Author: Lina J. Potter
Date: 2018-10-14T18:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: The story of Countess Lilian Earton takes on a new twist. A strong and smart woman who has conquered the hearts and minds of kings and noblemen alike, as well as readers around the world, continues to bring her modern know-how and wisdom to a medieval world. Wellster, Virma, and Ativerna are caught up in turmoil. The tentative peace between the countries turned out to be a calm before a storm. A dark plot against the king threatens Lily, her family, and everything she holds dear. Yet Lilian Earton is not the one to wait for divine intervention. Once again, she rolls up her sleeves and gets to
Publisher: LitHunters

A Medieval Tale

Book Six

For the King

By Lina J. Potter

Translated by LitHunters

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A Medieval Tale: For the King

The story of Countess Lilian Earton takes on a new twist. A strong and smart woman who has conquered the hearts and minds of kings and noblemen alike, as well as readers around the world, continues to bring her modern know-how and wisdom to a medieval world.

Wellster, Virma, and Ativerna are caught up in turmoil. The tentative peace between the countries turned out to be a calm before a storm. A dark plot against the king threatens Lily, her family, and everything she holds dear. Yet Lilian Earton is not the one to wait for divine intervention. Once again, she rolls up her sleeves and gets to work on saving her husband from being accused of an assassination attempt and rescuing her friends in Virma from a death sentence, all the while carving out a place for herself in the harsh reality of medieval society.

A long journey is going to start soon…

For the King is the 6th book in a bestselling Amazon A Medieval Tale series by Lina J. Potter. A #1 Amazon bestseller series in multiple categories continues now. One of the top 10 Amazon authors with a huge fanbase all over the world, Lina J. Potter decided to continue Lilian’s story and is now working on a long-awaited continuation. Tune in for a few more books!

A Medieval Tale: For the King

Contents:

A Medieval Tale: For the King

Contents:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

The Trial of Gods and the Will of Men

From the Author

Book Recommendations:

About Lina J. Potter

Always, unfettered man, you will cherish the sea!

The sea your mirror, you look into your mind

In its eternal billows surging without end

And its gulfs are bitter, so must your spirit be.

You plunge with joy into this image of your own:

You hug it with your eyes and arms; your heart

Forgets for a time its noisy beat, becomes a part

Of a greater, more savage and less tameable moan.

“Man and the Sea” by Charles Baudelaire

Prologue

Wellster. Cardin, the royal palace.

“You really let me down, Harnie.”

The royal study was the perfect residence for His Majesty Gardwig, known since his youth as the Lion of Wellster.

It had a lion’s hide, of course, or, rather, several: on the wall, on the couch, on the floor before an enormous fireplace—Wellster had only one lion, and no one would dare to skin the king himself, which is why the hides had been imported from as far as Khanganat. The walls were lined with gold-streaked brown fabric and draped with heavy curtains, and ebony furniture covered hardwood floors. Atop all that dark splendor sat Gardwig, resplendent and intimidating in his shining gold clothes.

His Majesty knew how to make the most dramatic impression. No surprises here: if stage actors used those tricks to great effect, why couldn’t a king borrow some of them? Just a little bit...

But at that moment, His Majesty had no intention to crush or intimidate anyone. The king’s voice was full of sorrow, and he felt hurt and upset. Not because of the sickness—that cunning snake had retreated for the time being, amassing its poison and giving a respite to the weary body. But who would banish the demons eating at the soul?

Gardwig sat in a chair next to the fireplace and looked at the flames.

He was an old, tired lion who didn’t care about lionesses anymore, or a pride, or a furious dash across the desert, as long as he had warmth, a slab of meat, and a kind hand willing to brush his mane. In the end, even the most dreadful of predators grew old.

Altres knew that and deeply sympathized with the king, yet tried not to show it, not with a sigh or a glance. There were things for which Gard wouldn’t forgive even his brother.

Unlike his king, the jester was wearing blatantly plain clothing: leather pants, a brown vest, boots of the same color, and a white shirt with a cravat. He wasn’t working...or rather, he was working at his other job.

At that moment, Altres didn’t need to grimace and act; the people in the room weren’t the king and his jester, but the king and the head of his secret service.

“Is Edward demanding my head?”

No need for formalities; the king and his brother were always frank with each other, as frank as people of their status could allow themselves to be.

Lort sometimes kept certain information to himself, while Gardwig could occasionally disregard something. After all, there were things better left untouched, or the stench could never be washed away. Not at that moment, though.

“No. We were lucky.”

Altres caught his breath, discreet as always.

In truth, he loved his brother more than life itself and would have given his own head in exchange for Gardwig’s without any hesitation. Still, he couldn’t help but wish for a reprieve. For fifteen years, maybe? Hell, at least ten!

Not because Lort was afraid of death, no, but because he was afraid that Wellster would collapse after their deaths.

What was the biggest mistake of most politicians? Fear of nurturing a successor, of course. After all, who knows what could happen—people might start shouting “long live the king” while the old ruler was still alive. History knew of such cases. And he had no desire to die. He would prefer to finish his rule in peace and retire. Yet even in nature, a young lion would kill the old one. In some concerns, humans copied animals, but sometimes, they could teach them a lesson in being savage, even the worst of the predators.

With Gardwig, it was even worse. He had been married a few times, but only had sons in his last marriage with Milia of Shelt. Still, having children was nowhere near enough. They had to be brought up, tutored, taught to rule, crowned...and he needed to be certain that his son would succeed in keeping the crown, that the country wouldn’t be drowned in fire and blood after his ascension. It was easier for a potter—a failed item can easily be shattered, and nobody would cry over earthenware. But each decision of a king cost lives. If you didn’t succeed as a potter, you could become a carpenter or a baker—but there was no escaping being a king. The only way to resign was dying, and sometimes, that involved your nearest and dearest until the entire country was drenched in blood. This is why Lort was ready to surrender or negotiate for a reprieve. Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

Gardwig had told him everything, calm and quiet: if Lort had fallen into his hands back in Ativerna, after Anna’s antics, he would have lost his head. But that was then. After everything had settled down and returned to normal, there was no need to cross swords anymore. It was time to forge new ones.

“Your men failed a few times, Harnie. First, when you didn’t kill that teacher.”

Altres snorted.

“Nobody was going to kill him, Your Maje—”

“Harnie!”

His roar was worthy of a true lion and sounded quite royal.

“Sorry, Gard.”

Altres looked apologetic. Yes, he did have to separate his brother from his king, but at that moment, he was with his brother, and that’s who would reprimand him to the point that his neck would sting for days.

But what was better, a heavy hand upon his neck or an axe? Altres knew what he would choose.

“Go on, talk.”

Altres shrugged.

“I did know that Anna got tangled with that schlump. So what? They weren’t going to kill him. He was more useful alive. I wanted to scare the living daylights out of him and use him later, but fate stepped in.”

“And what were you going to do with that cur?’

“Have you seen Her Highness Lydia? She’s a perfect fright,” the jester said, shivering.

“Even her portrait would do well for scaring their enemies. I held no illusions of whom Richard would choose. And if so, controlling the Queen of Ativerna would come in handy for us, wouldn’t it?”

Gardwig’s rage ceased as if waves quelled by oil.

That was true; Altres was taking care of his own country—not anyone else’s—as well as he could. Sooner or later, Anna would have become the Queen of Ativerna, able to influence her husband. What wife could not? And Altres, in turn, would influence Anna, letting their countries move forward hand in hand...one an inch ahead of the other, but who would notice that?

The queen must be above any suspicion, so Anna would do anything to avoid being unmasked. Knowing her old sins and threatening her that, if anything, her first husband could resurface—making her marriage void—
would have worked wonders.

“Fate stepped in.” Lort lifted his hands in dismay.

“I’m stupid, I grant you that.”

“Edward doesn’t think so. He’s very angry with you. Very angry.”

“And?” Lort was alarmed. A royal grudge could very well turn into a beheading, whether officially or through assassination.

“We got lucky, that’s it. When the girl tried poisoning the king’s nephew, she wasn’t caught, and he didn’t die, either.”

“Earton?”

“Yes.”

“The king’s crazy about him.”

“If Jerisson died, Edward would have demanded your head, and I would not be able to refuse. But even then...”

“Do they want my ears?” Lort feigned despair. “Or my nose?”

“Your tongue,” Gardwig snapped. “Got it?”

“I’d prefer death.” Altres usually didn't overstep, but being a jester entitled him to certain liberties. In a fit of impotent horror, he sagged in a chair, even jerking his leg once or twice.

“Exile,” Gardwig said in earnest. “For about a year.”

Altres immediately stopped playing the clown. “A year?”

“Yes. Go visit...wherever it is you want.”

“Home, I guess. The estate,” Lort shrugged. “I haven’t been there for ages.”

“Right. The estate, the lakes, have a swim, rest, and then return to work.”

“But what would happen in a year?”

“Nothing much. Everyone would forget about this story. You’ll return from your exile, and everything will be just as it was.”

Altres nodded.

“All right.”

“I’ll pretend to be mad at you. I wasn’t alone in Ativerna, rumors started flowing, so we’d better steer them in the right direction before it’s too late. Good thing you arrived in secret. Tomorrow, you’re going to do it publicly, and I’ll be screaming at you, threatening to execute you...then I’ll calm down and replace execution with banishment.”

“To everyone’s utter disappointment.” The jester-turned-spy grinned.

“They’ll survive. And those who can’t, well, they’ll wind up dead,” Gardwig stressed. “In short, we’re going to act out a play tomorrow, and you’ll leave. You’ll return in a year and get to work with renewed vigor.”

Altres nodded. “As you command.”

“Everybody will be convinced that the agreement was fulfilled. In the meantime, I’ll send Maria to Laveri, she’ll meet her fiancé... Is everything in order with her, by the way?”

“With her, yes.”

“But still, you’d better...oh, screw that...fine. I’ll tell the midwives to check.”

Altres spread his hands, a knowing smile on his face.

“Count Dishan will be my replacement. Today, I’ll explain everything to him, and tomorrow, I’ll hand things over.”

“Do that. And tell him to arrange the midwives. No one will forgive us another whore for a bride, you know that yourself.”

Lort did. And incidentally...

“What did Anna use to poison Earton?”

“Edward said something about lilac slayer.”

Altres closed his eyes. He was familiar with that poison. Jerisson had had no chance, but the count had managed to survive. How and why? And where can I find a recipe for the antidote?

“Was that Countess Earton?”

“Yes. I don’t know the details, but Countess Earton and Tahir Djiaman din Dashar spent a whole night by the patient’s bed, and then din Dashar left the room and said that the count would be all right.”

“Now, she’s someone I’d love to meet,” said Altres almost dreamily.

Gardwig threw his brother a look, preparing to lecture him on inappropriate playfulness, but Altres had never been more serious. His Majesty decided to elaborate.

“I talked to her.”

“And I corresponded with her,” Altres confessed. “She’s a very smart woman.”

Gardwig nodded. “That’s true. What do you think of her?”

“That she’s smart enough to create something new and not smart enough to let men take all the glory,” he replied simply.

Gardwig snickered. He knew what his brother meant. Women had only a few real options in the world: a daughter, a wife, a mother, a grandmother. A bright and charismatic woman instantly drew attention, sometimes, too much of it, and no butterfly feels comfortable near a torch: chances are, she could burn her wings.

But what if she were no butterfly?

“We spoke more than once,” he admitted to Altres. “You’re not entirely right.”

The jester demonstrated his undivided attention.

“She may be smart, but that’s not her biggest virtue.”

Altres raised his eyebrows. What other virtues could a woman have? His brother recognized only one, but surely the countess couldn’t permit her patient, even a crowned one,to do something like that? Or was he mistaken?

Gardwig shook his head as if he knew what his brother was thinking. His gestures were slow and deliberate.

“The way she acts...it’s hard to explain. Our world belongs to men, and we know that.”

“And what about her?” Altres caught the implication.

“Lilian Earton acts in such a way as if it belonged to her.”

Chapter 1

At the Source

Ativerna, Laveri.

“Oh, married life,” Count Earton grumbled, extricating himself from under the covers, which quickly turned into a morning acrobatics routine, as the blanket was hard-pressed to the bed with seemingly no way to pull it away.

Lilian opened her eyes and smiled at her husband.

“Take it easy.”

“Grrrr,” the noble count replied, polite, yet expressive enough for Nanook to prick up an ear. Competition? Where did it come from?

Yep, married life in all its glory.

The conjugal bed might be sacred, but nobody had told that to dogs, ferrets, and children, and they came there when they pleased.

It wasn’t so bad with Miranda, who, at least, would visit in the morning, pulling her dearest mommy from beneath a warm blanket and dragging her to her training. Jerisson could live with that, especially since he preferred to start the day earlier anyway and didn’t disregard military exercise.

But when your finger gets bitten at night—right as you’ve just finished performing your marital duties and then some—and drifted off to sleep while hugging your wife... Hello, ferret! And then you shove the invader away and go wash the wound, only to return and see your spot already taken. Hello, dog!

Those creatures never seemed to disturb Lilian, however; they were too smart for that. But poor Count Earton had no choice but to push the dog away, grab the ferret by its neck, and return to his pillow. If he got lucky, he even fell asleep in the first twenty minutes, until everything got back to square one.

Nanook would flop down on his legs, his bulk more than big enough for the count and the countess put together, and lie there for the entire night, protesting when Jerisson tried to turn him around. What are you doing, Master? I’ve just gotten myself comfortable!

As for ferrets...well, if anybody liked waking with a ferret on their head, they’d come to the right place. If they didn’t, well, tough luck; the ferret would come anyway. The worst thing, however, was how obedient they were with Lilian—sleeping by her side, letting her pet them, almost purring under her fingers. With him, all they did was hiss and put their tails on his head.

But deep in his heart, Jerisson knew the reason: competition in its purest form. The pesky pack had been snuggling in Countess Earton’s bed long before her wayward husband had returned and wasn’t going to surrender to the insolent invader. Wretches!

On the other hand... No need to worry or be jealous—his wife would never take a lover. No other man would tolerate such a menagerie.

***

And with that, Jerisson high-tailed it into the courtyards.

The Virmans were already there. Eric was stretching on something resembling crossbars, doing chin-ups and flexing his muscles. Pretty soon, the Virman noticed the count and nodded to him.

“We have a spot!”

Jess waved his hand and joined up.

Pull-ups, push-ups... After a showdown with the Virmans, they had managed to find common ground and even embraced each other. Jerisson knew that it was no use trying to kick those arrogant troublemakers out, so he didn’t protest.

They were decent guards, kept their word, and had no designs on his wife. What else could I wish for?

Fifteen minutes later, Lilian and Mirrie had turned up as well, both dressed in loose pants and shirts. However, they ignored the men and broke into a run.

The count’s courtyard wasn’t especially big, but there was enough space for a sports ground, even for gymnastic equipment and a treadmill of sorts—or, rather, a wheel of about three hundred feet in diameter placed alongside the fence. And that was exactly what Lilian was doing: going through the motions, repeating the workout routine from her previous life. First, running: ten laps, then moving her head, her arms and her legs, then jumping and goose-stepping, doing sit-ups, and after finally warming up, the equipment. She was sweaty, and her muscles were sore and tired, but she didn’t mind it.

The servants had long since stopped paying any attention to the countess’ weird habits. The nosiest of them had received a lesson from the Virmans. After seeing a few pumpkin-sized fists, all of them had gotten the point.

Mirrie was squealing by Lilian’s side, imitating her adopted mother to the best of her ability and trying to keep up. After the memorable kidnapping, may Baron Donter rest in hell, she was all wrapped up in training, learning to throw knives, practicing punches and grips. Lilian wasn’t sure, however, that Mirrie could kill a man if worse came to worst. That said, she might have been underestimating the girl. That child was the product of a medieval society that didn’t place a high value on human life. In a critical situation, she would probably have way fewer hang-ups, doubts, and contemplations on morality than Lilian.

Jerisson finished warming up, nodded to Eric, and the men took up arms.

A sword against an axe? Whatever any of them were accustomed to worked, as in battle, no weapons were equal. A real fight was no joust, and you had to use any tool at your disposal. Therefore, they preferred to practice with all types of weapons.

The opponents themselves looked along the same lines. Jerisson, a faster and leaner warrior, contrasted the Virman’s raw strength. Lilian couldn’t help but gaze at them with admiration.

Eric pressed with all his might, while Jerisson tried to dodge his blows instead of blocking them—and the Virman realized it. In truth, it was a battle of wits rather than strength. As if she didn’t know what Eric was capable of! An idiot could never become a captain, Lilian was sure of that.

But what was her husband capable of? Now, that was something Lily was only starting to discover.

And no need to talk about their nightly encounters. He wasn’t like most of the men there, who, like Turkish sultans of yore, could call up a woman, make love to her, and then send her away—a utilitarian approach. With Jess, however...

He wasn’t selfish. He was an attentive and sensitive lover, a bit commanding, but never a tyrant or a pervert—the perfect combination. He cared about his partner’s thoughts but always made the first step, no exceptions. After all, he was a man, and feminism wasn’t even a curse word in that world—it was a completely foreign concept.

All right, that’s enough distraction, return to your abs training!

Lily hung on a cross-bar and started raising her legs without bending her knees. Now, stretching was a real problem. After so many years, her muscles had grown stiff...but at least she didn’t have arthritis thrown in for good measure!

For Miranda, everything came much easier; children usually take well to sports, anyway.

Once, it had been the same for Aliya. Ever since her childhood, she had practiced something—karate, aikido, swimming...

Not enough to become a professional, but why would she? No need to ruin her health and make her body her only virtue. The mind was no less important, after all.

Lilian finished her workout and glanced at her husband. From the looks of it, he and Eric had reached a stalemate. The Virman couldn’t break Jess’ defense, while the latter was unable to find the moment to attack. Who will tire first? She wondered. Or maybe, it isn’t worth a conflict?

Lilian stuck two fingers in her mouth and produced a sharp whistle.

The men turned around.

“We’re going to swim and have breakfast!” she yelled, loud and clear. “We won’t wait up!”

“Momma, how about a race?” Mirrie nodded at the house.

“Why not?”

Culottes weren’t the best of clothes, but they were suitable for running. However, Lily still yielded. Let the child have her fun!

Lily and Nanook still came first, but Mirrie was pleased, anyway, even if sticking her tongue out was a bit excessive. You wimp!

***

Finally, a bath. As usual, Lily wiped herself over a bowl and pondered. That really wasn’t convenient at all.

My kingdom for a horse? Screw the horse, give me a shower! A warm one! But what if...

For a few seconds, Lilian deliberated the idea of a shower room but had to abandon it. First, she was a medic, not a mechanic. She simply didn’t know how to deliver water up, and even if she did, it’s not like an icy shower was her preference. Assembling a heating boiler was way above her level.

Second, hygiene. Even in the twenty-first century, mold was a common problem in bathrooms, especially if they weren’t cleaned thoroughly. In that world, it would appear even quicker.

And then there was the third reason—the most important one. She was a countess who wasn’t supposed to lug buckets of hot water by herself. Let her servants do that; that’s what they were paid and supplied for.

We’ll make do without plumbing. Wiping myself with a towel is not that big of a deal.

Lily changed—thankfully, she could do it without aid—and pulled on a pale blue boho-style dress with embroidered collar and sleeves. The mirror helpfully showed an attractive blonde with long hair and a charming smile. No model, not even close, but a pretty woman with ample curves, not fat and not thin. And no need to be, really. In that era, model looks would arouse only one desire in a man, and certainly not sexual. They’d want to feed her—the more, the better—or what children could a skeleton bear? Only sickly ones!

Jerisson silently entered the room, crept up to his wife, and placed a firm kiss on her shoulder.

“You’re a marvel!”

Lily replied with a mocking smile.

She still kept that pearl earring that her husband had received at the masquerade in a jewelry box. There never was enough time to clear everything up...and then, she was also a bit scared. They had won the war, but who knew what her husband would turn out to be during the time of peace?

Edward wouldn’t live forever, and when the throne passed to Richard... Jerisson was his closest friend. Who would the king support if a conflict arose? Lilian knew the answer.

Scared; she was still so scared about her future. Nowhere to go, no place to hide—how could she leave Miranda, and now, Roman and Jacob? She had no choice. You're responsible for what you have tamed, taught, trained...

“You’re charming as well, dear husband.”

“Will you wait for me, m’lady?” Jerisson was quick on the uptake. “I will be delighted to keep you company at breakfast.”

“No way!” Lilian declared solemnly. “I’ll enter the dining room first and eat all the porridge by myself! I won’t leave you anything!”

“Woe to me!” Jerisson quickly wiped himself over a bowl. He wasn’t bothered by his wife’s tidiness. Could be worse...and really, when your woman was fresh and clean, it provided a certain motivation—for example, to carry out marital duties.

“So what will I feed my warhorse, m’lady?”

“Going by the looks of this monster, raw meat,” Lilian snorted.

Jerisson broke into a flattered smile.

His horse might be inferior to the Avarian but still made quite an impression, being a huge black beast with hooves the size of a soup bowl. If it stepped on you once, you’d probably lose half a foot. It also had teeth not unlike a hippo, surprisingly, without fangs.

“You’ve persuaded me, M’lady. I’ll give you the porridge, and you’ll give me the meat!”

Bickering amicably, the couple went down into the dining room, only to freeze at the doorstep—and laugh out loud.

The porridge in a huge bowl was taken by Miranda, who was absorbed in picking at it with her spoon. Why fill her own plate if she could eat it like that?

The meat, in the meantime, was shared by the dogs and the weasels. Nobody was going to leave anything for the Eartons. First come, first serve!

***

As a rule, the table of Count Earton hosted way more people, but that day was unusually quiet. Eric hadn’t finished training yet, Leif and Ingrid were visiting Taral, which was turning into a Virman foothold day by day, and Tahir and Jaimie had stayed the night in the palace, as His Majesty had turned out to be a difficult patient. And so, for once, only the Earton family was at the table, eating.

The couple’s lateness wasn’t fatal, as the kitchen turned out to have more porridge, roasted meat, cheese, ham, eggs boiled in wine, and lots of other food.

Jerisson sent a piece of meat into his mouth and glanced at his wife.

“What are your plans for today, Your Grace?”

“Taral, Your Grace, and only Taral. What about you?”

“I’m going to the shipyard to talk to August. Would you care to join me?”

Lily considered his offer.

So what if she did? Taking a detour and returning to her route later didn’t seem all that difficult.

But while she was thinking, fate, as usual, took the decision out of the countess’ hands, not caring about her opinion.

“A letter from His Majesty!”

***

The messenger was young, disheveled, and really scared of dogs. Or was it just Virman dogs? The very sight of Lou-Lou and Nanook shook him down to the very core and made him keep a wide berth. And the furry jerks saw and understood everything, too. Lily could have sworn that the mutts were baring their fangs, sneering. Curs!

Jerisson took the scroll and casually broke the seal. Lilian kept quiet, not asking him anything, knowing he would tell her himself. Miranda, however, wasn’t as tactful.

“Papa? Is something wrong?”

Jerisson looked away from the letter and smiled, indicating that everything was fine. Just work.

“Mirrie, honey, will you go with me?”

“Where, Papa?”

“To visit Angelina and Joliette.”

“YES!”

Miranda even jumped in her seat in excitement. She did want to visit the princesses, as the girls had become fast friends, even if the princesses were older: Angelina, almost seventeen, and Joliette a bit younger. They were late-in-life babies, beloved and spoiled. That said...late-in-life? By what count? Her Majesty had borne them in her thirties. Some did that in their forties.

Lily shrugged.

“Then I’m going to Taral alone. They aren’t inviting me, are they?”

Jerisson shook his head.

“Right now, it’s just me. We’ll see later. Sorry, dear wife, duty calls.”

Lily waved her hand.

“It’s fine, dear husband. Duty is sacred.”

Jerisson threw his wife a suspicious look, caught a mischievous spark in her green eyes, and realized that Lily wasn’t offended. He smiled in return.

Sometimes, he was dumbfounded by his wife’s manners and overly unceremonious jokes, yet...he didn’t want to change anything.

“Will the Virmans go with you?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

Who knows what could happen...who could happen... The Virmans are reliable, and if anyone doubted that they could study Eric’s axe in detail to be sure. Oh, and speaking of whom...

Eric entered the dining room, his pace brisk. A wet mane of golden hair, a shirt clinging to his body... He clearly had just drenched himself with water from the well. Jerisson glanced at his wife, checking if she’d show a purely female interest in a strong and handsome man, but Lilian wasn’t even looking at Eric, instead choosing to whisper something to Mirrie.

Then she raised her head, saw the Virman, and smiled. It wasn’t a sensual or a seductive smile, but rather a friendly one. And without even noticing, Jerisson breathed out, relieved. He was still not quite sure about his marriage.

A stay-at-home mother hen was one thing—she would never fly away. But an exotic bird from a faraway land... No matter how he might clip her wings, he could never hold her back, and...

It was still so damn complicated.

Lilian didn’t swear her love, didn’t fling her arms around her husband’s neck, showed no weakness or vulnerability—and was completely different from ladies Jerisson was used to, who did their utmost to remind the dear count that they couldn’t live without him. His wife, however, she would have survived on her own—and thrived, Jess knew.

It was an unusual feeling, being studied, scrutinized, observed to find out if you were worthy of trust...but whatever. He had managed to tame his horse, and he would do the same to his wife, sooner or later.

“Eric, I need to go to Taral today.”

“Just a minute, m’lady, I’ll finish my breakfast, and we can go.”

The Virman had also chosen meat and was currently gorging himself on sausages. Then he broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it into honey...

Lilian was watching him, smiling with her eyes. There was something incredibly adorable in a scarred, seven-feet-tall warrior licking honey from his fingers, almost purring with pleasure.

What a sweet tooth!

Jerisson felt another pang of jealousy but quickly pushed it away, emphatically kissing his wife—this time, her neck.

“Have a nice day, honey.”

“Likewise, m’lord count.”

A smile, a farewell wave of a hand, and a huge black monster darted off with Jerisson on its back and Mirrie nestled in front of him, headed to the palace, with Lou-Lou running beside it.

Jerisson felt suspiciously at peace—but he suspected, not for long.

***

The count’s intuition didn’t fail him; both Richard and Edward were waiting for him in the study.

“Greetings.”

The noble count waved his hand, demonstrating a radiant smile.

“Hello to you, nephew.”

Richard smiled as well, but it didn’t seem genuine. Jerisson raised his eyebrows.

“Am I guilty of something, Uncle Edward?”

“Not you,” Edward sighed.

“Not you. But... Look at this, will you?”

Jess caught the letter thrown by Richard right in the air, unfolded it, and began reading.

Then he cursed, paused, and cursed again.

“Uncle Edward, but this is... Mother—”

“Curb your tongue, you’re talking about the queen here,” his uncle snapped. It wasn’t very convincing, and the noble count indeed had a good reason to swear, as the letter had been sent by Gardwig.

His Majesty expressed his friendship to Ativerna, extended his utmost respect, and informed them that Princess Maria was ready to leave for Ativerna at any moment...but wouldn’t it be better if her fiancé came to take her, instead? Or his envoy, perchance? Just to eliminate any accidents or implications?

Gardwig, of course, was willing to make any sacrifices, up to shoving his daughter into a carriage, but...he would have preferred to save face, so if his royal counterpart would be so kind as to oblige him, His Majesty the King of Wellster would be exceedingly grateful.

His royal counterpart, in the meantime, was quite displeased. But...

Oh, those dreadful three letters…

“But!”

They could change plans in an instant, make mountains crumble, force rivers to change course. There was no mightier spell; shildas could only dream of such power.

“Uncle?”

“I cannot let Richard leave,” Edward had to confess. “And I won’t survive the road. Do you have any other candidates?”

“Uncle!”

Jess feigned indignation. They were adult people who understood everything well enough. Yet politics was always fraught with rituals. Whether you like it or not, any move by a politician was always accompanied by an infinite number of formalities: the way you bowed, the way you looked, the way you talked about the weather... To succeed, you would have to learn to bow in all directions, while making sure you didn’t bend too low.

An art? Indeed.

Gardwig’s position was understandable, as the situation was truly complicated.

Richard had chosen the former’s daughter after meeting her face to face, favoring her over Lydia of Ivernea, which caused tension in his relationship with Bernard, and then...

What then? Few people knew about the whole deal, the escape, the poisoning, and the intrigues. For everyone, Anna of Wellster had disappeared, her destination depending on the rumor-monger’s imagination, her father had returned home, and Richard was marrying Anna’s little sister.

So what would people think? How would the countries save face? The idea was simple: yes, the kings couldn’t really make the best out of bad business, but...

Gardwig declared that Anna had decided to serve God. Out of the blue, she had a revelation and headed to a convent to pray and repent. Repent of what? What business is it of yours? What convent? Oh, if you truly want to learn that, we could send you to the cell next to her. Why, do you mind? Then why are you acting all interested?

Richard, of course, was insulted, so His Majesty offered him the hand of his other daughter, Maria, instead. Richard agreed, provided that Maria would be brought up at court in Laveri. Or what if she turned out to be overly devout, too?

Such was the official version. Now, it was Ativerna’s turn to maintain good relations—by way of, say, sending ambassadors after the bride, showing that Ativerna and Wellster were still close allies. There was no rift, no problems, everyone was smiling and waving their hands.

The only issue was the ambassador’s identity. Before, it was a no-brainer: they would have sent Duke Falion. But after his rebellion—the bastard had the worst timing—only Aldonai could send him anywhere, after raising him from a grave.

Whom to pick, then? From the looks of it, Count Earton was the only choice, both for the public and Gardwig. A roundabout way to say, I’m not offended, nobody’s offended, no problems, no complaints. Forgive and forget.

Just a letter, maybe an especially touching and sincere one, would have been enough for Jerisson, but it’s not like he had a choice, not in politics or in high society. If one wished to be free, they would have to recluse themselves to the peace and quiet of a backwater county, somewhere like Earton. At court, that was never an option.

To Jerisson’s credit, he was protesting like a cat being dragged into water, with all four paws and even its tail.

“Uncle, I’ve just started to mend ties with my family, and you want me to leave, again?”

Edward drew a deep breath. Yes, that was the first in a long line of complications. The capital of Wellster was a month’s travel, in the best-case scenario, and that’s not counting the time spent there and the journey home...

And the boy had just begun getting his life together. Edward recalled all misunderstandings that he’d had to solve by his royal will and sighed.

“Jess, there’s nobody else I could ask. Nobody.”

Jerisson sulked. Richard coughed.

“Maybe there’s a solution? What if Jerisson goes with his family?”

Edward raised his eyebrows, and Jess realized that Rick had never proposed anything like that before.

“Have you lost your mind? Letting strangers get their hands on such a precious thing as Countess Earton?”

“What do you mean, get their hands?” Richard looked indignant.

“Jess, you won’t let them steal your wife, will you?”

Jerisson snorted. As a married man, he had already started to realize certain nuances.

“But will Lilian agree to that? You, Uncle, and your aldon never give her a moment’s respite. The poor darling spends more time with the craftsmen than with her husband.”

Edward didn’t even lower his eyes. What could he do? He needed her.

Countess Earton knew what was what, and the craftsmen could help her implement her designs. Thus far, she was critical to the work.

“You must realize that it’s for the good of the country.”

“And don’t even get me started with the Mariella Trading House,” Jerisson kept on ranting, not quite serious, but pretty passionately.

“Soon, I’ll grow jealous, with the time she’s spending on that damn construction! She cares more about it than her own husband!”

The construction was going on at full pace, but workers had to be watched, no matter the era you found yourself in. Even if they weren’t stealing, they were often sloppy. Therefore, Lilian often visited the construction spot, accompanied by the Virmans, for good measure. Their muscles, their fists, and axes were all convincing arguments.

“So it’s going to be a romantic journey for you both,” Richard narrowed his eyes.

“Right, in a warm and friendly company.”

“I’ll make sure none of your mistresses are in the retinue,” Richard added.

Jess made a face at His Majesty.

“My gratitude is endless.”

“Maybe you’ll leave Wellster with a baby,” His Majesty suggested.

Jerisson shrugged.

Back after that assassination attempt, he and Lilian had thought her pregnant, but it had turned out to be a false alarm. Any woman would feel sick and start throwing up after something like that; female bodies were complicated. She had grown too agitated, her hormones had acted up, creating an imbalance, which had forced her to become even more worried, going round and round—agitation, imbalance, agitation, and imbalance. Still, that had been for the best.

Who knows what was in his blood after getting poisoned; it was better to wait and play it safe. At that moment, Jerisson felt fine, and his heartbeat was even, but even at that, he had to be examined every day, if not by his wife, then by Jaimie or Tahir.

They looked at his pupils, checked his pulse, heartbeat, breathing...

He also had to diet. The count might be mocking porridge, but he had spent a month eating gruel like a good boy. He was in no hurry to die while still in his twenties.

“Maybe we will. Mirrie’s asking for a brother or a sister.”

“Will you take your daughter?” His Majesty asked, all business-like.

“Mirrie won’t let me leave without her,” Jess sighed. “She’s still having nightmares...”

That was true. Jerisson wasn’t kicking the animals out of the bedroom and wasn’t mad when Lilian left the door open between the rooms, so Miranda could run to them in the morning.

***

Lilian didn’t argue when Jerisson asked her to shoo the dogs away from the bedroom. She simply shrugged and had the beasts sent away to the Virmans.

Lou-Lou and Nanook looked daggers at Jess but complied. Jess had a good time that evening. Afterward, they went to sleep, and then...

“Papa! Papa, please, don’t die!”

The scream was full of so much despair that Jerisson’s heart ached.

“Don’t! Please!”

He and Lilian stormed into Miranda’s room like two hurricanes.

The girl was thrashing in her bed, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her hands were clenched into fists, her body strung like a wire.

“Papa, no! Don’t leave me!”

A scream or a moan?

For a second, Jess was at a loss. He had never woken a child from a nightmare before; actually, he didn’t really know what to do with children in such cases at all.

Lilian, however, fell on her knees next to the girl’s bed, took her by the shoulders, and gave them a good shake.

“Mirrie! MIRANDA! Wake up!”

Another moan.

The girl heard her but was still at the mercy of her nightmare. It was time for Jess to act. He grabbed a jug of juice from Mirrie’s nightstand and splashed it on his daughter. Some of it brushed Lilian, but she didn’t mind, holding her girl to her chest.

Miranda opened her blue eyes and saw Jess.

“Papa...”

Disregarding the wet bedsheet, Jess put his arms around both women, giving them a tight hug.

“I’m here, baby. I’m alive, everything’s all right...”

“Momma...”

“It’s fine, Mirrie. Everything’s fine...”

Lily was patting her girl’s hair. Mirrie’s sobbing slowly subsided, and finally, Jerisson breathed out in relief. His wife had somehow managed to become a mother for his daughter. It pleased him.

“I dreamed that Papa died...” Mirrie was sniffling. “Momma, back when he got poisoned, and you couldn’t save him...”

“But I did,” Lilian smiled at her girl. “Your Papa’s alive, we’re all together, we’re a family...”

“It was so lonely, cold, and no one was home...”

“We’re here, little one, and we’re not going anywhere, I promise.”

“We are,” Jess objected, pulling Miranda out of her bed. Lily climbed out by herself. “We’re going to our bed, as your bed’s drenched in juice, and so are you, piggy. You need to get changed...”

Then they got to wiping themselves dry, changing their clothes, and at last, snuggled together...

Miranda dropped off to sleep almost immediately. Jess looked at Lilian.

“What was that?”

“A nightmare. It happens. She has a good reason, too.”

That was true, and it he had provided it to her, the idiot! But it was too late to kick himself for that, anyway.

“So what do we do now?”

If Lilian didn’t take it seriously, if she started to joke or snort, Jess would have never forgiven her. But his wife considered his words.

“Hard to tell. I’ve never had nightmares.”

Not surprising.

Lilian scowled, as if having read his thoughts, and Jess felt ashamed. Still, he wasn’t going to apologize—after all, it was only a thought!

“My friend had them.”

“So...what can we do?”

“For starters, give her a mild sedative. Let’s try a valerian root tincture...”

“It won’t harm her, will it?”

“I’m not proposing we make her drink it!”

Jess raised his eyebrows.

“What, then?”

“Sniff it before going to sleep. Oh, by the way, we really need to order Amir a plain aroma lamp,” Lilian said, nodding to her thoughts. “He could send it for his fiancée. Oh, and...we’ll have to put up with dogs in our bedroom. Ferrets, too.”

“Are you mocking me, dear wife?’

“By no means. That’s what my friend did. Of course, her dog was twenty times smaller, but Miranda wouldn’t trade her Lou-Lou for anything.”

Jess moaned.

“And Nanook?”

“Let them sleep by Miranda’s side. It’s easier when there’s someone big and warm lying next to you...or we could take her to our bed.”

Jerisson disliked that option even more than the previous.

“Let’s try, then.”

It’s unknown what helped, the dogs or the valerian root, but afterward, Miranda had no fits anymore. Even if she had a bad dream, she got up and visited her parents’ bedroom. Jess saw her standing in the door a few times; Mirrie made sure that her mother and father were alive and close to her and calmed down, returning to her bed.

Lou-Lou, incidentally, slept only in the bed, and already exceeded her mistress in terms of length. Well, there was no helping that—it’s not like Lilian could kick her out...

***

Jerisson chose to avoid explaining all of that to Edward, but neither was he going to leave his daughter alone.

“Mirrie will accompany me. It will be an adventure.”

“Will the Virmans let your wife go?” asked Richard, his interest purely academic.

Jess spit out. Yeah, right.

So that meant the party would have to include Jerisson, his wife, his daughter, servants, guards, the Virmans...

“Wouldn't it be easier if we just declared war on Wellster?”

Jess was obviously joking, but Edward answered him with an even sadder sigh.

“I’ve thought about that, as well, but they won’t let you go to war alone, anyway.”

Ugh, Uncle.

And Jess couldn’t even really argue with him, either; he was the king, after all. All he could do was to throw up his hands.

“Your Majesty, please fill me in on the composition of the retinue and the date of departure.”

“Richard will tell you the first. As for the second, it’s in ten days,” Edward said. “Are you happy now?”

“Terribly,” Jess replied emphatically.

“Then I’ll give you one more reason to celebrate. Who’s going to tell your wife the news?”

To say Jerisson was happy to hear that would be an understatement.

He imagined himself saying to his wife, deadly tired after her day, Honey, we’re traveling to Wellster in ten days, and then tried to picture her answer.

He could not.

Lilian Elizabeth Mariella Earton remained, as always, an enigma. And so, the brave warrior decided that it was time for a tactical retreat.

“Uncle, don’t you have anybody who...messed up?”

Edward snorted.

“Not as much, no. Fine, I’ll ask Hans Tremain to explain to your wife about needs of State.”

“What for?” Jess asked, surprised.

“He has a better chance of surviving,” His Majesty confessed.

“What about you?” Jess inquired, as was a nephew’s right.

“I’m not stupid enough to get on my doctor's bad side. She could prescribe me enemas. How will I sit on the throne then? On my hip?”

That threat seemed serious, and even Jerisson, himself, felt a slight itching in his rear. Yikes.

All men were equal in front of healers... and in front of enemas. Crowns didn’t help when it came to that.

***

Another conversation was never disclosed to Jerisson, Count Earton. Quite right, too; in the end, every man was for himself, including his personal opinion.

It all had started with Alicia Weeks. She held the most tender of feelings toward her daughter-in-law—as well as August Broklend—had pull at court, and always kept her ears open.

Everybody knows that one woman over a cup of tea could learn more than a dozen spies over a year, provided it was the right woman and the right society.

She also knew who to come to with that information.

His Majesty received the old viperess with a delay and was rewarded with a declaration. “Your Majesty, we have a problem.”

All Edward could do was sigh.

“Please, Alicia, make yourself comfortable...”

The lady stretched out in a chair and smiled at the king. It went against all etiquette, but it’s not like anyone could see them. And then, how many years had they known each other, how many transgressions had they covered as a team? Some liberties could be taken, even if carefully.

His Majesty poured the lady some wine, then an herbal concoction for himself, and waited for her story. He didn’t have to wait long.

The problem was emerging in the Earton family, and it had two roots: Jerisson and Lilian.

First, Jerisson.

Imagine that: before his departure, he was pouring a stream of insults over his wife’s head, and now, he’s in love. Back then, he was chasing skirts, not missing even one, and now, he’s all but celibate. And the ladies don’t like that one bit.

A rumor is going around, a sneaky gossip. Should Alicia tell it?

They say His Majesty put the count to heel, making him sing a different tune, but in private, he’s still his former self. But keep this secret!

Or another version, no better than the other—the count became a pansy by order of the king, and His Majesty’s all but escorting the count to his bedroom. How do you like that?

And those were the most modest of rumors.

With Lilian, it was even worse. Lilian was just...too much. Beautiful, smart, independent...people smiled in her face but cursed as soon as she turned. One person couldn’t be that talented! Could that all come from Maldonaya?

Aldon Roman?

Even if you blessed milady in full view of the court, it wouldn’t help. No matter the proof, the bad taste would linger.

His Majesty took a deep sigh. That was true.

There was one more “but”, a big one at that.

Lilian and Jerisson were only starting to adapt to each other, finding roads, mending bridges. How long would they last when ostracized by everyone?

Both of them were proud, quick-tempered, and self-involved, not big on forgiveness. So far, Jerisson was grateful to her for saving his life, while Lilian was prepared to endure a lot for her daughter’s sake, on top of the king’s order, but was that enough?

Not even close.

So, what are my options? That was the question on His Majesty’s mind. The answer he came up with was simple: remove the Earton family from court for a while, and while they were gone, stop all the gossip and news mongering. Alicia would see to that herself.

Gardwig’s letter came in handy, but it raised one more issue.

Who else will I send to Wellster?

There was no dishonor in sending His Majesty’s nephew as the head ambassador; on the contrary, he was still royal blood, the king’s relative, even if a distant one. But who could help him?

Alicia considered the problem.

“The Roivels,” she finally suggested.

Edward considered her idea. He did approve of Count Roivel, a respectable man getting on in years, the real deal. He also would never think of crossing Jerisson, as his wife had schooled him well.

“Roivel. All right.”

“Your Majesty, the Roivels, both of them.”

Edward narrowed his eyes.

“Her Majesty Maria does need ladies-in-waiting, of course, and Countess Roivel would be great in keeping them under control, but...both of them?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Ermina’s mouth is so full of poison that you could sell it to the healers by an ounce. Let her go, take a closer look at Lilian Earton...and get her out of my hair.”

His Majesty snorted.

Ermina Roivel was a constant rival of Alicia for the title of the court’s premiere viper. So far, Alicia was ahead, but the countess... Well, let’s just say that if Alicia said “black” Ermina would say “white” just on principle.

Yes, she really needs to be removed. Why not?

“I suppose you’re right. We also need to add someone to the retinue, so it wouldn’t be too empty. I’ll have four ladies-in-waiting arranged...”

“How about Priscilla, Countess Elont, Your Majesty?”

“Why her?”

“She’s kind and gentle...”

“Your complete opposite, Alicia?” Edward couldn’t help but joke.

The countess looked daggers at him, but then smiled and took a sip of wine.

“She’s someone a young girl would need. Honey on the one hand, venom on the other...and then, Priscilla’s daughter is of a similar age, isn’t she?”

His Majesty considered the idea and agreed.

Count Earton would be the head ambassador with counts Roivel and Elont by his side, all accompanied by their wives: formidable and respectable.

Then came four young men, to be picked by Jerisson among the more presentable guards, and as for girls...well, the court had enough of the latter. Third daughters, sixth granddaughters—not much dowry, few prospects, yet they wanted to get married and were perpetually on the prowl.

Edward would also, of course, think hard about what people he would put next to the future queen so they wouldn’t harm her, but they would confer later about that. As for the ambassador party and its principal composition...time to finalize it.

Lilian never learned about that conversation, either. And rightly so; in much wisdom is much grief.

***

At that very moment, Her Grace was right inside the castle of Taral. She and the girls were discussing the lace called tatting. Bobbin lace is great and all, but what about something new? After all, even the Virman ladies have already mastered that technique.

Lace made that way was delicate, fragile, and translucent. Tatted lace, on the other hand... All they needed was a shuttle, easily created in a minute with their own hands, and a thick needle, promptly forged by the blacksmith.

That plain setup allowed them to craft a lot of items, including jewelry—just ask the glassblowers to make a few beads, even big or wooden, and go.

A bracelet was confidently taking shape in Lilian’s skilled hands, having drawn the girls’ undivided attention. Marcia, Lydia, and Irene, her team, tried and true, were staring at the processes, their mouths agape. Lily was working her magic.

“What else can you craft in that way, Your Grace?” Marcia sensed a new opportunity.

“Anything. And pretty quickly, too.”

“We could start a new trend. Those lace accessories...”

Lilian nodded. They could. And they should.

Suddenly, Irene sighed.

“Oh well...here we are, going through all that trouble to craft them, and then some old broad would pull them on without sparing a thought to the composition or her style. That would be a disaster!”

“Everyone wants to be beautiful,” Lilian brushed her off. “But for some, it doesn’t come easy.”

And then, she froze, staring out the window. That was true. For some, it didn’t. But what could she do about that?

Help them. In Khanganat, harem girls decorated themselves, albeit in questionable ways: they blackened their eyebrows, used eyeliners... What about Ativerna?

Usually, the mistress’ looks were left to the care of her maids. Too bad those maids had the sense of style equivalent to a chicken. They added gold, gold, and more gold, then some gems, the brighter, the better. Go on, Mistress, attend your ball!

So what if the horses all fall down in shock?

They are awed by your beauty, no question about that.

“What if...”

What was a thing that lots of women would spare no expenses to gain? Beauty, of course!

A beauty salon with spa, and then sauna to enhance the skin, a massage parlor, manicure and pedicure, a stylist/hairdresser... A goldmine! But all in good time.

First came the Mariella Fashion House.

The girls kept respectful silence. They already knew that the countess was thinking up something new—and the best they could do was not to distract her. Later, she would tell them herself.

What will it be next time? They wondered.

***

“Your Grace!”

“Leif!”

Lilian glared at the man in front of her. Of all people, Leif Ericson Erquig had long since earned the right to call her by her name. Still, in public, he strictly maintained proper etiquette, which sometimes gave birth to heated discussions between them.

Not now, however. Definitely not now.

Leif looked genuinely distressed, and Lily caught his mood immediately, like an electron transferring its charge to another electron.

“What’s wrong?”

“Can you give us a few minutes, Your Grace?”

Lilian nodded and silently followed her friend.

***

She had to give credit to Leif: he and Ingrid had a good thing going in Taral. Ingrid had transformed a suite of four connected rooms into something exceedingly cozy, finding the perfect balance between Virman prudence and Ativernan luxury: furniture made of dark polished wood, thick and fluffy carpets, light walls that the Virmans preferred to bleach instead of covering with fabric, latte-colored curtains, comfortable chairs, and an entire collection of weaponry hanging on the wall. Lilian could bet that all of those weapons were sharp, battle-ready, and prepared to be used at any moment.

Ingrid was sitting in a chair, making that very same lace. It’s not like pregnant ladies were forbidden from tatting, were they? Upon seeing the countess, the Virmaness tried to stand up, but Lilian stretched her hand before her.

“Don’t! Sit. How are you, how are things?”

Ingrid didn’t push the point and broke into a sincere smile. Who knew back at the port that the woman would become not just a safe haven to wait out a storm, but a friend and a protector, who would all but gift them a new home?

“Pretty hard.”

“Yes, that’s what I got from speaking to Leif. So what happened?”

Now, that was something that Lilian Earton and the Virmans could agree upon. Maldonaya take all ceremonies! Time was priceless, and wasting it on useless formalities was stupid. Fine lace was good in clothes, and fine words, in songs and ballads, but definitely not in a conversation between two friends.

It didn’t preclude them from politeness or diplomacy, but among each other, the Virmans chose to talk as clear as they could.

“Lily, do you know that Leif is an Erquig, and I am a Torsveg?”

“I had an inkling,” Lilian said. “And I knew that you left the island because there was some bad blood between your families. So?”

“Virma is ruled by the Circle,” Leif simply said.

Lilian shook her head, unwilling to figure out complicated Virman logic.

“Save us the time, Leif. Imagine that I don’t know anything about Virma, the Virmans, and you’re telling me all of that for the first time, all right?”

Leif slowly ran his fingers over the scars on his face—an old habit.

“We, the Virmans, place family above all else. Our clan, if you like. And clan members will go to any lengths for our kin. We are Clan Erquig. Ingrid’s clan is Torsveg. They are our old rivals—the reason for that is a similar story, by the way. Once, a girl chose our ancestor over one of them. The Torsveg decided to kidnap her during a wedding feast, but she wasn’t easily scared. She managed to escape, and my ancestor, Royce Erquig, challenged the Torsveg to a duel and won. Since then...”

“You have a beautiful friendship.”

“And now, the old story has happened once again. By the grace of Fleyna, the goddess of love, Ingrid and I found each other.”

Seeing the way that Ingrid watched her husband, Lily couldn’t help but agree. That truly was a gift from the goddess of love herself. They got lucky.

“Virma is ruled by the Circle.”

“The Circle?”

“The twelve oldest and most powerful Virman clans. I won’t list them now, but neither we nor the Torsvegs are part of it.”

“What about Eric and his clan?” Lily couldn’t help but be curious.

“They are. Eric himself, though, is far too restless, but his uncle twice removed has a tight grip on his people.”

An uncle twice removed. A close relation, by Virman standards. Very close.

“So?”

“I killed Ingrid’s father and two of her brothers, then took her away from the island.”

Lilian nodded. She knew that part of the story. So much for Shakespeare and his “Romeo and Juliet”! Only one brother got killed there, plus maybe a few friends, small fry. Here, almost forty people had died, and where were the poisoned daggers?

No poison, no drownings, and no drama. Of course, those were the Virmans, not sunny Verona: a different climate, a different era, and very different tempers. Those guys would rather cut the throats of half of their enemy clan than die of poison.

Leif went on.

“Ingrid’s uncle, Elg Torsveg, became the new chief and demanded revenge.”

“Demanded?”

Now that was something Lilian would never associate with the Virmans. First slay, then ask for forgiveness—yes. But to demand?

Of whom, then?

Please don’t say you have lawyers.

Leif realized that he had confused the countess for good and started an exposition.

“On Virma, we are closely bound by kinship, including the ties between the clans. That’s why any infighting is strictly forbidden. My ship could be attacked and sunk at sea, but they would never touch my family on the island.”

“Or?”

“It could happen to any clan. The Circle has a severe punishment for anyone who spills the blood of their kin, and the guilty pay in blood in turn. Back in the old times, there was an incident when the Circle commanded the slaughter of the clan at fault, down to the last man.”

“Even the children?” Lilian was horrified.

“Those who remembered their parents. Babies and toddlers were given to other clans, we are not animals, after all.”

Lily shook her head.

It wasn’t something she could come to grips with: too brutal, too violent, and too inhuman. Yet their rules reflected their lives, and that decision could save hundreds of people down the line. Brother shall not turn on brother, clan shall not turn on another clan. And the Virmans had achieved that.

“But you laid a hand on the Torsvegs—back on Virma, as I recall—when they tried to set your ship on fire...”

“And that’s why either my clan or I must answer before the Circle.”

Lilian bit her nail. What a stroke of bad luck...

“So what could that result in?”

“My death.”

Leif was completely calm, even a bit apathetic, his tanned face showing no emotions whatsoever. Someone else could be fooled.

Ingrid bit her lip. Yes, the Virmaness was no Juliet. That woman would rather stab an unwanted groom with a dagger and run away than drink poison.

“What should I do if worse comes to worst?”

“Take care of our baby,” Leif replied simply.

Lilian looked him in the eyes: clear, direct, honest.

“You have my word.”

The Virman breathed out. He trusted the countess but felt safer with a confirmation.

“What could I do? How can I get you out of that mess?”

That question was something that Leif didn’t expect—even if he should have. Lilian wasn’t going to abandon her friends in time of need.

“What?”

“Money, knowledge, help? What exactly? You know the Virmans better than I do; it’s up to you! Use your brain! And I’ll help, I promise.”

Leif paused, genuinely trying to think.

“I don’t know. I need to talk to Eric.”

“How much time do we have?”

“The Circle gathers twice a year: in the fall after harvest and in the spring when the snow has melted—the beginning and the end of the storm season.”

“So it’s soon, then.” Lily nodded.

“All right, let’s count...there have been three Circles already since our first meeting?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Leif nodded.

“Why did they suddenly remember about you? What was slowing them down?”

“They needed time to rein in the Torsvegs,” Ingrid explained.

“My uncle Elg isn’t exactly easy-going, so he’s not very popular,” Ingrid said.

“All right...so we’re pressed for time,” Lily concluded. “We need to decide as soon as possible, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, first thing in the morning, we’ll talk to Eric and draw up a strategy. You are my people, and I am responsible for you. Even more, you are my friends, my nearest and dearest. All circles and squares of the world couldn’t make me give you up!”

Leif smiled with the corner of his mouth.

“I know that.”

“Good man,” Lilian grumbled, calculating their options. They didn’t have many.

“So tell me, why were you dragging your heels?”

“I was what?”

Oops, they didn’t know that idiom. Lily shook her head.

“Sorry. So why didn’t you tell me any of that before?”

“I was sure I could handle it.”

“Yeah, in fifteen years, one of us will die anyway: the Emir, the donkey, or me. Nobody would care if the donkey could speak then,” Lily grumbled.

“What? Are those some Khanganat legends?”

“Almost...”

There was no Hodja Nasrudin in that world. Lilian would have to tell about him, definitely. Meanwhile...

“Did I get it right—you will depart any day now?”

“My ship’s ready, and so are Eric’s.”

Lily gritted her teeth.

Men. In any world, they are such…men! No matter how sincere they were in shouldering all troubles, no matter that they never intended to humiliate women in doing so, no matter that there, a man was a tower of strength, a protector...all of it drove Lily up the wall.

When she heard words like Honey, sit here in the corner while I kill the dragon, save the kingdom, and grab the treasures...maybe you could embroider something? She wanted to murder the speaker—with her bare hands and with gusto.

Lily snorted, picturing that in her mind: her, on a ladder (or she wouldn’t reach him), with a hoop in her hands, standing in front of Leif, who somehow refused to be killed, instead, holding onto her, urging her to be careful, or she would fall down and break the ladder...

“I’ll talk to my husband today, and we’ll decide on something. In any case, you gave me an oath—and you won’t sail to Virma alone! I’ll go myself if I must. You had a circle? You’ll get a square instead.”

Leif chuckled, placing his unconditional trust in the menacing countess, afraid that she really would come to Virma to fight for him. Or she might do something else—in any case, any peace on the island would be far gone, that’s for sure.

Ingrid gave Lilian a hopeful look.

“We can make it?”

“That’s complicated,” Lilian had to confess.

“On the one hand, as Virmans, you are subject to Virman laws. On the other hand, in Ativerna, the Virmans become locals. We could try talking to the king, arranging something useful for the Virmans, telling him about your oath and our agreement. But trust me, I won’t leave you in a lurch.”

Ingrid believed her.

***

Lilian was the first to speak up at dinner.

The company at the table was small but quite warm. Jerisson, Count Earton, was at the head of the table, with Lilian on the opposite side. Miranda had decided to sit next to her father.

Lilian was conversing with Tahir Djiaman din Dashar, listening to the news on His Majesty’s health, while Jaimie, Baron Donter, was trading winks with Miranda, and Eric was devouring the stew.

And so, Lilian started speaking.

“Could you tell me about your clan, Eric?”

Eric’s face darkened. That hit a sore spot.

“I am Hardring, Eric Torvson Hardring. I just don’t like talking about that.”

It told Lily absolutely nothing, but Jerisson perked up.

“The very same? Clan Hardring?”

Eric nodded and stuck his fork into a piece of meat as if it were to blame for everything. One of the tines bent, clanging against the plate. Thank God, she had decided against glass tableware! It would be a shower of shards and chips otherwise.

“Do I get any explanations?” Lilian implored.

Jerisson smiled at his wife.

“Honey, Clan Hardring is one of the strongest and most numerous on Virma. More often than not, the Hardring chief is the head of the Circle.”

“Influence,” Lilian muttered.

“Good. Eric, do you know about Leif’s situation?”

“I do,” Eric nodded. “The Erquigs and the Torsvegs...”

“What about the Torsveg chief’s intention to ask the Circle for Leif’s head?”

Eric focused, noticeably tense.

“So that’s how it is? Leif hasn’t talked to me yet.”

“Then let me sum it up for you.”

The summary took up around twenty minutes. Eric’s conclusion was simple.

“That blows, Your Grace.”

“Will you break it down for me?”

Eric had long since gotten accustomed to the countess’ mannerisms and didn’t hesitate.

“There are twelve major clans on Virma and around fifty small, I won’t list them all now. Mine is one of the major ones, maybe even the most powerful. Still, I might not be an outcast among my kin, but...”

“A black sheep, black among white? Not quite the same as everyone else?”

Eric nodded.

“Something like that.”

“But people followed you to help us?” Jess squinted.

Eric shrugged.

“I might be a sucker, but I’m a lucky sucker. The Circle knows that Virma needs not just the sea, but land as well. Some years, we have to kill our newborns because we don’t have enough food to feed them.”

Jess rubbed his chin.

“His Majesty needs Virma as well. I’m sure we’ll come to an agreement, but Leif is my wife’s man and is outside of the Circle’s jurisdiction.”

Eric shrugged.

“The Virmans need to learn that.”

“We could send an ambassador.”

Eric winced. That was one of many antics he had picked up from Miranda.

“Your Grace, that isn’t right. Leif is an Erquig, he can take care of himself. He captains a ship, he has his own people. Having anyone else speak for him would be dishonorable.”

Jess nodded, understanding that. The era of lawyers would not come any time soon.

A person had to answer for his actions or flee—there was no hiding behind anyone else’s back.

“What if we send ambassadors for peace talks with him, imply that Leif performed an important service for the crown?”

“That would be much better, but Leif would still have to go to Virma and speak in his defense. And I agree, an ambassador of Ativerna would be helpful—someone to vouch for him.”

“I’ll go,” Lilian said, putting her hands on the table.

Jess was about to bridle, but the following words of his wife threw a tub of cold water on him. “Leif is my man. If not for him, I would have never survived that winter in Earton. He saved my life more than once. This is a debt I have to pay.”

Jerisson felt...uncomfortable. Lilian didn’t remind him of anything, didn’t blame him, but who was the reason that the Virmans had had to rescue her?

He was. It was him who had missed all do’s and don’ts.

Eric coughed.

“Your Grace, it’s improper.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a woman.”

Lilian shook her head with such force that her magnificent braid fell to the floor, golden in the candlelight.

“I’m aware of that! So what?”

“We respect strength and the ability to back up your words with a sword. You won’t be able to do it...”

Lilian bit her lip.

Yes, she forgot about that.

Women here were property: pretty, expensive, but nothing more than that. It wasn’t much better in Virma, either. Yes, a woman there could run the household while waiting for her husband to return from a raid, but all deals were made in his name, not hers—the master, not the mistress.

If her husband died, she would lose all power, keeping some crumbs as the mother or the grandmother of the new master, but another woman would take charge.

There were exceptions, however. Ingrid had told her of them. Some women in Virma had the same rights as men and could possess property, control it, and even pass on the name of her clan to her children. What if...

“Eric, what about kyrias? Could I become one of them?”

Eric shook his head.

“No, Your Grace. Kyrias are equal to men.”

“And?”

“You have a lot in common with them, but there’s a problem. You don’t wield a weapon, and you won’t last even a minute against the Circle, against a trained fighter, armed and armored, a warrior such as Leif or myself.”

Lily pursed her lips. Well...she could argue that point.

Someone had already learned that the hard way. But it was one thing to injure or kill someone underestimating you, and quite another, to hold your own against someone like Eric. The second seemed impossible.

“What about kyrias?”

“A kyria is ready to prove her mettle at any time against any man. The only exception is made when she’s with child or breastfeeding. But as soon as that’s over...”

Lily bit her nails.

“Jess?”

The count immediately realized what his wife was asking of him. Dear husband, would you kindly represent Leif’s interests in Virma? So he blurted out his own news.

“His Majesty wants me to go to Wellster.”

“When?”

“In ten days.”

“What for?”

Jerisson would have preferred to discuss the issue with her alone, in the bedroom, but it was too late. He had nothing to hide, anyway. He trusted everybody present.

“To escort Richard’s fiancée.”

“Can’t she go by herself?” Lilian said, her eyes narrow.

“It will attest to amity between our countries. That’s global politics for you,” Jess cleared up.

“Wonderful,” Lilian said through her teeth.

She wanted to say a lot, and nothing nice. You’re going away, again? And just when I need you! Are you going to pick up every slut you come upon, too?

She didn’t say anything. Jerisson was first.

“His Majesty hoped I would go with my family...”

“Your family?”

“Me, you, Mirrie...”

“What about Roman and Jacob?” Lilian reminded him, all caustic.

“You can’t take babies with you. For the next year, they shouldn’t travel at all!”

“Ingrid could look after them, or any other girl. My mother could oversee the children and the nannies.”

Lily wasn’t inspired by everything she had heard, but she had no choice.

“All right, let’s say we go. Ingrid will stay in Taral anyway, the girls would be happy to cuddle with the babies, and your mother could oversee and control everything. Also, Tahir...could you help?”

“Of course,” the healer assured his mentor. “I’m not going to Wellster anyway. Someone must stay by His Majesty’s side.”

“I’m less than thrilled, too,” Lilian sighed.

“Jess, is there any way we could get out of it?”

Jerisson simply shook his head.

The king’s command was law for his subject. It just...didn’t cross Lilian’s mind. For her, the king’s words weren’t the only truth in the world. She could doubt them, dispute them...thankfully, only among her family.

“No.”

“How about negotiating?” she offered.

Jerisson swallowed his words.

She was a daughter of a merchant, a shipwright; that was bound to leave its mark.

The nobles served their country. Merchants wanted money for that.

“About what, Lilian?”

“If we go to Wellster, someone else should go to Virma. I won’t leave Leif to the wolves, he’s one of mine! If I’m being sent somewhere, let them decide on that issue!”

Jess was glad he hadn’t said anything aloud. It wasn’t a question of profit—taking care of your men was worthy of any noble. If His Majesty ordered Lilian to perform a service that made it impossible for her to help her man personally, she had a right to ask for justice. As for her choice of words...well, she wasn’t talking to the king, after all, just her family.

And when had that motley crew managed to become His Grace’s family? Yet, Maldonaya take it, even Eric felt like a distant cousin to Jerisson. Maybe thrice removed or something.

“I’ll talk to the king.”

Lilian threw her husband a grateful look.

He answered with a smile.

As it turned out, married life was an exercise in remaining silent at the right time. Who would have thought?

***

That night, husband and wife were whispering in the dark.

“Jess, will you really talk to the king tomorrow?”

“I promise.”

“I... Don’t get me wrong. Leif is my friend, and so is Ingrid. On my own, I would have been lost back in Earton. And even here, in the capital, they helped me more than once. I would have died without them, and I cannot leave them to their fate now.”

“I understand.”

“I will travel by myself if I must. Anything will go—any money, any words. They need to hurry. If Leif doesn’t go to talk with the Circle...to the Circle... How do I say it correctly?”

“To speak for himself in front of the Circle.”

“Right. If he doesn’t do that, he’ll be put down like a rabid dog, like an outlaw. He won’t ever return to the sea, and the land is no life for him.”

Jess sighed. Fate was cruel. He was lying in his bed, his arm over a lovely blonde...and speaking about politics!

“Unfortunately, you cannot go.”

“Because I’m not a kyria? I’ll question Ingrid; there must be a way around that! Virman women must have found something after all that time...”

“No, Lilian, it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“Have you ever wondered why the Virmans are so different from the rest of the continent?”

“Faith and territory,” she answered without a pause.

“You believe in Aldonai, they have their own gods. And Virma is an island, which complicates communication.”

Jerisson nodded.

“True. In the past, the Virmans were sometimes employed by our nobles. But with you, this relationship has evolved. You aren’t just a mistress and they, your servants; you are family, comrades-in-arms, strange as it may sound. This is why Eric helped us. And now, the Virmans are coming out of the shadow and want to take their place in the world, bite off their own piece of the pie, and they need allies.”

“And Ativerna is close,” Lilian realized.

“Yes. Either we’re friends or...”

Or... The first option was much better—for all of them.

Lilian remembered the history of her world, the eternal rivalry of England and France. For how many years had they warred? And they still didn’t like each other that much.

Frogs… Les rosbifs…

Rivers of blood had been spilled by each side. When had it started? As far back as William the Conqueror? Even earlier? The channel between them was narrow enough to swim through, and they had, playing dirty tricks on each other. Maybe they still did, just in secret.

Here, the distance was a bit longer, but Ativerna was still the closest country to Virma.

“Aren’t we already friends?”

“Not quite. The Virmans are friends of Lilian Earton, not the whole of Ativerna.”

Lilian bit her lip. That was true.

“So now we have to bring them together with the rest of the country?”

“I think Richard would be the best man for the job.”

Lilian sighed.

“I’m still afraid it won’t be enough.”

Jerisson suppressed a desire to snap at his wife. Not because he was all that noble—she simply wouldn’t care about that. She would do what she wanted in any case, and the king would back her up. Edward had made his point abundantly clear.

“Richard’s no fool. As for everything else...do you really want to be in politics all that much?”

Lilian shook her head.

“No!”

“Then let Richard transfer everything to Ativerna. Contracts, agreements, accords...it won’t be just you, but the whole state. Or you’ll have to stew in that pot until you die.”

Lilian bit her lip. She didn’t want that for herself. What did she want, then? Simple things. A family, children, grandchildren, a favorite pursuit—absolutely the latter. But she needed balance in all things. Jerisson was right. If she got into big-time politics now, she would go crazy.

Something smaller would suffice: healing, book printing, opening schools, and salons…

There was no place for politics in her busy schedule. That would be overkill.

“Fine. I’ll try to trust Richard.”

“Good.”

Jess breathed out—too soon, as it turned out.

“And I’ll hope that nothing bad will happen to my friend. None of my friends.”

That sounded direr than any threat. What was the point in yelling, cursing, or being mad? In warning of your actions?

It was so much easier to just act.

Jerisson didn’t have any other choice but to sigh.

Keeping fire in your palms was terrific. It was enchanting, fascinating—yet all too often, it left painful burns, the ones that never healed.

Nobody would ever tame fire, never. And one must not forget about that.

***

The next morning, Countess Earton headed back to Taral, while Jerisson went on to visit the king, intent on relaying to him the problem and possible solutions.

Edward considered the issue, and so did Richard, who was also inside the royal study.

What would be more profitable, to give up Leif or to negotiate with the Circle?

From the looks of it, the latter. Leif was currently serving Countess Earton, meaning the Count, and meaning the king. Giving up your own men was the best way to lose them, and you wouldn’t find a replacement, either. Who’d serve a traitor and a knave?

It also meant losing Countess Earton and all her useful inventions. All of them—Edward, Richard, and Jerisson—had no doubt that eventually, Lilian would learn everything, and she wouldn’t be forgiving.

You could say it was nonsense, that you could always break a broad’s spine.

They could. But could they open ground with a broken shovel or shoe a horse with a broken horseshoe? And then, the countess could figure out a way to get back at them. Women! On the warpath, they are worse than any plague.

And, of course, they couldn’t miss an opportunity to establish relations with Virma, or someone else would do that first, like Wellster, or Avester, even the Khangans—both of their nations were pagans, they could find common ground.

The others, however, would have to make do.

“I have to go,” Richard decided.

Edward sighed.

“If only you knew how much I want to keep you here...”

