She appeared out of nowhere. If they hadn’t been in the middle of a deeply involved battle, they would have noticed sooner that a woman had joined the fray. She swirled in, her shield strapped to her back and a four-foot curved sword in her hand. In three strokes she slaughtered as many men, pausing only to slip her toe under the blade of one of the fallen men’s swords, kicking it up into her left hand. 

The Reverend of the crew, a man who fought with a spear, was first to notice the woman because he thought it odd that she could fight as well left handed as she could with her right. His next thought was confusion over her attire. She wore a long, close-fitting long-sleeved coat over a pair of breeches that ended just below the knee in a pair of knee-high boots. He could see as she turned where short, thin daggers were tucked into the tops of the boots, cleverly hidden from general view. Her head and all of her face aside from her eyes was covered by a Middle-eastern style hijab. 

He paused in his fighting to study her, noting with additional confusion the fair skin and deep brown eyes. She seemed to sense before seeing where the next enemy would strike from, and her arms swung out ahead of her vision to strike down the men she was fighting. He watched until an arrow zipped past his ear, calling him back to the present even as another struck a tree trunk mere feet from his side.

Several of the men caught half-glances at her during the fight, but by the time the enemy had been slaughtered and the remaining few captured, she had vanished again like some angel. Or perhaps a demon. In any case, she had disappeared into thin air, taking with her some of the spoils of war. The Reverend and Marathos counted up swords in relation to bodies after the skirmish, discovering that three of the swords and two of the daggers of their enemy were missing, along with several small pieces of jewelry.   A few bracelets, a few rings. An earring had been yanked from the ear of one of the men, leaving a bloody, shredded gash in his earlobe. 

Muhdurin was sitting against a tree with Arc and Evias when Rev. and Mari reported to their captain what the woman had taken. Sindaric, who joined them with a flask raised to toast, shrugged.

“Eh, she fought. Why shouldn’t she get a share?” he said.

“She was a mercenary.” Rev. said. 

“Has anyone ever seen her before?” Arc asked. “Does anyone know who she is? Where she’s from? What her name is?”

“Aziza.” Muhdurin said. “Asima.” (It should be mentioned at this point that it is Muhdurin’s penchant to assign names to new members of the crew, or people unidentified shortly before their deaths).

“No,” Rev said, “Vigdis.”

***

The woman slid the swords through a curious leather quiver on her back, tying the daggers to the outside of it before covering the entire contrivance with her tent, wrapping it around and around before tying it securely to her horse. The jewelry went into one of her saddlebags. She leapt lightly astride her horse, taking the reins in her leather-gloved hands. The gloves had been splashed with blood, but she had washed them in the nearby stream along with several of her outer garments which also bore splatters of blood. 

            The battle was the previous day, and in the heat of the days and nights of summer those garments had dried quickly and were now once again wrapped securely around her body, concealing both her identity and her past. Not that she considered her past to be of particular importance. If anything, it was a far wiser idea for a mercenary to forget everything which happened shortly after it occurred. 

            She set out then for Gohithica, her home city, the place where she believes she was born though in truth she knows neither the location nor the day of her birth. She knows she’s between twenty and twenty-four years old, and she knows that she was a slave in the court of the maharajah until four years ago, when she escaped and fled aboard a merchant’s ship. The first city she set foot in was Gohithica. That place, more than any other, was her home.

            The city gates closed at sunset, and she arrived there just as the moon was beginning to rise so she camped a few hundred feet from the gates, curling up against the Walls with her horse standing sentinel. 

            She awoke the next morning as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, casting long shadows. Valkari, her horse, nudged her gently with her nose, urging her awake. She rubbed her eyes and lurched to her feet, gathered up the blanket she had slept curled up in and lead Valkari to the city gates.

            A gold bracelet paid her passage into the city without any unnecessary entanglements. Immediately she headed to Billy’s Bones, which we in our modern world would recognize as a pawn shop. It helped that she was a longtime friend and occasional companion of Billy Warren, the owner of this infamous little shop. He was the first one to teach her how to pick a pocket, how to throw a punch, and much later how to wield the blade with the fluid skill that she was famous for.

