Note: This is a [second] draft. The contents here may change or alter between now and publication.

Copyright 2023 Dax Murray – All Rights Reserved

Content Note:

This is a work of fiction. It contains depictions, scenes, and discussions of topics that some may want to avoid. I have tried to make this list as exhaustive as possible, but I cannot know everyone's possible triggers and sensitivities. Please know that this book handles mature topics and themes. This chapter contains:

• Discussion of consensual intercourse
• Discussions of arson

CHAPTER SIX

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It was late when they woke up. Brenna was holding Caitlin, wrapped in warm blankets. Caitlin stirred as Brenna pulled a stray hair away from her face and kissed her on the top of my head. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

Caitlin wanted to stay next to Brenna, to cuddle in closer. Wanted to silence the thousand racing thoughts in her head. Why had she done that? Losing herself, disconnecting from reality. A liminal space, just Brenna and her. Their bodies. Mouths. Hands. Hair being pulled, lips being bitten, nails tearing into backs. Brenna had let Caitlin devour her, and Caitlin let Brenna ruin her body over and over.

“Mmmm, do you want to play again?”

Shaking her head, Caitlin stood up. Brenna frowned. The light of day told Caitlin that she’d slept far too late. She raced to find a dress in the wardrobe; she needed to get out there; she needed to attend to—.

“Whoa, slow down; what is up?”

“Ships are coming in!”

Brenna squinted. “Yes, that happens here.”

“No, no, no! I need to get down there; there’s no one down there that can—” “Yes, there are. And the difference ten minutes will make is negligible. You can get dressed at a regular pace, eat a proper meal, get washed up. You do not need to rush.”

“You don’t understand! I shouldn’t have done this; I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve never done this before.”

Brenna grabbed Caitlin’s hand and pulled her up against her chest. “I don’t know if this is referring to having sex, sleeping in, or having someone in your bed still in the morning. But there are other employees in your business, ones that you trusted enough to hire. One late day will not make or break this business.”

“But my fathers’ will…”

Brenna stepped back from Caitlin, and one hand snaked under her chin, making Caitlin look up at her.

“Your fathers won’t disown you. And I am sure they will not scold you for being a little late. Others can manage it for a little while.”

Brenna was right. Caitlin’s reports managed the business at the docks, made the negotiations, kept the accounts in order as cargo was loaded and unloaded. Those that Caitlin managed had successfully completed all the morning’s work. And they had done it well. She looked around at what anyone else would call chaos and saw it was all in order, as well as she would have done herself.

“See?” Brenna came up behind Caitlin as she was reviewing some inventory paperwork. “Everyone got along fine. There are no fires, no yelling, no screaming. I see no one rushing up to you now that you are here with an urgent issue. No one panicking. No one has raced to you to let you know your fathers are looking for you.”

Brenna stayed a week. And then two, and then a month, and for some reason, they never found a reason to see if the inn had open rooms. They visited it every night, and Brenna became everyone’s favorite drinking buddy. Caitlin would slip away after a few hours, and Brenna would follow her an hour later once she had won back all she had lost gambling.

“You’re bringing Brenna home a lot. There’re no rooms for her anywhere else? And she has not found a suitable ship to join as crew?” Pa said with a laugh.

“We keep forgetting to look.”

“It doesn’t appear the two of you are looking too hard for a room, nor that she is looking too hard for another ship,” Pa said.

“You like her a lot,” Da said, gentle as ever.

“Yes, I do.”

Da gave a warm smile. Pa seized the opportunity. “Bring her around for dinner tonight.”

#

“We surely got them this time.” Sir Liam is slowly placing grapes in his mouth, sitting on the blanket. His long brown hair is tied with a leather strap, but it does nothing to stop the autumn wind from making a mess of it.

“That is what you said the last time,” the Duchess replies, her own nearly-silver hair tied up in a tight crown braid. She is the only one who thought to dress for the weather, which Caitlin finds odd. The Duchess usually prizes fashion over function. There is gray haze all around, but the prince does not care, so the rest of their party pretends that they also do not notice the nip in the air and the scent of rain on the breeze.

“Yes, but this time is different,” Sir Connor says, raising a glass of beer and leaning back, smiling as the wind tussles his shaggy blond hair. “Because they burned one building down?”