“Uncle, Tahir says you’re doing better. You’re out of the woods...you could even take a mistress again,” Jess said, smiling, but his eyes were serious.

Edward wagged his finger at him.

“I hope you’re the only one he’s telling that.”

“Lilian is. Then she tells me.”

Edward nodded. One could never hide anything from the doctors; in the end, they’d learn it anyway. And still...

“If anything happens... Richard, you’re my only heir.”

“Not just me. You also have the girls,” the loving brother reminded.

“You could marry Lina or Jolie off and crown their husbands.”

Edward would have loved to cuff his heir on the nape but knew that he would dodge it. Therefore, he had to limit himself to a curt and familial epithet.

“Idiot.”

Richard lifted his hands in dismay.

“We’ll need to send two parties, one to Wellster for my bride, and the other to the Virmans.”

“Just don’t find yourself a bride in Virma,” Jerisson joked. “They do have lots of blondes...”

“You’ve already taken the prettiest blonde for yourself.”

There was a hint of jealousy in Richard’s voice. Lilian Earton was something special, after all. That woman wasn’t just a wife, but also a good friend. And if Jerisson was smart enough, everything could turn out amazing for them, just like a fairy tale.

But what lay in store for him?

The decision was unanimous.

Jerisson was to go to Wellster, while Richard would be traveling to Virma.

***

Dear Lily!

I’ve heard rumors that you’re to visit Wellster.

I am going there myself!

Father has decided that if we can’t marry into Ativerna through my marriage, we’ll do it through another. As you know, Maria has three more sisters, and I have brothers. Let’s see if any of us could match up!

I asked to go with Miguel. I want to take a look at Wellster...and at the bride, you know, as a woman. Remember how much I didn’t like Anna?

What a viper...

Thank goodness she got sent to a convent; let her stay there.

I sincerely hope to see you again in Wellster. Is it true there’s a new fashion in Ativerna? You’ll show me everything, won’t you?

Your friend Lydia

Lily shook her head as she read the letter.

So they were going to Gardwig.

Lydia was going to Gardwig.

Was anyone else headed there, too? Was Murphy’s Law in effect?

Well, if it was, then she would meet Anna herself—a horrifying thought, to be sure.

Lily still remembered trying to resuscitate the count and shivered. If I come across Anna of Wellster, I will knock her down right there, with my own hands! Just sit on top of her and crush the skank!

But what if her sisters were no better?

In some ways, Lydia was right: she really needed to take a female look at that “flowerbed”, so they wouldn’t carry any sundews home, especially those who could move and breed.

Richard didn’t really care what sister he got, as long as he got a head’s up. Let him give Richard free rein to pick the best of the princesses. Lily would examine them herself—ask Miranda to help her, after all, they were the same age.

After all, the future queen had to have certain virtues. Still, the countess suspected that fate, as always, had its own plans. Whatever she did, whatever she would do, she would never escape the inevitable.

Still, that was philosophy. Now back to the real world...

Dammit! The letter meant one more chest of presents and one more chest of souvenirs. Lilian groaned weakly, but there was no helping it.

Time to load up, Your Grace.

And still, Her Grace tried to cop out. She even managed to get an audience with the king, but Edward was stubborn as a mule.

Oh, that phrase was unfit for a king? Fine...stubborn as a bull!

“Your Majesty, maybe Jess could travel alone, without me?”

Lily was examining the royal patient, just in case.

She trusted Tahir, and he was sure of his skills, but you never know. Trouble often had the worst possible timing: she could leave, and everything could fall apart. Or at least, start to crumble and peel off.

“Lilian, it’s high time you brighten up.”

Edward understood everything but stuck to his guns.

It was that very case when a woman was already convinced to go, yet wanted to strike a pose. The easiest way to handle that was to pretend that she had a choice and persuade her a little bit. The result would be the same but without any scandals.

“Brighten up...there are lots of people I don’t know, and then the road itself,” Lily grumbled while continuing the examination. “And Wellster...what a hive of scum and villainy, forgive me, Your Majesty.”

“I forgive you, Lilian. But it could be useful for you, anyway: you might meet new people, maybe open a salon there later on.”

Lily sighed with such strain that any cow would be jealous.

“I have enough on my plate here!”

“Like what? The fashion house is still under construction, the goods are being prepared, and the aldon is just starting to assemble the first printing unit... That said, are you pregnant, perchance?”

Lily flared up.

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then you could...bring me a baby from Wellster. Traveling’s good for such matters.”

And the old sinner winked at her.

Lily gritted her teeth and complied with her orders. What choice did she have?

And so, she was busy packing up The Most Important Things for the road ahead, still suspecting that something wouldn’t be enough. Whatever, we’ll buy it in Wellster!

***

Virma, Elleig house.

“You called for me, Mother?”

The woman sitting by the weaving loom lovingly gazed at her daughter.

Gods almighty, she resembled Royce so much! She was a copy of her father, having inherited almost nothing from her mother. The latter hadn’t been so pretty even in her youth. Such a long time ago...it was hard to believe that.

Now, nobody would have called Trudy Torvson Elleig beautiful. Grief had turned her hair white as snow, toil had bent her back, and longing had drawn deep lines over her face.

Her daughter, however...

Tall, statuesque, with a long braid more silver than gold in color and bright blue eyes on her face, Tira was drawing more than one interested look in her direction—and knew that very well.

If only she learned to use her beauty—but her mind was as straight as her blade and just as sharp.

“Yes, honey.”

Tira passed over the loom and sat on the mat at her mother’s feet, rubbing against her knees, as if she were a child. Trudy couldn’t refuse her daughter that simple gesture of affection. Her fingers tangled in her hair, so light it was almost white.

“My pretty girl...”

Tira shrugged, proud and determined.

Alas, pride was the only thing that beggars could afford, especially in Virma. They had nothing else to lose.

“My fireflake, a messenger arrived.”

Tira tensed up.

“Mother?”

“Yes, honey, from the Hardrings. The Circle is going to gather soon.”

Tira breathed out.

“It’s going to be all right, Mother. I won’t fail, I promise.”

“Oh, dear...”

There was so much in the mother’s voice: sadness, tension, longing... Tira, sensitive to her mother’s mood, squirmed.

“Is that not all?”

“I’m afraid for you,” Trudy confessed.

“Really afraid. If only you’d marry, like a proper girl... We’d find you a good husband, and I’d start waiting for grandchildren...”

Tira winced.

Marriage was something she didn’t want any part of, in no shape or form. She had witnessed more than her share of it, as illustrated by her mother.

Elleig—a small coastal estate, a cozy house with a courtyard that Tira’s father would never see again. All Royce Elleig had time to do sixteen years ago was to marry Trudy, go to his first raid, return with the loot, and leave for his second expedition.

None had returned from that one. The sea was devoid of any mercy.

Royce hadn’t learned that he had abandoned more than his wife, but a newborn daughter as well, his heir, but that was where the legal issues started coming in.

On the one hand, in Virma, a woman could inherit only if she could assert her right with a sword in her hand. Trudy could never do that.

Tira could, but only after she turned sixteen. Until then, her estate would be owned by the widow and her child, whether Tira decided to marry or not. Such was the loophole. Trudy could have never made any use of it if not for her father.

Torv Hardring was the chief of Virma’s strongest clan. He could accept his daughter back, of course, and marry her off again with a dowry—enough men would take her—but Trudy fell on her knees, pleading for him to leave her alone. And thus, Torv let it go.

He had enough children, and Trudy had never been his favorite—so he let her live however she wanted. She had a few slaves, land to feed her and her child, and if she wanted to marry, she could do it herself, and he wouldn’t have to waste a dowry on her.

Trudy didn’t want to marry. She was deeply in love with her husband, almost to the point of madness, and all but died of grief when he hadn’t returned. Her only salvation was her daughter, crying in her cradle, demanding something, and Royce’s parents, who also needed help.

The old Horth Elleig had only a few years left to live, but his mind was still sharp enough, and so was his grip.

He had no son anymore. Maybe a few bastards, but he quickly got rid of them. Yet he still had a granddaughter, who could inherit Elleig. All she had to do was to become a kyria.

That was something that required teachers and trainers. There were three of them, Bjorn, Olaf, and Sieg, all veteran fighters who had raided with Horth back in the day. It was they who took on the girl’s education. They taught her to wield a sword, to throw knives, to shoot a bow...

Tira was delighted to master those skills. She would run barefoot until winter, swim in the sea, and swear like a trooper, with the last habit coming to her on its own.

Alas, Horth had died four years back, taken by a sickness, same as his wife and Trudy’s father.

Once again, the woman had gotten lucky. The plague hadn’t spared anyone, and people had all but forgotten about her tiny piece of land.

Then, her daughter grew up, and that’s where problems started.

Tira turned out to be exceedingly gorgeous, a spitting image of Royce, who had been a hit with the ladies. She did inherit the shape of her mother’s face, as well as her lips and eyes. Royce had been brown-eyed and thin-lipped. Tira’s were full, as if asking to be kissed...but the boys who tried to find it out paid with broken bones.

She had been taught well, and she had taken her lessons seriously enough.

“Mom, who’d ever fancy me, a second son? A third? And could he ever defend Elleig? You didn’t marry again, after all...”

“I loved your father.”

“And I don’t love anyone. They are all so disgusting, with their pimples and their sticky hands... Eww!”

Tira wrinkled her nose so dramatically that Trudy couldn’t help but laugh.

“Really? No one?”

“Mother!”

She seemed sincere in her indignation, so Trudy gave up. Let her daughter become a kyria. After all, she might not go raiding.

Trudy wasn’t honest with herself, though. She was madly in love with her husband, true. Royce, however... Had he really loved her? Or had he married a rich bride to recover his family’s fortune? She was trying to convince herself of the former, but the truth was beyond her reach. Tira was the only thing left from her husband, and letting her go was too painful.

Where would she find the strength to do that? It was her daughter! Trudy didn’t wish for anything other than to live beside her, marry her off, and look after her children. She might have not gotten happiness in her life, but at least her girl could.

But that was beside the point.

“Honey, the shepherds have two goats unaccounted for. Someone’s been messing around, could you check?”

Tira sprang to her feet, her braid swooshing through the air.

“What in the world?”

Goats. Yes, not all livestock took to living in Virma, but goats were an exception. The Virmans even had a legend that the first man was created by the gods by mixing goat’s milk, honey, and...well, Holosh’s spit (or piss, in other stories, making human nature definitely not honey-like). In Virma, goats were almost sacred.

What else would save people from dying of hunger? What else could eat even fish heads? What milk was used to feed children?

“Honey, what if it’s a beast of some kind?”

“We’re on an island, where’d they come from?”

Trudy sighed.

Both mother and daughter knew the answer. It was no beast. The reason was always humans. And Tira would go on to visit the herd, find the thieves, and punish them. She rose up, kissed her mother on the cheek, and darted off.

Trudy shook her head.

And yet, the Circle was gathering, and in winter, they would go there. If only Tira found herself a husband! Then she wouldn’t have to defend her right to inherit, and Elleig would go to her husband. Both Trudy and her daughter would be under protection.

Tira was pretty enough to get a man without any dowry, maybe even an older man, it wasn’t a problem. Maybe it was time to go pray to Fleyna...

And that’s what Trudy did.

***

Tira reached the goats in no time. The herd—a small one, just twenty heads—was grazing on the seashore, watched by two teenage shepherds, one of them with a withered arm, and the second, a half-wit. It made sense.

Slaves were a luxury; such cripples, however, had few options, usually getting all but kicked out of their homes. Yas couldn’t speak, only mumble. As soon as his mother died, his father sent him packing, all to escape the shame. He was a good boy, however, strong and obedient. He just wasn’t too smart. That’s where Erk came in, he could think for both of them. It was harder for Erk, too, as his right hand didn’t work at all. In Virma—anywhere, really—it was a big problem. Still, he didn’t sulk and learned to write with his left hand, use a fife, and tell stories. For the time being, he was a shepherd, working well with Yas, the hands to his head.

Between the two of them, though, the boys had barely more years than Tira alone, so they couldn’t do everything.

“Hi, Erk, Yas!” Tira waved her hand. “Go on, then, tell me what’s up.”

Erk shrugged.

“Here...we have goats missing.”

Nothing unusual. Erk had been asleep, and Yas lost track of the herd. Truth be told, he needed a good smacking, but there wasn’t much point in that: one of them already knew that he was guilty, and the other wouldn’t get it no matter how you walloped him.

“Where did it happen? Show me!”

“They’ve been grazing here; we never took them anywhere else...”

Tira sighed and started walking circles, looking for tracks. She examined the bushes, went down to the beach, sliding along the path. Could the abductors have come from below?

They could, but she didn’t see any tracks.

“Fleyna’s arse!”

The curse caught her off guard, but the girl immediately turned back, her hand on her dagger.

The men were in no hurry to attack. They were simply riding by, along the coast. Her mother had asked her to stay out of sight, just in case, and that’s what Tira had been doing until then.

The man in front of the group, who was riding a magnificent red stallion, jumped down on the ground.

“This land is blessed with beauties! If only I knew, I would have visited sooner...”

Tira made a step back. If anything happened, she wouldn’t have enough time to climb back up; they would catch her. It meant that she needed to wound one or two of them then jump into the sea. Her boots would be ruined, but she could swim like a fish, and those men wouldn’t follow her, not if that meant leaving their horses. And then, she knew all the secluded coves there, she could hide as long as she wanted.

The man was inches away from her. He was tall, a head taller than her, with a powerful build, a broken nose, blond hair, and blue eyes, almost as blue as hers. He appeared to be around thirty years old. Tira didn’t like him at all. She sensed an aura of danger coming from him.

Should I strike? Tira focused, poised to attack, like a giant cat.

“Don’t come any closer, sir!”

The man stopped, heeding her words. It didn’t seem like he would heed them for long, though.

“All right. Who are you...lady?”

“Tira Elleig! Who are you?”

“I am Elg Torsveg.”

“The chief of Clan Torsveg?”

Tira knew the latest news, and that tale was something she couldn’t miss. A Torsveg girl had escaped with an Erquig man, her father and brother had been killed, the chiefdom of Clan Torsveg disputed.

All of Virma was buzzing with that; it sure wasn’t something that happened every year!

“That’s me,” Elg said, puffing his chest out. “And who’s your father?”

“Royce Elleig, sir.”

“Are you legitimate or recognized? Or...”

His question made sense.

A Virman had only one wife, but he could have as many as a dozen slave girls as his concubines. If a slave conceived from a free man, the child could be recognized—or not. In the case of the former, they would become a Virman. In the case of the latter, they remained a slave. Sometimes, free women also bore children outside of marriage—widows, for instance...things happened.

Tira tossed her head.

“I’m a legitimate daughter.”

Then she touched her belt buckle with her left hand. Such belts as hers—a wide, leather, warrior’s belt with sheath fastenings—couldn’t be worn by just anyone.

Elg, however, was more interested in the girl’s waistline than the belt. He could wrap around it with just his palms.

Such a flower in the middle of nowhere! His hands were drawn to her...but Elg was no fool. He was also married, so he didn’t get all handsy with her ahead of time.

“Can I help you with something, Lady of Elleig?”

Tira shook her head.

“No, Lord of Torsveg. I can handle myself.”

“May I visit your house, M’lady?”

“It’s not me you should ask about that, sir, but rather my parents.”

Tira knew that look on a man’s face, greasy, slimy, directed at her chest and then, below... Sometimes, she knocked their knobs off for such looks. Not then, though. Torsveg had a score of men.

“I’ll send a messenger, Lady of Elleig.”

Tira bowed her head as a sign of agreement.

She was positive that soon, Torsveg would know everything about her and her family. It wasn’t the first time.

Holosh take those goats! Couldn’t they find another time to go missing?

***

Four hours later, Tira was once again sitting next to her mother, this time, in a dining hall.

Once, it had been full of noise and laughter, with warriors feasting and praising the Elleigs, maids whispering, cups and blades clanging...

That was before.

It was gone now with only two women and a handful of old men and women left, the remains of former glory and times long past.

Tira had already told her mother about the meeting. She had managed to find the goats, by the way; nobody had stolen the beasts. They were just...goats, nothing more to add, and they were experts in fleeing as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Trudy shook her head.

“They say Elg Torsveg’s a hard man, even a cruel one.”

“And?”

“If he liked you...I don’t know, honey. You still need to go to the Circle.”

“But? Mother? You’re not saying something!”

“No...I just don’t know yet.”

“What don’t you know? Mother?”

“Maybe it would be better for you if Torsveg took you under his wing? He could protect you... We would leave in peace, and he would visit us once in a while...”

Tira shuddered.

“Mother, how can you say that?”

“You don’t like him?”

“No,” Tira shook her head with such force that her braid narrowly missed the fireplace.

“I’d rather kiss Yas or even jump into the sea!”

Trudy chuckled. So she wasn’t even sure what she preferred. That’s what you get when you guard your daughter for so long. Still, they needed allies in the Circle. Why not Torsveg?

She didn’t say anything aloud. First, she would have to look at the man. Suggestions and proposals came later.

Time to wait for the messenger.

***

Wellster. Cardin.

The woman looked into the mirror.

It was new, made of glass, and exorbitantly expensive, but it had its flaws, too. For instance, the reflection: it was clear and sharp, too sharp, and she didn’t look a day younger. Wrinkles, grey hairs...they could be covered up, but what to do with her stare, cold, calculated, imperious?

As she heard a door creak, the woman lowered her eyelashes.

She had learned a lot over the years. To step softly, to keep her head low, to pray and repent, lie and betray, but her eyes...she could never control her eyes. And her eyes were unique. Bright, brown, with golden sparkles...once, a smitten man had told her that she had the eyes of a cat of prey.

Not just eyes, though; the woman had a personality to match. And that’s why she was hiding the mirror of her soul under thick eyelashes and veils. No need to show everyone her true nature.

“Making yourself pretty?”

In response, she gave a gentle smile.

That man had the right to be careless like that and so much more. He had it...but he never used it; the strong had no need to display their power too often.

“I cannot look away from the mirror...it’s magnificent.”

It wasn’t hard to keep up small talk, but the man was in no mood to play games.

“I have good news. The jester’s leaving.”

“WHAT?”

The woman gasped, clutching her throat, and almost slumping in her chair.

“Yes! Gardwig’s sending that wretch away!”

“I cannot believe that!”

“An Ativernan party is coming for Maria.”

The woman frowned.

“So what?”

“Lort’s in big trouble before the king. He has also made waves in Ativerna. Have you heard what happened in Laveri?”

“Anna decided to join a nunnery?”

It was just a barb. The woman was privy to most, if not all, the latest events and knew why Gardwig might be angry at his jester.

“Almost...to cut the story short, Edward got mad, raged at Gardwig, and now, Lort will be gone from court for a year!”

“And the Ativernan party...”

“...arrives in a month.”

“Will we have enough time?”

The man smiled the cold smile of a snake.

“We should.”

“The Ativernans will leave, and we...”

“No. Their party will just have arrived.”

The woman stared at him, her eyes wide open, forgetting about the secrecy. Golden sparks were dancing in them, like a swarm of fiery bees.

“Will we have a falling out with Ativerna?”

“We have our supporters, trust me...”

She didn’t, but she didn’t have any other options, either. So she shrugged, moving her shoulders, once enchanting and now prudently hidden under warm brown velvet.

“How will it happen?”

The man smiled again.

“Just write the teachers so they bring the boy here. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The woman nodded.

It was time for revenge. As for her having her own interests and the man his own...no surprises there. Two different people never have the same woes.

Chapter 2

On the road

Ativerna. Laveri.

Lilian was still packing up. She had already bagged the presents—time for her own stuff. Good thing her dresses were finally ready. Oh sweetie, look how much velvet you’ve accumulated!

The journey from Earton to Laveri was so much more peaceful, but there...

Dresses, a whole bunch of them; jewels; a chest... Jerisson had given her enough trinkets to dress up a Christmas tree three years in a row without repeating herself.

Then there were various small gifts: quills, inkpots, baubles, laces...also a huge chest. She had Irene with her, as well as Martha, who couldn’t be persuaded to stay home: one more spot.

And that’s not counting Miranda’s dowry, two large dogs, a stallion—she couldn’t ride in the carriage all the way to Wellster, that would be murder.

Why not sea, you’d ask? It was the storm season. At that moment, the weather wasn’t really nasty; it was still warm. However, that period between summer and winter was wicked and unpredictable. A storm could swoop in at any time and carry the ship away...

Yet Lilian was grumbling mostly out of spite. In truth, she did want to leave Earton, at least, for some time. She was dog tired, had a rough couple of months, and her husband...

Do you think it’s easy to adapt to a man, get to know him, give him and yourself a chance? And not for love, no; simply because they had enough joint property to make dividing it impossible. Their daughter, for instance...

Thank God, Jerisson realized all of that and didn’t put too much pressure on her, but it was still hard.

Lily remembered her first love very well. Honestly, she had never wanted anyone other than Alex. As soon as they met, they realized that it was fate and never separated for long, becoming parts of the same whole, rather than independent units. They would have been a great family, too.

But Jerisson... He was a medieval count with all the medieval notions, including the idea of the woman’s place. He made an exception for Lilian, but...

Do you know how many former lovers he had? And how many were in his list? All of them were waiting for their opportunity, too, elbowing their way ahead, and she had neither time nor the strength to chase them all away. Ironically, they were buying clothes to seduce the count from Lilian herself.

She smirked, remembering the corset decorated with bows and laces that had lost half of its hooks the night before. So?

If it worked for her husband, it would work for others just as well. Sexy lingerie, here we come!

Her husband had seemed impressed. Maybe she should write “Tested and approved by J. Earton personally” on each article. And it would be in high demand, too! After all, His Grace had...approved half of the court ladies personally. Hmm...

Lilian was also considering producing fishnet stockings with garter belts. Why not? They were easy to make, had a broad size range as long as you added a few loops, and looked...

If they didn’t look great, they wouldn’t be en vogue. Noble ladies plucked the hair on their bodies anyway.

Jerisson interrupted Lilian’s musings.

He rolled in, took a peek inside the chest, and admired the silk nightgown decorated with lace, all blue and green.

“Have I seen this already?”

“Should I try it on?”

Lilian smiled. Jess shook his head.

“In the evening. I still need to visit August, and if we start trying it on, I won’t get anywhere until nightfall.”

“My father will forgive you,” said Lilian, but she didn’t insist on it, true to her ‘never throw yourself at your husband’ rule.

“After all, it’s his grandchildren we’ll be making...”

“Hmm.”

Jerisson hadn’t considered that point of view yet. Still, he shifted his gaze to Lilian’s belly.

“Are you..?”

She shook her head.

“I cannot, not yet. We need to wait at least two years after the miscarriage, or at least that’s what Tahir says.”

Jerisson sighed. She didn’t reprove him, but...what the hell, it was his fault.

“Then let’s wait. I do love children, but...”

“You also love the process?” Lilian joked.

Jerisson frowned, then snorted. He got it.

“We’ll talk about the process in the evening.”

He managed to say it suggestively enough to put Don Juan himself to shame.

Lilian was silent, only smiling just as pointedly.

Jerisson felt himself a lady-killer, kissed his wife, and disappeared behind the door.

Lilian sighed.

“Should I rewrite the Kama Sutra, I wonder? Or would it be too dangerous? One wrong move, and nobody could help me...”

Yep, there was such a case in medical history. A young couple had decided to experiment. They intertwined and then, during the process, it was either the man who made the wrong move or the woman who got frightened...in any case, he was stuck inside her. A spasm.

Somehow, they managed to call an ambulance, with a crowd of onlookers watching as the erotic sculpture was carried out on a stretcher. How else would you untangle them? Only in a trauma unit in a hospital.

In that world, however, the closest trauma unit was three centuries away, if not five. Maybe Tahir could help...

In any case, better safe than sorry.

Or should she present this idea to a potential rival as a gift? Let them discover the world through the prism of erotica! Make love, not war!

One more pair of stockings was sent flying into the chest, followed by shoes. Maybe it was time to talk to the leatherworkers, too? Fine, she would wait. Inventions were cool and all, but one step at a time.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Torsveg.

Elg Snorrison Torsveg couldn’t get that meeting out of his head.

The girl was captivating. He had barely refrained from grabbing her with his hands. She thought a dagger would help her against him? What an idiot!

It might work against some wimp, not a real warrior.

Still, she was free, and a legitimate heiress to boot.

Elg had researched her, of course. He wouldn’t care anyway, as Elleig was a tiny estate on the very shore of the sea, barely more than a patch of land, but she had connections to Hardring, the very same clan that he had to bring to his side...

Maybe he needed to be smart, have his shark pie and eat it, too. After all, it would be slaves or captives who’d feed the fishes.

Elg considered his plan for a few minutes, pulled a bolt of silk from a chest, and headed to Elleig for a courtesy call.

***

It was clear from first sight that the house had no master. The palisade needed repair, there were no fresh skulls*, the slaves were slow as molasses. In his house, they were as fast as seagulls, and if they ever tried to crawl, they’d be whipped in an instant!

There, even the whipping post was rotten; one good kick would break it in half.

*Author’s note: a Virman custom. Worthy adversaries got their heads cut off, brought home, and impaled on the stakes of the fence, so they would guard the house.

As a proper mistress, Trudy went out into the courtyard to meet the guest, secretly happy that Tira wasn’t home and wouldn’t put her foot in her mouth. Her daughter was sometimes too brash; it was easier to make her confront a fact or slowly guide her to it, step by step, so she would arrive at the unpleasant decision by herself. Youngsters, what can you say!

Elg jumped off a horse and bowed, his hand against his heart.

“Lady of Elleig, my respects!”

Trudy relaxed a little. Whatever Torsveg was up to, he hadn’t come to them to fight or conquer, but to talk. He wasn’t armored, wearing a silk shirt and a ceremonial weapon decorated with gems and gold instead of something plain and battle-worn.

He was still a warrior and could fight either way, but that was a show of his intentions.

“My respects, Lord of Torsveg. News of your mettle has reached even our land. I hear that I can congratulate you?”

Elg was flashing such a wide smile that even a more vigilant mother would have believed him harmless.

“Yes, Lady of Elleig. At last, our clan has a worthy chieftain.”

“And I cannot doubt that, as I see him before me.” The woman added some sweet-talk.

“I am sure that under your command, Clan Torsveg will reach prosperity and even take its rightful place in the Circle, and I won’t hear the end of your valiant deeds.”

Elg’s beard hid his smile. Clearly, the woman weighed my prospects and is ready to talk. Well then...

“Lady, if I may, let me present you with a small gift...”

Trudy, of course, let him and gasped as pink silk came into her view from a package.

“Marvelous! Thank you, Lord of Torsveg!”

“Just Elg, dear lady, if you’d like.”

“My name is Trudy, Elg. And my daughter...you’ve already met Tira, right?”

“Yes, Trudy, I have.”

“Unfortunately, she’s not home, but I’m sure she’ll be thrilled with your present.”

“It will become her. Maybe not as much as her lovely mother, but Tira’s young...”

“Yes, she’s only fifteen, sixteen in a month.” Trudy sighed.

“But why are we talking outside? Let me invite you into my home. Would you like some mulled wine?”

“I’d love some, Trudy.”

“Then be my guest.”

Elg carefully watched the woman. She seemed sincere, a polite smile on her face. She was probably studying him, knowing that he had taken an interest in Tira. He would have to win her over, then.

Trudy observed Elg just as closely. She wasn’t too happy. He was a dangerous man, no doubt about that—smart, cunning, vicious. She sensed something unholy inside him. Maybe it was his ruby lips that he kept licking with the tip of his tongue or his dark look...

Some women loved men such as him, but such was their choice to play with fire and get burned. But Tira... Tira was her daughter.

He wasn’t the son-in-law Trudy had wished for. And then, Elg would never become her family, she knew that as well. He had long since been married to a quiet woman who would never dare to speak in his presence, no matter a brood of bastards running around his house, even if her husband took a slave right on the table in the feast hall...

She had been disciplined, and that was dangerous.

Trudy didn’t want such a fate for her daughter. Still, she was in no position to refuse him. It meant she would have to flatter him and accept his flattery in turn. She was a Hardring, after all.

The wine was served immediately.

Elg took a sip and chuckled. It wasn’t half bad, actually. How could he know that the wine had been brought there by Royce himself? Nobody had wanted to drink it. The spices and the temperature were just right, though.

“Thank you for your warm reception, lady.”

“Trudy,” the widow reminded him, a sweet smile on her face.

“How long will you stay in our backwater place?”

“As luck would have it,” Elg said with a sigh, “I’ll have to travel to the Circle in winter, it’s important.”

“To affirm your right?”

“Yes, Trudy, oh yes...”

“We’ll need to go there as well, so we will see you there,” Trudy said, pouring more wine for her guest.

“My brother will be happy to see his niece and me.”

He would not. Still, she had written to Olav Hardring some time back, and he had agreed to receive them. After all, it’s not like two women would eat too much food or take up too much space.

“To the Circle?” Elg seemed interested.

“May I ask you a question, then?”

“Of course,” Trudy fluttered her eyelashes.

“You see, Tira is the only heir of Clan Elleig, and she’s going to announce her claim for the land and the house.”

Elg raised his eyebrows.

“Really? Isn’t she going to marry?”

“No. Tira doesn’t love anyone yet. Her heart is free, and I don’t want to compel her. She can like whoever she likes. If the man she chooses is landless, their children will have a place to live. If not...in any case, Elleig will have new heirs.”

Elg weighed the implication.

You can try to court my daughter, I don’t mind, but she must consent.

Of course, she would. Elg didn’t doubt himself for a moment. I have conquered wilder girls than Tira!

“Does your daughter want to become a kyria?”

“I don’t approve of that.” Trudy sighed.

“But she’s taken after her father...”

Elg looked the woman over and decided that it was for the best. The girl was pretty as a picture, but her mother...wasn’t. She was plain and mousey. She might have been cute in her youth, but time had erased that beauty with a wet sponge, splashing her in its wake. Only wrinkles and grey hair remained, and her rough hands with chipped nails were scarred, unkempt, and tired. She was clearly used to work, meaning that Elleig didn’t have enough slaves. His wife didn’t have to even touch a loom, but there, it was standing in the corner, with no maid in sight.

And by the way...

“So you’re going to the Circle?”

Trudy shrugged, uncertain.

“If we can make it, Elg.”

“I’m leaving soon. If you do me an honor and keep me company, I would be happy.”

“How soon?”

“In ten or twelve days.”

Trudy bit her lip.

Ten days.

All in all, it would be enough time for her. She had people to look after the house, the crops would be already harvested—they could go with the Torsvegs.

What about Tira? She would agree, too: everything was better than going alone. She’d argue first, of course.

“If Tira agrees, I will be happy to accept your invitation, Elg. I won’t lie, we’re living a very...secluded...life.”

To put it simply, poor, Elg translated from the diplomatic language.

“Yes, this is a very remote place. I wouldn’t have visited here if not for the estate. But clan business...”

“Oh, I know! Clan business is so important. I learned it when I was a child. If Tira doesn’t mind going with you, I’ll be delighted.”

“Your daughter will decide something as serious as that by herself?” Elg was genuinely surprised.

Trudy lifted her hands.

“Children... Tell me, Elg, do you have any children?”

Elg nodded.

“Of course. I’m not a boy with only chainmail and an axe to his name. I’ve provided for a wife and children...”

Trudy praised the man for his responsibility, and Elg started telling her all about his huge household and many ships.

Time passed, and both parties were mutually pleased.

Elg realized that he found an ally in Trudy.

Trudy realized that Elg wanted her daughter and was prepared to pay for that.

Only Tira didn’t realize anything, but she was still a little girl. What could she know about men?

That’s what mothers were for. They could figure everything out and tell their children whom to choose.

***

Ativerna, close to Laveri.

“Good day, August!”

“Jess!”

The shipwright was truly glad to see his son-in-law. He had been worried for his daughter, but the couple seemed to have worked everything out between them, so the boy deserved good treatment.

He also deserved some supervision. August wasn’t going to neglect a matter as important as grandchildren anymore. That deserved a firm hand and strict oversight, no doubt about that!

Aside from being born, a grandson also needed education, and how would August provide that in his sixties? That needed to happen sooner, while his hands were still strong, and his feet, still light. He would have to hurry the youngsters up, so they’d make him a grandchild—and leave him for his grandfather to teach!

He hadn’t done a shabby job with his daughter, had he? Even the king himself held Countess Earton in high regard, and he had a good reason to!

August didn’t say any of that out loud, of course. He just invited Jerisson over for a glass of wine.

The count shook his head.

“Lily won’t like it.”

August raised his eyebrows but chose not to comment. Mariella hadn’t liked his drinking, either, but it was just a little bit! What was a cup of wine for a grown man? Water!

Jerisson saw his surprise and explained,

“Lilian and Tahir are studying ancient scrolls. They say, if you drink, your child might be born sick. Even drinking just a little bit, but every day, will have dire results, according to them.”

“And?”

“Lilian stopped drinking wine, and I decided to support her.”

Jerisson’s smile looked so manly that August felt himself a sixteen-year-old boy, wet behind his ears. If only he didn’t hurt every morning, day after day…

Once upon a time, we roamed wild; now, plow the wheat and rye...

“So are you going to...”

“Lilian’s recovering. But as soon as she’s ready, we will.”

August rubbed his hands.

“We should toast to that...wait, so what will we drink?”

“Water from the well will suit me just fine. Cold, if possible—it’s so hot here.”

“Yes, nice weather we’re having today,” August agreed and shouted to the servant to bring water.

While they were waiting for him, Jerisson made one more request.

“We’re going to Wellster. Could you look after Roman and Jacob? I asked my mother, but it would be safer if both of you agreed.”

August was taken aback.

“What will I do, drag them to the wharf?”

“No. But if you could visit our home every other day, and my mother live there...”

August straightened his shoulders.

He liked Alicia Weeks. That was his destiny, it seemed, liking strong and smart women. As for looks...did it really matter that much? And then, after Lilian’s help with her clothes and her hair, Alicia looked better than many younger women. August was no spring chicken himself, in any case. At his age, one didn’t look for a tigress, but for a kindred spirit to share a pasture with, and with Alicia, he knew he would find it.

After all, her lot in life hadn’t been that sweet, either... Jess’ father had been a real idiot, may his afterlife be anything but peaceful!

“Fine, you’ve convinced me. Maybe I could even live there and travel here to work.”

“Won’t your craftsmen screw up without you?”

“I would be a bad overseer if they did,” August chuckled. “Now tell me, why have you all decided to go to Wellster all of a sudden?”

“Well, it’s me, my wife, Miranda, Jaimie will probably go to Virma...”

“Donter?”

“Yes. Tahir will stay here, with the king, Jaimie’s going to Virma, and as for us, we already have the best doctor: Her Grace Countess Earton.”

“You’ve turned my girl into an herbalist...”

“His Majesty Gardwig really appreciated her skills and asked for her specifically.”

Jerisson puffed out his chest, clearly proud of his wife. Why not?

A husband of a smart and beautiful woman had two options: either try to bring her to heel, irrevocably crippling her resolve, or become her equal, throw your shoulders back, and declare; This is my wife! I’m proud of her, go on, be jealous!

The second variant was all too uncommon, as were real men.

“Let’s say you’re right. But a doctor isn’t the main thing here, is she?”

“No. It’s Princess Maria. She’ll be waiting for us.”

Aha! So that’s what it was.

August knew very well about the whole deal with Anna. Lilian had hidden nothing from her father, warning him that it was a state secret, which meant that it shouldn’t be said out loud, but everyone already knew everything.

“So we’re taking a Wellster princess, after all?”

“We have no choice.”

“Really? We could ask Amir, he has a dozen sisters suited to every fancy.” August snickered.   “He’ll bring them here!”

“So...I wanted to ask. We’re going by land...”

“Makes sense. The storm season is coming.”

“But what if we send two ships with various goods? We can’t take a dozen carts with us, we already have a caravan!”

August thought about that.

True, a real caravan.

“Tell me what to load. I don’t have any available vessels, but I know some people whose ships are going to Wellster.”

Jerisson nodded.

“Thank you. It’s not much, but a ship makes it so much easier...”

August was in complete agreement. Or...

“Could you ask the Virmans?”

“We can’t.”

Jess came clean to August about Leif’s situation. What if the shipwright could recommend something? His guess wasn’t wrong.

After considering everything for two minutes, his father-in-law gave him a valuable piece of advice.

“The Virmans respect pride and ability to back it up. Tell the prince to practice with an axe.”

Jess cocked an eyebrow.

“Richard’s no wimp.”

“I know that. But for the Virmans, an axe is like a sword to us. They have different techniques, different grips, stances... Oh, who am I to tell you that? You know it yourself!”

Jess had an inkling. After all, he had trained with Eric more than once.

“Good thing Jaimie will go with Richard.”

“Is it?”

“He’ll be busy in Virma. The locals respect doctors a lot, especially those good at what they do.”

“Jaimie might be young, but he’s already a good doctor.”

Jess recalled how the Virmans had dragged them out of the ship’s hold and how passionately Jaimie argued, demanding to be allowed access to the wounded, how he defended his cause...

Richard would have to work hard to earn respect and reputation in Virma; James Donter would be accepted in any home and hearth and given a cup of wine in the first round.

“Good. You aren’t afraid of taking your wife to Wellster, are you?”

August seemed to be joking, and Jess answered him in kind.

“It’s one thing with me, but Lily will never trade Miranda for anyone.”

But deep inside his soul, an icy worm of doubt stirred, slimy, loathsome, disgusting.

It was an irrational fear unworthy of a man: the prospect of his wife being taken away. And they could; Gardwig was famous for that and more. After all, he was the Lion of Wellster. How many women had gone through his bed? Would Lilian dare to refuse him? Would she want to?

In the past, women’s hearts had held no secrets for Jerisson. But his wife...

Lilian Earton remained an enigma, just like the kaleidoscope she had crafted.

Rotate it, and you get a pattern; rotate it some more, and you get another. The shapes never repeated themselves, and you never knew what you would get each time.

“One more thing...” August was contemplating something important.

“Our princesses aren’t betrothed, are they? His Majesty hasn’t settled yet, right?”

Jerisson stared at him, his mouth open.

“A princess? In Virma?”

He had never dared to imagine something like that. His thinking was too rigid. August, however, with his artistic mind, had no such hang-ups. He could generate the most bizarre of ideas, and then bring them to life in metal and wood.

Not straight away, no. But provided a certain level of skill and patience, anything could be implemented.

So what if everyone thought Virmans to be bandits? It’s not like the progenitors of most noble families were saints, either. Not even close! No matter how much you covered it up, burned papers, scratched out words, the truth would surface, and centuries would not stop it.

“You think the Virmans have screws down there or tassels?”

August had a raunchy grin on his face but then continued, suddenly somber.

“The Virmans are ruled by the Circle, but they have powerful clans, like Hardring. If we offered them the hand of a princess—”

“But...that’s impossible!”

“Why?” August was sincerely surprised. “What’s so bad about that?”

“Well...”

“Whom else would the girls marry?”

Jerisson froze.

And really, whom else?

Ivernea?

They could marry off one of them there, at best. What about the other one? Avester? No go. The Khanganat? The spot was already taken; Amir would not agree to anyone except for Miranda. Wellster? Gardwig’s sons were too young. Elvana? Darkom? The king was highly unlikely to go for that. And then, blood needed to be diluted; it was forbidden to marry close relatives. Too many couples from the same families had already been wed in the last generation. What would happen next? The Church was against that, too.

There had been cases where royal families had their offspring marry their cousins or simply hadn’t diluted their blood enough, and nobody liked the results. Madness, deformity, sickness...

The Church was even monitoring common folk for such things, let alone nobles. It was easier for men; all they needed in a wife was noble blood. Women, however?

Could a princess be wed to a nobleman?

She could, but that was discouraged. They had just sorted out a conspiracy, after all.

Virma had different customs and another way of life.

“No, they don’t have a court. Is that such a problem? Virma is a stone’s throw away from Laveri by sea, she would visit home all the time. They would appreciate her and wouldn’t harm a hair on her head, trust me.”

Jerisson thought about it.

“But who will be the husband?”

“No one, so far. Let one of the girls go with His Highness, so she could take a look at the island, and the locals could take a look at her. They aren’t stupid; they’ll get the hint. As for the rest...believe me, Virma might have different ways, but a bright girl will carve a place for herself anywhere. And then, that’s how it’s done: men do, women adapt.”

“But the Virmans are heathens!”

“You’re wrong. They have their own gods, not Aldonai, but everyone’s entitled to their errors, aren’t they?”

Jerisson chuckled, uncertain. August remained undeterred.

“It’s our duty to bring a spark of true light to kindle their souls aflame like the Book says.”

“Really?”

Now it was time for August to snort.

He did know the Book well, specifically because he was an avowed atheist. Knowing the law helped him evade responsibility.

“Saint Arshela was married to a Khangan, and she brought him into her faith.”

“By praying and fasting, I suppose.”

Jerisson snorted into his cup of water, almost splashing half the table.

August threw his head back and laughed.

“You bet! That’s how it’s always been done with us men, fasting, and prayer! Or don’t ye have faith, oh child of Aldonai?”

Jerisson did. Still, he pushed his cup aside—out of harm’s way.

He did decide to tell the king about August’s idea, though.

Joliette was gentler and quieter than her sister. Angelina, however... That one could marry a Virman, all right, and convince him to convert, easily! She had a temper...and her faith was firm enough, for sure.

Then men exchanged looks one more time and started laughing like mad.

***

As promised, Jess relayed August’s idea to Edward.

His Majesty considered it. On the one hand, he loved his children, all of them. On the other...the princesses had known since childhood that they would be married off for the sake of their country. Why not to Virma? Was it not fit for a princess?

A strong Virman clan, like the Hardrings, controlled a huge part of the island. Her husband might be only a chieftain in the beginning, but a few years later... Richard would never deny help to his sister’s husband, no doubt about that.

But if they stalled, Gardwig could step in. He had a truckload of girls, enough to marry them off to all countries at once.

An interesting idea. And what if not a princess? His Majesty had known all there was to know about dynastic marriages, and not only dynastic.

Alicia Weeks—or rather, Alicia Earton—was happy to answer His Majesty’s call. She heard him out and paused for a couple of minutes.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I know girls who won’t just agree to go to Virma, but will jump at the chance.”

“The princess will need to be escorted by girls no older than sixteen, maidens...or not quite, things happen.”

“Dowerless, second and third daughters, those sullied by scandals,” Alicia gave a knowing nod.

“They don’t care about that in Virma.”

“Yes,” Edward agreed.

“It’s not the Virman way to preserve maidenhood until marriage. And if a girl already has a child, she’s considered fertile, able to bring her husband more children, I know that. But we can’t offer them someone like that, with a child.”

Alicia nodded and rubbed her lower lip.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I can find such girls.”

“I think four ladies-in-waiting will be enough. It’s just a friendly visit, so no need for pomp.”

“I’ll pick four girls.”

“And explain to them that a peace treaty doesn’t have to be sealed with soldier blood. The blood of virgins will do just fine.” Edward smirked.

“I’ll arrange everything, Your Majesty. You can count on me.”

“I’m sure of that, Alicia, and I’m grateful to you. I haven’t mentioned that often...”

“Your Majesty, does it truly matter what a person says? Words are wind on the water, and our deeds are rocks in its way. You’ve always supported me and helped me, and I knew that you would be impartial. That is worth more than any words.”

Edward sighed.

“I wanted to say it out loud, Alicia. I am so very thankful to you. Once, you rescued three young men from a difficult situation, and I haven’t forgotten that. Neither will the crown.”

Alicia shrugged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Your Majesty. But if I was useful to the crown, it makes me happy.”

“I hope you’ll be as happy with August,” Edward insinuated.

Alicia covered her face with a fan.

“Your Majesty, may I count on your blessing?”

“Of course. And may I count on being invited as an honored guest to the wedding?”

“I’d love to, Your Majesty. As will Lilian. She’s already implied that she would be glad to call me her mother...twice.”

Edward nodded.

“Jerisson got lucky with his wife.”

“I hope,” Alicia said, forgoing the title, which added a touch of intimacy to the conversation, “that the journey will bring them closer and help them learn more about each other.”

The king nodded.

True, in Earton, Jerisson and Lilian had few opportunities to grow closer. He didn’t mean in bed, but something else instead.

Jerisson had too many duties, while Lilian, too much work to do. If left alone to their devices, their children would stay strangers, lovers, but not a family, and who knew what it would result in. It would be better to exert subtle control over their relationship and steer it in the right direction.

Jerisson was no fool, and neither was Lilian. Over the time of their journey, they would either find common ground or establish boundaries not be crossed.

Yes, children were growing up, traveling into the world. But did that mean that their parents worried less about them?

And so, Edward would not protest if any of the princesses left for Virma. He would not stop her if she made her choice, as his father’s decision had cost him too much.

They needed an alliance with Virma, and it would be better to seal it with a marriage—but he would not force his daughters to do it. He would ask them, explain it to them, and let them make up their own minds. Otherwise, Edward would feel too much shame when he met his wife beyond the veil. Jessamine was happy, and so was he. How could he wish anything less for his children?

He could not.

So let it be Virma.

***

His Majesty decided to talk with his girls the very same day.

Angelina and Joliette were playing a game given to them by Lilian Earton that involved calculating something and moving stones.

He sighed softly.

Just like Richard, his daughters were his carbon copies: blonde, grey-eyed, with only their facial features resembling Jessamine’s, both of them lovely.

Courtiers made an effort to stay away from them, trying to be as polite as they could; they knew that the king would not give them any quarter if they tried anything.

Edward did love his daughters. But marrying them off... It would be harder for Angelina with her temper and her impetuousness; Joliette had a more placid disposition.

But the main question mark was where to marry them off. Ivernea? The Avesterrans were offended, Khanganat wouldn’t do, and they had married into the Elvanian royal family during the reign of Edward’s father, while to Darkom’s, in his grandfather’s time. It was wrong to repeat that. Blood had to be diluted. The aldon wouldn’t approve. They had to wait a few generations first.

Only one daughter would be able to go to Ivernea, but neither Angelina nor Joliette had shown any interest toward His Majesty Miguel, not a bit. They didn’t like him.

What was left? Surprisingly, Virma wasn’t the worst option. First, it was close by. Their brother would always be able to help them.

Second, whomever the girls gave birth to would never have any claim to the throne, even if they bore as many as six boys. Ativernan nobles viewed the Virmans as...not quite second-class people—their axes were too big for that—but not honorable enough for the crown. Their education was all wrong, too. And so, their children would never get to rule, meaning no turmoil over the throne. It mattered.

Third... Edward had no desire to pressure his daughters. It wasn’t the kind of situation where an alliance was more important than their feelings. After all, he knew what it was like, being forced to marry for duty—and clean up the mess afterward. Let the girls try to find their own happiness. And if it was with the Virmans... Whatever.

Weak and stupid couldn’t survive there.

And that’s what Edward told his daughters, without any consideration to their age or romantic preconceptions.

They exchanged looks, paused for a few minutes...and Angelina spoke up.

“I think I’ll go. I’m older.”

Edward smiled.

He and Jessamine hadn’t expected to have more children, making them even happier when Her Majesty had gotten pregnant at her age. And a year later, once again...

“As you wish.”

“I’m curious,” Angelina confessed. “There are so many things in the world I haven’t seen yet, living here, in the palace...”

Edward sighed.

Such was the royal lot. The palace, a golden cage, a collar, and chains of duty. But it was in his power to loosen them for a bit, at least for his girls.

“Promise me you’ll listen to Richard.”

“I will.” Angelina didn’t hesitate for an instant.

“Jolie, what about you?”

“I’d rather stay home. Someone should keep Father company while you’re there,” replied the youngest girl.

“Will you stay there long?”

“Until the autumn storms are over. Then we’ll return.”

“So at least two months,” the princess reckoned.

“Father, when are we leaving?”

“In five or six days.”

“I won’t have time for anything! To pack up, prepare my dresses... Father!”

“Angelina!”

He was stern. Angelina sighed and grew quiet.

Dresses? It’s not like she was traveling to a wasteland. They’d find her something to wear. But if her father changed his mind...

“Fine. Joliette, you’ll help me, right?”

“Of course, sister.”

Edward nodded, content. The princess had agreed. All that was left was to find her the right company. But he had great faith in Alicia. She would succeed. In a few hours, he would get a list of potential candidates.

If they had more time, they would pick the best of them, the smartest and the prettiest. They did not, as always.

At first, events always dragged on, stretching like pine resin, only to suddenly break into a gallop, forcing you to snatch onto anything for dear life as long as it saved you from getting under the hooves.

On the other hand, preparations had already started, and ships were always ready to take to the sea. A few persons more, a few persons less... They’d manage.

***

Alicia didn’t fail Edward, and two hours later, His Majesty’s desk had a list of names with notes opposite each of them. Edward contemplated it a bit, then struck out all but four of them: the most suitable of the lot. Those who would never refuse a husband, a home, and some independence.

The dowry for the girls would be provided by the crown. Alicia had picked them with a full understanding of the moment and the situation, and none of the girls approved by Edward turned down the offer. They were happy to agree.

And so, the princess got such ladies-in-waiting as olive-skinned Laura Winst, a bastard daughter of Duke Winston. She had been legitimized by her father, but... You do get it, don’t you? She’s second-grade goods, fit to be a mistress, not a lawful wife. What if she takes after her mother, the slut?

Such proposals offended the girl, who fought for her honor like a wild cat—to the death. She quickly agreed to go to Virma. Courtesy of Countess Earton, the Virmans had gained a lot of popularity, and being a lady of the house would be the same in any country. She would still oversee the servants, look after the household—only with His Majesty’s support. Anything was better than being a mistress.

Another one of the chosen was Ashley Lorin, the sixth daughter of Baron Lorin, a plump, easily amused girl with brown eyes. It was hard to laugh when you had absolutely nothing in terms of dowry, yet...she was alive, and that was something. Virma wasn’t a problem; it’s not like her home was any wealthier.

The blonde Aliah Reinst even looked like a Virman. She had her own sob story, even if old as dirt. One should really avoid pretty boys with ready tongues, as they were all too often ready for any kind of backstabbing, as well. The boy had seduced Aliah, but married someone else, adhering to a childhood betrothal, common interests, and shared goals. He chose not to keep mum about his “achievements” though.

The girl became the laughingstock of the entire court, and widow Reinst, her mother, threw herself at His Majesty’s feet, begging for protection. Edward thought a bit and decided to send the lady-killer away and marry the girl off. Yet the opportunity still hadn’t presented itself. Why not? She had a good family, a baron for a father.

The last one of Her Highness companions was Jean Erroy, a fun-loving red-haired girl, wonderful in many ways, but with a big problem. She had been raised by her father, a known drunkard, which left its mark.

Jean could brawl, curse, and drink wine with the best of them and was great at handling horses and dogs. Good manners?

Well, I do know such words. And some other words, too.

What do they look like? Are they written on paper?

Ah, you mean manners, not words? Oops.

Court life had licked the girl into shape, but only a little: after all, punching a man for innocently flirting with her...yeah, she definitely belonged in Virma.

Upon learning about her ladies-in-waiting, Angelina only shrugged. Her company suited her destination. She would succeed anyway; she was a princess.

Edward was genuinely touched and allotted a larger sum for outfitting the girls. Let them get new dresses; court tailors needed just a few days to revamp their wardrobes.

Angelina shook her head and suggested just giving them fabric. They say fashion is different in Virma, after all.

So, everything was settled to everyone’s satisfaction.

Angelina was itching to see Virma, the girls finally had actual opportunities in life, and the Virmans... The Virmans still didn’t know about their luck, but they would be no less content. Nobody doubted that.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

“YOU MORON! I trusted you! You deserve worse than death!”

Altres Lort accepted all accusations with such meekness and humility that Aldonai himself would have praised him, were he to witness the event.

The scene was picture perfect. He was kneeling: barefoot, his belt unbuckled, dressed in a shirt and pants, a leash on his neck—the testament of royal power—while Gardwig was yelling at him at the top of his voice.

Lort wasn’t making any excuses. His brother was quick to anger, and he still had all of his teeth and was in no hurry to part with any of them.

Gardwig grew tired of the show in twenty minutes.

“Get out of my face! Go to the estate and don’t even think about coming back until I let you!”

Lort bowed and scrambled to his feet, stifling a desire to rub them.

Ouch.

Oh, Harnie, you really should have more piety. Fathers and pastors can stand on their knees until the cows come home; people say they even have calluses, but you aren’t used to it at all.

Lort walked to his chambers all right and proper, the embodiment of noble suffering, but as soon as the door closed behind him, he transformed. The leash that had chafed his neck was sent flying into the corner, and he proceeded to pull on boots taken from the closet. A doublet was next. Finally ready, he turned toward the secret passage.

His Majesty had been waiting for his brother. He wasn’t alone, either. Milia was sitting on a bench next to His Majesty’s feet, while Count Aaron Dishan was in a chair. Lort smiled.

“I was almost scared you’d whack me with a sword, Your Majesty...”

“So that’s why you’re so late?” Gardwig grumbled.

“You were changing your pants?”

“It’s not like I could offend your royal nose with evidence of my cowardice,” the jester replied cockily.

At that moment, that’s what he was, instead of the head of the secret service.

Gardwig snorted.

“You should have. You haven’t saved the girl...fine! Have you handed things over to the count?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Count, have you studied everything?”

The count, for his part, stood up from the chair and made a dignified bow.

“Your Majesty, I sincerely hope not to disappoint you or His Grace.”

Gardwig nodded.

“Good. A year, Count, you have a year. If you succeed, I’ll make you a marquis. Or...we’ll think of something.”

“Your goodwill is the best reward for me, Your Majesty.”

“But you still want to eat,” Gardwig snickered.

“You understood me, Count. Milia, dear, please keep the count busy, we’ll be back in five minutes.”

His Majesty stood up from the chair, looked at Lort, and nodded toward the bedroom.

Inside, the jester finally spoke up.

“Be more careful, Gard.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“It’s too early for you to get old. You need to pop out a few children first.”

Altres winced.

“Women are the last thing I need.”

“Consider this my royal decree. Use this year to find yourself a wife.”

Altres didn’t say anything, but his expression spoke for itself.

Gardwig shook his head.

“Harnie, you’re the only one I can trust, and I want my children to trust yours. It’s not an order, it’s a request from your brother...”

Altres lowered his eyes.

“Gard, you know it yourself...”

“I do. And I command you to forget that stupid girl. Got it?”

Altres sighed.

It was easy to be the Lion of Wellster. But what about his Jackal? That’s how he was called, if not worse...not out loud, but what did it matter? He still heard those whispers and knew about them, sometimes twisting the necks of the whisperers. Yet in some respects, his brother was right.

“I promise.”

Gardwig lightened up and patted his brother on the shoulder.

“Have fun, then. Consider this your vacation. How long has it been since you’ve had one?”

“A while. My heart is heavy, Gard. Maybe I really am too old.”

“You’ve been working too much.”

“I suppose...”

“All the more reason to take a break. Get some rest, Harnie, and return a year later.”

Gardwig gave his brother a hug.

That night, Altres Lort would leave Cardin for his estate, Castle Lort, to try to lead the life of a country nobleman: visit his neighbors and receive them, flirt with pretty ladies, and go to church.

He would get smug looks from men and scornful stares (eww, a hunchback!) from women, and as for the church...Altres hadn’t made a confession in his life and wasn’t in any hurry to do so. Maybe he should recruit the local father; let him work and be of use.

Now that sounded more interesting.

Yet still... Altres would have given an ear to stay. He knew he couldn’t; that was politics, dammit, and political mistakes could never be forgiven. His failure had been too big.

Fine. He would leave. But in the end, he would be back.

***

Late that night, the golden-eyed woman sensed hot lips touching her hand. She opened her eyes.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

The man nodded.

He quickly undressed and slipped under the sheets.

He liked it. It was warm there.

The woman snorted in indignation but chose not to argue.

“You’re so cold...”

“I’m prepared to get sick for something like that!”

“What happened?”

“The hunchback is gone!”

The woman trembled in delight. Not because of the man next to her, he had nothing to do with that. The best aphrodisiac was the anticipation of revenge.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve seen it myself. He left the house, mounted a horse, and rode away. I checked the gates, too. He’s gone.”

“He’s gone...”

“Yes, my queen. Our road is clear!”

“Will you dispatch a squad after him, my duke?”

“Of course. He has only four men with him, common soldiers, and I’ll send master assassins. They’ll do it. That crook-back wretch won’t get anywhere.”

The woman smiled, readily answering his passionate kisses, her eyes burning with clear lust. But if anyone could look into her soul, they would see the truth. Her one true desire was not the love of a man. It was revenge—and power. And that night, she grew one step closer to her dream.

“Achoo!”

The blanket jumped, as did the woman.

The man sheepishly shook his head.

“I guess I did catch a cold.”

“Don’t worry, my love. You’ll have time to get better before the storm hits.”

“Yes. Let’s wait until the ambassadors arrive.”

“We will. Later. But now, I don’t want to wait. Come to me, I beg you!”

She didn’t have to ask twice.

A thunderstorm was raging outside. Altres Lort was riding away from Cardin. And in a small unremarkable house on the edge of the capital city, a conspiracy against the crown was brewing, like a nasty boil. Soon, very soon, it would burst.

***

Late that night, the man woke up. The rain had subsided.

He looked at his lover peacefully sleeping by his side, kissed her bare shoulder, and left the room. He walked into the study. In the dark, he saw the soft light in the window, distant lightning, and the gleaming gilding on the books.

The darkness shrouded him, like a living being, covering his shoulders and whispering in his ear with voices the man hadn’t heard for years.

Softly, it stripped his face of masks, one after another, until his real face was laid bare: the one he would never show to people, the one he was hiding in the very depths of his soul. He slouched, his mouth twisted in a half-smile half-scowl, his handsome face distorted, and his eyes flashed with anger and hate.

Your time has come, Gardwig.

So what were the building blocks of a conspiracy? Hate, money, and opportunity.

The first one, the duke had in abundance, ever since Gardwig had married for the second time. Or, rather, he had executed his wife Camilla, Anna’s mother.

Nobody could refuse the king, and neither could Camilla’s father, no matter how the lovers had begged him. They dreamed of running away together but to no avail. The duke was only the second son, with the money and the title inherited by his elder brother, and had no opportunities to do anything at all.

Thus, he lost the fight for his beloved, and soon...

Camilla loved him, not Gardwig.

Who was it who blew the whistle? Who was it who spied on them? The man knew one of the answers. Altres Lort.

It was the vile hunchback who had tracked Camilla. Her lover, however, remained unidentified, having fled in haste. She was caught in her bed, indecent. She vowed that she had never cheated in her life. Gardwig didn’t believe her, especially after he found a dagger with the family crest. Under torture, his beloved confessed and gave a name. Not his, no; she hadn’t betrayed Robert even then.

She said the name of his brother.

He was executed, his family fell into disfavor, but what difference did it make for the poor man? None! Camilla was gone. The world was dead to him.

Then, within a couple of years, his father drank himself to death and died of grief and longing. And suddenly, Robert realized he was a duke, a sovereign, with everything resting in his hands.

And that “everything” included revenge, too. Bloody, dire, scary revenge—for Camilla.

And thus, his hate was born.

Funnily, the duke hadn’t spared a thought to Anna. She wasn’t his daughter, after all, but Gardwig’s—let him think about her. However, he had taken care of Camilla’s sisters, giving them dowries and marrying them off.

He had money, and with money, came opportunities. Being a duke entitled him to lands, connections, vassals.

And then, Gardwig gave the duke another gift. He banished his third wife, the mother of his four daughters.

The idea was simple. The queen would retire to a convent and then die of grief. The plan was designed by Altres Lort.

The duke reached the caravan halfway to its destination. Money could do wonders, and instead of the queen, the convent received her almost twin. Not for nothing, of course: her family got a large amount of money that allowed them to live comfortably up to the present time. The price of blood, the price of life.

The divorced queen, in the meantime, went to Robert’s duchy together with him. She was grateful for his rescue but desired revenge above all. A woman scorned, a man heartbroken—who said they wouldn’t find common ground? They found it in many aspects, including in bed. They needed that.

Afterward, for almost decades, slowly and steadily, they designed their plot, watching, waiting, testing the waters... Conspiracy, after all, is something much more complicated than going out into public and yelling “Down with the king!” It required a lot of preparation, an army, weapons, support inside the palace, lots of things, with failure possible at each step.

Fortunately, Gardwig unwittingly helped them. To attack the flock, one needed to remove the sheepdogs. Lort couldn’t be bribed, but Dishan...the duke had been watching him for a while and knew how to take him by the throat. Lort had no weaknesses, but Dishan had a wife and children. He could be pressured.

The weapons had long since been sent to Cardin, the mercenaries would arrive soon, and the crown was easy to rouse.

Only one part was left. The most important one, the king and his family. That was something the duke would be happy to take upon himself. He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. All he had to do was to wait until the perfect cover.

His reputation needed to stay unblemished; after all, he would have to become the next ruler. He needed someone to take the blame for the king’s murder.

So when were the Ativernan ambassadors to arrive? By that moment, everything would have to be in place. Thankfully, both Ativerna and Wellster knew the story of Jerisson Earton; the count had spent enough time there, they saw enough. He was the perfect scapegoat, the duke couldn’t think of a better man.

He opened the desk and pulled out a miniature painting, running his fingers over a delicate face that he knew and loved so much. Aristocratic features, brown eyes, a gentle smile, as if she had just woken up...

She was gone, lost forever.

That portrait was always lying there, in the secret drawer, with nobody knowing about it. Nobody ever would, either.

My love.

Camilla, Millie, my dear...

Forgive me. I couldn’t save you, but I will avenge you. I swear to you, I will.

***

Ativerna.

So what exactly was an ambassador party? At last, Lily knew the answer. It was a real freaking mess, with zero chances to wriggle out of it.

The head of the party was Jerisson, Count Earton. With him, he had a carriage, three carts, several horses, two servants, four horsekeepers, ten guards, six of them—just six!—Virmans. It was an unprecedented compromise. They had barely persuaded the Virmans to send all of their armada to Wellster: Eric was needed in Virma, and his men would be of service to Leif, but six people were the very least the Virmans would agree on if their countess wanted to leave, and if she didn’t like it, that was her problem.

And as if that wasn’t enough already, Eric alluded to some relative of his in Clan Hardring and even gave Lily a letter addressed to him.

So what was a Virman letter? It was no flimsy piece of paper, for sure! Mostly, it resembled a huge bundle with soft tin on one side, and the clan seal on the other. Sometimes, the tin had several runes scratched with a knife, to the bearer, so to speak.

Use and abuse, one would think? Just steal it from Lilian and handle it to your heart’s content? Yeah, there had been a few idiots like that. Then the Virmans found them and flayed them alive. What else would you expect from savages? Nobody else had been stupid enough to follow in their tracks since then.

Lily was riding Lidarh, Jerisson was mounted on his black monster, and Miranda, delirious with happiness, moved between her mother and father, constantly hinting at getting her own Avarian. Then she could ride alone, by herself, like an adult... Still, neither Jess nor Lily reacted to her rhetoric, showing no mercy. She would have to wait; it was still too early. When she turned at least twelve, they would talk.

The hounds alternated between running on their own and riding in a cart.

And that was just Jerisson’s retinue.

The party also included Count Roivel and his wife, Count Elont, also with his wife, and about ten young people: second and third sons and daughters, all with their own carts and carriages and horses. Lily suspected that even Moses himself had never led such a caravan through the desert!

After all, an ambassador party had many purposes, and a motive to get to know each other was not the least of them.

So how was the party formed? What was the basis of its composition?

As for the ambassador, you’d want to pick the most slippery person, fond of playing dirty tricks: let them mess with the neighbors, if it can’t be helped, and spy on them.

That would be a constant ambassador, of course, someone that any proper king was obliged to send to his peers. Laveri had an ambassador from Wellster, while Cardin, an ambassador from Ativerna. That was one thing.

Jerisson’s case, on the other hand, was something quite different. His goal wasn’t brokering a marriage; all he had to do was to take the bride home. Everything had already been agreed upon, no need to sign anything or form any alliances. So how would one form a party like that?

First thing you needed was a trusted agent of the king, in that instance, Count Earton. By picking him, His Majesty killed several birds with one stone, expressing his trust to Gardwig and showing that he wasn’t nursing a grudge—as that poisoning attempt was just like the proverbial silver cutlery: nobody had stolen it, yet the gossip went on and on.

A count was no duke; that was true. He was, however, His Majesty’s nephew, which mattered much more. Gardwig was bound to appreciate that.

What about the rest of the party, then?

An ambassador needed a deputy: someone mature, respectable, not arrogant enough for a starring role, but highly regarded by everyone. That was Count Roivel’s role, with Count Elont as a backup, in case Roivel failed.

Next, you would want someone to induct the young princess into the complicated world of courtly intrigues and relationships in Laveri. Gardwig did have spies, who would say something to Maria, but they only knew so much.

Lilian Earton was ready to help, of course—but how much information did she really have? She had never cared about gossip, and she had no time for that, either. She had too much on her plate with her business.

So that’s where the wives and daughters of counts Roivel and Elont came in. In truth, Count Elont had been chosen solely thanks to his wife’s merits. Countess Elont, a plump lady in her forties, was an avid and merciless gossip. Unlike Alicia Weeks, however, she was kind and benevolent, with a loose tongue as her only problem.

When standing in front of Judas himself, a woman like her would say, Oh poor boy, you’ve made such a lapse in judgment. But you meant well, I know that!

The party also had young people. The princess would surely feel better among her...almost peers. She was thirteen, they were ranging from fifteen to twenty, just the right age to go traveling and see the world, maybe find spouses for themselves.

All of them weren’t heirs and came from large families. Four such girls—including the third daughter of Countess Elont, Lucilla—were accompanying Countess Roivel, who used to be a lady-in-waiting for the late Queen Jessamine and later took to training the next generation.

On the other hand... Would it so bad for the girls to visit court? They would become friends with the princess, and she could help them get married. They might not get dowries, but patronage for their husbands would be just as good.

There was a reason so many flocked to court. It was the place where decisions were made, and whoever controlled information, controlled the world. That was how it was in the Middle Ages, since the dawn of time, and it would not change even when humanity left for space.

Still, that cost a pretty penny. Keeping your child at court was the equivalent of enrolling them into an Ivy League college.  Yes, it meant good education, future prospects, and useful connections, but the price per year! And that’s not counting the other expenses.

The solution was clear. Work. Being the princess’ lady-in-waiting was a job. If the girl held onto it, she wouldn’t need as much money, retaining the potential to gain information, connections, friendships, and love.

And thus, the families kept scheming, while girls hung onto their positions tooth and nail.

Lily was already anticipating problems with the youths. Each of them had a carriage, several carts, personal servants, horses, dogs big and small. Yep, exactly, the retinue also included small dogs that fit in a purse. And all of that...mob...was yelling, shrieking, squealing, showing their approval or disapproval. Lily had even seen a few noblemen with musical instruments...the horror!

There were also guards charged with keeping order in that traveling circus.

As soon as she saw the procession, Lily felt deep respect for medieval monarchs, who had to travel several times per year. And their retinues were no better, for sure!

How could anyone bring himself to do something like that of his own free will? Inconceivable!

Wait, no.

INCONCEIVABLE!

But it’s not like anybody was wondering about her opinion...

Lily swore to herself that she would never go through it again. Never. And then...

In fact, her journeys to and from Earton had been much quieter, mostly because she had the Virmans who had a pretty simple approach to most problems: their axes against troublemakers’ spines. Well, the axe shafts, to be precise. That was sure to sink in.

Axes were a known peacekeeping method, after all. They had also been commanded by one person, which was even better than an axe. Everyone knew that Countess Earton was in charge and her word was law, and if anyone doubted, see above, about the axes.