“Viveca!” Billy called out as the bell tolled her entrance to the shop. 

            “Hello, Billy.” She said, “A bit of business?”

            “You got the wares, I got the gold.” He said. Billy, it should also be mentioned, is a lithe, strong young man, only six years her senior. Fair skinned and dark eyed like she, but dark-haired. Hair that her fingers remember distinctly curling around.

            “Three swords, two daggers, and some assorted jewelry.” She said, unwrapping the weapons and laying them out on the counter.

            “Ayuh.” He said, studying the blades carefully. “You done well.” He named a price which he wouldn’t have offered to any other person bearing the same wares, and she accepted it. He weighed out the gold coin on a scale he kept in the back, to prove that he was honest. The one at the counter was weighted. “Well, my dear, will you be staying in Gohithica long? I believe that I owe you a drink, and that you owe me some stories about your travels.”

            “Dear Billy,” she said, “I would be well pleased to stay here for a day or two.”

            “Excellent.” He said, smiling at her. She would never admit to anyone, least of all him, that his smile won her heart every time. 

            “I have some business to attend to. Then I’ll meet you…?”

            “The Dirty Glass. Say eight o’clock?” he said.

            “Perfect.” She said. “I’ll see you then.”

With that, she left his shop and ventured into the heart of Gohithica. In particular, she sought out a specific man. He was a ruthless man, one who had killed a sword smith over a single, beautifully wrought rapier. He had claimed to one of her acquaintances that he had sold his illegitimate daughter, a golden-haired infant born of a whore mother, to Indian slavers. She believed him to be her father.

His name is Samuel O’Reilly, and he is what we would consider today to be a mafia don. She had no intention of speaking with him. Rather, she simply wanted to lay eyes on him and see if she could decipher the truth from his face. 

            It took her a majority of the day to locate him, with a break to purchase new clothing. She learned from one of her Ears that he was a regular at, you guessed it, The Dirty Glass. Circles within Circles.

            She obtained a room above The Dirty Glass around seven o’clock and changed into a new skirt, a loose muslin shirt and fitted corset. Beneath the seemingly feminine outfit, her daggers were sheathed in her boots. She could feel the cold metal against her calves. Around her neck she wore a gold medallion, a gift from a past lover who had left her behind and was killed on the sea. Her golden blonde hair reached down to the middle of her back, but she swept it up into a neat bun, pinning the stray strands of hair into place. Kohl for her eyes, rouge for her lips and she again faced a beautiful woman in the mirror. A woman who had been named Samira by the maharajah. 

            That was a name she no longer even acknowledged. She could almost think of it as a word instead of as her past name and job description. But, when she thought of it suddenly, or heard the name called in the marketplace, her heart skipped a beat. 

            Samira Viveca.

            She turned away from the mirror, savoring the swirl of skirts around her legs and the sure knowledge that she could kill a man in under five seconds if provoked, regardless of her attire. Her sword hung in its sheath from the post of her bed. She touched it, closed her hand around the hilt, and felt comfort immediately wash over her. It was a familiar weapon, one she had wielded for several years now. She had taken it from the dead hand of one of the guards who had tried to stop her during her escape. His initials, now her initials, were carved into the pommel, an interlocking A and V. 

            There was a knock at the door. She drew a dagger and opened the door a slim crack, steeling her knee against the back of the door so she could slam it shut if needs be.

            “Viveca?” Billy said, grinning at her.

            “Damn it Billy, you startled me.” She said, opening the door. He slipped through the narrow passage between the door and her body, so close she could feel the heat of his skin. His dark and curly hair was tied back with a piece of leather.

            “I brought you a present, my dear.” He said, pulling a small drawstring bag from his coat pocket. This he handed to her. “I hope you like it.” She untied the string and upended the bag onto her palm. A silver pendant on a long chain fell into her hand. She flipped the pendant over and embedded in the silver was a large green stone. 

            “Oh.” She said. “It’s beautiful.” He picked it up from her hand and unclasped it. She lifted her hair so he could fasten it around her neck. At the same time, he removed the golden medallion and placed it on her bedside table. 

            “You like it?” he asked.