“Not just one,” Princess Eleanor says. “They burned an entire neighborhood down. An entire neighborhood. Do you want people to sympathize with them?”

“Sister, sister. This isn’t the place for that talk.” Cian’s arm is wrapped around Caitlin’s waist, and he keeps pulling her into his chest to place dates in her mouth. “It is such a beautiful day.”

“Such a warm day, bright, and clear. Everything smells so fresh. It is truly a beautiful day here,” Princess Daya says, turning her face to the sun and taking a large breath in. “It feels so good to be alive on days like this.” “Here’s a toast to that!”

Caitlin raises her glass along with them, and while Cian may have missed the flicker of a scowl on Daya’s face, Caitlin does not. As she sets her cup back down, Princess Daya looks directly into Caitlin’s eyes and tilts her head to her. Caitlin nods back, and then lowers her eyes.

“It was so easy; they had infiltrated my factories, had talked to our tenants, and they came to me with a list of demands! They tried to lay it out all nicely, claiming that better working conditions would make them better workers or some line like that…”

“You don’t agree?” Daya asks.

“Why would I care? I had a manager find out who had been organizing that. From there, poof! We found their nest.”

“They’d been talking to the farmers, too. Trying to get local mayors to stand up to the lords. They wanted an audience with the king!” Sir Conner flings his arms out. “These people need to learn their place.”

The prince sets down the plate of cheese and dates. “I said no more talk of this. I do not want today ruined. Set aside talks of riots or protests or demands. I don’t want to discuss it here; this is a day for leisure.” He pulls Caitlin closer and kisses the top of her head. “I just want to enjoy the day with my beautiful lady.”

Caitlin pulls back away from him, noting silently that if the gods truly smile down upon the royal family, they have a strange way of showing it. She stands up, making a show of wrapping her arms around herself to fend off the chill that creeps into the air.

“Where did this come from?” Sir Liam stands and looks at the gray clouds rolling in; the cold of a storm biting all of them.

“I wanted this to be the perfect picnic for my beautiful lady.” He stands up, pulling Caitlin close, wrapping his own arms over hers. “We should get back to the palace. I wanted this to be this perfect day. There shouldn’t be a storm today.”

“Brother, there are some things that you cannot control. The weather is one such thing. It isn’t yours to command.” Princess Daya laughs, but it does not reach her eyes.

“My wife is correct; you act as if the clouds and rains are disobedient. Let’s get home where you can order things to your liking.”

He places Caitlin on his horse and climbs up behind her; his breath on her neck is cold. His hands, as Caitlin is all too used to by now, roam along her back and waist as he makes a show of searching for the reins. She wants to recoil from his freezing touch, but she knows that her fate will not change by continued attempts to push him away.

This picnic was not just another attempt to impress her, but to put on a show to the whole kingdom that he was in love. Finally, truly, happily, forever in love. Although at this point it was obvious that everyone thought he won Caitlin’s heart. The whispers about his infatuation had long ago turned to bets that ran the gamut of how long he would woo her before casting me off to when he would announce the pregnancy. But all of those bets were called off as they enter the palace.

She is gorgeous. A small button nose, sharp jaw, but tempered with soft cheeks and large eyes, all on a beautiful heart-shaped face. She was standing in a corner with Lord Byrne of Barony Berach and his son, Lord Tynen. But when the prince is announced, she turns around; her loose, dark auburn hair shining as it catches the light from the candles.

“Your Highness, it is good to see you so well.” He sweeps his hands out in the deepest of bows.

“I have not seen you at court recently, Lord Byrne.”

“No, Your Grace. I’ve been busy on my estates.” There was a slight quiver in his voice, and he looked to his left for a second, to the beautiful woman who shared the same deep emerald eyes as the two Byrne men.

“Ah, and who is this?”

“This is my daughter, Lady Arlina.”

“You have kept such a rose hidden away in the countryside?” The prince kisses the top of her hand.

In the span of a second, coins change hands and previously placed bets are altered. Caitlin feels the eyes of everyone in the room lingering on her, and then flicking between her and Lady Arlina. She’s of noble birth, she hears some whisper. She is far prettier. Caitlin was always just an exotic distraction, anyway, some mutter. Others respond, besides, he could not marry a widow. She hears mumbles of derision and scorn, I am surprised he has stayed with her so long, that a common girl could hold him for this long, good riddance to her, she sought a seat above her station.

