be disposed of, leaving cities clean and eradicate disease. And with time, perhaps man could have drafted those dreams into evergreen reality, but instead they turned to illicit runes.
Such powerful magic came with a price. Unlike simple runes, illicit ones exhausted the nymphs, the elemental daughters who presided over nature. Drained too much and too quickly, the nymphs had no time to heal and their gardens began to wilt. Bountiful harvests though there may be, but the crops were poor and tasteless. Water certainly flowed into homes but their sources soon dried or became poison. Then the nymphs began to sing, crying about man's disregard to the mages that could hear their Lament. Those with magical affinities were the first to fall ill, losing their faith and wailing for humanity’s end. Before long, nymph and mage would combine their howls and reach the minds of the common man, cursing the body to experience the same pain mankind had wrought on the nymphs.
Yet man did not learn, even after the first illicit runes laid waste to an entire noble city. The conveniences could not be forgotten. And besides, what was wrong with using an illicit rune once or twice? Or even a few more times after? Man refused to believe that their own notion would be shared by others as well. Man thought themselves clever until they became forced to participate in a Threnody.
And so while these unfortunate spirits had yet to wander beyond these walls, Kytes will turn this village, with their thatched residences and vacant workshops, into a prison. More of his binding runes had already been scored upon the desolate town's outer walls and at his teacher’s command, Kytes would send his power forth and activate each of the engraved spells. The confinement would last five years before another runic fire mage, just like him, can come renew the wards. Then in another five years, a renewal once again, and again, a cycle repeated.
A cycle that Kytes and his teacher had been attending to until most recently. Had there been more Sanctus runic mages, they could have returned home months ago, ending their two week journey that had extended to almost a year. But their far more experienced colleagues were spread thin, in energy, and now in numbers. The fact that the Royal Family and the Sancti had devolved to relying on senior apprentices and their teachers as traveling pairs for reconnaissance meant all was ill.
There were no longer enough runic fire mages, those blessed by the fire nymphs, the Lampades. The surviving ones needed to continue writing wards. They needed to be kept alive.
Such was the case for Kytes. His teacher, Hollis, made sure he ate and slept, ensured his safety in the wilds. But it was really his sanity that she kept an eye on the most. His other companion was a gray pony that carried their belongings, a feisty reminder about the less morbid things in life.
From behind one of the houses, a woman emerged, clutching a wooden chest between dirt streaked hands. A vessel made of alder wood, its exterior depicted round leaves with notched tips, the lid wreathed with angular sigils.
Her braided ebony hair beating aggressively at her back, Kytes' teacher stalked toward him. She was dressed in a similar fashion to the boy, a sable black coat with white lapels indicating the wealth of the Sanctus they served. Trousers tucked into sturdy boots that were practical for traversing mountainous regions. A woolen half cloak, draped from a single shoulder, beginning to unravel at the edges. And while Kytes had maroon embroidery on his, the silver trimmings near the frayed hem of her cloak revealed she was blessed by the air nymphs called Aurais.
She halted at his side, her eyes trained ahead.
"It is done. The last...here." Her words pointed at the urn she was carrying, but Hollis’ voice was devoid of emotion. Her lips were nearly invisible, pressed so tight to keep herself from breaking. “You may seal the village.”
To save his proud teacher from embarassment, Kytes looked away, but not quickly enough. His own throat tightened when he spotted the tear trickling down her chestnut skin. For the past week, she had sat by several villagers' bedsides, assuring them the rites that would be performed once they passed, and painting stunning imaginations of life after. She had watched him mark the bodies with runes and turn them into ash, knowing full well that she had told them a half truth. That there was no life after once the village was warded.
Bracing his fingers once more on the pillar, Kytes envisioned his runes. Every coarse wood engraving, splinters of tinder ready to set to flame. He sent forth a controlled wave of heat, enough to burn through the spiraled grains. Upon the outer walls, his creations ignited into an amber glow. Then each seal darkened, blackened ash wreathing each rune.
"Lampades give you peace before we return," he muttered a prayer, a plea to the fire nymphs he owed his powers to. He did not expect them to give him an affirmation, but perhaps if he dared for just a second, he could accept the Threnody and receive an answer from the souls within the village.
"This was a carpentry town."
Kytes flinched and retracted his hand, glancing at his teacher's back. She continued to stare at the flattened terrain surrounding the village walls.
"They had purchased runes that could fall dozens of trees without having to lift a finger," Hollis continued. "Hundreds of time they used that spell. Fools. The amount of tree nymphs that Lamented over such thoughtlessness. It is no wonder the magical ones in this town were driven mad, the entire village, children and elderly, men and women, subjected to join in a Threnody!" Her voice rose in volume, shaking with emotion before it softened to a whisper. "But can I truly blame the people? They had to fulfill their lord's orders. So the town might be able to survive the winter with coin obtained."