            “Yes.” She said. “But, I don’t understand. What is this supposed to mean?”

            “I don’t follow you dear.” He said.

            “I mean, is this supposed to mean something?” she asked.

            “No.” he said. “I thought you would like it. You’ve worn that medallion too long.” He gestured to the medallion on the table. 

            “Thank you.” She said. “Shall we?”

            “Yes.” He said. She locked the door on their way out and together they descended into the pub. They were seated at a table off in a corner, so she sat with her back to the wall so she could watch the room. 

            Their evening together was pleasant enough, up until the moment that Samuel set foot in the pub. His portly body did not hide the similarities in their statures. His eyes were her eyes. His hair was her hair. She looked at him and knew immediately that this man was the man who sold her into slavery at the other end of the continent. When he got up and left, she breathed a sigh of relief.

            Then she noticed the barmaid leave briefly and return, and recognized murder in her eyes. Shortly after she left, she noticed a young man get up and follow her and he more than either of the other two gave her pause.

            Around his neck was a golden medallion, the twin to her own. She knew the lines of his body better than she knew her own. That man was the Reverend aboard the Fair Lady Senegal, the man who she had loved and who had left her to return to the sea. Whose crewmates had lied to her about his death. Based on the hungry way he looked at that barmaid, she assumed he was as much of a man whore as he had been prior to her. In either case, she didn’t really want to know what became of the three of them, and returned to her dinner and present company.

            “Viveca?” Billy asked, noticing her distracted expression.

            “Yes?” she asked.

            “You see someone you know?” he asked.

            “Rev. isn’t dead apparently.” She said, “And he’s going after that unfortunate barmaid.”

            “You were that unfortunate barmaid a year ago.” He said.

            “I know.” She said. “I pity her.”

            “She won’t believe you.” He said.

            “Because I wouldn’t believe you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not important. He’s not important. He was in many ways a child I wanted to help, but nothing I did could save him from himself.”

            “You deserve better than him, Viveca.” He said. 

            “I know that as well.” She said. “Are you proposing that you’re better than him?”

            “I should like to think that I am.”

            “You are.” She said. “But you should court and marry some nice girl who will be content to cook your dinners and wash your clothes. I never would be content to serve you, and you would never be content to watch me leave for weeks at a time, not knowing if I was coming back or not.”

            “I could learn.” He said. 

            “I can’t.” she said. “Billy, we’ve discussed this before. I will never serve as anything other than a friend and occasional mistress to you.”

            “My dear,” he said, taking her hand across the table, “I would never ask you to serve in such a lowly role. I don’t want you for my mistress.”

            “Billy,” she said, “I have too much unfinished business that I have to attend to before I could ever consider settling down.”

            “I can wait.” He said.

            “But you shouldn’t.” she said, “You should court someone nice who will warm your home and bed and produce rosy children.”

            “I don’t want to.” He said.

            “Well, shall we say that we’re at an impasse then? Shall we simply wait and see where this goes?” she asked. 

            “Very well,” he said. She touched the necklace, looking off towards the bar, studying the faces of the patrons. “Did I tell you the story of that medallion?”

            “No.” she said.

            “A woman sold it to me a few days ago. Said that the gem was pure emerald, mined in the Desert by the Feyjen and spelled by their Sahida to protect the wearer from harm.” He said. “It’s been passed down from mother to daughter in one of the Feyjen families for generations. She was starting a new life in Gohithica, but of all the things she sold this was the hardest thing to let go. She made me swear to give it to a young woman of strength who would be in need of protection.”

            “The Feyjen.” Viveca said, bringing the pendant up to her face so she could study it. As her fingers grazed the stone, she could feel the energy pulsing in it. Her mother, who she had barely known, had been a Feyjen prostitute at The Rose, a whorehouse off of Bordello Row. She dimly remembered olive skin, dark hair and the emerald eyes characteristic of the Feyjen. A delicate heart-shaped face and hourglass figure, neither of which did she inherit.

            “Yes.” He said. “They’re a superstitious people.”

            “They are.” She said. “Shall we go for a walk?”