They were looking for worry in her face, they were looking for fear, for jealousy. But Caitlin just looks between the man who claimed to love her above all others and the woman he is going to supplant her with. All she can think, though, is that she will be free from this charade.

But then Arlina looks at Caitlin directly. This new beauty at court, the woman whose father wants to use as a pawn, this beautiful woman who the whole court is now hoping will supplant Caitlin, this beautiful woman who has a controlling and haughty brother, a brother who pushed her into the path of the prince, to see her take Caitlin’s place, this beautiful woman looks at her and smiles. But behind those eyes, Caitlin sees the same resignation that lives in her own heart. The same acquiescence fate, to the duty of parental interests. She knows what will come and is just as resentful of it.

“Lady Arlina,” Caitlin knows that she will not be introduced formally to her, so she takes it upon herself to do so. She must. There is something driving her to spend even a second more in the presence of this woman. “Do you play cards? The princesses Eleanor, Daya, and I have been looking for someone to join us as a fourth.”

“Ah, my beautiful lady.” The prince put his arm around Caitlin; not an act of love, but a show of possession. “You are always looking for new friends. One of your many charms. Yes, please, join the games with us tonight, Lady Arlina. I cannot deny my beautiful lady a new friend.”

And all bets are off again.

She is awkward as Princess Daya, Princess Eleanor and Caitlin make their way to the princesses’ rooms. “I’ve never been to the palace before; my father is just an Earl. Our estate is not very large. And the weather in Berach is not particularly enjoyable. I hear it’s often sunny in Eoi.” She looks at the other women, her eyebrows raised.

“I can say that it is nicer here than in Whick.”

“Yes, you’re a merchant’s daughter! It must be so nice to live close to the sea.”

“I can take you some time if you would like.” Caitlin thinks that this is just a formality, not realizing it for the true invitation that deep down she wishes it to be.

“I would love that!” Lady Arlin takes a seat next to Caitlin, her large eyes widening as she moves her chair even closer to Caitlin’s. “Do you go on the ships often?”

“Not as frequently as you would expect. We usually play for keeps.” She deals out the cards

“And I usually win.” Eleanor scoops up her hand.

“You keep telling yourself that, sweetie.”

“Daya is a sore loser.” She winks at Arlina. “So sometimes I let her win.”

“You only ever win when Caitlin is your partner.”

“Daya, dearest. Let’s see if we can win together; neither get to team up with Caitlin.”

“So that makes Lady Arlina my partner.”

“So, Caitlin is the lucky charm? Well, then I feel pretty lucky tonight.”

“I’ve never considered myself lucky, but if others believe so, who am I to dispute?”

“So you haven’t been to court before?” Princess Eleanor sorts her cards.

“No, my father kept me pretty isolated. I think he’s only just realized I am not ten years old anymore. And then I stayed away for my own reasons. Court politics seemed far less exciting.”

“What were you doing instead? Call.”

“Staying with relatives, in a manner of speaking.”

“Double. Oh? Who?” Daya asks, her eyebrow raised over her spread of cards.

“Aren’t the gods family to us all?”

“A temple?” Caitlin mulls over her next card.

“Set. Andraste? Shea?” Princess Daya puts down her cards, spades abundant.

“Aife. The Temple of Aife at Laocre,” Lady Arlina says, revealing her own hand of cards. “High straight.”

“Aife?” Princess Eleanor throws down her own hand and slumps back in her chair.

“Why Aife?” Caitlin sets down her cards, revealing her royal flush.

“We won.” Lady Arlina smiles. Princess Daya picks up the cards with a huff.

“If we had been playing just the two of us, you know I would have won.” Princess Daya scowls at her wife.

Eleanor shrugs. “Of course, sweetie.”

“I learned law. What else would I learn from her followers? Combat?”

“Combat? Surely, they don’t teach that. However, I’ve wondered what they do there with the vast grounds they have at the Laocre temple, and she is also the goddess of war. Combat…” Princess Daya rubs her chin.

