Dark Crusade - Chapter 2 (Sekilda)

Sekilda

        Sekilda was sitting by the window in her room, reading ‘A Brief history of the Bronze Order, by Sir Jeramy Wylde’ when she heard a knock at her door. Setting down the heavy tome and stretching vigorously, she crossed to the door and opened it, planting a hand on her hip as she did so.
         The Maven of the castle stood outside, resplendent in his rich crimson robes. As always, he was accompanied by his familiar. A small, almost birdlike creature, yet utterly featherless. As per normal, it perched on his shoulder and made semi-intelligible noises.
         Sekilda suppressed a small moue of distaste, reminding herself that she needed this man, even if she found him somewhat eerie. “Yes?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
         Bowing deeply, he spoke, as always, his smooth, metered voice causing shivers to run up and down Sekilda’s spine. “Please, pardon my intrusion, my lady, but there’s been another message for you from Whitelaw.”
         “Give it to me.” The words tripped out of her mouth almost involuntarily. And it wasn’t until after she’d said them that she realized how abrupt and demanding she sounded. Raising her hand, she forestalled his response. “My apologies, Maven. I would have the message from you, if you would be so kind.”
         “But of course, my lady.” Bowing once again, he handed her a small folded and sealed square of parchment. “Here it is, I’ve transcribed it for you to review at your leisure.”
         As soon as she took the parchment from his hand, red mist rolled up from his feet, and when it cleared, he and his creature were gone.
         Thankful for the disappearance of the Maven, Sekilda closed the door. She considered for a moment, then barred the door. Jon’s messages were something she wanted to keep private. Bad enough that the Maven had already seen its contents, if her father saw them, he’d probably disown her.
         Breaking the wax seal on the parchment, she closed her eyes and let the message flow into her. There was a tingle behind her eyes, more sensed than felt, and suddenly she was looking into Jon’s chambers far to the west. Sunlight streamed in the eastern windows of the room, and Jon sat at a writing desk, writing what was presumably this message.
         It wasn’t the same room that she usually saw from his messages. No, this looked more like a tent. Perhaps he was traveling?
         “My dearest Sekilda,” he began. “Words cannot express the longing that feel for your presence here, and the day seems diminished by the sadness of your absence. I pray that the duties that my father finds for me may bring me nearer to you, but I fear that I pray in vain.”
         Jon’s image stood and moved towards her. Although five hundred leagues separated them, Sekilda still felt her heart quicken. He stopped right before her and reached his hand out, as if cupping her cheek.
         “I know that we are destined to be together, and that in time, our fathers shall know it as well. I look forward to your next message with delight, and wait anxiously for the time that we can be together once more. In a week’s time, there will be a tourney at Forest Town.
         "I shall ride in the tourney, and I beg that if at all possible, you be there to grant me your favor. I await your reply with hope, and know that I love you with all my heart.”
         Abruptly Sekilda was standing in her own room again, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the pine boughs of the forest outside the walls. She pondered how on earth she would get down to the town for a day, without her father discerning her true purpose.
         She had met Jon briefly two years earlier. Their first meeting had also been at a tourney, though at the time he’d been too young to ride the field. Instead, they had spent the day watching the knights thundering down the lists, peering through the dust clouds kicked up by the massive destriers, and secretly holding hands when they thought no one was looking.
         She’d been sixteen, he, only fourteen. But even then he’d been taller than her lithe frame, and his bottomless black eyes had captivated her. Later while their fathers and the rest of the court drank themselves past stupidity in honor of the day’s champion, they had snuck off behind one of the knight’s pavilions.
         There, among the smell of straw and horse dung, they’d decided that they loved each other, and had done more than a bit of exploration on each other. Or at least they had been when one of her father’s guardsmen found them.
         Even now, she winced at the memory of the tongue-lashing that had earned her from her father. Time and again she’d tried to suggest to him that he offer her to Lord Whitelaw, but the look on his face each time it came up had eventually convinced her that the offer would never be made. While lessened by the folly of their ancestors, a Laincaster of the Ridge was still a high-ranking lord.
         The Whitelaws…weren’t.
         She was still pondering the problem when she heard the faint ringing of steel from across the castle yard. Farast must have returned from their father’s errand. Slipping Jon’s letter inside the weighty tome, she unbarred the door and ran down towards the yard.
         Farast was facing off against Sir Resden. The barrel-chested knight was slowly pushing him back, forcing him to give ground step by step. Both men were wearing full plate armor. That had been the newest addition to morning exercises, she recalled a bit sourly.