Here, however, Jerisson was a count and the main ambassador, but... Oh that stupid word, “but”! It always came up at the wrong time.

Count Roivel was almost twice his senior, which warranted respect. Count Elont had a longer pedigree, which also warranted respect. As for the young people, they simply didn’t have enough brains. They didn’t warrant respect, but they didn’t know the difference between their desires and their actions. What they wanted, they did.

Who cares what will happen? Let’s leave it for the man in charge; his head is big enough!

They had ears; they could listen. What they couldn’t was obey, and that was the least of Lilian’s concerns. There was another, too, and just as unpleasant.

Jerisson Earton was no fool, and he could be trusted. Still, he had been playing a scallywag for far too long. He had failed with Anna, and then with Lilian—unwittingly, but big-time.

For him, the ambassador party was a chance to regain his reputation and show the world that the king had a reason to believe in him, that he could and should be trusted, that he was able to handle that and more.

Guess in three tries, when does everyone go to hell in a basket?

There was no Murphy in that world, and no Murphy’s Law, but Lilian knew it well enough. If anything could go wrong, it would, with great relish.

The question was, would she able to change anything? The answer was simple. She would try. She would help her husband, support him, and fix whatever she could—after all, many of his problems had been her fault, back when she didn’t know what to expect of her husband. Jess was a medieval nobleman who would never agree to look emasculated in front of anyone.

Well, if she had tangled that mess, she would be the one to sort it out.

Lilian started on the very first day of her journey. Even then, she saw the writing on the wall. The road would be so very long.

***

At first, she and Miranda traveled in a carriage, like proper ladies.

An hour into the trip, the moppet got sick, forcing the coach to stop every ten minutes. Lilian didn’t feel all that great herself, but she forced herself to keep her chin up.

She might have endured that for Jerisson’s sake, but torturing a child? She had to call her husband up.

“Honey,” Lilian intentionally raised her voice, “our girl is nauseous.”

Jerisson was a bit confused.

He was used to nannies, maids, and other women taking care of the child. All that was needed of His Grace was general management and affection. What was he to do?

Lilian wasn’t going to wait for him to come around, however, and handed the girl to him.

“I think she’ll get better if she rides with you for an hour or so.”

Mirrie was in complete agreement. Her culottes allowed her to ride in a man’s saddle.

Lilian gave a sly smile and retreated into the carriage. The first act of the play had just started.

In about an hour, when even Lilian herself felt sick, Miranda started whining.

“Papa, please...Papa...let me do it!”

Her voice was clear as a bell and could be heard from a mile away by the entire procession. When the courtiers began listening to her, Jess had to give up.

“Fine, sweetie, if you insist.”

Lilian had also packed a pair of culottes. Her outfit was plain, neat, and modest: a long black skirt, white blouse, green vest embroidered with black, and a wide-brimmed hat with a strap, like a cowboy’s. So what? Those guys had worked on ranches all day long while in a saddle. They knew how to take care of themselves! It was a great hat, by any measure: it could protect from the sun while looking good. Lily didn’t allow her maids to stick feathers there, content with just a green band and an emerald brooch.

All that was left was to tie up her braid to keep it away from the horse. A female rider with her hair loose and a scarf flowing in the wind might look good in a picture, but in real life, horses got sweaty and reeked. Even if fed with rosewater, they wouldn’t smell like roses.

Therefore, Lily wore her hair up and even wondered about sewing a leather lining into her skirt.

She leaped into the Avarian’s saddle, sitting just like a male rider would, picked up Miranda, and sent Lidarh into a gallop, waving at Jerisson.

“Wanna race?”

“Let’s do it!” the noble count responded.

Miranda yelled out in delight.

She and Lilian won, and the noble count hadn’t held back at all—that was complete and total slander.

***

It was the servants who arranged the movement of the entire procession.

Lily still remembered what it was like, to drive in a car somewhere, set up a tent, pack it up in the morning, cook food, and take care of her health all by herself.

That was hard enough.

But stopping to discover everything already set up, a ready tent, a cooked meal, people offering to wash you and clean your car, er, horse... What else could one wish for?

As Lilian understood, servants came in two types: those attending to their masters on the road—horsekeepers, maids, lackeys—and those in charge of campsites. It was they who set up tents, cooked food, waited until permission to pack up, packed everything up, caught up with the procession, went ahead of it—which wasn’t too hard, seeing as their master’s carriages moved at a snail-like pace—and picked new spots for camp.

Local merchants had been traveling to Wellster for many years, if not centuries, and had long since made trails, one of which was currently being used by the ambassador party. The most enterprising of them had even opened inns along the road.

Jerisson decided against stopping there, however. They did offer food, lodging, and service, but that came at a cost, and he wasn’t sure if fleas, bedbugs, and lice were the full extent of it. Lilian herself outright refused to approach any of those places, knowing well that getting rid of those pests would be a nightmare. And infecting Jerisson with fleas*...no way. Let him gather them from other ladies if he so desired.

*Author’s note: a way of courting. If during a dance, a flea jumped from a lady to her suitor, he would catch it and keep it in a special fleabag.

At night, they stopped to rest.

Then the attack started.

Lilian had known that it was inevitable. She was an enigma, an unknown quantity that everyone wanted to study and research, examine with a microscope, and ideally, dissect. What if something interesting happened?

She was a backwater countess who had suddenly been accepted at court, gaining a lot of clout. Her father was a genius, while she was the owner of Mariella Fashion House—in the future, at least. Nobody wanted to cross her, but they did want to test the waters, and if she didn’t miss out on the opportunity...

What the hell.

Upon getting to court, she had been in contact with her father, with Alicia, who most were afraid of, the Ivelens, Duke Falion...

Oh, Alexander. Could anything have happened between the two of them?

She didn’t know, and never would. Lily had made the same choice as so many women: her child. Would Miranda have a better life in a nuclear family with her blood father? He adored his daughter and never drank, abused, or tyrannized his family, and the girl loved him in return.

And so, Lilian would have to tough it out and try to make amends. Children required sacrifices. What about love, though? Everyone wanted it, but not everything could be sacrificed on its altar. Edward and Jessamine had proven that: their life had almost destroyed half the country.

Was it truly worth it? Worth the sentence passed out to their daughter and grandchildren? Or...

No answer.

To Aldonai with it. Lilian had made her bed, and she was ready to lie in it. In the past, Countess Earton had been isolated from society. Now, she collided with it at full speed, with not a chance to flee.

Listen, Lily, you still have a month of traveling side-by-side with these people, then living with them in Wellster and getting back.

Try to mend fences. Imagine you’re an intern at a hospital. Everywhere, the staff is different, and often, the more talented the doctor, the nastier his temper. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. You need to learn, girl.

And you will.

The servants had arranged several seats for the young people, for the older generation, and a few more for small groups. There were campfires, wooden logs covered with horsecloths, something resembling mobile tables...

Lily shook her head. She had a good idea of how much work all of that entailed. A long time ago, back in the other world, she and Alex had often gone camping, sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a week or more. It wasn’t easy at all.

She seated herself next to the fire, in a place intended for older people—married couples, so to speak.

Next to it, there was a smaller campfire, for young ladies—so they wouldn’t be left unattended—and further away, two for young men. It was noisy and full of laughter, but around Lilian, everything was quiet.

Miranda was sitting between her parents. Lilian put some porridge on her plate, then looked at the boiled meat and took a bite. Yep, that was no barbecue. Maybe a marinade would help?

She would have to try to prepare a shish-kebab in a couple of days: soak the meat throughout the day and roast it in the evening.

The porridge was made from wheat flour, with milk and honey, while the meat had a lot of sauce.

There was a problem, however. What would happen to food after being transported in the heat? Even in the autumn, it would go bad. They could try moving live poultry, but how many birds would it take to feed so many people?

The only option left was to buy something along the way, but it was never guaranteed, and noble sirs and ladies needed at least two meals a day, and major ones.

And that was how their camping tables got porridge with copious amounts of honey and dried fruit, as all of that could be transported to the other end of the world. The meat was boiled in advance, with sauce added later, and vegetables, stewed, with the very same sauce poured over them in such large helpings that their taste could be barely felt.

And then, there were spirits—wine, ale, beer...

All Lily could do was to sigh.

She would have to sweat it out.

She ate some of the porridge, realized that eating sugar in such amounts would soon make her too heavy for her horse to carry. She handed the plate to Nanook, who was running around her, and put some boiled vegetables in another bowl.

Beetroot, carrots, beans... Well, she would have to pass on the beans. One had to be careful when cooking them unless you wanted to arrange a gas attack on your enemies. It was almost a diet food, really.

A turnip? Why not? It would have to do.

Lilian made a mental note to talk to the cook. She hadn’t encountered such problems when traveling with the Virmans. Back then, all of them together gorged themselves on millet or barley porridge from the same pot, garnishing it with jerked or dried meat and raw vegetables, and nobody complained.

Here, she would have to think of something else.

Jerisson was content to eat both meat and porridge. Men were men, in any world, and their love for food was all-conquering and a sure way to their heart.

Lily kept an eye on Mirrie. The girl was adept at handling the fork, the knife, and the spoon, carefully cutting pieces of meat, sticking her fork into them, and sending them into her mouth. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and didn’t use her fingers when eating. Even more, she also wasn’t yammering, bothering the adults, and seemed fine just sitting between her father and her mother.

The court ladies couldn’t help but notice that.

“You have such a nice daughter, Count!” Countess Roivel said in a singsong voice.

“You have to involve yourself in your child’s education,” the noble count returned, puffing out his chest.

“My wife and I pay attention to raising our daughter, and the results are clear.”

Lily bit her words back. Yeah, right, my wife and I.

“But this cutlery...” Countess Elont sighed. “It’s so strange...”

“Yes!” her husband laughed. “It’s like we’re cows, loading straw into our mouths.”

Oh, straw? Hay? Salads! How about boiled beetroot with garlic?

“Her hands and clothes are clean, though,” Jerisson retorted.

“Of course, using cutlery is a skill that has to be taught, but we’re nobles, after all. We have to set an example for the common people.”

Nobody argued that, neither about being nobles nor setting an example.

“Countess, do you always eat so little?” Countess Roivel tried to find another target.

Lily threw her hands up and took a sip of water from a cup.

“This food is different compared to what I’m used to, Your Grace. I have to limit myself, so I wouldn’t feel sick during traveling.”

“Yes,” the countess sighed, a bit too sympathetic. “The road is not the place for treats.”

Lily smiled. Was the woman taking a shot at her?

“Even on the road, one can eat healthy and tasty food. I can prove that, but I’ll need a couple of days and the consent of all present here.”

“You think so?” the countess asked, her eyes narrow. “Well then, go ahead, Lilian. Can I call you Lilian?”

“Of course, Ermina.”

Lilian had learned the names of all her companions before the trip.

“I hope you won’t mind if I follow suit. Both of us are countesses, and we are almost of the same age.”

Jerisson almost choked on his carrot. Their age could only be considered the same on the scale of a century. They had fifteen years between them!

Countess Roivel, having bought into that cheap attempt at flattery, broke into a smile.

“Please do that, Lilian.”

Miranda finished her porridge.

“Momma, can I go for a walk with Lou-Lou?”

“Yes, honey. But please, try and keep within hearing distance of the camp and call us if anything happens,” Lily replied.

“Nanook?”

The huge dog (When had he gotten so big? It seemed that yesterday, he was just a puppy) yawned, studied the situation, and stood up.

His mistress was with her husband; it meant that she could be left unattended, as her husband would take care of her.

Miranda and Lou-Lou, however, needed someone to keep an eye on them. What if someone wanted to hurt the girl, especially the oh-so-small and cuddly Lou-Lou who weighed no less than a hundred pounds, with teeth that would make any alligator jealous?

He had to protect them, no doubt about that.

Miranda smiled, content, and went for a walk. Countess Elont followed her with her eyes.

“Aren’t you afraid of letting such a little girl walk alone?”

Lilian shrugged.

“Those are Virman dogs. What’s there to be afraid of?”

“Bandits,” the countess voiced her concerns aloud.

“Two such dogs will buy enough time to call for help, in the worst-case scenario. In the best...I’m not responsible for any decline in the bandit population,” Lilian joked. “I hope the dogs won’t get poisoned, though.”

Her counterpart smiled.

“I suppose.”

“When your child has such a guardian at her side, there’s no need to worry, both for her life and for her honor,” Lilian said.

The seeds fell on fertile ground. The countess had three daughters, one of whom was traveling with her mother and was currently sitting not far from them, talking to her peers.

Miranda simply didn’t fit in their group due to her age. The difference between forty and forty-five years old might not be too big, but between ten and fifteen? Their tastes, thoughts, and feelings were nothing alike.

“Yes. A girl must have protection in our troubled times.”

Lily smiled.

“Yes. I have Nanook, and Miranda has Lou-Lou.”

“Those are lovely names.”

“They are. We got them as puppies and raised them by ourselves, without giving them to anyone...”

“Was that hard?”

“Oh, please!” Lily was genuinely surprised. “Those are Virman dogs! Jerisson hired the Virmans to explain everything to us about training the dogs, and it worked out great.”

Once again, Jerisson was out of luck with his carrot, forcing the count to switch to meat. He sank his tooth into it and thought that a boot sole would be softer. Even the horses were better off with chewing boiled oats. Truly, everything was relative.

“And what a horse you have, Lilian,” Count Elont chimed in. “It’s wonderful! An Avarian, is it not?”

“It is. It was sent to me from the Khanganat.”

“Hmm. Has it already been bred, I wonder?”

Lilian threw Jerisson a look. The count managed to pull his teeth from the meat and proceeded to discuss the very important issue of horse merits. Count Elont turned out to be an avid lover of horses, and the men quickly found common ground. Count Roivel also joined in.

The ladies, left by themselves, once again attacked Lilian.

“Still, Lilian, I don’t think that riding astride is proper for a woman.”

Yeah, tumbling down while riding sidesaddle is much better, Lilian snorted inwardly. Just remember Gone with the Wind! If Bonnie was riding like a man, she would have stayed alive!

Of course, she didn’t say that out loud.

“A side saddle is great, but it’s unsuitable for long trips, unfortunately. And it’s too stuffy and exhausting inside a carriage, my muscles get stiff, and my daughter gets sick from the motion.”

The ladies nodded in unison.

Apparently, that hit close to home. Still, working up a nerve was hard.

“Your outfits are really exotic, Lilian.” Ermina switched to a safer subject. Yet Lilian didn’t doubt that in a few days, they would make up their minds for a fitting and eventually, start riding themselves.

Enduring was an option when it couldn’t be helped. But when you know that there is a choice and that you don’t have to sacrifice anything, just have a polite conversation with a nice young lady...

The ice was broken.

Slowly, little by little, their attitude would change for the better. But there was still much work to do.

***

The same night, Lilian and Jess ran away from the camp to talk under the starry sky.

Miranda was blissfully sleeping in the tent, hugging Lou-Lou, while the count and the countess had decided to take a walk, lie on the grass, and discuss astronomy.

It might have been cloudy, but there was no rain, and the ground was dry.

“So what are you up to, Lilian?” Jerisson asked, having already studied his wife. “Come on, tell me!”

“Only restoring your reputation in society,” she confessed.

“By talking about food and clothes?”

“What’s so bad about it?”

“You’re plotting something, my dear.”

“And? Your reputation, Your Grace, won’t be harmed by hiring Virmans and ordering an Avarian horse for your wife.”

That was true. It wouldn’t. And as for the nobles and their opinions... That was how bridges were built: step by step, little by little. And by the grace of Aldonai, everything worked out.

***

Wellster, Cardin, the royal palace.

“Maria, sweetheart, look at that marvel!”

Milia beckoned to her stepdaughter, who readily came running.

The fabric for the dress really was nothing short of magnificent. The coral-red silk perfectly matched Maria’s dark locks and brown eyes, making her skin almost translucent and her lips, bright red. Dressed in it, she was a sight to behold.

Milia applied the silk every which way, looked at the folds, and nodded. Then she released her stepdaughter and kissed her on the cheek, smoothing her dark hair.

“We’ll do that.”

“You’re so kind, Your Majesty,” the dressmaker chimed in admiration.

“Let’s take a look at that velvet as well.” Her Majesty ignored the compliment.

Kindness... What was it, really?

Milia of Shelt had never been kind or cruel. She was successful. She grew up in a good family, with a loving father and a caring mother. The eldest of four daughters, she was used to looking after her younger siblings. That task never bothered her, either, as her mother always stressed: Milia was her firstborn, her darling, her right hand.

And the girl did everything to live up to that.

Later, her father collected enough money (not easy for a backwater noble) and took his daughter to the capital. Milia knew she wasn’t a great catch: her dowry wasn’t large, her father was only a baron, and her looks were nothing to write home about.

She did have pretty auburn hair and lovely grey eyes, but that still didn’t make her a beauty, like fairytale princesses with their raven tresses and black eyes, or golden locks and blue eyes. Compared to them, she was plain.

Yet even plain girls had their admirers, didn’t they? Milia had to find herself a good match and help her siblings and parents, end of story.

Rebelling or protesting was out of the question. Fighting against the social order made sense, but against your own family that loved you and counted on you? You might succeed in asserting your independence, but was it truly worth it?

On the one hand, she might get a marriage for love—which she hadn’t felt yet—and storybook passions, accompanied by a falling out with her family, soiled reputation for them and for her, and an uncertain ending. Half of the stories, incidentally, ended with the heroes’ death, which wasn’t exactly inspiring. Maybe a death at your lover’s side, his body drenched with your tears, might look beautiful...but why not try to live to be eighty? Aldonai didn’t care about time, after all.

On the other hand, she could get a quiet life with a man who might not be perfect—but then, her parents would never choose someone truly ill-suited. She trusted their judgment. All she had to do was to love her husband and help him, bear his children, run the household, and watch her sons and daughters grow up.

Was it too little? No need to be ungrateful. It was a lot. Great wealth didn’t make a man happy, but being content with little did.

The young baroness was practical enough to realize her parents were right and too lazy to rebel.

And so, she arrived at her first ball.

Was it love at first sight? Not quite. For Milia, it was a complete disappointment.

The dazzling noblemen of the court preferred gaudily dressed ladies, elegant, graceful, and rich, to someone like her. A small-town girl; that said it all. Not rich or beautiful enough to attract anyone’s attention, even if her family relied on her.

And then, a passing noble pushed a lackey, who dropped a cream-filled cupcake right on her dress, leaving a horrible stain.

Milia was so upset she almost cried and quickly ran out of the hall to avoid being seen. She needed to wipe the stain from her dress, but where could she do it?

The Cardin royal palace was a real web. Even years after, she could get lost there, and back then...

A turn, then another, a room...

Was it an accident? A surprise? But accidents rule the world.

Nobody knows whether it was Aldonai or Maldonaya who led Milia into the library—right where Gardwig was waiting for his mistress. Of course, the king could simply command, and the lady would come to him by herself.

But what fun was that?

Now, fighting for her, seducing her to make a quick getaway in the midst of a ball to go spend time with him while hiding from a jealous husband as if they were young... It might sound silly, but that got his blood pumping.

Gardwig was waiting, wearing neither his crown nor any royal implements, so as not to waste time. Yet instead of the stunning Felicia, a shy girl appeared on his doorstep.

Then she smiled and dropped in a curtsey. She seemed so sincere that the king couldn’t help but forgive her the surprise.

“Hello! Forgive me for bothering you, sir.”

“I forgive you,” Gardwig said, unable to hide a smile of his own. “Who are you, lovely child?”

“Milia of Shelt. I was just looking for...here...”

The stain on her dress deserved a closer examination, as did its owner. Gardwig didn’t hesitate.

“I think I know where you can solve that problem.”

Cardin was an old castle, full of portraits and memories—and also, secret passages. The king slipped into one of them, taking the startled girl with him.

He still hadn’t told her his identity, and Milia had no idea who she was dealing with.

As she washed away the cream in his bedroom, she breezily told him that her father had brought her to court to find her a husband and that she was going to oblige him. It was her dear Papa, after all! Her family!

And family is the most important thing in a person’s life, isn’t it, good sir?

I’m so grateful to you for saving me from that nasty stain!

No, I’m not sure if I’ll stay at court. It depends on Papa finding the money. He was asking Count Abermal for his patronage, but so far, there’s been no answer...

Why not ask the king? Oh, sir, His Majesty is...well...no, not scary, I’m sure he’s not! It’s just he’s the king, what does he care about such trivial matters? He has state affairs on his mind...

You say kings are just like common people? Surely you’re joking! How can it be? He’s the king!

And as Gardwig listened to Milia, looking at her grey eyes, cheerful and sparkling, feeling the warmth of her smile, he realized that Felicia was nothing more than a painted doll, like the rest of the court ladies.

Milia, however... She had something unlike any of his mistresses. She was genuine, authentic, and earnest.

And Gardwig gave up. He escorted Milia back and offered to meet her once again. He would send her parents an invitation...there would be a masquerade soon, and then another ball.

Yes, I can do that. I’m close to the king. No, My Lady, my intentions are pure, I swear it.

And Milia believed him. How could she not? An enamored Gardwig was irresistibly persuasive. He, however, needed the time for Altres to study the girl’s family (they didn’t find anything reprehensible) and for Milia to get used to him. Gardwig wasn’t a dirt bag. He was a tyrant, cruel and ruthless, and didn’t care about anything other than the interests of his country, but he never forced himself on women.

Never.

He could execute a wife for adultery, but that was different.

And so, a ball passed, then another, and Milia was as charming and innocent as ever. Then an old wound had the most terrible timing, he saw the girl’s worried face...

When the Baron of Shelt realized who was courting his daughter, he almost had a heart attack.

Of course, Milia agreed to the proposal, unafraid of Gardwig’s dreadful reputation. Like most young girls, she was sure that such a great and wonderful man was slandered by his haters, and she would fix everything...

Whether Aldonai smiled or Maldonaya frowned on her, Milia’s first child was a boy, followed by another. Soon, she would bear one more child, and the healers swore that it would also be male.

Gardwig was radiant and willing to wait on his wife hand and foot. He had sons. He had a future!

Altres Lort was happy. For his brother’s sake, he protected Milia as well as he could, and nobody dared to look at her the wrong way.

Her parents were also happy, having made the jump from a baron to a count, gaining a good estate, and marrying off their daughters into well-to-do families.

And finally, Milia herself was happy as well. Her husband loved her, she had wonderful children, and, in time, she grew to love her husband back.

She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd, and I loved her that she did pity them. There was no Shakespeare in that world, yet the truth of his words remained.

Milia quietly enjoyed her family life, and when Gardwig asked her about his daughters...

In truth, she hadn’t spared much thought to them, she had enough on her plate. Yet as soon as she heard her husband out, Milia agreed to adopt and raise the girls.

Maria, Jane, Catherine, and Elizabeth.

The four princesses finally received what they had been missing for so long: attention and genuine care. Milia simply couldn’t feign and pretend. She put the girls into separate chambers, assigned maids and teachers to them, and controlled everything by herself. Soon, they latched onto “Aunt Milia”.

When she learned what had transpired in Ativerna, she was shocked. Then her husband asked her to keep a closer eye on the girls: talk to Maria, prepare her for marriage, take care of the dowry. That’s what you women do, don’t you?

Milia agreed. She spent most of her time with Maria, arranging her dowry, her education...

She felt a baby kick in her womb.

He’s going to be born so very soon—my boy, our son.

Maria would be happy with her future husband, Milia was sure of that. She had seen Prince Richard, and he made quite an impression on her.

Maria was lucky. The main thing, however, was the right attitude.

When would a man give you everything that you wanted? When you asked him only for the things he could give. A simple recipe for domestic bliss: all she had to do was to explain it to the girl. Maria was a smart one, gentle and curious; she would understand it. She absolutely would.

And Milia looked at the purple velvet. This time, for herself. She wanted to be beautiful, too.

***

Wellster, Earness estate.

When Baroness Earness learned about the arrival of Altres Lort, she all but fainted. Still, she quickly composed herself.

“Ask on!”

Altres Lort didn’t waste any time.

“It’s a pleasure seeing you, Adelaide. You’re charming as ever.”

Baroness Lydia Earness, formerly Adelaide Wells, shuddered.

“Your Grace is too kind.”

“Not really,” the hunchback replied, baring his teeth and reminding her of a large predator. “Do you know, dearie, that we’re expecting ambassadors from Ativerna?”

The baroness knew. She was planning on going somewhere far away at that time.

She had married not that long ago and was quite content with her elderly husband—unlike the prospect of meeting one Jerisson Earton.

“But you’ll have to,” the court jester snidely remarked.

“What for?”

Adelaide grew numb, knowing that she couldn’t say no.

“I don’t think Jerisson will give up. He’ll take pity on his former love. Everything’s quite simple. I need Lilian Earton.”

Adelaide’s eyes flashed, and her fingers, unbidden, clenched into fists.

It was all that wretch’s fault! Because of her, Alex had died, and Adelaide herself was forced to flee, because of her...

It didn’t cross Adelaide’s mind that Lilian Earton wasn’t the one who had started it.

“You need her?”

“I do. So when they arrive, you’ll try to pass Earton a note. Old love still blooms, you were badmouthed, and so on.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

Adelaide clenched her fists with even more force, not even noticing the pain she was causing herself.

“What if he gives me up to the authorities?”

“What for?”

“W-well...”

“Dearie, you’re Lydia Earness, a baroness, and your documents are solid. So is your cover story. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

That wasn’t very convincing. Still...

“I can’t say no, can I?”

“You can’t.”

Adele relaxed her fingers. Her palms stung.

“Fine. I’ll do what you’re asking.”

“Good girl. My man will tell you what and when to write.”

Altres nodded and left the room without saying goodbye.

Adele looked at the deep imprints left by her nails and licked one of them.

It tasted salty.

Blood for blood, isn’t that how it’s done, Countess? That midget had made an error when he decided to use a scorned woman in his intrigues.

You’ve ruined my life, and I’m going to do everything to ruin yours, Countess Earton.

Chapter 3

The Noble Count’s Repute

Lilian met the head carter, an elderly man called Thom Concord, the very next day.

She woke up almost at dawn, watched her husband do morning exercises, and resolved to deal with her own training. Or could horse riding pass for that? It was useful for her legs and her back, but her arms needed some work.

The nobles were still sleeping. Jess turned around and noticed someone, then nodded to his own thoughts.

“Come here, Lily.”

“Yes, dear?”

Without hesitation, Jerisson took his wife by the arm, called up Thom, and introduced them to each other.

“Thom, this is my wife. She has a few ideas about the food, please hear her out and get it done.”

His tone implied, And if you refuse, you’ll regret the day you were born.

Then he was gone.

Lilian was left alone with Thom. Her first instinct was to try to make a deal. If he didn’t comply, she could put pressure on him, but a peaceful solution was preferable.

“Mister Concord...”

“Just Thom, Your Grace.”

Lilian shook her head.

“How about Thomas?”

The man stroked his beard.

He was short of stature, grey-haired, around fifty years old, and bore a striking resemblance to a boletus mushroom. To Lily, he looked a lot like Sidorenko, the warehouse overseer from back home, as provident as a squirrel as greedy as Scrooge.

For each request, he had sixteen excuses to refuse it—unless you truly needed the item, and then, he could procure anything, from peanut butter to boots to a grenade launcher. Her father had joked that Sidorenko could get even a nuclear warhead. Too bad they were hard to store.

“I’m listening, Your Grace.”

“I’m not going to intrude on your work. It’s just in the evening, I get a real craving for something tasty.”

“But we do serve sweet dishes, Your Grace.”

Lilian shook her head with a sorrowful look on her face, suggesting that sweet didn’t always mean tasty. Thomas lifted his hands in dismay. What do you want from me, you pest?

“Thomas, tell me, do you eat shish kabob here?”

“What, Your Grace?”

“It’s a Khanganat dish,” Lily lied without batting an eye. “It’s hot there, so meat spoils quickly...”

Thomas knew that.

“But it’s hard to cook something complicated, isn’t it, Your Grace?”

“Mistress Lilian. Or just Mistress,” she abbreviated in return.

The man realized that the countess was reasonable enough and relaxed a bit. The next thing he knew, Lily pulled out the big guns.

“I’ll tell you the recipe. Could you find wine or vinegar, some pepper, and a lot of onions?”

“I can. What for?”

“We’ll prepare a marinade. For the meat.”

“Wha—”

“I’ll show it to you personally and give you the recipe,” Lily brushed him off. “We’ll make a test sample to see how it does. Maybe nobody will like it?”

“As you say, Mistress.”

“Can we buy meat somewhere along the way?”

Thomas sighed. They could, but...

There was always a “but” or even several. It was the road, after all. People did trade, but the goods weren’t always exactly high quality.

“The only thing that matters is that it’s fresh. Tendons are no problem,” Lilian waved him off. “It will get tender.”

Thomas did a mental tally.

“Your Grace, there’s a village in two hours’ ride from here. We could find meat there. Usually, I would send people...”

Her Grace nodded.

“I’ll give you the money. Take pork, if possible. Should I return in several hours?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Great. Then it’s settled.”

***

Three hours later, Lilian and Miranda were sitting in a cart picking through bloodied slabs of meat. The pig had been clearly pretty elderly and lean, probably having died of old age, but at least it had been running and snorting only a little while ago.

It was time for Lily to find a sharp knife—or better yet, an assistant who would help her cut the meat into proper pieces.

Thomas looked at her, hard at work, and sent two more carters to join her.

Three people worked much faster than one. The huge bucket became home to pieces of meat, sliced onions—which made everyone tear up, including the driver and the horse—some pepper, and a few bottles of wine to top it all. It was cheap, but it would have to make do.

Lily stirred the resulting mix, sniffed it, and shut the lid.

“Keep it closed until the evening. Now, to the side dish.”

What could she whip up, considering her resources? Beetroot took a while to boil, meaning it would be ready only the next day. She would have to cook it overnight and sort it out in the morning. What would be simpler, though?

She could stew carrots and onions: both were easy to peel and didn’t even require grating. A sour cream sauce would be ideal, but even a glass of white wine was good enough—in the kingdom of the blind, a one-eyed man is a king.

Oh! A pumpkin!

Stuffed pumpkin was one of Lily’s favorite childhood recipes. It wasn’t complicated.

Just take a pumpkin, cut out its top, scrape out the insides, and fill it with something delicious, like rice and raisins, buckwheat porridge with meat...lots of options. Once, they had even mixed millet gruel with canned ham—and it worked!

Then you would put it in an oven. Wrapping it with tinfoil would be better, but Lily supposed that Thomas would find another way.

How about chargrilling?

Great! They would need charcoal for the meat, anyway.

The knife was dancing in the countess’ hands. It was a rare army brat who couldn’t cook, after all.

Looking at that scene, Thomas chuckled and shook his head.

“You have such nimble hands, Mistress!”

“My mother can do everything!” Miranda declared proudly. “And do you know how great she is at fighting?”

The very sight of the countess, wearing an apron to protect herself from accidental greasy spits, contrasted with the girl’s announcement so much that everybody burst into laughter. Lily tousled Miranda’s dark hair.

“Mirrie, proper countesses don’t fight anyone.”

“Why, Momma?”

“They have their husbands for that.”

“What if I’m not married?”

“Then you have Nanook and Lou-Lou.”

The dogs barked in agreement and started ogling the meat bucket, suggesting that loyal protection deserved encouragement. Lily wagged her finger at them.

Poor, hungry puppies. Yeah, right.

***

Surprisingly, there was a lot to do, and half of the twig skewers were prepared only after the camp had been set up.

The countess made sure that the only food cooked were the dishes she had ordered, the way she had ordered. She also picked a separate campfire and personally surrounded it with rocks, not trusting that task to anyone else, and waited until the coals finished burning.

All Thomas could do was shake his head. That countess was all wrong, for sure! What should a proper noble lady be doing? Ride in a gilded carriage, get tired, whine... Even her dog was all wrong! It was supposed to be small and sharp-eyed, but hers were big, with mouths full of teeth. She also wielded a knife as if she had spent her whole life cooking and knew recipes. Odd.

At first, Thomas was nervous, but after hearing from the countess that she had grown up in an ennobled shipbuilder’s home and had a mother from a wharf, he calmed down.

Now it made sense. She wasn’t truly a noble lady, she was one of their kind.

It didn’t make him respect her any less, though. And when Lilian handed him the first skewer...

***

Jerisson sniffed the air.

It smelled of meat, no doubt about that. Yet there was something strange about that smell...

Jerisson had cooked meat over a campfire before. What could be easier than spit-roasting a piece while pouring wine over it? Yet the aroma was different, with a hint of...

The noble count breathed in and was drawn by the smell.

The camp was ready. Lilian and Miranda were hanging around the fire with a delicious scent of meat coming from over there. Next to them, something else was smelling just as good.

Jerisson dismounted and caught a black-haired missile charging right at him.

“Papa! We’re cooking here!”

“I can see that...”

The carriages stopped one after another, noble men and ladies coming out, attracted by the savory odor.

They sat around and waited.

Everything was gobbled up almost in an instant—meat, carrots, stuffed pumpkins. Lilian hadn’t bothered with dessert, but nobody seemed to crave it. The usual food couldn’t hold a candle to her dishes.

That said, she could have made some eggnog. Maybe tomorrow, if we find eggs. How would they store everything, though?

What about...a thermos?

Lily tried to remember its schematic and forgot all about the meat on her fork. As soon as she accidentally lowered her hand, Nanook took advantage of her lapse.

Jerisson gave the dog a slap between the ears, but Lilian didn’t notice even that. Neither did Nanook; it would take whacking him with a log rather than a hand to draw his attention. He even moved his ear. Come on, scratch me some more.

A thermos...

Okay...in her childhood, she had taken it apart once. What were the components? A glass vessel. What was it called? Oh! A Dewar’s flask!

Silvering the surface wasn’t that hard; she wouldn’t be able to create a vacuum, but a layer of air between the flasks would be enough, even if nowhere as effective in holding heat or cold. Then came a metal sheath and a neck with a plug, so that bottle wouldn’t break or dangle.

They still broke sometimes, though. Back then, Aliya had disassembled a broken one, just to see what it was like inside. She just couldn’t hold back her curiosity.

A question, then. What would she use to create a neck? They did have bottle corks in that world. All she had to do was try. She would return home to Taral and discuss the issue with the craftsmen. On the road, cobbling together something like that was out of the question.

But was it?

She would have to speak about glass with Timo, but how about using metal instead, at least while they were traveling? Dewar’s flasks could be made of metal, too, say, with two or three layers. And she would put something between the walls...an adsorbent? Activated carbon? Handling it didn’t require too much trouble. What about its thermal conductivity?

Lilian didn’t remember the numbers well, but in theory, carbon was supposed to be pretty porous, with its thermal conductivity increasing as the temperature rose. What would be the max temperature of food? Let’s say the water boiling point. 212 degrees Fahrenheit.

What about the minimum? Thirty degrees, enough to keep the ice from melting.

Ugh, not knowing enough physics was annoying. Still, she would get a metallic vessel with two or three walls, probably silvered both from the inside and on the outside. They did know how to polish metal around there.

Then she would put activated carbon as the padding between the walls and seal it up. A plug, a cap... No screw thread, though.

Ah, to Maldonaya with that. Lily still remembered the old-style thermos model with a cap that wasn’t screwed but simply put on, often requiring some rather harsh swearing. And then, there had been corks that refused to leave the bottles as if they were born inside their necks, especially in winter...

Yet all of that worked great, keeping the perfect temperature.

“Lilian?”

“Yes?” she woke up from her thoughts.

Jerisson looked at her with a smile on his face.

“It was really tasty. Thank you.”

Lily smiled as well, looking over the table.

The plates, all but licked clean, attested to his words. Even the two counts were beaming with friendly smiles, as well as their wives.

“Such a wonderful supper,” Ermina said, looking pleased. “And the meat is so tender...”

Of course it was, after marinating for eight hours. But that could be done overnight, too.

Everyone knew about marinades, and they did soak the meat in wine, honey, and vinegar. Still, knowing was one thing, and doing it with skill was something else. Otherwise, people wouldn’t even put it in their mouths.

“Yes, and the taste is quite exotic. Fowl is usually tough as leather. This meat, however, is a marvel.”

“Is that your personal recipe? Please share it with us, Lilian.”

The look that Priscilla Elont sent toward Lilian Earton seemed almost affectionate.

Truth be told, there were a lot of rumors swirling around her. Reality, as usual, was quite different.

A nice lady who loves her stepdaughter, mutually—everyone knows that children cannot be fooled—and adores her husband, plus knows lots of interesting stuff...how can it be?

“I got that recipe from the Khanganat,” Lilian replied, fluttering her eyelashes. “Shish kabob is easy to cook...”

“A shish kabob?”

“That’s what it’s called. I love collecting recipes, it’s really fun to try out something new!”

And the ladies kept on discussing the culinary arts, diving right into the subject headfirst.

***

Ativerna, Laveri.

For a second, Ingrid pressed against her husband. Huddled against his body, she felt warmth and calm, hope and safety. Then he touched his chapped lips to hers.

“Come back!”

“I promise.”

Leif wasn’t going to abandon his wife and son. And it would be a son, he was sure.

Ingrid wanted a daughter, but that would happen later, maybe after five sons or so, so they could protect their sister.

They both had loved to argue about that, however, because most of those arguments ended up in bed. But that was over, and it was time to leave. Thankfully, not alone.

Leif was going as a man under the patronage of the King of Ativerna, together with His Highness and Her Highness. Princess Angelina had decided to take a look at Virma to see if there was anything interesting there.

Marriage? Not yet, but who knew what the future held for her? Leif himself could never count on such luck back in The Pig and Dog in Altver.

It might turn out that today’s ambassador would become tomorrow’s corpse. Yet even in that case, his soul would be welcomed to the afterlife by his own gods, especially the warlike Helg.

In total, ten ships were sailing for Virma. One Leif’s, one Eric’s, and eight, the personal property of His Majesty.

The Virmans considered ten to be a lucky number, and Edward was going to take advantage of every trick in his book, even superstitions, and auguries, up to knocking on wood and wearing rabbits’ feet. Politics had no trivialities, only opportunities.

The ships were rolling on the waves at the pier, vanishing from view as the tide fell. The time had come.

Eric was already waving his hand farewell, and salty wind smelling of sea and freedom ruffled Leif’s hair, calling for him, drawing him to Virma.

Ingrid was smiling. Such was the way: women would see men off with a smile to ward off evil and welcome them back with tears, to wash away the pain of separation.

Leif climbed onboard, and the sails shot up, covered with paintings of dragons intended to keep danger at bay. Let the storms and gales stay away on their voyage...

Ingrid stood on the pier. She would have remained there long after the last of the ships disappeared on the horizon, if not for somebody’s firm hand on her shoulder.

“Standing here is no good for you, child of Aldonai.”

The woman turned around to see Pastor Vopler.

The servant of God was looking at her with a measure of reproach.

“You’ll catch a cold, and your baby will get sick. Do you truly wish something like that?”

Ingrid shook her head. She didn’t.

“Come with me. We’ll pray for their safe return.”

She shook her head again.

“I pray to my own gods.”

The pastor chuckled, removed his cloak, and wrapped it tight around the woman, with only her nose barely sticking out, red with either tears or cold.

Of course it was cold; she hadn’t cried.

“Pray to them, then, just inside. I don’t know about your gods, but Aldonai says that expectant mothers are to be treated differently. They should be kept safe, as they are about to light the fire of a new life.”

Ingrid sighed and nodded.

She wasn’t the only one seeing off a loved one. All women were flocking to the pastor, like chickens to a mother hen.

“Let’s go, Pastor. Maybe one of the gods will hear me and reply.”

Pastor ignored the obvious heresy. To him, it was clear that there was only one God, and his name was Aldonai. But what could he do if the souls of those people were still lost under the darkness of ignorance? Only try and illuminate it. Praying would be the first step. After all, who else could hear a prayer inside a sanctified temple other than Aldonai?

***

His Royal Majesty was also watching the ships sail away, even if his company wasn’t as exalted.

Tahir Djiaman din Dashar and two ferrets were no servants of Aldonai.

“Do you think it will work out?”

Tahir shrugged. If His Majesty spoke up, he deserved an answer.

“You’ve raised a good son, Your Majesty. When his time comes, he will stay in the saddle, and the Star Mare will not throw him off.”

“I hope it comes.”

“This alliance is useful to you and the Virmans. Your Majesty, when a tide meets the land, their union is inevitable. Like day and night, dawn and dusk—why fight what is destined to be?”

“Tide and land... What if someone is opposed to that?”

“It is going to be all right, Your Majesty. You will welcome your son with good tidings, and I’ll help you to wait for him...”

Edward sighed.

He was waiting for both of his sons, and Tahir, with his characteristic tact, didn’t say anything else.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear. It’s just that Aldonai’s people had strange laws. A man could have as many wives as he could feed and as many children as he could provide for, a boy with a saber, a horse, and chainmail, a girl with gold and fabrics. It was so simple back home. Here, however...

Everything would be so much easier if they didn’t make things harder for themselves.

Yet Tahir kept silent and only checked the pulse of his royal patient, shaking his head and pouring a sedative. The medicus told him to sleep, and medicuses were always right.

***

People on the ship were also watching the coast.

Richard stood by the bulwark, accompanied by Eric. The Virmans believed that they shouldn’t look back while going into the sea, so the prince was facing backward, while Eric, forward.

“They say you Virmans beseech Nier, the sea god, for the voyage to be successful?”

“Depends on your goal. We always honor Nier, but we also ask Helg for his blessing in battle, Holosh to help us in trade, Olive for luck in state and clan affairs...”

“So whom are we going to honor now?”

Richard was staring at his father on the pier.

He looked so...tired. Probably every child one day realizes that their parents aren’t all-powerful protectors against the hardships and the dangers of the world and that it was time for their progeny to step forward and shield them from the storms. Richard had known that for a while, but it was only at that moment when it finally sank in.

“Nier and Olive.”

“And how?”

“Are you just curious, Your Highness, or do you wish to join? I doubt Aldonai would like that.”

“I won’t tell the aldon.” Richard dismissed his remark.

Eric grinned. A true sea predator, it would seem.

“Come on, then, Your Highness.”

“Just Richard. Or ‘My Lord.’”

“Let’s go, My Lord.”

Eric walked to the bow of the ship.

The crew was busy with their own business, but still could hear and see everything. The Virman picked up a glass of expensive wine from the deck, took a sip, demonstrating that he wasn’t offering something cheap, and handed it to Richard.

“Drink.”

Richard obeyed.

The wine was wonderful, rich, and harsh, imported from the Khanganat. Eric took back the pitcher and turned it upside down, so deftly that not a drop fell on the shipboard.

“Share wine with us, Nier, and make our journey light and swift.”

The empty pitcher followed the wine overboard. But why not up the stakes? Eric pulled out a dagger from his sheath and sliced his wrist, skillful enough to avoid veins or tendons. The cut was vertical rather than horizontal and clearly only the latest in a long series: the Virman’s arm was riddled with a white web of old scars.

“Accept my blood, Olive, and punish me if I bring you shame.”

Then he licked the blade clean and put it back into the sheath.

Richard felt slighted as if he was considered...not quite unworthy, but close enough. He had to pull out his blade and roll up his sleeve as well.

Blood started dripping from the wound, running along the skin. It hurt.

Still, he stretched out his hand above the water.

“Accept my blood, Olive. I will cause no dishonor to your land.”

Then he cleaned the dagger with his tongue and sheathed it.

Blood was still leaking down his hand, its drops falling into the sea. It wasn’t the most pleasant of sensations, yet the Virmans’ looks seemed...respectful?

Definitely.

After all, one would never expect a prince to do something like that. What could he care about sailors? Yet Richard knew very well the nuances of human thinking. A word here, a move there—and you were a beloved leader.

Or you were not. And then, you could be overthrown.

A ruler had to assert his reputation every single day.

***

Angelina was also looking at Laveri. She couldn’t help but sigh.

No tears, of course—Her Highness had enough self-control for that—just a sigh.

Her ladies-in-waiting stood by her side, still in shock from the sudden turn in their lives, while the Virmans remained a bit further away. Angelina was sailing on Eric’s ship, her brother by her side.

The rest of the retinue took other vessels, including Leif’s.

It felt odd. She was used to being a princess, living inside a palace all her life, never leaving the walls of her city...and then, boom! Not scary, just weird.

On the other hand...it was time.

Angelina didn’t regret her decision even for a minute. She was already seventeen, or close; soon, she would be married. Who knew what her husband would look like? A princess had much fewer choices than peasant girls; they might not care with whom they might take a roll in the hay, but Her Highness had politics to care about.

Feelings? Angelina was increasingly jealous of her parents: their love, their happiness, their joy. Yet for her father, it was a second marriage, after his union with Her Highness Imogene, a proper princess approved by his parents. The implication was clear.

She would have loved to repeat the fate of his second wife, but her destiny was unlikely to be so kind. After marriage, her husband would probably tell her where to sit and where to stand, and to overcome it all, she would have to be...

She would have to be Lilian Earton—bright, cheerful, genuine, inventive... She, Angelina, would never be able to become someone like her, never.

One of the girls sobbed behind her back. Angelina turned around. Yes, that was Ashley Loran.

“Calm down,” Angelina said gently. “Everything will be all right.”

Ashley sniffed once again, her nose suspiciously red.

“Will it, Your Highness?”

“Absolutely.”

“Visiting is one thing, but marrying a Virman...”

“Are Virman men different in any way?” Jean was genuinely surprised. “I haven’t noticed.”

“When did you have time to study them?” Aliah Reinst let out a snide remark.

Jean caught the implication.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t touched them, I left them for you.”

“You snotty b—”

“Both of you are at fault,” Laura Winst cut off the feuding twosome. “Mind that the Virmans are closely tied together. One of them could tip off another, then once again, and who will agree to marry a nag? If you return empty-handed, you’ll never hear the end of it. ‘Even the Virmans didn’t take those beauties, they probably got scared...’”

The girls fell silent.

Angelina gave out a pretty smile.

“Nobody’s going to force anyone. But in Virma, you’ll have a choice. Think about what you’d prefer: to become a champion of peace or a concubine? A mistress in your own house or a freeloader in another’s?”

“A mistress? Really?” Aliah sighed.

“Just pick a man using your head, not the other end,” Jean suggested, not embarrassed in the slightest. “And in married life, head matters the most, anyway.”

Aliah’s eyes flashed, and she seemed about to reply, but a wave hit the ship, shaking it and turning the girl green, as she hurried to the side.

Ashley and Laura followed suit.

Angelina felt great. Jean was also smiling, but the other girls...

When they started to vomit, Angelina cowardly fled into the cabin. Yes, a princess was supposed to take care of her subjects, but when you saw as many as three seasick girls, care became the last thing on your mind. She didn’t want to become the fourth, after all.

The Virmans laughed and escorted the poor women to their cabins, giving them empty buckets, and half an hour later, Jean joined the princess.

Embroidering or reading aloud was better than being torn between three “dying swans.” Whatever the pastors said, she was nowhere gracious enough, for sure.

And thus, the Virman voyage started.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

Did kings and queens sleep together?

It depended on the family in question. Edward and Jessamine had shared quarters, as being apart even for a minute seemed like torture to both of them.

Gardwig preferred separate rooms. He chose the time and place, himself, and visited his queen as he saw fit to. Lately, he was feeling ill and opted to stay alone.

What man would want his loved ones to watch him being wracked with pain, hurting as if a red-hot nail was stuck in his leg, while healing draughts could only put him in a haze, half-asleep, half-awake?

Not the king.

He did love Milia, both for herself and for the sons she had given him, and didn’t want her to bear witness to his suffering. That’s what medicuses were for; let them figure it out. In front of the queen, he would be strong, kind, and smiling. It didn’t matter what his wife was saying and how eager she was to tend to him. He was a man, wasn’t he?

He was getting better, too. Thank Aldonai, he had found a medicus able to cure him. The recipe given by Tahir Djiamin din Dashar was working: the ulcer was slowly healing, the leg didn’t hurt as much, and as for restrictions... Gardwig had never accepted any. He would do what he wanted, take what he wished, and wasn’t going to listen to anyone.

Still, his eldest son wasn’t even five. If anything happened to Gardwig, who would rule the country? Forget Wellster, even if it would pain him, but what would happen to his family? They would be lost without him.

Milia would never be able to hold the country together. Altres would help, but it would be hard for him, too hard. And that’s if he wasn’t murdered. Strife would break out, chaos and unrest, with southern neighbors sure to get involved—Ativerna, the Virmans on the sea... He needed to stay alive, no other options!

He needed to hang on one way or another. To survive, to live to see his sons grow up... Altres, you idiot, how the hell could you mess up so much?

Sending his brother away for a year weighed heavily on the king. He was used to his hunchbacked shadow, more than just used to him: they were fused together, their hearts chained. After all, they were milk brothers, what else was there to say?

His Majesty was lying in his bed, staring at the wall and thinking. His thoughts were heavy like stones, his mind weary, trying to find a solution, and failing.

It might have been a dream...

***

She was standing by his bed.

The green robe of a nun, dark locks coming out from under the hood, dark eyes...the hood fell on her shoulders, and Gardwig froze, astounded.

“Betty?”

His third wife, Albitta, Betty as he called her, despite her protests that such a nickname was too common-sounding. Can’t you call me Allie, at least?

The same woman who had borne him four daughters, one after another, and he divorced her, sending her to a convent.

Later, Altres told him that Her Majesty had died, and Gardwig didn’t ask him to elaborate. Maybe roof tiles had fallen on her head or something. Or she could have eaten mushrooms, which Betty hated, and died of food poisoning.

Deposed queens were never to be left alive, just as former kings. There were no “formers” in that line of job. Power was a drug that could never be refused. As soon as you drank from the cup, you got addicted for life.

“Can’t you call me Allie? At least now, when you’ve killed me?”

She hadn’t aged a day, no wrinkles on her face, and he felt old and ugly next to her dazzling beauty. Black tresses coiled on the green cloth, getting ready to embrace him, smother him...

“Allie...”

“Dying is worth hearing you say it.”

The woman smiled sadly.

“You’re dead,” Gardwig remembered.

“I am dead. Soon, you’ll join me. You’ll be mine... Why did you kill me, Gard?”

“I needed a son. You couldn’t give him to me.”

“I gave you four daughters. If you only waited, we would have had a son. Yet you fell for another and were in a hurry.” Her voice rustled, like snow drifting along graveyard soil, swirling across the bedroom, making the king’s blood curdle.

“Are you happy that you got rid of me?”

“Allie...”

What else could he say?

“I’ll give you a kiss, and you’ll go with me. Remember it!”

Moist icy fingers touched the king’s cheek. They were terrifying, all skin and bones.

Gardwig screamed, and the vision disappeared in a bright flash. Servants came running into the room.

“Your Majesty?”

But Gardwig couldn’t say anything. He was staring right at the spot where she had stood. On the carpet, he saw Betty’s favorite flower, a white lily.

***

An hour later, on the other end of the city, a woman was laughing out loud.

As she washed layers upon layers of makeup from her face, she told everything to the man by her side, who was twirling a ruby ring on his finger.

“You should have seen him! Oh, you should have seen him! The look on his face! He was like a fish! Poor Gard, his eyes popped out of his sockets, and he kept opening and closing his mouth! And you know what? I didn’t feel sorry for him in the slightest!”

She was beside herself with joy, and the duke couldn’t help but smile in response.

“You took a great risk today, my dear.”

“Robert, honey, I know that! I know everything! But please, give me this, at least! I’m not asking for much!”

Yes, you aren’t asking for much; you’re asking for everything, he thought, still smiling on the outside.

“Allie, that was the first and the last time. Do you understand me?”

“I do.”

“And now, you’re going to lay low. Be thankful that the king has sent his hunchback away. He already would have been hot on your trail!”

The woman pursed her lips.

“But he did send him away!”

“It’s no excuse to take risks, both for you and our people.”

“Don’t be such a sourpuss, Robert!”

The man sighed.

The conspiracy had reached the turning point, and the stakes had never been higher. The entire country was on the line, and all of it could go up in smoke only because of a petty woman who only wanted revenge.

Well, fine.

He also desired revenge above everything. But he had his reasons! His beloved had been murdered in a cruel and merciless way, and...

Truth is, he could have stopped Betty, and it would be child’s play. Yet just like her, he wanted more than to kill his prey. He wanted to make it suffer. Play with it like a cat played with a mouse she caught.

Let Gardwig know why he was dying...because of whom he was dying.

It didn’t matter that the king had heard the wrong name. Camilla would still rest in peace.

And that is why the duke hadn’t interfered when her former majesty decided to pay a visit to her former husband. He even instructed his people to help.

So how did he arrange it? Simple. If one of your men serves the king, the rest is a technicality.

Moving a woman through a secret passage wasn’t hard, and neither was sending off the rest of the servants, or just pouring sleeping powder into their wine.

And lo and behold, a ghost appeared inside the king’s bedroom, giving a speech and leaving behind a lily... Actually, lilies were out of season, but the Eveers were cunning and grew flowers all year round. Was that magic? Only Maldonaya knew.

And while the king was startled, the ghost disappeared, simple as that.

Icy fingers were achieved by holding a chunk of ice in her hand; as it melted, it made them moist, too.

The flash was intended to make the king shut his eyes and miss the moment when the door of the cloakroom opened. From there, another door led the way into the secret passage, and that was it.

The duke knew that was risky, that he was looking for trouble, and yet... Revenge was sweet, too sweet to refuse. Even experiencing it vicariously was enough, and he wanted nothing more.

If Albitta wanted to rule, he would let her. Gardwig’s dead body would be enough of a reward for him.

As for power... He would just bask in knowing that Gardwig’s soul writhed in Maldonaya’s paws while watching the events in their world.

*Author’s note: Aldonai’s religion doesn’t have a traditional hell. The punishment for sinners is watching what happens after their death and being unable to interfere. The deaths of their loved ones, the fruits of their labor being ruined, realizing that their life was spent in vain... No cauldrons of boiling oil.

The duke got up, approached his ally-turned-lover, and kissed her on the neck.

“My precious, I am sure that you were magnificent. I just hope that the king didn’t have a heart attack.”

“He was screaming bloody murder when I left.”

“Still, that’s enough. I don’t want him to get off so lightly. Let him suffer.”

“Yes, let him suffer...” the former queen whispered, as if oblivious.

A tender smile lit up her lips, almost loving and happy—the smile of coming revenge.

***

Ativerna, on the road.

Upon hearing Lily’s idea, Thom Concord stopped to consider it.

“You think we could pull it off, Your Grace?”

“I’ll pay you money anyway. Let us try. If we succeed, great. If we don’t, I’ll try and figure out my mistake.”

Thom scratched the back of his head.

What if it worked, and food would stay hot for a long time? Or cold? And not spoil as quickly?

As for the last, he got promptly disappointed by Lily.

“It won’t help for long, maybe a day. No more than that.”

Still, that was something. It would save them a lot of trouble, and having a sip of something cold in that heat would be really nice. Or cooking something hot in the morning and carrying it...

No food could survive traveling an entire day in such weather: what didn’t go sour, went moldy. And then, they could put meat there, together with some ice...

He could think up lots of applications. It was well worth a try.

Thom considered where they could find the closest jeweler.

“We’ll be passing a town called Lostre today.”

“I’ve never heard about it.” Lily shrugged. “Is it big?”

“Oh no, Your Grace, it’s a real dump. But they do have a good silversmith there, Master Schmulz.”

Lily raised her eyebrows.

“An Eveer?”

“Your Grace, he’s a not a bad sort. I’ve bought stuff from him myself, and as for him being an Eveer and a pagan...well.”

Thom stopped short.

Her Grace was clearly laughing. Was it her karma to work with Eveers?

***

Lostre turned out to be a pretty small town: two streets, a few shops...

Jerisson heard his wife out and signed off on that. Whatever makes you happy.

With all his experience, he knew that women needed gifts. But what could he give his wife? Now that was a problem! He had never really fretted over that question, but after his blunder with presents... As soon as he remembered his mother, delirious with laughter, his imagination kicked in. So what could the noble count present to his wife? Jewels? The Eveers could offer her such trinkets that even a queen would turn green with envy. Fabrics, gowns, novelties? He couldn’t hold a candle to her seamstresses at that. Pets? As if she didn’t have enough of them!

Jerisson tried racking his brain over it and finally asked Lily what she would like. It felt wrong, giving so many gifts to other women and none to his own wife.

Upon hearing it, Lily was so amused she couldn’t stop laughing.

Then she offered Jerisson a pretty pink ribbon.

“What for?”

“Tie it in a bow and tell me you’re the best present! Should I show you where to put it?”

The process of tying the ribbon on lasted until morning. Still, Jess continued feeling uncomfortable, and when his wife asked him to ride into the city, agreed without hesitation.

They would spend the whole night there. The ladies would take a break, the men would take a break...from the ladies, and the horses, the servants, and the drivers would rest.

All right, we’ll do that.

They had assumed they would get around to it later, but Lilian’s word was law.

In the meantime, she was drawing flasks. Inside, a thermal mug had simple foam plastic as an insulator. What if it was the same there? She would still add carbon...or rather zeolite, to make it simpler. It was a naturally occurring mineral, after all—not a vacuum, but a good absorbent. Maybe it would be good enough. Or clay? But not just any type...

How nice it would be to drink a cold beverage on a hot day, or something warm when it was rainy? Without stopping, without starting a fire...

Miranda listened to her mother, lost in thought.

Jerisson was also scratching his head. Has anyone done anything like that before? They hadn’t. Then how could Lilian come up with something like that?

Oh, I just stumbled on an idea. Let’s try it!

Jerisson dismissed his doubts and decided to accompany his wife to that Master Schmulz.

Who knew what could happen...or who could happen?

***

It took four people to locate the Eveer’s shop: the count’s family plus Thom as a guide and a person who knew the Eveer. And that’s not counting the Virman retinue. They were pretty quick, too. Yet...

The shop was closed. A rough image of a white pigeon was painted on the door that was nailed shut.

Lily gave her husband a questioning look.

“What happened? He’s not gone, is he?”

The count’s expression turned serious.

“This is no joking matter, Lily. Let’s go.”

“Jerisson!”

“Let’s go, I’ll explain to you on the way.”

She nodded, mounted Lidarh, and tugged at her husband’s sleeve. He didn’t disappoint her.

“I guess somebody from the jeweler’s family broke the commandments of Aldonai.”

“What?”

“They’ve found a shilda or a suraves in his family.”

“I know about shildas. A suraves is a...male equivalent?”

Jess nodded.

“Better stay away.”

“Why?”

“Because there will be a trial, an investigation by the Temple...”

“I could write to Aldon Roman, right now.”

“About what?” Jerisson asked, a tender look on his face.

Lily considered his words.

“Honey, where is the investigation conducted?”

“In a magistrate.”

“Can we take a walk there and ask a few questions? What to write, whom to write...”

Thom listened to her with an approving look. Then he coughed, implying that he wanted a word as well.

Jerisson would have preferred to punch him, but it was the count that had gotten them into all that. If only he had known...

Too late. Thom Concord cleared his throat once more and spoke up.

“Your Grace, I’ve known Master Schmulz for a decade. I know his daughter, too. Trust me, they’re no heretics. Schmulz might not visit the church, but six years ago, he got blessed for his daughter’s sake.”

“Really?

“He took her to a temple, too, to the old pastor. It’s easier with a son, but he had just a daughter, his only child, his favorite... Schmulz thought that Aldonai would take care of her when he couldn’t.”

Jerisson realized that he wouldn’t get off easy and nodded.

“All right, we’ll go.”

Lily chuckled.

She knew only a little about history, but she had heard something about converts. As for their reasons... Aldonai was the last in a long list. More often than not, it was taxes, tax relief, and the folly of their neighbors. It was easier for people to hang a flail-sized symbol around their necks and keep up the facade of rituals than fight the entire world. There wasn’t much point to it, really.

Lily suspected that the local jeweler had done something like that. He would wear Aldonai’s pigeon around his neck, maybe sometimes visit the church, and who could say what was hidden in the depths of his soul or his house?

She didn’t care, honestly. She needed a jeweler, and helping a good man would be a nice bonus.

***

The magistrate of Lostre was no different from Altver’s. Well, maybe the latter one was a bit larger, and the people were livelier. After all, a port meant trade, and trade meant money.

Lostre wasn’t located on a big trade route. There might have been something in the past, but it had long since withered away. It was a one-horse town, with a magistrate building of two floors and four rooms.

The sight of the Eartons made a big impression on the entire population. Imagine a backwater place of no more than two hundred households, where the main subject of discussion was how many eggs were laid by the neighbors’ chicken or who had a roll in the hay with whom—not really a city, more like a village. And then, a real limousine drives up to the town hall, the President climbs out of it and walks inside the building. Just an example. See?

Lilian was dressed in her exotic outfit; Miranda was no less exotic, even if a child; and Jerisson had his emerald chain and an ambassador’s knot...and their horses!

In terms of the twenty-first century, Lidarh cost like a next-gen Ferrari. Jerisson’s horse wasn’t an Avarian, but would easily amount to a Maybach.

And then, there was the retinue.

Lilian would sometimes go alone, or maybe with the Virmans who had long since stopped caring about orders and were simply guarding the countess, sometimes from her own crazy ideas.

Jerisson never went anywhere without an escort. Two Virmans, two guards; Thom felt lost among them. He was an ordinary man, not like them.

And that entire procession was headed to the magistrate.

That was where Lily realized how different a medieval noble was from a person from her era, and why Virmans—and not only Virmans—sometimes looked at her funnily.

Jerisson lifted Miranda in his arms, humoring her request, and kicked the magistrate door open. Lily thought that some part of it might have been broken during the assault, but the count didn’t care a bit. He strolled into the center of the room and looked around, like a British lord who found himself in the midst of a dumpster, an expression of utter disdain on his face.

“Count Earton to the mayor. Report immediately.”

No doubts, no hesitation.

The count had commanded: chop-chop!

The clerks sitting below started scurrying about like scared mice. Lily watched that with genuine pleasure.

If only she could have done something like that in the twenty-first century! Swing the door open, snap at the bureaucrats, whip them into shape...but no. Getting a paper you were technically entitled to require an obscene amount of running around, enough to make you mad. And that cute manner of theirs, bouncing petitioners around from one official to another?

Oh, if only she had had a Count Earton back then!

Yet she had not. She was polite and civil.

She should have just taken Leif and told him to split open those three tables and two clerks. Too bad, but how could she have known what to do?

For Jerisson, a clerk was a pencil pusher, a person by definition beneath a noble, yet for Lily, fear—or rather, apprehension—was bred in her bones. After all, nobody would want to pull a crocodile by its tail just for fun would they? Neither would she, even if she should have.

It turned out, it was a lizard rather than a crocodile, a small one at that.

“Your Grace?”

A man was sauntering down from the second floor, accidentally flaunting a baronial sapphire-encrusted bracelet and a similar ring on his fat paw.

***

The mayor made a poor impression, at least on Lilian. He was no more than a local lordling used to being the center of the universe, even if that universe was two miles in radius. The main thing was, he got to be in charge.

He looked to be around thirty-five and had the red nose of a wine lover, the belly of a glutton, a bald patch on the top of his head, and shifty brown eyes.

Nope, Torius looked way more respectable and carried himself in a much more dignified manner.

However, she wasn’t Jess. With the countess, one could try putting on airs and taking a stand. With the count, one could only try picking up lost teeth with broken fingers.

Lily’s husband was staring at the mayor as if the latter were a cockroach.

“Honorable...”

“Ores Ubart, at your service, Your Grace,” the mayor said, making a sweeping bow.

“What happened to Master Schmulz?”

Lily almost opened her mouth in surprise.

Just like that? Point blank?

Nope, it was she who was a fool. Something flashed in the mayor’s eyes, making her pause. Lily was willing to bet the thing most precious to her—Pharmacology 101 notes for the entire year—against a dead rat: whatever had happened to the Eveer, the mayor had something to do with it.

The mayor coughed, but Jerisson wasn’t going to listen.

“Get him to me immediately. You have ten minutes. The clock is ticking.”

W-what?

You...count, your ass! It was her phrase! Picked up from her father and used by Lilian all her life. What a lout!

The indignant stare worked, and His Grace turned toward his wife. As usual, he had his own understanding of everything.

“Forgive me, my dear. They’re going to bring this Eveer here, and then we’ll have a rest.”

The mayor coughed again, reminding everyone of his presence and a desire to talk.

Lily wondered if she should start producing licorice cakes. She and her mom had cooked them when times were tough, and they had no money to buy actual medicine. What if she started making them and giving them to people? Everyone and his dog seemed to be suffering from coughing fits!

Jess turned around and gave the mayor a “Why are you still there?” stare.

Yet the baron turned out to be rather stout-hearted.

“Your Grace, this is impossible.”

Lilian gazed at her husband admiringly.

No matter how much she tried, she could never repeat that “Are you joking?” expression.

Jerisson was genuinely confused about the issue. How could anyone contradict him?

“Explain yourself, honorable sir.”

The baron coughed.

“The Eveer and his daughter are being kept at the temple. They will be convicted as heretics.”

“Master Schmulz and his daughter have been blessed,” Jerisson said, sounding absolutely confident. “They are no heretics.”

“It’s been proven,” the mayor replied, his voice almost shrieking, “that the girl is a shilda!”

“Really?”

“Yes! Count, this is church business!”

“Honey!” Lilian clapped her hands. “How quaint! A shilda? A real shilda?”

“Yes, sweetie,” Jerisson didn’t understand the source of her joy but backed her up.

“I’ve never seen a shilda! Can I take a look?”

“A shilda, a shilda, I wanna see a shilda!” Miranda yelped.

“Take pity on the innocent child!” the mayor implored.

“I want it!” Mirrie raised her tone several times. “I WANT IT!”

She even stomped her foot, the brat.

“Don’t worry, Aldon Roman will absolve us from that sin,” Lilian said, sighing dramatically.

The mayor grew pale, realizing his visitors were high flyers. He would never see the aldon himself, but those people...could just request an absolution? How could such bigwigs end up in his quiet town?

All he could do was throw up his hands.

“All right, ladies, if you insist... You say they’re in the church dungeon? Let’s go, honey.”

Jerisson deftly took his wife by the arm, while Miranda swooped in on his other side. Apparently, the mayor had mastered the art of space warping, as he was fast enough to bar their way.

“Your Grace...maybe I could order them to bring the girl here?”

Lilian looked at Jerisson.

“My dear count, maybe we should still visit the church? I have an urge to pray.”

Jerisson narrowed his eyes, stared at the mayor, who was sweating profusely, and came to a decision.

“Countess, how about we first take a look at this shilda and then clear our souls of a possible sin? I think it would be better, trust me.”

The mayor breathed out.

“Your Graces, may I offer you some wine or...”

Lilian shook her head, Jerisson as well.

After Anna, he had developed an animosity toward being treated. The mayor would have to survive it.

“We’ll just wait.”

The mayor nodded and invited the guests to make themselves comfortable. Then he ordered the servants to bring wine, just in case.

Lily and Jerisson exchanged knowing looks.

Something’s afoot, her green eyes said.

We’ll figure it out. Jerisson was sure of himself. The count had made his voice heard—just try and disobey! Lily would yell, curse, and invent unneeded workarounds instead of just forging ahead and believing in herself. Jerisson used the latter tactics, and everyone believed and obeyed him.

She wondered if that could become a useful arrangement. She could invent things and heal people, while her husband defended her interests in society. If he agreed, of course.

His Majesty was a wily one, indeed. By sending the couple on a journey together, he had made sure that they would either fight or finally warm up to each other and become friends. The second outcome seemed more likely.

***

The girl was brought to the magistrate in half an hour, and Lily couldn’t help but whistle in admiration.

She was a rare beauty.

Imagine delicate features, as if from an icon painting, huge wide-set eyes, black arched eyebrows, a face of white marble with nary a spot, a small mouth with supple lips, and a thin beautifully defined nose, all of that framed by a mane of hair, black as pitch.

