— From Dennon Lark’s
Royal Blood: the Errynson Family
I knew who she was almost immediately, by reputation and rumor. Broad-shouldered and muscular, she was larger than any woman I’d ever seen. Larger than any man, for that matter. She stood well over seven feet tall, maybe closer to eight—nearly two feet taller than the woman with her, and almost double that over the small, matronly Josia. Though we were both near thirty years of age, I would have looked a child standing next to her, and at a lanky six feet, three inches, I am by no means a short man.
Despite her size, though, it was her apparel that truly identified her. She carried a heavy-looking greatsword in a scabbard at her back, and a big round shield of plain steel strapped over that. The brown tabard of the King’s Army covered her boiled leather jerkin, with the crimson burning tree of the Errynsons emblazoned full across the chest and a silver Captain’s cord draped over the shoulder. No woman wore that tabard save those of Bryndine Errynson’s company, and only one wore the Army’s colors with the royal arms full-sized instead of in miniature over the heart.
I couldn’t imagine why, but the King’s niece—the woman they called the Bloody Bride—had just walked through the door of the only inn in Waymark.
Josia noted the coat of arms as well, and she hardly knew what to do with herself. “My lady… it is such an honor. An Errynson in the Prince’s Rest! Why, not since Prince Willyn—”
Josia was prepared to go on, but Bryndine’s companion interjected. “We are not here to stay. The Captain requires a Scriber.”
I could have said something then, but I had come to Waymark to avoid attention, and attending the King’s infamous niece was counter to that goal. I chose to stay quiet and keep my eyes on the table, but not before sparing a quick glance at the second woman. She was lean and trim, with the deep olive skin of the Southern Islanders. Her black hair framed sharp features, dark brown eyes, and a heavy scowl. She too wore the brown of the King’s Army, with the burning tree insignia over her heart, like most Army soldiers. Pledged to the service of the King, but not of royal blood.
Bryndine shot her a disapproving look. “Courtesies, Sylla. We represent the King’s Army.” She inclined her head towards Josia. “I apologize for my companion, matron. But she speaks truly—we do not intend to stay. We saw a Scriber’s shingle hanging just down the road, but there was no answer at the door. If you’ll see that our horses are fed and watered and tell us where to find the Scriber, you will have a silver for your trouble.”
Josia’s eyes widened; a silver mark was more than the Rest would make in a month. “My lady, I… I can’t accept… My husband takes care of the stables, and he is late coming back from Barleyfield, I…” The woman was too honest for her own good. The Kellens needed that silver badly and everyone in town knew it. Running an inn in Waymark was not a profitable venture.
Bryndine took the innkeeper’s trembling hand and pressed the coin into it. “Sylla will see to them, then, if you will only provide the feed. Now, where might I find your Scriber?”
Josia gestured weakly towards me, still gaping at the coin in her hand. I had never seen her so speechless—it was rather delightful. Less so was the sudden attention of Bryndine and her companion.
Reluctantly, I stood and gave a shallow bow. Keeping my head down, I muttered, “An honor, Lady Bryndine.”
“You know who I am.” It was a statement, not a question.
An answer passed my lips before I had time to think. “Considering all that they say about you, how could I not?” I meant it in jest, but as soon as I said it I realized how the words could sound to a woman of Bryndine’s repute. I might have been referring to any of a thousand ugly rumors.
“Mind your tongue, Scriber!” Sylla strode towards me with startling intensity. I felt the blood leave my face, and cursed myself for a fool. The Islander woman was smaller than her Captain, but at that moment—marching towards me with her hand on her sword—she looked far more dangerous. I am not a religious man, but I praised the Mother and the Father when Bryndine raised her right hand to block the other woman’s advance. Her left arm, I noticed, she kept held tightly to her side, and I thought I saw a bandage wrapped about it, but I could not get a clear look.
“I am sure he meant nothing by it, Sylla. Please, go see to the horses.”
“Bryn, he can’t—”
“Sylla. The horses. Please.”
Sylla glared at me for a moment longer, then turned on her heel and marched out the door, pulling Josia with her. When she was gone, Bryndine pulled out a chair and sat down across from me. I tried to catch a glimpse of the arm that might have been wounded, but she held it out of sight beneath the table.
