Her fingers tighten around the bag under her blouse. She wonders how much they might fetch, and if it will be enough to secure not just any horse, but one sturdy and sure-footed enough for both travel and escape. Atres sits next to her, the sunlight catching in his hair, studying her with an amused kind of patience.
“You know, these jewelers are shrewd,” he says quietly. “They’ll sense a story on you before you open your mouth. Best to let me do the talking for the first few minutes, unless you want them to think you’re nobility in disguise.”
Emlyn arched a brow, half a smile tugging at her lips. “And what would be so wrong with that?”
“If they think you’re noble, they’ll only pay half as much, and twice as much to legends,” Benger quips from beside Atres, “You decide which you’d rather be today.”
A knowing laugh escapes Emlyn, surprising even herself. For all the uncertainty that had marked her new life, this was one adventure she could approach with a measure of control. She grew up bargaining with dwarven traders and other Cymry. Outside, the clamor of the city grows louder, and the ornate rooftops of the jewelers’ street appear in the distance, their weathered tiles glinting like a promise.
The carriage finally slows, the driver calling back that their destination is near. The carriage rumbles and bumps along for a while before coming to a stop.
“We have to get out and walk from here,” Atres tells her, “The street of jewelers doesn’t allow carriages.”
Atres laughs and lifts Emlyn down. Tucking her hand into his arm again, he tosses a few coins to the driver before leading Emlyn past the heavy stone pylons into the crowded pedestrian shopping area. The cobblestone plaza is reserved for pedestrians. Smaller carts, tucked away at night, dot the area, selling a variety of items, including rare minerals, beads, inexpensive jewelry, and hair combs, as well as refreshments. The larger stores feature colorful awnings and wrought-iron balconies.
Each shopfront is a treasure trove. Some are no wider than a doorway, while others sprawl behind fancifully carved wooden facades. Offerings range from delicate filigree rings to bold gemstone pendants, heirloom brooches, and ceremonial adornments. In some of the shops, master artisans work in open studios, their tools tapping softly as they set stones or polish silver, inviting passersby to witness the craft firsthand. All are artfully decorated and meant to showcase the work within. A few street performers are playing music or reciting poetry, lending the scene a festive, if slightly subdued air.
“I see now why you warned me about pickpockets,” Emlyn nods.
“You’re likely safe enough,” Atres grins, “walking between a King’s Guard and a well-known paladin like Benger. A bit of extra caution is never amiss, though.”
As they walk along, Atres points out to her all the places where she can purchase various female adornments.
“Well, well,” says an expensively dressed woman who stops in front of Atres. “If it isn’t Atres. I was wondering if something had happened to you. It’s been a while since you’ve come to see me.”
Sighing heavily, Atres nods to her. “Hello, Marissa. I’ve been busy, and I assumed you’d found... other games to play.”
Whipping out a fan, Marissa fans herself and replies coquettishly, “Atres, dear boy, there is no better game afoot than you. When might I expect to see you this tenday?”
“You won’t,” Atres shrugs nonchalantly, eyes drifting way from Marissa as if he’s disinterested in the conversation. “I have other things occupying my time these days.”
Stepping back with a slight frown, Marissa finally notices Emlyn, taking in her rugged appearance. Marissa studies her, still dressed in her hunting leathers. Marissa scoffs dismissively, her nose wrinkling in disdain, “What? Her? You simply cannot be serious.”
Emlyn regards her calmly for a long moment before she looks up at Atres. “Are we done here? I’m certain that Argonath, Korek, Veni, Dorak, or one of the others would be more than happy to... play her games.”
“Why you little...” Marissa screeches before pulling her hand back to slap Emlyn.
Quick as a snake, Emlyn releases Atres’s arm and delivers a nerve strike, numbing Marissa’s arm so that it suddenly goes limp. Marissa’s eyes go wide to find that her arm is now hanging limply. Marissa’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Never batting an eye, Emlyn returns to Atres and takes up his arm.
Emlyn eyes Marissa coldly before replying, “Now, if you will excuse us, we have our own business to attend to.”
Atres wisely keeps his face neutral as Emlyn leads him past her, and Benger quietly goes around the woman on the other side.
“She was one of the ones who ‘freely offered’, I take it,” Emlyn frowns once they’re out of earshot, “I just hope this one doesn’t end up with more assassins.”
“What’s this about assassins?” Atres asks, which prompts Benger to tell the story of the harpies and the furies.
“Oh, lass,” Atres shakes his head, “I am going to have my work cut out for me with you, aren’t I?”
