Sederan Tales

The bloodied pair managed to reach the outskirts of town without being seen. Only after they stepped outside of town and paused underneath the last lamp post did they feel comfortable talking.

Katelain looked over at Alenard. “How did you—”

“A woman in armor practically invites me into her bed without any coaxing,” he answered. “I knew something was wrong. She kept asking me back to her room, but I convinced her to head to mine. You saw what happened after that.”

Katelain shook her head. “Of course they knew. It’s not like this was a covert operation. I suppose there was only so long it could go on.”

“Did we find anything of value?” Alenard asked, pulling out the pouches he had grabbed. “Looks like only coins in mine.”

“Anything of high importance would have been elsewhere, seeing as this was a trap,” Katelain said, pulling out what she had found on Boese. She opened a larger pouch to produce few documents, rolled tightly and tied together. They must have been directly related to the trap for him to be carrying them on him. Katelain carefully untied the scrolls and rolled out the documents. She studied the first page for a few moments before shifting through the rest of the pages.

“What is it?” Alenard asked.

“Dossiers, on both of us,” she said. “Looks like they knew you served the Deleons.”

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The Velveteen Satchel was just as busy as it had been two nights ago. Patrons were already beginning to show their drunkenness and more eyes were falling on Katelain and Alenard, who were seated at a table in the corner. Katelain had once again donned her black dress and Alenard’s lute was resting nonchalantly by his chair, which raised the intrigue (although their good looks certainly helped too).

One of the serving maidens stopped by their table with a faint smile on her face. She motioned behind her, to the makeshift stage area next to them. The pair got up and settled in quickly in the performance area. Katelain leaned back against the wall while Alenard began to weave a tapestry of notes and a haunting melody. The din of the tavern was reduced to a whisper in a few seconds.

Katelain scanned the bar looking for her mark. Immediately, she made eye contact with an intense-looking man in his late thirties. His light brown hair was cropped so short that Katelain could barely make out what color it was. The man was obviously very physically fit and knew action. A quick glance at his shirt revealed that it was actually a light brigandine plate, decorated in black and red. The mark, Boese, was a military official. This had to be him.

Boese stared right at Katelain in an unnerving sort of way. Not in the lustful way she was used to, but in a cold, harsh sort of way. She shuddered lightly and moved her gaze elsewhere.

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The Prince’s Gamble was already gearing up for a wild night, even though the sun was only just starting to set. The serving maidens had absent looks on their faces, mentally preparing for the onslaught that every night brought. A few travelers were eating early meals and sharing a few drinks, some holding close conversations, some laughing and joking loudly, and some trying not to be seen.

Katelain and Alenard sat at a table in the corner, facing the large room, with a large glass of mulled wine and a tankard of ale accordingly. Both sat in silence, sipping their drinks and observing the rest of the tavern. There had not been much talking since Alenard’s story earlier.

Katelain had always been slightly intimidated by the Prince’s Gamble. She had been an Omenian all her life, so she’d grown up studying death, but physical violence was a completely new—and terrifying—concept for her. She managed not to show any fear, of course. Every Omenian knew that fear was the first step toward giving in.

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The next morning, the dark-haired woman awoke as early as the sun had risen. She wiped her eyes and stretched her arms up in the air for a moment, but quickly, quietly climbed out of bed and reached for her over-sized satchel. She pulled out a simple black skirt and blouse and some rugged black leather boots and put them on. She then gathered up her belongings in her satchel and made a hasty exit without looking back.

She stepped across the hall and knocked quietly on the door across from hers. After a rather leisurely amount of time had passed, she heard some groggy footsteps coming toward the door. The door opened, revealing the troubadour from the night before, completely naked and not bothering to hide behind the door.

The woman rolled her eyes. “By Omenus, Alenard, do you have to do that? Don’t you know how to treat a lady?”

“I reckon you can ask her how I treat a lady,” Alenard said, pointing toward a young woman asleep in his bed.

The woman looked at the lady in Alenard’s bed. Her eyes got wide for a second, then she narrowed them and looked sternly at him. “This is not a game,” she scolded.

“Easy, Katelain,” Alenard said. “She was so drunk I doubt she remembers much from last night.”

“Well that’s a hefty risk to take!” Katelain said, putting her hand on her hip. At that, the woman in the bed stirred and moaned softly.

Alenard sighed and looked down at the floorboards. “Well, now you’ve done it,” he said before closing the door on her.

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For officials sailing from the Ardellian Empire to the newly annexed nation of Sedera, the first stop was often the port town of Tratan. The amenities were the nicest of the accessible port towns, and it was a straight shot across the bay from the nicest port in Ardellia. Tratan originally boasted the largest navy in Sedera, and it was for this reason that its invasion took place on land. This led to a rather hasty defeat and left the port largely untouched.

The Velveteen Satchel, a tavern in the richer part of town, was bustling with an unusual amount of activity, even for a tavern in a busy port town. A shipment of new important-looking men had arrived from Ardellia earlier that day, and most of them were glad to unwind in the tavern. The sun had long since set, but torches and a roaring fire kept the large room well-lit.