Jerisson’s reaction was similar. On top of her face, he automatically registered her build, shapely, and known to attract men since times immemorial. High-set breasts, slender waist, round thighs, long legs... All of that could be easily seen through the holes in her dress, complimented by bruises on her neck.

Lily took a closer look. The girl was broken. And...

Gael cursed behind her back. He was a constant companion of Her Grace. He used his own language, but Lily had long since mastered Virman. The languages were related, like Spanish and Portuguese, Russian and Ukrainian, Modern and Middle English.

If you knew one, you would understand the other.

“Raping women...scumbags. I’d tear off their...together with their...and shove it up their rears.”

Jerisson looked the Virman up and down but seemed to be in complete agreement. The noble count was popular with women but had never forced himself on anyone. Except for...except for his wife, dammit!

Your job is to lie still and keep your mouth shut. Maybe that way, I won’t feel so nauseous.

Her memories were nasty. To get rid of them, Lily used a century-old trick.

She got angry.

“Raping women? How valiant!”

Her remark was mocking and caustic, making the baron jump in his seat.

“Your Grace! She’s a shilda!”

Lily looked at him as if he were a bug.

“Do you have any proof?”

“She confessed!”

“And forced herself on someone?” Jerisson asked, realizing that in a few minutes, his wife would scratch out the mayor’s eyes. He had to intervene.

“Attacked them, bruised herself... And look at those bruises, too.”

The count stood up and raised the girl’s chin, making her tremble like a leaf.

“Yes, she was held by her throat.”

“She did it herself!” the baron squealed as his story fell apart at the seams. “Ask her yourself!”

“Oh, why would we?” The count’s voice had so much honey it would be enough to supply the palace for a year.

“We won’t ask her anything, we’ll bring in her father. He’ll tell us.”

“I...I refuse!” the mayor snapped.

Jerisson shrugged.

“I am Count Jerisson Earton. I’m His Majesty’s nephew. If I set fire to this town half an hour later, I won’t even have to answer for that. And if a certain mayor, too smart for his own good, chokes on my blade shortly before that...”

The point was taken.

The baron wasn’t a complete fool and nodded to the clerks, but Jess shook his head.

“Oh, no. The master will be escorted by my people. Where is he?”

“I have him under lock and key.”

The count nodded.

While the capital had Stonebug and a few other prisons, fit for both common folk and nobles, smaller towns had it simpler. Most often, they just built a few sheds next to the magistrate or adapted the basement for those needs. Few people stuck around, anyway.

Some were sent to the gallows, some, to the mines or the galleys... It never crossed anyone’s mind to keep criminals at the expense of the state—nobles, maybe, but the rabble?

The treasury has no money for that! Let them just die—or be of use!

Olaf, the second of the Virmans, disappeared behind the door. Lily left her chair and came up to the girl.

“Are you really a shilda?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Look at me.”

The girl slowly raised her eyes. Lily once again held her breath. Her beauty seemed unbelievable...yet out loud, she said something different.

“Why aren’t your pupils vertical, then?”

The mayor all but choked on his saliva.

“Your...*cough*! Gra—”

“Shildas have vertical pupils!” Lily’s voice was even angry. “Yet this one hasn’t?”

“Yes, Momma!” Miranda stepped in, knowing that she wouldn’t get punished for interfering. “Where are the pupils?”

“Her pupils are normal. Raping... Girl, who have you raped?”

Alas, there was no answer to that.

Whoever had threatened the girl, they never anticipated anything like that. The most they expected of Lilian was to point at the shilda, shriek in terror, and hide behind her husband’s back—definitely not an interrogation.

“Honey, I’m disappointed,” Lilian said, throwing her arms up. “You’ve promised me a shilda, but this is just a snotty girl.”

“I wonder that myself,” Jerisson replied, squinting. “Where’s the real shilda?”

“I’m real,” the girl whispered.

“Ha!” Mirrie chimed in. “You’re all lies!”

On the sly, Jerisson shook his fist at his daughter. Don’t get cocky, unless you want a whipping!

“Viscountess Earton, please don’t behave like a tavern wench.”

“But Papa, she’s a liar, liar, liar!”

“We’ll deal with it later and figure everything out.”

They didn’t get the time. Olaf walked into the room together with a man of clearly Eveerian origins.

***

Master Schmulz turned out to be a grey-haired fellow of undeterminable age. His dark locks were clotted, forming grey icicles, and bruises covered his face, while his clothes, once nice and expensive, were torn and ragged.

“My girl!”

“Papa!”

Even the bars couldn’t hold the Eveers apart. They rushed forward at such speed that the guards were swept aside and rammed into the walls.

The girl was sobbing on her father’s chest, muttering something, while the old man patted her hair, trying to comfort her. The mayor tried to argue, but Jerisson’s affectionate look stopped him dead in his tracks.

Crossing the king’s nephew wasn’t practical if one wished to save his skin.

Out of the blue, the Eveer released the girl and fell on his knees, reaching out to the count with his hands.

“I beg mercy! We’re innocent!”

Jerisson raised his eyebrows.

“Really?”

“The only fault of my daughter is that she’s beautiful, and Pastor Moller coveted her! Rutha refused, and the pastor said that she’d be sorry. In less than a month, she was declared a shilda, and we were caught and thrown into prison.”

“I did say her pupils aren’t vertical,” Lily smirked.

Jerisson shifted his gaze to the mayor.

“What say you, then?”

The baron grew red, then pale, and stomped his foot down, indignant. That wasn’t very convincing.

And neither was his speech, which came down to “Don’t trust the Eveers in any shape or form.”

For Lilian, everything was obvious.

A small town is built on three pillars: power, money, and church. As long as all three worked together, the town thrived, and they tried getting along in any case, as it benefited everyone. The mayor, for example, might steal, while one of the merchants closest to him invested the money, and the pastor convinced the parishioners that their poverty was caused by their sins rather than the mayor’s corruption.

Everyone had their place, everyone had things to do.

Yet collaboration implied certain bonuses. For instance, if one of them desired a girl, the other could blackmail her... Eww. The scheme was clear and crude.

They would declare the girl a shilda and give the pastor full power over her, sending her father to prison. Threaten the girl with killing the father if she didn’t behave, and there would be no escaping. Or...was there?

Why did she look like that? Was the local pastor a secret sadist? One would think that doing the deed in a bed was more comfortable than a straw mat in prison.

Lily hadn’t figure out that part, but there was never a shortage of perverts.

Oh, and speak of the devil!

The hero was dressed in a green robe, wore a white pigeon on his chest, and had surprisingly pleasant looks, like the Great Gatsby as played by DiCaprio, well-fed and well-dressed, plus long flowing locks.

“What’s going on here?”

Rutha Schmulz started shivering with enough force to make everything clear. Lilian pumped air into her chest. She would have burst into such a monologue right on the spot. She would touch up on Pastor Moller’s family tree, his tastes, likes and dislikes, his prospects, and...

Jerisson stepped in. His Grace thrust Miranda into his wife’s hands and slowly stood up from his chair.

“Bless me, o servant of light.”

The pastor, visibly relaxed, performed the customary gesture. It was a ritual; it couldn’t be helped.

“Let the shadow of Aldonai’s wing fall onto you.”

Jerisson gave him a snide smile.

“And now, let us talk, servant of light...”

Then he put his hand around the pastor, so the latter couldn’t even twitch.

Lily watched her husband with admiring eyes. True, she could have achieved the very same result but it would have taken a lot of effort.

Was she starting to like Count Earton? That wasn’t surprising, though. Power was always nice to have at your fingertips.

***

It remained unknown what her husband had said to the pastor, but upon their return, the servant of Aldonai looked pleased, while Jerisson was calm.

He was also smiling at his wife.

“My dear, there has been a mistake.”

“Really?

“This girl is no shilda, the pastor checked it personally.”

Too bad there was no punishment for such checks in the criminal code, like, say, forced castration. Still...

“I believe you, my count. So what do we do now?”

“As you understand, explaining things to the people will be hard, which is why Master Schmulz and his daughter will accompany us to Wellster. Afterward, they’ll be free to do as they please. Will you take the girl as your maid?”

“If you insist, My Lord.”

“I do.”

Jerisson ogled the Eveer girl, making her tremble, and Lily, flush with anger. Then he nodded to Gael.

“Get these two to the tavern and take care of them.”

The Virman bowed and started lifting the girl and the old man from the floor. In the end, he had to pick her up in his arms, while her father managed to somehow latch onto the warrior’s elbow. They left.

Jerisson smiled at the baron.

“It was nice to meet you, honorable sir. I will make sure to tell His Majesty about your lovely city and your wise governing.”

The mayor opened his mouth, intending to argue, but Jerisson was completely serious.

“Thank you, Count.”

“Oh, no need, Lord Oras; it’s my duty. His Majesty is far too busy to judge the merits of all his faithful servants...”

Lily let out a dreamy sigh. If only she could judge the merits of those two. Rip them off, appraise them, compare them...

But dreams were just dreams.

***

As soon as they were outside, Lily’s patience ran out.

“Jess?”

“Yes, my love?” the count purred, pleased as punch.

“How did you convince him?”

“I told him that he should be more merciful with people and that I also sometimes want to...perform godly deeds and convert sinners, especially those of the female persuasion. That our world is cruel—”

“Jer-ri-son Ear-ton!”

The noble count feigned innocence.

“You don’t believe in my honor, M'lady? You’re breaking my heart!”

Lily looked around, trying to find something heavy.

Jerisson laughed out loud and raised his hands.

“Don’t! I promise you, I will tell you everything...just not outside. And only after dinner.”

Then he jumped into his saddle and broke into a gallop.

Lily and Miranda exchanged looks.

Middle Ages or not, a woman with her curiosity aroused was scarier than a hungry tiger. And if her prey was fleeing... Catch the bastard!

In one swoop, she leaped into the saddle, pulled Miranda up, and charged, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The baron and the pastor were watching out of the magistrate windows, all bug-eyed. They seemed happy that they had gotten off cheap.

***

Lily was able to catch up to the count only inside the room, and even there, the scoundrel tried to save himself by hiding in the bathroom.

“Girls, I’ll take a quick bath and tell you everything!”

“Papa!” Miranda shrieked.

“Jess-s-s,” Lily hissed.

The noble count realized that he was about to be tickled by four hands and surrendered.

“Fine. I just told that guy that we’ve come for the master specifically and would take them both off his hands. Fewer problems for him, and we still need a man to implement your idea, don’t we, dear?”

Lily nodded.

That was the version for Miranda.

“So there won’t be any problems?”

“No. The pastor was satisfied with the evidence I have given.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

Jerisson nodded emphatically.

“I’m completely sure of that. Mirrie, sweetie, could you run and hurry up the servants with the bath?”

“Yes, Papa.”

The girl ran away, and Lily looked at her husband.

“It’s not that simple, is it?”

“I’ll tell you everything later. But we won’t have any problems,” Jerisson said, brushing her aside.

That didn’t convince Lily, however.

Whatever her husband might think, their enemies weren’t any more stupid than Jerisson. Been there, done that. But for the time being, she had no other choice but to trust her husband.

She also had to arrange for the master to be kept in the same room as his daughter and under guard. Who knows what could happen...or who could happen?

***

Lily learned everything only that night after Miranda fell asleep and she and Jess could start whispering.

They couldn’t even dream about anything more, but simply sleeping under a roof, having a bath, lying hand in hand, and talking—barely audible—was enough. Sometimes, such moments were more intimate than sex.

“What did you say to that bastard?”

Jess decided to stop putting on an act. It was too late, and he didn’t want to wake up his daughter, plus, Lily would definitely grow angry if he kept up the charade.

“I told him I knew everything and added that the Eveer was my man.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone knows about your dealings with Master Leitz...”

Lily was sure of that. They knew, and they were jealous. So what?

“I said that Schmulz was my man. He worked as my trading broker, and I came to check up on things. His daughter is no shilda, and he’s blessed, just like her.”

“All right...”

“I also implied that the pastor butted into my business. Women are in abundance, unlike money.”

Lily chuckled.

Right. That was something that those cynical beasts could easily understand.

Not feeling mercy for the girl, not selfless help given to a complete stranger just because passing by was all but impossible, unless she wanted to start hating herself. This idea was inconceivable to them, like poetry to a hyena.

But the base and simplistic notion of “Get your hands off my money”. That was close to heart for both the mayor and the pastor. They got it, accepted it, and approved of it. They were the same, after all.

“And?”

“He would give me the Eveer and the girl, while I would forget all about the incident and get them away from the city, so there wouldn’t be any fallout. They won’t blow the whistle.”

“So can you...”

Jess snickered.

As far back as in the magistrate, he had realized that Lily would never leave without those two and tried to mitigate the consequences.

Currently, he was in foreign territory. In Laveri, he was home; there, he could command his men to beat the truth out of the villains.

But not in that town, no.

He was still a count, of course, but before complaining to the king, he would need to reach him. Those were backwater places, wilderness...

Who knows what could happen, who could attack, where an arrow could come from?

Jerisson didn’t want that. He was traveling with his family; there was no need to risk. He needed a more delicate approach, like explaining to the pastor that the time for fun was over and hinting that there would be no fallout if he chose to cooperate.

Then he would take the problem away from Lostre, a quick and dirty solution.

He could have also given him money, but that would have been too much. However, Jerisson did give the pastor an ink pen crafted by Master Leitz and suggested that interfering with someone else’s trade could prove dangerous.

The pastor duly appreciated the pen and realized that he had barged into the wrong territory. He didn’t apologize, but consented to the treaty. He was fine with everything.

It happens with men sometimes. They get stuck, wanting that particular woman, here and now. This has nothing to do with love; its folly, madness, obsession, when laws are erased and boundaries are pushed. It’s lunacy.

And if the woman refuses...anything might happen, up to the worst-case scenario. Yes, even that.

But after getting what he wanted, the pastor had to stop and consider. If he started on that journey, he would have to go all the way, no “ifs” or “buts.” So what? Would he burn that stupid girl because of her defiance? Would he burn her father?

Well...

Maybe he wasn’t that evil. He could beat her, even rape her—really, she should have put out willingly, and that would have spared her the bruises. Yet she decided to resist; he had to slap her and threaten her father, so she’d stop. But things like that happened.

Killing her, however...

But what else could he do? Keep them imprisoned indefinitely? Sooner or later, the pastor would have gotten around to murder. Still, when an opportunity presented itself, he gladly agreed to get rid of the problem. Absence makes the heart go yonder, after all. It all worked out for the best.

The count wouldn’t present any complaints, and as for the Eveers…

The pastor did know about the work of Master Leitz, thanks to the mayor, who had ordered a mirror for his wife. It was tiny, but the reflection was a true marvel! Clear, crystalline, and worth a fortune. Those rogues! All they knew was how to capitalize on decent people!

In the end, all was well that ended well.

As she listened to her husband, Lily flashed a smile in the darkness of the room.

“Your Grace, you were magnificent.”

“And I hope to be rewarded.”

“How exactly? And by whom?”

Was it a pang of jealousy that Lily felt? She remembered the predatory look Jerisson had given the Eveer girl.

Her husband snorted. It was unclear how he managed to do that under his breath, but he succeeded.

“Is it just me, or was there jealousy in your voice?

“Not at all! How could you think that?” Lily hastily backpedaled, giving herself away and realizing that. Yet...she had no experience with that, never in her life. Alex had never given her any cause to be jealous, and she had no such thoughts. Here, however...

“I could never force myself on a child,” the count chuckled. “I give you my word.”

The girl could hardly be called a child, though. She was no younger than fifteen, and in the days past, that had been enough to nurse her own children. Just like they did in that world. But if Jerisson said that...

For a moment, Lily imagined a scale, a monumental mechanism for weighing his words. Was he lying or not?

If he wasn’t, he could be trusted. If he was...it was also a good outcome. Let everything become clear, and she would know not to believe her husband. If he was capable of little lies, he was capable of real betrayal as well.

The pearl earring was still lying inside her jewelry box, reminding her of that masquerade.

“Do you swear that you won’t touch that girl?”

“I swear it,” Jerisson said simply.

Lily relaxed a little. Well, that was something. It was a nasty way to make sure, but better find out sooner than later. Lily once again smiled at her husband.

“Thank you. It matters to me.”

“I understand. But the girl will be better off if we declared her my mistress.”

“Why?” Lily asked, wary. She knew that a declaration wouldn’t be enough, and they would have to spend time alone together, keeping up the facade.

“Because they’ll go with us. What will be easier, to drive everyone away or to establish boundaries from the get-go, explaining to them that they shouldn’t try grazing their horses on someone else’s lawn?”

Well...

Lily hadn’t examined the situation from that point of view. Jerisson was right. The nobles wouldn’t listen to the Eveer girl’s excuses. Who, incidentally, would be none the worse for it.

“I could make her my maid.”

“You think it will help?”

Lily knew it wouldn’t. Still...

“I would look like a complete idiot.”

“Not in the slightest. You aren’t the first one; you won’t be the last. You’ll even get sympathy points. And then, Rutha’s not from our circle.”

It might have sounded cynical, but that was true. Mistresses of common birth were treated like nose wipes. You took one, you used it, and you discarded it. Lily sighed.

“Fine. Let’s talk to the Eveers first thing in the morning.”

“You’re pushing me into the depths of depravity, M’lady!”

“I’ll push you off the bed if you don’t stop,” Lily threatened, not especially convincing.

“I’ll get my revenge,” the noble count retorted. “As soon as we make camp the next time, I’ll find a secluded spot, drag you into the woods, undress you, and—”

“Jess! Mirrie’s here!”

“...And pray for the salvation of your soul, dear wife, zealously and vehemently, for several hours straight! What did you think? Shame on you!”

All Lilian could do was grit her teeth. That...count! And she couldn’t even curse, she had taught him herself!

***

Lily was fast asleep, while Miranda tossed and turned, and the dogs, which staunchly refused to be kicked out of the marital bed, kept breathing heavily by her side. Jerisson, however, wasn’t sleeping. He was staring at the night sky, a veil of clouds draped over it.

Why had everything gone the way it had? What spurred him to aid those Eveers? A year ago, would he have done anything at all?

Jerisson remembered himself and knew the answer: a year ago, he would have just shrugged, made the sign of Aldonai, and went on his way to look for another jeweler. Why did he decide to visit the magistrate, why did he clash with the mayor, why did he pressure the pastor?

Why?

He was no fool. As soon as he caught himself doing something out of his character, he stopped to think. There were no therapists in the Middle Ages; to make sense of something, the noble count had to rack his brans.

And the truth was out there—right next to him, actually.

Sleeping, breathing through her nose, her magnificent golden braid flowing down the pillows—his wife. Yes, that very same “pink cow”.

When had she managed to become such an intrinsic part of his life? Jerisson knew the exact time and could pin down that moment right to the exact hour, which had almost become his final.

Dying was scary.

No, not quite. Dying wasn’t scary if your death was instant, like on a battlefield, a sword in his hands, in fair combat, from a blade... Even when he and Richard had gotten captured, Jerisson wasn’t afraid. He would have fought to the last and walked away the victor.

Yet...

A sip of wine, burning pain in his chest, nausea, vomit, spasms tying him in knots... And a woman’s voice, sharp, piercing the clouds of death like a lightning bolt.

Was it his wife? Someone else?

“Turn his head sideways!”

“Water!”

“Hold him! BREATHE IN!”

Pain. Dirt. Darkness.

It wasn’t death that was scary. It was the way you went away, drenched in filth and bile.

It was at that moment that Jerisson recognized his wife to be a warrior, just like him. He would meet death face to face. So did Lily.

And she stood her ground. She didn’t let it through, fighting, swearing like a sailor, demanding something, and...she won. And on that day, Jerisson grew to respect his wife—genuinely, not on the orders of the king or for their shared daughter. He simply saw a person willing to fight to the last, same as he was.

It didn’t matter whether she felt sick or bad. She would clench her teeth and stride forward.

He had never expected women to be capable of something like that. Or did he just get lucky?

Before Lily, the world of Jerisson, Count Earton, was clear and simple. A mother was to be respected, a daughter was to be loved, women were to be had, and friends were to be appreciated. But what was he to do when the woman at his side was also a friend and many other things, too?

He had heard that Virma had women like that, able to stand for themselves with blades in their hands. Jerisson had never actually seen kyrias, though. But Lilian wasn’t going to fight with a sword.

She simply took her stand, fearless and resolved to do anything to make death turn back.

And thus, the noble count was forced to lay out a different approach—and with that, a different way of life. After all, how could he go back to an ordinary life when he had an extraordinary woman by his side? He couldn’t clip the wings of that exotic bird or color it grey simply because she was surrounded by chickens.

He had to become her equal. The count had to scratch and claw to reach that insight, spend his blood, sweat, and tears to realize that. Yet the concept wasn’t all that complicated.

He was the prince’s friend and he had to fit in.

He was the king’s nephew, and that imposed certain obligations.

He was married to an incredible woman, so unique that even the king and the aldon recognized that. Wasn’t that worthy of an effort?

Including the efforts that he had made that very day, too. He could have left, avoiding the dispute—what did he care about the Eveers, after all? Yet he could not.

When you get a woman such as Lily, what would you offer her? Yourself? That was worth something, true. Yet there wasn’t much else, to tell the truth.

Jewels? Furs? Silks? Lilian could get all of it by herself, and she wasn’t a huge fan. What else? Ancient books? Nothing else?

She could find them as well, without the count.

And all that was left was actions.

If he had left... Jerisson still couldn’t quite grasp why it mattered for Lilian so much to stay and help, but he backed her up, unconditionally.

And he guessed correctly. Lily was grateful to him, and that was worth more than any diamonds of the world.

But why did she care about that?

Jess didn’t want to finish that thought. He was still too afraid of that. It wasn’t staring death in the eyes; death was only a moment. With Lily, his whole life was at stake.

After breaking so many women’s hearts, the count stubbornly refused to admit to himself that he was slowly but surely falling in love with his own wife.

***

Wellster, Cardin, the royal castle.

“Gard?”

A crueler tyrant than Gardwig would give in to the magic of those huge grey eyes.

And so did the king.

“It was just a dream. Nothing more, my dear.”

“Dreams don’t leave behind lilies.”

Gardwig gritted his teeth and vowed to behead the bastard who had blabbed it out to his wife.

What villainy was that?

Fine, he might have had a nightmare. Why worry his wife? It was Milia and her baby who became Gardwig’s first thought. He had ordered everyone to keep silent. She didn’t need to hear the truth.

Rumors would start circulating, Milia would be upset, and Aldonai forbid, give birth prematurely. He didn’t want any part of that. What was Count Dishan thinking? If that kept going on, he would become a dead man instead of a count.

His Majesty had given his express orders, yet somebody went against them! Bastards! Was there anyone left that he could trust?

“It was just a lily. There was a whole bouquet of them in my antechamber. Maybe someone carried one of them to the bedroom. The vase was toppled over...”

“Gard...”

The king realized that his excuses weren’t working and tried a different approach.

“Millie, sunshine, you shouldn’t worry in your state.”

His “sunshine” frowned, stroked her protruding belly, and Gardwig’s heart skipped a beat.

His wife.

His future son.

His happiness, so late in coming.

“Then don’t worry me!”

“What do you want?” His Majesty gave up.

“I want you to get Count Lort back!”

Gardwig sighed.

“The ambassador party...”

“After they leave, let him return! We’ll tell everyone that I’m sick, that milk rushed to my head, and you’re appeasing my every whim.”

“Edward will resent this,” Gardwig tried to argue.

“He loved his wife and indulged her as well, I know that! Mother told me. He’ll understand.”

Even kings have battles they lose before they even begin. In front of our loved ones, all of us are defenseless and wave the white flag before the war gets declared. Because of love.

“Fine. As soon as the ambassadors leave, I’ll contact Harnie.”

Milia burst into a smile and nuzzled close to her husband.

“Thank you, dear! You’re the best!”

“You just order me around as you please,” Gardwig grumbled, melting with joy.

“I just love you.”

“And I love you, too.”

A king, a count, a peasant, a beggar—does it really matter? No one escapes the attention of Fleyna, the Virman goddess of love. You don’t even have to pray. In the end, she always gets her due.

***

Somewhere at sea.

As he stood by the bulwark, Richard surveyed the expanse stretching out before him.

There were precious few moments like that in the life of a prince, moments when he could let go and be himself. If only the commoners knew how the beast of decorum dominated the lives of nobility, how heavy that burden was and how bitter its taste was on their tongues.

In some ways, living in the wilderness was easier. You could get eaten by animals, true, but at least they wouldn’t make you suffer. But people...

Sometimes, death became a blessing. Richard knew well what a conspiracy plot—either the Ivelens’ or Falion’s—could lead to and was still nervous. But what had it been like for his father?

Thank Aldonai the Virmans came to help. Now, it was Richard’s turn.

He heard a floorboard creak behind him. Someone was trying to get his attention. Richard turned around.

“Eric.”

His smile was completely genuine. Over the time of the journey, he and the Virman had grown to like each other, and Richard finally realized what Countess Earton saw in the Virmans.

They were simple, not crude and not stupid. They could lie, betray, and scheme with the best of them but they were doing all of that without hundreds of ceremonies covering their actions. When you’d had enough of courtly life, when you had grown tired of each word having six or eight meanings, when everyone saw you as Richard of Ativerna instead of just Richard, you started to appreciate simplicity.

“We’ll be in Virma soon.”

“How soon?”

“A day or so, if Olive is merciful and Holosh doesn’t muck things up for us.”

“I’ll pray to Aldonai,” Richard taunted in return, “for our safe journey.”

Usually, the voyage from Ativerna to Virma took less time, but it was autumn and the wind blew anywhere except the right direction.

Eric chuckled.

“I doubt Aldonai will get a warm welcome in Virma.”

Richard tossed his hair.

“We aren’t going to talk about Aldonai. We’ll talk about people and our deeds.”

Eric threw his head back, like a huge desert cat. That’s what he wanted to discuss.

“Leif is my friend. I will stand for him.”

“You or Clan Hardring?”

“I. And the clan. The clan needs Ativerna.”

“What about the Circle?”

Eric hesitated.

“The Circle’s divided.”

“Is there anyone el—” Richard stopped short, but his question was clear. It was one thing when the offer of peace and friendship extended only from Ativerna. What if someone else stepped in?

Wellster? Avester? They could. And then, the Virmans would have a choice, and they would barter and negotiate and drive a hard bargain. He had no idea if they would get what they asked for, but it was possible. They might not have a lot of dry land, but the sea was their home.

“Some would find it advantageous to ally with Ativerna, some, to fight you,” Eric said, shrugging. “I can only speak for the Hardrings.”

“And the Erquigs.”

“The Erquigs aren’t part of the Circle.”

“And the Torsvegs are.”

Richard’s task wasn’t going to become any easier.

“Until the clan gets a chief, they have no place in the Circle. They have lost theirs, and only Olive knows if they will find another.”

Richard grinned.

“That’s not going to make them any humbler.”

“Consider them your first enemy.”

“An enemy is good. Without them, our lives are empty and devoid of meaning,” Richard joked.

“As long as you kill them in time,” Eric replied, chuckling.

The men exchanged knowing looks. The Virmans really weren’t stupid at all, and that made Richard’s goal so much harder.

“Clan Hardring extends their hospitality to Your Highness,” Eric said, an innocent look on his face.

“I can only take you up on your offer after the fate of my man is decided,” Richard answered, shaking his head.

“Is it proper for His Highness to live in a tent camp on the coast?”

“Both for His and for Her Highness. Still, we might make use of Clan Erquig’s hospitality. They aren’t part of the Circle, and Leif is one of ours.”

“Many aren’t going to like it.”

Richard shrugged.

“I don’t care what those...many think. Only the opinion of his ally matters to the King of Ativerna. His enemies might die—or live, it’s their choice.”

“Allies?” Eric caught onto the subtext.

“One ally would be preferential. I can offer guarantees, but I would need a promise, and promises made by everyone are empty. A man might be in the Circle today and gone tomorrow, his signature nothing but a blob of ink. It’s not enough.”

“Alliances are good when they’re formed between kings and sealed with blood,” Eric suggested.

“Virma has no king, so far. And I already have a bride.”

“Who knows what might happen, Your Highness?” the Virman chuckled. “Only the seers know the future.”

Richard smiled.

“I’m sure that Angelina will take a liking to the island. Maybe she’ll want to visit one of your seers. Girls love asking about their marriage.”

“I’ll talk to Olav. He’ll arrange a meeting,” Eric said, nodding.

One really should never talk to the Virmans indirectly. Still, it was too early to say certain things aloud. Richard had given a hint.

As for the rest... A smart man would understand; a stupid man would not need to.

***

Wellster, somewhere along the road.

Altres Lort felt great.

The road stretched forward under the hooves of his horse, while his companions, four soldiers, kept to themselves, not bothering him in the slightest.

They weren’t from the Royal Guard, but rather common soldiers, even if garrisoned in the capital. Lort didn’t have a personal army; he had no need of one.

Go home without an escort? Without guards? Lort would have, but his brother had slammed his fist on the table, making his opinion known. Still, the “disgraced” jester refused a royal contingent. He had a year to sit out at his estate. What would he do with four rascals?

Gardwig heeded his plea, and the brothers agreed on ordinary soldiers, four in number.

After all, it’s not like he was carrying a bucket full of gold or an innocent maiden. All of them were adult men, able to take care of themselves.

Lort became fast friends with the eldest of the lot, Corporal Riffie, and grew to like their conversations. It was refreshing to find a person he could simply talk to, an ordinary man with ordinary interests. The court, in contrast, was full of vipers, and one never said a word unguarded.

Will harvest be plentiful this year? Will winter be cold? How much will turnips cost? What could he procure on the road to sell in the capital?

Simple desires, quiet thoughts—what else could one wish for? For Altres Lort, that was enough.

He could compare that with footwear. Just imagine buying and putting on expensive designer shoes that cost more than a cast iron bridge. Everyone is excited and jealous, and you don’t feel any discomfort, but then you get home and drop them off, changing into good old slippers, maybe even with a hole or two, but so comfortable and sensible you can’t help but realize how hard it was for you the whole time.

Lort was starting to realize. Actually, he felt like an onion that was discarding the courtly shell, one layer after another.

He alternated between riding at full gallop and slowing down to admire the view, enjoyed the unusually warm weather, looked around, chatted with the soldiers, and his soul grew softer, day by day, hour by hour, and damn the intuition that whispered to him about bad omens.

Finally, they reached a roadside inn. Lort might not have elected to stay there, but it was already autumn, and the nights were cold, making sleeping by a campfire a decidedly unpleasant experience. Why shiver outside, risking your limbs?

And the wind was rising, as ill luck would have it.

The inn was proudly called Royal and even did its name justice. At the very least, the floor was swept clean, the walls were painted white, the tables were scrubbed, and Lort didn’t smell any rotten food and saw no cockroaches. Not even a fly!

The innkeeper hurried to meet Altres, smiling and bowing.

“Welcome, sir...”

“Alt,” Altres helped, reluctant to declare his real name and spend the whole evening watching the innkeeper’s pale face, his meal accompanied by the chatter of teeth.

One should think him a simple jester, but how had those backwater towns learned everything, and in such detail? Or maybe they just added their own versions into the gaps. In any case, everyone knew Count Lort and feared him accordingly—at least in the capital.

Here, in the country, he could use a different name, his clothes and weapons weren’t emblazoned with a coat of arms, his back wasn’t especially notable—hunchbacks were rare, but not that unique—and as for the guards...anyone could have them, really.

“Welcome, Sir Alt. My name’s Willie, just Willie. What would you and your companions like—dinner, lodging, breakfast, anything else?”

“A hearty dinner, cozy lodging, and a delicious breakfast,” Lort replied, nodding. “And take care of our horses, Willie.”

“That’s exactly how we do it here, sir,” Willie said, shrugging. “Or nobody would ever return.”

“I see your place isn’t crowded,” Lort remarked, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, that’s how it is,” Willie said, still smiling. “It’s harvest time. Now when they finish gathering it and feasting, the traders will come, and there’ll be no room to swing a cat here!”

True, the inn was mostly empty. Two men were sitting at the far table, sipping something from a big jug and talking. Lort studied them.

After so many years in the spy trade, he had developed a feeling for when something was wrong, and that feeling had just scratched at his soul like a cat. He knew he would have to take a closer look or he would never get rid of it.

So what was the problem? What did His Grace have against harmless travelers?

Lort already knew the answer. A band on the hat of one of them had slipped, demonstrating a distinctive wire under it—a garrote. They were also moving like people used to wearing weapons under their clothes, and not the smallest, either.

On top of that, the inn was empty.

Crops were harvested at the exact same time everywhere. In one village, farmers would start gathering them soon after the first autumn rain, while in the other, they held out until the ground would freeze. Traders started to travel the roads well in advance. A contract here, an arrangement there... They often stopped at roadside inns to wait. Peasants were no nobles, so they could come sell their produce themselves, harnessing their horses and pulling sacks.

It was simply too quiet. The mind of Count Lort—used to dissecting his surroundings and looking for a catch—worked at double speed.

How could they lay an ambush for him? And of course, it was for him; such vultures didn’t hunt merchants—not with the way the eldest held his mug, with his flowing movements, the flexing of his muscles...

So how had it happened? Simple. He had a mole among his guards. After all, he hadn’t headed out on the same day; he asked the garrison officer to pick four guys for him and went on his business to that whore...

But who of them was the culprit? Maybe everyone? That was unlikely, or they would have cut his throat and buried him somewhere in the woods, then agreed on a cover story.

So, who? Riffie? Chance? Beran? Sidal? Who could it be? To whom he could not turn his back?

The answer was simple. Only one man had a lame horse, constant sniffles that made him look for a healer, a boot full of holes... At last, all the setbacks and delays caused by one person got an explanation. Lort grinned.

“Sidal! Why don’t you greet your buddies? I’m sure they’re tired of waiting for you!”

The unlucky mug clinked as it shattered into hundreds of clay shards. The soldier grew pale.

The two men slowly stood up from behind the table.

“So you’re a shrewd sort,” one of them drawled in a markedly mocking tone.

“You won’t stay that way for long,” the other replied in tune. “Two minutes, at best.”

Steel clang against steel. Riffie took the spot to Altres’ right, Chance stood to his left.

Willie hid under the bar, not wasting time on whining or groaning. By the look of it, he wanted to live.

Sidal crossed blades with Beran.

The assassins closed in.

Lort drew out his blade, deliberately demonstrating his trembling hand. He was a cripple, after all, a jester, a bell-wearing clown—how could he fight?

“We won’t touch you if you leave.”

As he spoke the last word, his voice failed him, turning into a squeak. The assassins exchanged sneering looks, for a second removing their eyes from their victims. That was a mistake.

Apparently, none of them had been told that cornered cripples were also dangerous. Lort wasn’t going to play fair and measure his strength against theirs. He had no need for such folly. A throwing knife appeared in his hand, small but deadly enough to make parrying it tricky, and the eldest assassin collapsed to the ground, a gleaming hilt in his eye.

The youngest man reeled, but Lort gave him no chance to flee—or, indeed, do anything else.

A whip. Who would take such a weapon seriously? Nobody!

Yet if only people knew the tricks that torturers could pull off with it! Picking a fly from a cow’s ear without touching the fur, hitting the said fly in the air, cutting the crown from a flower—while the plant didn’t even flinch. They could also slay a wolf in one blow, break a man’s spine, or just kill them.

They had taught Lort that as well, as he held no contempt for such teachers.

And so, Lort carried a whip on his belt, and nobody had ever paid any attention to it...until the moment when Altres took a swing.

A black snake coiled, forming a ring and tripping the assassin, who promptly fell down; running presented a challenge with his legs tied behind his knees.

Of course, handling a whip required a certain level of skill, but Lort had long since mastered the weapon. Then he took two steps forward and kicked the bastard in his head.

Later, he would interrogate him.

All right, so how did Beran fare in the meantime? He was wounded in the shoulder, and Sidal was trying to flee. Without even a conversation? Tsk, tsk.

Altres didn’t even dirty his hands with the traitor. He simply nodded to Riffie, and the corporal knocked the sword from Sidal’s hands and pointedly swung his own weapon left and right.

Just try it, wretch.

The wretch turned out to be smart and didn’t twitch.

“Tie them up,” Altres Lort ordered, “and get them to the fireplace. I’ll interrogate them, and you, Chance, find some food. Riffie, take care of Beran and the horses, all right?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Riffie nodded and proceeded to bind the assassins.

***

A field interrogation is a decidedly gruesome sight, one that requires a great deal of inner calm and maybe a certain amount of cruelty—honestly, the more, the better.

What else would you expect, gentlemen? When it came down to his life, Lort was in no hurry to part with it for the time being.

And so, Altres waited for ten minutes and, seeing as none of them was going to rise and shine, started with Sidal by pressing a red-hot poker against the tip of his nose.

That was bound to brace him up—and also loosen his tongue, especially if Lort promised him that the next stab would be in the eye.

Yet Sidal didn’t tell them anything especially riveting.

Some man came in the morning, the next day after Sidal had learned that he would have to escort Lort. He didn’t know how that man found out his information, but he named the inn and told him to make sure they would stop there.

His price? Ten gold paid in advance. He wasn’t stupid, was he?

Altres suspected that he was, but he didn’t say that out loud, instead he simply waved his hand—I get it. And so, Sidal put on a show, as best as he could. His best wasn’t much, but the audience was appreciative enough to overlook his blunders.

What will happen to him? Lort considered that for some time and dismissed him.

Good riddance to that schlump. With that snout of a nose, he would never be a warrior again, and as for the rest...he was obviously not lying. Nobody lied in such cases.

He was stupid, but if Lort killed people for being stupid, the world would turn into a desert. And his lifetime would never be enough, anyway.

As for the assassination attempt... Anyone would have done it if not Sidal. Enough people “loved” Lort to encircle half of Wellster in a line. The most important thing was to stay alert.

Or should he kill him? That man had betrayed his companions, after all. Traitors shouldn’t be allowed to live. He even wounded a friend, a person who trusted him—poor Beran.

Fine, Lort would finish him off later.

He kicked Sidal away from the fire and turned to the assassin.

And once again, he failed.

True, the assassin had been hired to kill the hunchback. Together with his older brother, they waited in ambush, knowing that their prey would pass through there.

But who hired them? Maldonaya only knew since that man was wearing a mask and a cloak. Maybe my brother could have told you more, but you killed the wrong man, you freaking hunchback, oh yes...

Lort tried interrogating him some more, using the poker, only to realize it was useless.

He gestured to the soldiers to drag the bodies to the shed and finished both of them off there. He thought it right: it was his responsibility, and he was prepared to answer for it himself, no excuses needed.

They had tried to kill him. He beat them to the punch. The rest was sniveling pity, and let it be shoved up Maldonaya’s...exactly so she couldn’t rest easy.

Still, there was a nice side to the story. Altres Lort didn’t have to pay for lodging, food, and supplies. Willie never bothered to come back.

***

Ativerna, Lostre.

Lily didn’t see the Eveers until the next day.

Following her order, the Virmans dragged the father and daughter into the inn, washed them clean, fed them, and laid them to bed. Then they stood guard at the door, answering all questions with a succinct “It’s forbidden” or “His Grace didn’t permit us to talk”. They felt sorry for the Eveers.

For some reason, pretty girls in distress always aroused a desire to help, while ugly betties rarely did. Why was it, Lily wondered? It was a mystery.

They were also given a set of clothes, and Master Schmulz, at last, didn’t look like a bum, but an honorable gentleman. Rutha, in the meantime, was splendid in a plain violet dress, thanks to Irene’s assistance.

“Your Grace. Lady Countess...”

The Eveer made a deep bow. Jerisson gave him a casual nod, and Lily smiled. Rutha grew pale and also bowed. She remembered Jerisson’s gaze and was afraid. It made sense.

“So, Master...”

“Name’s Kreth Schmulz, Your Grace. At your service. I’m forever in your debt.”

“Let’s leave debts behind,” Jerisson dismissed his words. “It all happened so suddenly. My wife was in need of a jeweler, so we had to rescue you. But you’ll have a word with her later.”

There was enough gratitude in the eyes of the Eveer for three Lilians.

“Your Grace...”

“Will you go with us?”

Despite being framed as a question, Jerisson’s tone left no room for guessing. It was an order, and the Eveer nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace. It will be for the better.”

“How much time do you need to pack up?”

“We’ll need to drop by our house...and then ten more minutes,” Kreth Schmulz estimated. “That will be enough for me.”

“What about your daughter?”

“Her Grace’s maid, Lady Irene, was gracious enough to supply Rutha with everything she might need.”

“Great. Which town would you like us to drop you at?”

“Your Grace,” the Eveer said, bowing again. “I know you’re destined for Cardin.”

“I am.”

“Could we go with you?”

Jerisson shrugged.

“You can. But you’ll have to work for Her Grace along the way. Have you heard about Master Leitz?”

“Yes... Oh, Your Grace!”

The bow was now full of genuine respect. It finally dawned upon him who he was dealing with.

“Forgive the old fool; I didn’t realize. My apologies, Lady Countess...”

Lily waved her hand. No need to speak of the past; time to look to the future.

“I think you and I together could work on an interesting invention and make some money, too.”

An unsure smile appeared on the master’s face, and he nodded.

“Now to the unpleasant stuff.”

Lily had already arranged with Jerisson who would say what.

“I will take your daughter to be my maid. It will be safer while we travel.”

The Eveer bowed.

“Everyone must consider her my husband’s mistress.”

The girl grew pale and almost fainted, clutching at her father’s clothing. Weirdly, it made her even more stunning. Lily even got confused, but her medical experience helped.

Shove some smelling salts under her nose, slap her cheeks...

“Stop that! Breathe! What’s so hard to get? It’s better for them to gossip about you instead of dragging you into the bushes!”

“Gos-sip?”

Jerisson shook his head.

“Master Schmulz, I’m happily married, and I’m not going to humiliate my wife in such a way, but for the safety of your daughter... We have many people with us: servants, soldiers, nobles. Some of them might want to get something that was once given away, and not freely. My name will serve as her shield, and no more than that.”

“B-but Lady Countess...”

“I will play the role of a miserable wife who’s nobly overlooking things,” Lily brushed him off.

“I’ll survive that. I’m not the first, I won’t be the last, and I’m definitely not the only one. They’ll even feel sorry for me.”

The Eveer looked at the count, then at the countess, then at his daughter. Suddenly, he bowed, his head reaching the ground.

“Your Grace, Lady Countess, My life belongs to you.”

Chapter 4

On the Razor’s Edge

Virma. The lands of Clan Hardring.

“The Circle is going to gather soon.”

The speaker twirled a cup between his fingers; the huge thing made of metal seemed but a toy in his hands. That said, in his hands, even a war axe seemed like just a toy.

Anyone who had ever seen Eric would have immediately noticed the resemblance between those two. The tall, blond, broad-shouldered man was Eric’s uncle.

“News travels fast, honorable Olav. They say this time, the Circle’s going to do more than mediate petty squabbles?”

The other man was shorter. If one had to compare them, Olav looked a bit like the Father of Gods, Olive, his namesake, but his counterpart, Bran Gardren, the Chief of Clan Gardren, could remind one only of Holosh.

Stubby, narrow-shouldered, half-blond and half-grey, despite not being old, with delicate features, he seemed like a sissy next to Olav—but only for a moment. Then his bright blue eyes focused in, small, sharp, with a piercing, needle-like stare, and you didn’t care anymore about his face or his build. Snakes were small, too, but people feared them not because of their size.

A cripple leading his clan was a rare sight in Virma, but even that could happen. Unlike the Khangans, who believed that the Star Mare would throw a cripple off her back and stomp the clan’s luck with her hooves, the Virmans thought that there was nothing a man couldn’t overcome, including mutilations.

If you succeeded, be proud, and let your clan be proud of you as a person able to defeat their troubles could defeat others as well. But you would have to spend all your life proving that to yourself and others.

And that’s what Bran was doing. Born crippled, he had realized early in his childhood that the only person he could count on was himself. Things like that happened sometimes when the midwife was green, and the child was coming out feet forward: she pulled the wrong way and damaged a joint.

It was hard for Bran to even stand straight without a cane, and walking was a challenge. Thankfully, the first few winters after his birth had plenty of food, and the cripple wasn’t kicked out or killed. He got lucky.

The boy had quickly grasped that he had nobody to help him. A cripple was a burden who would never become a warrior and bring profit to the clan. At best, his family would let him sponge off them out of pity. But what could he do to pay for his food or his lodging?

The gods had robbed him of his health, but his mind remained. The boy got lucky once more when a blind skald found refuge in Clan Gardren. It was then when Bran realized what he had to do. The old man received a student, and the boy got a teacher. With time, Bran learned how to think, compare, analyze...

He never fought, but he could trade or invest; even cripples had those options.

True, Ativerna had more opportunities, but relocating was too much. Bran’s main treasure was his clan, and he started to bring it under his power.

It took a long time, sometimes through intrigues and plots, sometimes through...intrigues and plots, once again. A double-cross here, a lie there...or even the truth. And somehow, in the end, he obtained the seat of power of Clan Gardren.

But what was next? Nothing. Clan Gardren had nowhere enough strength to dominate the whole of Virma. They could have spent the next twenty years building up power or...

“This time, we’ll get an ambassador from Ativerna,” Olav revealed Bran the “dark secret” to Bran. In truth, everyone already knew that. When Eric had called his people to help, Olav had spent a while considering his reply. But what would he lose? Just send a few ships full of hotheads...

Fortune smiled on Eric, as if Olive himself, the Father of Gods, guided its hand. The boy helped save Richard, the prince of Ativerna, and now the king himself was extending a friendly hand to the Virmans.

Would they accept it or push it away? Of course they would agree, no argument about that. But how?

The clans, the Circle—twelve elders, each of them with their own interests and looking out only for themselves, all of them connected to each other through bonds of friendship or enmity.

Sometimes, all of that made Olav want to scream and shout. If only he could whack them on the head with an axe and drag them to the stable! With Bran, however, it was the opposite. By itself, Clan Gardren wasn’t rich or influential, but Bran knew which buttons to push and whose interests to further. Not for free, of course, and not for simple gratitude. And so, the clan chief wasn’t loved, but tolerated, as everyone knew how much he was doing for them.

Bran might have had the best clothes in the clan, food and a house, the prettiest wife, a few concubines, but it’s not like the rest of his people were hungry, either. He took care of them, and he wasn’t half bad at that. They didn’t even have to throw away newborn babies if the year was hungry.

“Ativerna reaches out to us, but what will we become?” Bran gave Olav a sharp look. “Vassals? Pet wolves on the king’s chain?”

Olav shook his head.

“I wouldn’t want that.”

Bran smiled, his lips thin, twirled his own cup in his hands, and looked at the fire, then at Olav, then back at the fire.

“They need us as a counterpoint to Loris and its pirate nests, to Avester and Elvana. And while they need us, we can bargain.”

“Our elders won’t agree to being vassals.”

“But they might agree to an alliance.”

“Between the countries. Alliances are made between rulers, and they don’t consider Virma a full-fledged country,” Olav sighed.

Bran didn’t say anything. He had weighed that conversation in his mind before and knew what he wanted to achieve—and that Olav wouldn’t go against him. Yet Bran would have to be extra careful to get his.

“We’ll never be a real country in the eyes of the Ativernan king because we have clans and the Circle. Today, the chiefs might sign the treaty, but eventually, the power balance will shift. Centuries will pass, and clans will change. Today, the Gardrens are a part of the Circle, and tomorrow, who knows? The Torsvegs might replace them, or Holmrun. Everything is possible under the sun, and then, the treaty will be just a piece of paper.”

“So what are you offering?”

“The people signing the treaty—if there will be a treaty—must be kings—two sovereigns.”

The words boomed in the dim light of the room, reflected from the walls, making the wine in the cups ripple and the weapons on the wall clang.

Sovereign.

Olav narrowed his eyes.

“You didn’t bring up that subject by accident. There’s a reason why you get compared to Holosh.”

Bran nodded, a pleased smile on his face. Better to be Holosh than a burden. He had come a long way to achieve that, a very long way. He was almost forty years old, and how many years did he have left? But he wanted for all of them to be well-lived. And he wanted more, too.

Whatever one might have said about Bran, he had a weakness—Virma—Bran’s beloved island that he needed to make stronger, to raise it to the level of other countries so it would become not just a source of mercenaries, but a power in its own right.

The clans interfered with his dream. Sooner or later, Bran would have figured something out, but when presented with such an opportunity...

Olav wasn’t smart enough to lead, but was smart enough to realize that. They were the perfect combination—his strength, his will, his right, and Bran, a shadow under his back, his loyal counselor. Olav would get the crown, and Olav would get the power. That was a real possibility.

“Let them compare. But even Olive needs Holosh. Why can’t Olav, the future king of Virma, make use of Bran?”

“The clans won’t agree to that.”

Bran shrugged.

“Hardring won’t agree? Kellrog, Erslave, Grendan?”

Olav nodded. Those clans wouldn’t just agree, they would support him.

“With Gardren, we have five.”

“We need eight.”

“Torsveg, for instance. Or Erquig? Olav, if you agree, I’ll obtain the consent of the Circle.”

“There’s a catch, isn’t there, Bran?”

“There is. You’ll rule. I’ll stay behind you and counsel.”

Olav stayed silent for a long, long time. Bran didn’t say anything either. He had already said all that he needed to. To someone else, he might say something else, but with Olav, that was the only way: open, direct, staring in his eyes. He wouldn’t understand hints and implications. That was bad for a king but good for a symbol. As for who would inherit the throne... Olav’s son? They could find a smart wife for him, that wasn’t a problem.

Bran watched his own children closely and carefully. Who could replace him? Who would lead the clan?

He would never repeat the mistakes of heroes of myths and legends. He would raise his heir himself, whip him into shape, and train him like one would train a wolf cub to attack its prey. What would become his target practice, though? Bran would figure something out.

“Blood will be shed.”

Bran shrugged, apathetic.

“Not the first time and not the last. Blood always gets shed, and you shed a lot of it yourself.”

Olav sighed.

“We’ll tear Virma apart.”

“And bring those parts together,” Bran said, brushing his concerns aside. “Remember, Olive was also ripped apart, and Fleyna pieced him together and restored him with her love.”

“And whose love will glue Virma together this time?”

Bran’s smile looked mysterious.

“Who knows? A little birdie’s telling me that Richard of Ativerna isn’t coming here alone. He’s accompanied by his sister, Princess Angelina.”

Olav narrowed his eyes.

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m not getting at anything,” Bran’s smile turned supremely arrogant. “But you do have four sons.”

“The two eldest are married.”

“Your youngest boys aren’t aldons, either, but our marriages aren’t recognized on the mainland, as we don’t have aldons here.”

“And we won’t!” Olav bellowed. “We don’t need their gods!”

Bran shrugged.

“Too bad you think so. Just imagine how convenient it is: all power originates from Aldonai. Listen to your master and don’t even try to rebel, because if Aldonai gave you into his hands, then such is his will.”

Olav crushed the cup in his hands. Wine, scarlet like blood, poured out, splashing his sleeve and dripping on the floor.

“That. Rot. Won’t. Come. Here.”

Bran threw his hands up.

“As you wish. I don’t insist.”

At least, so far. It remained to be seen what would happen in the future. The important thing was that the preliminary conversation was over. Olav was open to his suggestion; later, he would process Bran’s words, consider them, and... Welcome to the throne. First, the field is sown. Then the seeds sprout. And only then are the plants tended to, so the harvest could be grown.

Bran had just sown the field.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Torsveg.

Tira once again caught Elg Torsveg staring at her. She hated that look: appraising, undressing her...

If only she could slog him on the jaw! But he didn’t give any excuses. He wasn’t saying anything, he wasn’t touching her, and as for looking...even horses could look. Not leer, though. The whole situation was sickening, but Tira could not force herself to argue with her mother. She knew that her decision was the best they could hope for.

The Circle was gathering in the lands of Clan Hardring. They needed to get there, somehow. True, they could have done that themselves. But...

The lands of Clan Elleig were poor, and so were the Elleigs themselves. Taking an escort meant depriving their field, sheep pen, house, and garden of hands. After all, it’s not like they would pick cripples and half-wits—they needed strong and healthy men, who were as good as gold. Otherwise, even the fish would laugh at them. Look at the rabble they have brought! The shame!

They also didn’t know how long the Circle would last or when they would be able to return. A month? Two? Three? Everything was possible. She and her mother could live with the Hardrings, as they had been promised, but people were supposed to be fed by their chief. Such was the custom, once and forever. Tira couldn’t feed anyone, yet.

So all she could do was to cut back on her pride. If Elg Torsveg invited them, they had to accept. Maybe Olav would give them another escort back home, or they might join someone else...

The poor had no time for pride, no matter how bad and how disgusting it might feel.

Tira clenched her teeth, waited, and repeated the words like a prayer. She will grow up. She will become strong. She will achieve everything.

She had endured a lot, so she might as well endure a bit more.

“Lady of Elleig? May I?”

Speak of the beast. He had finally made up his mind to talk, or simply decided that the time was right. They had stopped to camp, and people were busy, while Elg was watching over them. Tira was setting up a tent for her and her mother; at least that was something she could do herself.

Just in time, Elg grabbed a pole that looked to be in danger of falling down. Tira would have done that in two minutes, but how would she prove that?

The noble sir assisted her. She should be grateful! Her mother even smiled.

Trudy usually got so tired that during their stops, all she could do was lie down and rest. She wasn’t given any work. Tira probably should have been thankful for that, but she couldn’t force herself to feel that way. One look into those oily eyes made her breathless with anger. Everything was clear to her, as she had seen such looks more than once. Too bad she couldn’t drive that one away with just her fists and a few choice words...

“Thank you, Lord of Torsveg.”

“It is an honor for me to serve the Lady of Elleig. Would you like to train with my people?”

Tira sighed.

She would have, but... Guess who had stepped into the circle to fight her when she agreed to do it last time? It’s not like Elg ever overstepped his bounds, and yet his hands were all over her.

What was he trying to achieve? Did he think she liked that? That she would melt? Even his looks made Tira want to wash herself in the sea, and his hands...

Still, Elg was careful. He knew that Olav Hardring would never approve of violence. Everything had to be given by consent. How could he get it, however? Tira turned down all of his presents.

Elg had long since forgotten all about courting; he was used to taking what he wanted, and nobody dared to refuse.

The girl couldn’t be bought with money—she was too young to realize its true worth. For those such as her, a smile from a wimp with long eyelashes cost more than any gold.

So, what else could he do? Only tame her: slowly, step by step, little by little. Who knew what might happen next? The girl might become a kyria, but also might not. And then...

No matter how angry Tira was, she had a long road ahead of her, and Elg wasn’t about to give up. She had struck a nerve.

***

Ativerna, on the road.

“Kreth, does it keep the heat for long?”

“It’s wonderful, mistress! It’s already been six hours, and it’s still boiling hot!”

Lily smiled, content.

The first thermos of Ativerna was passing the trials with a bang.

Two days ago, when they had finally left the inhospitable Lostre, the countess had a conversation with Master Schmulz, when he asked to call both him and his daughter by their given names.

No need to spawn rumors, and as for respect... He could be called a goat for all he cared. People always noticed true respect, and vice versa—no matter how much you fawned over someone and how effusive your compliments were, a viper’s teeth could always be seen under the veneer of honey.

Lilian felt truly sorry for the Eveers.

Their story turned out to be as simple as a copper. Rutha had grown up rapidly, turning into a radiant beauty just over the summer. The pastor couldn’t help but notice that.

He couldn’t marry her, of course; she was an Eveer. Still, he promised to give her the world if she agreed. When the girl refused, the pastor became obsessed.

He made another offer, then another, and at last, decided that it would be easier to strike a deal with the mayor than the disagreeable girl. He declared Rutha a shilda and obtained full possession of her.

What happened next? An exorcism of Maldonaya, of course, every which way. Judging by the fear in the girl’s eyes, she would never agree to become Jerisson’s mistress; it would be hard for her to marry at all.

Lily insisted on getting her to a midwife and personally oversaw that the woman washed her hands, cleaned the examination table, and treated the girl kindly, yet it didn’t help much. Her injuries were pretty severe, thanks to the pastor’s insatiable appetites.

Thank God, the girl wasn’t pregnant and could even have children at some point, although not any time soon: healing would take a while. For the time being, Rutha was riding in a carriage with Irene and Martha, as traveling took a heavy toll on her.

At first, she had tried fighting off her rapist, but he threatened her father, telling her the old Eveer would be hung on the square if she even twitched. Schmulz, in the meantime, received the very same threat about his daughter. In all likelihood, he would have made good on the threat, sooner or later, but the Eartons’ arrival put a dent in their plans.

Lily regretted always skipping psychology class and regretted even more not studying it on her own. In her college, they were mostly taught basic theory, like Freud, Jung, or Aristotle, instead of something actually useful—like helping rape survivors and people who lost their loved ones or grief counseling. She did have a psychiatry course as well, but knowing something about dementia or schizophrenia didn’t seem that relevant in her current situation.

The girl needed both physical and moral support, but the countess couldn’t do anything about the latter. All she could do was to hope that time would heal her wounds.

In any case, Rutha was sitting inside a carriage, leaving it only for a short visit to a spring and to get some sleep, all while looking like a pale imitation of herself. Irene—such a good girl—got her a shawl of a rare dirty yellow color that made Rutha almost green and covered almost all of her hair, while her eyebrows were plucked. They weren’t ears, they would grow out. Her lips were bitten all over from pain, and the robe she was wearing was dirty brown and wide enough for three of such girls.

Jerisson looked at the result of their efforts, shuddered, and shook his head. He would never risk declaring something like that his mistress. He was no pervert!

His mind at rest, Kreth got busy with work. Escorted by the soldiers, he returned to his home and collected everything he and his daughter might need—documents, some clothes, and jewelry—and talked to a local merchant, his old friend. Then he loaded everything up, talked to Lilian, and hurried to visit the local blacksmith, wine-maker—for the corks—and the glassblower. Apparently, the Eveer commanded a lot of clout in the town, as everything was ready in a day. The assembly took place on the road.

So what was a thermos? Lily decided on the simplest version, a thermal mug consisting of two glasses, one nested in another, with a layer of foam plastic inside. She didn’t have foam plastic, but she had activated carbon, a huge supply at that. She could also burn some common coal and look for zeolite.

The first samples had a glass—or a metallic—tube inside. Not enough to create a vacuum, but it was still something. They covered the edges with tin, picked out an internal cork, carved a wooden cup-shaped cap, and proceeded to the trials.

The glass was better in maintaining temperature, and metal was worse. Still, price mattered.

They also knew that the bigger the thermos was, the slower it cooled. A thermal mug wouldn’t even last half a day, while a four-pint container could hold out twice as long, if not more.

So far, they could reliably get twelve hours, but both Master Kreth and Thom Concord seemed pleased. The concept was clear, but how much effort it could save!

For instance, a meal could be cooked in the morning and stay hot until noon, or even the evening.

And then they could transport cold food...

Lily rubbed her forehead; it helped her remember. Chemistry class, ninth grade or so. Ammonia Nitrate.

Some substances were great at generating cold, meaning an endothermic reaction that absorbed heat. Everyone saw cold packs in drugstores! Press them, shake them, and they were cold for the next few hours. But who had ever spared a thought to their composition?

What did they have inside?

If we factor out various super gels and solutions, the simplest pack had a pretty simple formula: water and saltpeter. Just give it a shake so they would mix, and magic happened. When the saltpeter dissolved, the cold stopped being generated.

What kind of saltpeter? Ammonia nitrate could be produced by any child: a couple of bottles, white ash, straw, chicken manure, and that’s it. Lily had mixed it once or twice herself.

Could she repeat something like that here?

She could. They had even done it already in Earton and Taral. It was a bit harder on the road, but still possible. But did it mean that they would need to add one more layer to the thermos and cool it off from the outside?

Or should they just keep it simple and chill it separately, inside bottles, and pour the cold water or wine into the thermos and transport it like that?

Both options seemed workable. The most important thing was to make sure that the ammonia wouldn’t get inside the flask, into the food and drinks. It might be a great thing, but it certainly wasn’t good for your health.

Jerisson studied the inventors closely. All he could do was shake his head.

He saw that Lilian was in charge, that the ideas were hers. But where did she get them?

How could she produce such concepts?

Finding out was all but impossible. His wife would flutter her long eyelashes and give him a surprised look. Isn’t it natural? In winter, we get cold and dress in warm clothes. In summer, we get hot. It’s the same with everything else. What if we make a padding, a layer between the sun and food inside? Is that really so complicated?

It wasn’t. But why had nobody thought of that before?

Lily shrugged and said that she simply wanted something cold. The count was at a loss. Still, it ran in her family. August was constantly coming up with something for his ships, despite never actually climbing onboard, as he got sick. Still, his mind was brilliant.

Lilian didn’t care about ships, but she wanted something simpler. A ther-mos. A funny word.

Truly, it felt great, sipping cold wine in the summer heat, when people were drenched in sweat. Lovely!

And no magic, no possession; Jerisson had watched the entire process from start to finish, his wife always in sight.

Still...how the hell had it occurred to her?

***

Lilian got so carried away with inventing a thermos that she completely missed the alarm. How had it come to that, really?

The thing is, the woman had no idea how to flirt or recognize signals given by men. Back when she had been Aliya, she had Alex, the man she loved above all others, and everyone else had nothing compared to him.

Upon becoming Lilian Earton, she got an entire castle in her possession and couldn’t lose face.

Men might get an occasional roll in the hay with maids or servants, and that only added to their valor. With women, it was the opposite; either she didn’t care or had other things on her mind. And nobody really tried it with her, anyway. In the Middle Ages, the chain of command was maintained as strictly as in the modern army, and the punishments were much crueler.

Then, Alexander Falion drove away all who might have set their sights on her, and later, her own husband cut in.

And thus, it turned out that Lily utterly failed to notice the fiery glances and soulful sighs. Jerisson, on the other hand, simply couldn’t believe that anyone would be arrogant—and stupid—enough to court his wife almost in full view of everyone else.

A man willing to do that would have to be more than just stupid. He would also need a death wish and be well on his way to achieving his goal.

Yet it was only the good things that were hard to find; idiocy, especially on the road, was a different matter.

***

Many women know that men come in two types. The first consider women to be a divine blessing. The second think themselves a divine blessing for womankind.

The women, in turn, treat each type in a different manner. With one, they take pains to find, nurture, and cherish them. With the other, they mostly treat them like they would treat scrambled eggs...if they don’t actually make them into scrambled eggs, if a man turns out to be pushy enough.

And then, those men also have a different approach to gifts, too. If the first prefer giving them, the others expect to be their recipients. Some even suggest that their talents should get a worthy compensation.

Tellingly, neither group cares if the woman is already taken.

Leir Anthony Sivralle belonged to the second category and genuinely considered himself to be a gift from the heavens. Why wouldn’t he? He had everything and more, a handsome, young man with a winning personality and great skills in the bedroom.

His tall, blond, blue-eyed looks made him resemble a Virman, and after working on his manners, he learned to be impeccably friendly and polite.

It’s not like he had any other choice, though. A leir or not, your life is bound to be full of sorrow if you happen to be born penniless. Anthony’s father, a landless noble, had once been a member of the royal guard, and that was where he sent his own son as well. Let his child build a career, save the king from a deadly threat, or make a princess fall in love with him!

Fine, not a princess; a duchess would do.

Anthony arrived at the capital full of bright hopes, yet life quickly proceeded to pluck the feathers out of his wings. Apparently, kings weren’t known to rush into danger all that often, princesses were never left alone with the guards, and their ladies-in-waiting were scarier than most bears.

As for duchesses... Things happened, some of them so unpleasant Anthony didn’t want to ever recall. He would run away with no pants on, fight in duels, and sleep with such skanks that if you threw them into the sea, sharks would flee in terror.

What never happened was money.

Living in the capital wasn’t cheap. He did get an occasional present from a lover or a win in a game of cards, but most of the time, Anthony was in pursuit of money. He had no wish for an honest living; working was unworthy of a nobleman. Now, a good marriage or sponging off a wealthy lady...

And so, he would find a lady and mooch off her, eventually growing too cocky and getting the axe.

At that moment, he was prowling the open waters and blatantly checking out the curves of one Lilian Earton. The main draw of the countess was her money. Anthony knew how much a scrap of lace cost, and the prices on mirrors put him in an honest shock. The countess had to be rich.

She also was pretty, which mattered. He wasn’t an eighteen-year-old hunk anymore, able to get it up at will. At twenty-six, he was still quite a stud, of course, but years and a few shameful diseases had taken their toll. If he picked an ugly crone, he ran the risk of embarrassing himself.

The main thing, however, was that Lilian was the wife of Jerisson Earton, the man that Anthony had been nursing a grudge against for some time. He was disciplined, strict, had a good standing at court, money, and... He had everything at once, and what did Anthony have?

The man couldn’t quite put his feelings into words, as envy was generally hard to explain, yet he grew angry and frustrated every time he saw the count. He couldn’t challenge him to a duel, though. Losing meant certain death. Winning was no better, as the king would surely execute him later.

Sleeping with his wife, however, seemed like a much better idea, and making her spend her husband’s money on her lover was even better. Let the arrogant bastard become a cuckold! Let Lilian Earton bear a child from her paramour!

Oh, yes, his vengeance would be sweet.

The moment was perfect, too. Getting the countess would be a walk in the park. Everyone knew that the count had seduced the Eveer girl...or was going to. A woman scorned was easy prey.

Anthony watched the countess’ flowing movements—the way her hips swayed under her long skirt, how she twirled her hair around her finger while talking to her Eveer, how her bosom heaved under the thin fabric of her shirt—and tried to convince himself that he would succeed.

After all, the countess was stunning, he was attractive as well...what could go wrong? All they had to do was to spend some time one on one, and the rest would be history.

Yet he couldn’t quite seize the opportunity. Anthony realized that he would have to become the master of his fate and talked to his friend.

Leir Simon, a landless noble himself, only shook his head and tried to dissuade Anthony from a dangerous undertaking.

No dice.

Simon gave up and agreed to distract Count Earton, just for half an hour. Anthony was sure he wouldn’t need more. The trick was to let the woman judge the goods first-hand. After that, she was sure to chase him herself!

***

Lilian had no idea about Sivalle’s plans and didn’t catch any of his looks.

No matter what the romance novels say about women sensing men’s attraction with their skin, it didn’t happen all the time. Maybe some ladies had especially thick skin...or they cared about thermoses more than such foolish matters. After all, it was A THERMOS! Not some useless leir constantly getting under her feet, bowing and staring at her, bowing and staring, the way horses sometimes stared at their riders. Actually, Lilian didn’t spare him any thought. When he greeted her, she would reply and go about her own business.

That night, they camped at the riverside. Lily paused to think, tentatively touched the water, and turned to her husband.

“I’m going to take a walk upstream and bathe. Would you care to join me, Your Grace?”

He got the hint. A smile lit up his blue eyes.

“With pleasure, M’lady.”

“Can I go with you?” Mirrie asked, jumping up.

Lily shook her head.

“Sweetheart, have you noticed how cold the water is? Your papa and I will have a quick swim and come back, and I’ll wash you in warm water myself.”

“Momma, I want to go into the river, too!” she whined.

Lily narrowed her eyes.

“Miranda Catherine Earton, do you wish a nose full of fresh snot?”

“No. But mo-omma...”

“Mirrie, honey, you’ll get your head wet, freeze, sleep in your tent the whole night, and get completely sick. Then you’ll have to ride in the stuffy carriage and drink foul-tasting medicine.”

Miranda caved in. She knew that her mother was one to deliver on her promises.