         Swinging a sword was all well and good wearing leather or chain mail, but in combat, Sir Resden had said, you’ll like as not be wearing heavy plate mail. So, Nick had gotten busy and crafted both of them new suits of heavy plate.
         And they were very heavy, Sekilda thought. She’d been able to practice for hours before her arm began to tire, but now, encumbered by an extra five stone of armor, she tired out quickly.
         Farast was having the same problem. His parries came slower and slower, and his shield arm hardly moved from his side. Sir Resden was tireless. Thirty years of daily weapons drills his made him strong as a bull, and he seemed to hardly feel the weight of his massive armor.
         Finally, Farast’s back touched the stone wall of the practice yard and could give no more ground. He suddenly bull rushed Sir Resden, driving him back several feet.
         Sir Resden made two cuts with his sword, and Farast found himself lying on his back, his sword clattering to the stones yards away. Pushing back his visor, Sir Resden looked down at his opponent.
         “You did well, boy, but that armor is tiring you out. No help for that but time. Until you don’t feel the weight of it, armor will hinder you more than help.” He stepped back and offered Farast a hand to his feet.
         Farast climbed to his feet with the old knight’s help and wrestled his helm off his head. Sweat had matted his brown hair to his head, and ran freely down his forehead into his eyes. He glanced over at his sister and nodded at her.
         Sir Resden looked over and saw her, then sheathed his sword. “Take a short rest, lordling,” he told Farast. “Then we’ll be back at it.” He strode over to the other side of the yard and drew a cup of water from the barrel standing there.
         Farast made his way over to one of the sturdy wooden benches by the armory wall and sank down on it. “By the gods,” he groaned. “This armor will be the death of me yet.”
         Sekilda chuckled and sat down beside him, lightly brushing some of the hair from his face. “It’s for your own good,” She chided. “Would you really want to go into battle not wearing this?” She rapped on his breastplate, eliciting a ringing sound from the armor.
         “Given my choice I’d not wear it.” Farast stated. “It just hinders your sword arm and tires your horse more quickly.”
         Sekilda nodded her agreement. Her fighting style had always been based on speed and agility, but now she felt like she was becoming a fortress; strong enough to take a hit, but completely unable to dodge. “Where did father send you this morning?” she asked suddenly.
         Farast leaned his head against the cool stone of the armory and closed his eyes. “Not far, you know the fields to the northwest, the outer ones, a few leagues from our border?”
         She nodded.
         “The entire province is becoming less and less fertile, it seems.” Farast’s brow wrinkled in a frown. “Peswick said he’s been leaving a field fallow every year for fifty years, and he’s harvested more from the remaining fields than what he’s getting now from farming all of them.”
         Sekilda matched his frown. “What do you think it is?”
         Farast opened his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think Father knows either. Soon we’ll have no choice but to take the matter before the King, and you know how much father wants to avoid that. He says he already spends half his time riding back and forth to Dragonbane asking King Errick’s permission for something.”
         Sekilda nodded again. “He does spend a lot of time down there. Why didn’t he just move us all down there when grandfather died? The Consul almost always lives at court.” And certain things I do would be much easier to conceal in a city, she appended in her head.
         Farast shrugged, the movement scarcely noticeable in his heavy armor. “I always assumed that he didn’t want to spend any more time with the king than he had to. He says the king is always trying to convert him to the Church of Yanus.” He chuckled.
         “I don’t know why anyone would want to follow that old stick,” Sekilda said, rising to her feet. “My path is so much less…restrictive.” She grinned down at her brother.
         Farast stole a quick glance over at Sir Resden, making certain he was still out of earshot. “You know you shouldn’t speak of that, sister. Father would not approve.”
         “You seem to have no problems with it, brother mine,” she said archly. “That little brewer girl you fancy was at our last ceremony. Did I tell you?”
         “Stop.” He looked balefully up at her. “I abide this foolishness from you because you are my sister, but I will not have it thrust in my face.”
         Sir Resden had started back towards them, so she bent close to his ear. “I’ve told you, brother, Vivendei would take you, even though you are a man. I have a certain…influence with the local priestess.” She straightened and smiled at him. “Think on that, dear brother. She could give you anything you desire.”
“It looks like my rest is over, sweet sister. If you’ll excuse me, I need to collect a few more bumps and bruises before Sir Resden is done with me for the day.” He rose to his feet. “We will speak more on this later.”
         Sekilda patted him on the back and left the yard. She wandered for a time in the inner ward, trying to decide how she could sneak off to meet Jon at the tourney. There was only one way she could think of and she didn’t want to use the prophecy about her for her own selfish ends. Not that whatever god had decided to use her as an instrument of prophecy hadn’t already given up and found someone else.