 

            They walked along the High Road, turned onto the Via Pacis and followed it until it dead ended in the port. There they stood, watching the boats rock in the waves, until they heard footsteps approaching. Together they ducked into a doorway and watched as the barmaid followed Rev. aboard the Lady Senegal.

            “That slimy bastard.” She muttered.

            “What are you thinking?” Billy asked.

            “Nothing.” She said, slipping out into the darkness. Billy watched her walk away, only to watch her return a few minutes later with a glass bottle and a length of rag. Liquid sloshed in the bottle and he caught the distinct smell of rum coming off it.

            “Oh, damn it Viveca, don’t do that.” He said.

            “Too late.” She said, running on light feet down to the docks , lighting the wick and tossing the bottle all in one fluid motion. It flipped and broke on the deck of the Lady Senegal, sending up flames and oily smoke into the night sky. Then, she turned and ran.

            Immediately voices began yelling aboard the Senegal, and Red Jack and Arc both caught a glimpse of a woman, with golden hair wearing a loose shirt and long skirt, dashing off into the night. 

            “The Vigdis.” Red Jack said. “That was her. She’s in Gohithica.”

            “How do you know?” Arc asked.

            “Did you see her boots?” Red Jack asked. “How many women wear boots with those distinctive daggers?”

            “Should we follow her?” Arc asked.

            “No.” Red Jack said. “She’ll make herself apparent soon enough. I feel like I know her from somewhere.”

            “Where?”

            “I don’t know.” Red Jack said, “I’ll come up with it eventually.”

            “Did you see that woman Rev. brought aboard?” Arc asked.

            “Ailyn?” Red Jack asked.

            “Yes.” Arc said, “Do you think she’ll amount to anything?”

            “I don’t know.” Red Jack said, “Probably not.”

 

            Viveca didn’t stop running until she reached The Dirty Glass, Billy at her heels. She was laughing, smiling, and her hair had come loose from its bun, falling in soft curls around her face and shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked lovelier than Billy ever remembered her looking. 

            “That was incredibly stupid.” Billy said. “They could have seen you.”

            “They wouldn’t recognize me.” She said, “Most of them never took the time to get to know me.”

            “They just told you Rev. had died and left?” he asked.

            “Just two of them, actually. A man by the name of Red Jack, and Rev.’s best friend Muhdurin.” She said. “No one else ever saw my face or knew my name, to the best of my knowledge.”

            “That’s good.” Billy said. “I worry about you sometimes Viveca.”

            “Completely unnecessary.” She said, smiling at him in the warm, golden light of the street. She looked beautiful, like some unfortunate angel cast down into this seedy city to redeem them all. 

            “Someone has to.” He said, brushing the hair from her face. “You don’t need to be so strong all the time. You can let me help you in any way that I can.”

            “I really can’t.” she said. His touch was gentle, something that made her long for the past, what could not be. His fingers threading themselves through her hair caused a visceral recollection and made her want to return to the safety of his love though she knew in her heart that she never would. 

            “Why not?” he asked.

            “If I am given a crutch, I forget how to use my leg. Then, when the crutch is gone, I can no longer walk.” She said.

            “I won’t leave you.” He said.

            “That’s a piecrust promise.” She said, “Easily made, easily broken.” He gathered her into his arms and she pressed her cheek against the soft muslin of his shirt. Memory flooded her. 

            “You know that’s not true.” He said.

            “Sir, you need to go home. I need to get some sleep. I’m leaving early tomorrow morning.” She said.

            “I thought you were staying for another couple of days.” He said.

            “I was, but I have business to attend to across the Wall.” She said.

            “Across the Wall.” He said. “With whom?”

            “None of your business.” She said. 

            “When will you be back?” he asked.

            “A few weeks.” She said. “I need to check on some contacts in Bivium and Vada.”

            “Will you come see me when you return?” he asked. 

            “Of course, Billy.” She said, kissing his cheek. He slid his hand into her hair and gripped the back of her head, kissing her passionately. She broke away, her head bowed, then she looked up into his eyes. “Good night.”

           

            Viveca packed the clothing and items she didn’t need into a trunk, which she paid a servant boy to help her carry to her bolt-hole. She kept a cheap room in a poor part of town for storage purposes while she was out on the road. After that task was completed, she picked up Valkari at the stable near the Southern Gate and set out towards the wall. 