Lily genuinely believed that the child should take her own lumps. If she told Mirrie, “Don’t eat snow or you’ll get sick”, it was her own choice to obey. If she disregarded her mother’s words, she would have to sit and be treated. Such was the price of her decision.

After several incidents, the girl had realized that Lilian wasn’t mean enough not to forbid anything expressly and that all her warnings had a logical explanation. Just like the current situation.

“But you aren’t going to get sick?”

“We won’t be long,” Lily replied, shrugging. “Five minutes, nothing more. Plus, we’re older, fatter, and our bodies are stronger. You know that.”

Mirrie did. Lilian and Tahir often lectured her on medicine, and she was happy to learn new things. She had seen that knowledge save lives.

“Fine. Go.”

Lily kissed the top of her head and whispered to her very quietly.

“Sweetie, your papa and I want to be alone. All right?”

Mirrie sniffled and whispered back, just as softly.

“I want a brother.”

That got her the second kiss, this time on the nose.

Lily headed upstream, proud. Walking along the riverside wasn’t hard, as the ground was soft, and the coast was low, occasionally giving way to a slope with swift nests.

Watching the chirping birds fly above the river and catch flies was fun, and Miranda quickly got absorbed in that. She made herself comfortable on the cliffside, her legs hanging down, and a minute later, was joined by Gael, who hadn’t gone with the countess. It’s not like he wanted to pry!

Priscilla Elont watched Lilian leave and whispered in her husband’s ear.

“The count got lucky with his wife, didn’t he, dear?”

Sated and mellow, her husband drew her closer and kissed her on the cheek.

“I got even luckier.”

Countess Roivel’s face twisted into a grimace as she watched them. Priscilla beamed. She also thought that she got lucky with her husband.

Jerisson prepared to follow his wife, but one of the guards blocked his way.

“Your Grace, just a minute of your time...”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think my horse got glanders.”

That gave Jerisson pause. Glanders was no joke. He needed to check that information, or they might be left without any horses at all. He had no choice but to find out if that was the case.

In the meantime...

***

Lily whistled a tune. She was in a joyful mood, anticipating cool water, soap, and... Yes, that, too. So what?

It’s not like she was committing adultery. He was her lawful husband approved both by Aldonai and the king.

But...what was that? A member of the royal guard was standing by the riverside. He was tall, half a head above Lilian, good-looking, and blond-haired.

He watched her, and his gaze... That went beyond simply undressing her with his eyes; it was as if he had already taken her, dressed her back, and was about to undress her again. Lilian squinted.

Then she returned his stare. She sized him up, taking off his clothes, and winced, I wouldn’t take such junk even on a sale or for free, then clothed him back. What, did you expect me to blush? An army brat? A medical student?

She had seen her share of men without clothes, or without skin, or even in STD clinics. Now that was the place that could make you want to retire into a convent. But here? Hmph! She had no time for peddlers of syphilis.

Her reaction clearly took Anthony by surprise.

The countess was supposed to be embarrassed, blush, and maybe even start babbling something in the vein of “Who are you?” or “How could you?” He would follow that up with a decisive assault, an ecstatic moan, and leave for the shadow of the woods.

Instead, the countess was almost mocking him. An obvious question was written in her eyes, but not the one he wanted. Anthony saw her green eyes asking him, why don’t you get lost, my dear?

He launched an attack. He stepped forward, falling on one knee, which also made him closer to the countess.

“M’lady, your enchanting eyes lit a raging fire of love inside my heart. I am sick as I swelter with desire...”

That was a mistake, of course. Because as Lilian Earton made just one step forward, she gave the romantic hero a sharp push on the shoulder, knocking the gallant admirer off balance right into the river.

The next thing he knew, he was plunged into cold water headfirst. Shocked, he breathed in, and when he finally re-emerged and coughed the water out of his lungs, Lilian was already gone, and he had to dive back in, as he heard the steps of Count Earton.

Escaping was just as hard. He had to swim downstream, so numb he couldn’t even feel the cold anymore and so angry that he couldn’t notice anything around him. What a bitch!

He had bared his very soul to her, and what did she do? If hate was a material substance, the river would boil. Still, nobody could bend the laws of physics; no matter how he seethed with rage, the fish remained alive.

Anthony climbed ashore and crawled into the camp, trying to stay unnoticed, afraid of becoming the laughingstock of the camp.

You whore, you wretch, you skank! I’ll pay you back, just you wait! You’ll never forget me!

***

Lilian couldn’t forget him in any case.

Ugh.

The garrison life had taught her the very same rule that she had used with Anthony. If the opponent is bigger and stronger and presents an immediate threat, damn the law! Hit first and think later.

Lilian had calculated the fallout almost instantly.

Her husband would arrive, make a scene, Aldonai willing, and not start a duel. The question would be, who was to blame?

The countess. The results would be unpredictable, possibly a stain on her reputation, problems with her husband, her daughter, with the ambassador party, the king...

To flee? Across the country, in a long skirt? That could be funny if the situation wasn’t so scary.

To fight? Why would she, when the soil on the coast was so conveniently soft, and there was such a nice river underneath? One push, and she would have no problem at all. Hopefully, he wouldn’t drown.

And Lilian moved on, without even waving goodbye to the guard.

When Jerisson caught up to her, she had already laid a cloak on the shore and sat there waiting, without bothering to tell her husband about a matter as trivial as a love confession.

Why would she do that? There were plenty of fools out there, too many to complain about them all.

Jess lowered himself on the ground next to his wife, pulled her close, and Lilian nuzzled up against his chest, sighing.

“You are late...”

It wasn’t a reprimand, just stating the obvious.

“Ah, plenty of fools out there.”

Mentally, Lily checked off a box.

Plenty of fools out there; one of them had happened to cross her path, one, her husband’s. Wasn’t that a bit much? Still, rather than question him, she undid a button on her shirt and stood up.

“Let’s take a swim.”

Jess looked at the river, then back at her.

“Maybe later?”

“What if His Grace helps the lady to bathe?” Lily teased him. “If he catches her, of course.”

Jess narrowed his eyes.

“Are you a good swimmer, my dear?”

“Also a great diver. You can check.”

And Lilian headed to the water, undressing along the way.

Jerisson grinned and followed his wife. So you want to play? Then let’s play, my golden-haired fish.

When they returned to the camp, it was already dark, neither of them paying any attention to Anthony and his dark look. Lily genuinely considered the issue settled, while Jerisson still didn’t know about it in the first place.

***

Somewhere at sea.

Eric had definitely jinxed it. What else would one think when a storm was about to start?

“We’ll be in Virma soon…”

Yeah, if we don’t drown.

Storms take a hard toll on ships. They can’t lose sight of each other, but also cannot get too close. The waves raise the vessels to unimaginable height or crush them to the depths of the sea, and every time, it felt like the fragile shell was about to break.

Ever obedient, Richard had cleared the deck at the first sign of a storm, as soon as Eric asked him—rightly so, as it turned out.

“Your Highness...Richard, don’t take it wrong, but you’re the fifth wheel here. I know you can do everything, but Holosh forbid it you get washed overboard. We’ll ruin the ship trying to save you—most likely, to no avail.”

It was hard to argue with that. Richard nodded and withdrew to his cabin. Angelina and her ladies-in-waiting joined him, all of them sitting and waiting...

Or just waiting because it was all but impossible to sit when the ship was tumbling like that. They were grabbing onto everything to avoid being crushed into the wall headfirst.

Angelina grasped her brother’s hand, trying to keep her emotions in check. She was a princess, not a scullery maid; she had no right to panic, absolutely no right... Oh for the love of Aldonai, why is it so scary?

The princess’ fingers turned pale as her grip on her brother’s hand tightened. Richard kept his silence.

Let her do that, as long as it helped.

The ship dropped into a crevice between the waves.

Ashley Lorin got slammed into the corner and stayed there, whining.

“We’re all going to die. Merciful Aldonai, please take pity on us and accept our souls...”

Aliah Reinst kicked her.

“Shut your mouth, you psycho!”

The ship swung in the opposite direction, and before Angelina could say anything, she crashed into her brother. Flushing with anger, Ashley flung Richard’s boot at Aliah. Its usual place was under a hammock, but the storm threw everything into chaos. As if to confirm that fact, the boot hit Jean Erroy.

“Sit still, you broad,” Jean blurted out, indignant. “I can’t move an inch, and then you start with your nonsense?”

“It’s you who’s broad!” Ashley retorted.

“Your head is as thick as your waistline! And if you throw anything else at me, I’ll shove a pillow into your belly so you’ll be even broader!”

Angelina was about to call the girls to order, but Richard gently squeezed her hand and shook his head. For a few minutes, she couldn’t get his implication, but then, she understood. Of course, let them quarrel instead of sobbing. When it came to surviving, anger was much handier.

Instead, she asked. “Jean, can you swim?”

The girl snorted.

“Of course I can, Mistress. Who can’t? Oh, the broads.”

All three ladies-in-waiting looked daggers at the sassy girl.

“I can’t swim either,” Angelina confessed.

The ship plopped down, and she blurted out, completely sincere, “If I live, I’ll learn to!”

“We could find someone on Virma to teach you,” Richard decided. “But when the sea’s like that, it’s challenging even for the fish.”

“You can swim.”

“So what? I’ll have to try and save you anyway, so we’ll drown together.”

“Such a relief to hear that, brother...”

Suddenly, Ashely Loran smiled through the tears.

“Yo... Your Highness, my brothers and I are just like that...”

“Go figure. Those rascals are the same in all families,” the princess replied grimly. And then, she remembered. “Girls, I have a new story about Baron Holmes lying in my chest. Do you want me to read it?”

Did they want that? Who wouldn’t? The storm was a trifling matter, but to die without learning anything about Baron Holmes? Now that was inconceivable!

Richard personally ventured into his sister’s cabin and pulled a scroll from the chest. Angelina unfolded it and recited, “The Adventure of the Second Stain.”

Angelina had already read it without showing it to anyone else, but the moment seemed to be perfect. The storm was forgotten, as was the fear of death...and really, what tomfoolery is that?

The ship was yo-yoing back and forth, making reading really difficult.

Turn the storm off!

***

The storm relented only by the dawn, but the damage had already been done.

Only eight vessels were left out of ten, with two having been carried away somewhere far beyond the range of sight. Four out of the remaining eight were beaten up so badly they could barely move and would never survive another storm.

They couldn’t be abandoned, however. Workers began hammering away with their axe handles, hurriedly mending the breaches. They would have to spend a day in the same spot, praying that the storm didn’t hit anew. Hopefully, the two other ships would find their way back by then, and if not, head to Virma.

Truly, autumn storms were particularly nasty and conniving. It must have been Holosh’s doing, that’s how he was. No matter how much you prayed or sacrificed to him, he could always find a loophole. Actually, that’s why he wasn’t offered sacrifices all that often. No point in that. He would decide everything by himself, anyway.

That time, he also took his due. The storm had washed overboard Pastor Enora, who chose a completely wrong moment to come onto the deck. But the Virmans didn’t consider that to be a great loss, while the Ativernans were happy to survive that mess.

As long as we’re alive, we’ll pray for his soul; just let us reach the land.

***

Ativerna. On the road.

The road was a harsh mistress.

For the first few days, Lily was trying to get used to their manner of traveling, then probe for contact points with her companions, and then, they had to rescue Master Schmulz and his daughter. It was only later that she finally got the opportunity to study the road itself.

She couldn’t call it especially good. It was mostly earthen, sometimes foot worn, sometimes covered with stone. There had been no Romans in that world, so nobody had built anything like Roman roads, not to mention aqueducts or water drains.

There were ditches alongside the road, shoddy and sloppily constructed. If a wheel got into such a ditch, you would have to unload the entire cart. The highroads themselves were often just as bad, covered with potholes and so many puddles of dirt Lily was contemplating building a mud bath retreat. And the drains made pulling off the road especially hard.

Still, the road wasn’t that big of a problem, compared to people you could encounter.

By the end of the tenth day, Lily grew curious. Who was it who got pushed by their fate to travel in such a time? Wasn’t sitting at home better? But no, the roads were far from empty.

Some of the travelers were pilgrims of all types, who all had a very important destination.

This world had no Mecca or Jerusalem, but nature abhorred a vacuum. There was a legend that visiting a hundred convents and praying in a hundred temples made Aldonai hear your prayers.

Say, you had a sick relative, or maybe one of them had just recovered. As a sign of gratitude, you would go on a pilgrimage. Or maybe you just had a surge of piety and needed a release.

And so, thousands of people took to the road.

All-pervasive illiteracy made most of them use special staffs. A staff was a handy tool while walking, and it could also be used to notch down the temples you visited with special marks. Then you could ask someone to count them and gradually collect them all.

All Lily could do upon learning about that was to shrug.

The Khangans had a similar custom, although they only had to visit four temples instead of a hundred. Still, all of them were located in opposite corners of the country, so getting there by foot was anything but simple.

Yep, exactly, by foot. Traveling comfortably in a carriage didn’t count. You had to use your own feet and overcome all hardships; the pilgrims couldn’t even use donkeys or mules.

How did they survive on the road? It varied. Some moonlighted, some helped others with their work, and some traded. The latter, however, had a different name.

It might have been a different world and a different time, but temples were temples. Even there, they dabbled in merchandise such as holy symbols, medallions, and “genuine relics” of local saints. They were sold to those unable to travel to a particular temple but who really wanted to visit it. It wasn’t really considered a full-fledged visit, but a holy item was a holy item.

From the standpoint of locals, it meant piety and salvation of the soul. From the standpoint of Lilian, it was complete nonsense. She couldn’t see the point of such endeavors. Waste several years of your life to pray in the distant corners of the country?

What about, say, working? In a hospital for the poor?

Who was it who had told the fools that Aldonai—or god, no matter which—cared that much about slackers who traded their life for idle chatter? The best prayer was doing something. Stop kowtowing to the higher power, just help your neighbor out.

Oh, they don’t need any help? Then just open your eyes, look around, and see hundreds and thousands of people who need you! Can’t find a calling? Just go pick up a puppy from a dumpster, and you’d save a living creature! And how many abandoned children were out there? How many beggars?

Still, Lily was biased. Ever since her childhood at the garrison, she had been taught that one small act of kindness was better than a thousand words, and that’s what she was going.

And she certainly didn’t give the pilgrims any alms or buy anything from them. But children were children, and crowd mentality was all-pervasive. When Miranda asked to travel with Jerisson, Lily rode ahead and chatted with Kreth. Upon returning, she felt sick. A dirty robe-clad creature with a staff was extending a whole bunch of cheap charms (err, holy symbols) to her daughter, who was studying one of them closely.

Jess was fiddling with a silver coin—enough to feed a soldier for a month, maybe not an officer, but still! How could he? Pay such money for such trifle?

Yep, she did care about money, even if Lily’s inventions were making her a fortune. Look after the pennies, the pounds look after themselves!

Lily spurred Lidarh, pushing the pilgrim away from the girl, and threw an incensed stare at her husband.

“Jess! Mirrie! What are you doing?”

Both Jerisson and Miranda stared at her wide-eyed.

“Lilian?”

“Momma?”

The girl was clearly confused. Lilian could understand Jerisson, but Mirrie? Hadn’t she been told what’s what? But maybe some things were ingrained too deeply. Whatever. Lily would knock it out of her.

Gritting her teeth, she pulled out a flask of alcohol.

“Honey, do you remember me telling you about dirt and microbes?”

“I do.”

“Great. Look at the mister. Is he dirty?”

Miranda slowly nodded.

“Y-yes.”

“Please wipe everything you might get from his hands with a handkerchief and alcohol. Got it?”

“Yes, Momma. But could something like this happen to holy relics, too?”

Lily rolled her eyes.

Oh, yes, it does! Not a single germ had ever died from a prayer uttered over gangrene, and no microbe had been destroyed by a cross placed against a wound.

Disinfection and only disinfection!

With Miranda, Lily used a simpler explanation.

“Honey, when we get back to Taral, we’ll try to take a look at microbes.”

Mirrie nodded. Hopefully, Rickert had already figured out lenses. Lily had long since explained the principle to him, but knowing and doing were completely different things.

“Yes!”

“Then we’ll pray next to them and take another look.”

“And?”

“And no microbe would die. And dirt is...”

“The basis of all diseases!”

“Exactly.”

As Jerisson listened to their conversation, his mouth opened wide, and his eyes almost popped out of his sockets. In the end, he couldn’t hold out anymore.

“M’lady Countess, what are you teaching the child?”

At first, Lily didn’t realize the problem.

“What’s wrong?”

“Lilian, those are sacred items...”

The noble count could babble on and on for some time, but upon identifying the issue, Lilian was ruthless.

“Jess, how does leprosy spread?”

Time for the count to stand dumbly. Leprosy, eczema, and other skin diseases were the scourge of the time. Nobody really knew how to treat them, and some treatments were so successful they killed off the disease together with the carrier.

If you caught something like that, your life was all but over; you would rot alive. Who wanted something like that?

“How?”

“By close contact, including touch.”

* Author’s note: that’s far from the full list; sometimes, it’s transmitted by air, and only up to 10% get infected via touch.

It didn’t take long for Jess to grasp it, and then, he flinched.

“What?”

“Yes, Jerisson. Some people have naturally better health, and they don’t get sick. Some, however, are weaker. This sickness might sleep inside a person for as long as twenty years, and only then burst out and start destroying them.”

“B-but...”

“The only way to escape it is not to grab everything that comes your way, or at least wipe it with alcohol. It could help a bit.”

Jess narrowed his eyes.

“How do you know this?”

Conveniently forgotten, the pilgrim ran away with his bundle of wares, having realized that he wouldn’t sell anything, but might get a good kick in the rear.

Lily rubbed her forehead.

“I read something in the old scrolls, and Tahir told me the rest. The Khangans are also afflicted with that taint. They don’t know how to cure it, but they did notice how it’s spread.”

“But those are holy items!”

Lily shook her head.

“They passed through hundreds of hands on their way to you. Were all those people completely healthy? I’m not sure, but I cannot risk my daughter’s health. Please, Jess, don’t risk it as well! I beg you!”

Unwittingly, Lily found the correct approach. Threats, arguments, or scientific proof might have caused Jerisson to stick to his guns. But a request, especially a sincere one, managed to strike home.

Lilian was worried for him and his child...

“All right, sweetie. We’ll do that. Should we wipe with this?”

Lily nodded.

“And please, don’t let Miranda touch those people. We don’t know where they’ve been, with whom did they sleep under the same cloak... Don’t put us in harm’s way.”

Jess nodded in agreement.

If his wife wished that, let it be so.

Lily caught her breath.

That protection didn’t work against all diseases, yet it was still something.

Way back, she had had an encounter with the relics of Saint Spiridon. A famous British naturalist Gerald Durrell had a trilogy of books about living on the Greek island Korfu. His family once visited a church when people were allowed to see the relics of a saint, and Gerald’s sister caught the flu.

How could one be connected to the other? It is a holy place with holy relics! Be gone with your blasphemous thoughts!

When Aliya’s friend from college read the book on her recommendation, she refused to visit those relics together with her mother and her sister. The power of the art was so immense that the friend was afraid to burst out laughing at the wrong time.

And what do you think? The friend’s sister also fell sick with the flu! Of course, she could never catch it from the relics, it must have been the people in the crowd. Don’t ye dare to blaspheme!

The pilgrims were the bane of the roads.

And that evening...

***

The same people were sitting by the campfire: three counts, three countesses, and the young viscountess.

Idle gossip, slow chatter, and then...

“You should have bought the relics of Saint Assenda, Jerisson.”

Ermina looked pleased. It was she who had bought them, after all.

Jerisson shrugged.

“What can you do? Did you buy them, Ermina?”

On the third day of the journey, the noble travelers switched to a less formal type of conversation. The road tends to either make people closer or drive a wedge between them for good. But an ambassador party was serious business, so everyone went out of their way to adapt to each other, and they were successful.

“Yes,” Ermina replied, content. “I have a finger of the saint herself and a lock of her hair.”

With some effort, Lily kept a serious expression on her face.

She had once read that if you put together all the relics peddled by the church in the Middle Ages, some of the more popular saints would have twenty eyes, forty ears, several dozens of arms and legs...

Saints forgive us sinners, but every era had its swindlers, and demand begets supply. They hadn’t developed DNA testing yet.

“What will you do with them, M’lady?”

Lily was silent. It was Miranda who asked the question, as the girl was genuinely curious.

Ermina smiled in a polite and somewhat condescending manner.

“Saint Assenda is known for helping women bear children to full term. If there’s a chance of miscarrying, you should crush the relics, mix them with blessed honey, and add a dash of it to your food...”

* Author’s note: similar methods were used in real life up to the 18th or 19th century.

After that, Lilian couldn’t keep listening. She felt nauseous.

Reading about something like that was one thing, but encountering that next to you... And Ermina was completely serious! She really was going to do that.

The cannibals of New Guinea had nothing on her.

Lily excused herself and left the table. She would have run away in disgust, but that wouldn’t be proper.

Jerisson found her in the tent, nervously gnawing at her nails.

“Promise me, Jess.”

“What?”

“That you’ll never ever add relics into my food. At least without my say-so.”

Jess stared at her, dumbfounded.

“All right, if that’s so important...”

Lily nodded.

She was shivering.

That’s different mindsets for you. She thought it savage, but the locals didn’t care a bit. Bon appetite.

Eww.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

“My Lord.”

The bow was low and full of reverence.

The duke waved his hand, flashing his ruby ring.

“Go on, Carl. And stop standing about, take a seat, have some wine. How’s your daughter? Is she doing well?”

The man straightened up and obediently lowered himself into a chair, pouring a glass of wine.

“All right, Your Grace,” he said, beaming. “She’s expecting her fourth child. They say it will be a boy.”

“What do they want to call him?”

“In your honor, My Lord. With your permission...”

The man gave his permission with a casual wave.

“I don’t mind. Maybe I’ll become his godfather, even.”

“Your Grace! It would be such an honor...”

“Stop it, Carl. You’ve done a lot for me. How is the king doing?”

Carl’s answer was prompt.

“The king’s at a loss, Your Grace. He’s seen a ghost.”

“Really?”

“They say the late queen appeared before him. It means he’s not long for this world!”

A fleeting smile materialized on the lips of the servant, reflected on the duke’s lips.

“Things happen...no matter how sad. What about his health?”

“He shouldn’t worry, it’s bad for him. And now...his wound festers, the medicus is sweating over it, but so far, to no avail.”

“Things happen, yes... Do come and visit me sometime. As a loyal subject of His Majesty, I must know about his state.”

Carl bowed.

“Nothing much, so far. The king’s praying, the queen’s by his side...clucking over him. She’ll give birth soon, her belly’s big enough to reach her nose, but she’s still fussing over her husband like a mother hen.”

Of course.

It’s only your own daughter’s pregnancy that matters. Someone else’s wife? Let her husband care about her.

“What did the queen say about the ghost?”

Carl’s expression darkened.

Milia’s pragmatism sometimes yielded incredible results.

“Her Majesty said they would have to get Count Lort back.”

“And?”

“As soon as the princess leaves.”

The duke breathed out, obviously relieved.

“Thank Aldonai.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Otherwise, who knows what might happen? Edward’s still holding a grudge against the count.”

The duke nodded.

“Still, try to listen to what’s being said, all right?”

“Your Grace, you must know that I’m always ready to help,” Carl said, bowing. “For you, I’ll do anything.”

He wasn’t lying, either. After all, who would help to arrange the ghost’s appearance? Good old Carl.

Who fed them information, without fail? Good old Carl.

He would never harm the king directly, give him poison, or raise a dagger against him, but otherwise...

When heartfelt gratitude was augmented by a heavy pouch of gold, Carl cheered up even more and assured the duke that everything would be done in top shape. How could he not, for such a good man?

***

So, who can directly access the king?

The nobles? Yes, absolutely. Still, it would be a mistake to forget about the servants: lackeys, people who cleaned and washed and dried and starched... It’s not like the nobles could iron clothes, pick through the sheets, or repair things.

That was the commoners’ business. Yes, they were personal servants of His Majesty, which conferred a certain status. Yet life was known to sometimes go into a tailspin, disregarding all titles and ranks.

Carl didn’t just consider the duke a good man.

Anything could happen to a person, and even the king’s personal castellan might be in need of help.

What would a man with a good position try to do? Exactly. He would try to elevate his relatives, in particular, his daughter.

But what would happen if a nobleman would assault his daughter and push her against the wall like a common whore? He wouldn’t be alone, either. What would happen if she was raped, beaten, and fired because she didn’t appreciate the boon she was given and attempted to fight off the attackers, crying and biting?

What would he do if he was just a commoner looking after the king’s laundry?

Complain to the king?

As if he cared about you and your grievances! Ha!

Even when healthy, Gardwig wasn’t known for his gentle temper. After getting sick, he had transformed into a savage beast, with his wife the only person who felt safe in his presence, and only because she had borne him sons and still was useful.

The king’s jester, too.

Not the castellan. What could the destitute father do? Only clench his teeth and bear it.

He did try to petition the king, throwing himself at his feet, but it was those feet that hurt the most at that time. Instead of assistance, the poor man heard that he had gotten lucky. Let him marry his daughter off and be happy that at least one of his grandsons had a pedigree.

As for the girl, they had barely snatched her out of a noose. Gossip spread, and Carl didn’t know what else he could do but pray.

Apparently, that was obvious enough for the duke to notice.

He questioned them, figured everything out, and helped take revenge. In less than a year, three noblemen died of various causes. One was killed in a duel, and two had food poisoning after eating some mushrooms. Nothing unusual, really.

Who could link their deaths to the assaulted girl? Nobody, not even Altres Lort himself!

The duke used his power to give the girl a dowry and married her off to a good man. Carl was grateful.

Recruiting? Please. Why wouldn’t he tell the nice man His Majesty’s inner thoughts? About his opinion on various matters, his health...

Servants saw much and heard even more, and nobody even asked Carl to give a full report—just an occasional conversation, with a good payment to boot.

The duke never pushed him too far.

But the plot finally reached the final stage. It would be better for everyone to be distracted with the king’s health; that would help the duke’s chances. The king was sick, and so, he died. Who cared if he was sick from being poisoned and died by steel?

Everything could happen! Nobody would request a full account from him!

That was the first time he would ask Carl for such a service, but he held no doubt that it would be taken care of. He didn’t ask about the girl for no reason.

Carl was no fool. He could even be of use later; no need to kill him off. Sensible men were always handy, especially if there was a means to control them.

Soon, so soon.

Just let the Ativernans arrive...

***

Ativerna. On the road.

Leir Anthony Sivralle shook a cup. The dice rolled out, one point each, as if mocking him.

The other player grinned, rolling a six and a five, and scooped the bets off the cloth.

“Care for one more game?”

Anthony shook his head.

“No, that’s enough for now.”

“Don’t let it get to you. Unlucky in dice, lucky in love, as they say,” his friend comforted him. All Anthony could do was grit his teeth. Lucky in love, yeah.

He had spent a whole night drying his clothes!

That bitch!

The count sure was blessed with such a wife, but...

Anthony froze as if struck by lightning. A revelation dawned upon him. The countess hadn’t known that her husband was held back!

She might have been just scared! She had no idea about Anthony’s plan. Imagine a charming young man confesses his love to you, and your husband falls out from within the bushes, raining on your parade. Actually, it was quite possible that the countess did have feelings for him, as she kept her silence!

Anyway, Jess would challenge Anthony to a duel, causing a scandal, the king’s displeasure, and lots of other problems. What would a smart woman do in such a case?

The very thing that Countess Earton had done—escape.

And her continued silence could only mean one thing. Anthony mattered to her, too.

The leir looked at one of the campfires, a content smile on his face. There, he saw the flowing locks of the countess, glowing red gold. She was sitting by her husband’s side, hugging her stepdaughter, seemingly at peace. She couldn’t see him, of course.

He would have to explain himself to her once again. Anthony, you’re such an idiot! How could you not have realized such a simple thing straight away?

***

Wellster, County of Eran.

“I thought I would die without seeing you again, dear Altres.”

Count Eran personally poured wine for his honored guest and pushed a plate of meat toward him. The two men were sitting together by the fireplace, watching it burn. Count Lort felt unusually at ease.

It had been a long time. Count Eran was one of his neighbors. Altres remembered him from his childhood, and even then, he seemed to be a gaunt old man, tough as nails, a purveyor of women, hunting, and wine. From the looks of it, Corvus Eran hadn’t changed a bit.

The same grey hair, the same black eyebrows, and the same piercing brown eyes. His wrinkles might have grown deeper, though. And it really had been a while since their last meeting.

Altres almost never left the capital, while Count Eran wouldn’t be caught dead visiting it. The court was no place for him. He would rather attack a bear with a forked stick or a boar with one spear than poke his nose into that pit of vipers, period.

It was unknown who exactly had wronged him and what secrets were hiding in the dark past of Corvus Eran. Altres Lort had never tried to pry.

Let the man be, let him live in his home the way he wanted, let him hunt, let him gossip... Yes, Count Corvus was a lover of stories.

He didn’t like telling them, however. He collected them, just to be on the safe side, as he put it. Nothing had changed since then, even the silver platter painted with deer and tableware. Things were the same, but people, oh, the people were so different...

“Yes, Corvus.” Lort sighed. “I haven’t been home for a long time.”

“Twenty years or so, if not more.”

“I had business.”

“I’ve heard about that,” Corvus smirked. “About your business, your work. Honestly, we never expected you to come back.”

“Gardwig banished me from court for a year.”

“News takes a while to reach these parts. All I can do is to assume. Is it because of the wedding?”

Altres chuckled and took two sips from the cup.

“You know, Corvus, it’s always amazed me how you can know everything despite never visiting the capital. Could you share your secret with me? Or your informers?”

The count smiled, flattered.

“Nothing complicated, Altres. It’s simple deduction. His Majesty must have a serious reason to be so angry, and what’s the most serious matter right now? Richard of Ativerna and our alliance with them. And then, they set off with Anna, only to return for Maria...call me Aldonai if the girl didn’t cause all kinds of trouble.”

“She did,” Altres said, deciding to lay the cards on the table. It was easier to spread gossip himself, and in the right way, than to stop it later. “She fell in love”.

“It happens with women,” Corvus agreed. “By the way, Leah stopped by to visit not long ago. She was together with her husband and her children. You can tell love makes for misery. I shuddered at the sight.”

Altres winced. The memories still scraped at his soul.

Really, how could a hunchback compete with his charming cousin able to recite poetry, make elaborate bows, and pay clever compliments? Altres didn’t remember his other virtues, though, and probably wouldn’t have even recognized his face. Hard to believe that once, he had thought his life was over. A snotty idiot...

Corvus stayed silent, letting the other man relive the hard times. Altres didn’t have to think long.

“How about we have a drink? Let’s toast to every next girl being better than the last!”

Corvus readily agreed and promptly returned to the topic that actually interested him.

“So Maria would be sent to Ativerna?”

“An ambassador party will come for her, led by Count Earton, the prince’s cousin.”

“Right...” Count Eran spent several minutes contemplating something and finally made up his mind. “Is everything quiet in the capital?”

Altres narrowed his eyes.

“Why are you asking?”

“And still?”

“I wouldn’t have left if I suspected anything was amiss.”

“Really? Everything’s all right?”

“Stop playing around, Corvus. I’ve known you for longer than a lifetime. Can’t you be straight for once?”

Count Eran raised his hands, perplexed.

“If only I had anything else other than rumors! Yet it's the empty can that makes the most noise.”

“So what noise have you heard?”

“Seemingly nothing, but...taken together,” Count Eran started, counting his fingers, “His Majesty had seven marriages.”

“Had?”

“Stop fretting over semantics, Lort. His first wife, who was older than Gardwig, is already dead by now.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“He executed the second one. What about the third?”

“I think she’s dead, too.”

“The fourth and the fifth are dead, too. The sixth is now in a convent. She became a reverend mother and seems happy. Our king is now married for the seventh time. His queen is by his side in the capital...”

“She is.”

“And he has no illegitimate children.”

“I would have known.”

Altres was confused as to the purpose of those questions. Wasn’t that public information?

Count Eran shook his head.

“I did say it was noise. But there is a rumor that the king has one more son, the eldest one, raised by people loyal to him, and when he takes the throne, the rivers will run with honey.”

Altres shuddered.

“Bastards can’t inherit.”

“That’s right. Yet how old is the king’s oldest son right now?”

Altres’ expression darkened. It was a touchy subject.

“So what? He has his mother, myself, and Gardwig’s still alive—and getting better.”

“That’s good. Really good.”

“What do you know, Corvus?”

Lort decided to be direct, but Count Eran only shrugged.

“That’s the matter. I don’t know anything. Anything, Altres! Rumors are spreading, but you can’t weave a hat from gossip or cut it into rags. Did he really have no bastards?”

Altres drew a deep sigh. When it came to women, Gardwig adhered to certain principles. He had never raped anyone, and neither did he ruin any woman’s life. He would have never dishonored a virgin, and as for married women...how could anyone tell for certain that the child wasn’t her husband’s?

And there really weren’t that many mistresses, either. Strange as it may seem, each time Gardwig married was for love, every single time. He also loved his wives and didn’t cheat on them. He didn’t keep any “official” mistresses, and as for one-night stands...how would one prove something like that?

All of his dalliances were between his marriages, and Altres always kept an eye on the ladies. A royal bastard would be fertile ground for conspiracies.

He could have sworn that nothing like that had ever happened. But where did those rumors come?

“You know, vagabonds, minstrels, traders, pilgrims...”

Altres knew that crowd and often made use of their services himself. But what had changed?

He had no idea.

“Fine. Seeing as I’m already here, I’ll go to Lort, see how things are there, and return to the capital. Let them execute me, but I’ll sort those rumors out.”

How much time would he need? A month? A month and a half?

No more than that. He would get there just after the ambassadors left. What could happen over such a short period? Nothing special.

Count Eran nodded.

“Maybe that would be better. Minstrels aren’t a reliable sort.”

“It's the empty lute that makes the most noise,” Lort joked. “Cheers!”

And the men gulped down more wine.

Chapter 5

Of Saints and Men

Ativerna. On the road.

“There were three sailors that once went to sea,

Oh, Lorelai Lorello.

And in the sea, catching fish would they be,

Oh, Lorelai Lorello.

Once back to the shore, they cured the fish,

Oh, Lorelai Lorello.

And bought lots of beer to drink with the dish,

Oh, Lorelai Lorello.”

Lily thought that traveling minstrels were the worst, and ear muffs were the best. She would really need to remember where cotton was grown, how cotton wool was made, and maybe in a decade, she would finally get earplugs produced.

“The maid in the tavern was oh so pretty,

Oh, Lorelai Lorello.

She brought them the beer and joked so witty,

Oh, Lorelai Lorello.

The sight of such beauty set all hearts aflame,

Oh, Lorelai Lorello.

They said they would marry her if she were theirs to claim.

Oh, Lorelai Lorello.”

Maybe it would be easier to just kill them? Without waiting for the cotton harvest?

That’s how minstrels were, restless and cheeky. Yet for some reason, they were popular with the people. Why in the world?

A look of pure disgust on her face, Lily stared at the man sitting on a log and playing on something resembling a lute. If only she could make him wear that instrument as a hat!

The minstrel had attached himself to their cortege at noon. He was following the road, and upon seeing riders closing in, didn’t pull off or make a deep bow, like all peasants, but simply stopped right in the middle of the track and bent his head, removing a beret-like headdress.

Lily remembered seeing d’Artagnan wearing a similar hat in a movie. The chevalier had arrived in Paris dressed in it, but quickly decided it was too backwater-looking and got rid of it.

The locals, however, considered it charming, same as the minstrel himself.

In all fairness, they had every reason to think so. The minstrel with an imposing name—Bartholomeo—was a handsome young man no older than twenty-two with chestnut curls, a pretty face, and blue eyes so big that Lily, in her down-to-earth way, started to suspect him of having Graves’ disease. The beret with a heron feather suited him well, as did the blue traveling outfit with trinkets sewn into it here and there.

It was only his music that was a problem. He would have been perfect as a gigolo or a pet dog, but as a singer...

For a second, Lily wondered if he would have been successful in the twenty-first century. He probably would. He does have a voice, even if weak, and an ear for music, plus a handsome face, and his songs are barely worse than her contemporaries’.

Bartholomeo asked to ride with the procession and entertain noble sirs and ladies—and he lived up to that promise. For an hour and a half, to be precise.

At first, he had told a story about a princess locked in the highest tower and a valiant knight who came to rescue her. Then he sang a few ballads... And Lily’s patience was wearing dangerously thin. Death would be a mercy for him!

“Jess, how about we take a walk?” she asked her husband softly.

“Don’t you want to listen to the minstrel, M’lady?”

Lily shuddered.

“I’d rather kill him than listen to that drivel.”

As luck would have it, right at that moment when the minstrel’s voice suddenly stopped to give way to a pause before the cheering. In the dead silence, the countess’ words sounded especially heavy.

The applause that Bartholomeo waited for never came.

Everyone gasped.

“Lilian!” Priscilla was completely comfortable addressing Her Grace by her name. “How can you say that?”

Ermina snorted.

“A noble lady could not, of course.”

Jess caught the implication and grew crimson. Lily realized that she wouldn’t be able to flee quietly and accepted the challenge.

“I’m sorry, Priscilla, but I cannot hear one more note of this.”

She simply ignored Countess Roivel, as if her stinging remark didn’t apply to her. Snapping meant acknowledging herself as not noble, after all.

“Maybe the fair lady would like something else?” Any minstrel had to be an expert in psychology or he wouldn’t stay a minstrel long. His audience would beat the crap out of him.

“I could perform any ballad or a madrigal for you!”

Lily shuddered.

“I’m afraid you could never sing something I’d like. Your songs are not my type, my dear. It’s not your fault, that’s how...well, that’s how it is.”

“And what is the fair lady’s type?”

“That’s right,” Ermina backed him up. “It’s easy to criticize when you can’t do better yourself.”

Lily chuckled. How many times had she heard that rhetoric, how many times had she read those words? So many critics unable to do anything themselves...

“Oh, poor me, I’m so fragile and vulnerable, your words wound me so much... Is that what you’re saying?”

“Excuse me?” Countess Roivel was taken aback.

“If one dares to criticize, they must be able to do it better. That’s what you wanted to say, isn’t it, Ermina? But should one really be a cook to dislike rotten meat? Or to notice that cabbage is spoiled? I don’t think so.”

The minstrel was genuinely insulted.

Lily raised her hand, comforting him. All right, her disappointment wasn’t the lad’s fault. So what if he was no Elvis Presley or even a Backstreet Boy?

She should be more lenient; he did the best he could. Eventually, this world would get its symphonic orchestra—all she had to do was to spare its progenitor.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s not your fault that I’d rather listen to something else. I cannot sing, but this is no reason for me not to like one kind of music instead of another. What’s so strange about that? Maybe you could tell me some story not about love? Like an adventure! Do you know anything like that?”

Minstrels didn’t stay offended for long; they liked getting food too much for that. The man paused to think for a minute and then nodded.

“Of course I do, fair lady. Do you wish to hear to the tale of Knight Alistair and a devious shilda?”

Everyone agreed. With the situation defused, people prepared to listen.

It really was a fairy tale. A shilda enchanted a princess and tried to plot against the knight who came to save her—a full set of medieval tropes: golden hair, blue eyes, a manly knight, a gentle princess, an evil shilda, always a curvy brunette...

Lily bravely suppressed the desire to yawn and rewarded the lad with a gold coin.

Everyone regarded that as an apology and relaxed. In the meantime, Jerisson beckoned his wife away from the campfire for a walk.

***

“I’ve never heard you sing.”

“I don’t,” Lily said, shrugging. She and her husband had decided to take a stroll around the camp. Lily had already told him that she lashed out because she wasn’t feeling well. Jess accepted her excuse and calmed down.

Nothing unusual.

“You don’t like it?”

Jess was sincerely surprised. At that time, musical education was mandatory for all noble-born people. Even in merchants’ families, all girls could sing.

“My voice is terrible,” the woman confessed. “I ruin any tune.”

That was the honest truth. She didn’t just have a tin ear; Aliya’s ear had been trampled, chewed, eaten, and replaced with something akin to a block of cement.

She had been the only child kicked out of a choir class with a request addressed to her parents, Please stop torturing the child...and the teachers.

Her parents shrugged and decided that in such a case, she should learn to work with her hands instead of her mouth. Not everyone could become a Pavarotti; the world needed a Stradivarius as well. And they promptly dragged the child to various school clubs instead of music school.

“Really?”

“It’s terrible,” Lily sighed. “I’m a little better at telling stories, though.”

“Could you tell me something?”

Lily considered his words.

“We need to go back to camp.”

She didn’t want that, but Jerisson had a serious look on his face. Maybe they really had to return.

That’s how a person’s reputation was created, from such trivialities. A word here, an action there... Jess knew how to move in society, and at that moment, he was in the lead.

“Let’s go back. Miranda’s probably bored without us, anyway.”

Lily sighed.

She pulled out a puffbox, powdered her nose...

Oh, right, powder.

Currently, lead face paint was en vogue, but it was expensive. Peasant women used a mix of wheat and bean flour instead. All of that came down, leaving splotches on the clothes and really didn’t look nice at all, not to mention the health issues it caused.

Beauty is a cruel mistress, you would say? Then try smearing lead paint over your face and add a cinnabar lipstick, and you would be the first to die at the feet of that lady.

Lily had contemplated that issue as far back as in Earton. She had a solution.

Talcum.

In the twenty-first century, just like a hundred years before, face powder was made of talc, and not that many people knew that it was a common mineral. Lily did, though. And when she had seen it, she didn’t hesitate.

Talcum was loose enough to be easily ground, and the power obtained that way was pretty high-quality. Most importantly, it never fell on the dress.

It could be used as make-up, as body antiperspirant...maybe something else, too.

As long as Lily didn’t forget: moderation was the key.

She powdered her nose, smiled at herself in her pocket mirror, considered the idea of manufacturing small powder boxes, just as those she was used to, and took her husband by the arm.

“Everything’s fine, Jess. Let’s go to Miranda.”

Jerisson nodded.

“Yes, dear. Let’s go.”

***

Miranda wasn’t especially affected by the absence of her parents. Upon the request of noble ladies, the minstrel tried singing a romantic ballad, and the girl was listening. The count and his wife were met with smiles.

Everyone knew that things happened...and in certain moments of their lives, ladies could jump at anybody in sight like cobras. Around once in a month or so.

“Excuse me,” Lily said. She disliked displays of hypocrisy but still could play that game if the need arose. “I felt giddy and was afraid I’d fall, so I had to find some smelling salts. I feel much better now.”

“Oh, how so? You should have asked me, I always carry a vial with me,” Priscilla replied, immediately demonstrating it.

Lilian shrugged.

“I’m sorry, it didn’t think of it. My head is spinning so much over the last two days! We, women, are so weak...”

Everyone got her meaning, even the minstrel, and nodded.

Truly, on some days, even weak women should not be approached, or they would bury you after killing you with a shovel.

“Momma, tell us a story before bedtime! Not about love,” Miranda asked. “I’m so bored...he loves her, she loves him not, or vice versa... Don’t they have anything better to do?”

All the people present laughed.

Lily scratched the tip of her nose.

“A story? Not about love?”

That was a challenge.

Still, she was a quick thinker. She did know a lot of such stories. For instance, Baron Munchausen's Narrative of His Marvelous Travels.

She had read a lot of it in her childhood. Just replace pistols with crossbows, cannons with catapults, and it would be perfect!

Lily looked at the minstrel.

“Well. Could you play along, young man?”

“Yes, fair lady.”

“All right then. Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away...”

She told everything, sometimes humming along, with the minstrel softly plucking at the strings of his lute, and sometimes falling quiet to take a sip of water, with her audience patiently waiting for her next word.

Nobody noticed the servants creep closer, the conversations ceasing, even the horses stopping to whicker...

Miranda climbed on her mother’s lap and pressed closer to her, listening.

Jerisson was listening as well. Did he consider her story an allusion? No, that tale had nothing about him. The protagonist was a baron, not a count! He was pulling himself out of a swamp by his hair, killed ducks and roasted them in flight, rode a cannonball...err, a catapult stone...

Everyone was roaring with laughter, including the minstrel.

Finally, the story came to an end, and Lily fell silent. Then she smiled.

People were throwing her weird looks. Why?

The countess shifted her gaze to her husband.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nobody has ever heard anything like that,” Jess confessed.

Lily lifted her hands.

“Neither did I. But it was you who gave me those scrolls...”

“There were fairy tales there?”

The countess smiled.

“We had to jump through hoops to translate the text. I’ll show you when we get home. And I think that it’s time for the child to go to sleep.”

“Your Grace, thank you for this wonderful tale!” the minstrel suddenly joined in. “Say, would you mind...”

“If you spread the baron’s story to the whole world? I wouldn’t. That’s why tales are written, isn’t it? Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for us to rest.”

Miranda was yawning.

Jerisson swept her up in his arms and wished everyone good night.

***

Wellster, County of Lort.

What do the commoners say about people who meddle? Altres Lort knew the old truth: don’t pry into anyone else’s gaps in the fence, or you’ll waste the rest of your life pulling your neighbors from your own.

Yet that was exactly what he had been doing.

Yes, he did solve the problems of the state. But in his own home, he had put up such a barrelhouse that even the Virmans might be happy to visit. There was nothing to lose anymore. He had hired a steward and promptly forgot about that place, getting the money and nice-looking reports, not worrying about it in the slightest. He should have known better.

Lilian Earton might have said a lot to Count Lort about disreputable managers, but learning the hard way was always more efficient. Still, someone else’s troubles always hurt less.

The scene that came into Altres’ sight was a total nightmare, fit for a brothel or the dock tavern the night the sailors took their leave from duty. Everyone inside his castle was beaming with happiness and content. The servants and the guards drank as much as they pleased. Maids got fondled right inside the great hall, and squealed, delighted.

The steward slept right in the count’s chair. Going by the bottle by his side, his happiness was beyond any measure.

The animal! That wine had been put into the cellar as far back as the time of Gardwig’s grandfather!

The count’s first instinct was to give a good thrashing to everyone he saw. Alas, he fell into a stupor and stood like that until the guard who had met him at the gate gave a polite cough.

Then he bellowed with such force that the bottle fell from the table and rolled away, demonstrating that there was still enough wine left for the count.

“Get the bastards! Lock them up!”

***

By the morning, Altres Lort realized that he was an idiot.

His steward hadn’t been stealing, he simply lived to his heart’s content. He collected taxes, sent part of them to the count, and used the other part to party as he pleased. He got himself a harem of pretty maids, took up residence in his master’s quarters, and felt absolutely safe.

Why would he worry, really?

If the count decided to visit his domain, he would be warned with enough time to get everything in order. It’s just that neither the steward nor his accomplice—one of the servants in Lort’s city estate—could have foreseen everything.

They did know a lot, generally, and were informed on his departure.

His Majesty is angry, and the count left for...where?

Earness estate, of course! On business! He’ll be back soon.

What they hadn’t known was that it would become only the first step in Lort’s journey. Altres hadn’t confided in anyone, simply ordered the servants to pack his things—and his escort, sent by the king himself, would be common soldiers instead of the royal guard. Nobody had time to question them in detail. Fortunately, Count Eran, bless his hound senses (or maybe he knew? He must have known!) imposed an entire score of soldiers to escort Altres, saying that the road wasn’t safe.

Well, neither was the castle, as it turned out.

At least he had the personnel to sort out the local rabble. Altres cursed, decided that he was to blame for trusting the cat to keep the cream, and proceeded to deal with the thieves, the drunkards, and the freeloaders.

The count’s sentence was simple. Interrogate and hang the steward. Chain the rest. Kick the women out and send them to their home villages; they were to never set foot in the castle again.

As for men...he would wait and see. All of them probably had skeletons in their closets. They would be questioned and sorted into two groups: to be hanged and to be banished.

It might sound cruel for a layman, but not for the chief of the king’s secret police.

From the looks of it, Lort would have to spend at least several days in his estate, or he wouldn’t have the time to deal with that chaos, not to mention, find a new steward.

Altres paused for a couple of minutes and sat down to write a letter to Count Eran, asking him for a recommendation.

Ugh, what a bother...

***

Ativerna. On the road.

The monastery appeared on the road as if by magic.

The horizon seemed empty, devoid of any buildings, but as they turned the corner, there it was, spread before their eyes: a lovely building of grey ashlar with Aldonai’s symbol painted on the gate.

Without hesitating, Jerisson sent his horse to the entrance.

It made sense. Why not spend a night under their roof?

Whoever had built the monastery was no fool: he had everything figured out, both for common pilgrims and for noble guests.

Commoners had two barracks—it was hard to call them anything else. One was intended for men, another, behind the wall, for women, so as to prevent lechery.

That was for wayfarers, though. For those who could actually pay, noblemen or merchants, the convent had a special section that boasted a carriage lot, a washroom, and several buildings resembling guesthouses. If that wasn’t enough space, convent cells were also for rent...for a generous donation, of course, please check with the Pastor Superior.

And of course, everyone was welcome to visit the temple and pray to the relics of Saint Constantine, the patron saint of the monastery.

The party unanimously voted to spend the night under the protection of the monastery walls. The procession turned toward the gate.

***

How were pilgrims greeted?

That depended a lot on their status and the profit they might bring to the monastery. And then, there were pilgrims, and there were pilgrims. Some arrived to deliver a certain oath or a penance. Some simply came to visit a holy place and pray there. Some were rich, and some were poor. Some were highborn, and some were common.

“All are equal in the face of Aldonai.”

Yes, but where is Aldonai, and where are we, the sinners?

Usually, a monastery was ruled by the Pastor Superior. He controlled things, distributed things, and his word was law. He was too good to come out to greet common pilgrims.

But when your cloister is visited by an entire procession led by the king’s nephew, Count Earton... Literacy might not be all too common in that era, but everyone knew heraldics.

And so, the Pastor Superior met the cortege right at the gates. He wasn’t bowing but radiated respect as best he could.

The countess appreciated that.

Groveling was an art, too, and that man had mastered it. His appearance was as benign as they came: grey locks carefully placed on his shoulders, beautifully trimmed beard and mustache, a robe made from soft cloth instead of Pastor Vopler’s rough wool, manicured hands, Aldonai’s holy symbol on his chest.

As the leader, Jerisson jumped down from his horse and fell on one knee.

“Bless me, o servant...”

“Let the light of Aldonai fall onto you.”

The pastor made the sign of Aldonai and smiled.

The men dismounted and bent the knee. Lily considered that and followed them, although without kneeling. The ritual for women was different: it was enough for them to simply bend their heads, especially for noble ladies.

“What led you here, sir...”

“Count Earton. We are an ambassador party destined for Wellster,” Jess said, waving his hand.

The pastor gave him a knowing nod.

That wasn’t an especially busy road; most of the time, people preferred traveling directly, but in such a rough season, they didn’t want to risk crossing the channel. The weather was too unstable: a storm might hit at any time, out of nowhere, and nobody could predict that. Therefore, it was easier to ride around Limayer Bay over land. Traversing a river wasn’t as hard as the sea.

There was still a lot of time left until the winter, and the ice would take a while to form.

The channel would become frozen eventually, but to wait until then?

“We’re happy to greet you in our cloister, Your Grace.”

“We would like to spend the night here, pray to the relics of Saint Constantine, and head out in the morning.”

“Guests are always a welcome sight, Your Grace. We have special guesthouses, and we can also invite some of your people to sleep in our cells...”

Jerisson nodded and proceeded to assign people to their quarters.

The three counts and their families occupied the houses, of course, with Maria’s future ladies-in-waiting taking another one, and the young men getting the last two.

The other members of the retinue were sent to the cells.

The dinner was to be served three hours later in the monastery mess hall, an hour after the evening prayer. What else would the noble sirs like?

Lily would have liked lots of things, but it’s not like she could tell it to the pastor.

Instead, she caught an acolyte and while the servants carried their things inside, showed him a silver coin.

“Do you want it?”

The answer was yes, judging by the hungry glint in his eyes.

“Do you have hot water in your kitchen? Heat it and take it to my house, I want a bath.”

“Mistress, I’ll have to check...”

The silver coin vanished in the acolyte’s hand. Another one appeared in Lilian’s fingers, as if by magic.

“Check it, then. I’ll make it up to you.”

The acolyte bowed and ran away, and Lily went on to review her abode for the night, Miranda in hand.

***

It was no presidential suite. Actually, it wasn’t even a suite.

Apparently, even guesthouses for VIP pilgrims weren’t especially presentable. It was an ordinary log cabin, marginally better than a common peasant’s, as it had an actual wooden floor and a chimney, plus a fireplace.

They got two big rooms, one upstairs and own downstairs, the first one with a bed and the second, with a table. Two chests, benches, chairs covered with fabric three times as old as Lilian...

That was all.

Thankfully, there were no fleas, bedbugs, or lice—that was the first thing that Lilian checked.

Sleeping under an open sky was much better than catching that zoo, and the world still had centuries to go until the invention of kerosene! But from the looks of it, the houses were used too infrequently for the local fauna to notice them. The pilgrim barracks were a different story: crowded, cozy, lots of potential victims.

Lily ordered the servants to make the bed with her own blankets (yes, they had to bring along their blankets, pillows, and bedcovers), lay rugs on the floor, and thoroughly heat the room.

Then she waited for the bath.

She might not have known anything about divine miracles going on inside the monastery walls, but she did have a good grasp on those caused by a few coins. The hot water was brought as soon as thirty minutes later.

Lily promised one more coin for taking it away in thirty more minutes and proceeded to wash Miranda as well as she could. The girl whimpered, complained, but didn’t fight her. She was also tired of walking around filthy.

She and Lily had to wipe themselves with wet sponges, but such were the rigors of traveling. You’d never get all the dirt and dust out of your skin and hair, and even if you did, brushing the latter seemed insurmountable.

Lily cleaned herself as best she could, thoroughly washed her hair, and sat by the fire. The servants had taken away the dirty water and dried the floor, and she and Miranda sat together in the big chair, cuddling, while Lily brushed the girl’s hair and told her a fairy tale from her own childhood.

The atmosphere inside the room was so quiet and familial that Count Earton, who came to call his family to pray, brushed it off and sat by their side, his back against his wife’s knees, plunging into tranquility.

He had peace, comfort, and his loved one by his side. What else could a man wish for? Nothing. In that exact moment, the count realized that especially clearly. He was listening to a fairy tale, twirling the tip of a golden braid, staring at the fire, and the feeling of utter calm, so rare for any courtier, came upon him.

The prayers would wait and to the netherworld with the dinner, it was a day of fasting, anyway...but those minutes were priceless. No need to go anywhere, shattering them, allowing others to intrude on that perfect moment.

No need for anything. He already had it all.

Thank you, Aldonai.

***

Any person could forget about the world around them. But could it forget about you? Alas, that was only a dream.

They had to attend the dinner nonetheless, sitting at the table in the enormous dining hall, keeping up a polite conversation with the pastor, and even go and pray after the dinner, which, incidentally, Lily approved of, as a fasting day meant lots of boiled and stewed vegetables. She could see the logic in that.

A hungry man had no time for thinking about the divine. Praying after eating made sense, and so was going to bed afterward. A correct regimen, too.

Otherwise, you’d spend God knows how much time standing up praying, then stuff your stomach with food, and go to sleep with a full belly. A great recipe for digestive issues.

On top of that, the evening service was blessedly short, just forty minutes—easy to survive.

There was, however, no escape for both Lily and Miranda, who were standing at the forefront, by their father and husband’s side.

Fine.

Lily wrote it off as protocol. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, not promote your Goths and your Hottentots, or you might get your spleen kicked.

Countess Earton already stuck out like a sore thumb, either saving Eveers or inventing a thermos...

Pray, ye child! If you don't save your soul, at least you’ll keep your skin.

And that’s what Lily was doing.

She prayed and even dropped a gold piece into the donation mug, the medieval equivalent of a piggy bank. Let them be happy.

She wasn’t alone, either. Other people donated as well.

Eventually, the donation mug was put into the corner; apparently, taking the profits away and counting them was decidedly not comme il faut. Or were they expecting somebody else to fill it?

Lily thought and decided that both options were correct, aligning the goals, and cheered up…well, until they got invited to inspect the relics—a great honor! Ewww.

Inside, the temples were quite humble. Green floor, white-blue walls, a sky-painted dome, the symbol for Aldonai against the sun. All the temples of Aldonai looked alike.

The relics weren’t kept inside a temple. There was a separate annex built for them, and there was no limit on decorations inside.

A reliquary was installed in the center of the building, shaped like a splendid golden coffin, with the saint lying on the velvet inside. Lily narrowed her eyes.

The mummification had been a clear success, as she couldn’t smell the corpse.

Still, seeing it wasn’t especially pleasant, even if the mummy was dressed in a magnificent robe of green silk. A dead man was a dead man.

Was it disgust that she felt? Perhaps. After all, any man deserved peace after death, not being put on display. It felt…wrong. They had never asked him when he was alive if he wanted to be shown to everyone; he hadn’t left a will. Someone simply decided that was proper. But was it right?

Lily was far from religious, but would she ever want her body to be demonstrated like that?

Eww. I’d kill anyone who tried that!

And if they really wanted to honor the deceased, they could put him to rest and visit his grave from time to time instead of displaying him for all to see. Thinking that such a fate could befall anyone put a damper on her mood.

But not Jerisson’s and Miranda’s, it seemed. Pastor Superior told them about the deeds of the saint painted on the walls: there, he was curing someone, and there, exorcising a shilda...

The images were gorgeous, and the artist was clearly a talent, but Lily couldn’t force herself to stay inside anymore.

The noise, the gawking, people elbowing their way to the relics... She had no desire to touch the mummy and edged herself away and back into the temple. Then she went outside, behind a corner so no one could see her, and leaned against a wall, drawing a deep breath of the nightly air.

She shouldn’t have dropped her guard.

“Your Grace, I cannot believe my luck!”

Lily gritted her teeth, recognizing the obstinate idiot that she had sent swimming the other day.

She also couldn’t believe her bad luck. She clearly drew the short straw.

“What would you like, sir?”

Her voice had enough ice to cover an average-sized skating rink. Anthony Sivralle chose to disregard such trivialities.

“Forgive me for scaring you, Your Grace. I love you.”

Lily was so shocked she opened her mouth wide.

She felt too embarrassed to tell him to bugger off. The man was in love. That was a severe form of a mental disability. What was she to do with him?

The answer came immediately.

“Well, then prove your love, young man.”

Anthony straightened his back. Things were looking up.

“Anything for you, Your Grace!”

Lily would have loved to send the idiot packing with a letter to someone or tell him to bail out the sea with a spoon, or...

Her husband was in charge. How would she tell him where she had sent the moron to? And why she did that?

Honey, he’s a little bit in love with me.

Great. Jerisson would surely be filled with sympathy and understanding, maybe even suggest a ménage a trois!

She didn’t think so. He could, however, kick off something stupid, like a duel.

“I want a star from the sky,” Lilian blabbered out. “And I won’t believe you love me until you give it to me, no way!”

Anthony was slack-jawed. A star? From the sky? Was she mocking him?

But while he was opening and closing his mouth, not knowing what to say, Lily deftly got ahead of him, genuinely regretting there was no river at hand, and returned to the temple annex. She was just in time, as Jerisson was exiting the building, Miranda in tow. Once again, the girl was clutching a pendant.

Lily shook her head, deciding to make a charm bracelet for her girl and talk to Master Helke to create more such charms so she could collect them.

It would be much better than wearing that stuff around her neck, and damn the customs.

Even in her past life, Lily hadn’t approved of people who hung bunches of crosses, icons, and amulets around their necks. She didn’t think it right. On the other hand, it was perfect for an attacker. Just one pull at all those trinkets was bound to leave a nasty gash; if the thread didn’t tear, it would definitely tear your skin.

Or maybe she would need to create a special box for such medallions, like a stock book.

It might even be successful: pockets, glass cells...

And she all but forgot about the wannabe suitor.

In the meantime, Anthony stood dumbfounded, thinking of the quest he had just been given. Had she flipped him off?

Oh no, just you wait, love; there is no escaping me!

But what would he have to give her instead of a star? The only thing he could think of was a diamond...but he wasn’t courting women to make them gifts! It’s she who must make an effort! For such a man...

What a bitch!

***

Like it or not, they had to attend the morning prayer as well.

Lily was drowsy and yawning all over, but running away was not an option; that would be bad form.

The morning service was longer, almost an hour and a half, probably so everyone would have the time to wake up. The donation mug once again made the rounds, and all attendees headed for the exit.

Uh-oh.

For cripes’ sake, really?

Lily was wearing culottes and underneath them, stockings.

They were lovely, with cute garters...one of which had just come untied. Lily felt a stocking slide down her leg.

What could she do? Her reflexes got ahead of her brain.

Jess was already leaving the temple, holding Miranda, and Lily stepped behind the nearest pillar into the passage leading to the relics.

As soon as the crowd dispersed, she would roll down her pants and hitch that damnable stocking up...

Culottes were still pants, which meant that accessing them from the bottom wasn’t a real option. If she wore a skirt, she could have dealt with that stocking anywhere— all she had to do would be to pull up her skirt, hitch up the perpetrator, and fasten it tight.

But she didn’t wear a skirt.

Pants required taking them off first, and during that time, she would be as vulnerable as an ostrich. Maybe she could have asked her husband to keep watch outside. God, she was such an idiot! But hindsight was 20/20, and it had completely slipped her mind. What a blockhead!

But blaming herself wasn’t especially productive. It would never help her fix things, and all Lily could do was to follow her original plan.

And nope, she wasn’t going to walk around with her stocking down. It wasn’t the twenty-first century when she could easily throw it away and buy another. Here, each item was hand-made and hand-mended. The best way would be simply not to let it get torn. She might have become a countess, but she still hated unnecessary expenses. Those who had never patched up socks full of holes wouldn’t understand.

The temple soon emptied out, and Lily finally resolved to implement her plan.

She threw a quick look at the floor, making sure it was clean enough, and discarded her culottes. Pull up a stocking, fasten the garter...yep, just like that, great job!

Pulling her pants up, she peeped out into the temple. Whoa.

One of the monks was standing next to the donation mug, with his hand buried inside.

What a parasite! As if the money had been put there just for him! A fraud! An embezzler!

The fact that enraged Lily the most wasn’t even the theft itself—with his other hand, the crook was making the sign of Aldonai and mumbling something along the lines of “God almighty, please forgive this sinner.”

She couldn’t hear it very well, as the acoustics weren’t that good...or maybe they were. The thief was in the corner, while she was just in the perfect spot, plus he was clearly nervous, going by his face. So, he would commit a sin and ask for redemption? What an original interpretation of Aldonai’s doctrine!

Just you wait, then.

What would a medical student come up with in a situation such as this? Only one thing. The pillar was situated just right, plus she wore the colors of the temple, blending in with the walls.

So you are scared of Aldonai? Time for you to tremble.

“Stop, sinner! You have gone down the wrong path! Repent, while it’s not too late!”

The main thing was inspiration—and lowering her voice to a contralto. Her words bounced against the temple walls, booming like thunder.

The resulting effect was so dramatic that Lily even congratulated herself.

The man shrieked, startled, dropped the cup, and darted off toward the temple exit.

“Art really works wonders on a soul,” Lily remarked, moving to a pillar closer to the exit. Her instinct told her that she needed to wait.

True, five minutes later, several pastors burst into the temple, the thief by their side. If she had tried to leave, she would have surely bumped into them.

The rest was par for the course.

The monk whimpered that Maldonaya made him do it.

One of the pastors, without further thinking (o tempora! o mores!), thumped him on the ear and ordered him to get to the hoghouse to work off his sin.

Lily thought it over and decided that was right. Then she edged out of the temple.

Jess and Miranda were already gone. That was to be expected, as the girl simply grew weary; her husband would have probably given her over to the maids and set out on a search for his wife, that is, if nobody had delayed him.

Dragging children to the temple was something that Lily refused to understand on principle. So, you say that God should rest in your soul?

Yes.

Is your soul always with you?

Yes.

Then pray at home. He’ll listen, especially to a child. Why torture the little ones? They are quickly bored and easily distracted, and the smell...

Lily remembered one friend of her mother who would have surely been hanged in the Middle Ages. The thing was, she couldn’t enter a church for the life of her. She would turn blue, labor for breath, go into a fit... She was lucky to be born in a progressive era when she could avoid churches like the plague. The reason for her problem was as clear as day: no demons or imps, just cinnamic acid, a component of incense. Even the sight of cinnamon sticks made the poor woman burst into spots.

How many people like her had been burned on a stake during the Dark Ages, Lily wondered?

She dismissed breakfast and decided to replace it with something she should have done the day before: take a walk into the library, or, rather, a scriptorium, the place where chronicles were written and copied. This was the source of all culture, the abode of literacy.

Would anyone be there?

Apparently, someone would. A short elderly monk gave Lilian a welcome smile.

“Bless me, oh servant of light.”

It almost took no effort on her part.

“Let the light of Aldonai fall onto you. What would you like, child of Aldonai?”

Lily smiled.

“Hard to say. I’ve always loved books...say, do you happen to have something on the art of healing? I can pay for a copy.”

The monk examined her closely, noticing a count’s ring, an emerald wedding bracelet, and expensive clothes.

“Your Grace…?”

“Countess Earton. And you are...”

“Pastor Elura.”

“Nice to meet you. What can you suggest, oh servant of light?”

The pastor stopped to think.

“I’ve been working in a scriptorium for as long as forty years, Your Grace... I think we do have something to your liking.”

Confident, he reached out to one of many shelves and removed several scrolls.

“Take a look, Your Grace. Might that be of interest to you?”

Lilian was quick to make use of the opportunity.

She gasped in delight. It was a description of plants drawn up by a truly intelligent author. The composition was really interesting, too.

Each plant was presented in two versions, blooming and fruit-bearing, with its title, a habitat, harvest time, and recipes that used it.

“This is a real miracle!”

Lily rubbed her hands in glee.

Of course, it was bound to have fantastical herbs like mandragora root, but to hell with it! That information was priceless!

“Pastor Elura, may I order a copy of those scrolls?”

“Absolutely, Your Grace.”

“And...if I may... Is it possible you have something else in that vein? A treatise on plants, animals, or diseases and their treatment?”

Pastor Elura pondered her question.

“I’ll take a look, Your Grace, but I have to tell you it won’t be cheap. Copying it, delivering it...”

“...Into the capital. The castle of Taral, for Countess Earton.”

“Yes, it would cost a lot.”

“Knowledge costs more than anything in the world,” Lilian snapped.

The pastor looked at her with genuine respect.

“This is the first time I’ve heard a woman say anything like that.”

“Knowledge helps save lives. If we women are to create them, then maybe we should save them as well?”

“Few people recognize that, child of Aldonai.”

“But some must, mustn’t they?”

“It’s nice having both the will and the way.”

The pastor grew sad, clearly reminiscing. Lily touched his hand.

“Whom should I talk to about the price?”

“With Pastor Superior, Your Grace. I could escort you if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

***

Lily and the monk walked out of the scriptorium side by side, and as luck would have it, the first person they stumbled upon was Leir Sivralle.

That parasite, again. Was he following her?

Lily clenched her teeth.

“Is this man bothering you, Your Grace?”

Lily breathed out.

“Is it that obvious, servant of light?”

“To me, it is. What about your husband?”

“No. And I would prefer to avoid making a big deal out of it.”

The pastor narrowed his eyes, considered her reply, and chose not to offend the woman with indecent assumptions.

“Publicity would sully a woman’s honor, even if she’s innocent.”

“You are correct, servant of light.”

“This man has a dark look about him. His eyes are hungry.”

Lily knew that. And hunger could drive people to the worst of actions.

“It’s not me he’s attracted to. I realized it, but I don’t see a way out yet.”

“I’ll pray for you, Your Grace.”

