Chapter 9 - Beyond the ?ld

  Mining operations were well underway. Several dozen families had moved from Torsdale's poorer parts to Red Vine, with promise of more to come. More manpower, more workers, more soldiers.

  “Sooner or later, even the incompetent Jasim will realize the reduction in his workforce if you drag too many of them away,” Rask was saying. He was shirtless, sweating, going through drills and forms with the blade in the early hours of the morning. Scars crossed themselves over his rough skin.

  Aaron grunted, mimicking the forms. On a normal morning, he would spar with Viper, but the Shadow Walker was off babysitting Ophelia. She was timid and na?ve despite Aaron's best efforts. He had tasks of import in mind for her. Tasks that would take a steeled heart as opposed to her near childlike one.

  “Jasim bends for whoever fills his coffers. He will report this to the Trillians,” Rask said, forcing his feet through the snow filled ground.

  “Their foundations will crack if Heira is thrown into chaos,” Aaron said, sweeping his training sword in a wide arc before snapping to a guarded position. He flinched, snow kicked up from the sudden motion finding their way inside his boots. Butter Knife leaned against the stone fence surrounding his Manor's front courtyard. Aaron eyed the strength providing weapon with a smudge of envy. The rush of blood and vigor it provided also made the body feel warmer. “Their religion stemmed from there, and many make pilgrimage to its grand temple.”

  “And how do you plan to upend all of that?”

  “The city's viceroy has… curious hobbies, I hear.”

  “A viceroy installed by Lord Galadin, I'll remind you,” Rask said. “That aside, a city in chaos would lead to innocent lives caught in the crossfire.”

  “A necessity if oppression is to be challenged,” Aaron said. The Wolf grumbled something in return. Likely muttering something about how his former lord would not have stooped to such cruelty. Serene. Galadin. Traitors. Aaron took a deep breath, the cool air doing much to wash away his inner ails. Sins of the past.

  And yet…

  He put his training weapon away. He'd hardly broken a sweat unlike Rask. “Ophelia needs more confidence in herself,” he said offhandedly. Aaron proclaimed her a Saintess, and the people of Red Vine bought that lie, taking her Healing powers for miracles. But for Heira, which'd once harbored many healers and was under the control Trillian priests, such a lie would be harder to spread.

  “What's your interest in that girl?” the Wolf asked.

  “Interest?”

  “Outside of her abilities, I mean. You dote on her. Is it a fancy?”

  “She's a fun little lamb, isn't she?” Mayhap therein was the problem. Aaron saw her as a child, and treated her as much. Perhaps being harsher would invoke the change he needed. “She's too soft of mind. I need her delivering sermons in Heira like she does in Red Vine's temple.”

  Rask frowned. He huffed out a cloud, pausing to wipe his brow. “You mean she's a pawn?”

  “Why do you frame that word with such disdain, Rask?”

  “My Lord, with all due respect, she's a child.”

  “You're asking for a peaceful solution, I give you Ophelia. If she but tried winning over Heira's masses, Viper could clean out their temple of filth.”

  Rask stabbed his sword into the ground. “And in so doing, you'd paint a target on the girl's back, all so the Trillians turn a blind eye to north Xenaria's growing population and economic power.”

  “I would protect her of course. I have further plans for her.”

  “Further pl—! Do you hear yourself? Have you even seen the way she looks at you?”

  “Your tone, Jengard Rask, and your questions, come dangerously close to their limits,” Aaron said. Sure enough, that silenced the Wolf's howls. “I am not Lord Serene, so I would implore you to stop your comparisons. And last I checked, Xenaria's dire state was a direct failure on the part of the Crown and every other High House. I will not be such a failure.”

  I will not fail… Oh the irony. He'd already failed. Too many times at that. Else Lera might have lived. Else Kovar would not have been enslaved. Else Odain would not have sat on Xenaria's throne. At least Aaron had a near life like portrait of his mother left to him. He was appreciative of Agrienne's obsession with Lera, if nothing else. Of course Aaron had Lera's memories, but most of those did not depict her regality and beauty the way Agrienne's portrait of her had managed to capture.