“No more than I am with you,” Emlyn sighs, “If there are more of those who ‘freely offered’ floating around.”
Atres frowns but wisely chooses to remain silent as he leads her through the crowd. Tugging on Emlyn’s arm, he pulls her toward a shop he knows.
“Come,” Atres says, “The shop I wanted to take you to is just ahead.”
He leads her into a shop where quite a few rather expensive items are on display in the window, so Emlyn relaxes slightly. The outside is a stone fa?ade with an arched doorway. The moment Emlyn steps through the arched stone doorway, the air shifts, cool, dry, and faintly metallic, tinged with the scent of polished stone and smelted silver.
The walls are faced with slabs carved directly from the mountain’s heart, veined with glittering minerals that catch the warm glow of lanterns set in wrought-iron sconces. Each lantern burns with a steady, golden flame. There is no flicker and no smoke. Each one is fed by rune-etched stones rather than oil. The shop is compact but dense with wonder. Heavy oak display cases, reinforced with brass and rune-locks, line the perimeter. Inside, velvet-lined trays cradle rings of hammered platinum, brooches shaped like mountain flowers, and necklaces strung with fire opals and deep-earth sapphires. Every piece is signed with a maker’s mark. Some are centuries old, others were etched as recently as yesterday.
Behind a protective barrier of crystal glass, apprentices work under the watchful eye of a master smith. You can hear the rhythmic tap of metal on metal, the occasional hiss of quenching, and the low murmur of dwarven incantations used to bind enchantments into gold. Tools hang neatly on the wall behind the apprentices: gravers, hammers, magnifying lenses, and enchanted calipers that hum faintly when touched. Behind the counter, a dwarven girl polishes a torque with a cloth that gleams like dragonhide.
“Thorvar,” Atres calls out, “I’d like you to meet some friends.”
From the back of the shop, a voice replies, “Be patient... This thing I’m working on is at a delicate stage. Have a look around or flirt with Astridir. I know she’s always wanted to climb that tree.”
Palming his face, Atres grimaces, “Be nice, Thorvar. I’m here with a lady-friend.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Laughter erupts from the back of the shop, and the shop girl giggles.
“Don’t worry, my father likes to tease Atres about his... ways,” Astridir shrugs. “He knows that I prefer my men shorter and with bigger beards.”
As Emlyn and Astridir chat, Emlyn asks if they can make things, and Astridir nods. Taking up a pencil, Emlyn quickly sketches out the hair rings she wants and a pin for Atres.
“What’s this for?” Astridir asks.
“He,” Emlyn points to Atres, “wants me to wear the King’s Guard leathers, so I told him that if I must wear them, then I’ll need to put my hair up in war braids.”
“Are you allowed to wear their leathers?” Astridir asks, “You know that there are rules about that.”
“I’m painfully aware,” Emlyn sighs, “but yes. They just extended my contract once. Now they’re angling for a second and a third extension.”
Astridir looks surprised but files that away.
“You’ll need the war braids then,” Astridir agrees, “That outfit, on you, is going to draw men like moths to a flame. Plenty of them will want to do a bit more than look.”
With a rueful look, Emlyn nods, “I’ve already told him that I’m going to end up punching at least one more person over it.”
Astridir laughs, “Already had to punch someone, then. Good for you.”
Thorvar finally emerges from the back of the shop and climbs onto a stool. “What’s so important that Atres comes to grace my shop, eh?”
“Thorvar, allow me to introduce Nia ferch Hayden ap Rhys, Paladin of Morrighu. Nia, allow me to introduce Thorvar Grim Beard.”
Emlyn turns to see a short, wide, heavily muscled man with a massive beard.
Smiling, Emlyn approaches and says tentatively, “Konak no dah” (Well met, traveler).
Surprised, Thorvar replies, “Konak rah lei” (Well met to you).
Grinning at Atres, Emlyn says, “Human language might not be the same here, but dwarvish is.”
As Emlyn and Thorvar launch into dwarven greeting protocols, Astridir tells the two men, “You may as well have a seat. Proper dwarven greetings take a while, and those two seem to be just getting started. You seem to have an interesting friend. Where did you find her?”
Atres tells about meeting Emlyn at the fair.
Astridir rocks back and looks at Atres, “You’re taken with her. Quite taken, unless I miss my guess. Good for you. It’s about time you settled down.”
Atres smiles and nods. Thorvar heads into the back of his shop and reappears with two mugs of ale. Plopping one down in front of Emlyn, Thorvar makes a toast, and both of them drink. Emlyn says something, Thorvar laughs, and they both drink again.