         Her forehead wrinkled in thought, but she could find no other way her father would let her ride about the kingdom on her own. Finally she gave up trying to think of another way and returned to her bedroom.
         Her book remained lying by the window where she’d left it earlier in the day, but she let it lie there. She could barely plow her way through it earlier in the day, and she knew that her mind wasn’t calm enough to read it now.
         She pulled a map of the kingdom from a drawer in her writing desk and smoothed it out on the writing surface. She walked her thumb and forefinger across the map from Pine Ridge to Forest Town and nodded to herself. It would be a quick ride to the tourney, a full day and then a few hours the next morning. She need not say anything to her father yet.
         From across the bell tower across the ward she heard the tolling of the dinner bell and muttered a curse. She was still wearing her dusty and sweaty tunic and breeches from her practice with Sir Resden that morning. She quickly stripped down and scrubbed herself with the water left in her basin. It was cold, but it encouraged her to hurry.
         She hurriedly brushed her hair into place and yanked the lacings on her gown tight. Her father did allow her to train alongside her brother, but insisted that she dress as befitted ‘a lady of her birth’ at mealtimes.
         The great hall was crowded and noisy when she entered from the servant’s entrance at the back of the dais. She quietly slipped into her seat beside her brother and signaled the servants to continue their duties.
         Her brother, sitting at their father’s right hand looked over to her and smiled. “Late again, Sekilda?” He teased.
         She smiled sweetly at him and kicked him under the table when Lord Erras turned to speak to Ser Resden on his left.
         Farast said nothing, but dropped his fork with a loud clatter.
         Sekilda smirked to herself and lifted her own fork. The dais server that evening, Breeden, was busily cutting her meat for her. Sekilda poked him with her fork and shooed him away. She hated servants doing everything for her just because she was a woman. She had long ago outlawed her handmaids from bathing or dressing her.
         Her father assumed that it was a peculiarity that she would grow out of, so he did nothing. In truth, she had far more practical reasons. The entire left side of her body, from her shoulder down to the curve of her hip was covered with a series of tattoos.
         Not just any tattoos, but ones that would get her killed if anyone recognized them. True, the glyphs that made them up were ancient and obscure, but she would take no chances. Given her choice, she’d not have them, but Vivendei marked her priestesses as her own, whether they willed it or no.
         Her father seemed preoccupied with something, and barely spoke to her or Farast, throughout the meal. Rather, he seemed to be concerned with making sure everything would survive another of his absences.
         Sekilda brightened noticeably at that thought. If her father had been summoned to Dragonbane, she wouldn’t have to explain her trip to see Jon. She would also be able to indulge in some of her other activities that her father frowned on. It had been over a month since her last ceremony for Vivendei.
         Her chosen goddess, or daemoness, depending on point of view, gave much to her followers, but expected much in return. For a convert of Sekilda’s birth and station, there was some leeway, as the daughter of the kingdom’s Consul was not a prize to be lightly thrown aside.
         But still, she felt the urging, pressing at the back of her skull. From past experience, she knew the headaches would start soon. Then the glyphs on her body would start to burn, reminding her to service her deity.
         Soon. She told the pressure. As soon as my father is safely gone. It seemed somewhat satisfied, and she returned to her meal.
         Her father rose and excused himself from the table, heading back to his tower where he secluded himself through the day. The dais was mostly empty now. Only Sekilda and Farast remained seated. Sekilda refilled her goblet from the flagon sitting on the table and leaned back in her seat.
         “Has father told you where he’s going this time?” she asked Farast.
         Shaking his head, he swallowed the wine in his mouth. “No, he’s said nothing yet. I imagine he’ll be going to Dragonbane. No doubt King Errick has some petty new law to discuss with him.”
         “So he could be gone for quite some time.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps a fortnight or more?”
         He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps,” looking quickly around the dais he lowered his voice. “What are you scheming, Sekilda?”
         “Me?” She asked, schooling her features into a pose of artfully contrived innocence. “I resent the word ‘scheming’, dear brother.”
         “You aren’t going to do anything foolish, I hope.”
         “Perish the thought, Farast. I simply need to make a short journey without his knowing.”
         “That was what I meant by foolish.”
         She huffed in irritation. “You know who I mean to see then. All I require from you is your silence.” Her eyes sparked a bit, and Farast drew back a bit from whatever he saw in them.
         “You know you have it.”
         “And you have no idea how much I appreciate it.” She rose and kissed him on the cheek. “You really must let me show you how much some day,” she whispered into his ear.
         She smiled at his flush and left the hall.