I examined her as she settled herself in her chair. Sheer size aside, her appearance did not entirely live up to the tales. I had heard that she shaved her head bald to look like a man, but her hair—the golden-blond common among the Errynsons—was simply cut short above the ears in a somewhat masculine style. Her face was solemn and plain, perhaps slightly square-jawed, but not hideous or mannish as it was so often described. Frankly, she was quite dull to look at if one ignored her imposing bulk. Even her eyes were a colorless grey.
I needed to make amends before anything else. “Lady Bryndine, I didn’t mean to insult you. I apologize if my words caused any distress.” The last thing I wanted was to make an enemy of this woman. Even if she had not been armed, she looked as though she could pick me up and swing me one-handed. And as the King’s niece and daughter of the Lord Chancellor, there were things far worse than simple violence that she could do to me.
It was often said that Bryndine’s blood was flawed, that her mother’s low birth drove her to follow the soldier’s path, but she spoke with the ice-cold arrogance of a trueborn noble. “I know what you meant, Scriber. And I would appreciate it if you addressed me by my proper rank. I am a Captain in the King’s Army.” Though her unnaturally solemn face made it difficult to judge, she seemed to have taken my earlier jest in the worst possible spirit. But I was used to people thinking poorly of me—if she was not going to give me a fair chance, at least it meant I could give up playing so polite.
“As you wish,
Captain
. What would you have of me?” My tone made the title an insult, and I pointedly lowered my eyes to the burning tree at her chest, where a gold-stitched numeral would have indicated the company of a true soldier of the King’s Army. There was nothing there. Though Bryndine and her women wore the uniform, they lacked any kind of formal authority. But if my intended slight struck home, she gave no sign, which only frustrated me more.
“Might I see your pin first?” She glanced at the Scriber’s pin on my collar. It was wise of her to be careful—I might easily have been a backwoods charlatan—but it did not sit well with me. Not coming from a woman who herself was pretending at being a soldier.
I unfastened the small gold pin and slid it across the table. “Sworn and pinned at the Academy, Captain Bryndine. Six years ago now.” The pin was slightly over an inch high, a quill-and-inkwell of gilded bronze, engraved with the Old Elovian phrase that encompassed everything about the Scribers: “
Voia Rae
”—“Never Forget”. Like most Scribers, my livelihood depended on my pin. Without one, the practice of medicine is illegal, and it is extremely difficult for the unpinned to find work in other Scriber dominated fields.
Bryndine took the pin with large, surprisingly deft fingers, flipping it over to check the other side, where my name was engraved. She knew that much at least—barring obviously poor gilding, the most reliable way to identify a fake pin is to check the back, and not only to see if the name matches. A genuine pin is gilt only on the front; on the back, the exposed Scriber-made bronze has a brilliant red-gold shine. Fakes tend to be dull and lusterless, or simply gilded entirely, hiding the metal beneath.
“Dennon Lark?” She made a question out of my name, and I nodded in response. Satisfied, she handed the pin back and I fastened it to my collar, dreading the reaction that was sure to follow. But if she recognized my name, she chose not to comment. I gave silent thanks to the Mother and the Father for that. The worst thing that could happen to my life in Waymark was for word to spread about my past.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Scriber. When impostors of your order crop up, it tends to be in out of the way villages like this one.”
“Of course, Captain Bryndine.” But forgiveness was far from my mind. It was galling that the Bloody Bride herself would think me an imposter—from everything I had heard, the woman was only allowed to bear arms and armor because her father was the King’s brother.
“Well, then. I have an injury that requires treatment.” She stretched her left arm out on the table, finally allowing me the glimpse I had been seeking. I saw immediately that it was no minor complaint; I was surprised she could speak without wincing. Her sleeve was torn up to the elbow, and beneath it her wrist and forearm were badly swollen, messily wrapped in a bloody piece of fabric. Through gaps in the makeshift bandage, an ugly gash was visible, splitting the flesh from the back of her wrist to a few inches beneath the elbow.
“How did you come by a wound like that out here, Captain?” I asked, genuinely intrigued. That something had brought the King’s niece this far out into the back roads of the Kingsland was a curiosity by itself, but the wound added an entirely new level of strangeness to the story.