  “Going to whatever length would ill make you better than those you seek to challenge, my lord,” Rask offered with an edge of venom.

  “I will not go to such lengths if I can afford not to, Rask. Least of all when you're around. You are a voice of reason, and for that I'm appreciative. Even though I hardly listen to your advice.”

  The old soldier snorted. “At least you recognize that.”

  “I'll protect the girl should she grow into what I need of her. This I promise.”

  “And if she does not grow to suit your needs?”

  “Useful still as a Healer in our growing ranks,” Aaron said. “And as my accountant —she's remarkable with numbers. Might even make an excellent administrator one day.”

  Rask slumped. He pulled his weapon out from the damp ground. A shade came over his face that Aaron had seen time and again. A man who'd lost his family to war. “Is she around the age your daughters might have been?” Aaron asked.

  Rask turned his gaze to the spotted sky, saying nothing.

  “You will not hear me apologize for my actions, Jengard Rask. That would make me a hypocrite.” Not that I amn't one already.

  “Suppose you'll be asking me to trust your judgement as usual.”

  Aaron nodded. “You are a good man, Rask, albeit more curious than one your age tends to be. As for Ophelia's excessive admiration towards me… I'd hoped it would have dimmed by now.” Aaron threw on his coat to march into Red Vine for a morning meal. The few remaining servants of his manor were old and slept long hours. They did their part in maintaining the manor and that was all he needed of them.

  “You must know very little about the hearts of young girls,” Rask said with a hint of melancholy. He returned to his training, scarred muscles flexing with each fluid motion.

  “I suppose,” Aaron shrugged. Certainly, a man who once had adolescent daughters would know more on the subject.

  ***

  Walls of wood had been constructed around the town of Red Vine, with a large opening on the eastern end where construction of ongoing homes for new arrivals were underway. Sentries stood at their gates, young men recruited from the many villages and farms of northern Xenaria. Their salutes were sharp as Aaron walked passed, though their uniforms left much to be desired. Something to be brought up when the next entourage of clothing merchants came north, which would not be far off with the Triluna festival some cycles away.

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  The town itself was well and alive, shops opening their shutters, and children chasing each other through the streets. An improvement from the bitter silence and mirthless shadows that once occupied this place when Aaron had first arrived. His father had been a despot well and true, loved at first by his people but soon betraying their trust to delve into whatever madness satiated him.

  Aaron offered smiles to townsfolk that greeted him as he passed along the thoroughfare of the town —a straight dirt road that led from the south gate to the north. Red Vine was small enough for everyone to know their farthest neighbors' names and habits —something Aaron had yet to fully commit to memory himself.

  He passed by the Drunken Fairy inn, owned by one Master Alvar, a portly man who sported an outrageous moustache, or so claimed the wives of his most frequent patrons. Not far from was the town smithy owned by Serald Kanin. His had once been a small shop, but since expanded to the size of a warehouse to suit Aaron's needs. Smoke billowed from their many chimneys. Serald employed many an apprentice and had further established workers beneath him come from High Lord Galadin's territories.

  Speaking of, I'll need larger warehouses for the iron ore… Next he'd have to find buyers for it all, sweeping from High Lord Galadin his monopoly on the kingdom's iron business.

  Aaron let out a long breath. Everything, every action he'd taken since his arrival and installment as 'Lord Caranel' had been for the sake of seizing the throne one day. Thus far, the winds of fortune continued to favor him. North Xenaria was the nation's breadbasket. He had the means to suffocate all if he but so desired. The region would soon be the cheapest iron supplier in the nation, and it already was the greatest leather supplier.

  I'm but missing the manpower to enact a power grab.