Lily smiled. His words were sincere; he wasn’t trying to suck up to her or pry a donation out of her, and that was worth all the money in the world.

“Pastor Elura, I don’t want to insult you by offering you money, but maybe you could accept another small present?”

The pastor raised his eyebrows.

Lily pulled out an ink pen in a box from her waist pouch. She had stocked up on them before the journey and took one to the scriptorium.

“Those items are made by Master Helke Leitz in the Taral castle. I do hope they will prove easier to use than quills produced by cutting goose feathers. Just make sure to filter the ink, so the stem doesn’t get stuffed.”

The pen was tested right on the spot, on the window-sill in the closest window recess, and the pastor smiled, quite grateful.

“Thank you, child of Aldonai. This present is truly to my liking. I will treasure it.”

Lily smiled and decided to send two more pens to the monastery. She would have to write to Taral, ask to add them to the fee.

Such people as Pastor Elura performed an important and very hard job. They needed all the help they could manage.

***

Virma.

At long last, His Highness Prince Richard of Ativerna stepped on Virman soil.

The ground wasn’t in particular awe of him, and neither were the Virmans. The reception had been well-prepared, but diplomacy and its niceties were still a learning curve for the Virmans, and it showed.

They weren’t dumber or less smart. They were simply different.

Laveri was an enormous port, with a wharf and an abundance of ships and warehouses. Beggars, pickpockets, and robbers made staying there till nightfall a huge risk for anyone, especially if they couldn’t protect themselves.

And that was a capital.

Virma had no capital.

It had the lands of Clan Hardring, where the Circle was usually convened, or at least, lately. If the clan grew weak, the Circle would find another plan. They weren’t confined to a specific location; they were no kings and needed no palaces.

A port? There was none, either. There were shipyards, built on neutral ground, as a default. For Virmans, ships meant life; burning down a ship was akin to murdering a man...although, human lives still mattered less.

So a man got killed. What was the problem? There were lots of others, women would bear more. A ship, however... Shipyards were untouchable, as were the ships built in them…until they left the shipyard, that is.

As soon as a ship would slide down the ways, as soon as a crew would man it, it would belong to one of the clans or a person, and in Virma, someone who couldn’t protect their possessions wasn’t worth much.

Anything might happen at sea. But that was the sea, and the shipyards were sacred.

In general, Virman vessels were pretty shallow-drafted. They didn’t need special wharves; if need be, they could even be dragged to sand. And that’s what the Virmans usually did. They hauled out the ships for the winter, cleared them of weed and shells stuck to their bottom, coated them with tar, and cared for them as if they were their children.

In Virma, ships were valued.

This is exactly why the Virmans had no port. Would you entrust your neighbor with your wife, especially if you loved her and your neighbor was young and arrogant? Crowds of people in the same place meant trouble, too. They were too warlike.

And so, the ships docked at the indicated spot, landing stairs were thrown to the shore, and Richard became the first to cross them and step on the soil of Virma.

He had a welcoming party. A man of thirty-five to forty years old stopped opposite the prince. He had a golden beard and blue eyes and bore a huge resemblance to Eric.

“Your Highness.”

There wasn’t much room left for guessing. The clan emblem on the man’s shoulder spoke for itself, as did its golden color.

*Author’s note: Virmans wear clan emblems, an equivalent to a coat of arms. The clan chief and his family wear golden emblems, clan members wear silver ones, the servants and farmers wear copper, and the slaves get embroideries on their clothes.

“The chief of Clan Hardring, Olav Erdson Hardring.”

Olav slowly inclined his head.

Richard smiled and stretched out his hand.

“I know you don’t bow in Virma.”

Eric had been the one to tell him everything about Olav, about emblems, and lots of other things. Over the voyage, Eric had told more stories than in his lifetime and currently was dreaming of keeping quiet for at least a couple of months.

Olav had joined his hand with Eric’s in a special way, entwining his fingers, and squeezed.

It was the sign of trust.

With men as strong as Virman warriors, one clumsy gesture meant a potential trauma. Still, Richard had demonstrated his trust, and Olav appreciated that first step.

“I’m happy to become the first to welcome you to Virma, Your Highness.”

“And I’m happy to meet my friend’s family.”

Eric, who had already climbed down from the ship and taken his place behind His Highness’ shoulder, smiled at his uncle.

Olav pulled a “diplomatic” expression. It was one thing when his nephew was a daredevil and a black sheep and quite another when he managed to become the friend of a prince from a powerful country.

And don’t even start with self-interest! The only feelings he harbored were of friendship, nothing else! It’s just that he had never got the chance to express them to the fullest extent. Circumstances...

“I hope you’ll like Virma, Your Highness.”

“I have no doubts,” Richard said cheerfully.

Olav looked behind the prince’s back at the motley crew of girls fluttering down the stairs from the ship, as if a host of colorful butterflies arrived in Virma. Would they fit in? It was a harsh land. But they were lovely.

Bran made a sign, and people started throwing flowers under the girls’ feet, a symbol of admiration. Olav didn’t distract himself with conversation, but the princess didn’t feel abandoned, either.

“I would like to invite you, Your Highness, to become a guest of Clan Hardring.”

“It is an honor,” Richard replied, observing the proper etiquette. “I hope your hospitality applies to my sister and my people as well.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Richard reached out behind his back, not even turning around.

The smell of perfume told him that Angelina was standing behind him, curtseying and squeezing his hand, her fingers trembling. It was scary for her, after all.

Everything was new and alien...

“My sister, Her Highness Princess Angelina.”

Olav bowed, his eyes filled with genuine admiration. He had a good reason, too.

Both princesses took after their father. She was lovely in her dress of dark blue lace, with a mantilla on her blond hair, a deadly combination of youth and dignity befitting a royal irresistible to men.

“Virma is happy to welcome you, Your Highness. Your beauty makes flowers wither in shame.”

His compliment was courteous enough, and Angelina once again dropped into a curtsey.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Olav smiled in appreciation of her reply.

Virma had no titles, but Her Highness’s remark had just put him on the same standing as an Ativernan duke, one more step below a king. That was understandable, however. There was only one king.

Bran Gardren stood by his side, bowing as deeply as his cane allowed him.

“The chief of Clan Gardren is at your service, Your Highness, and so is my clan. If you command, we will die for a single look from your eyes.”

Angelina blushed but didn’t say anything. She would have found words if she were alone, but she had her brother with her, and answering was his domain.

Richard shook his head and smiled amicably.

“You’re embarrassing my sister, gentlemen.”

“Your Highness,” Bran replied, as was the right of the oldest man present. “I’m sure that at your father’s court, the princess received even more audacious compliments. We’re just sea drifters who have learned a few ways to do her justice.”

Richard was about to say that they shouldn’t belittle themselves, but Angelina interfered.

“You’re correct, Your Grace. The princess always gets compliments, but the real Angelina rarely does. His Grace Hardring saw the girl behind the title.”

Bran was taken aback for a second. He hadn’t expected the snotty girl to give such a rebuke. Well, that is bound to be interesting.

“Honesty is the currency of Virma, Your Highness. The Hardring chief just told you the truth.”

Angelina gave out a cute smile.

“‘The truth can be light, the truth can be dark, it might be fleeting, and it might leave its mark...’ What is your truth, Chief of Gardren?”

“My truth is eternal, Your Highness,” Bran replied firmly, intrigued.

“Once again I realize that eternity is just a moment, “Angelina said.

Olav burst out laughing, interrupting their wordplay.

“I never thought I would see anything like that. Your Majesty, we’re happy to have you in Virma. I swear on my honor, our pups will fight to the death just to get one look from your eyes.”

Angelina shrugged.

“Then explain to them that I’m not a lady dog, and you’ll have one problem less.”

Olav laughed out once again and kissed the girl’s hand. It might not have been the smoothest of gestures, but it was genuine enough for Angelina to smile at him, not paying any more attention to the head of Clan Gardren.

Why did it bother Bran so much?

***

The guests were put in some of the best houses—not quite palaces, but then, Virma didn’t have any palaces. They did have stone houses, and that particular one had two floors. The first one had a huge hall, plus a kitchen and several rooms. The hall could also be partitioned and turned into bedrooms.

Wide pillars, a relatively low ceiling, narrow windows covered with shields from the outside if the weather was bad. If it was nice, they were uncovered, but had mica instead of glass, not letting a lot of light inside.

The fireplace was huge, and weapons were hung on the walls, with a few vacant hooks. It was a Virman custom to always have a weapon in hand, thus the space.

There also was a big table with benches and beds laid with goat skins.

Angelina picked one of the bedrooms upstairs, and Richard took the adjacent one. Four of her ladies-in-waiting had to occupy the two remaining rooms. The others would have to live downstairs: servants, maids, warriors...

Leif hadn’t come ashore yet, choosing to stay on the ship.

Eric had explained that as well: he needed official permission from the Circle to enter Virma.

An Ativernan ship was neutral territory, and nobody would dare to touch him then, although the Torsvegs would have loved to. Yet if you spat in the people’s face, they would wipe it, and if the people spat in yours, you’d drown. Spitting in the face of Virma was risky, as it might drown the entire clan by accident, but without fail.

Angelina looked over the room and sighed. But did it really matter? It might not be the royal palace, but it was a new experience, and that was why she had come there.

And so, the girl turned to ordering the servants around, telling them which chests were to be put into her room.

***

“I think the meeting went well,” Olav said, looking at Bran.

Gardren shrugged.

“The princess seems to mean well. Have you seen the four girls with him?”

“Do you think they brought them for a purpose?”

“Exactly. The princess is free to choose, but they might hand us the girls as a sign of good will. All of them are noble-born, but none can marry well at home, their dowries are too small. It will be enough for Virma, though, and His Majesty could add some money...”

“Hmm...” Olav mused. “We can’t give such a prize to just anyone.”

“How about your clan gets two, we get one, and Kellrog or Grendan get the remaining girl.”

“Depending on what their leaders might offer you?”

Bran didn’t even try to disavow Olav.

“Why not use an opportunity ripe to be seized? I suggest we throw a feast in honor of the new arrivals in the evening, let the young ones get to know each other.”

And the clan leaders proceeded to discuss potential marriage matches.

Virma might not be big, but it had its share of intrigues. And still, Bran found himself thinking treacherous thoughts. He remembered the grey eyes and a bold smile.

Eternity is just a moment.

Why did you think so, Princess Angelina?

***

A Virman feast was something quite unlike a proper royal ball. The Virmans already partied under an open sky, even in winter. There was a reason for that.

The gods saw their children. Why not amuse them with a show? They would start fires, set huge tables—well, more like wooden supports with planks laid on top of them and covered with a tablecloth— and carry out benches. If that wasn’t enough, they would cobble together even more and also uncork barrels of wine.

There was a special custom for drinking the first cup. Each would take three sips and pour the rest into the fire—to the gods.

If the fire burned out, it was a bad omen: the revelry was not to the divine liking, and Olive didn’t approve of it. Either the reason was wrong or the time, and people were to leave.

The Virmans feasted, danced, listened to the skalds who moved from one table to another, entertaining everyone with their music or their stories, and if a few young couples vanished from sight, escaping the notice of their strict parents, so be it. A fertile girl was a treasure in Virma, as it meant that she wasn’t barren and would have children in marriage as well.

Richard and Angelina were seated at the first table, together with the clan chiefs. The ladies-in-waiting sat at the second one, with the sons and the daughters of the chiefs, pretty much their equals, even if the Virmans didn’t really care about the ceremonies.

Even Clan Hardring might give birth to an idiot, while Gardrens could get a genius like Bran. Blood mattered less than intelligence, luck, and strength.

But for the sake of the guests...

Apart from that, the Virmans didn’t break any of their traditions. The wine was poured into the cups, and Olav stood up from his bench.

“Faith and honor to the gods, glory and honor to the people! Olive, rejoice as you rule over us!”

The Virmans stood up in waves, and the hum of voices filled the evening air.

Each one named their own god, however.

Richard and Angelina exchanged looks and rose as well, accompanied by several surprised stares.

“Faith and honor to the gods, glory and honor to the people! Aldonai, rejoice as you rule over us!”

The Virmans had no time to say anything, as Angelina’s voice rang out, clear as a bell.

“Faith and honor to the gods, glory and honor to the people! Fleyna, rejoice as you rule over us!”

The siblings had learned about the ritual as far back as on the ship, and that was where they talked things through. Richard would show that he respected the guests, but still prayed to his own gods.

Angelina would display reverence to the land she had arrived in. The Virmans realized that, too. Warm smiles appeared on their weather-beaten faces, salty with the sea breeze.

Three gulps, then out into the fire.

There was no pastor here; this place was beyond Aldon Roman’s reach. If you decide to visit someone else’s home, respect its masters. There is no other choice.

***

Angelina didn’t interfere with her brother’s conversation. She smiled politely, took tiny sips of the wine, just wetting her lips to avoid getting drunk, and sometimes bit off some fish.

And there was a lot of fish at the feast: roasted, boiled, baked...in Ativerna, even the royal table had never gotten some of those dishes.

“Would you like to try some octopus, Your Highness?”

Curious about the princess, Bran wasn’t going to let a puzzle remain unsolved.

“Thank you, Chief of Gardren.”

Angelina put a slice of a tentacle into her mouth.

That was...quaint. Not bad, but an acquired taste.

“You didn’t like it? Then what about crabs, Your Highness?”

Bran gallivanted around the princess like a duke at a royal ball. Angelina smiled graciously, accepting the familiar game. Princesses were taught it since childhood.

“Thank you. I see fish is popular in Virma.”

“Our island isn’t especially rich, Your Highness, and we need an alliance with someone strong. Fish is good, but its source is far from steady. A haul might be good today but poor tomorrow, and our children will cry of hunger.”

“Ativerna is famous for its fertile soil. Some years give us plenty of fish, but poor harvest, and sometimes, it’s the opposite. The king’s job is making sure that children in his country never die of hunger, in any year, even the hardest of them all.”

“We know this, Your Highness, and we are grateful for the gesture of peace.”

“It could have been made earlier, Your Grace.”

“But it couldn’t have been accepted,” Bran replied, shrugging. “You’ve heard our motto, Your Highness. That’s Virma for you.”

“I’ve only learned more about Virmans this year, after meeting Leif, Ingrid, Gael, Torv...and others. They are honorable people.”

Bran nodded.

“We don’t have anything except for our word, and we’re trying to make it count. Each Virman knows that dying would be better than going back on his word. If none trust you, you’ll never find a job, and your children will starve. And oath-breakers get eaten by the ever-hungry serpent Earshas.”

“That’s our main difference,” Angelina said, absent-mindedly, while tasting a squid. She didn’t like it; it felt weird. “Aldonai loves us and sees our weaknesses. Your gods demand strength.”

“What if both approaches have a point?” Bran replied, a sly smile on his face.

He had entertained those issues as well; too bad he rarely got a chance to discuss them. Finding someone who wouldn’t use your considerations against you was...problematic.

“Or both are at fault? When our children are small, we love them unconditionally, no matter if they are strong or weak. When they grow up, however, we have to raise them: to be strong, to be able to survive if something happens to their parents. With Aldonai, one can stay a child for a long time, but with gods, you have to grow up quickly.”

“I didn’t expect such reasoning from you, Your Grace.”

“Because I’m a princess? Because I’m a girl? Because I’m young?” Angelina was smiling.

“Because you believe in Aldonai,” Bran said, choosing the fourth option.

“So what of it, Chief of Gardren? I shouldn’t contemplate those questions?”

“Do your priests approve of it, Your Highness?”

“We spend all of our lives walking toward Aldonai. Our faith is a bridge, a priest is a railing, and Aldonai stands at the end of our path. Why should I care more about the railing’s opinion compared to Aldonai’s?”

Angelina really hadn’t pondered that before...until she had met Lilian Earton and Miranda. When a girl younger than you seems smarter, it is bound to leave a scar—and force you to grow.

Who said that envy cannot be a driving force? It all depends on the person in question. Dirty minds get driven to dirty deeds, but strong-willed and smart rise to the challenge. Faster, higher, stronger—and achieve all of it with your own mind and efforts.

Angelina wasn’t exactly putting all of that in those exact terms, but she was learning—from Lilian Earton, among other people.

She talked, she listened, and she realized that she had yet to discover a lot of things. And she was a princess, too. Her own life might depend on her quick thinking, her attention to details, her knowledge...

They say that when a person learns to think, this process can never be stopped, other than by killing that person.

Both Angelina and Joliette had started to think, much to the horror of court ladies and to the delight of their loving father. Edward was overjoyed. They were his daughters, after all. It would be strange if they grew up stupid.

“Because the railing could break off, Your Highness?”

“Then I will experience falling down, Chief of Gardren. They say flying is an amazing feeling.”

Bran threw his head back and gave out a hearty laugh.

“Your Highness, in Virma, you’ll have to beat suitors off with a stick.”

“And all of them will bow down to me? That would be boring,” Angelina said, pursing her lips.

She wasn’t flirting, making eyes at him, or trying to appear older and smarter, but that mix of naiveté and logic was more captivating than any sex appeal.

“I am sure you’ll find a way to entertain yourself, Your Highness,” Bran taunted her.

“A friend of mine says, ‘Teach a fool to worship with grace, and he would fall flat on his face...and break the temple floors on top of it.’”

Bran hadn’t heard such a proverb, but it made him laugh, to the utmost surprise of those present.

“Your Highness, if I were younger, I would have fallen for you head over heels.”

“I could say the same to you, Chief of Gardren. If I were younger, I could have fallen in love with you, too.”

“And now?”

“Now, it’s too late. I already know that princesses marry for the good of their country, so I don’t have to fall in love. Why waste time and effort on something useless?”

“Useless, Your Highness? Really?”

“Alas, Chief of Gardren, that is so.”

“Just call me Bran, Your Highness, please.”

Angelina threw a quick look at Richard, who was currently engaged in a busy discussion with Olav about the advantages of Elvan steel over Khangan. No, her brother wouldn’t mind.

“Unfortunately, I cannot answer you with the same courtesy, Bran. Only my brother may permit that.”

“I ask you not out of courtesy, but of kindness.”

“I see you’re firmly set on embarrassing me, Chief of Gardren.”

“So I still haven’t achieved that? Woe to me, Your Highness.”

Angelina shook her head.

“No need to embarrass me. I’d rather you tell me about your seers, Bran, please.”

The Chief of Gardren stared at the girl, marking her composure, the way her fingers tightened around the spoon in her hand, how much that veneer of calm cost her, and relented. The conversation took the prim and proper direction.

***

The seers of Virma—what were they? What was special about them? What was odd?

Originally, they were common girls, whether free or slaves, it didn’t matter, as being a seer depended on their birth, not on their calling. At some point of life, usually before she turned ten, a girl would have a fit. She writhed in pain, collapsing on the floor, foaming at the mouth.

Then she would fall catatonic and see something. But what exactly? Nobody knew.

If anything like that happened to a girl, there was only one solution: take her to the temple of Annora, the Goddess of Fate. There, girls were taught to handle their gifts. All seers of Virma served Annora and lived at her temple.

Usually, they were few in number, no more than ten, and they died young. Annora didn’t like it when others looked into the future and revealed it to others, and so, she would take the priestesses to her.

Still, in her temple, any and all could get advice, help, or an augury. It didn’t cost any money, as priestesses didn’t sell their gift for a price, but saying thanks was customary.

The only thing that Bran kept to himself was the ambiguity of their prophecies.

What would you do if you were foretold that a dark-haired stranger would soon walk into your life, carrying all kinds of new things? Anyone whose hair was darker than chestnut would do.

There were lots of similar examples, too.

But the princess was curious enough to ask Bran to take her to Annora’s temple, and he promised her he would ask for His Highness’ permission. And if he gave it...

Angelina had high hopes for that. She was curious. It was scary, but oh so interesting. And it’s not like they’d bite off her nose in the temple! She had to go, absolutely, and take her girls with her, if they weren’t afraid. Who wouldn’t want to learn their future?

***

Ativerna. On the road.

Heat, dust, and flies, the three banes of the road, never to be overcome.

One could drink something cold, dress in a traveling outfit, and wear a wide-brimmed hat, but what to do with the flies? Nothing, other than to wrap yourself in clothes up to your ears, as a Khangan would, and that’s what Lily did right off the bat, instantly feeling relieved. Life seemed quite different when the odious gnat wasn’t trying to crawl up your nose and biting you as if you were a horse (not that you smelled any different at that point).

And all she had to do was to whip up a hat with a veil.

Oh, the style was all wrong? She didn’t give a toss. The main thing was to explain to the girls what she needed and procure a bolt of fine gauze, and the heads of Lilian Earton and Miranda Catherine Earton were decorated with something resembling mosquito nets.

All that was needed was to attach the gauze to the flops and pull it together with a ribbon underneath, creating a “bubble” around the head.

Not very pretty, true. Whatever. At least she wouldn’t have to spit out the gnat and got a makeshift dust filter to boot.

The sight of it made Jerisson sigh with envy. Alas, the count received the full package, being bitten all over, sweating in his doublet, unable to take it off for fear of getting chilled... and also bitten even worse. The botflies were huge, after all, probably even bigger than some crocodiles!

Lily remembered musketeers and their romantic capes. Unfortunately, they only looked pretty in a picture; real life didn’t work that way. Such clothing was good for flaunting, not for long journeys with hour after hour spent on the road. And the weather was hot, with nary a cold spell in sight, according to the weather wisdom. Thom said that it was to last for a fortnight at the very least.

Lily considered that information, and it dawned on her that everyone who had ever seen Bedouins—even just an image of them—would instantly recognize her idea. They had those amazing headscarves.

And please, don’t even start about bandanas. The point was to cover your head from the sun that didn’t care a damn about it being autumn and scorched so hot that Mirrie’s nose got burned and was peeling off, and also from the insects, at least, in part.

The dormitory of Aliya’s medical college had all kinds of people, including Muslims. The rest was a technicality: she could make friends with anyone, and things like clothes, culture, and religion were always of interest to her.

You never knew where you would find yourself the next day and who you could meet.

In Russia, people would nod to say “yes,” while Bulgarians used it to say the opposite; the “OK” gesture was great in the US, but in Brazil, it meant your rear. Just try showing it to anyone, and you’re bound to get a very...impolite reply. And each country had lots of such peculiarities.

Don’t want to get in a tough spot? Then learn.

A ghutrah is a traditional Arabic headdress, a scarf wrapped around the head, both comfortable and often beautiful. Lily recalled its make and cut, estimated the rough size fit for her husband’s head, and picked up scissors.

The headscarf looked great on Jerisson.

Shaving while traveling was a challenge, so he had to grow a short beard that was easy to trim, and the resulting ensemble was pretty seamless. A tanned swarthy man with a black beard and bright blue eyes, he was stunning enough to make even Countess Roivel swoon.

“Holy Aldonai!”

“Is this so bad?” Jerisson looked upset.

“It’s the opposite,” Ermina confessed. “It’s amazing!”

The white color of the fabric underlined his tan and blue eyes, and weaving in a black and blue cord was a moment’s work. An aba was sorely missed, but Lily decided to put it on the back burner for the time being…say, until the evening.

She had enough fabric, a test subject, and cutting wasn’t that hard, especially if you had four determined women, with one of them knowing what she wanted, another a former seamstress, the third—Martha—who had long since mastered the needle and the thread, and the last one, Rutha, great in stitching.

Work was in full swing. Lily decided against making a traditional Arabic shirt—that would be overdoing it. Now, sewing a cloak, and even adding a ribbon...

Jerisson was dazzling—a picture-perfect Arabic prince who had just stepped out from the film set of Aladdin. Lily couldn’t help but admire him.

All he had to do was to try out the new dress in the field. Jerisson didn’t mind exotic clothes: he appreciated the women’s looks of admiration and men’s looks of envy. Hopefully, his new acquisition was as comfortable as it was pretty.

As it turned out, it was so comfortable that the party had to stop in the nearest town, all to buy more fabric, cut it out, and make enough outfits for everyone, with a few to spare.

That was to be expected, really. They weren’t traveling by cars, but on horseback. Horses tend to sweat and smell, attracting flies, cleggs, gnats, and dust.

One could say that such clothes were unseemly for nobles, but then, it was the nobles who decided what was seemly and what was not. And don’t even try to argue! Who cares what commoners think?

Certainly not the lords and the ladies, that’s for sure.

Chapter 6

While the men were setting themselves up with their new costumes, the heat drove Lilian to new horizons.

Finally blowing up from the endless summer (Where was the autumn? Where was the rain? The fog?), she concluded that lemonade and ice cream were just the things she needed.

Well, no sooner said than done. Obtaining lemons in a small town presented a problem. Honestly, finding gold ingots would have been easier. Angry, Lily turned to a replacement that was always at hand.

So what should a lemonade contain? Lots of Vitamin C, a light bitter taste, bubbles...all right, she couldn’t create the latter. Although, how about soda and some vinegar? Still, there was a real danger of going overboard.

Ginger, on the other hand, was in abundance. It was expensive, of course, but she wasn’t starving, so she could well afford some. It’s not like she needed too much, anyway, or she ran the risk of making the beverage too spicy to drink.

As the entire procession stopped at a roadhouse inn, Lilian emphatically commanded the innkeeper to give her a separate room and took to creating her miracle.

She had black currant, sugar, cinnamon, ginger... What else did she need?

That was enough.

A bowl, a masher, gauze instead of a sieve, sort out the currant, crush it with a wooden spoon or the masher—the latter would be quicker—and press it out, filter the juice through the gauze, pour hot water over the remaining berries, add some sugar. Wait until it melts, sift it, press it, pour into a jug with the currant juice, ginger, and cinnamon (as long as there wasn’t too much of the latter two, or you’d get dragon breath), and place in water with added saltpeter to cool.

Then she turned to another recipe.

Master Schmulz was sent on a special errand with an oath not to come back without the precious artifact. As soon as Lily had finished with the black currant lemonade (but could it really be called lemonade if no lemons were harmed in the making of that drink?), he returned…with a whisk.

For some reason, they didn’t have them in this world, probably didn’t want to waste good steel on trifles. Still, for a skilled blacksmith, pulling some wire was no challenge, and Lily knew well enough what she wanted to get.

And so, she got it—a tulip-shaped whisk, with a handle wrapped in the remaining wire.

Lily grinned.

“Mirrie, we’re going to make some ice cream now.”

“What, Momma?”

“It’s really tasty, trust me.”

How would you create homemade ice cream without a fridge?

That was hard, but doable, as long as you had an unlimited supply of saltpeter, a few assistants, and a cold cellar under the inn. Alas, it was no icebox, but it would have to be enough.

Lily made a huge bowl of soon-to-be ice cream and dragged it to the farthest corner, vowing to personally bury anyone who dared to lay their hands on it.

The recipe wasn’t complicated at all. She had cream and milk, eggs, sugar (which could be replaced with honey), and voila! The most important thing was to whisk the dish enough for the sugar to melt.

Countesses Roivel and Elont chose not to take part in the culinary experiments, as they had better things to do. Lily didn’t know what and didn’t insist on asking.

She did hope everything would work out, but what if it didn’t? She could also make some ice cream from black currant and cherry, but local sorts were sour as hell. She dismissed the thought and focused her attention on the classic version.

Heat it up, whisk it, mix it, whisk it again, heat it again... And then came the refrigeration.

It took a while: all in all, Lily spent at least four hours working. But that evening, when the ladies and gentlemen gathered at the table, the ice cream was ready.

Lemonade got drunk over the first thirty minutes. Lily was glad she hadn’t made only one jug, but it didn’t really matter, as they gulped everything down and asked for more.

Then came the ice cream’s turn. When the saucepan with the white delicacy appeared on the table, nobody at first realized what it even was.

They looked at it with suspicion, until Lily, without further thinking, put a big helping on Miranda’s plate, taking a scoop herself and tasting it. It might have been a bit soft, but no worse than what Aliya herself had once made.

Miranda quickly developed a taste for it.

Jerisson had a spoonful, paused, had another...and he was gone.

The hundred-ounce saucepan was emptied in ten minutes. Lily herself didn’t only tasted it. She loved it, of course, but she was too afraid of eating sweets in the evening. Now, in the morning, before the road... She had another bowl hidden away in a dark corner of the cellar.

“Lily, what is this?” Jess was the first to break the silence.

“It’s ice cream,” Miranda explained to her dense father. “We’ve made it today.”

“You did it yourself, Countess?” Count Roivel looked a bit taken aback.

Lily lifted her hands.

“Count, every woman has her own cooking secrets that aren’t to be shared with the servants. Tell me, did you like it?”

“It was brilliant!” Ermina Roivel licked her lips like a sated cat. “The only bad thing is there was too little of it!”

Lily shook her head.

“You shouldn’t eat too much at once. Your throat might get sore.”

Going by their stares, such trifles wouldn’t have stopped anyone.

“Could you tell us the recipe?” Priscilla chimed in.

Lily made a shrugging gesture, not promising anything. She might tell them a modified version, she thought. Ice cream could also be made from curd and honey; it would be almost as tasty, but not quite the same thing.

“You can’t make it on the road, you’ll need ice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the countess agreed.

“Discuss this with my husband, if he permits that,” Lilian waved her hand.

Keeping a recipe for herself was tempting, but discovering it was too easy. If they started to experiment, sooner or later, they would figure it out. It would be better to reveal it herself—and receive something useful in return. She would do the sharing; Jerisson would do the receiving. A symbiotic relationship, of sorts, but then, she had to mend bridges with her husband, in any case.

“Then I’ll join you, my dear Countess,” Drake Roivel courteously kissed Countess Earton’s wrist. “Please don’t keep us guessing.”

Lily gave out a cute smile.

“I can only repeat that His Grace is the master of our house. He will get to decide.”

Jess squirmed under four predatory stares.

From the looks of it, if he didn’t choose to share the recipe, he might replace the ice cream in being eaten.

“I think we’ll find an agreeable solution.”

From the corner of the room, Leir Anthony Sivralle watched the banter with rage-filled eyes.

What a piece of work! She was clearly making fun of him... But a lady had the right to ask anything of her suitor, even the moon. In that case, her wishes were a tiny bit humbler, but he still had to go along with them, or at least, to avoid being seen. For the time being, the second version was more appealing.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

While the warm company enjoyed their dinner, a small house on the edge of Cardin played home to a conversation between a man and a woman.

“Milia sleeps only with her husband.”

“Then we could crush them both at once,” the woman said, sneering. “Even the three of them, so that bitch wouldn’t give birth to his spawn!”

The man chuckled. The woman’s thirst for blood didn’t bother him in the slightest; he was the same.

“We’ll just need to wait until the Ativernans arrive. Otherwise, it’s all set.”

The woman frowned and started counting down.

“Carl will bring ten mercenaries to kill Gardwig.”

“And his wife, if she’s with her husband. Even if Carl refuses, I have other people in the palace who’ll do anything for a handful of coins.”

The best way to avoid a betrayal by the servants was to avoid having servants, and when the palace had half a thousand of them running around, there were bound to be a few bad apples in the bunch—or even a score.

“The squads are already in the city. As soon as we learn that the tyrant is dead, we’ll capture the treasury and send our people to the barracks.”

“Then we’ll rouse the royal guard and tell them the king was killed by the Ativernans,” the man agreed. “Ignite a mutiny, maybe even literally.”

“We’ve reached an accord with the aldon, tentatively.”

Aldon Roman might not interfere with politics, fundamentally, but his Wellster equivalent, Aldon Peters, who was tired of marrying and divorcing Gardwig (the latter often under a death threat) held no tender feelings toward the king. Actually, it was the opposite.

It was hard to love and respect a ruler who was quick to anger, wrathful, boorish, and prone to lift you by the scruff of your neck in view of the entire court and groan at you, “You don’t want to listen to your king? Are you in a hurry to the gallows?” Honestly, he would rather just kill him and be done with it.

And so, when the aldon was asked if he would support the rightful authority, Peters agreed to join the conspiracy without hesitating.

“We have to decide what to do with Gardwig’s children.”

The man had already decided everything. Too bad women wouldn’t even scratch their ears without being persuaded firsthand.

“Be so kind and don’t touch my daughters,” the woman said, her eyes narrow.

“I won’t. I’ll try. You have to realize that I’ll be otherwise engaged, and in the heat of battle, mercenaries could do any number of things with young maidens.”

“Then tell them they won’t get paid.”

She smirked.

“Princesses are a valuable commodity. They don’t have a claim to the throne but can be used to form alliances. And won’t they be happy to finally see their mother?”

The man chuckled. He had genuine doubts about that, but arguing was pointless. Princesses really weren’t as important as princes. Two princesses...or maybe three?

“Fine. I’ll make the arrangements. But nobody is going to spare the rest of the pups. You should understand that.”

The woman sighed. That had been a matter of dispute between her and her companion for almost a year.

Is it easy to agree to kill children? Not if you are a mother, it’s not. Especially since the children were of royal blood, not some peasant spawns.

“I think we should take the boys alive.”

“A living prince is a tremendous risk,” the man argued, quite reasonably.

Everyone had their disagreements, and in some cases, you had to be frank. But truth be told, he just wanted to look into Gardwig’s eyes and tell him his pups were dead. Once, Gardwig hadn’t spared Camilla. It was time to pay his debts—life for a life, death for a death…with interest.

“We’re already taking risks,” the woman said, shrugging. “The hunchback is gone, but he will be back...”

The man was sure of that. Altres Lort would return as soon as he learned about the unrest. However, by then, it would be far too late. It would be good to crush that wretch in his own home, but the duke had no trusted men there.

Why keep them in the place where Lort hadn’t been for ages and wasn’t going to visit? Just to be on the safe side? Nobody had known that Gardwig would do something like that. Nobody had known that he would send his loyal jester away.

If Lort was in the royal palace, he would have died there. Putting spies into the ranks of his servants was risky. He had only a couple of them, and he made sure to check their backgrounds through and through.

“Let him come back. We’ll meet him on the road.”

“It would be better to create a trap,” the woman said, having come up with something while he was speaking.

“What will he do if he learns that the king is dead, and the princes are alive?”

The man grinned.

“He’ll rush to their rescue, I’m sure of it.”

“And that’s where we’re going to get him. But we’ll need a good bait, a real one—at least for starters. Afterward, we could replace the brats.”

The man considered her offer. In essence, she was right. If Altres Lort arrived at the capital—if he survived the road—and started making trouble. People would follow him.

They might, really. And then, if the hunchback learned that the king’s sons were alive, what would he do? Make inquiries. If he was sure that the children were real, he’d come after them. That’s where they would get him and, incidentally, frame him as the murderer of the royal pups. Everything could be written off in such chaos.

The duke slowly bent his head.

“Well, then, you’ve convinced me. The pups will stay alive for the time being.”

The woman answered with a smile. For a mother, sentencing children to death was hard.

The plot had entered the final stage. All they had to do was to wait until the arrival of the Ativernan ambassadors. Two days after their coming, the plan would be set in motion.

Farewell, Gardwig.

***

At the same time, inside the royal palace, Milia was patting Maria’s head. The girl had just thrown a bout of hysteria. Yes, princesses weren’t special; it happened to them just as well.

The girl had suddenly realized that all those piles of dowry were intended for her, and soon, she would leave Wellster, get married, and stay alone, away from her sisters... And so, she burst.

The hysteria escalated, spiraling like the eye of a storm. She sobbed, she cried, she moaned, screamed, and trembled... She could have been struck with an asthmatic attack or an epileptic fit, as hysteria could drive a person even into catalepsy.

Thankfully, Milia wasn’t far from her. She rushed to the girl and immediately gave her a hearty slap.

The court ladies breathed out in relief. They did know how to deal with a bout of hysteria, but that was a princess, not a maid! If you dared to raise your hand against her, the executioner might raise his axe against you. That had been known to happen.

Maria was crying her heart out.

Milia hesitated for a few seconds and then kicked everybody out of the room and pulled her stepdaughter to her.

“Calm down, honey. Everything will be all right...”

Maria cried for a long time, with gusto, until she started hiccupping with such force that even her tears dried out. Then Milia gave her diluted wine and started to comfort her. During a hysterical fit, it didn’t matter what you said, as long as the tone was right, but afterward, it was important to say something that could prevent another bout—for instance, explain that marriage wasn’t that scary.

Prince Richard was a nice and charming man who could make any woman happy.

That children were a joy for any mother, and even if Maria wasn’t as lucky as Milia, she would still find solace in them, and it was the most meaningful thing in the world.

That her sisters could always visit her, and some of them might even find husbands in Ativerna. Why not?

Gradually, the girl calmed down.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she confessed.

Milia stroked her hair and considered that it was time to visit her sons or her husband.

“Maria, how about we go to your brothers? You’ll see how funny they are when they’re small. When you marry, you’ll have children just like them. You could see how I handle them.”

Maria nodded. It did seem interesting.

“Yes!”

“Then let’s go, honey.”

***

The nursery was dark and quiet, with only a few candles burning. In the twilight of the room, they heard someone sniffle.

The old nanny was sleeping by the children’s cradles. As soon as she saw Milia, she pretended to rise, but the queen brushed her aside. Sit down.

“Bertha nursed me,” she whispered to the princess. “I love her as if she were my own mother.”

Maria nodded.

“How are the babies?”

“They’ve eaten before bed, I gave them some pap, and they nibbled at an apple. The youngest one’s teething.”

Milia smiled and patted Bertha’s wrinkled hand.

“Soon, I’ll pass you the third one. Nanny, do you want me to hire a few more girls to help you?”

Bertha snorted in indignation.

“I might be old, but I can teach those mollies a thing or two. You mean they take pains to look after a baby? All they do is make eyes and flutter their eyelashes: they’re all thumbs, rest assured, Your Majesty.”

Milia giggled.

“This is my daughter, Princess Maria. She’ll sit with you for a while, all right? Tell her how to take care of babies. She’s going to get married, and where will she find a nanny as good as you?”

Bertha wasn’t stupid. She saw the princess’ red nose, her tear-stained face, and a damp stain on Milia’s dress. She knew how to handle such situations.

“Go, Your Majesty. Take a rest; you have such a burden to carry. Her Highness and I will chat about women’s lot. I also have apple brew, honey cakes...”

Maria nodded. Both of those dishes seemed to cheer her up.

Milia smiled and left.

***

She didn’t like walking through the palace. She was the daughter of a modest nobleman, unused to the flattery of toadies that accompanied her every move.

Which is why she approached a wall, pressed an ornament ringlet, and slipped inside a secret passage. She wasn’t able to gracefully breeze out of it, considering her eight-month pregnancy, but her movements were still smooth. Two staircases later, she reached the royal bedroom and peeked into the keyhole.

Was her husband alone?

Gardwig was not. Liberius the medicus was binding his leg, rejoicing that it was healing nicely and lamenting that His Majesty refused a cleansing brew. It was clear to him that nightmares could only be caused by an upset stomach. Just purge it, and everything would be fine. However, Gardwig wasn’t exactly inspired by both the offer and the description of the procedure.

Liberius was sent away from the king’s bedroom, and His Majesty stretched on his bed.

Right at that moment, Milia exited the secret passage.

His Majesty shook his head.

“Millie! What are you doing? Haven’t I told you enough times...”

Of course, he had. He told her that pregnant women weren’t supposed to crawl into secret passages, or Aldonai forbid, something bad might happen, and nobody would find her until it was too late...

But when had pregnant women ever listened to their husbands? Milia was no exception.

She slipped into Gardwig’s bed and pressed her belly against his hand.

“He’s kicking. I think it’s a boy, too.”

Gardwig melted.

“I’ll be happy with a girl, too. You’ve done your duty, you gave me two sons...”

“By the grace of Aldonai, I’ll give you more,” Milia said, either promising or threatening him. Gardwig beamed.

“Then we’ll need to pray more often.”

His palm climbed down on her stomach as if implying something.

Milia blushed.

“After I give birth and the medicuses permit me...”

True, she had been forbidden from making love as far back as three months ago.

Gardwig sighed dramatically.

“Then come to me, let me at least cuddle with my wife if I can’t do anything else.”

“Then take care about unlacing my dress, my lord and master,” Milia sang out, turning her back to the king.

Undressing women was something Gardwig was used to. He finished quickly, not even having to stand up, so as to avoid troubling his leg, and Milia, dressed only in her undershirt, slid under his blanket.

She nestled up to her husband and put her head on his shoulder.

“I love you so much, Gardwig.”

“And I love you, my queen.”

***

Princess Maria nibbled at her sixth cake, the schemers conspired on the edge of town, Altres Lort swore for all he was worth as he read the steward’s reports—the real ones, not those that a certain dense count had been getting beforehand—and the Ativernans were fast asleep.

All the while, His Majesty Gardwig, a bloody tyrant and a despot, lay in his bed, gazing at the stars and praying. It came as a surprise even for himself.

For the first time in many years, he was asking Aldonai for mercy.

He was too happy, and going by his own experience, he knew that every happy moment was to be paid for quickly and brutally. He begged Aldonai that he would be the one to pay the price—not his wife, not his children, just himself.

Aldonai, by your grace I call to the sky...

***

Virma. The lands of Clan Hardring.

Finally, they had made it. Trudy stood at the top of the hill. As she stared at the lands of her clan before her, she felt tears run down her cheeks. Virma might not be a huge country, but it had been a long time since she saw her home.

No, not quite home—the domain of her clan.

Trudy’s home was with her daughter, but the place where she had grown up was something different, something visceral—the crooked birch that had provided shelter from the sun during the heat, a brook where she had once met Royce for the first time, the fence closer to the coast...a tall one, with skulls on the spear tips…

Some of the skulls were old, and some were fresh, not even white yet. The Virmans made sure to bring the heads of worthy adversaries back home and put them on the palisade, so they would stand guard over their houses.

Olav did the same, and before him, Torv and many others.

Trudy wiped a tear from her face and turned away. Her home was in Elleig; her life was there, and so was her soul. In Hardring, only a part of her heart resided.

As if sensing her mother’s mood, Tira came up to her, pressing herself against her.

“Are you all right, mother?”

“Yes, sweetie. Everything’s fine.”

“Please don’t cry. I’m here for you.”

Trudy ran her hand over her face.

“I’m not crying. It’s just... It’s just water.”

***

From a distance, Elg Snorrison Torsveg watched that scene. He had already sent a messenger with new tidings to the Hardrings and was waiting for their reply. What else could he do, really?

Lots of guests were coming, and all of them needed lodging, a place to stay or at least to camp. And thus, the tradition said that any new arrivals weren’t to come barging at the door like drunk rowers. One was supposed to stop a short distance away and send a messenger with news of your arrival, and then wait.

The hosts would dispatch people to see to you, and you could tell a lot by that reception.

Everything mattered: who would come, how quickly, with which words, the place you were put into, even the offered food.

In a way, the Virman diplomacy was no less subtle than in the Khanganat. Both countries had their own kind of ceremonies.

The girl was hugging her mother. Elg ground his teeth in annoyance. What a pain in the neck!

She was more of a slippery eel than a girl, slithering around, but not letting him get his hands on her. And truth be told, he wanted her a lot. Tira was lovely, and not just because of her youth; her inner strength, her pride, her force of will that attracted him just as much. What point was there in getting it on with a common hussy? All it would do is to scratch your itch.

For some, that was enough, but Elg needed fire, needed a challenge...not in his home, of course, he would have never tolerated that there, but a wife was one thing, and a lover, something different. A mistress without a spark was akin to unsalted meat. And that spark eluded his grasp.

He couldn’t force her or drag her to the bushes, either, but he could do something else, and it was just the right time.

Elg came up to the women. Trudy and Tira looked at him, and once again, he was amazed at how different they were. Both had blue eyes of the same shade, but Trudy was a peaceful lake under a clear sky, while Tira was a skyfire raging underneath the ice.

Elg was no poet, but sometimes, such comparisons crossed even his mind, and rightly so.

“Lady of Elleig, your journey comes to an end.”

“Lord of Torsveg, we are grateful to you for your help and support.”

Tira stared right in the man’s eyes, fearless, defiant, and not even considering him a man. Or rather, he was a man, he just didn’t make her feel anything a woman was to feel toward a man—nothing at all, neither awkwardness nor interest. He was the same to her as all other people. That is why she was so calm.

“I want to say, Lady of Elleig, that you can always count on me, whatever might happen. I will always be on your side.”

“We thank you, Lord of Torsveg,” Trudy spoke up, finally entering the conversation. “I will tell my brother about your kindness.”

“Lady, even if your brother wasn’t a Virman, I would have been honored to travel by your side. And once again...I’ll give you any service, any help—just say the word.”

His hungry gaze burned Tira again, and she sneered in return. Gods, she was sick of that man! May Holosh eat him alive! All the way to Hardring, he had spent every waking moment running circles around Tira, coming and going, talking to her, watching her... Ugh!

Ungrateful, you say? Just go jump in the sea! She would have been grateful for help given selflessly, no questions asked. It was different when the intent was to trade it for something, maybe even herself.

What was there to be thankful for? Should she spread her legs, too?

“Thank you, Chief of Torsveg.”

Icy tone, angry eyes—too bad it didn’t stop the man any, neither from a smile nor from a look, a heavy longing look that seemed to go over her entire body.

He knew that Tira knew what he wanted. He was sure of his victory. And as for her resistance...how long would she hold out for?

Tira was sure that would be forever. Yet it was left to the fates to throw the dice—not people, but the gods.

***

The servant came more than an hour later. He was alone. Elg bristled, but as he prepared to lash out, the man fell on his knees.

“Don’t be angry, Lord. Clan Hardring has nobody to send out, great things are afoot...”

“What happened?” Elg said, curious.

“The prince from Ativerna arrived, together with the princess. Rumor has it they’re going to sign a treaty. Yesterday, there was a feast in their honor, and today, Olav is meeting His Highness, and Her Highness is visiting the seers.”

Elg narrowed his eyes.

Ativernan ambassadors? In Virma? And not just anybody, His Highness in person? Then they really must be in talks about a treaty. The Hardrings could be forgiven some discourtesy.

“Did they at least tell you where we can stay?”

“Yes, My Lord,” the man replied, realizing that the danger had passed.

“Right there. You can camp to the left of the stream. They wanted me to tell you they would have welcomed you into the house, if not for the ambassadors.”

Elg nodded. It made sense. The Hardrings weren’t used to guests of such levels, therefore, the mishaps. It happened.

If Elg himself were to receive an ambassador party, he would have dashed around like a scared rabbit. Not just his own fate was at stake, but the entire island’s. No need to show his pride and arrogance.

“What about the ladies of Elleig?”

The servant faltered.

“I was asked about them, My Lord. When I told them that there were only two women...”

“What?” Elg didn’t like the servant’s hesitation, but...

“They said they will find a place for their kin, especially since the princess and the lady of Elleig are of the same age.”

Elg gritted his teeth. That was to be expected. Still, he felt peeved.

On the other hand, he wasn’t a woman, was he? Maybe he should give the useless servant a good thump on the head, strong enough to make Elg’s hand hurt. But the women were watching.

They would never get that servants should be kept on a leash, just like women themselves. He would have to tough it out.

Elg turned to Trudy and Tira and discovered the girl was smiling.

“Don’t bother, Lord of Torsveg. We’ve heard everything.”

“Then let’s go, Lady of Elleig.” His smile was also cold and sharp.

“Seeing as I don’t have to explain anything.”

And the small party headed down the hill.

***

Richard’s health was in dire need of improvement. Peppered meat broth with lots of salt turned out to be the best cure for the aftermath of the feast. Two thoughts were stuck in his head.

How can those Virmans drink so much?

And why was I drinking the same as them?

His sister had already left for Annora’s temple, accompanied by the lord of Gardren. Hadn’t that man drunk with the best of them the other day? Richard wasn’t sure, but he thought that Bran Gardren’s cup was filled as often as the others.

The haze in his head was slowly dissipating.

Next to him, Olav Hardring was going through similar procedures. He seemed to be better off than Richard, which made sense, considering his giant stature. Next to him, the prince felt himself a boy.

“I hope my sister won’t regret her trip.”

“Into the temple? She won’t,” Olav said dismissively.

“Our girls all travel there, those who dare, at least. It figures that the women all want to learn about their intended.”

“And the men?”

“We accept fate as it is, instead of guessing. We’re nothing like them.”

Richard nodded and changed the subject to a more pressing matter.

“When will the Circle gather?”

“In three days or so, I suppose,” Olav said, shrugging. “The Torsvegs have just shown up, by the way.”

Richard focused.

“The Torsvegs? But—”

“No, there won’t be any problems,” Olav said, getting the implication.

“Starting a feud on my land means challenging my clan. I’m gathering the Circle, and I’m to answer for everything. Torsveg’s not the man who would dare to throw up against me.”

There was nothing expressly threatening in the Virman’s posture, and no obscene words had left his lips, but Richard couldn’t help but believe him.

“Leif’s on the ship so far, but... Forgive me, Olav, I don’t know your traditions well.”

“We’re pagans, right? Pirates, soldiers—what’s so surprising?”

Richard shrugged.

“The surprising thing is that nobody ever tried to...build a bridge between the continent and Virma.”

“Lots of things had to click together,” Olav replied, shrugging again.

“Lots of things had to change. Lucky pirates have no need for friends, and unlucky don’t get to live long.”

“But you’re no Loris.”

“We aren’t.”

The difference really was staggering. All lowlifes of the continents flocked to Loris, everyone who couldn’t find room for themselves in their own countries. Thieves, bandits, murderers—Loris refused no one. The death rate there was astounding, too. People died by the scores, replaced by hundreds: a real sinkhole of a place, a hotbed of piracy, too. It’s just that at sea, the Virmans could be reasoned with, while the ships from Loris could not.

Once, a bold buccaneer from Loris had tried approaching the Virman coast. He plundered an estate, took everyone captive while the men were at sea... The Virmans were outraged. And that was an understatement.

The Circle gathered within five days, an unprecedented time. Their decision was unanimous. Forty ships under red-and-white sails weighed anchor off the coast of Loris, and the pirate island erupted into flames. That time, death visited those who usually carried it into other lands themselves.

The Virmans took no prisoners. They killed everyone they came upon, sparing only the children—as far as Richard knew, they were later taken to Virma. They burned, they slashed, and they looked for those at fault.

And when they found them... The rumors varied, ranging from a quartering to feeding them to the sharks, piece by piece.

One part was the same, though. Never anger the sea wolves, especially when you’re a jackal.

Nothing like that had happened since, never. And if ships belonging to Virma and Loris ever met at sea, it never revealed its secrets to anyone.

A fair encounter is a fair fight. Home was untouchable. Everyone had learned that.

“But we’ll need to decide something about Aldonai,” Richard said with a sigh. “And slavery.”

“Bran and I considered this,” Olav confessed.

“The church of Aldonai may become equal to other faiths. If your priests won’t rant against our gods, we won’t mind. The slaves must have something to believe, after all.”

“Yes, as for the slaves—”

“We won’t free them, not even as a gesture of goodwill.”

Richard frowned.

“You have my people in captivity, too.”

“Ativernan people,” Olav gently corrected him.

“And we have an offer. If you want to ransom anyone, then do it via your...Aldonai.”

Richard immediately sized up the prospects.

“For instance, a man went missing. If you have him, the local pastor might look for him, negotiate the ransom with his owner, and arrange everything.”

“Right,” Olav said, nodding. “If you ask me, if a family wants one of theirs, they won’t just search through Virma, they’ll even climb under Maldonaya’s skirt. But if they don’t...”

“Then Maldonaya will live in peace,” Richard snorted.

That’s how the treaty was starting to take shape, over a cup of broth.

“Olav?”

A woman’s voice pierced the twilight of the great hall.

Richard raised his head.

Two women were standing in the doorway. Or, rather, one was a woman. The second one was a girl of Angelina’s age.

She had silvery hair, blue eyes, and the prettiest face in the entire world.

Richard’s heart missed a beat, fluttered, and plummeted down into an abyss called love.

As he gazed at her, his head spun, and not because of yesterday’s wine, while the skies above the house were colored the same deep shade of blue as the strange girl’s eyes. But she wasn’t a stranger anymore, as her mother spoke up, and Richard listened, understanding only one word out of three, while his heart thumped to the rhythm of her name—Tira Roivsson Elleig, the young lady of Elleig, kyria of Elleig, were she to prove her strength with spear and sword.

One name; one heart; one love—Tira...

***

“Virma is very beautiful, Bran.”

Angelina was absolutely sincere. Actually, she felt quite at ease with the man. There was no need to get bored when accompanied by an intelligent man who genuinely wished to brighten your trip. Bran told her funny stories about the owners of the land they passed by, old legends, and good-natured jokes, and compared the myths of Virma and Ativerna.

“...And while he was sleeping drunk, Sturri painted a face right on his vest. Not a man’s, mind you, Your Highness, but a goat’s. A muzzle, horns, as if it were about to bleat...”

Angelina snorted a laugh, picturing the scene.

“When poor Haras woke up and went into the courtyard, he couldn’t understand why everyone was laughing at him. He burned the vest later, but the nickname stuck.”

Angelina smiled.

“You’ve probably never drunk as much, have you?”

“You’re correct, Your Highness.”

“What about yesterday? Tell me your secret, Bran. Both Richard and Olav were drunk beyond repair, and you seemed stone cold sober as if you didn’t drink anything at all.”

She was sitting in a boat next to the Lord of Gardren. The rowers took notice of their conversation, but Bran and Angelina sat at the helm, as honored guests were wont to do, the tailwind disguising their voices.

Angelina loved the boat and the entire day, but her ladies-in-waiting didn’t seem as pleased. The girls were scared, that was clear. But what could they do? Wherever the princess went, so did the retinue.

Not everyone had gone, though. Aliah Reinst and Ashley Loran stayed at home, with only stalwart Laura and Jean keeping the princess company. But even they felt ill at ease at sea. A ship was one thing, but sailing on a boat... That was no pond by the royal palace; it was the ocean. Jean tried to overcome the discomfort and joked around with the Virmans, making the rowers burst out with laughter time and again. Laura pursed her lips, but nobody noticed that.

Angelina had a fleeting thought that Jean was sure to stay in Virma. There was no high society there; the girl had found her place.

The princess sailed on one boat, and her ladies-in-waiting on another, and nothing prevented her from talking to an actually interesting person. She didn’t meet such people all too often. A sheerest scorpion.

Bran kept smiling.

“Your Highness, it’s just that I can drink a lot and never get drunk.”

“I don’t believe it! Tell me the truth, Bran, please!”

He couldn’t resist those pleading blue eyes.

“Fine, Your Highness. But please, don’t reveal my secret!”

“Never!”

“I’ve ordered a special cup from a blacksmith. It has a hole that, if opened, lets the wine pour out on the ground. All I have to do is to replace the glassware in time and wait for the right moment.”

* Author’s note: Bran is holding something back. We call such a vessel a Pythagorean cup.

The girl chuckled.

“And here I was thinking...”

“Simple sleight of hand. As you can see, my legs aren’t my biggest virtue, so I have to be clever.”

“Naturally. Wolves have fangs; rabbits have legs. How are people any different?”

“They aren’t.” The Lord of Gardren shrugged. “If you don’t want to be eaten, be smarter than anyone, as long as you aren’t strong enough.”

“Should you really play coy, Bran?”

“What if I want you to consider me weak and harmless, Your Highness?” the Virman joked. “And then, as you let your guard down, I’ll attack you! What is it that scary pagans are supposed to do to innocent maidens?”

“To keep away from those especially innocent, and the pagans will do fine.”

What if they can’t? Bran wondered. Angelina continued being a puzzle, time and again. He was hooked.

“Then say goodbye to a peaceful life. All stories speak of that, by the way. A savage pagan caught an innocent maiden, and she started converting him to the true faith...”

Bran couldn’t help but shudder, imagining the process, and then laughed, pure and sincere.

“You’re a marvel, Your Highness. I never expected to say that, but here we are.”

“I never expected to say that either, but I had a completely different opinion of Virmans.”

“You were absolutely right. We are dreadful pirates and sea bandits. The ocean trembles at the very sight of our ships.”

“Making the storm season start?”

“And the Great Serpent Earshas to rise from the depths of the sea to swallow the sun.”

“You have no pity for the poor fellow,” Angelina said, already grinning. “Tsk, tsk.”

“Your Highness?” Bran asked, confused.

Actually, it was an epic. The Great Serpent slumbered on the ocean floor, with high and low tides caused by his breath. When he tossed and turned, storms would start, and at the end of times, he would rise and swallow the sun, damning the world. People were to fear it, not laugh.

Well, at least not make light of it.

“The sun shines and warms us. It’s incredibly hot. Imagine what happens to a man who swallows a hot coal! And you’re going to feed it to the Serpent. You really don’t care about sea snakes.”

Bran snorted.

“Your Highness, you must have second sight. Really, we don’t. There was a story like that... Young men decided to build a campfire on the shore, roast some fish, invite the...ahem...girls.”

“That’s not a rare event in Ativerna, either,” Angelina said, trying to cheer him up.

“And where there’s a party, there’s wine. They decided to have a swim, drunk.”

“And?”

“As you can see, Your Highness, our shores vary, and so does the water. In some places, it’s deep, and in others, it’s shallow. The boys chose a deeper spot, started diving and making noise, and caught the interest of a shark.”

Angelina shivered. She had seen sharks, and she really didn’t like them.

“I don’t know what the poor fish wanted, but it went closer to them, sized them up, and the boys wanted to show off.”

“So?”

“We have a local hero who’s been nicknamed Shark Slayer since that day, Turse the Shark Slayer.”

“He cannot have killed a shark with his bare hands!” Angelina said, her eyes wide.

“Well, not his bare hands. He just jumped into the water with his feet forward and hit the shark right in the head.”

“The mouth?”

“No, just the head. He got really hurt and started drowning.”

“Did they pull him out?” Angelina blurted out before realizing how stupid that question was.

“Of course, Your Highness, both him and the shark. He got stunned, while the fish started drowning...”

“What happened to it then?”

“They ate it. Tastes nice if you eat it with wine. For our youngsters, the sky’s the limit, let alone a shark!”

Angelina laughed out merrily. They still had a while to sail.

***

The temple of Annora the Seer would have never decorated any capital because it wasn’t a proper temple in the first place. It was just a rock.

Virma is generally a rocky country, so the priests had decided against erecting something special.

They had a rocky cave? Great! Just add a sacrificial altar, a fireplace, and a statue of the goddess. But in front of it...

A long staircase carved into the side of the mountain led to the cave, interspersed with an occasional platform. No railings, and if a pilgrim was afraid of heights, they would never reach their destination, fainting as soon as the second loop.

Angelina wasn’t afraid of anything, well, maybe other than caterpillars, those nasty things with lots of tickling legs... But that was Joliette’s fault.

Once, she had fallen in love with a pageboy, and Angelina blabbered her sister’s secret to everyone. Jolie resented that, of course, and poured a handful of caterpillars on Angie’s head. She had gathered them in the garden, with her own hands.

And as such, the princess had a long-standing dislike of those pests.

As for heights...what was there to be afraid of?

It was beautiful and fun; too bad the wind lifted her skirt, mussed up her hair, and knocked down her hat. Whatever. She never liked it anyway.

The other problem was Bran. Angelina felt really awkward watching the Virman climb the steps on his crutch but offering her help...

She looked over her companion, considered that thought for a few minutes, and decided to spare herself the embarrassment. He would have refused anyway; that’s the kind of man he was.

The ascension took more than an hour. Laura didn’t want to go up, scared of Aldonai’s wrath for partaking in pagan rituals. Jean gave it some thought and finally chose to follow the princess, even if she cursed at the stupid long climb and the steep stairs. Angelina didn’t waste her time on such nonsense, and sprightly worked her way up one loop after another, stopping on the platforms to admire the view—in truth, to catch her breath. She was curious, and in the end, her efforts paid off.

The temple of Annora was simple and exceedingly majestic.

A natural cavern was lit somewhere from above, and a huge white stone lay in the middle of it: the altar. Above it stood a marble statue in the shape of a woman, her face shrouded. She was stretching out her hands above a burning chalice.

Angelina already knew why.

One should not look fate in the face. She might see you, but you didn’t see her; you could guess, you could believe, but her eyes were not to be studied.

Bran coughed softly.

“Your Highness, a priestess will come up now.”

Angelina, who had already questioned her companion on what she was supposed to do, nodded in agreement. We’ll wait.

“I’ll be outside.”

“You don’t want to learn your fate, Bran?”

The Virman shook his head.

“Annora doesn’t tell your fortune. She shows roads, but which one you will take and which one you will pass by is your choice, Your Highness. And remember: after you leave, don’t say anything to anyone.”

Angelina nodded once again.

“I understand.”

“Your companion will wait with me, and then, if she makes up her mind...”

Jean shook her head.

“I won’t. I’d rather just look at the sea.”

“Don’t be afraid, Mistress.”

Jean tossed her hair back.

“I’m not afraid. I’ve just started to believe it. It’s all serious; I can see it. And if so...I don’t want to see my path, so I don’t make the wrong step one day.”

Bran shrugged.

Angelina shook her head.

“Jean, it’s your choice. But I...I need it.”

Brann bowed, as much as he was able, and left. Angelina remained alone in the temple, in the face of her destiny.

The princess flinched, trying to get in the mood, and rubbed her freezing hands.

Say what you like, it really was creepy.

The priestess didn’t keep her waiting. The woman was shrouded just like the statue, with only her hands seen from below her robe, yet her movements were graceful and precise, and she easily maneuvered around objects. Had she learned the road over so many years, or did the fabric have a slit somewhere? Angelina could believe both versions.

The priestess turned to her.

“You are in search of your path, my child?”

What could she answer to that?

“I’m walking it, and I want to study it.”

The priestess chuckled in approval.

“Then do so.”

Angelina handed her a handkerchief.

Inside, there were several ears of wheat, some weed, and a few other plants, Angelina didn’t know which exactly. She simply passed the package from Bran to the woman.

The priestess swiftly emptied the bundle into the chalice, and Angelina smelled something spicy and hot. Her head started spinning, while the white-clan figure knelt before the statue.

“Goddess of fates and roads, a supplicant in search of her path stands before you. I ask you to draw back your curtain...”

For some time, the priestess stayed quiet, and silence reigned in the temple. Angelina didn’t say a word and waited. The gods of Virma never demanded people to kneel, but sitting in a temple also felt wrong. Angelina examined the walls of the cave.

They were painted with something. Nothing elaborate, just roads, entangled with each other, people traveling along them. For a few seconds, it seemed that the drawings shifted, coming alive, and the people on them started walking.

They were choosing their roads, sometimes coming together and apart, reaching out to each other...

The priestess spoke up. Her voice sounded completely different—quiet, and flat.

“Three paths are laid out before you, girl.”

Angelina was all ears, anticipating the prophecy.

“If you choose one of them, you might get a crown. But a crown brings death.”

Hmm?

“On the second road, you may become a wife and a mother, a simple, peaceful life. Choose the third path, and you will become something more than a wife and a mother, but that road also brings death.”

Angelina shrugged.

Nobody thinks of death when they’re young. Eventually, everyone dies. Maybe when they’re a hundred years old, or, preferably, even more.

“Will I be happy?”

She was allowed to ask. Bran had warned her that she had no more than three questions, or, ideally, just one. That was the most important of them.

The priestess touched the altar with her fingers and patted it as if it were alive. Shadows flickered in the corner, floating over people.

“Happiness... What does it mean to you, girl? Love? You will get it on two roads out of three. Children? They will be on every path. Power? Also, two out of three. What do you want for yourself? Choose.”

“I want to decide by myself,” Angelina squealed, not quite realizing where she was. “By myself...”

“This will happen on each path out of three. It is we who make the decisions, and it is we who carry the burden of their consequences. Two roads are tangled in the web of tradition, and one is free. Choose by yourself, and answer for your choice. The path is open before you.”

That was the last thing that Angelina heard.

***

She came to her senses only outside.

She was sitting on a small bench, fresh wind blowing around her, Bran sitting by her side, carefully holding her so she wouldn’t fall or slide down. Jean sat by the princess’ feet, massaging her hands and possibly also cursing, but very softly.

“Your Highness?”

“I’m fine, Bran,” Angelina didn’t feel especially well, but was getting better with each minute.

“I hope it wasn’t for nothing, Mistress,” Jean blurted out.

Angelina shrugged. It was hard to tell.

“I haven’t learned my future. I don’t know any forks in the road, I don’t know what to pick...”

“Then thank Aldonai I didn’t come,” Jean said, shaking her curls. “If they said anything directly, then yes. But not this way, that’s not to my liking!”

Angelina closed her eyes and opened them again. Yes, that was much better, but she still wanted some time.

“Bran, did you get a prophecy once?”

The Lord of Gardren hesitated for a minute and nodded.

“Yes. I did...”

“Did it come true?”

A smile appeared on the man’s face.

“Your Highness, fate is a road that passes through our entire life. Some of the prophecy came true, some didn’t. But I made my choice.”

“I won’t ask you what.”

“Don’t, Your Highness. No need.”

Angelina smiled.

“Do you think I’ll handle the way down? What kind of weed do they use in this temple, actually? How long before it wears off?”

Bran Gardren looked at the temple, at the princess, innocently fluttering her eyelashes, back at the temple...

And laughed out loud.

“Your Highness, you’re a marvel!”

“I know. And still?”

“Not much weed, just a little bit. Half an hour will be enough for it to wear off.”

“Then let’s sit and wait. Bran, tell me and Jean something interesting about your gods.”

Jean nodded, backing up the princess’ request. The man shrugged and started a story.

“They say, a long time ago, when the gods sometimes visited earth, Olive and Holosh had an argument...”

The priestess looked at the people sitting outside, her eyes filled with sorrow as if she knew something she was not meant to tell them.

***

Richard was shocked. Ever since falling into that state, he couldn’t pull out of it. All of his thoughts drowned in the girl’s lovely blue eyes.

Tira...Tira Roivsson Elleig; it even flowed like music.

Richard genuinely hoped that his face didn’t give anything away, but...

Congratulations, Your Highness. Even twice!

Who was it who had recently condemned his father for his blind love? Who vowed to never fall in love in any case? To keep his mind clear and his pants buttoned up?

Indeed.

Even at that time, Richard already knew that if Tira called him...he would marry her, no questions asked, and damn all dynastic agreements.

Yes, even Gardwig, who had never been known for his understanding and benevolence, the alliance with Wellster, the whole of Ativerna, the people…

Richard could spit upon them, and the people would wipe it off. But if the people decide to spit back, anyone would drown.

So what was he to do? Offer his beloved the position of a mistress? Give up on her? How could he?

In just ten seconds, Richard got a much better grasp of his father’s thoughts. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. But when you get one yourself, a gaping one, you suddenly start feeling sympathy, and it bites you for as much as it’s worth.

Tira turned out to be a distant relative of the Hardrings. She had come to pass a trial, and Olav invited her and her mother to stay at his house.

Richard really missed Jerisson with his cynical view of women, his jokes, his laughter, his support...

But Jess was on the way to Wellster to take Richard’s bride back home. So what was there to be done?

But Richard wouldn’t be a prince if he didn’t devise a plan. He had to get to know Tira: talk to her, learn about her, see what impression she had of him, and then... Time would tell.

There was no other choice.

And no need to worry. He was no swooning girl who would smear snot over her cuffs. He needed to act.

***

Ativerna, on the road.

“Sweetie, do you like fairs?”

Lily threw her husband an approving gaze.

“Which exactly?”

“We can’t cross the channel at this time of year. We’ll ride up to Limayera, the city of Lim, and they’re holding a fair right now. We’ll reach it in three days, stay there for two, cross over, and hello, Wellster.”

Lily nodded.

She was afraid of questioning him about crossing the border, taxes, fees, passports, and travel documents. Ordinary people were supposed to know that. And as such, she picked an easier subject.

“Fairs are nice. What are they selling there?”