“Perhaps we could move this to your home, Scriber,” Bryndine said, evading my question. “I would prefer to have this dealt with quickly, if possible. I must rejoin my company by morning—I would not have delayed here if Sylla had not insisted on taking me to a Scriber.”
I fancied that she was struggling to hide her impatience under that composed veneer. The thought made me smile. “I am here to serve, Captain,” I said, getting to my feet and tucking Illias’ letter into my belt. “You saw my shingle, you know the way.”
All of Waymark was visible from the front stoop of the Prince’s Rest. A single street divided the village in half, with a makeshift town square in the middle where the dirt road split to circle a crumbling stone well and the large fireleaf tree that grew beside it. There were seven homes on the east side of the street, nine on the west, and that was the entirety of Waymark. The Rest sat on the east side, directly before the square, and my own cottage with its badly painted Scriber shingle was across the road and just a few homes down to the south.
It was a brisk autumn evening outside, and a cool breeze blew from the northeast, down from the Salt Mountains. I wrapped my arms tight around my chest for warmth as a gust blew through the boughs of the large fireleaf in the square, making the bright red leaves dance like flame.
Bryndine jogged around the side of the building to let Sylla know where we were going. She was apparently unaffected by the cold, and I was embarrassed by my own reaction. I unfolded my arms briefly, but decided that my pride wasn’t worth the effort as another chill wind wound its way down the street, raising gooseflesh on my skin. When Bryndine returned moments later, I was hunched once more against the cold, and more annoyed than ever at her seeming immunity to it.
“You needn’t have waited, Scriber. I know where your home is.” Bryndine seemed surprised that I was still there, which bothered me—she apparently didn’t think me capable of even a simple courtesy.
“I’ve been told it’s not proper to let a member of the royal family wander the streets alone, Lady Bryndine,” I replied. I hoped that something in that would sting, either the failure to use her rank or the implication that she needed an escort, but I was disappointed in both cases. I can’t say why, but her perfect composure irritated me as much as anything ever has. It was childish, and very likely unwise, but as I hurried down the street towards my home, trying to keep pace with Bryndine’s long strides, I made a vow to myself that I would get a reaction out of her before the night was over.
The warmth as we entered my small cottage was a wondrous thing, bringing life tingling back into my fingers and toes. I gestured Bryndine towards a chair at my work table and began to gather my supplies as she sat and unwrapped her wound, laying her arm across the table. When I had what I needed, I sat down across from her, taking her arm and probing it with my fingertips.
“Well, it isn’t broken, but from the swelling at the wrist I’d guess you’ve sprained it in addition to the cut. It may be important for me to know how you came by such a wound, Lady Bryndine.” I continued to eschew her military rank in the hopes of prompting a scowl, but she seemed to have given up that battle already. As I spoke I doused the gash with alcohol to clean it, but even that failed to make her flinch.
“It was nothing exciting, Scriber. My company is spread across the area doing routine scouting. I was tending my horse when something startled her and made her kick. I was lucky it was only my arm she caught.”
“Last I checked, the King’s Army doesn’t routinely do anything in these parts, Lady Bryndine.” I passed a thread through the eye of my needle, and pressed the point against her skin. “This will hurt,” I warned as I pushed the needle through flesh.
“We do not normally come this far, it is true, but these are difficult times, Scriber. Has news of the unrest in the baronies reached you here?” She did not so much as gasp as I sewed up her wound, though I made a point of being rougher than necessary. Nothing affected the woman; it was infuriating.
“A little, m’Lady. There is talk of rebels putting villages to the torch around Three Rivers.” Illias’ letters had touched on the subject in the past. Moments later, I realized what she was saying, and my stitching came to an abrupt stop. “Are you saying that the Army expects them to strike here? What statement could they possibly make by attacking Waymark?” I forgot briefly about trying to anger Bryndine; the thought of the village burning was a sobering one.
“We believe that they seek to prove the royal family has failed to uphold Erryn’s Promise. Striking at areas the Army is not actively protecting would be the easiest way to make their point.” Her face betrayed no emotion, but she looked away as she spoke. “Each time the Army fails to stop one of these attacks, more people begin to talk about how the Promise has been broken.”