  The soldiers —the well-disciplined armies required for a rebellion to take the Crown. It would take years to gain such numbers —years that he did not have. Not with Odain slowly pouring forces from the Sun City into Xenaria to 'bolster' the defenses of every village, town, and city that had bowed their heads to the Goddess Trillia.

  And of course, Tarmia stands to the east, ever the patient and watchful dragon waiting for its moment. Which, if Rask's worries were anything to go by, would come soon enough.

  There always is that other way, Aaron thought. There existed Queen Emeria, young, unmarried, and thus heirless. Next in line was the current First Princess, Elizia Serene, of whom Aaron had to endure many a rant and praise of from the mouth of Jengard Rask. Both of marriageable age —one a union that would make Aaron king, and the other that would only but require an assassination for him to be made king.

  That option left a foul taste in his mouth. It felt like a betrayal to Eksa, and would place him in a court full of hungry eyes seeking to tear him down. And yet, it would be a far less bloody a path than staging a rebellion. When considering war, no option was to be entirely dismissed, despite their uncomfortable nature. Or so Aaron's ancient memories informed him.

  The same memories that also spat at the thought of a union with the blood of traitors.

  Aaron stopped near the north gate, letting his eyes linger along the road softened by slush and snow. Tracks of boots and wheels were embedded within with the occasional trampled upon weed enduring next to. The miners had started early. Aaron scratched his head. He'd yet to work out the pay and lodging statistics for his new, more veteran arrivals from down south. Not to mention costs for heating and food. He was missing Ophelia's presence already. Her skill with arithmetic oft left him dizzy and her handwriting was elegant enough to challenge even the most accomplished of calligraphers. Or Eksa, for that matter.

  Eksa…

  Aaron growled, irritated. First breakfast, then other matters. He turned to his right, toward a single cottage whose rooftop was in need of the local thatcher. What was the man's name again…? Irrelevant for the moment. He opened the cottage door. A little bell tied to its end rung to announce his arrival. The warmth of fires brushed across his face. He breathed in, feeling half full from the scent of fresh bread filling the room.

  “Lord Caranel!” a surprised Cali said. Her dark hair had patches of white from flour. She was stocking the shelves with fresh loaves for the morning customers who'd arrive soon.

  Aaron tilted his head. The smith's daughter was turning fifteen soon, if he recalled correct. Yet she was short in comparison to her father's hulking frame. The girl hurriedly curtsied, leaving the shelves an uneven mess. She wore an oversized apron above a faded yellow skirt. She fled to the backroom not soon after, blushing hard.

  Blushing at what, exactly? Aaron looked down at his clothes. Dark, dusty, and with miscoloured patches covering the coat's tears. He could've sworn he looked ill better than a roadside pauper waiting to set upon a weary traveler. He'd even done his belt up crooked, Butter Knife's hilt poking through his coat wrong.

  “Aarondel,” Valencia said, arriving from the corridor. She offered a short and awkward bow.

  “Val,” he nodded, smiling. Her thick brown hair was bound at the back. She hastily rubbed her powdered hands on an already messy apron, quickly setting to cutting open a steaming loaf. “Two is enough, Val.”

  The baker nodded. Aaron frequented the shop on many mornings. It was a well enough way to familiarize himself with townsfolk —which consisted mostly of wives come early for bread.

  It has occurred to me, that when seeking the trust of another man, it is most apt to make a fair impression on the man's wife, for she will then surely sing your praises in the form of rants to enough convince her man to make good opinions of you.

  There is, though, the downside of the woman in question being too young, for her admiration may grow to dangerous levels that might make her man jealous. This thin line is something I've yet to discover, as is made evident by the black eye given me by young Taline's husband. The man was not fond of her flirtatious glances my way. I believe it is of utmost import to my own life that I must keep from that man the fact that I've now come to own a pair of Taline's undergarments, (a strange gift on her part) and am also far more aware of which spots on her body are most sensitive to the touch and induce the most pleasure within her. I do not think he would take kindly to another man having such information when he does not…

  “My lord…?” Valencia asked with a frown. She had in her hands a slice of bread lathered with violet jam, held out for him.