Her young apprentice of nineteen years scowled. "Why were they given such an impossible request? Is is not their governing lord's responsibility to look after his people, especially if there are troubles during winter."
"Because if a lord freely gives financial support, they would be taken advantage of. It is better to have people work for the gain. But when it surmounts to this..." Her frame began to shake from the weight of the wooden vessel she carried and her emotions. "Is it?"
Kytes was quick to relieve the urn from his teacher. Had this been a year ago, he would have been blanched at the thought of holding the remains. But it was not death that frightened him. He had long grown accustomed to that notion, having learned and practiced the spellwork needed to start pyres and rites.
No, it was the thought that he held an entire population in a box that unnerved him. Or at least, a dash of each civilian, which they would take to the nearest sea and send adrift. The rest would be left in the warded village for the mage knights, the Riddarar, to retrieve.
"We should rid of this place," his teacher told him quietly as he heaved the container to his chest. “Before we lose our composure and begin to hear the Threnody ourselves.”
She was quick to depart, but Kytes lingered a moment longer, his umber eyes scanning the thatched huts behind his spelled walls. Would he feel better if he saw a distant curtain flutter, that there was a possibility of a survivor yet? But he knew. He had entered each house, each building, counted the bodies and hauled them onto the pyre himself. There was no one left to wave farewell and pray for safe travels.
He tore away from the lonely gravesite and pursued his teacher's retreating figure through the barren woodland. The pair walked in silence as they trudged over dried dirt and discarded remains of branches and rocks. The air was still, no soothing breeze would dare enter this field and stir it with life. The village was dead and the people with it.
When the pair finally passed the new border between the old woods and ruined land, Kytes finally mustered the courage to speak.
"Where to now, Master Hollis?"
"Neburh, the central village of Is'et," the woman responded, pulling out a neatly thrice folded parchment from her inner cloak's pocket. The seal on it had long been cracked, its content read several times over. "The barony is closest to poor Scaidun here and the one his Majesty had wanted the Blue Sanctus to do a proper investigation on since last year. I suppose there is a real reason for the Sanctus to visit now."
"Neburh. That’s one of the agricultural town in the south, is it not?"
"Supposedly the home to our nation's most beautiful apple orchards, even though the land itself had been in a drought." Hollis returned the parchment to her cloak. "Droughts and flourishing orchards do not come together. I pray for their sake, it's been luck and not because of illicit runes."
"Or a rogue mage."
Hollis released a tense shrill through her nose. "Indeed."
On the main road, a gray pony waited for them, her leather saddlebags empty. Their own satchels were discarded a few paces away, personal bags they left under her watchful eye. On the mount's breast collar hung an iron amulet with the symbol of the Blue Sanctus, the scholarly branch of the two holy churches and the investigators for the King. It was this talisman that kept their pony safe. In part because the charm was spelled to deter unsavory eyes by persuading the mind to move along, the other reason being who would dare incur a mage's wrath.
The pony snorted and drew a cautionary step back when Kytes approached her. He frowned at first, before remembering the wooden urn in his hands. Looking down, he found his hands besmirched; his entire garb streaked in the same gray powdery remains. Kytes frantically inspected the lid, fearful that it hadn’t been completely shut, that he might have been unknowingly scattering ash, but the vessel was sealed tight.
The mage boy sighed. Of course it was, he should have known, after all , it was his runes that marked the urn. But he felt due for a mistake. It had been a week since they left to bind Scaidun and he hadn't brought clothes with him to change. Of course his outward appearance was less than presentable.
"I'll change later, Mouse. Deal with it," he grumbled, tucking the urn into the pony's largest saddlebag before reaching for the water flask in his bag.
He wanted to spit it out. There was a horrible bitter aftertaste, most certainly because he had drunk ash. Whether it was from his spell work or worse, he did not know. The sensible part in his mind ordered him to stop, but his hand tilted the vessel further and his traitorous body guzzled the rest of the flask's content, desperate to quench the aching thirst it suffered. It was only when the last drops hit his tongue that Kytes was finally able to wrench away.
Something bumped into his side and tugged on his coat. He cast a side glance at the intruding gray muzzle for a moment then Mouse wickered softly, a nearly sympathetic sound, and his eyes began to burn.
"I'm tired, Mouse. Nothing more."
Hearing the crack in those uttered words, Hollis decided to spare him vocal sympathy. She knew her student well. An intelligent boy, a prodigy among his peers, who had desired adventure outside of the stuffy Blue Sanctus. He dreamt of the ways his runic magic might aid and protect the people. But reality quickened and he learned his ability was best suited for funeral rites and to encage the dead within bindings, an earthly purgatory. Keep the living safe, that was the most he could do. She had seen his boyish aspirations disappear overnight and tire into acceptance.