Most of the attention was focused on a large clearing in the middle of the room. A green-clad troubadour, a wavy-haired, intense-looking man in his mid-twenties, played skillfully on a large lute, big enough to be heard over the din, if only by those close to it. The troubadour sang a bittersweet song of unrequited love that was at once moving, sad, and comforting. The man had a voice the patrons could have become drunk on, which accompanied the steady flow of refrains and flourishes from his lute.

But the troubadour and his music served as a backdrop for his partner: a stunningly beautiful, buxom, fair-skinned woman in her mid-twenties, dancing along to the rhythms and melodies from her partner. Her long, dark, flowing hair seemed to dance with her, waving to and fro and she danced to the music. She wore a tight-fitting black satin dress that was cut perfectly to accentuate her slender arms, shoulders, and bosom. A veil partially obscured her mouth and nose, but that just made her dark eyes all the more striking.

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Lenus shivered as a cold wind hit the back of her neck. It had taken her a little over two hours to reach the Prince’s Gamble Tavern, and she’d left just as the sun was setting. She’d chosen to wear her charcoal tunic over her new cuirass, along with some dark brown pants and black leather boots. She had pulled her mess of red hair back into a tight ponytail to make sure it wouldn’t bother her, even though she had no idea what she would be doing.

She sighed as she approached the loud, boorish tavern. The light inside was dim, but a cloud moved in overhead, blocking out the full moon that had guided her there and making the firelight inside the brightest thing she could see.

“What are you doing, Len?” she muttered.

She took a deep breath and focused herself, dusted herself off, and then entered the tavern with new resolve.

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Lenus stood poised with a wooden dagger in each hand. She flashed a mischievous grin accented with narrowed eyes to a teenage boy holding a wooden sword nervously with both hands. Lenus stalked around him in an uncomfortable circle while the boy calculated her. The boy darted in at Lenus and swung his sword at her. She effortlessly sidestepped it and then stepped back in behind the boy. With a quick motion, she kicked the boy’s feet out from under him and brought one of her daggers straight down onto his chest, stopping just short of stabbing him in the heart.

The boy’s eyes widened, as it had taken his mind a few seconds to catch up to what had just happened. He then closed his eyes in frustration and dropped his wooden sword on the ground. A small crowd of younger men and women clapped politely.

“Tyrius, she had the speed advantage,” came a gruff voice off to the side. “You should have let her strike the first blow.”

“I know, I just…” the boy trailed off as Lenus helped him to his feet. “She was staring me down like a cat stalking a goblin young.”

“Mind games, Tyrius,” said Gunthrie. “Very good, Lenus,” he added with a nod.

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The next few days, Lenus barely left her hut and workshop, which was another small clay hut behind their residence. She left at least once a day to head to the training grounds for some exercises, and also to get food, but worked as long as there was light for it, and sometimes well after the sun had set.

It took her two full days to make the cuirasses, which she was most excited about. The leather became very hard upon boiling, much to her liking. Fastening the metal strips onto them was a challenge, as she was not a metalworker. The coverage wasn’t quite as integral as she’d hoped, but it would offer some additional protection beyond the leather breastplates they had scrapped together. There was also enough leather left over for her to make a lighter jerkin for Reese, which made her feel better about his new interest in hunting.

The garments were a new challenge for Lenus. Missing a stitch or two here and there was fine for utilitarian clothes, but unacceptable for the level of craftsmanship she was striving for. She practiced on a few cloaks before moving on to more difficult shirts. She didn’t have the skill to make dresses—at least, not good ones.

(Lenus did take some of the more common cloth and fashion a charcoal-colored tunic for herself. “Ralin will never miss it,” she told herself.)

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“Is this all we have to eat, Len?” asked a disheveled, auburn-haired boy of fifteen, tearing apart his cornmeal cake as if hoping to find something else inside.

“Reese, you know this is all we can afford right now,” responded an intense, redheaded young woman, staring solemnly down into her own cornmeal cake. “We have a little bit of wine left, if you want to wash it down with something with a little more flavor.”

Reese nodded and ate his cake without saying another word. His older sister, Lenus, did the same. Though the cakes were bland, they granted a brief reprieve from the hunger that haunted them almost daily.

The small clay hut they sat in was dirty and worn. Two makeshift beds, each made of straw with some linen sheets over them, sat on the floor across from a cooking hearth that was also the only source of heat in the winter. The roof was thatched straw, which managed to keep the rain out and the warmth in, but meant living under a constant threat of fire.

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The next day at the monastery was a much lighter one. Arlia had slept through her morning lesson (she had earned it, she told herself) and decided to catch up with Asher and Rex late-morning.

The Rexelian quarter was bustling with chatter and activity as word started to get around about the new opportunity for them. Looks of excitement and ambition were on nearly every face—unusual for the Rexelians. The practice area was completely full of students practicing their craft, now with new resolve.

Arlia walked plainly among them for once, not receiving any stares and even receiving a few smiles and nods. She had hoped to be left out of the story, but it was clear that she was not.

Arlia found Rex and Asher on the steps to the Rexelian women’s dorm, now surrounded by a half-dozen other Rexelian students and two Lyrenite students.

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