“Lim is a rich town,” Jerisson said with a shrug. “It’s located on a waterway and receives goods from all over Avester, Darkom, Wellster, and we try to keep up, too. You can buy anything there.”

“Lilian, the fabrics there are incredible!” Priscilla sighed.

“And the gems!” Countess Roivel echoed her. “Not the jewelry, there aren’t that many jewelers there, but the stones are amazing.”

Lily shrugged.

She sincerely doubted that she would see anything of interest to her, but what if she did? Books, chemicals, ingredients...

Fine. If they were passing through, a fair deserved a visit.

The first sign that they were approaching a town was a big merchant caravan with several dozen wagons drawn not by horses, but by oxen—heavy carts with drivers, mounted guards riding around them. There were not that many people, maybe about fifteen, but all of them were armed and armored, making it clear they knew their stuff.

The thing was, the road had only one track—no place for both groups. How do such issues get solved? Basically, a merchant was a commoner, and commoners were obliged to make way to nobles.

On the other hand...it was a road. Lots of carts, pack animals, people, and all of that couldn’t be simply rolled up into a ball and put into a pocket.

“Hey, you!” that memorable pushy blond yelled. “Clear the road!”

The merchant, easily identified by his clothes, expensive weapons, and a good horse, tried saying something.

Anthony pulled out a whip.

Lily was about to interfere, but right at that moment, Jerisson finally reached the scene. He and Miranda had fallen behind a bit. The child had decided to travel together with her father, but that didn’t make her an adult: she needed to pee, in the bushes, alone, and her father also needed some alone time. And so, they were late.

“What’s going on here, Sivralle?”

Anthony’s face fell. He’s such a hogweed, Lily thought.

“Your Grace, I wanted to clear the road, but this—”

“Not a word more.”

He didn’t say it like a count, but like a king. Silence fell over the road, and the merchant made use of it.

“Your Grace, I humbly ask you to forgive me...”

Jerisson raised his hand.

“Master?”

“Seamus. Seamus Fiers, at your service, Your Grace.”

“Master Fiers, I think it won’t hurt our honor to reach camp together.”

The merchant breathed out in clear relief.

“Thank you for your most kind permission, Your Grace.”

Jerisson shook his head.

“It’s two hours until sunset. We’ll set up camp shortly before that. I think they’re already waiting for us... Are you traveling to the fair, Seamus?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“What are you going to sell? Oh, tell your people to start moving, no need to waste time. And ride next to me, let’s talk.”

“Are women allowed to join in on your conversation, my lord husband?” Lilian couldn’t help but speak up.

Jess snickered.

“My wife, Countess Earton.”

“Your Grace! Truly, your beauty is as great as the generosity of your husband.”

Lily smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Maybe some of my wares might be of interest to the fair lady? I have carts filled with furs, Your Grace.”

Lily looked at her husband.

“I don’t think fur obtained in summer is good enough.”

“Your Grace,” the merchant said, genuinely offended, “How can you say it?”

As it turned out, the animals were hunted in winter, but skins were a tricky business. Curing, selling, and transporting them took time, long enough to make it to the autumn.

“Could you show your goods to the ladies in the evening?” Jerisson offered. “What else are you carrying?”

Apparently, nothing interesting. Seamus was carrying various fruits and berries, dried and ripe, dried mushrooms, and all sorts of honey. Lily decided to let herself be tempted for once.

Honey... White, buckwheat, sea buckthorn, dark and light, thick and creamy... And honeycomb, too.

If you never tasted honeycomb, you never tasted honey. Take just one bite of that fragrant morsel, chew on the beeswax, and feel that incredible sweetness with a whiff of wax that adds a certain nuance to the honey—like bubblegum, but so much tastier.

Plus, bubblegum is bad for teeth and gums, unlike honeycomb. She really would have to buy some and treat Mirrie and herself.

She would also look at the furs. Lily had a utilitarian approach to that subject. Breeding animals just for fur was inhumane and wrong, no questions about that. But if you killed a wolf who wanted to eat your sheep, or a bear, why not use up all of their remains, down to every bone?

Since the dawn of time, people were breeding cows for their meat.

On top of it, they got skin, medicine, and hygienic products, milk... Maybe, even more, she didn’t know everything yet. The truth, as always, was in the middle. Just know where to draw the line, and you would be happy.

***

Finally, they reached the camp clearing. The aroma of shish-kabobs reached their noses, with tents standing around and servants fussing over them.

Lily remembered a wonderful recipe and tore into Thomas. She had the whisk with her, and all she had to do was to talk to the merchant. Did you ever taste whipped honey with berries?

Take just two ounces of berries and seven ounces of honey. Whip the honey, grate and whip the berries, mix it up, and whip it again. It’s hard to cook it without a whisk, as a fork wasn’t well-suited, and they didn’t like forks in that era in any case.

Yet finally, Lily had honey, berries, a whisk, and people to do all the work. Not taking advantage of such an opportunity seemed almost sinful.

And so, Thomas Concord came at the merchant, interrogating him about honey and berries.

They immediately struck a bargain, provided the resulting dish would be split. Lily decided to ask Rutha and Martha to help with whipping, but froze before reaching her carriage, as she stumbled on Jerisson quietly reprimanding the blond man.

“...to show daring! It would be nightfall before the merchant removed all of his stuff from the road! We have women, when would we have gotten here? When would we have gone to bed? When could we continue on our way? What were you thinking about?”

Anthony whined and made half-hearted excuses.

The peasants have grown too bold; the merchant should have known to keep the road clear for the nobles, and...

Jerisson didn’t listen.

“Next time, use your head.”

Then he was gone, grass rustling as he left.

Lily stopped dead in her tracks, listening.

“Bitch,” Anthony Sivralle swore. “Just you wait, you cuckold, and soon, I’ll screw your wife!”

He slammed his fist into a tree and left.

Lily walked around the cart behind which she was hiding and shook her head. Dream on, boy. But know that the count’s wife is no better than the count himself, and we’ll see who screws whom and how exactly.

And really, she had enough self-respect not to cheat on her husband with the riffraff.

***

The whipped honey with berry was a huge hit, especially after being chilled.

Miranda smeared herself all over, so much that it took the efforts of the entire family to get it off, while her father got a suspicious “mustache” above his mouth.

Thomas had a content smile on his face. Over the course of the journey, he had learned an amazing number of recipes from Her Grace. His brother had an inn, a great place to apply the obtained knowledge, as Her Grace had permitted him. She was an exceedingly nice woman.

In the meantime, the nice woman went to inspect the furs.

Priscilla and Ermina were already there. That’s how hierarchy worked. The oldest and the most highborn got to look first, while the rest received the remaining stock.

Priscilla set her eyes on a magnificent red fox hide. Ermina was looking at a marten.

Lily didn’t really react to the furs. The merchant was praising the hides and showing them to everyone, while her attention was drawn to a small bundle.

“What’s there, Master Fiers?”

The merchant faltered and sighed.

Unfortunately, not all skins were equally good, and accidents happened on the road, so...

Inside were the bits and pieces only fit for being sold to commoners; he felt awkward just demonstrating them to noble ladies.

Lily narrowed her eyes. Then she lit up.

Seamus shook his head but unpacked the bundle, and Lilian smirked as she saw the multi-colored patches, scraps, and strips of fur.

“Irene!”

The craftswoman was quick on her feet.

Lily looked at the merchant.

“Will you sell this to me?”

“Lilian, why would you need it?” Priscilla was genuinely surprised.

“Those are scraps, junk! A waste of money!”

Lily chuckled.

“This is no waste, but a profit, and a good one!”

Seamus looked at her with interest.

“Your Grace, could you tell me a bit more? I understand if you don’t want to share it with me without compensation—”

Lily waved her hand.

“Those are not the secrets I truly treasure. You could have discovered that by yourself a long time ago. Irene, bring me the green chest.”

The craftswoman nodded and ran away.

“What are we going to do, Momma?” Mirrie couldn’t help but ask.

“We’ll make you even prettier,” Lily said as she dug out several patches of white fur. Just a couple of those, plus one...and one more...will that be enough? Quite.

If you’re good with your hands, you’ll do fine in any place and time. Fur accessories were something that Lily could make on the spot, as long as she had all the necessary ingredients. Patches of fur, beads, and some wire gave birth to an aigrette shaped like a willow branch or even a bouquet.

There was just enough fur for that, and as for non-precious wire... Whatever.  As long as the child was happy.

Lily immediately attached the accessory to Mirrie’s hair, and the happy girl ran away to show it off to her father. The merchant looked at Lilian, wide-eyed.

“Your Grace...”

Lily shrugged.

“You think that’s everything that could be created out of fur scraps?”

The countesses pricked their ears.

“You could make a set of decorations. For instance, take red fox fur. It could be combined with accessories made from arctic fox: brooches, bracelets, even... Irene, sweetie, did we have an amber necklace?”

The string of polished amber beads was located almost immediately.

Among the scraps, Lily discovered a strip of dark fur, almost black in the approaching dusk, and deftly wreathed it in the beads. She fastened the ends and showed the result to everyone.

“Now add a clasp and wear it as a necklace. You could also make a bracelet and a hair ornament to match if you find the fur.”

Ermina looked at it with such hunger that Lily barely stifled a smile.

“Take it, Ermina. It will suit you.”

“This...”

The countess fell silent.

Indeed, it would match her smooth dark hair, brown eyes, and fair skin, and she couldn’t say that it was an expensive gift, either...

“Thank you, Lilian.”

Lily grinned and pulled out a ribbon and a brooch from her chest.

The idea was simple.

Take two pieces of the same fur, cut them into the shape you want, split the ribbon into two parts and tie it to the pieces, and then, tie the two ends together with a brooch.

You’ll get an elegant fur neckpiece, fit for a dress or any other outfit.

“Priscilla, this is for you.”

That was no fox hide, but it still worked wonders for the countess.

“Thank you, Lilian.”

“It can also be used to create flowers, bracelets...many things. This isn’t a waste, Master Fiers, but a way to make money. Just imagine selling not just furs, but also matching accessories!”

Gold coins flashed in the eyes of the merchant.

“Your Grace…” he started, smooth as silk.

Lily chuckled.

“I recommend you talk business with my husband. We have three days until Lim, right? Use them to come to an agreement. I took care of that only while he was gone.”

The ladies looked at her with sympathy.

“How much should I pay you for the fur scraps?”

“For you, Your Grace, it’s a gift,” Fiers declared.

Lily shook her head and pulled out one more scrap of fur.

In a few precise movements, she sewed a ribbon to the fur and, as the scrap was too short, added a brooch to bind the ends together, then handed the merchant a complete fox fur bracelet.

“A gift for a gift, Master Fiers.”

Then she grabbed a few more scraps and left. The next day, Miranda would get a new toy, maybe a rabbit. It would take only a few minutes, but she would be so happy.

***

Lily overestimated herself; it didn’t take a few minutes. She had to spend a while sitting by the fire and working her magic, but the rabbit was ready. Lily slipped it into Miranda’s bed, next to her pillow.

She would love to discover a present upon waking up.  After all, children would be children.

Jerisson patiently waited for his wife. They only talked later, in their tent.

“Lily, Seamus Fiers came up to me.”

“So?”

“I’ve seen Ermina and Priscilla, and Mirrie’s happy. We’ve decided to sign a contract: he’ll supply Mariella Trading House with furs, and in return, get the wares with minimum markup and sell them.”

Lily narrowed her eyes. Thankfully, her husband couldn’t see it in the dark.

“It’s a good deal. I’m glad.”

“He asked us to show him something else—or make it. I agreed. We have Irene, Martha, and Rutha slouching around in their carriages. Let them work for a few days.”

Lily nodded in agreement.

“I’ll show them what else they can do, they’ll manage. It’s just unusual.”

“But very pretty. Where did you learn it?”

“It’s not hard. You’ve seen it yourself; I don’t invent anything. I simply—”

“Give old things a new shape.”

“And my father does the same with ships, too. You do consider jewelry and trinkets women’s business, but then, I’m not a man.”

“And that’s wonderful!” Count Earton said, summing it up and drawing his wife close.

The next day, they would definitely find some time to pray together...and for other things.

***

The next three days passed under the sign of fur. The merchant didn’t want to look ungrateful and gave Lily sable pelts. She already knew what she wanted to make from them and put malachite on her buying list, as dark fur would look great with green beads.

She did feel sorry for the animals, though. On the other hand, what else could she do?

That world had no eco-friendly materials, no faux fur, and only commoners wore clothes made from sheepskins. People just wouldn’t understand if she got herself a shearling.

She had to fit in. When in Rome...

She wouldn’t wear a jacket, no. Instead, the locals would get to know the driver fashion: a hood, elbow-length sleeves, gloves decorated with the same fur as the coat, and a short, waist-length coat. Aliya had never worn anything like that. She didn’t have a car, and without a car, such coats would welcome all sorts of health problems.

First, the joints. Second, the head: otitis, meningitis, the complete package. And then, the rear end! With the six skirts and pantaloons that she was currently wearing, it was pretty hard to freeze it off, but what about those idiot girls who pulled on short jackets, a miniskirt, high heels, and rode a bus in zero degrees?

Lily knew who they were: people with a death wish, Darwin Award nominees.

In that new world, she didn’t care. Warm skirts, a carriage...that was good enough. Plus, the animals would be safer, too. How many pelts were required to make a short fur jacket, compared to a full-fledged long coat?

Seamus Fiers was happy. He was sorting out the fur accessories. From then on, he could sell actual outfits instead of just skins, and what outfits they would be!

Flowers made from fur, aigrettes, bracelets, neckpieces—the mind boggled—as long as he wasn’t all thumbs. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? It was elementary! And yet...

Within two days, Lim loomed on the horizon.

***

Wellster, Cardin, the royal palace.

“Thank you, honey.”

Milia’s praise made Maria light up with a smile.

The princess and her stepmother had grown closer while preparing the dowry. Milia had always wanted a daughter, and Maria longed for a kind and caring mother. Their desires matched.

Milia fussed around the girl, dressed her in different outfits as if she were a doll, pointed her in the right direction, taught her life lessons, praised her and thanked her, kissed, cuddled, and patted her on the back.

It might sound funny, but children need affection. Otherwise, they might die.

In return, Maria trailed after the queen and happily played with her younger brothers. Both of them were wonderful: Eduard, Gardwig’s eldest, a nice and quiet boy who loved studying, and the youngest, Corin, a troublemaker and a brat. Almost three years old, he loved crawling everywhere, climbing, and getting lost and found six times a day.

Any resident of the palace knew that if they heard cluttering, clanging, and shrieks, His Highness would be there, and not just as the audience, but as the cause of all that. And that’s despite being guarded day and night!

So far, his achievements included a disassembled suit of armor (he had barely survived the process), a broken rocking chair (a three-year-old is an unstoppable force able to demolish absolutely everything), and a bitten dog belonging to a lady-in-waiting. Really, why had it bared its teeth? Corin had his own set, too!

The dog got such a shock that the lady-in-waiting never took it to the palace again, pissing itself as soon as setting sights on the building, and the woman understood it well. Fear hyperactive children!

Unfortunately, court ladies didn’t have a choice. Maria, however, managed to hit it off with the boys and deeply regretted having to go away.

But she had to.

The dowry, the dinnerware, the fabrics, the dresses, the jewels, the gold, and most importantly, the land. All day long, the conversations focused on that subject. Sometimes, Maria just wanted to scream, howl, and run away as far as she could, huddling in a far corner where nobody would find her. All of that was too much for her after an old quiet castle.

***

That day, she did exactly that. She escaped the ladies-in-waiting and fled into one of the towers, climbing almost to the top into a vacant room and hiding behind a curtain, quiet as a mouse. Five minutes of peace were all she needed.

It was hard for Maria. Before, all she had had were her sisters, but Anna was unsubtle in her dislike of the younger girl, and the rest were children. Gardwig had destroyed all opportunities for them to become close. Living in squalor, they could either rally together and face the world shoulder-to-shoulder or fall out with one another for good, becoming egoists of the first order. It was the latter that happened to them.

Too bad, but there was no repairing the situation: it was far too late for that.

Soon, she would have to go back. Aldon Peters was going to come and counsel her before her wedding. That was a necessity. But those moments were still hers.

The silence, the blue sky outside the window, the smell of dust and stone, the scent of...perfume?

Then she heard the steps. The person made very little noise.

Gardwig hated the sounds of boots, especially if he managed to fall asleep, and all his servants had to start wearing shoes with fur soles, making their tread especially light and soft, like a cat’s.

Maria peeked out through a slit in the curtain.

A man dressed as a palace servant entered the room with a heavy bundle in his hands. He came up to a wall, pulled at a candelabra, and a wooden wall panel slid aside. He went in and in a minute, left without the bundle and left the room.

What happened? Maria wondered.

She didn’t even contemplate the possibility of something dirty. She was just curious.

What danger could a princess encounter inside the palace, from her own servants? Nothing. But what could be in that bundle? What if he had stolen something?

After ten minutes, just to be safe, the girl got out of her hiding spot, shook off the dust, and approached the wall. She pulled at the candelabra, turned it around every which way, and then hung on it with her entire body. Something clicked, and the panel gave in.

Maria decided against going in. What if it closed, making her yell for help? Instead, she peered into the darkness from the outside, and there was a lot to see.

Weird.

It wasn’t an armory, was it? But why did it have so many swords, axes, and crossbows? What were they intended for?

But then, she didn’t know a lot of things. Maybe it was a storage for weapons that needed repair or something similar.

She considered asking Milia.

The panel creaked, hinting that it would soon close up. The girl backed away and shrugged. There was no telling what that room was.

The servants knew better, anyway. The weapons were ordinary-looking with no decorations. Stuff like this wouldn’t be stolen. Maybe they just left it in the tower to store. Yes, probably that.

No other thoughts crossed her mind. But then, what could be wrong? A man brought something and left it there; he wasn’t stealing anything or acting suspiciously. He also wasn’t taking it away, but the opposite. It wasn’t her business; she had enough on her plate.

Still, Maria decided to have a talk with Milia. Alas, she didn’t get to see her stepmother right away, and later, she was already swept in the cycle of tailors, fittings, seamstresses, and jewelers, and promptly forgot everything.

Weapons? Who cares!

It’s not like it’s gold and diamonds!

***

Virma. The lands of Clan Hardring.

The Circle—twelve clans, twelve leaders, the strongest and the smartest, and also, the most dangerous.

Having the biggest clan or the most land wasn’t what mattered; influence was.

On the first day, there would be a sacrifice. The clans had to ask the gods for their favor, so the deities wouldn’t leave their children without support or let them commit an injustice.

On the second day, the most important issues were decided. While the gods listened and could reply, the business had to be settled. Afterward, it was all downhill: what if the gods got tired of listening about poisoned crops or stolen poultry and retired? One couldn’t solve important problems without their presence.

The alliance with Ativerna and Leif’s issue would be discussed on the morning of the second day.

Bran explained everything, and Her Highness carefully listened and asked questions.

“Can I watch?”

“The sacrifice? Forgive me, Your Highness, but only the clan chiefs and the priests are allowed there.”

Angelina sighed.

“Then at least tell me which gods get sacrifices and what they entail. For Aldonai, prayers are enough.”

“But offerings are made even in your temples, Your Highness—just with money.”

“It’s voluntary,” Angelina said, pursing her lips.

“It’s the same for us, too. Nobody forces you to make a sacrifice. It’s just that if you don’t, you die.”

The girl laughed out, genuinely amused. Then she grew serious.

“Yours is a cruel land, Bran.”

“Yes, Your Highness, and it doesn’t tolerate weakness. If I may be so bold, you could have lived in Virma.”

“What about my companions?”

“Not all of them. Two of the girls could, but I’m not sure about the others.”

Angelina nodded.

“Do you think Leif will be all right?”

What could Bran say while looking into those huge pleading eyes?

“I’ll do everything in my power, Your Majesty.”

“I’m not a queen, Bran.”

“In my eyes, you are lovelier than any queen in the world, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t call me that. Please.”

Bran lowered his head to hide his expression from the princess.

“Command me, Your Highness, and I will obey.”

Her thin fingers touched his hand.

“Thank you. For everything.”

Then she was gone, leaving a lingering aroma of her perfume in her wake…and also the desire to fall on his knees and howl. Gods were cruel.

She was half his age, even more than half. She was a princess, and he was a common Virman, even if a clan chief. She was gorgeous, and he was a cripple.

Both of them knew that.

Yet could a heart be forbidden to love?

You are proud of your intellect, Bran Gardren, your power, your cunning, your finesse. You wanted to watch and play, you arranged people like pieces on your board, and you controlled everything...except for your feelings. No, never your feelings.

You decided to meet the princess yourself, you played with fate, and, gods as your witnesses, you didn’t feel a thing when you saw that slender blonde girl on the wharf.

And then...

When the Gardren chief had suddenly received a rebuff, when he discovered that the princess wasn’t just pretty, but also smart, when...

No, not quite.

He already had a pretty and smart wife, actually, prettier than Her Highness. His slave girls were nice, too. He could write a long list.

But what was it about that girl that swept him off his feet? She was genuine. She didn’t lie, she didn’t pretend, didn’t try to get something out of him, didn’t see him as a source of potential benefits, and didn’t lace words with underlying meaning. She was herself.

He was a cripple. She was a princess. Whose chains were heavier? He couldn’t say.

Honesty, integrity, empathy, and his heart was gone. The blow was deadly enough for him to perish after she left, leaving only an empty shell instead of the Bran who was smiling every time she said something. But who would notice the difference? After all, he had never let anyone see the real him, either.

Except for her. Angelina had seen the real Bran Gardren and didn’t recoil in fear. Gods, how careless he was! Or was it Annora’s hand?

The fate that we choose for ourselves?

He had opened up. He had made his choice. He could howl and cry and whimper, but it was far too late for that.

Remember, no one can outplay the gods. In the end, they always get their due.

Thank you for this love, Fleyna. It might be bitter and even deadly, but I thank you. But gods, you are such a bitch!

***

Her Highness didn’t get far.

She found her brother and dragged him for a walk along the shore.

“Richard, please!”

The prince couldn’t refuse his sister. He gestured for his escort to leave him and grabbed the girl’s hand. Quietly, they strolled along the coast, the wind playing with the bow on her dress, scattering her hair, trying to get under her skirts... Richard spoke up only when the settlement was out of sight.

“What’s wrong, Angie?”

“I don’t know.”

If Richard were a cat, he would have bristled.

“Did someone offend you?”

“No, Richard. Nobody offended me. It’s just that sometimes, I feel so sad that I was born a princess.”

Richard chuckled.

From the looks of it, his sister’s “sadness” had the same origin as his.

“What’s his name? Go on, sis, tell it, don’t be shy. Or let me guess, Hjort or Gael Hardring? Torv Kellog? Who could it be?”

The young men mentioned by Richard really had been circling the princess like sharks. They looked at the ladies-in-waiting but paid attention to Her Highness as well.

What if they got lucky? Young Virmans had no shortage of arrogance.

Angelina looked dejected.

If she were home, she would have talked to Joliette, but her sister was far away, with only her brother around. She trusted him, though. Richard did love his sisters, even if they were born of his father’s second wife. After all, that was no reason to take it out on the girls.

“You know him. It’s Bran Gardren.”

Richard whistled. Now that was something. Even loving a viper would be safer, and it would probably be kinder than Gardren, too.

“Sis, have you lost your mind?”

What could Angelina say?

“I know it, Richard. He’s older, I’m a princess. Father will never agree to that. I know everything.”

“What, then?”

“It just...hurts.”

All he could do was to comfort her.

“Sweetie, it happens to everyone. Believe me, first love will pass eventually, leaving only light sorrow behind...”

Richard would have given her a lot of valuable advice, but a shriek interrupted their conversation.

“You’ll be begging me for that, bitch!”

The sound of a blow followed, then a retaliation.

Richard glanced at Angelina, got a nod in reply, and rushed forward. All they had to do was to run around the cliff, but Angelina was wearing a long dress, so he would be first.

Behind the cliff, he saw a deserted beach full of sand—the perfect place to train.

But at that moment, two people were standing on the light, almost white sand opposite each other—Tira Elleig and Elg Torsveg.

The girl was nursing a bruised shoulder. Torsveg was trying to straighten up after a well-aimed blow right at the chest.

Both were seeing red.

*Author’s note: being hit in the xiphoid, a spot on the chest, is exceedingly painful.

“What’s going on here?”

It sounded quite royal. What happened next, however, didn’t follow suit, as the Virmans, savage as they were, didn’t read the romance stories. The damsel in distress didn’t run at Richard, throwing her arms around him, but rather put her hand on the hilt of her blade.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll kill this swine, and everything will be over.”

“You’ll be asking me on your knees,” Elg said, spitting. “Bitch, I made you an offer, fair and square—”

“To open my legs for you? What a high honor!”

“You think anybody will offer you more? You’re a beggar!”

“Poverty is no vice, and I don’t have a price!”

Richard coughed. He immediately understood the whole deal. A man, a woman, and a refusal. That wasn’t rare in Ativerna, either. The consequences, however, could vary.

“Lady of Elleig, please don’t stain your hands against this filth. I’ll kill him myself.”

Torsveg narrowed his eyes.

He was no fool and had already cooled down, desperately searching for a way out of that sticky situation.

“Your Highness, will you violate the treaty?”

Richard ground his teeth.

“No, I’ll kill him myself!” Tira took a step forward.

“You’re nothing. Until the Circle approves, all you can get is a good thrashing, you brat. Use a weapon? You’re just a girl!”

Tira flared up.

Richard straightened, but he didn’t get the time to say anything or punch Torsveg in his face.

“Sir, I suggest you leave.”

Angelina was just in time. She had heard a part of the conversation and was furious. How insolent!

Elg threw the princess a mocking look and was about to say something, but she interrupted him.

“Don’t even doubt that Lord of Gardren will hear no end of your behavior that is unworthy of a man or, really, a person. To raise your hand against a highborn girl? On a child who wasn’t recognized as an adult yet? Away with you, you are disgusting!”

Elg ground his teeth just like Richard.

He knew he had gotten into a spot. Richard would never complain, as that would be unworthy of a prince. Tira wouldn’t say anything, or she would never become a kyria. What kind of warrior couldn’t deal with a suitor?

But Her Highness? And Gardren? She would tell him, absolutely. And Bran had never been known for being meek.

There was no point in making excuses. All Elg could do was to avoid exacerbating it further, and that is why he bowed and made himself scarce.

Angelina looked at Tira.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“You’re so brave! All alone with that bastard... I would have died of fright!”

“I didn’t expect anybody to come,” Tira confessed.

“I train here every day, and it used to be quiet. He probably followed my trail.”

Richard sighed softly. There she was, right next to him. He could simply reach out and touch the silver locks that haunted his dreams, whisper her name to the wind. Yet that closeness was an illusion.

All he could do was to escort the girls home and be glad that Tira and Angelina seemed to be so friendly. If the Virman girl found common ground with the princess, he would be able to see Tira Roivsson Elleig on a more frequent basis.

Love was cruel.

***

Famously, all good deeds were done in daylight, at noon, when the sun was high and Olive was looking favorably on his children, noticing everything that happened in the world. Conversely, midnight was the time of Holosh.

The clan chiefs gathered at noon. The sacrificial altar was located high in the mountains, where no women could tread. It was the edge between two worlds—mountains and water, the stream running down the rocks and grass and ice from the peaks.

All that was left was to ignite a fire, and they had air aplenty.

It was a huge hollow surrounded by mountains, with only one path laid by the Virmans, as Olive had commanded.

The glade was clear. There were twelve stone seats and a table between them: the altar.

One clan, one seat, one stone. The leader of the Circle would approach the big altar and fall on one knee. There were no servants or slaves; they were the beloved children of the gods. They were to show respect, but not slavish worship; those were two different things.

“Hear us, Olive. Hear us, gods! We, the children of Virma, call upon you. Clear our minds, bar us from committing injustice, guide our hands. Shut the mouths of liars and knaves, and let the vipers choke on their venom. Let our decisions be just. Hear us, gods!”

The wind roared in the rocks, answering the prayer.

Olav raised the big chalice.

“By the blood of the earth, by the blood of man.”

The chalice was placed on the altar, and Olav cut his palm with an old obsidian dagger. Each clan had them.

One by one, the chiefs approached the cup, slashed their palms, and their blood poured out, mixing with the blood of the earth. All of them wore calm and resolved expressions on their faces.

Pain? They knew no such word.

When the last of them was done, Olav produced old flint and tinder, struck them against each other, and a shower of sparks fell into the chalice. Fire sprang, almost invisible under the bright sun.

Would it take? Would it take only after a while?

Refuse. Cancel everything. The gods don’t give their blessing to your deeds.

But that time, everything ignited right, from the very first strike, and the fire was even and calm. Everyone knew that fire was the blood of the earth, and water was the blood of humans. The gods’ blessing was fire, too.

Olav raised his hand.

“The gods have accepted our offering!”

“Aye,” the chiefs echoed.

“Remember, the gods see into your souls. Those who go against their conscience would be eaten by the servants of Holosh!”

A tall pillar of flame soared into the sky as if confirming his words. The Virmans exchanged looks. The gods had said their word.

Olav produced one more chalice, opened a wineskin, and emptied it into the chalice. Then he squeezed his fist above, and blood dripped from the deep gash.

The chiefs repeated his gesture.

Olav was the first to accept the chalice and drink the three ceremonial sips.

“Blood to blood, flame to flame. I will not accept an injustice. The guilt of one shall fall upon many.”

The chief of Clan Kellog took the chalice after him. The same three sips, the same words.

The Virmans shared blood with water and earth, saying the ritual phrases, more than several centuries old, and the gods looked upon their children. The gods saw.

Some believed in that, and some doubted, yet they looked into their souls, and sometimes, heard an echo of wild laughter above the mountains. Or was it thunder? An avalanche?

No. That was Olive, anticipating a show.

***

While the clan chiefs were praying, the warriors were fighting. Angelina watched the practice with some interest. Tira, who had asked to stand next to the princess instead of her ladies-in-waiting, explained to her what was going on.

“The gods love watching people fight. But killing your kin is unworthy, and so, the battles are to last until first blood. The gods love blood, Your Highness.”

“Your gods are cruel.”

“So is our life, Your Highness.”

Angelina nodded.

Virma was a wonderful island, but the people there were...different, very different.

The fights were one-on-one, two-on-two, three-on-three, and even in fives. The battle royale would be held later that evening, at sundown.

Until then, it was smaller combats.

“But what are the clan chiefs doing?”

“They’re asking the gods for justice.”

Angelina shivered.

“Is it dangerous?”

Tira didn’t get her question. The princess wanted to know if all the clan chiefs would return alive, but Tira answered in the general sense.

“Calling upon the gods is always dangerous. Their justice is not like ours.”

“For example?”

Tira shrugged.

“We have many legends. I can tell you those I know myself.”

Angelina sighed, realizing that nothing bad was going to happen in the immediate future, and nodded.

“Tell me, please.”

***

As was the world, so were its myths. Richard came upon the girls only in the middle of the story but listened to the legend of the beautiful Alleiv and her beloved with a lot of interest.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl, pretty but blind. From her childhood, she was betrothed to a warrior, brave and noble, but could a warrior be tied to a woman’s apron? Never.

And so, Alleiv’s fiancé, Harrad, constantly took to the sea, looking for prey.

And while he was gone, conquering glory with the blade of his sword, the heart of his beloved was stolen by Earosh, a knave and a scoundrel. He wooed her with his honeyed tongue, and the foolish woman wavered, agreeing to flee together with the villain. They sailed away from the island.

Alleiv’s father shed the blood of such a dishonor and prayed to the gods. He was old and frail and had no hope of catching the villain. He asked to punish the unworthy bastard.

Olive heard him and grew angry, as he held no love for betrayal and deceit. He hit the sea with the handle of his axe, spun the waves into a whirlwind, and the two vessels met.

Harrad boarded Earosh’s ship, and the villain died in battle. Alleiv recovered her sight while sobbing over his lifeless body. With her eyes restored, she realized that she had fallen for a scoundrel, and she could not bear such grief.

She asked Harrad for forgiveness and threw herself into the sea. But the gods didn’t accept her sacrifice.

Ever since then, a seagull had been flying above the waves: Alleiv, crying and unable to forgive herself for breaking her word and betraying Harrad.

Her fiancé, in the meantime, returned home and became a son to Alleiv’s father.

Such was the justice of the gods.

“Such a shame,” Angelina said with a sigh. “She didn’t know. She was blind...”

“You have to keep your word, whatever happens, and no ifs or buts,” Richard replied, shaking his head.

“Alleiv’s fiancé was constantly at sea. Maybe she didn’t even know him all that well.”

“A warrior’s lot is battle, and his beloved is to wait for him. If you can’t trust a person’s word, how can you entrust your back to them?” Tira was resolute in her convictions.

Angelina shook her head.

They seemed to get along well. And...she had seen such a look, even if rarely. That was the way her father had looked at her mother.

Richard, you cannot have fallen in love, have you?

Angelina said nothing aloud, but she smiled at Tira and started questioning her.

A kyria?  How curious!

From the crowd, unseen by everyone, Elg Torsveg watched their conversation with angry eyes.

Wagging your tail before the prince, bitch? Just you wait, I’ll make you whimper!

But nobody bothered to look around. People in love are rarely attentive: such is the blessing of Fleyna and the curse of Holosh. When you open your heart, you lose the ability to look into someone else’s.

The celebration continued.

***

Ativerna, Lim.

In size, Lim could match Laveri, and in luxury, just as well.

Life was in full swing. The city built by a river became home to various fairs, and not just them. Shops, shops, and more shops, plus a good helping of inns crowded the streets.

Nothing was produced in Lim; the locals made their living by buying and selling all kinds of goods and made a good profit off visitors. The prices were the same as in the capital.

For instance, a sack of turnips cost around three coppers—everywhere except for Lim, where it was six coppers. A bucket of apples cost twice or even thrice the common price. The prices were far from attractive.

But who could resist going to a fair?

The ambassadors settled into an inn fittingly called “The Ambassadorial” and Jerisson Earton decided that they would cross the river in three days. It was enough time to get some sleep, walk around, and see the fair.

Lily offered Master Schmulz the chance to stay in Lim, but the Eveer vehemently refused.

“Only Wellster, only Cardin”. He had family there; they would help him set up house. And Lim...it was hard to settle in a new place at his age, after everything that he and his daughter had gone through. It also would be easier for her in Wellster.

That said, Rutha was already thrilled that she wasn’t pregnant, bless Aldonai in heaven and Maldonaya on earth. At least she wouldn’t have to give birth to the bastard child of a rapist.

The price of lodging was paid in gold and was so high that Lily gave out a surprised whistle. Still, that wasn’t her own money, but the king’s, and it made the innkeeper polite and attentive.

Fine. They would rest, bathe, spend time in bed, and visit the fair the next day.

***

“Lily, it’s for you.”

“What’s that?” Lilian asked, looking at the coin pouch before her with genuine surprise.

“For expenses,” Jerisson replied, just as surprised.

“I think I have some money...”

Lily was wide-mouthed in amazement. That wasn’t how it had been done in her family at all. Her mother and her father had received wages, put them into a jewelry box, and took out the requisite sum, maybe sometimes writing down what they had spent it on. They also discussed all major purchases.

Jerisson rubbed his forehead.

He was starting to realize that his wife was making good money by herself and was simply unused to such gestures. Still, he couldn’t let himself look like a fool.

“I know that. But you can never have too much.”

Lily nodded.

“That’s true. Do you want me to buy something specific?”

“No. Aren’t you going to a fair in the morning?”

“I would like that, yes. What about you? Won’t we go together?”

The hurt in his wife’s voice instantly dispelled Jerisson’s chagrin. He had made a mistake, but he fixed it quickly enough.

“I’m going to arrange a ferry in the morning.”

“A ferry?”

“Yes. Limayera is the border between Wellster and Ativerna. You could cross both by ferry and by boat, but there’s a lot of us. On the other side, we’ll pass through customs, pay the taxes and the fees, and drive to Gardwig.”

Lily nodded.

“Maybe later?”

“Honey, we need to arrange the ferry in advance, two or three days, or we’ll have to stay here longer.”

Lily sighed.

“You men always have all those affairs of the state to take care of...”

That sounded so cute that Jerisson couldn’t help himself. He kissed his wife on the neck, then on the shoulder, then lower...

Affairs of the state would have to wait. And really, His Majesty had ordered him to bring the next Count Earton back to Ativerna; he couldn’t disobey, could he?

***

The morning started off in a rather heartfelt manner.

His Grace Count Earton got the licking of a lifetime from one of the dogs, waking up in the midst of the process.

Lily was wiping her face on the other side of the bed. Nanook would never entrust his mistress to anyone else, so Jerisson got Lou-Lou.

Miranda, who was the one to arrange all that mess, watched it from the doorstep.

“Momma, Papa, will we visit the fair?”

Jess looked outside the window. The dawn was breaking.

Grrr!

In a leap worthy of a tiger, he crossed half the room, grabbed his daughter, and dragged her to bed to be mercilessly tickled. She should have known better than to wake up her parents so early!

“Mommy!” Miranda shrieked.

Lily rushed to defend her baby, and Jess fought back. Fortunately, he was wearing pajamas. That was also his wife’s idea; to tell the truth, a nightgown wasn’t very handy. It could get pulled up and everything...

Instead, he got drawstring pants and something akin to a short, thigh-length tunic—much better, and easier to climb out of bed.

Generally, His Grace preferred sleeping naked, but that was reserved only for his nights with his wife. It was a different story when his bed could suddenly become home to various beasts. He was a bit afraid of turning his bare back on a Virman hound... or his bare front, for that matter. Who knows what a dog might dream of? What if it was sausage? It could snap its teeth accidentally, and...

After about an hour, the Earton family left their chamber in a real, if humble, procession. Jerisson went first, Miranda hanging from his neck. Lily followed them with two Virman hounds on their leashes, elegant and made from leather, but purely for show. Thankfully, the dogs were smart. They would have never attacked a good person, and as for various scum...they deserved it.

Then came breakfast. Alas, they had no porridge. Lily ate a boiled egg, added some cheese, and decided that it was enough. Miranda and Jerisson chewed down everything they could get their hands on, and the dogs gnawed on bones under the table.

“Count Roivel promised to escort you to the fair, and I’ll also add a few men.”

“Heroes!” Lily said, nodding emphatically.

“To visit a fair with so many women?”

“Only with you four,” Jess replied, wagging his finger.

“Three countesses and a viscountess. Young people have their own interests, their own clique, and their own guards.”

Lily nodded.

She could have guessed, really. What was easier to graze, an entire herd or a group of three or four sheep? They would split the crowd and let it move in small batches.

“Mirrie, what do you want to buy?”

Miranda shrugged. She didn’t know yet. But she wanted something.

“Maybe we could find books?”

Lily looked at the child and beamed with pride. That’s my girl!

One would always be fine if they had knowledge.

***

The sight in front of Lillian was something quite unlike Altver’s quiet harbor. It was a real nightmare.

The streets of Lim teemed with items—and people—of all shapes and sizes. In an hour, she got a splitting headache, and her eyes felt as if they were full of sand.

Fabrics, jewelry, accessories...the countesses were digging through all of that like chickens through rubbish, while Lily looked on and contemplated fleeing, or maybe going back, or...

“Lilian, this silk would suit you so much!”

Lily took a polite look.

The silk reminded her of a peacock sick with cyanosis, of all things. It was multi-colored, bright, opalescent, but so bluish... All she would do in such a dress would be to scare people. Hmm, maybe it was worth buying, after all. She could make it into a robe and pretend to be a ghost.

Not at that price, though.

Lily spotted majestic pink gauze for Miranda and made a mental note to talk to the seamstresses about crepe satin. It was easy to make as long as she knew everything about interweaving the base thread and the weft, and she did. Essentially, it was the same as lacemaking.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go through seventy-two more clothing shops, and finally decided that she didn’t. An idea came quickly.

“How about we take a look at some creams and ointments? Maybe we could order something custom-made, too. We could come back to the fabrics later, but we’ll need to visit those shops first, or we won’t have time before we leave.”

The countesses exchanged glances and agreed. That was a good idea. And so, everyone headed to the pharmacies.

Herbs, salves, creams, oils, soaps, and perfumes, they had everything. How much brighter were the smells when everything was natural!

Lily took her sweet time digging through the herbs when she noticed an alchemist’s shop. She couldn’t miss the opportunity. Inside, it was quiet, dark, and at first glance, deserted. She had to knock on the wall to draw the attention of the owner. The wood responded with a thud.

“Ahem?”

A shadow appeared somewhere in the depths of the shop.

“M’Lady? Oh, I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

The shadow crawled closer to the light and turned out to be a grey-haired elderly man in his sixties. His looks reminded Lily of classic “mad scientists” from old movies: hair standing on end, eyes like an owl’s, a blank look, a scrawny build, odd clothes that would fit well in a chemistry lab as a mop used for at least three years straight.

“Master…?”

“Azhar, Your Grace, at your service. How can I help Your Grace?”

Lily narrowed her eyes.

“It depends on what you have. It’s an alchemist’s shop, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Your Grace, but I don’t sell any ointments for whitening your skin. And forgive me for being rude, but you don’t need any.”

Lily waved her hand. She didn’t give a toss about makeup. However, in one of the boxes next to the counter she saw something interesting.

“Sulfur?”

That substance wasn’t something one could easily forget. Lily had seen brimstone once and remembered its yellow color and texture, knew how its clumps crumbled between the fingers...

Of course, they didn’t know that name around there. The alchemist shrugged.

“This is the sweat of a nether dragon, Your Grace. Underground is the realm of monsters, and when they sweat and itch, it comes to the surface and remains here.”

Lily nodded.

She was itching to inquire as to what else the dragons were doing there, seeing as how much sulfur formed in the craters of sleeping volcanos along with brimstone gas and hydrogen sulfide. But those weren’t her beliefs, and she would rather keep her unscientific theory to herself.

“Yes, of course. Whatever you say. Is it for sale?”

“Y-yes, Your Grace.”

“I’ll take everything.”

The alchemist’s eyes popped out.

What was so surprising about it, though? Sulfur salves were great against skin diseases, or at least those most common to the era like tetter, seborrhea, psoriasis, and rashes.

Lily still remembered such salves prepared right in the drugstores and sold for a pittance.

The smell, however... That reek was a real knockout.

Lily had mixed it herself, too, back with her mother.

“Do you have anything else that might be of use?”

“Momma?” Miranda said as she peeked inside the store.

Lily shook her head.

“Honey, wait if you want. I’m happy.”

The alchemist realized that his shop had been visited by a dangerous madwoman and was about to call for the guards. Then a golden coin fell on his counter with a soft chink, and he decided to wait. Madwoman or not, the gold was real, and that’s what mattered.

Lily became the owner of a supply of brimstone, some charcoal, a bottle of crude oil—unprocessed and stinky, but it’s not like she could refuse—manganese ore, magnesite, phosphate, cinnabar, and even, just for the hell of it, some shale oil. She also found arsenic ore, talcum, and pyrite.

Lily rubbed her hands. It didn’t matter that she didn’t need most of that at the moment. She would take everything she could get and play with it later in a lab. Hmm. Now that was an idea.

She needed an alcohol lamp, or, better yet, a dozen of them. Maybe she could order some while she was in the city? It’s not like making them would be hard: just blow for five minutes, and that was it. Fine, a bit more complex than that, but still.

She might even order a lamp from a blacksmith. Or maybe both the alchemist and the blacksmith?

Lily learned the blacksmith’s address, growing poorer by almost twenty gold by the time she was done with her purchases. That was a lot of money. Buying three dresses was cheaper, but why would she need dresses when she had something like that?

Jerisson Earton came by the end of her shopping frenzy. Apparently, the countesses had summoned him when they realized that they had no hopes of pulling Lily away from the shop.

“Lilian?”

Someone had told him that his wife was buying something strange, seemingly unnecessary, and clearly dangerous from a crazy-looking old man. He could sell her anything!

But nobody even heard Jerisson’s words.

“Cinnabar, I’m saying!”

“The blood of the Star Mare, Mistress? Yes, I have some, but not much, here—”

“I’ll take it anyway! In bulk! Will you give me a volume discount?”

“Lilian?” Jerisson called her a bit louder, hoping to get noticed.

His wife turned to him. She was flushed with excitement, with burning eyes, and so emotional that the count suddenly all but mellowed out.

“Jess, sweetie, do we have someone to carry all of that?”

“Yes. But—”

“Can you believe it? I found the sweat of a desert dragon...or whats-its-name, Master Azhar?”

“Nether dragon, Your Grace.”

“I cannot,” the noble count confessed. “Why do we need it?”

“What do you mean, why?” Lily asked, puzzled. “You have Count Roivel who’s tortured by a skin disease. We’ll treat him.”

Jess opened his mouth, then closed it, then thought for a few minutes.

“With that?”

“What’s so special about it?” Lily countered.

“Preparing a salve is a matter of ten minutes; I can do it myself. I’ll go visit a glassblower, order a couple of vessels, or maybe buy ready-made ones, and we’ll start.”

Jess realized that he was being swept away by the current and simply nodded.

“What do you want me to do? Did you have enough money?”

“Yes, it’s all really cheap,” Lilian said, brushing off the question, never noticing the alchemist slowly slumping down behind the counter.

“I even feel bad for robbing this nice sir... Master Azhar!”

“Yes, Your Grace?” the alchemist responded, pulling himself together.

“Do you get such lovelies often?”

The man coughed. Truth be told, he did. The city was built on a river, attracting even the most exotic of wares. There was, however, a criminal lack of those who appreciated such items. He could barely eke out a living while continuing to experiment with those substances.

“Experiments?” Lilian grabbed onto that word.

Jerisson chuckled.

“Are you trying to create the elixir of eternal youth?”

The alchemist turned sulky.

“Your Grace, the fact that it hasn’t been processed yet—”

“Is just a shortcoming,” Lily said, interrupting him. Fighting with a potential supplier of reagents wasn’t her idea of fun.

“Let’s switch to nicer subjects. Will I be able to order all of this from you? In bulk?”

The alchemist nodded.

Yes, Mistress! Of course, Mistress! And please, the more, the better!

Lily threw her husband a pleading look.

“Jerisson?”

The count sighed and obeyed.

“Fine. So, Master Azhar, what exactly does my wife need and how much?”

Lily rubbed her hands. She needed everything.

After an hour-long conversation, they discovered a few not-so-pleasant details. Reagents weren’t exactly in high demand and were only bought by crazy vendors like Azhar himself, and as such, were usually delivered in small quantities. He would have to discuss the purchase volumes with the suppliers, and they would clear it up in about half a year.

Lily sighed, frustrated.

Typical. But at least it wasn’t a straight-on refusal. They agreed to keep in touch and make a decision based on the results, then hired a porter, and Lily, satisfied, headed to the glassblower accompanied by her husband and Miranda. The ladies had long since moved on to other shops.

All Jess could do was to shake his head. What could he do with that woman? Just...love and cherish? Or run away as far as he could?

There was no third option.

***

Lily walked, lost in thought.

Sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal, oil—crude, but clearly of high quality...

What was God pushing her to do? She was no fool, she had gotten the hint, but could she really bring gunpowder into that world?

They did already have incendiary liquid, though, used by the Virmans. She had even distilled it. Was it better? Why was her conscience nagging at her?

Lily sighed. Maybe she would do that anyway. What, though? Bags filled with gunpowder? What would she do with them then?

Black powder actually had a pretty low blast capacity and brisance. She wouldn’t invent a cannon or even the simplest musket, even if she did have an idea about their composition. She had no reason to, and how would she transport something like that?

No, that was no good. What could she do, then?

Lily remembered making egg bombs back in her childhood. Those exploded nicely, but they had used match heads, which were, like, fifty percent Berthollet’s salt. She would never get that salt, she simply didn’t have the equipment, and even if she did...

All right. What were her options? The most primitive contraption—a glass bomb. Take a glass ball, pour gunpowder inside, plug it, and insert a fuse... The explosion wouldn’t be too big, but have you ever seen cuts made by glass? That would be a nightmare.

Terrorists had been toying with those for ages, and other people had used them once as well; only the good things took a long time to be invented, but the bad caught on fast.

So, what was her verdict? Do it or not? Lily took a deep breath. She didn’t know.

On the one hand, if a gun hangs on a wall at the beginning of a play, it will go off by the third act. On the other... What if someone gets strangled instead of being shot, and the gun is a misdirection? On the third, who knows who will be shot? What if it’s a serial killer or someone who’s begging to be killed? Or a rabid dog?

Lily genuinely had no idea what to do. But then, she suddenly remembered her father.

If you want to be friends with a viper, do so, but keep a stick at hand.

What are you saying, Dad?

Listen to me, girl. Whatever happens in your life, keep your gunpowder dry and your weapon ready.

Merciful Aldonai, it was so long ago. It felt odd as if it had never happened at all. But it had.

And thank you, my loved ones, for teaching me, for showing me strength and patience, for giving me everything you had. I will never forget it.

But neither will I tell it to anyone else.

She could also lie and tell everyone it was a skin ointment that looked like that because it wasn’t ready yet, and if she never needed it, she could throw it away.

But what if she did? What is the worst nightmare of any healer? To see sickness and be powerless to do anything about that—if it’s a good healer, of course.

What about a soldier? Inability to protect their loved ones. Now that was a real fear; nothing else came close.

Lily sighed and made a hard decision.

“Let’s go to the glassblower.”

***

They say that when you truly need something, things come together exactly to a T. The glassblower had bottles of the required shape, small and...grenade-like, even.

They had been intended for incense, but the clients never collected the order. Now they’re just collecting dust. I’ll give you a discount...

Lily waved her hand and decided that if fate thrust something right under her nose, she had no right to turn it away. If there really was someone up above, maybe he was watching her and helping. If so, she had no business waiting for a helping hand; whether she was on a boat, a ferry, or a cruise liner, she would have to row with her own hands.

Don’t make Him doubt your mind.

God had already rewarded man with a brain. Not using it was the ultimate heresy. Having settled on that, Lily headed to the inn to prepare the salves and mix other useful things.

She didn’t know if she would be successful, but at least, she wouldn’t make it worse.

Chapter 7

The Trial of Gods and the Will of Men

Virma. The lands of Clan Hardring.

Angelina looked at the Circle gathered together. Despite praying in seclusion, they held court in public, so nobody could say anything about an injustice or, vice versa, speak upon noticing a travesty.

The scene was simple—a clear sky, a circle of twelve stones, two fires burning in the center, and a spot for the defendant or the petitioner between them.

Branches and berries of mountain ash, the Virmans’ sacred tree, were strewn around inside the circle. Legend said that it was sprayed with Olive’s blood when villainous Holosh wounded him.

There was no exception made for the Ativernans, other than to fence off an area for them behind the circle, so they could wait for the verdict.

Elg Torsveg was the first to enter the circle.

“I accuse!”

The twelve chiefs watched him, their expressions calm. He wasn’t the first, and he wouldn’t be the last.

“We hear your word,” Olav replied with a traditional phrase.

“I, Elg Snorrison Torsveg, the chief of Clan Torsveg, accuse Leif Erquig of killing my brother and my nephews. I accuse him of abducting my niece! He snuck up at night, like a knave, took Ingrid, killed her brother, then my brother, who tried to get his daughter back... I demand blood!”

The Virmans generally disliked ceremonies. An accusation was supposed to be short and precise. The gods held no love for wordiness.

You could confuse people, but the gods saw right through you—and they punished. You could get the upper hand, but you would pay it back threefold in blood and lives. Such was the way. You could never bargain with the gods. That wasn’t fair.

Olav nodded.

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s hear the other party. I call Leif Erikson Erquig into the circle!”

Leif made a step forward, then another.

It wasn’t hard for him to fight in battle but here, under the watchful eyes of the gods...

“I, Leif Erikson Erquig, summon the gods as witnesses to my innocence.”

Bran Gardren made a gesture with his palm.

“Did you not kill them?”

“I did.”

“Then tell us what happened.”

Leif sighed. Words were like stone boulders, heavy and crushing.

“It was Fleyna’s night. Ingrid and I fell in love, and she became my wife.”

The Virmans exchanged looks, and he heard whispers of approval, Fleyna’s nights had brought together many families.

“Fire joined us, but I had no time to ask her parents for a blessing and confess. That night, Ingrid’s brother infiltrated my ship. I didn’t recognize him, and I didn’t know that she was a Torsveg. I just killed a man who came to my ship armed with fire and a sword and told them to leave. When Torsveg tried to stop us, I told him that Ingrid became my wife. The first arrow flew at her. Then I killed them all.”

Leif wasn’t making any excuses. No need; that was the truth witnessed by the gods.

Bran Gardren chuckled, but before he could say anything, Olav spoke up.

“Torsveg shot at his daughter?”

“Any one of my crew can confirm that.”

“Your crew will confirm anything!” Elg yelled.

“Where is my niece? Let her speak!”

Leif sized him up with a heavy look.

“Ingrid is quick with child. I will not bring her here. She is my wife, carrying my child. I am ready to pay a wergild.”

“With blood!” Torsveg roared.

Bran raised his hand.

“Wait, Elg. We need to figure this out. Tell me, did your brother leave a widow?”

Elg hesitated.

“She died.”

She didn’t want to eat mushrooms.

Angelina suddenly remembered Lilian Earton’s saying.

“Nephews?”

“My nephew isn’t even ten years old! He’s at home!”

“Who accompanied your brother on the ship?”

Bran latched onto Elg and didn’t want to let go.

Torsveg shook his head.

“Nobody survived.”

“Lies!”

***

Even being hit with a hammer wouldn’t have had such an effect on Torsveg.

A woman entered the circle, fearlessly crossing the runic line. She was grey-haired, already a crone. She shook her fist at Elg.

Loose strands fell out from under her black headscarf, and her eyes burned with fury.

“You are lying, Torsveg! I summon the gods as my witnesses!”

Olav coughed, covering his confusion.

“You—”

“Sigrid Erdson Arreiv! My son was on Torsveg’s ship! My Kars!”

Elg threw his hands up.

The woman stamped the ground.

“Don’t hide your eyes, Torsveg! Kars is gone, but his words live on! He told me everything! When Erquig wrecked the ship, Kars barely survived. Injured and burned, he reached the shore. He was dying!”

“I know,” Elg muttered. “I visited you.”

“Yes, you brought us a salve and some money, but they didn’t help my son. I can’t keep silent, because Kars died bearing that sin. He told me that Torsveg had sent his son and several men to Erquig’s ship that night to burn it down. Kars couldn’t come; he was on watch duty. That’s why the girl could escape her home; her people had their hands full. When Torsveg realized that his son wouldn’t return and learned that Erquig was pulling anchor, he got mad with rage. He followed them: not to get his daughter back, he didn’t know that she had left. He wanted to avenge his son, who he had sent to his death!”

The Virmans cried out in support. What was a ship for a Virman? It meant life. Burning a ship was akin to striking at the heart. That was something that could never be forgiven. Leif was in his right to kill those who dared to do that.

“Did everything happen the way Erquig says?” Olav asked, confident.

“Yes. Erquig yelled that Ingrid was with him. The girl said that she was his wife and happy. Torsveg went insane and... Erquig told the truth,” the woman said, her shoulders slumped.

“Torsveg sent his son to his death and tried to kill his daughter. Kars died, too. He died because he went against the will of the gods.”

A murmur of approval was her reward. Fleyna might not be Holosh, but nobody was sure who of them was worse. If she had joined two hearts together, no man was to take them apart.

The woman stood, her back hunched, and tears flowed down her cheeks.

It was too much for Angelina. She stepped forward and put her arms around Sigrid’s shoulders.

“Come with me, Sigrid. You’ve told us everything. Your son was a warrior and died like a warrior...”

In such cases, it didn’t matter what one said, but how.

The woman sobbed. She propped herself on the princess and allowed the girl to lead her away, and then, the ladies-in-waiting swept in.

Olav struck the handle of his poleaxe against a stone.

“I’ve heard the word! Has the Circle heard it?”

“Yes,” the chiefs replied almost in unison.

“Then tell me yours. Gardren?”

“Innocent.”

“Kellog?”

“Innocent.”

“Innocent.”

“Innocent...”

Twelve voices sounded as one. Twelve innocent verdicts broke the silence of the circle, and the gods heeded.

Elg ground his teeth in rage but didn’t dare to interfere.

Damnable crone! Holosh take you!

“The will of the Circle is the will of the gods. You are hereby pronounced innocent, Erquig. Torsveg!”

Elg raised his head.

“Willing or not, you badmouthed a man. You are to pay him a wergild. Give Leif whatever he asks, here and now, in front of everyone. Erquig?

What could Leif ask for? Only one thing.

“Give me Ingrid’s brother, Torsveg! I will raise himself as a warrior, so no more hate would rage between our families.”

The Virmans broke into a rousing cheer. It had been a long time since a trial like that.

Olav once again struck his axe against a stone. The sound was loud and booming.

“Then, so be it!”

Gardren said something that Angelina couldn’t hear, only seeing his lips move. Olav spoke up again.

“My people will depart for the boy today. Elg, you will be my guest until he arrives.”

Was it a threat? Not an outward one, no. He was proper and polite. But if anything happened to the boy...

Torsveg understood it. He bowed, hiding his rage.

“The will of the Circle is the will of the gods. I have heard the word.”

“And the gods have heard you,” Olav echoed.

After that, Angelina stopped listening.

Leif exited the circle.

He was keeping his chin up, but still, one of the Virmans shielded him with his back, and another one poured strong wine into the promptly presented cup. Leif emptied it in one gulp.

The trial continued, but Angelina’s attention was directed elsewhere.

She hoped she would be able to get Leif home, as his legs were shaking.

Not because he was a coward. Sometimes, after being freed from a burden, a person could just collapse. Whatever. They would catch him.

But Elg Torsveg got to him first.

“Satisfied, Erquig?”

Leif threw his shoulders back.

“Whatever do you mean? Such was the will of the gods.”

“You know who deserves death!”

Leif looked at him with contempt. He was rapidly regaining self-control; talking to an old enemy was bound to whip one into shape.

“Present your grievances to the gods.”

Elg fell momentarily silent, trying to figure out where he had just gotten sent. From the looks of it, it was pretty far.

“You will die!”

“Sure, in forty or fifty years, from old age,” the cheeky Virman replied.

“Keep in mind that if the boy doesn't get here safe and sound, I’ll chop your head off myself.”

“We’ll see whose head gets chopped!” Torsveg snapped.

“If you weren’t such a coward...”

Angelina stepped forward, boldly standing between the two men who calmly exchanged glances above her head. She would never reach their eye level even if she were to jump up, such was their height.

“Lord Torsveg, do you wish to declare a challenge?”

Elg twisted his lips.

“Are you hiding behind a woman’s skirt?”

Leif’s expression was cold and emotionless. He didn’t even spare a look at Torsveg.

“Your Highness, I apologize for this man’s poor manners.”

Angelina made a gesture as if brushing something insignificant—say, Elg Torsveg—from her path.

“It’s all right, Leif. You cannot be responsible for your enemies.”

“Unfortunately, without your order, Your Highness, I cannot even kill them.” Leif bowed.

He felt sick. His head was buzzing, nausea crept in, and only the thoughts of Ingrid forced him to stand up.

My love. My heart. I will live to take our son into my arms!

“There will be no order.” Angelina cut him off. “Torsveg, you—”

She didn’t know what she would have said if a shadow didn’t fall on the ground between the squabbling men. It was odd-looking as if the man had three legs.

“Torsveg, you aren’t a clan chief yet,” Bran Gardren said quietly.

Elg recoiled, as if from a snake.

“I was recognized!”

“By whom? Slaves and women? You are yet to assert your right in the Circle if anybody else declares a challenge.”

Elg got the implication.

If you don't disappear, that claimant might appear this very second!

And seeing as none in Virma had a death wish and wanted to clash with the Gardren chief (really, it would have been easier to throw yourself off a cliff or impale yourself with a sword), Elg Torsveg bowed and left.

Angelina looked at Gardren with genuine gratitude.

“Thank you, Bran.”

“Happy to serve you, Your Highness.”

His tone made the ladies-in-waiting throw jealous looks at their mistress. Nobody said words like that to them.

No, not quite. Nobody said words like that to them and meant it, putting their heart and soul into them.

Angelina appreciated his reply, blushed, and led her retinue away from the trial ground. That day, they would rest. They deserved it.

***

The chambers of Her Highness were quiet and peaceful…up to a certain time. Then the door creaked, and Tira Elleig came inside. She bowed, hesitated, and bowed again, a bit lower.

Angelina could only shake her head.

The girl definitely had no manners and no hope of improving. Virma wasn’t known for its etiquette, although that might have been for the best.

Angelina imagined Virman ships turning to their opponents, while the crewmen stood face to face in full accordance of etiquette, making elegant bows and dance-like steps...

It is such an honor to attack you, M’Lord Captain!

It is such an honor to pierce your belly with an arrow, sir...

She smiled.

“Come in, Tira. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” the girl said with a sigh. She entered the room, sat on a bench—not even suspecting what an honor it was in the presence of a princess—and scratched the tip of her nose.

“Your Highness, when can a girl tell a man that she likes him in your culture?”

Angelina opened her mouth.

Umm... Really, when?

“Well...we can indicate it through gestures.” Angelina imagined Tira making eyes at someone and shook her head. It seemed out of character for her, considering her looks and behavior. The young shield-maiden would look funny if she tried those tricks. One could teach a horse to dance, but it would still be intended for riding.

“How about saying it, Your Highness?”

Angelina sighed.

“Usually, it’s the man who says it.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

Angelina sighed once again.

Oh, brother, just you wait...

“Do you like one of Ativernans?”

Tira’s entire face, neck, and even ears turned crimson, but even that tortured blush became her.

“Y-yes, Your Highness.”

Angelina wavered for a minute and then brushed it off in her mind.

“Call me Angelina when we’re alone.”

Tira had the right idea.

“M’Lady Angelina, thank you for the honor.”

“You like Richard, don’t you?”

Now that was a phenomenon. Could she really grow redder?

That said, it wasn’t exactly surprising. Richard was handsome even by Virman standards, strong, and smart, and he had saved the distressed damsel from the clutches of a dragon. Of course, she fell in love. Whom else could she see in her backwater village?

Bran Gardren had told the princess Tira’s biography in all details.

“He likes you, too.”

Angelina revealed to her the “dark secret” and watched her turn pale.

“M’Lady, but—”

“Richard won’t tell you that, never. And he won’t drop you any hints, either,” Angelina told Tira, spreading her hands.

Tira stared at her wide-eyed.

“But why?”

“Because he’s a prince.”

Tira flared up. It wasn’t hard to realize what was happening in her head.

He’s a prince; I’m a Virman commoner. Of course, he looks down on me.

Angelina barely managed to bar the door in time.

“Hear me out. He doesn’t want to hurt you—and himself.”

It was as if Tira crashed into a wall. She slowly sat back down and stared at the princess with her huge blue eyes, making the latter jealous. Angelina had always considered herself pretty, but next to a beauty like Tira, she had to reconsider her opinion. Tira was no Snow Queen from Lilian’s stories—or, rather, a Snow Girl. She was great at throwing daggers, fought men like an equal, and could saddle an untamed horse.

“Himself?”

“He’s a prince. He has obligations,” Angelina explained simply.

“He’s not free to choose and to love, he already has a bride. If Richard refuses to marry her, it will result in a war. Our relations with Wellster are already—”

The princess remembered herself. She had almost revealed a state secret (and every street cat knowing it was no excuse). She waved it aside and pointed at the table with a jug on it.

“Do you want some stewed berries?”

“I will. Thank you, M’Lady Angelina.”

Tira poured the concoction into cups and looked at the princess.

“I’m not asking him to marry me.”

Angelina shook her head.

“Our father fell in love when he saw my mother at the ball, at first sight and forever. He already had a fiancée, later a wife, but he loved my mother. I won’t tell you all the details...” The princess didn’t know them herself, other than whatever she had managed to overhear.

“Anyway, it almost caused a tragedy. Richard vowed to never repeat his path. Even if my brother loves you, it won’t work out. He’ll distance himself to avoid hurting you and himself.”

“What a fool!”

Angelina could have told her that insulting a member of the royal family was punished by law, but that would be foolish. Tira wasn’t attacking a prince; she was insulting an indecisive man, and that was a completely different matter.

“What do you want, then? A short-lived happiness and a separation?” Angelina was merciless. “To become the prince’s mistress?”

Tira considered the problem. What did she want? She could have begged the gods for that, but first, she had to make up her mind.

“I want to become a kyria. I won’t be able to marry, but maybe, I could have children...”

“In Virma. From a prince, the future king of Ativerna. And nobody will ever notice. And the children will never have a claim to the throne,” Angelina said with a sigh.

“You do realize that this results in children, even if you’re very careful? Or do you want to remain childless all your life?”

Tira understood that.

“So what, then?”

“I don’t know. Richard made his choice. He will stay away, because for you, being a mistress will not be enough, and he can’t marry you. Whatever I advise him, Ativerna will come first.”

It made sense for Tira. She cared about Elleig just as much, but if she sailed away, then Richard... The girl was on the verge of tears.

Yes, they could abandon their responsibilities and go wherever the waves carried them, but that was the way of the weak. Ships chose their own path.

And people weren’t any worse than ships. Or else...

Four examples of such “carelessness” accompanied the princess; Tira had already gossiped with the girls. Their lapses weren’t an issue in Virma but in Ativerna...

And Richard was to become its king.

“There’s no other way? Is that it?”

It sounded a bit disjointed, but Angelina understood Tira. She shook her head.

“No. How do the Virmans confess their love?”

“Usually, during Fleyna’s night. We offer to ask the goddess’ blessing... M’Lady Angelina?”

A woman in love has eyes sharper than a falcon. The princess looked down.

“It...doesn’t matter, either.”

Tira made some mental calculations and shivered.

“M’Lady, but he’s—”

“What?” Angelina sharply turned around. “Well?”

“Of age. And a commoner.”

“I know that,” Angelina replied, exasperated, tearing a handkerchief apart into strips of equal size.

“So what? What can I do? I’m a princess as well, a valuable trading good for my father and my brother. In Virma, it’s not a shame for a girl to share her bed with someone before marriage.”

“That’s right. It will prove that she’s fertile.”

“With us, however... If something like that happened to me, I would be locked in a convent, my child would be given away, I would never see them, and my family would disown me. Forever.”

“How do you live there?”

“For common folk, it’s not so bad. But I am of noble birth, and I have more responsibilities.”

Self-indulgence and impunity had come with a high price for the royal family, and they were always on their toes. And it wasn’t about to stop.

“You...I think he cares about you, too,” Tira said, almost whispering. “M’Lady...”

“I’d rather you were wrong,” the princess said, sighing. “Who said that love is a gift? It’s a curse. Tira, how about some more berries?”

The Virman girl nodded.

Two women sat side by side, one a princess, the other, a warrior, both sad. They couldn’t really do anything, swimming against the current as it was, only to silently support each other in the face of a tragedy. Or maybe it was still a good thing? But the girls couldn’t answer the dilemma that no human in history had managed to solve.

One thing was clear, however. Love hurt.

***

Ativerna, Lim.

Strangely, they did manage to find free ferries, even if not straight away. The crossing was to happen the next day at noon.

Not everyone was happy, but Jerisson dismissed them.

They would cross the river and deal with everything in Wellster.

How about one more walk through the city? One more visit to the fair?

Ladies and gentlemen, that’s quite enough. You’ll get a few more days for your amusements on the way back, when we cross the river once more, but while we have the opportunity, let’s make haste. We’d rather not travel back in winter, not to mention the cold.

Lily was in complete agreement.

She had already discussed procuring an alcohol lamp with Master Schmulz, who had bought blanks from his contacts (who had ever met an Eveer without contacts?) and was going to work on them while traveling. It wasn’t the most convenient of ways, but it was something.