"Well, if Neburh is indeed prospering as the reports say, let us get you rest." Hollis tapped his arm with another flask, encouraging him to drink from it. "We don't need to bring up illicit runes or unlicensed mages upon arrival. We are there merely to warn Baron Connall about his neighbor's fate and to help Is'et prepare for the worst. Doing the Blue Sanctus' duty to ensure peace and security on behalf of the king. And if we happen upon the reason for Neburh's luck, we'll confiscate it. But if it is a rogue mage…” Hollis patted him on the back, a sign of sympathy but also duty reminded. “You’ll have to seal their powers and the Sanctus can decide what fine to give them."
Sounds troublesome already, Kytes thought, running a finger against the flask's rim. But that is the Blue Sanctus' duty, I suppose.
Multiple illicit runes to ensure great harvests seems far more likely than a singular unlicensed mage. Someone with that caliber of power would have been noticed by either Sancti immediately once the magic was cast. Yet neither Sanctus detected such an invoking.
So how is it that Neburh remained verdant, while its close neighbors fell to ruin?
It was still too early for the manor’s kitchen to be filled with its usual hands, but the room should have at least been of mild temperature.
The hearth's rune must be broken!
The moment Alyce threw open the door, cold air seeped into her body and she desired nothing more than to stay in the only slightly warmer hallway. Instinctively, she searched her skirts for her warming stone and her fingers closed around a flat speckled rock the size of her palm. The engraved rune, a sigil made up of several intersecting lines, was dark. With a defeated sigh, she dropped it back into her pocket.
Dawn’s light had yet to reach the windows but the painted white brick walls had begun to turn a shadowy blue. On the opposite wall from where Alyce stood was the fireplace; spacious and tall enough for her to walk within. And in it, the coals sat dark.
Her wooden pattens clicking against the flagstone floor, Alyce scuttled around the kitchen's perimeter and hastened to inspect the fireplace. Her nose was greeted by rosemary and thyme, the dried stalks hanging across the length of the kitchen in several rows. These herbal notes brought some consolation against the kitchen's chill, invigorating Alyce's spirit to tend to the hearth faster.
She swept her auburn hair over a shoulder and peered at the engraved marking on the fireplace’s brick pillars. Her slender nose wrinkled. Despite knowing enough letters to read and write, she could not make sense of the sigil's notching and scores. Each stroke had a purpose, enchanted by a mage’s intention, then melded into an intricate rune to bind the fire within its firebox while it burned for days. She brushed a finger over the trunk of the stave, her blue gray eyes lit with determination.
"Ignite!"
The hearth remained as it was and she hastily withdrew a hand to mask her foolish attempt. Only a fire mage could restore power to a hearth rune. Resigned, Alyce hunted for flint and steel while pacing her surroundings in search of the kindling basket. She did not need to look far. Due to the recently guttering runes, the crate that possessed all the tools she needed, was placed near the fire's pillars.
Sweeping her skirts back and ensuring her long wavy locks would not distract her from work, or worse become used as kindling, Alyce knelt before the fireplace. She struck flint against steel, her mouth decided and after a few attempts, the dry twigs caught. She sighed in relief and wiggled back from her small achievement before lowering herself near parallel to the ground and blew air toward the infant light.
“So the hearth rune's finally dead,” a calm voice sounded behind her ear.
Caught unaware, Alyce gulped dust and old ash, before lurching up from her crouch. Still coughing, she faced the speaker behind her, another maid, whose height reached just below Alyce's chin. Despite her petite figure, she was several years older than Alyce and possessed traits, which many of the village girls favored. A mass of black hair, curled and soft to the touch, brilliant blue eyes, and high cheekbones. But the woman often carried a severe aura, usually glaring down her long nose, or up. She was shorter than most.
The older maid's mouth twisted into a grimace, her sharp eyes perceiving every speck of dirt on Alyce's face.
"Alyce, go wash your face. Soot's unhealthy."
Alyce smiled guiltily but did as she was bid. "Morning Haddie."
Haddie answered back with a disgruntled noise.
At the kitchen's back was the wash basin, filled with fresh well water from the night before. Alyce dipped a finger into its depth and shivered, anticipating the cold awakening she was about to subject herself to. There was a light tug and gentle hands gathered Alyce's dense auburn hair into a bunch, holding it as high as Haddie could tip toe to without falling over. Alyce smothered a grin, splashing water over her face. She was taller than most Neburh women, though not nearly as tall as the men, and her height provided certain advantages. And she was quite proud of it. She could reach a book without having to find a ladder and be of great assistance to obtain for things on higher shelves. The manor's five year old heir loved spending time with Alyce, being carried or helped to an apple dangling from a branch.
"Oof!" Haddie dropped back on to the soles of her feet when Alyce finished washing her face. "I hope my lord has plans to get those hearth runes renewed. We've so many rooms that all have dead runes!"
Alyce lifted her face from a scratchy thin towel. "Who needs magicked runes when you have me?"