            Since her mother was a Feyjen and her father a Gohithican, she had dual citizenship, so crossing the Wall was a matter of presenting some paperwork to the guards who then permitted her to cross through the first of the two stone barriers that separated the Peninsula from the Flatlands. The Wall served a double purpose: it protected the more industrialized Peninsula from the rogues of the flatlands, and it protected the Flatlands from the criminals of the Peninsula. Each region knew how to handle their own criminals, but foreign ones confused them. Dual citizenship was much-sought and difficult to get. Usually it’s reserved for merchants who had to cross the Wall as a matter of business. Children of mixed parentage tended to become smugglers simply because they had the proper paperwork. However, such children were rare (except as the children of the whores of Bordello Row) because of the fundamental morals of the inhabitants of the Flatlands. It was an era where offspring were specifically planned for and marriages were a matter of legal negotiation rather than love. Therefore, Gohithicans married fellow Peninsulans, and the Flatlanders bred with fellow Flatlanders. 

            Her dual citizenship was why she was such a lovely gift to the Maharajah, and why she should have been a lovely gift to his son. She smiled at the memory.

            She reached the second Wall, this one manned by the Flatlanders and presented her paperwork again. The guards went over it carefully, examining her face, before nodding and telling her gruffly to proceed. The Flatlanders didn’t much care for the Feyjen, but considered them to be of better caliber than the Peninsulans. To put it this way, if a Coirean and Feyjen were fighting each other, a Flatlander watching would side with the Feyjen, but only after a moment’s contemplation and only if the Flatlander was in an ass-kicking mood.

            But I digress. Viveca crossed the second Wall and emerged onto the gently rolling hills that disappeared out into the distance in every direction.  There was a path which led to the Lake, which she would follow to Bivium, and from there head into the Desert. She looked down at her left wrist. I hadn’t had reason to mention previously the tattoo there. If nothing else, she was a Feyjen, and all Feyjen bear this tattoo: a winged flower. It marks them, so they are known to each other because not all Feyjen have their characteristic dark hair, skin and eyes. Viveca is a prime example of this with her long blonde hair and fair skin. Her eyes betrayed her heritage the first time she set foot among the Feyjen, because no other race on the Continent has brown eyes. Blue eyes, yes. Green, hazel, gray, maroon, yes. Brown, no. 

            The most interesting thing about the Feyjen is their connection to the Unknown Region. Both regions are known for the mysterious energies that weave a delicate web beneath the very skin of their people. It connects them. If you hurt one, his kin feels it like a fly struggling in a spider’s web. And this is why she’s packed her bag with the clothes of a Flatlander and is jumping astride her horse and heading down the road to the Lake. It’s why she’s headed towards the Desert. The web, as it were, has been plucked.

            The road wound down from the ridge where the Wall was located to the woods below, and that is where they ambushed her.

            She had a decent warning, because the men were young and led by an arrogant and careless man. They came crashing through the trees, but seconds prior to that she had seen the birds take flight. So she was already dismounting and drawing her sword and a dagger when they came running through the trees, led by Muhdurin. She recognized him by his knock-off Feyjen attire. He had never been in the Feyjen mines and it showed by his attire, which was actually women’s clothing and more ornate than any self-respecting Feyjen woman would wear. 

            She threw the dagger and it sailed flawlessly into the throat of the boy closest to Muhdurin. In two swirling sweeps she slit two more of the young men open and their guts spilled out onto the grass. Muhdurin had the good sense to stay back from the throng. She did a quick headcount and deduced from the number remaining (12) that she would be better off running. Though, not without killing a few more of them for good measure. And retrieving her dagger. 

            She did a running flip and landed behind two more young men and ran them through before they could turn around. Then she sprinted to the body which was lying near where Muhdurin was still standing, dumbstruck. She snatched the dagger out of the boy’s throat and for a moment his eyes and hers locked.

            Then they dueled. Not for long. She bested him, taking first blood, before fleeing back to Valkari and taking out anyone who got in her way. Astride the horse, it reared back and took off at a run into the woods. One of their archers buried an arrow in Valkari’s shoulder. Not terribly deeply, but enough that Viveca wanted to put some distance between her and the Senegal underlings, then give Valkari a rest.