“Layde Siham wouldn’t know?” Princess Eleanor asks.

“Why would my sibling know that?” Princess Daya shuffles the cards.

“I suppose sie wouldn’t.” Eleanor pulls the cards up and examines her hand.

“It is rather interesting; even the king’s advisors could not hope for such an education in law. How laws have changed, theories of law, foreign law, international law. Aife being both a goddess of war and law, makes sense, for war is often the creator of law.” Arlina judges her own hand.

“Why didn’t you stay there?” Caitlin glances at her cards, far too enthralled with Lady Arlina’s tale to give it any actual thought.

“But there are few needs for experts and academics in law.” She looks into the distance, her thumb under her chin.

“Are you here to find a suitor?”

“Of course not!”

“That’s a shame, I am pretty sure you will have at least a dozen marriage proposals by the end of the week.” Eleanor glances at Caitlin. “The court will be sullen and miserable for months after the day you might accept a match.”

“What do those trained at the Temple of Aife do once they finish training, usually?” Caitlin draws a card from the pile and places another down.

“Before the current dynasty we—” She looks at Princess Eleanor and grimaces. Princess Eleanor shrugs. “Before the current dynasty, we sometimes became their advisors. Now, well. The teaching of Culain—”

“I catch your meaning,” Princess Daya says.

Caitlin snorts.

“You would catch her meaning, you are so good at doing likewise,” Princess Eleanor says, winking at her wife.

“Now, we sometimes become lawyers for businesspeople, advisors to merchants or nobles who seek to start their own venture.”

“I wish I had known about this,” Caitlin says; a savvy lawyer on retainer would have saved hours of her own time when she first took up negotiating responsibilities for her fathers.

“Few do; the order likes to keep it that way. Some changes in the law over the years and centuries have been called divine will. Learning the reasons for the old laws, what the old laws were, well, those are things which some might not want people to know. They keep it secret, all that the order teaches. Which, by the way, at the end of the evening, I shall have to kill all of you so that the secret is kept.”

“Well, of course. It is the smart thing to do, Lady Arlina,” Princess Daya says.

“I should like to consider you a friend, and I love to help my friends. Do what you must.” Princess Eleanor shrugs.

“Sure, why not.” Caitlin places down one more card.

“Excellent. Call.” Lady Arlina stacks her cards on top of each other face down, waiting for everyone else to make their last draw.

#

“We don’t know how many got away. We have several safe houses in the country and other smaller towns; it might take a while for them to send us word safely. It would be wise for them to stay there for more several weeks.” Diar had shown up unexpectedly after dinner. Unexpectedly, mostly because Caitlin had not heard from him since the fire. She had tried to get in touch with him, but he either wasn’t getting her messages or ignoring them. For all that he is her best friend, she often grew irritated by his propensity for moods and disappearing acts.

“Have you heard any more from those who weren’t there?” Caitlin sips at the lukewarm tea; not wanting to interrupt the conversation by making more. “Those whom I have spoken to are going to ground, too. I assume that they have also passed along messages; warning people to stay low.” He cleans his glasses on his shirt and slumps back in his chair.

“Does staying low mean doing less charity work? Wouldn’t that be conspicuous if suddenly that stopped?”

“Some people on both sides of that argument. I think some of them will continue it.” He puts his glasses back on and runs his hands through his hair.

“That argument?”

“Never mind that for right now.”

“Is there word on finding a new headquarters?”

“A new one? What do you mean?”

“Well, the one that just burned…”

“That wasn’t our headquarters. That was a test for you.”

“What?”

“I trust you, Caitlin. But many others don’t. If that place went up in smoke, or if guards showed up at any of the coordinates that were spouted off at the end of the meeting, well. We would know where it came from. And so, many believe it was you.”

“I can’t believe this! Is that why it’s taken you so long to come to see me? You need to cut this out.” “I don’t want either the royals or the Front thinking you’re playing spy for the other side.”

“And so, you steer clear of me for my protection, and I am assuming everyone else for suspicion.”

“Yes, and no. Most everyone is staying clear of each other. It’s not personal, but some suspect you.”