Haddie bumped a hip into Alyce's side. "Aye, you! The one who likes doing things the archaic way! As if we had all the time in the world! Though I suppose I should be grateful that you know how to start a fire by hand. Thyis knows this room is freezing without one!"
"It's quite simple to learn, once you try it a few times," Alyce murmured.
Haddie shuddered and flapped her hands to cleanse off imaginary dust. “I'm not as patient with that sort of thing. Imagine doing all that during winter. It's hard enough now, so no. I want the magic working by then!" She sidled about as she scanned the empty kitchen. “Where’s Bea?”
Alyce's eyes darted to a corner. She was quite aware of the whereabouts of the manor's third maid.
“She's not back yet?” Haddie rounded on Alyce, who scuttled a few steps back. "Is she still with that blacksmith boy?"
The younger woman blinked back innocently then reluctantly nodded. “I’m sure she’ll come back soon."
Haddie sighed, rubbing the space between her eyes. “She's got to come home on time. We can't do her work on top of ours. Like today, Baron Connall wanted the both of you to check not only the manor’s well, but also the ones at the outer walls and our lord’s orchards.”
“All which I can do well on my own, Haddie,” Alyce answered, trading her towel for the bucket they used to inspect the water levels. "You know I like visiting the castle town."
“Doesn't mean she can be late!" Haddie huffed and crossed her arms. "Also the boy she's seeing is trouble! My cousin told me that he's always late coming home, spending time in the orchards when it's dark, he hasn't got reliable behavior. What if Bea becomes with child? What will become of us then?”
Alyce slipped a pail over her arm. "By then, we will fuss over her and her new babe. A problem for future us, not present us.”
The petite maid was horrified as Alyce's indifference. "When the time comes? It should never come! Not with him! It's a respectable lad we should want, not troublesome ones!"
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Swinging open the scullery’s backdoor with her back, Alyce continued to console. “Bea hates being stuck in the manor all day, let her be. Besides, she wears the old pregnancy charm Lady Síle gave us years ago, the one to wear over the belly."
Haddie's cheeks flushed pink. Though they were all grown women, such talks were still embarrassing. "And what if it’s broken like the hearth runes? We got those years ago."
"Then our little lord Ryles will have a friend to play with?"
"Alyce!" Haddie stomped a foot impatiently. "Ah! Nevermind that! The wells! They need to be checked before noon." She glared down at Alyce from her perch and pointed with a direct finger. "Don't ever be that silly, Alyce! I know you like visiting the castletown too!"
"Except I visit for very different reasons. Besides, we know every boy in town and I like living in peace." She wrinkled her nose at Haddie. "Not in the latest titterings and gossip."
"Oh, don't get me started on the latest." Haddie scowled. "If you see Bea in the castletown, send her back here. That girl needs reminding to not be late!"
Alyce threw Haddie a fluttering kiss before turning away, her ears rewarded the sound of an amused guffaw.
Behind the kitchens was the manor’s well, situated closely to a small lavender garden. By itself, the well served only the estate, as more were constructed within the castle town and across the barony. The deliberate establishment of these water sources was important to the people’s daily lives and the orchards they attended to.
Alyce positioned herself against the well’s edge and leaned forward to grab the rope, looking below to spy the tied bucket floating on the water. With strong arms and a stable core, Alyce confidently heaved the bucket upwards until she could grab hold of it and pour the drawn water into her pail. Upon dropping the bucket back in the well, she heard the resounding deep thunk from the water below. The depth within the well was still good.
From her pail, she cupped a hand into it and tasted the drawn water. Sweet, cold, and crisp, it sparked a wave of delightful wakefulness.
“Well, that certainly was refreshing,” she said, jumping down from her perch. “Even without the rain, we should have little to worry about.”
Her fingertips lingered on the stones a moment longer, a habit she formed as a child. She had always liked feeling different textures, touching surfaces as she passed. It reminded her how things should feel like, when the mind easily took them for granted.
A tingling ran up her arm and she giggled at the sensation. The cold well water often had this effect, especially in the mornings. She sighed and smiled haplessly to herself before taking her pail to the garden.
To the mounds of growing flowers, she delivered the remaining water. The shrubs were planted by the late Baroness Síle, who enjoyed the scent of lavender and devoutly believed in the effects the flowers had. The woman had sewn perfumed sachets for the manor residents to put underneath their pillows and hung lavender over doorframes to supposedly stave spirits. The manor's orphaned maids took their noble lady's quirks in stride, entertaining and learning from her the crafts she was actively practiced. For all that she was undoubtedly superstitious, she was well intentioned, educating and treating the girls like daughters. An unconventional noblewoman, indeed.
Yet despite all the prayers and handsewn talismans, Síle had an unfortunate childbirth and returned to the goddess, Thyis, five years ago, leaving behind her husband and new born son. An heir born but lady lost.