  Aaron flinched. He'd been staring into space, recalling that memory. Normally he'd cut off any memories come from that prudish and unlearned scholar from among his ancestors, but this one had been particularly interesting. The man led a more interesting life then his dull memories suggest…

  Aaron placed two copper quarters on the counter for his host, which was nearly two more than what she was owed. But what could he say? He hadn't had bread this good in… Have I ever had fresh bread before coming here?

  “Aarondel,” Valencia started, hesitating with his name. She was one of few who did not always address him with his station in mind, though visibly discomforted at whatever name or title she did choose to call him by. “Are you well? Your face is red.”

  “Er, yes…” Aaron said, turning away to face a side window while he appeased his growling stomach. There was no reasonable way to explain that he'd just had a racy recollection of an illicit affair with more vehement accuracy than anyone would desire. He shook his head, turning back to the baker. “You have bags under your eyes, Val. Not getting enough sleep?”

  “Not much since your mining venture started. Those boys come in early, looking to pack a meal before they go. And Old Alvar might make a better sandwhich than I ever could, but his loaves aren't nearly as soft and delightful as mine.” She said that with a note of pride. Then she frowned. “Are the bags really so noticeable?”

  “Hardly. You're still beautiful.”

  Valencia's scowl deepened. “That's hardly an appropriate comment to make, my, er, Aarondel.”

  Aaron examined her as he started on his second slice of bread and jam. The baker, oddly, used the edge of her apron to wipe away the corner of his mouth. She flinched at her own actions, as if having done so thoughtlessly. “Forgive me,” she quickly said. “I…”

  “Val, you don't have to be skittish near me. I'm quite aware of my father's… habits and his treatment toward you.”

  This elicited surprise. “You are?” she said, aghast.

  “The whole town knows. My knowing should have been a rational assumption on your part.”

  “I see,” was all she managed as her facial expressions went through a series of quick changes. She was staring at the countertop, refusing to meet his eye. She swept the coins on them, frowning again, then pocketing them all the same. “I don't understand,” she said in a low voice. “You're a nobleman. A former pirate. A… none of that adds into your, er, mercy and manners. I mean, pardon my language,” she quickly added with exaggerated gestures. “It doesn't make sense. It feels unfamiliar. You should be arrogant, prideful, terrible.”

  I'm all of that and more, Aaron thought. Was it that she feared betrayal in the same way Agrienne had betrayed her? “I am not my father,” he said. “That is the only assurance I can give you.”

  Valencia nodded. She patted her apron and turned to go attend to her kitchen when screams erupted from outside the cottage. Aaron shoved the last bit of bread in his mouth before racing outside. Three young miners were at the north gate, two of them standing, the third in a wheelbarrow with a thick arrow in his thigh. A crowd of women —Valencia's early customers, had gathered before them, gasping and muttering.

  “Someone alert the nearest physic!” Aaron ordered. He approached the young men, left hand curled around Butter Knife. Trickles of power made their way up his arm. “What is this?” he demanded. “What has happened here?” But even as he said it, his eyes fell to the arrow embedded in the young man's thigh —a wound that would be long in healing without Ophelia's aid. A dent in my small workforce that I can ill afford.

  “We were attacked,” one of the men said. “Big men with heads of wolves.”

  The second man nodded, confirming the story while the wounded one groaned. “Wolfmen. Darkspawn, I swear it. Three of them. They had bows and axes. We drove them off we did, but they were quick and caught Gilm here with an arrow.

  Aaron's grip around Butter Knife tightened. Why now, this close to the Triluna festival? These people were finally recovering from their tragedy of two years past only to be met with… Wolfmen. There were no such thing. The warriors of the Virk tribes, however, were known to wear the hides of hunted beasts as marks of pride. Why now had those barbarians decided to cross the treacherous ?ld Mountains?