Lily also started to contemplate building a kerosene lamp. She knew the essential components, but was it truly worth it?

In the world she had left behind, ecology was one of the most hot-button issues. The planet was eaten alive in some places and in others, polluted so badly that being eaten would be better. Were she to float the idea of oil refining, everything would follow—oil fuel, kerosene, gasoline, you name it. Organic chemistry would be next.

Lily would love to find the inventors of polyethylene and shove as many plastic bags as she could wherever she could.

Everyone was eager to spread dirt around them, but who would clean it up? Their children? Or were they going to travel to the next planet after ruining the last one? What an ingenious solution!

She grumbled until she saw the ferry crossing. The very sight of it made her stop in her tracks, as she had no strength left to think, only to cuss out a stream of F-bombs.

She realized that there was no such thing as perfect, but a ferry supported by what really seemed to be a bunch of empty barrels tied together? The shores of the river were connected via zip-lines that ferrymen grabbed with their arms so that the ferry wasn’t swept away by the current.

There was a token fence for the horses, a pen made from two twigs and three poles, probably intended for a very phlegmatic horse who would only notice the fact of the crossing a few days later.

Seriously?

Lily disregarded etiquette and grabbed her husband’s hand.

“This will carry all of us?”

Jerisson shook his head.

“Of course not, Lilian. Only the carts and the horses. We’ll use boats.”

Lily’s look made Jerisson shiver. Had they overlooked something?

“I won’t leave Lidarh alone on that.”

Jess realized that he was just a few words away from a scandal. The timing seemed exceedingly inopportune, but a horse was more than a friend, it was a part of the person—an important part.

“Do you think he’ll trust me? Will I make do or does he need you specifically?”

Lily considered his words.

“I don’t know. I can’t say for certain. I think it would be better if I stayed by his side. He knows you well, but I’m closer to him.”

He couldn’t argue with that. The Avarians were very smart.

“I won’t sail in a boat alone!” Mirrie blurted out, stomping her foot.

“Maybe you could accompany Martha?” the countess countered. “So she wouldn’t be afraid.”

Alas, tricking the brat was much harder than it used to be.

“She’s not afraid anyway. Will I sail with you or Papa?”

The loving parents exchanged looks, regretting that they couldn’t box their child’s ears, and answered in unison.

“With both of us.”

***

Funnily enough, Lilian’s actions didn’t draw any fire or indignation. Not even a single objection. The men looked at her with approving looks. They got it: it was an Avarian! Leaving him alone would be like buying the newest Infinity and entrusting it to someone else. Who’d do something like that?

The women, at first, threw her sidelong glances, but then Count Roivel whispered something in his wife’s ear, she passed it on to Priscilla, and the ladies knowingly nodded.

It was an Avarian, after all.

Lidarh reacted to the ferry with an understandable distrust. His mistress felt about the same. Most of all, she wanted to tear away a plank and use it to give the ferrymen a good whacking.

She couldn’t, however.

Have patience, Lily.

If only they cleaned it more often! But if a given spot didn’t stink, it was slippery enough to break a leg.

The horse slowly walked along the board, twitching its ears, glancing awry, snorting...

“Come on, sweetheart, honey, sunshine,” Lily sang as she pushed pieces of bread under the nose of her favorite horse.

Lidarh loved bread, especially made from rye and with a good helping of salt, and so, he obeyed, despite being wary of that disgusting cushion under his hooves. Or was it a pedestal?

It rocked from left to right, smelled strange, and sounded odd...and there was water everywhere.

The horse decided that he didn’t like it a bit.

Lily patted Lidarh’s shoulders, gripping the bridle so she could use her entire weight to anchor him to the ferry, and prayed for everything to work out.

Jerisson hadn’t brought his own horse onto the ferry yet. He took Miranda’s hand and decided he would rather cross the river one more time.

The ferrymen grabbed the ropes, and the ferry began confidently gliding across the water. Then it slowed down.

“What’s wrong?” Lily quietly asked Jerisson, who was standing next to her.

“Whirlpools.”

“Limayera has them?”

Jerisson gave her a silent nod. He didn’t tell her that it was the reason they didn’t load too much cargo on the ferry: they didn’t want it to flip over in a whirlpool.

“Why don’t they arrange a crossing away from the whirlpools?”

“Limayera is a tricky river,” Jerisson started explaining, feeling Miranda calm down and press herself against him.

“Its bottom is sandy, the current is strong, lots of sinkers...you never know where you’re going to get stuck next.”

Lily shivered. Her gut feeling had been right. She really needed to write that down: if you don't like something, it’s not a whim. It’s your insightful rump sending you hints when it senses trouble coming.

Why was the warning so cryptic, then?

Well, that wasn’t her brain; that was her butt! It did the best it could!

***

Seagulls—whether at sea or on a river, they were predators, even cannibals, according to some reports. Lily had never spared them much thought, but a lot of them circled the ferry. Maybe the sailors fed them.

One of the seagulls noticed a fish, grazed the water in a lightning-fast nosedive, snatched its prey, and soared up.

Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. Either it had grabbed the fish in the wrong way or it had been born stupid, but the bird dropped its trophy from its beak.

As luck would have it, it fell right on the ferry—at least, not under Lidarh’s hooves. They were still halfway to their destination, too, or maybe a little bit less.

The seagull swept down to reclaim its prey, and another seagull, deciding that airheads didn’t deserve dinner, followed suit. Both cried loudly as if Aldonai himself had personally blessed that fish for them, paying no attention to the horse standing right next to them.

Patience wasn’t Lidarh’s greatest virtue. The only reason he didn’t rear up was Lily, who dangled on his bridle with her entire body, making him bend down and even pulling up her legs, to be on the safe side. No matter her lost weight, he couldn’t simply drop her.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jerisson hung on the other side of the horse, whispering something in his ear. Lily added her voice to his, not paying any attention to the words, but making sure the tone was right.

The seagulls were left without the fish (and rightly so!), which had rolled down the ferry right into the water. Lily mentally wished for its tail to fall off, and the same for the seagulls.

She really had anticipated something like that. Lidarh stopped twitching only five minutes later, snorted, complaining about the iniquity of fortune, and put his muzzle on Lily’s shoulder. The countess patted his velvety nose.

“Sweetheart, it’s over... Jess, where’s Mirrie?”

Miranda enthusiastically watched the events around her while sitting on Arant Elont’s lap. Next to the count, just in case, sat Lou-Lou and Nanook, closely observing him.

What if he drops the child?

They would bite him to death then!

“Papa! Momma! How are you? I believed in you!”

Lily gritted her teeth.

Nope, they would have to make do without a ferry on their way to Ativerna. It might take them a long time to reach a bridge or something, but they were never getting back on that contraption.

***

Upon stepping on firm ground, Countess Earton drew a deep breath. She was finally safe, as were Miranda, Jerisson, Lidarh, and even the dogs. Umm?

“Jess?”

Count Earton kissed his wife’s hand.

“I’m going to help my horse cross over, too.”

Lily sighed again and somehow straightened her back. Her knees trembled, but that was a matter of principle. She was a person, dammit, not a damsel!

“I’m with you. What if you need help?”

Jerisson flatly shook his head.

“Thank you, Lilian, but I’ll manage. Watch Lidarh and Mirrie for me, will you?”

Lily breathed out.

“Jerisson, please! I’ll lose my mind here!”

The count looked at his wife’s face, shook his head again, but gave in.

“Fine. Then Arant will watch Miranda.”

Lily nodded.

Absolutely. And also Lou-Lou, Nanook, and Lidarh, who, like all Avarians, had been taught to fight... Count Elont would be the one in charge, sure.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Jerisson asked her softly as they climbed aboard.

Lily shook her head.

“What if something like this happens again?”

“I doubt that.”

Lily would never confess it to anyone, but that was her method of fighting fear. When you are told to get into a saddle, you do it, then fall down, then climb back up, no matter the pain and the fear. Those who never fall never win. It was the same with the ferry for her.

Incidentally, Lily could swim. But the second voyage passed without any problems, and no seagulls disturbed their peace. What can you say, really? Murphy’s law.

How about phrasing it for that world? Lily considered it for a few minutes and finally gave up on that idea. She really didn’t want to be known for creating an Earton Law, did she? Nope, thank you and good night, she had enough on her plate.

By that evening, everyone had crossed over, and the carts and carriages were steadily moving toward a roadside inn that doubled as a customs station of sorts for the two kingdoms.

***

Customs—that word rang lots of bells for Lily.

At that moment, she was deep into studying the grand-daddy of all customs stations. A short man dressed in gilded clothing burst out of that small house, hurriedly bowing before Count Earton.

“Your Grace.”

Did Jess have a brand on his forehead? I’m a noble count, ready or not, here I come.

Or was it just the times? When the nobles, who paid their tithe in blood, got all the perks and knew their rights all too well? Maybe.

She never behaved that way, thus all the sideways glances.

Jerisson looked at the customs officer as if the latter was a bug. Still, he deigned to answer him.

“Master...”

“Asur Rolv, Your Grace, at your service, Asur Rolv.”

Jerisson nodded, not even trying to remember the name.

“I’m in charge of an ambassador party traveling to His Majesty Gardwig. Here are our papers.”

The parchment was decorated with a variety of colored blurbs. Lily didn’t study it further, but the officer seemed ecstatic. The countess seized the moment to look around.

There was only one crossing point. The customs office was built right next to it. It consisted of several residences and a few sheds—some intended for storage, some for cattle, and the one by the river, for boats. Lily would have sworn that there would also be a few vegetable gardens somewhere out of sight.

Next to the buildings was a huge inn.

Go on, traveler, cross the river and rest a day, then pass the customs. They didn’t know about protectionism yet, but already collected taxes, especially luxury ones.

Food and animals—those that weren’t Avarians, all right—didn’t require a huge payment, maybe even as little as a copper piece a head—a steal, even by local standards. But they took it from everyone: merchants, caravans, craftsmen...

Customs officers were usually located on the border, just like that place. The crossing point was right next to it. There was only one road, no way to get around it. If you wanted to flee, they wouldn’t even stop you.

Or would they? Lily could see a coop with her naked eye. Just send a pigeon, and the miscreants would be stopped midway. The money went into the royal treasury. A special book kept a record of who had passed, when they had passed, their cargo...

Before, each nobleman could charge a fee for letting someone travel through their land, but that tradition was curbed. A tentative balance took hold. The nobles didn’t collect payment anymore, but if a band of brigands attacked a merchant’s wagon train or a noble rode up asking for a present, the merchant would grit his teeth and pay up. He wouldn’t give them an Avarian, of course, but would part with a few sable pelts and think that he had gotten off lucky. Balance in all things.

Still, asking for no more than people were prepared to give was an art that no official could do without.

Asur carefully read the papers, then looked at the count.

“Your Grace, I’ll need to write everything down...”

Jess waved his hand dismissively, giving him permission. Go on; write it.

“Thom! Thomas!”

Thom Concord appeared out of nowhere, like a bolt from the blue.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Help Master Rolv conduct an inventory.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Jess tossed his head back and looked at his wife.

“Shall we go to the inn? Or is it better to camp nearby, while the weather is good?”

Lily looked at the river and felt a sudden craving.

“Jess, I’d rather sit by the fire than catch fleas in an inn.”

“I’ve marinated some fish, Your Grace,” Thom added.

“Fresh, morning catch.”

“It reeks of mud,” Ermina said, wincing.

Thom took offense.

“Not at all, Your Grace, it doesn’t! It’s Her Grace’s personal recipe...”

The personal recipe wasn’t complicated. To remove the stench of mud from freshwater fish, you just needed to wash it in cold water—well water would do just fine—and leave it for half an hour in cold brine. Then you could marinate it.

Thom had been keeping the fish in a cold marinade for two days straight, as they had specifically bought freshly caught catfish, but those were intended for later. After three days, they would be ready, but for that day, he had something else prepared, small fish that could be easily grilled on a campfire.

Everyone exchanged looks and decided that it was a great idea.

The night sky, river, stars, campfires, grilled fish, good wine, a minstrel... Why would they sleep in an inn when they had all that? No need.

Jess licked his lips and gave up on that idea. The inn would make do without them.

In the meantime, Lily was watching the river. Who hadn’t taken off for the river in their childhood? She definitely had.

Fold some wire into a fishhook, add a stick and a fly line, and onward! At dawn, you would sit, relax, lure the fish, cast the line, and wait. Fog would rise from the water, and the fish scales would glimmer in the sun that grudgingly pushed away the mist with its round flanks, slowly growing incensed. Why wouldn’t it yield?

Away with you!

Then the river would get drowned with streams of liquid light, and for a few seconds, the water would look just like molten glass, scarlet, as if a volcano had awakened inside the river.

The very sight of that was so breathtaking that fish could be all but forgotten. Still, Aliya remembered and always brought home a small haul, enough to make a soup and maybe even cure some for her father to chase down a few beers.

Lily would have liked to revisit that experience. On the other hand, why couldn’t she? She just needed to warn her husband, and Miranda might even keep her company.

And midnight fishing from a boat was something else, indeed. Imagine yourself alone with the stars and the night, the water shining like obsidian, while ordinary scrub took the most fantastical shapes. Just take a deep breath, and it would soar into the sky, catching stars with its branches. After all, how could it exist on this earth without them?

And the dew—morning dew, when the sun just starts to rise. The first ten minutes are the most majestic, when even diamonds can envy its brilliant sparkle. Later, it would dry up, but those first minutes, when white fog becomes home to sparks fallen from the heavens themselves...

Lily rubbed her hands. Time to make some fishing rods.

***

Funny thing is; nobles never fished themselves. Maybe low-born boys could spend a few hours sitting with a rod, but even that was discouraged. No time for fooling around when they could simply use a fishing net, or just set a crib for the night and check the catch in the morning. But just sit and look at water? Didn’t they have enough work? Chop-chop!

As for the nobles, such extravagant ideas never occurred to them. Now hunting a boar, a deer, a bear, or wolves...

But what would be the point in fishing? They didn’t get it.

However, looking at Countess Earton—who was enthusiastically crafting hooks and makeshift fishing rods and pointing out which worms she would need as bait—ladies and gentlemen had a second thought. What if it really was fun? It might look strange, but so far, all of Lilian’s ideas had worked out. Maybe it deserved a try?

While they were watching, Lily made a rod for herself, one for Miranda, and after a moment’s hesitation, handed the third to Jerisson. Then she went to lure the fish.

Porridge, even if steamed in pumpkin, worked great. Lily chose a nice spot away from the crossing, asked Thom to build makeshift boardwalks from a few planks, and started luring. The water bubbled with dozens of attracted fish, and she cast the line, showing Mirrie a float crafted from a reed that could calmly stay right on the surface of the water.

Not that calmly, however; Lily felt something pull at the line, and a slippery fish began beating on the hook. She quickly reeled in.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t deft enough. The small crucian flew up, landing almost on top of Count Earton’s head. Jerisson stared at the fish, dumbfounded, then shifted the same gaze to Lilian.

Was it an assassination attempt? A mockery?

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Lily said, unsuccessfully stifling her laughter. “This fish cannot fly, I forgot everything...”

Miranda giggled.

“Papa, you should have seen your eyes!”

The discussion was ended by Nanook who sniffed the crucian that was jumping around in the grass and swallowed it in one gulp. Lou-Lou drew a disappointed whiff and looked at her mistress.

Won’t you give me something too?

Lily sighed and cast her rod again.

***

“I never expected it to be so addictive,” Jerisson confessed.

“Yes, it is really engaging...”

Count Roivel fell prey to the sport of fishing. Still, one could not have lived so long with Ermina Roivel without becoming a stoic, Lily was sure of that.

The count was currently applying the skills developed over a lifetime of marriage to the fishery. Miranda had already grown bored of it and was running around the neighborhood, while the counts got carried away. As many as thirty various fish were swimming in the nursery constructed out of a big basket.

Jerisson had even caught an eight-inch pike, not to mention the crucians and the perches.

Lily whispered something to Thom, and they decided to cook a fish soup the following morning. The classic fisherman dish went great with strong wine: the perfect breakfast.

Lily had fished with her father more than once and knew the ins and outs of cooking that soup. They would leave the haul in the nursery for the night, so the fish would still be alive by the morning, and maybe catch a few more at dawn.

Late in the evening, she sat by the fire, her head on Jess’ shoulder, while he described his heroic fishing achievements, blatantly exaggerating. As she stared into the flame, she thought that all in all, life was a pretty good thing.

***

Virma. The lands of Clan Hardring.

“Your Grace, His Grace Gardren is here to see you.”

Ashley Loran wasn’t smiling. Angeline knew that her handmaiden didn’t like Gardren one bit, even if he was the equivalent of an Ativernan duke. But being friendly with a viper had its benefits.

Angelina nodded.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

A minute was enough.

She threw a look at herself in a travel mirror that Lilian Earton had given her, tidied up her hair, and smiled at her reflection. She looked nice.

Then she went down, only to freeze right on the stairs. She had a good reason, too. The sight of Bran Gardren, the cruel and merciless chief of Clan Gardren, holding a bouquet of blue heather could give anyone pause.

Angelina was blown away. She felt her heart thump in her chest.

“Bran...is this for me?”

“You, Your Highness. To celebrate your victory.”

Angelina answered with a happy smile. Leif was sleeping like a log in one of the rooms of the “embassy”. When he had gotten there, Richard gave him a glass of strong wine, then two more, causing him to collapse in a heap. The burden he had lost was too heavy.

“Thank you.”

The girl came closer to the man, accepting the flowers and breathing in their fragrance. For a second, their eyes met.

Life is a harsh mistress. It gives love—and then, makes you choose between love and duty.

“Don’t you have to spend all your time with the Circle, Bran?”

Gardren shook his head.

“Usually, the most important matters that concern the entire island are solved on the first day. Leif was one of them: his success or failure, friendship or enmity with Ativerna...”

Angelina bit her lip.

“Yes...and are there any other such matters?”

“Yes. I would like to invite you to a discussion. Today, two issues are considered: acknowledging Elg Torsveg as the chief of Clan Torsveg and the blood feud between clans Kellog and Oronstag.”

After a moment’s thought, Angelina decided that she was interested.

“Yes, I would like to listen.”

“Then let’s go, My Princess.”

Bran gallantly offered his hand, and Angelina accepted.

Aliah Reinst shook her head, watching them leave.

“They have no future.”

Jean clapped the “Virmaness” on her shoulder, making Aliah reel.

“Let them have a past, at least.”

“It might cost too much to Her Highness.”

Laura shook her head.

Jean snorted and spat on the floor.

“What do you mean? It’s us who’re pariahs, not Her Highness!”

The girls exchanged looks, but each remained unconvinced.

***

Once again, Angelina found herself watching the Circle. The rows closest to the clan chiefs had only warriors, but His and Her Highness were the exceptions. Following the proper etiquette, Bran led the princess to her brother and even bowed.

“Thank you,” Richard said, echoing the bow.

Bran returned to his spot, and another man stepped out in front of the Circle—Elg Snorrison Torsveg.

The audience grew quiet.

“I, Elg Snorrison Torsveg, want to affirm my birthright. My brother is dead, my nephews are dead, and my youngest nephew is but a child. Someone must lead the clan. I can do it.”

The Virmans exchanged glances.

Generally, there was nothing unusual about his petition. It was standard practice. Like a fish, a clan couldn’t exist without a chief. Someone had to sow and reap the harvest, lead warriors into raids, distribute the loot, and answer for everything done by the people under the Torsveg banner. If no direct heirs presented themselves, a blood relative would become the next chief, and it didn’t matter how closely he was related, as long as he could hold down an axe—and a clan.

In the case of multiple pretenders, they would first solve the dispute between themselves. The one who remained would travel to the Circle, and approval would be quick.

There were several conditions. The new chief was to take care of the surviving family of the previous chief, not have anything to do with his death, and abide by the past agreements and obligations. If your predecessor borrowed money, you would have to pay up. Power had a high cost.

Olav struck the metal handle of his poleaxe against a stone.

“Does anyone else claim the chiefdom of Clan Torsveg?”

Silence.

“If anyone wishes to do so, they have three days to declare their right. As gods are my witnesses!”

The ritual phrase.

In some ways, it was fair. There could be many reasons for people to miss the Circle’s meeting; in that case, they were given time. Were three days not enough? Not for Virma. The island wasn’t big. You could always send a bird... Those who truly desired to be heard found a way.

Silence.

Olav waited ten more minutes to clear his conscience, then moved on to ritual questions.

“Tell me, why is the seat of Chief Torsveg empty?”

“He was murdered. And the murderer was absolved by the Circle,” Elg replied, grinding his teeth. Angelina saw his face twist in a grimace, but he couldn’t lie, not at the moment.

The gods saw, and the gods punished all lies.

“Answer me: did you conspire with the murderer, in secret or in public?”

“I did not, as Olive is my witness.”

“Do you swear to take care of the children of the late Einrik Snorrison Torsveg as if they were your own?”

“I swear. Even if I don’t become the chief, that is my word and my answer.”

“Will you take upon yourself the rights and obligations of Chief Torsveg? Allies and enemies, hate and revenge, treaties and alliances? Do you agree to that?”

“What once was, I shall carry on, and let the dogs of Holosh eat my liver if I break my oath.”

Elg was as serious as ever.

Olav nodded.

“Hence, three days are given to your friends and enemies. The Circle will convene to reach the final verdict. Until then, you may go, Elg Snorrison Torsveg.”

Elg bowed and left the Circle.

Angelina and Richard exchanged looks.

“Richard, is it good for us? He’s sure to make trouble for Leif and us through him.”

His Highness snorted like a Virman.

“Yes, Angie. You’re learning.”

“Richard!”

“You’re absolutely right, dear sister. He will make trouble for us, no doubt.”

“But...he’ll still become chief?”

“Angie, Bran Gardren is a monster, but for now, he’s a monster that’s useful to us. He offered me a curious option, and I took it. If it works out, we’ll protect ourselves against Torsvegs’ machinations.”

“To kill Elg?”

“How unsightly. Angie, I thought better of you.”

Richard made a face at his sister, dodged her punch, and ran away, blowing a kiss at the princess. Angelina stomped her foot and made a mental note to get everything out of Bran.

In the meantime, new petitioners entered the Circle—clans Kellog and Oronstag—a blood feud. It sounded curious. Angelina was all ears.

***

So what had led to enmity between the Kellogs and the Oronstags? An accident, a stupid and absurd accident.

The Kellog heir spent too much time while visiting friends, drank too much, and was riding home, swaying in his saddle. Some kinds of wine could go to your head, and some, to your feet. It was the first case.

His hands and feet obeyed him without a problem, but his mind...

The seventeen-year-old youth hallucinated all kinds of horrors under each bush, but he was a Virman, so he acted like a Virman. He pulled out throwing knives, ready to counter the attack of scrub, bushes, and thistles. He couldn’t run away, could he?

But thanks to Holosh’s dark schemes, the nephew of Chief Oronstag came that way, too.

His horse had run away, and while looking for it in the twilight, he stumbled upon the road, tearing through the underbrush only to get stabbed in the throat.

The boy realized what he had done only later. If it happened at any other time, the clans would surely start a war, but the Circle was close, they had lived next to each other for centuries, and the ties between them were close enough to make them pause.

They decided to entrust the decision to the gods. That would be safer. And so, the grey-haired clan chiefs stood with a boy between them, waiting for the sentence.

Olav thought hard. The gods’ will was life for a life, blood for blood. But what would they do in the event of an accident? And the brat was stupid and blamed himself for everything; it was clear by his look. Plus, the Kellog chief had no other sons.

Olav wasn’t sure what to decide.

Next to him, Gardren coughed under his breath. Olav turned to him. Bran whispered something, and Olav nodded, pointing at other chiefs.

Bran turned around, whispered a few words, and word after word, a wave passed through the Circle. Was it death? Life? Nobody knew.

All eyes turned to Olav. Whatever Bran had devised, the clan chiefs agreed with his decision.

Olav stood up from his seat.

“Eris Helvson Kellog, do you admit your guilt?”

The boy threw his head up.

“Yes, it’s my fault and my answer. Let the clans not be divided by my blood...” At that, the boy’s pride ran out, and he sighed, not dramatic in the least.

“I’m the one to blame. I’m an idiot.”

Olav chuckled.

“If so, listen to your sentence. In the course of a year, you shall marry a girl from Clan Oronstag, young, healthy, and able to bear children. You can pick her yourself,” Olav said, allowing himself a smirk.

“Your punishment is as follows: your son, your firstborn, will be given to the parents of the man you killed. He will grow up thinking them as his parents. You will have no rights to him.”

Eris Kellog lowered his head.

That seemed cruel, but you had to know the people to fully understand the scope of that sentence. The firstborn son was his parent’s joy and delight, a crutch in their old age. Even cutting off his ears would be easier on the boy—any physical pain, but not that.

Yet the people cheered on. A life for a life, son for a son; it hurt, but didn’t the parents of the murdered hurt just as much? Murdered by accident because of wine and folly!

Eris lowered his head.

“I accept the Circle’s decision. Let the gods be my witnesses, I will do everything to make it happen sooner rather than later.”

“Do the clan leaders accept it?”

The chiefs looked at each other. They had no desire for war. Robbing merchants, fighting pirates at sea, or battling mercenaries was one thing, but neighbors that they had lived side-by-side for so many years?

“We do.”

They said it almost in unison. That was a good enough outcome for them.

“This day next year, Eris Helvson Kellog, you will stand before the Circle and answer for your actions. The gods see.”

“The gods are just.”

Eris’ voice trembled, but the boy straightened up and nodded once more. That was right.

“I call upon the gods as my witnesses.”

And thus, the trial was over.

Angelina sighed. Just like that. Hard decisions, no excuses, but there was no other way. That’s how life was in Virma.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

“Let Maldonaya love him to death!”

The woman threw a glass of wine at the wall, and a nasty red stain blossomed on the padding.

“I hate him! He got away! Again!”

It was understandable. Altres Lort had survived and gotten home, despite two ambushes. He fell into one and sidestepped the other—probably by accident, but it was hard to tell at that point.

The man patted her on the shoulder, softly, barely touching her skin with his fingers.

“Don’t be upset, Albitta. Let him.”

The former queen pursed her lips, petulant.

“Robert! I wanted both of them to die, Gard and that hunchbacked scum!”

Her outrage was relatable. Her own husband had ordered her death, and his milk brother arranged her assassination, giving the command.

If not for Robert, her former majesty would be food for worms.

“It doesn’t matter. Look at this differently.”

“How exactly?”

“Imagine how much Lort will suffer on the execution block, having failed his brother, having failed...everyone. He will die defeated.”

Albitta smiled, soft and dreamy, as if they weren’t talking about death and blood, but flowers and poems.

“I want to see it.”

“You will,” Robert replied. “You will.”

He hadn’t told his friend about the assassin he had sent to Lort’s estate. There was always a chance he would succeed, not with daggers, but with poison.

The man hated Altres Lort with all his soul. He would have gnawed out his heart if he could, and such revenge would be fitting. Once, Robert had failed to save his beloved and suffered in silence while the executioner lowered his axe on her neck. He wanted to rush to her side, to scream, and only Camilla’s gaze stopped him. She saw him—and she warned him.

Don’t make my sacrifice pointless.

Robert heeded her warning.

He devoted his entire life to revenge. He had found a weapon, he had arranged everything, and all he had to do was to wait. And Altres Lort...

Let him suffer just like Robert. It wasn’t death that was scary; it was her taking your loved ones, your family, your friends. Not you; you simply ceased to exist. Beware, Altres Lort. Your fate will be worse than death.

Not knowing anything about her lover’s thoughts, the woman smiled. The moment of her triumph drew near.

***

Wellster. On the road.

What was the difference between Wellster and Ativerna? In the opinion of Her Grace Countess Earton, there wasn’t any. The same roads that she’d rather call directions, the same bridges, hills, fields, peasants, carts, and horses. Their speech differed a bit, but she could understand them; that was no Khanganat.

That said, after spending some time with Tahir, Lily could understand the Khangans as well. She still spoke with a terrible accent, in the vein of Me buy your meat, you take me money, but the Khangans seemed to grasp her meaning, even if they chuckled under their breath.

Jerisson had his own opinion, however. From his point of view, Wellster had smaller fields, dirtier roads, its horses pooped twice as much, and the peasants were exceedingly dumb.

Lily considered that a fit of patriotism. After all, one’s own cabbage was always greener, and the neighbor’s had twice as many worms. Everybody was like that.

But on the third day of traveling through Wellster, Lilian had to admit that her husband was right.

She and Jess separated from the procession for a while, as he had decided to show her an absolutely amazing bird native to Wellster.

Lilian didn’t mind. Some chose to show their lady a bird, some, a stamp collection, some offered to introduce her to a “close friend”. It would be better to have some alone time outside instead of in a tent in the middle of camp, especially with a child next to them. Anyone who has ever gone camping must know that being intimate in a tent is all but impossible: everyone would hear it from a mile away, not to mention see the shadow play.

And so, they entrusted Miranda to Priscilla Elont, exchanged looks, and eloped.

They quickly found a suitable clearing. The grass was turning yellow, but still tall and soft enough, and the cloak they laid on it, nice and comfortable.

The count was good at undressing women, and he quickly demonstrated his skill by unlacing the corset on the dress that Lilian wore just for that, when...

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!”

Lilian and Jerisson froze in place. She clutched the slipping dress to her chest as people came out of the forest. One, two, three...there were six people in total. One of them had a bow with a drawn string, while the others were armed with weapons of varying levels of shoddiness. Lily counted four pig stickers, one sword hailing from the times of Jerisson’s great-grandfather, and one bow. The conclusion was clear: the local peasants had gone “on a job”.

That was something that common folk were known to do. Those who preached about the oppressed and downtrodden usually never fell into the clutches of such people. In truth, commoners quite often earned their living by robbing people on a high road without any remorse. Men buried bodies, women washed out the bloodstains and mended clothes taken from those bodies, and children...it varied. Some helped their fathers in their hard work.

Lily looked around.

Alone, Jerisson would have made short work out of those heroes, but he wouldn’t budge, concerned for her safety.

In the meantime, the exploited class was slowly gaining on them, sneering and deriding the couple.

“Look at ‘er, Kulk, what a broad!”

“Yeah, tits like honey! Maybe it will drip out if ye cop a feel!”

“Course it will, she’s a noble lady!”

“Hruck, it’s not for ye that apple grew ripe!”

“Why not? Mine’s as big as any lord’s!”

“Ye haven’t washed since last summer! Cleanliness is something the broads respect just as much as size!”

“I’ll have to do it more often, then, so they’d honor me, too...”

Lily felt Jerisson’s body grow tense.

“Fall down when I push you,” her husband whispered.

“I’ll distract them,” Lily replied.

“I won’t expose myself, don’t worry.”

For a second, Jerisson’s hand clasped her shoulder.

The count would have charged a long time ago, but the archer was the most dangerous, and with the way he held the bow, he would surely hit either Jess or Lilian. Maybe he was a hunter, keen and deadly.

Jerisson touched the dagger hanging from his belt. He had left his sword in the camp, but the dagger would be more than enough for those wretches, as long as they came closer.

In the next moment, Lily suddenly pushed her husband away. She straightened up, and the dress, unlaced by impatient Jess, started to come off.

“Gentlemen, don’t be too hasty...”

Her voice was tender, rich, and throaty. Jerisson had no idea, but she was mimicking Marilyn Monroe, the sexiest blonde of all times.

She wasn’t exactly good at it, but someone like Marilyn could only be born in that world five centuries later. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is a king.

“I’m a noble lady. I’ll be enough for all of you. I’ll even agree to existentialism. Do you know what existentialism is? It’s when a lady and a gentleman are face-to-face, just like that, and she raises her hands...”

Lily slowly walked forward. First, she stepped over the dress, displaying everything that was barely covered by her short, thigh-length undershirt. By the local standards, that was incredibly lewd.

When she made her second step, the straps of the undershirt slipped down from her shoulders, revealing her breasts.

The point of a striptease, after all, was teasing, and so, Lily moved forward, purring and taunting the men until she reached the archer. Then she raised her hands, throwing him off his aim, and while the poor peasant stared at the two spheres right under his nose, she struck his ears with her palms.

It was a simple trick that most people usually forgot. Ordinarily, women try hitting men in the groin, as if men didn’t expect it, or the eyes that people also protected by instinct. But this attack... Cup your hands the right way and strike with both of them at once; the result was amazingly effective.

It felt like having nails driven into both of your ears and them meeting inside your head.

*Author’s note: I haven’t experienced this personally; this is from a secondhand account.

The wannabe shooter was done for. He collapsed in a heap, huge tears running down his face, while Lilian tumbled aside, grabbing a whole lot of grass. She was just in time.

A dagger thrown by one of the peasants struck the air right where she had stood a minute before. And then, Jerisson Earton flew past, and the real fun began.

It was only then that Lily finally saw the true scope of her husband’s capabilities. The distance that she had covered in ten steps Jerisson crossed in two leaps, barely touching the ground, literally landing on top of the closest peasant, stomping him into the dirt and twisting his arm. Lily clearly heard a bone snap, but Jerisson didn’t care, as he reached his goal, ripping away the dagger from the man’s hand and throwing it into the furthest attacker. Then he kicked off from the hapless wannabe bandit, crushing all of his ribs, and jumped at his neighbor, the one with the sword.

The fight was over before the peasants knew it.

Jerisson grabbed the man by his hair, throwing his head back, and slashed his throat, also cutting off a piece of his goatee. Blood gushed from the wound.

Jerisson turned his back to the others and bared his teeth in a mad grin that scared even Lily. Still, fear didn’t prevent her from crawling away from the thick of the fight.

A minute later, three men lay dead with the archer unconscious. The two remaining peasants exchanged glances and moved in different directions, trying to flank the noble.

Lily ran her hand over the grass. A rock! Oh, precious stone, you are a sight for sore eyes!

Aliya had been an expert knife thrower in her old life and still retained those skills. The rock hit the base of the skull of the peasant who had turned his back on her.

Jerisson finished the last one.

The horses roared, twitching their ears and stamping their hooves.

“Lily, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

The woman wasn’t about to throw her arms around her husband’s neck. He was drenched in blood up to his ears. She was right, as Jerisson still had some dirty business to take care of.

Execute the wounded.

The archer was the first to taste his dagger. Jess was fast and precise. He came from behind, to avoid getting even more blood on his clothes, struck, aiming at the carotid artery...

Lily turned away. She felt sick. The repercussions from the events hit her. Those were people. She knew very well that they would have killed Jerisson, passed her around, and then killed her as well, then taken the horses and disappeared without a trace. The locals knew how to hide bodies so that no dog would ever find them. And Miranda, Roman, Jacob...

Lily began to shake.

Jerisson, having finally finished with his nasty business, came up to hug her.

“You’re a miracle. Your distraction...even I couldn’t keep my eyes away.”

Lily recoiled.

Jerisson picked up her dress from the grass.

“Let’s not dress just yet. Saddle up, I think we passed a spring some time ago.”

Lily obeyed, not saying anything. She was still shaken. Death had missed her by an inch.

***

The spring turned out to be a small creek, thin and shallow, babbling and singing, with a rocky bottom strewn with golden-brown leaves. Lily touched the water with her fingers.

It was icy cold.

Still, she was too thirsty.

She made a few gulps, no more than that, so as to avoid a cold.

The water was surprisingly tasty, preserving the smell of leaves and grass, and also smooth and clear. Jerisson drank to his heart’s content and then washed the blood off, first from himself, and then ripped a piece of his shirt to clean his wife. Lily obediently surrendered to his care.

At some point, the look in his blue eyes turned sharper, more demanding, and his touch switched from tender to commanding.

Lily didn’t mind.

The creek was babbling, the birds chirped above their heads, the leaves rustled, and a woman’s moan soared into the sky, affirming the triumph of life over death.

***

Lily and Jerisson joined the procession pretty late. To everyone’s credit, no crude jokes followed, maybe because the noble count walked around shirtless, and the countess’ dress had a dirty stain on it, both looking disheveled—and not because of bedroom matters.

“Bandits,” Jerisson curtly explained when Count Elont threw him a questioning look.

“I had to kill them.”

Arant wasn’t about to feign sympathy.

“Let’s tell the mayor when we reach the nearest town. Too much of that filth around. Do you need a healer?”

“No. We’re unharmed, but I had to spend a while washing their blood off.”

“How many were there?”

“Six.”

Arant seemed impressed.

“And you...alone?”

“No big deal, just your basic peasants out for a hunt. A common soldier could have done them in, let alone a noble.”

Arant Elont imagined himself in a similar situation, considered it, and looked at Jerisson with respect. He just wasn’t capable of something like that; high rank didn’t matter, but skill and expertise did.

Lily fluttered her eyelashes, realizing what everyone expected to hear from her.

“Jerisson was magnificent! Before I saw it... He was a real killing machine, fast and deadly! A second later, two of them were dead, and I didn’t even realize how he defeated the third. But I was so afraid...”

Jerisson smirked, looking aside. He already knew that the only thing that could scare his wife was a spider falling on her head and definitely not some bandits.

Fine, if she wanted to play along, pretending to be a frail damsel, he would help.

“Honey, you didn’t cry all that much...only an hour, maybe two?”

Lily’s stare threatened to shave her dear husband’s head clean when the opportunity arose, but the only thing she did was to sigh.

“It was so scary. You can’t even imagine those brutes looking at you and talking how they’ll share you. Jerisson saved me. He’s such a hero...”

Count Earton puffed his chest and smiled. Of course, he was a hero. Who had ever doubted that?

***

Lily entrusted Miranda to Jerisson’s care; if he could boast, it meant he could attend to the child just as well. In the meantime, she solved her problem with the most radical of methods: by gulping down hot spiced wine and getting under a warm blanket. It subdued the annoying shivering, but an icy shard felt lodged in her chest. She wasn’t used to seeing people get killed before her eyes.

She was a medic; she had seen injuries, diseases, and traumas, even fights, but nothing so cold-blooded. Apparently, Jerisson wasn’t weirded out, scared, or surprised in the least; it was business as usual, like a farmwife slaughtering geese for the market.

So he had killed some scum. What about it? He made Wellster a better place!

Love after a fight? His blood was pumping, his fervor was on the rise... That was par for the course, too.

Lilian never confessed to anyone how scared she had gotten. It earned her a look of respect from Jerisson.

Inside the tent, she drank down mulled wine prepared by Thom and fell asleep, wrapped in a wool blanket.

She woke up in the middle of the night, the wine asking for a release. Lily shivered but pulled on the first dress she came upon and went outside.

The night was chilly, but her bladder had no mercy. Lily set out away from the campfires, followed by the understanding stares of the sentries.

Noble counts could hide behind a tree, but that wasn’t an option for ladies. That would be improper.

Either a pot or bushes; Lily preferred the latter, not keen on inhaling miasma, taking Miranda with her.

That time, Nanook secretly followed her, sneaking behind a tent. Nobody even noticed him. Yet the darkness hid one more shadow.

Lily was just on her way back when a silhouette sprang up in her path.

“My Lady...”

Lily ground her teeth.

Seriously? This idiot, again? Whatshisname, Anthony?

“What do you want?”

The shadow came up to Lily, almost pressing against her. She took a step back, but the way was cut off by a tree.

“My Lady, I almost went mad today! I could have lost you! You risked your life...”

Ugh.

Would she have to find a heavier branch to make him see reason? Or maybe a kick would suffice?

“So have you gotten a star from the sky or not? If you haven’t, please come back when you have.”

Anthony stepped forward, pushing her against the body of the tree.

“You are my star.”

“I am so sick of you!” Lily said, breathing out, as sincere as she could.

Anthony drew back, startled, but before he decided on his next move, Nanook stepped in.

Grrr. The darkness snarled.

Monstrous fangs connected right over Anthony’s groin. Why bite his legs, really? They didn’t seem tasty in the slightest. But this bit seemed softer. No bones...a delicacy!

Anthony froze.

Lily narrowed her eyes, studying him, and chuckled.

“Well, well, well, good sir. Did you want a night of loving? One wrong move, and you’ll become quite popular in the Khanganat. Imagine what a singing voice you’ll have! The whole world will envy your falsetto...”

Anthony clenched his fists.

“Are you mocking me?”

“How can you think that? I’m just explaining the situation. Let’s make a deal: you never come close to me again, pretend you don’t see me, don’t get under my feet, and I’ll leave you unharmed.”

Grr. Nanook affirmed politely.

“Or I’ll give my dog an order and your first unlucky movement will result in him getting a sausage for breakfast. All right?”

Anthony’s fists tightened even more.

“Make your dog release me.”

“Should I?”

Anthony growled as well as Nanook.

Lily sighed.

“Fine, let’s wait until you cool down. I repeat, I love my husband, and I’ll protect my honor the best way I can. I don’t care about you, I don’t need you, and honestly, I’d rather not see you again. Is that clear enough?”

Little by little, Anthony calmed down. It was hard to be angry when a dog was holding you by...well, yes, by that. And someone was standing before him, not even making fun of him, but just describing in a routine voice that he was about to lose it all for good.

Bitch!

“Nanook, no! Come here, pup.”

The scary jaws unclenched. The dog slowly walked around Anthony and went to the countess. Lily tousled his fur.

“You’re brilliant. Thank you, my golden boy!”

That’s when Leir Anthony Sivralle felt real anger. The trigger, sad as it was, were Lilian’s words. “My golden boy” was what his last lover called him before dumping him to marry a rich merchant. Hearing it again...

The accursed bitch! How could she not see his true worth?

Anthony drew his dagger. He didn’t have his sword with him, but it didn’t matter. One good hit, and the dog wouldn’t be a problem anymore. After that, he could talk to the wench.

That really wasn’t the best idea. Virman hounds were trained to protect against armed men. One jump, and the jaws broke the bones on his dagger-wielding hand. Dogs could easily jump up from a spot and were swift as an arrow. The magnificent fur was just for show; the teeth in their mouths were far from plush.

Anthony didn’t even register his bone snapping. Fueled by adrenaline, he turned around, trying to shake the dog off, and finally succeeded. Nanook bounced sideways, and Anthony stepped forward to Lilian Earton, who was standing right before him.

He miscalculated. Nanook had already lined up his sights, aiming right at the spot he had already studied in detail. The gruesome jaws opened and closed again...just below the leir’s abdomen.

He screamed foul murder.

Lily grabbed the dog by the scruff.

“No! Drop it! Drop this yucky thing!”

She blurted out the last phrase automatically, but Nanook spat it out, and Lily pulled him back.

They took the long way back to camp. Anthony screamed without stop. Let him explain who had bitten him at night; Lily wouldn’t say a word.

Her Grace strolled into her tent, lay down with Nanook, and nestled against her husband’s shoulder.

“What’s going on there?” Jerisson grumbled, sleepy.

“I think someone got bitten by a viper,” Lily responded.

Then she tried to fall asleep. Amazingly enough, she succeeded.

***

By morning, the news about Leir Anthony’s “accident” had reached the entire camp. Apparently, he had gone for a walk in the woods and stumbled on a wolf. Or was it a fox?

Nobody was quite sure who was it whom the leir had sat on behind the bushes, but that creature did a thorough job.

No, he cannot show his injury to a lady; you see, it wasn’t his head dangling down when he was crouching, but the other end. And that’s where...

He also got bitten on his arm, but it had already been bandaged and put in a splint without Countess Earton’s help.

Jerisson still examined the wound and reached a verdict.

“We’ll leave you in the nearest town. We’ll pay a healer, but you’ll never reach Cardin in this state.”

Anthony nodded.

He was sure about that. He also wasn’t about to confess to the truth of his misadventure. A bite from an unknown animal would earn him ridicule; but an attempt to harass Countess Earton in the forest would make the count rip off his remaining bits right there and then, for sure.

In truth, Nanook hadn’t bitten off the entirety of the organ and hadn’t even jerked his head with enough force to rip tendons and muscles. Still, the punctures were quite convicting, deep and bluish.

Jerisson suspected an infection but didn’t say anything out loud, not being a healer. The only medic they had at hand was his wife, but he would have never shown something like that to her.

Jerisson did his best to question the people. He had recognized the bite of a huge dog. They had only two dogs big enough to do something like that, Lou-Lou and Nanook, the others didn’t fit the profile.

He remembered Lilian going outside that night, but alone, without any of the dogs.

Or had she? Jerisson wasn’t sure. They had spent the evening by the fire, celebrating the victory over the bandits, and he might have gone into the forest himself a few times—his head was still heavy.

He decided against interrogating his wife. If anything unseemly had happened, she would have told him, surely.

He needed to confide in her more. Hadn’t he made the right choice by trusting her with the bandits? Then he would do so again. Apparently, trust was the basis of a relationship.

It felt odd having a reliable woman with him. Odd, but nice.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

The Circle convened once again—twelve people who, during that period, had the power over life and death of any individual on the island. Angelina watched, curious.

She knew what succession of power was, but choosing the clans that would rule over people seemed strange and unusual. But by all appearance, it worked.

All systems had their ups and downs. The king could be weak, stupid, or sick, plunging the kingdom into chaos. And the clan chiefs might not always be worthy—like, say, Torsveg.

It was he standing in the Circle, again.

Olav spoke up.

“Three days for the gods, three days for the people. Does anyone wish to challenge your claim?”

All of a sudden, somebody yelled out,

“Yes!”

It was the clear voice of a boy, and it cut the crowd as if it were a knife. The ranks parted, making way for him.

Ingrid—that boy was her copy. The same blond hair, blue eyes, snub nose... Angelina squeezed Leif’s hand.

“This...”

“Yes. Torne Einkirson Torsveg. Ingrid’s younger brother.”

Elg threw his head back.

“You?”

He snarled, wearing the expression of a cornered beast.

The boy stared at him, direct and unflinching.

“Me. And I demand my rights to be recognized.”

Olav shook his head.

“With all due respect, you’re just a boy. You can’t lead a clan.”

“And with my uncle next to me, I’ll never reach adulthood!” Torne was grim and unrelenting. The Virmans gasped.

Murder wasn’t something out of the ordinary, but telling it like it was, in public—that was shocking.

“The boy’s crazy!” Elg finally regained his self-control.

“Like my mother was when she told everyone she was being poisoned? Like my father’s people who died over the last six months?”

Olav lowered the handle of his poleaxe, striking the ground.

“Silence! Do you accuse?”

“I have no proof, and I’m too young to contest my right with a sword.”

“You can request a champion to represent you before the gods,” Bran Gardren gently suggested. For a second, Angelina thought that was the point: the boy would agree, and Leif would step forward. But no, Bran wasn’t going to ruin the intrigue.

“I ask something else. Even if my champion proves my right before the gods now, I won’t be able to lead the clan. I ask the Circle to manage the affairs of Clan Torsveg until I turn seventeen. Then, I will assert my right myself.”

The Virmans roared.

Olav smashed his poleaxe against the stone, but nobody heard the sound. And only Angelina noticed Bran whispering something.

So what was the point? What was the essence of the scheme? Or had Elg also taken note of Bran? Angelina threw a quick look at Torsveg. No, he was watching his nephew, and his face was a sight to behold. If he could, he would have bitten him to death. Right then, she could easily believe the boy’s claim. People like Elg wouldn’t take pity even on their own kin.

Olav raised his axe above his head. The audience went quiet.

“The Circle has decided! Right now, you, Torne Einkirson Torsveg, are too young to lead Clan Torsveg. That is true. Thus, the Circle assumes rule over the clan for those eight years, until you turn seventeen. If the gods will it, you will come here and assert your right before them. But until your uncle’s guilt is proven, the Circle won’t infringe on his rights.”

Elg raised his head.

“Listen to me, Elg Snorrison Torsveg. You are appointed as interim clan chief. You will report to the Circle each time it convenes. In eight years, you will stand before the gods for judgment. Until then, to clear all doubts, your nephew will be cared for by his sister’s husband, Leif Erikson Erquig.”

Leif made a step forward,

“Leif Erikson Erquig, do you agree to forget all enmity and accept Torne Einkirson Torsveg into your house, raise him and teach him like your own son, answer for him before gods and men, be his friend and his ally, his protector and his guardian, until the gods make their decision?”

“You have my word.”

“Let the gods hear you. Elg Snorrison Torsveg, do you abide by the Circle’s decision?”

Elg gritted his teeth, but he had no choice.

“I do.”

“Remember, the gods hear us. The Circle has decided.”

Elg darted off from the Circle at as if chased by a swarm of angry wasps or hornets.

Torne glanced at Bran Gardren, and it was only then that Angelina realized the underpinnings of what had happened. The boy really wouldn’t hold Clan Torsveg together: the feud with the Erquigs ran too deep, and too much blood had been spilled because of it. But if he were raised right, there would be no more hate. Bran had simply won time.

Elg would deal with the dissenters himself, and there would be a lot of them. Eight years, eight long years during which time he wouldn’t be the master of his home. There were bound to be malcontents.

He wouldn’t be able to rob and ruin the clan, either, thanks to his reports to the Circle—which really meant Bran, who was clever and meticulous.

Torne wouldn’t stay on Virma, and by coming to Ativerna, he would become another ally of Richard’s.

What could she say? It was good to have a slithering snake for an ally. Anyway, she needed to deal with the boy. No need for him to shoot fire with his eyes. Angelina smiled and went to Torne. She could do that; she was a princess, after all.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

“His Highness Miguel of Ivernea. Her Highness Lydia of Ivernea.”

The siblings entered the hall.

The courtiers started whispering.

“What a lovely pair,” she heard.

Lydia chuckled into her sleeve. It was ironic, after all those years she had spent languishing in her misery, having no idea that she could be pretty. And then, the nice Countess Earton came, wiping her nose and changing her entire look, showing that she, Lydia, was a beauty.

Her years of being ugly hadn’t gone without a trace and were nowhere near forgotten, but it was better to live in the now, wearing a pearly pink dress with lace trimming, expensive jewelry made from pearls, carefully coiffed hair, and some makeup on her face.

Lydia curtsied, and Miguel handed out a credentials letter.

Count Dishan, who took Altres Lort’s place by the royal throne (even if he hadn’t quite reached the heights of the jester), snatched the papers and presented them to Gardwig.

His Majesty politely lowered his head.

“We’re happy to greet you...”

Gallant phrases came from both sides, bows, flowers, gifts, radiant smiles, and radiant diamonds...

An hour later, Lydia was swept up in a dance by His Majesty, while her brother invited not Milia, who was on the verge of giving birth, but Maria, throwing a dazzling smile at her.

Lydia, knowing about Gardwig’s illness, tried to be careful, and he noticed that.

A bow, a thank you...and she was left to her own devices.

Some dancing, some gossip...

Have the Ativernan ambassadors already arrived? No? Any day, you say? Wonderful! I hope it will happen soon!

More dancing followed.

“Your Highness, you’re amazing.”

“Oh, Duke, I’m just learning.”

“Your Highness, you’re the very image of spring.”

“Oh Count, please don’t play havoc with a girl’s head...”

Everything was so bright, merry, and shining, but then, Lydia felt her heart drop.

What was wrong? What was happening? She couldn’t understand, and the cold slowly crept away. But what had it been? Was it a hateful look from a lovely brown-eyed woman that pricked Lydia’s chest?

She had seen her once, she was sure. But where? She couldn’t remember. Maybe her brother would?

***

Wellster, Cardin, the house on the outskirts.

“My queen, the Ivernean ambassadors have arrived.”

“What about the Ativernans?”

Robert smiled, pleased.

“We’re waiting for them. They will come any minute.”

“Why are they late? Why?”

The duke shrugged. That was of no importance. Things happened on the road. It didn’t mean anything.

“They’ve sent a messenger pigeon. Bandits attacked them on their way. I think one man is wounded.”

The woman stomped her foot.

“And this nasty hunchback is all but invincible!”

Robert sighed.

He had long since become accustomed to his lady’s vengeful streak.

“Henry’s on his way, too.”

“Splendid!” her former majesty clapped.

Her son. Her hope for revenge.

“I think he’ll be here in five or six days. Then, the Ativernans will come, and we’ll make our move.”

Albitta nodded.

Yes, their move. How she longed for that!

She wanted to raise Gardwig’s head by the hair and finally spit into his unseeing eyes, destroy the odious Milia and her pups, and retake the throne, even if just as a regent for His Majesty Henry, even that would be something.

Soon.

She didn’t really think about her daughters, though. Except for the first one, they became the symbols of her disappointment. Why see them once again? She had already pleaded for them with her lover.

The princesses wouldn’t be killed, raped, or harmed in any way, unless they decided to resist. That was enough for the loving mother.

But how slowly the time dragged just before the final push, how impatient she felt...

Aldonai, help us at last! All we want is to restore justice!

Robert watched his lover with a smile on his face. Soon, they would get what they desired.

None of the conspirators, however, had ever wondered what would happen next, and no pastor was at their side to suggest that a life spent in pursuit of revenge would be over the moment it was accomplished. There would be no point, no purpose, no goal...

But who had ever been stopped by such nonsense? The mercenaries were ready to strike, the weapons, smuggled into the palace, and all accomplices, informed.

The final countdown commenced.

***

Virma. The lands of Clan Hardring.

Oh, those nightly feasts with campfires, songs, and dances, dazzling like fire and fierce like water, free like fire and firm like the ground... They symbolized the unity between all four elements, and in Virma, they were celebrated like nowhere else.

The occasion? Well, they just as might have one. Officially, it was Fleyna’s night, or one of them. Unofficially, the priestesses could declare any night Fleyna’s. This particular one had drawn their attention because Virma was honored by the visit of four unmarried girls in need of husbands: the princess’ ladies-in-waiting.

The Virmans understood dynastic marriages, and they understood dowries—specifically, a hefty sum in gold and a good credit on August Broklend’s wharves—even better. Any clan would have loved to accept the girls.

That’s what Tira told the princess while helping her get ready. The girls were prettying themselves for the party, and Angelina dismissed them.

Their future was to be decided that night, and she was their past, the door to which would soon close. Let the girls look for men; they wouldn’t fall for those who didn’t suit them, as the Virmans wouldn’t let them. They probably had it all planned out, anyway.

“Your Highness, you look especially fetching in that.”

Angelina looked in the mirror. She couldn’t argue with that.

She wore a Virman dress, plain and with no underskirts or lace, only flared sleeves. It had a crew neck and a belt just below her chest, slowly widening from that point: handy for both running and dancing.

Tira herself was dressed in a leather vest and pants.

“Don’t you want to change?”

“No. My trial is the day after tomorrow. If I pass it, I will become a kyria. No need to show myself in a dress to those who’ll only see me in pants from now on.”

Angelina could see her point. Still...

“Tira, have you ever thought about having children, a family, falling in love, replacing your sword with a spinning wheel?”

Tira shook her head. She hadn’t, never. It seemed like a real nightmare.

“My mother got married. She’s been fighting to get me on my feet for fifteen years already.”

“But that was an accident.”

Angelina already knew what had happened to Royce Elleig.

“Whatever! If something like that happened to my husband, what would I do?”

“The same as your mother, but with more success?”

“No.”

Tira shook her head, unable to explain her feelings. What did she want? To keep Elleig? She wouldn’t have lost it if she married right. To make her own choices? Alas, she wouldn’t, whether she would be a kyria or a wife. After all, it’s not like she would get a ship and find a crew straight away; she would have to serve on someone else’s, and there, she’d have to make friends and fight and...so many other things. And she would definitely have to obey the captain.

Was it that she didn’t want to be ordinary? It was rather that she couldn’t. If a bird grew up in captivity, being in the sky would confuse it. But if you raised it free, it would waste and die in a cage. Tira didn’t want to go into a cage.

And also... Golden hair, clear grey eyes, a smile that took her breath away—Richard.

She didn’t want to fall in love, but she did, with all her heart. And if she couldn’t have the man she loved, at least she would have the sea. At least she would have freedom.

In battle, she would leave it all behind.

Angelina smiled.

“Richard will be celebrating tonight as well.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Tira sighed. She would have loved to dance with Richard, and jumping through the fire...

She couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything.

Angelina bent her head with a sly look.

“What if you could?”

Tira opened her mouth. Had she been thinking out loud?

“I can see how much you want it.”

She did. But how?

“It can be done. I have a dress that would suit you, a mask, and even a chignon.”

“What?”

“False hair.”

“What for?” Tira pulled at her braid as if someone wanted to pluck it out one hair at a time.

“Your hair color is very distinctive, silvery blond. You’d be recognized right away. We’ll tuck your braid under the dress and attach the wig. Everyone will think you’re a redhead.”

“Redhead?”

Angelina shrugged.

“That’s what I have.”

Tira paused for a while and then shook her head.

“Thank you, Your Highness, but...I’d rather not. If I do it now, I won’t pass the test.”

Angelina understood it. She touched the girl’s hand.

“I will pray for you, to all the gods.”

“Let them hear you, Your Highness.”

***

Tira sighed as she looked at the princess. She was pretty as a picture in her Virman dress, with her smile and her Virman-styled hair. If only Tira herself had found the strength to try the disguise trick... But she was no princess, and Richard would never be a Virman. And becoming a royal mistress... Never! She was an Elleig. She had warriors in her family, but no whores.

Angelina checked herself out one more time, winked at her reflection, smiled at Tira, and went down to where the girls were waiting for her.

Laura Winst was wearing dark red; Ashley Lorin shined in light blue; Aliah Reinst was dressed in gossamer pink; and Jean Erroy wore bright yellow. All of them were masked and clearly stressed.

The princess herself wore a Virman outfit and kept her face uncovered. She didn’t have to.

The girls were looking for husbands, but if anyone tried to become too handsy with her or made an indecent proposal, it might result in a scandal. Richard wouldn’t tolerate that.

Her brother was wonderful, but he kept a strict watch over his sister’s honor. Maybe that was for the best; let someone do it, if the girl in question would have loved to give it to a certain man...

But that was forbidden.

Angelina examined the girls, nodded, and headed outside with the ladies-in-waiting following in her steps. Tira stayed behind. She would go later, when everyone was distracted by the princess. She wasn’t going to look for a husband either.

Going by the faces of the young Virmans, the girls would have no lack of suitors. Everyone kept bowing to Angelina and gradually drawing the girls into their orbit, with the circle dance spinning around the fire. Even Richard was there somewhere.

Less than ten minutes later, Her Highness was all by herself.

Oh, she would be, if the familiar sound of a cane hitting rocks hadn’t come from behind her.

“Your Highness...”

“Bran,” Angelina said with a smile.

“May I help you pass the time?”

“Of course! I am so happy to see you! Bran, could you tell me about the trial for becoming a kyria?”

Bran Gardren offered his hand to Her Highness and pulled her aside, away from the fire and the dances. She did want to dance, but that was reserved for those seeking Fleyna’s favor, and a princess had no right to do that.

Some got the grace of the goddess, and some got a stab in the heart.

“There are three of them. The first challenge is to fight off three warriors.”

“What do you mean, fight off?”

“The kyria must be fully armed, as must the men. She will stand alone against three. If she passes, the next trial is a pursuit. She will be led into the woods, left alone and unarmed, and tasked with finding the shrine. Of course, others will be looking for her.”

“Do men have to go through such trials?”

“Anybody who wants to become a Virman warrior must. The warriors are in Olive’s power, and he’s a strict deity who gives no quarter to anyone.”

Angelina made a mental note to remember that.

“And the third one?”

“She will have to spend a day and a night alone with the sea. There’s an island next to Virma. We take the challengers there and leave them at dawn. The next morning, we bring them back.”

“Is it dangerous?”

Bran shrugged.

“You stare into the sea, and the sea stares into you. Who knows what it will see? Things happen.”

Angelina shivered.

“Tira will succeed.”

“I think so, too. She’s smart and strong.”

Angelina squirmed. Was it jealousy she felt? Impossible. But...

Still, it was jealousy. She knew everything—that Tira didn’t want Bran Gardren and he didn’t want her, but couldn’t help but feel hurt. Jealousy didn’t care that she had no rights to Bran, anyway.

She never had and never would, not even a little. Never.

“And who is your patron, Bran? Which god?”

“Holosh,” Bran responded coolly.

Angelina opened her mouth.

That was akin to confessing to being a servant of Maldonaya. But Bran was so calm, so composed...

“Isn’t Holosh evil?”

“Not quite, Your Highness. There’s no day without night, no light without shadow, and no good without evil.”

“I don’t agree with the last one.”

Bran shrugged.

“Imagine you’re riding down a road. A wolf attacks you, and you kill him. Is that good?”

“Yes.”

“But he left behind a mate and cubs. Some of them will die of hunger. Is that good?”

“So I should have let him bite my leg off?”

“No. That’s just how life is. A rabbit wants to live, a wolf wants to eat, and some of them will pay with their blood. Is it good or evil?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“That’s life, pure and simple. Holosh is its dark side. And if I happened to be born a cripple anyway...”

“And in Ativerna, priests of Maldonaya cast hexes and curses, fornicate, and mess with people.”

“It’s different here. Holosh demands a high price from us: to renounce something important.”

“And what did you renounce?”

For a few minutes, Bran was silent. Then he brought himself to say,

“The sea.”

“The sea?”

“It’s our life and our blood. We have to give up something important, Angelina.”

He didn’t even notice that he had called the princess by her name, and she paid no attention.

“War? It’s something I cannot get no matter what. Love? Who will love a cripple? Family? Without love, it’s chains rather than wings. Power? It was the only thing I craved, and to get it, I traded something else—the sea.”

“But we—”

“We sailed by the island, but I didn’t swim. It was a boat, not even a ship. Water is my element, my freedom. In water, I’m not a cripple, and I can forget all about my legs. I had to renounce it, even if I used to be a good swimmer. I gave the sea to my patron.”

Angelina sighed.

“Bran, I’m so sorry...”

“Don’t be. I’m happy in a way. As for giving something up...nothing is perfect, Your Highness. You always have to sacrifice something, to lose it to gain something else. That’s how life is: that side of it glossed over by your priests but shown to us by Holosh. You want something? You’ll get it, but everything has its price. Everything. And if you offered too little, Holosh would take the rest by himself, so don’t be greedy.”

They reached the shore, the waves licking the coastline. The sea whispered, cooed, murmured in a thousand voices.

Bran slowly got down on one knee, then stood up and held out a stone.

“Take it, Your Highness.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s Nier’s tear. Look.”

It was a grey-blue rock with a hole in the middle.

“It’s pretty.”

“Virmans think that such stones bring luck. Nier, the god of the sea, will favor you. You’ll survive a storm and sail away on a rickety boat. Sharks won’t touch you, and disaster will pass you by. Just carry it with you.”

Angelina squeezed the rock in her hand. At that very moment, it meant more to her than a diamond.

“Thank you, Bran.”

Drawn by an impulse, she pulled forward.

Was it Fleyna’s trick? Holosh’s? Virman gods weren’t above anything when they wanted to be amused. A gust of wind blew, and instead of touching Bran’s cheek, Angelina’s lips suddenly pressed into his.

She didn’t draw back.

A warm hand lay on her back, got stuck in her hair, and she felt Bran kiss back, his mouth cool and hard.

A second, two, and he let her go, only to crouch on the sand.

“Forgive me.”

Who knows what Angelina might have said? Would she curse? Argue? She didn’t even know it herself, but she didn’t have to do anything. A horrible scream came out of the darkness, full of despair and pain. It wasn’t someone afraid of a spider that fell on their head. It was a scream of someone afraid for their life.

Bran leaped up from the pebbles as if he had grown wings. He grabbed Angelina’s hand and pulled her forward.

He wasn’t trying to escape the danger. Instead, Bran walked right to the source of the screams. Uncertainty was scary, but when danger looked you in the eyes, when you saw its face and raised your weapon, fear burned away.

He couldn’t abandon the princess, either. Bran was confident in his own abilities, but not in other people’s. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but protecting Her Highness...

He couldn’t protect her from himself, but at least he would keep her safe from others. He wasn’t as crippled and harmless as he let on: it was more of an act than true weakness. Being underestimated was useful.

But when they finally reached the far corner of the beach, it was too late. The accursed limp didn’t allow Bran to move as fast as he needed.

Aliah Reinst was lying on the ground, a pink cloud against the grass. A golden braid cascaded down the rocks, her head helplessly thrown back.

Bran knelt by her side.

“Her neck is broken.”

Angelina put her hand against her mouth.

“But how? Who could have done that? Merciful Aldonai...”

Bran sighed.

Two people were standing by the body, frozen. Bran glanced at them, recognized Hors Kellog, and nodded to him.

“Go fetch someone. We have serious problems.”

Hors didn’t doubt that.

“I will. Come on, Jean.”

The girl shook her head.

“N-no. I’ll stay with the princess...”

Bran gestured at Hors. Don’t waste time. I will stay with the girls.

But who had it been? Who would dare to commit a murder? And what threat did it pose to Virma? One thing Bran was sure of. He would find out which bastard had snapped the neck of a key to the friendship between the two countries. And then, he would feed him them to the sharks. But until then...

Angelina shivered, and Bran wrapped his cloak around her. He looked at the second girl.

Jean Erroy wasn’t crying anymore, and Bran took her hand, pushing her closer to Angelina.

“Pull yourself together. Tend to your mistress.”

It worked, and Jean came up to Angelina, taking her hand.

“Was it you who screamed?” Bran asked.

“Yes. We were walking, and I almost stepped on her... Eww...”

Bran nodded. So the murderer was a man, strong enough to strangle the girl without letting her scream or make a noise. That wasn’t much of a clue in Virma, where most men were warriors.

Olav was the first to arrive at the beach, with a score of Virmans following in his footsteps. Soon, the area transformed into pandemonium. Bran sighed.

He had a long night ahead of him and an even longer day.

So who had killed the girl? Bran was sure: solving the murder would take a lot of time. The fate of the Virman embassy, his own plans—all of that was in danger of failure. Gods, what trickery is this?

Indignant, he looked at the sea and the sky.

The gods looked back at the mortal and as usual, didn’t deign to reply. They had dug their grave, and now they had to lie in it.

A Medieval Tale series

Book 1: First Lessons (Find it on Amazon)

Book 2: The Clearing (Find it on Amazon)

Book 3: Palace Intrigue (Find it on Amazon)

Book 4: The Royal Court (Find it on Amazon)

Book 5: The Price of Happiness (Find it on Amazon)

Book 6: For the King (Find it on Amazon)

Book 7: The Right of Vengeance (Find it on Amazon)

Book 7 sample

Or you can find the whole series on Amazon. (Find it here)

More by Lina J. Potter:

Legends of Radenor

Book 1: Half Demon’s Revenge (Find it on Amazon)

Book 2: Half Demon’s Fortune (Find it on Amazon)

From the Author

Dear friend!

Thank you for reading! I was happy to share this story with you and hope you liked it. If so, please, remember to leave a review, it will support me a lot.

I sincerely read all yours reviews and comments, they help me and inspires me so much, I do really appreciate each and every of them.

As a gift of appreciation here you can get a sample of book 7! (https://taplink.cc/linajpotter/p/1405c1/)

Thank you, my friend!

-       Best wishes, Lina J. Potter

https://amzn.to/2WxDVeP

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I suggest this book to everyone who likes fantasy, adventures, strong female characters, magic, and fairy tales.

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About Lina J. Potter

Call it inspiration, the voice of a Muse, or plain obsession... but I felt I had to write it down or else my brain would explode with all these characters longing to come alive.

Lina J. Potter has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember. She started putting her tales on paper when she was around ten years old. Despite that, the first her story came alive only in 2011.

Her literate pseudonym helps her saving her family and daily routine inviolable. She is laughing while remembering how her colleague at work decided to discuss A Medieval Tale series with her, having no idea she was speaking with the author herself.

Nowadays Lina J. Potter lives in the town of Tambov with her husband, daughter and two cats. She has a light-hearted approach to writing. Whenever she is not writing, you can find her practicing karate and lace-making. She avoids personal publicity and shies away from the literary limelight, preferring her quiet life to focus on writing.

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