As a way of honoring the maternal figure that raised her, Alyce vowed to care for the newborn lord, to love him as his mother would have. She would share with him every story Síle once recited to her. Bring little Ryles with her to visit the castle town so he would learn of the people he would one day govern. Teach him of his mother's garden and how the flowers could be used for sachets, balms, and soap.
Placing the pail down at her feet, she crouched by the garden's edge, her fingertips tracing over the full bloomed florets. A sweeping inspection told her the shrubs were healthy, though another prune would be needed before winter. Waiting too long, too often, would risk fewer bountiful blooms and woody stems would hasten, eating away the greens. Pruning the branches back would ensure the lavender will continue to flourish for years to come and Alyce was determined to preserve her lady’s last memento for as long as she was able to.
With a happy sigh, she retracted her hands. The lavender harvest would be sufficient for the maids' winter projects. The remaining — Alyce drummed her fingers against her knees. Perhaps the lavender could be distributed as Yule gifts to the castle town's people.
Pleased with the prospect of new projects and already imagining a dozen ways she might use the flowers, Alyce cheerfully ventured away from her garden and in the direction of the manor’s gates.
Behind the stone manor were the rolling hills, old land left for the sheep to graze on. Atop rested the unattended ruins, relics of territory wars long passed. It was beneath these grassy knolls that the manor and its neighboring hamlet was constructed, the only town Alyce had ever known. An architecture adorned with ornate carvings twining the upper walls and clay roofing protecting its inhabitants from weather and wind. Most of the windows were made of rare glass, but the most wondrous part of the manor was the side church. Cut upon its arching side, embedded like a jewel amongst gray stones, was a wide and colorful glass mural of the goddess Thyis and her daughters, beautiful nymphs that supposedly bless the land and their followers with magicks. A work of art and a hidden treasure, it was here that many ceremonies were held.
The nation of Maresai and its people revered the goddess and her daughters greatly, depended on their blessings in their everyday. From lighting a candle to delivering peaceful sleep, spells and runes decorated halls and furniture, accessorized persons and garbs. And in turn, those born with the ability to wield any of the nymphs' elemental gifts had to be sent to the closest Chapel and receive an education. It was dangerous for mageborns to remain untrained. They could cause disasters at home, or worse, hear a nymph's Lament and fall into woe. Their hearing of a nymph's cry was the cause of a Threnody. It was not a permanent sentence for mages to live away from civilians, only until they master their abilities. Then they would be most welcomed to share their magic with the people.
For most mages, they remain with their Chapel, earning coin teaching or honoring services that needed to be fulfilled. Should a magical rune cease functioning, a Chapel mage would be called to renew it.
But the Chapel of Is'et -- oh! Across all the seas, they were the most incompetent! According to the contract, the runes were supposed to last a year, not six months! The baron had sent grievances to the Chapel before, but it did little good. No one cared about a small agricultural county's complaints. Not even when several large amounts were already paid for and the runes still failed to deliver.
But would could Neburh's civilians do? The Chapel of Is'et was the closest for miles and other Chapels found little incentive to travel great distance only to renew hearth runes.
Alyce felt the toughen skin on her thumbs and fingers, souvenirs from years of manor chores. Unlike most noble houses, the House of Is'et could afford very few magic runes that could simplify daily work. The red head maid never complained though. Though inconvenient work, Alyce enjoyed the novelty of doing chores by hand. She knew the best time to line dry clothes, how to use flint and steel. She was useful still when even the runes were broken.
Beyond the manor’s entrance was the long and sole road to the castle town, the way enshrouded by a leafy canopy. The manor itself was built away from the humbler local abodes, but not far enough that it would be difficult to visit. When the baroness was still well enough to walk, Síle would visit the village often and insist on buying a mountain of baked goods. It had been exciting, traversing back to the manor with fresh bread in arms, hands, and mouth. Then there would a delightful evening filled with the sweet aroma of baked apples and hot apple toddies. Alyce grinned at the memory and quickened her pace. Perhaps she could bring a few baked goods back to the manor. Her sister maids and the baron’s young son would no doubt be delighted with such a gift.
The hamlet ahead was already lively with its residents. Geese and chicken were being herded off the streets by older children. Most of the men were departing for the orchards, leaving the craftsmen and women folk to set up shop or prepare for laundering.
As the caretaker of the village's wells, Alyce was cheerfully regarded. The mothers watching their younger children trail the maid, ensured her that the wells were clear of toys while the children teased it wasn't so. Thankfully, the women had spoken true. The wells' water was just as sweet and clear. No playful child had dropped a favored toy into the depths below.
After rewarding the children with sundried candied apples, Alyce continued toward the orchards. The wells there were minded by the orchardists, but she liked visiting them anyways. Unlike the ones in the castle town, the water sources there laid under the shadows of apple trees. Cool and hidden refuges where breezes visited often and the branches waved in greeting.