            When she lost the sounds of the men pursuing her, she dismounted and examined the wound in Valkari’s shoulder. It would need tending, more tending than Viveca felt confident providing. So, when she reached a small village a few hours later, she asked about someone who was good with horses. 

            “Rhia. A few miles south of here.” He said. “She’s a horse-breeder and trainer. Kind of an outcast from the village, but necessary.”

            “Why is she an outcast?” Viveca asked. “What did she do?”

            “Nothing in particular.” He said, “She’s a witch.”

            “I see.” Viveca said.

            “I wouldn’t worry about her though. She doesn’t do any harm to people who don’t righteously deserve it.” He said with a smile. She thanked him with a silver coin and set off along the southern road.

            She came upon the farm shortly before nightfall and wandered down to the creek to water Valkari. While Valkari took her fill of the cold, clear water, Viveca heard splashing sounds coming from up the creek. The water which flowed past her was faintly pink in color. Viveca drew her sword and picked her way up the creek until she came upon a short young woman washing her clothes and weapons in the water. She had short black hair cut close to her head and lightly tanned skin. Viveca took another step and broke a twig under her boot. The woman looked up and locked eyes with Viveca. Slowly, she reached for the sword laying on the grass near her knees.

            “Rhia?” Viveca asked.

            “Who’re you?” she asked.

            “Viveca.” She said. “Are you Rhia, the horse-breeder?”

            “Yeah.” Rhia said. “Why you looking for her?”

            “My horse is injured and I’d greatly appreciate your help.” Viveca said. 

            “You always come looking for help with your sword drawn?”

            “There are people looking for me.” She said.

            “What kind of people?”

            “Ever heard of the Lady Senegal?” Viveca asked. A peculiar look crossed Rhia’s face, quickly followed by a smile.

            “Is that Senegal blood on your clothes?” she asked.

            “It is. Lesser crewmen.” Viveca said.

            “Excellent.” Rhia said. “Any enemy of the Senegal is a friend of mine. Where’s your horse?”

            “Further down the creek.” Viveca said.

            “Carry these for me and we’ll go take a look.” Rhia said, handing her an armload of wet clothes. She strapped her sheath back around her waist and took off at a brisk pace down the creek. Valkari was waiting obediently, drinking the water so calmly that at first Rhia didn’t notice the arrow sticking out of her shoulder. “Holy shit, that’s an ugly shot.”

            “I know.” Viveca said, adjusting the weight of the clothing. “Can you do anything?”

            “Of course.” Rhia said. “Come up to the barn with me.” She reached for Valkari’s reigns and tugged gently. Valkari didn’t move. 

            “She only follows me.” Viveca said, draping the clothes over the horse’s back and taking the reigns from Rhia’s hands.

            “This is an impressive animal.” Rhia said. “Very mellow, very obedient.”

            “She and I go back quite a ways.” Viveca said.

            “So, where are you headed? And how soon to you have to be there?” Rhia asked.

            “I’m headed into the Desert. I need to be somewhere in five days.” Viveca said.

            “Feyjen?” Rhia asked. “You’ve got the eyes.”

            “I am.” Viveca said, “Half Feyjen, half Gohithican.” Rhia regarded her with suspicion for a moment, a glance so quick that Viveca would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking for it. “I don’t expect you to trust me. I expect you to trust my gold.”

            “I don’t expect you to trust me either.” Rhia said. “I’ll keep your presence and future destination a secret if you swear not to mention what you saw by the creek.”

            “Deal.” Viveca said. “Though, I do detect that we’re in similar lines of business.”

            “That would depend on what line of business you’re in.” Rhia said.

            “I’m a mercenary.” Viveca said, “A rogue, a thief and a bitch.”

            “You aren’t Gilder’s daughter, are you?” Rhia asked.

            “What?”

            “Gilder. Silas Gilder. He was killed in Gohithica a night ago. There are a lot of people looking for his daughter, Samira.” Rhia said. Viveca felt a stab in her stomach.