Astridir sighs, “Oh, my! It seems like this will be the full version of a greeting. When they finally get to the salt and bread, they’ll be nearly finished. Well, nearly finished by dwarvish standards.”
The bystanders watch as Emlyn and Thorvar talk for quite some time.
Astridir laughs and looks at Atres, “Did you know that your friend has been to a Taig? That’s not something many humans can say.”
“I can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” Atres shrugs, “She’s very curious and quite fearless.”
Finally, after some time, Thorvar returns with fresh mugs of ale and a plate with salt and bread. Astridir laughs, “The greeting is almost over. Now they’ll get down to business. Let me go give him her drawings.”
Finally, Atres sees Emlyn fish the pouch out of her shirt and put the brooches on the counter. Thorvar takes up a loupe and begins inspecting the stones. There seems to be some intense discussion going on, and Astridir looks amused.
“I forget,” Astridir shrugs, “You probably can’t understand a word. They’re haggling. She’s as bad as any of our traders, but then the Cymry always were tough negotiators.”
“You know where she’s from,” Atres says, surprised, “You’re the first. Any ideas about what happened to her people?”
“It’s a terrible story,” Astridir shrugs, “We call it the Culling of the Cymry. Their god turned on them and nearly wiped them out. We were never sure what they did to anger him so. They weren’t either. There are a few left, up in the hills, that managed to escape their god. Some more of them managed to hide in some of our old Taigs we had abandoned when the ore ran out. It was deep in the mountain, so maybe that’s how their god missed them. There was a rumor that their king had their mages open a portal to another world and take a bunch of them through it. How much do you know about worlds?
“A little,” Atres shrugs, “but not that much.”
“Our vows mention the multiverse,” Benger adds.
Nodding, Astridir continues, “This world is Elia, and it is one of many. Her home world is Sidhe. We used to trade with the Cymry a lot. They were quite skilled at creating a wide range of things. There was a... grace to the things they made, and the craftsmanship was always exceptional.”
Astridir reaches into a cabinet, pulls out a vase, and places it carefully on the counter. “I kept a few things,” she explains. The porcelain is so thin it’s nearly translucent.
It has been carved and decorated in the same style as Emlyn’s tattoo, in an almost identical shade of blue. The looping whorls that twist back on themselves are nearly hypnotizing.
“That’s beautiful,” Benger nods, and Astridir smiles. “Many of the things they made were equally gorgeous. We received good coin for them when we traded elsewhere. Their metals were superb. The iron is better there than we’ve found almost anywhere else. Most of the ores are, for that matter.”
Astridir carefully replaces the vase.
“No wonder she thinks our iron and steel are so bad,” Benger says.
Our clan, the Grim Beards, keeps a forge-hold there for that reason. It’s like a Taig but smaller,” Astridir explains, “because ores there are so good.”
Laughing, Astridir looks at Atres, “You are in for it, Atres, if you’re tangled up with a Cymry girl. Have you gotten a look at her tattoo yet?”
Atres shakes his head.
“You should do that before you decide you’re too gone on her,” Astridir advises him, “Depending on how big it is, that will tell you what her status is among her people. Most of them end somewhere between the waist and maybe the second or third rib. Anything higher than that, and she’ll be from one of their Great Houses, which means she won’t have a serious interest in a man who’s not Cymry.”
“What’s the biggest Cymry tattoo?” Benger asks.
“I didn’t see it, but I think my grandda did, or maybe it was his father,” Astridir says. “It was one of their kings. His whole body was covered. Even his scalp was tattooed. According to my grandda, that man fought off an entire army with just a few of his bodyguards, and they won. The biggest one I saw myself was one of their princes who had a tattoo up to his cheeks, but that was a long time ago.”
“How long ago did all this happen?” Benger asks.
“I was just a kid then,” Astridir shrugs. “Still small enough for my mama to carry me around when my legs got tired from trying to keep up with all the grownups. It’s been a long time, by the way you humans count it, maybe a couple of centuries or more. Oh, it looks like they’re wrapping up. Hmm... He’s giving her a slip to take to the bank. Do you know where to find our bank?”
Atres shakes his head, so Astridir gives him directions.
Walking over to Benger and Atres, Emlyn grins. “Thanks for being patient. I’ll need to find their bank.”
“I just gave your friends here directions,” Astridir says, waving a hand at Benger and Atres.
The three leave, and Thorvar stares after them a moment before shaking himself.