Spying an unusual large audience ahead, Alyce frowned. Before the fields was the village smithy, a key shop to Neburh as the blacksmith made near every tool in town. A quick scan of the crowd told her that it was largely made of his usual customers, a few nosy grandmamas, and Bea's all too familiar shapely figure.
Like the other manor maids, Bea don the same many layers of linen dress, but somehow she bore the garb with a romantic flair. Long lashes and cornflower blue eyes, blushing cheeks all wreathed by curly golden hair. She had the most agreeable figure, always strutting about with the most flattering flounce. She had the sweetest of smiles and the girliest laugh, knowing exactly how to turn her face in the prettiest ways.
And as much of a flirt she was with the town's boys, it was Bea who held them all for several nights, after the baroness passed. The one who sang lullabies to the newborn lordling to cease his crying. Despite the trouble and tardiness Bea occasionally burdened Alyce and Haddie with, the three shared a sisters' bond.
Alyce clamped her hands firmly down on the blonde girl's shoulders, awakening a surprised squeak from Bea. "We were looking for you, Bea. You were supposed to help me with the wells?"
"Yes, but look here." Twisting around, Bea peered at the crowd before tuggling Alyce aside. "Morning gossip before baking day and it begins at the smithy and wouldn't you know it, the blacksmith is delayed because that old fire rune of his won't light. It's not only him, it's the farrier, the bakers, the lorimer…"
"And near the entire manor as well, " Alyce grumbled. "What of it?"
"The craftsmen are going to file a complaint with the baron. They aren't happy with the fact the last Chapel mage was here only six months ago and the runes have all broken. They --" Bea leaned to whisper into Alyce’s attentive ear. "They said the contract ones the baron pays for aren't as good anymore because the Chapel is angry at him."
Alyce frowned. "What’s there to be angry about?”
“Suppose because we don’t have that many runes and the baron won’t purchase more or different ones.”
“Because it’s really not that necessary," Alyce pointed out. “We’re an agricultural county, not a fancy old city. We get on by just fine.”
"I know. And we all know that. But oh, I don't know." Bea's pouting lips twisted into a conflicted grimace. "Folks are just grumpy. They want their fires but it’s not working as it should."
"But they can have fire," Alyce pantomimed the act of using flint and steel. "Only they don't want to do it like that.”
"Well truthfully, who does?" Bea gave Alyce a crooked smile when the younger girl glared back. "Its frustratingly hard and when things need to be done, its faster to use a rune than to play with metal scraps and dried branches."
A shout drew their attention back to the smithy. "Well look at that, so the blacksmith got a fire going?"
"Ah yes, we got woken up because of his complaining." Bea muttered.
Alyce wiggled her eyebrows in Bea’s direction. "And who taught his son to make fire, hm?"
Looping her arm with Alyce's, Bea answered with a sly smile. "I thought the blacksmith wouldn’t complain about my visits if I taught his son some things proper. Shall I go with you to the wells then?"
"Actually, Haddie wants you back at the manor. I've only the orchards left anyways."
Bea nodded sagely while slipping away. "Oh! The dreadful ones."
"They are not,” Alyce cried indignantly.
"They're old, Alyce," the pretty maid said. "And haunted with moss." She delivered a swift peck on Alyce's cheek, before skipping off in the direction of the manor. "Don't fall into those wells now, nobody would find you for days."
"If I fall in, you'd probably be the first to hear about it anyways," Alyce muttered to herself. She took one final glance at the crowd, which had begun to disperse. Men, she recognized as the town's craftsmen, were busy dragging a soot stained boy toward their own shops. She narrowed her eyes, conducting her own judgment upon the lad. Tall as a willow with the familiar shock of red hair. Commonplace features that most citizens of Is'et, including Alyce, possessed. Besides having an extra heap of rounded muscles around the chest and arms, the smith boy was nothing special. Nor had she heard anything remarkable about him, whether in skill or coin.
With a click of her tongue, Alyce tucked her disapproval aside and made her way to the old gatehouse.
Separating the castle town and northern orchards was an old moat, long overrun by wild vegetation. Once, the moat was full with water and provided for the nobility that lived within the castle, but when a territory war began, a conflict between the governance and clans, the water began to sink lower into the ditch, finally melding into mud. Long after the war, the land remained cursed with its dry spell and the Is'et county was bestowed to the a lesser noble family. Without much complaint, the first head of house accepted the gift and had the original castle dismantled, leaving only the gate house and the rampart walls intact. The drawbridge had since been permanently lowered, providing access out of the residentials and into the finest apple orchard in Maresai.
Crossing the drawbridge, Alyce enjoyed the low thump of each footfall against the heavy planks and cast her eyes upon the rows of flourishing greenery beyond. The vast apple orchards were Neburh's pride, a testament of life in face of the challenging weather and landscape. Despite the long dry spell, the county's soil remained fertile, the trees that grew upon them always bearing sweet fruits during harvesting season. Some believed that the nymphs, who once defended the castle, saw no reason to sustain the defensive moat and instead decided to nourish the land with their water. Since girlhood, Alyce had found the tale fantastical, for they were indeed fortunate. The moat might have dried and rainfalls were rare, but at least the groundwater remained plentiful.