            “I am his daughter. But I don’t go by that name, and I haven’t for quite some time.” Viveca said.

            “There’s a considerable inheritance, if you’re ballsy enough to go after it.” Rhia said.

            “I have no interest in his money.” Viveca said, “He sold me into slavery when I was very young. There’s no love lost between us.”

            “I’m terribly sorry.” Rhia said.

            “It’s alright.” Viveca said. “How soon can I move out?”

            “With Valkari?” Rhia asked. “Not for a week, minimum. I can loan you a horse to get you through the desert, then trade you back when you return.  Assuming, of course, that you intend to.”

            “That will work for me.” Viveca said. “Do you have a horse that is suited for desert travel?”

            “Of course.” Rhia said. “How soon to you want to set out again?”

            “Tomorrow morning. I need to rest and tend to some minor injuries.” She said, rolling up her sleeve to examine a savage gash on her upper arm. It had been concealed by the loose, dark-colored sleeve which covered it. Viveca pulled a scrap of fabric from her saddlebag and tied it snugly over the slash. “Is there an inn or hostel near here?”

            “You’re welcome to stay with me.” Rhia said. “Provided that you won’t bring trouble and that you won’t kill or rob me in my sleep.”

            “You have my word.” Viveca said.

            They reached the barn and Rhia took the reigns from Viveca. Viveca patted Valkari’s neck and whispered for her to follow Rhia, which she did much to Rhia’s surprise. 

            “You can go in the house and start getting cleaned up.” Rhia said, “I’ll be in after awhile.”

            “Thank you, Rhia.” Viveca said. She let herself into a bright kitchen, lit with kerosene lamps and candles. Night had fallen quickly during their walk and she was relieved to sit down at the well-worn table in that comfortable kitchen and unlace her boots and the more constricting of her clothing. She unlaced a boned and fitted vest and hung it on the back of the chair, unbuttoned the fitted cuffs of the breeches, and removed the leather bracers on her forearms. Her fingers traced the leather bindings that held the sheaths for her swords and daggers before reaching for the clasps to remove them. She was tired of wearing all the hot, heavy equipment of hear trade. 

            She washed in the basin below the window, combed some water through her long hair and re-braided it, and had filled a bowl with steaming hot water and was looking around for bandages when Rhia came into the kitchen. Rhia dropped her saddlebags and knapsack onto the table, and Viveca immediately retrieved her sterile bandages from one of the inner pockets and sat down to cleaning her wounds. In addition to the gash on her upper arm, she also had a few nicks on her back from glancing blows and a lovely collection of bruises. Rhia disappeared into the cellar for a moment and returned with a small dark-green glass jar.

            “Try this. It should help.” She said.

            “What is it?”

            “Salve.” Rhia said. “It’ll keep those cuts from becoming rancid.”

            “Thank you.” Viveca said. In silence she tended to her wounds while Rhia alternately prepared some supper and studied the contents of Viveca’s bags. The daggers and the curious set-up seemed to attract her attention the most.

            “Where’d you get those?”

            “Gilder knew a swordsmith named William Vell about twenty years ago. These are his handiwork. I stole them from one of Gilder’s men a few years ago.”

            “They’re fascinating.” Rhia said.

            “If William Vell was still alive I would have him make you a set as payment.” Viveca said, “But Silas killed him when I was very small.”

            “Pity.” Rhia said, “This kind of workmanship is rare.”

            “He had a daughter as well. Ailyn. She disappeared shortly after his death.” Viveca said. “I always wanted to track her down and talk to her.” 

            “She killed him.” Rhia said, “Ailyn killed Gilder because Gilder killed her father.”

            “I like her all the more.” Viveca said, “An overdeveloped sense of vengeance is rare among the females of the species.”

            “But she’s vanished again, taking her father’s swords with her. Swords crafted by the late, great William Vell.” Rhia said.

            “How did you come to know all of this?” Viveca asked.

            “I have contacts, merchants, in Gohithica and Coire. I sell horses to them, they sell them to the wealthy Peninsulans.” Rhia said. 

            “Only a little bit of bitterness.” Viveca said.

            “I’m working on dual citizenship.” Rhia said. “But it’s a long and laborious process.”