“We need to get word to the Sidhe Forge-Hold,” Thorvar says to Astridir, “Tell them that one of the Cymry Great Houses has a girl that fetched up here. She’s got no idea where she is in relation to where she comes from, but some of our clan at the forge-hold might know where to find her people, if any of them survived the Culling.”
“She said her name was Nia ferch Hayden ap Rhys,” Astridir shrugs.
“No, that’s not right,” Thorvar shakes his head, “That would make her House Terfel, and she’s not got their dark hair or that sharp, angular look to her. She’s probably still scared and hiding. I noticed her gloves never came off, even for the bread and salt.” Growing thoughtful, Thorvar shakes his head, “There was only one red-headed girl that would have had her hands tattooed that I know of, but that girl should be long dead by now. Old age, if nothing else. I’m not sure who she is, but she’s not Nia ferch Hayden ap Rhys.”
High up in the mountains, Sikre, Itre, and Banzul are busy digging out from the blizzard. Once the sled has been cleared, the dogs are harnessed, and Fish Killer is wrapped in blankets with one of the dogs to keep him warm enough. Rotating the dogs onto the sled gives them some rest, since it’s a much longer trek than the men originally planned. The group must reach the slope and find the trail down the gradually sloping side of the mountain, which helps them avoid potential avalanches in Grominster’s Pass. Moving as quickly as possible, the three men hurry to avoid the next blizzard, which seems to be brewing further north, higher in the mountains.
“With just a little bit of luck,” Sikre says, “we’ll make it below the snowbelt before that hits us.”
“The dogs are good for it,” Banzul responds, “They’ve slept for two days while that last blizzard kept us snowed in.”
Yipping and excited to be moving again, the dogs take off, pulling the sled behind them. The three men take turns driving the sled and letting the dogs set a blistering pace. A couple of days of travel sees them spotting trees in the distance, signaling that they’re nearing the end of the snowbelt. On the third day, the three men from Clan Rothe start spotting patches of tundra peeking through the now somewhat patchy snow cover.
“It won’t be long now, Fish Killer,” Sikre says, “We’re almost down the mountain and into the foothills.”
“This is as far as I’ve ever been from the village,” Itre says, “I’m still surprised that the Clan Mother let us go. Even when I’m hunting, she won’t let me come this far.”
“She’s worried that they’ll try something on us like they did with one of the Valkis,” Banzul replies. “What they tried to do to him was terrible, and what all that did to him is even worse... Can you imagine never taking a mate because you can’t bond to anyone?”
“It is sad. I’ll give you that much. How many of us were already in the King’s Guard,” Sikre shrugs, “when that happened? Nothing ever happened to them, so surely not everyone is so... cruel.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Itre replies. “I’ve run into hunters and traders that seemed nice enough, but the Clan Mother is still wary.”
“When the snow starts getting a bit scarcer,” Banzul says, “we’ll stop and put the wheels on. Then we should be somewhere we can go hunting and send Fish Killer on his way.”
Another half day of travel sees the men stopping to swap out the runners for wheels, converting the sled into a cart that the dogs can pull. Deeming it marginally warm enough for Fish Killer, the men send him aloft to look for game, and Fish Killer spots a herd of deer. Signaling them where to find the herd, Fish Killer circles while the men hunt. When the men signal back, Fish Killer returns for the promised food and eats his fill before launching himself into the air, headed back to Harito. The men feed the dogs and themselves before packing the meat into the cart and continuing on their way.
Boltir’s Atres Watch Current Count: 1 "Searing Kiss" and 1 "Eavesdropping Victory."
Observation: "Atres spent the morning listening at the door like a common thief! He only walked in once he heard Nia praising him to Benger. Tactical? Yes. Honorable? Debatable. And then that kiss... the archives call it 'hungry and demanding.' If I were there, I’d have played a chord on my lute so discordant it would have shattered every wine glass in the taproom. He’s weaving himself into her future like a persistent vine, and even her grandfather is giving the nod! I need to get into this story fast before Nia starts thinking amber eyes are better than a braided chin."
Boltir’s Tip Jar Current Total: 45 coppers, a very small ruby (Snips found it under a table), and Snips (the crab) is currently trying to use a discarded silk scrap as a hero's cape.
Boltir’s Plea: "Did you see that? Nia’s pupils were dilated and she was 'dazed' after that display of affection. The man is using biological warfare! Toss a copper in the jar so I can buy Snips a tiny bell to ring whenever Atres gets too close to her. Also, leave a review if you think Nia needs to stop worrying about 'rebuilding her House' and start worrying about the lack of Dwarven representation in her current romantic arc!"
What would you look for in a horse?