Humming happily, she bounced from the bridge to the dirt trail that ran straight through the orchard, her eyes trailing the path that streamed toward round grassy knolls. North and beyond the hills laid hundred year forests, dark and windy, with very few towns building havens amongst the ancient trees. The closest and only homestead Alyce knew of, was Scaidun, but the carpentry town was not part of Is'et's domain and thus only traded with those who lived closest to the borders. Still, Scaidun would be lovely to visit one day and would certainly be the farthest place she could ever imagine traveling to. She could watch their craftsmen work, perhaps bring home a souvenir or two, and their work was quite good if the manor's own furnishing was of any indication. After spending many spare hours admiring the furniture that sported detailed carvings of prowling felines, she wouldn't mind purchasing a smaller piece, like a comb, for herself, even if she had to save a fortune for it.
She had time, anyways. Scaidun was a venture far in the future, when young lord Ryles was grown and would no longer need a maid to trail after him.
A horse's whinny drew her attention out of her daydream and to a most peculiar sight. She found the well's marker, an apple tree that leaned so far into the road because of the weight of its round apples, that its branches curled into a shaded haven. And under its cover today was a pack ladened gray pony and two figures. The animal seemed unwilling to move and she could hear an exasperated male voice trying to reason with it.
Judging by their attire, they were strangers to these parts and their outer garb spoke of money. Sumptuous with silks, fine wool, and velvet. It was even finer than the baron's best and those cost at least a few gold coins. But goodness, even the woman's silver spectacles alone could easily purchase five suits for the baron and perhaps even more for his three year old son.
Her rattling pail alerted the pony's company and one of them twisted around like a startled animal. Where Neburh's men preferred full bushy beards, the boy was clean shaven to achieve a more youthful appearance. He was clearly not from Is'et, nor anywhere near the county, if his almond shaped eyes and fair fawn skin were any indication. Nor was his older companion, a woman of willowy stature and deep lustrous skin, who tilted her head to the side with thoughtful regard.
Before she could scrutinize them any further, the pony took that moment to veer into the boy with a push strong enough to propel him aside. He was quick to catch himself before he stumbled to the floor, while the mount made a noise that sounded awfully like a snicker.
The corner of Alyce's lips tugged upward, the amusing performance bestowing her a willingness to confront the richly dressed but strange trio.
The woman chuckled too and good naturedly, then extended her hands out to Alyce in a peaceful gesture.
"What luck. Though still a way's out, our pony here has decided we've reached our destination, in the middle of this—." She looked about in feigned bewilderment. "Apple orchard, I suppose."
There was a slight accent to her wispy voice, an unfamiliar tone, that Alyce hadn't heard before. She heard other litls before, from traveling merchants or the baron's relatives, but this one was more polished, ringing with precise clarity like a bell. Alyce returned the amicable traveler's smile with her own.
"Neburh is up ahead," Alyce answered.
"Ah! Civilization." The woman seemed relieved. "What do you say, Mouse?"
Alyce giggled at the name, eyes flitting to the boy, but upon meeting his gaze, she saw that a soft hollow had formed between his brows, his expression turn dour.
"Mouse is our pony. Though she's hardly the skittish type nowadays." Came the amused clarification. The woman's dark chocolate eyes twinkled behind her constellation adorned spectacles. "And I am Hollis. And this fellow here is my apprentice, Kytes. We have traveled here from Thalhurst, on behalf of the Blue Sanctus.”
The smile on Alyce's lips stiffened at the mention of the western high church and she immediately flung herself into a curtsy, bowing her head half way to the ground. Most mages belonged to Chapels, institutions that raised mageborns, who were commoners, merchants. and lower nobles. Then there were those who could call the Sancti home; elite nobles or the realm's most talented mages with great aptitude.
"Oh my, no, no." Hollis drew Alyce back to her full height. "Though we belong to the Sanctus, we are still very human. I’ve merchant origins and I have yet to grow accustomed to others bowing left and right. Save that for the nobles, who like that sort of thing. It's why we're so far away from Thalhurst, actually. Thyis blessed me with a far journey to escape it all. Although…" She looked back at the pony. "I suppose she also wants to keep me here."
Alyce looked over the woman's shoulder to spy the mount had once again begun theatrically leaning into the mage apprentice, painting a picture of fatigue. "Perhaps a drink of water?" She patted the pail at the crook of her elbow. "It's not much of a trough but there is a well in the orchard here."
The relief in Hollis' eyes told Alyce she had found the point of concern. Judging by their cautionary behavior, the travelers did not want to cause offense by stepping into unknown orchards.