            “So I’ve been told.” Viveca said. “What’re you making?”

            “Stew.” Rhia said. “We need to talk about payment for services rendered.”

            “How much?” Viveca asked. “Name your price.”

            “Five hundred.” Rhia said.

            “Done.” Viveca said. “I’ll give you two-fifty now and the rest when I come back.”

            “Why are you willing to pay such an exorbitant price?”

            “Because Valkari is the only family I have.” Viveca said.

            “I’ll be sure to take good care of her.” Rhia said, placing a bowl in front of Viveca before sitting down herself. They ate ravenously in silence for several minutes, then Viveca rose suddenly and placed her bowl on the counter and picking up her things from the table. 

            “Where can I sleep?” Viveca asked.

            “Upstairs, door on the right.” Rhia said. “Sleep well.”

            “Thank you.” Viveca said. 

 

            Rhia gave her a horse named Kushiel and Viveca set out southward. She reached Bivium that night, and after the next two days she had reached the desert. At she filled some flasks from the River Ingentium and set out into the desert.

            She had two hundred miles to cover, traveling mostly at night, plotting her course based on the path of the sun and the moon. She changed her clothes at dusk to the long skirt, tunic, leather stomacher, dasha and veil of a Feyjen woman.   The sun set, and she set off on the last fifty miles of her journey.

            Unfortunately, after five miles Kushiel tripped and broke her leg. It was then that Viveca realized exactly how fucked she was. Because night was only going to last eight more hours. She picked up her saddlebags and knapsack and one of the flasks of water and set out across the sand. 

            When a contingent of Feyjen went out the following evening, they thought for a moment that the body they found five miles from the Tabor was dead. Then she breathed. Since she was dressed in the attire of a Feyjen woman, they picked her up and brought her into the Tabor. When the Tabor Master, a lithe man by the name of Mikael, saw the brooch affixing her dasha to her robes, he immediately had her transported to his quarters, where his own medical attendants nursed her. Her eyes opened and locked on his.

            “Hello, Adonae.” He said, lifting her left wrist to his mouth to kiss the tattoo that marked her as one of the Feyjen, “Welcome home.”

 

            Once she had recovered, she left his quarters and returned to her own which had been abandoned for the past six months. Her quarters consisted of a bathroom, bedroom and a small antechamber designed for welcoming guests. In the bedroom was an elegantly carved bookshelf and dresser, a sturdy desk, a small couch, her bed and a trunk. The trunk contained additional clothing and weaponry, and this was the first place she went, pulling out a clean skirt, tunic, and a black dasha. 

            She bathed quickly and changed into the clean clothes, pinning the black dasha over her left shoulder with a blue and silver jeweled brooch. Mikael had given it to her. She pulled the optional abayya over her hair and retrieved her Feyjen dagger from the trunk to hang from her belt. 

            The dasha is a unique article of clothing worn only by Feyjen men and women. They come in a variety of colors with a variety of meanings. Red denotes an unmarried woman or man of marriage age, blue a widow or widower, gray a person in mourning, and purple nobility. Black is unique in that it means absolutely nothing. It represents the safe, neutral ground of the unmarked woman or man. 

            This is important to mention now, because when she left her quarters and went off in search of her blood-family she nearly ran into Mikael who was wearing his purple dasha that day, which meant he was out and about on official business. It also bears mentioning that Mikael is a man in his mid-twenties with long, smooth dark hair bound back in an ebony clip, angular features and eyes bordering on black. There was a fleck of green in his right eye, which further denoted his ancestry. He was one of Asima’s Chosen, a protector and guardian of the Tabor, as well as its Master.

            “Adonae.” He said, catching her gently. “Always in such a rush.”

            “Hello, Mikael.” She said. “Where are you headed?”

            “To come find you, my dear.” He said. “I have a gift for you.”

            “Mikael-” She began, but he stopped her by touching a finger to her lips.

            “May I come inside?” he asked. She nodded and stepped back to permit him entry to her quarters before shutting and locking the door behind him. He reached into his knapsack and drew out a beautifully carved wooden box, about two hands’ breadth wide and four long and one deep.