"If you could, Colleen."
Alyce nodded. "Of course, Esphyr Hollis," she said using the formal mage title that most magic users preferred hearing.
Adjusting the pail from her arm, Alyce felt her skirt lighten, and something bump the top of her foot. The old heating stone had fallen out from her skirt pocket, most likely from an unraveling darned hole. Alyce inconspicuously kicked it behind her as she curtsied once more before dashing off in the direction of the well.
It wasn't long before Alyce spied the well that sat between a row of apple trees. As she had done hundreds of times before, she grabbed hold of the rope and tested its weight before dropping the well's own bucket in the water. But this time, the sound did not have the dull thunk of deep waters. Frowning, Alyce peered down.
"I haven't visited in a while, but surely it wasn't like this last…" She drummed her fingers against the rope she held. The bucket was much further down, meaning the water level here was lower than the other wells.
She further tested the depths before hauling the bucket up. Thankfully, it was not dangerously low, but this still warranted a report back to the baron.
"I hope you don't mind that the water is for a pony and not the trees," she muttered as she heaved the drawn water into her pail. "I'll visit again and perhaps all will be well. It has been a dry autumn after all…and it must be difficult to find water with no rain, isn't it?"
A familiar tingle shot down her arms, then grew in intensity tenfold, causing Alyce to nearly drop the bucket. Her legs and the soles of her feet felt numb, as if shocked by a sudden cold, and she froze in place until the sensation dissipated. When she could feel her toes again, Alyce swung the bucket back into the well before rubbing her hands together and down the length of her arms.
An illness? She thought, perplexed. It had been getting cold, but when was the last time she had gotten sick? Alyce had always prided herself in extraordinary health and she would be disappointed if she lost that record.
She flapped her hands, inviting warmth to seep back to her fingers, then lugged her pail up by the handle.
The pony called Mouse was much cheered upon seeing her return. Within seconds of setting the pail down, Alyce stumbled backward when the pony ducked her head into the vessel's depths and began to greedily drink from it. Water overflowed and poured messily onto the bottom hem of her skirts and pattens.
A pair of hands helped her up from the shoulders and she looked at her benefactor. If he noticed her frown, Kytes ignored it, seemingly thinking as he eyed the wet splotches on her dress. Before she could question him, the mage had begun to draw something on the palm of his hand and lifted it to the outside of her skirts.
"What are you doing?" She gasped.
Alyce jerked away, eyes wide as she watched angry lines rise from the center of his palm. There wasn't blood, she would have screamed otherwise, but one look at the boy, Alyce realized he was shocked at her outburst.
The boy's hand retracted an inch, fingers closing slightly over the scratches. "I — I'm sorry. It is a drying spell."
"A drying spell?" Alyce repeated, sounding more aghast than she would like.
"He's a runic fire mage, very good at little fire spells," Hollis explained. The woman's voice was still peaceful, but her cadence had quickened. "Heating water, drying clothes, starting fires — but we should have warned you. Living in Thalhurst, we sometimes forget that not all of Maresai are used to seeing actual magicks that don't come in the form of household items."
Closing his hand into a fist, Kytes tucked it behind his back. "I really am sorry. I was only trying to help. May I?"
"No," Alyce replied flatly, staggering away. She felt guilty to dismiss the sincerity, and it did sound quite genuine, but she wanted to be gone, and was only glad the hand was gone from sight. "No. My clothes will dry just fine on their own."
"But it would be faster if I—."
The sound of an empty pail clattering to the ground signaled the finish of the pony's desperate drink of water. Without bothering to bid an excuse, Alyce went to retrieve her water bucket, ignoring the slipping sensation of her pattens.
"You gave Mouse water, I only wished to pay your kindness forward," Kytes said quietly.
"It's only water from a well. Thank the nymphs if you want, I simply fetched it." She bobbed into a curtsy again. "Please excuse my behavior."
There was a drawn silence before Hollis spoke. "It seems we've forgotten the common ... expectations outside of the Sanctus." The woman's melodic voice strained as she murmured. "Apologies, Colleen, we did not mean to put you into an uncomfortable situation. We will pass along our thanks to the House of Is'et."
Alyce could only mutely nod before beating a fast retreat back up the main road. On a different day she will visit the orchard wells and even if she didn’t, the maid was sure they were fine. Besides she had to let the baron know that there was company arriving.
No matter how much Alyce tried, she could not shake the memory of the self induced wound from mind. The Chapel mages that come by had never done magic like that. They muttered nonsense, the sigils would light and magic would work for a short while. And that was it.
But what he did was different, unusual, horrifying. What if he had drawn blood? Would that make his magic more effective? Longer lasting? A Sanctus mage was far more outstanding than a Chapel one, was that the price to pay for such a difference in power?
Dozen more questions swarmed her head, but one stood out above it all. Was it their unusual casting the reason why mageborns had to be sent away?