“And you ignored me to ‘protect’ me. For claiming to be my friend, you make a lot of decisions about what is best for me without even consulting me.” She stands up in a huff and takes her teacup to the kitchen. She leans against the counter, arms crossed, waiting for the water to boil.

She can’t go back in there just yet. From the start, he’s been trying to protect her. That first night, that very first night. How much had their friendship changed since then? So many of their fights came down to this; deciding for her. Claiming he had more information. While it may be true most times, he could at least share that information so she could decide on what her safety did and didn’t require, and how much risk she is willing to take.

Diar is looking toward the floor as she walks back in. “I’m sorry.”

“You cannot keep doing this.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand plenty well. Stop being so protective.”

“But I am your friend!”

“Precisely! Friends talk to each other. Friends discuss things, friends are open and honest with each other. What have you been?”

“Caitlin, you don’t understand.”

“Then tell me! Then talk to me! Do you think me so unable to think for myself? That’s not friendship! That’s condescension. Stop assuming I can’t look after myself.”

“There’s so much you don’t know.”

“Then tell me! I am not some porcelain vase; I am your friend; start treating me like one.”

He looks down at his own mug of cold tea, and then back up at her. “Fine. You’re right.”

“Promise me. The next time you think of doing something ‘for my own good,’ you instead talk to me.”

“I will.”

“Good. Now, what is this about people suspecting me as a spy?”

“You must know that your volunteer work and your affiliation with the prince has been noted. And that has not stayed just in the neighborhoods you visit.” “I had not realized that that made had made a connection.”

“It has not gone unnoticed by the royals, either. Has anyone mentioned it?”

“Well, Princess Daya had said maybe sometimes we could all go do some charity together, bringing their attendants. Make it some sort of event, though I don’t know if she wanted to do it as something advertised in advance.”

“The king and prince would certainly want it to be such, prove they are as charitable as they want people to think, charitable enough that commoners are whining over nothing.”

“I don’t think that that is what the princesses are trying to do.”

“They are royals.”

“They are wonderful people.”

“Royals still uphold a power structure; one that favors them over us.”

“I like them, maybe… Maybe I could get them to realize…”

“Too dangerous right now. Although it has been mentioned by some that you could be our spy.”

“Bring you information from the palace? I rarely have access to anything. And I’m trying to extricate myself from that viper’s den, not further ingratiate myself in it. For what purpose? What would you need a spy for?”

“For one, I’m not asking you to. Others have brought it up. And second, we still don’t know how they found us, or why they would even target us.”

“It was Sir Liam, the factory owner.””

“What? How do you know that?”

“He was bragging about it. He has been enraged about his workers asking for safety measures.”

“See, this is why others would ask for you to spy.”

“And you are going to tell me I can’t, that it’s too dangerous for me to do.”

“It’s your choice, only yours.”

“So, there are those that both suspect me of selling out a volunteer organization to the royals, but also want me to spy? Spy for what? There’s something more going on to this. This is more than protests and volunteering, isn’t it?”

“I want to tell you, I have to talk to Sharidan and Valen, first. This is not a ‘for your protection’ situation. This is a decision above my head.”

“I am just confused as to why they would torch an entire neighborhood over some protests and charity work. Sure, some of the demands are radical, but there is nothing illegal happening. So why?”

“I’ll talk to Sharidan and… No more talk of this, for now? Please? Let’s get drunk and take a walk down to the harbor.”

“That sounds nice, you know. I haven’t talked to someone who has only half of his head up his ass in a while.”

#

The personal secretary of the prince is waiting for her at the door when she returns from a business meeting with wool sellers from the Galiven region of Garcelon; sellers who had been all too happy to provide her with the finely dyed wool cloak she pulls more tightly around her. “I have a letter and a gift from the prince,” is all that he says as he hands over the items. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly waiting for a response, and she waves him into her home. It would not be polite to let the man stand outside in these last days of autumn.

My dearest Lady Caitlin It grieves my heart every moment we are apart; I am struck with such a heavy melancholy. That such a bond could exist defies all logic. I cannot bear it any longer. I extend an invitation to your most beautiful self and your ever diligent fathers, Sir Teige and Sir Rían Peddigree. A dress should accompany this message. Pray, do accept this invitation. It is most urgent. Most Humbly Yours, Cian

He does not use his title, and though she does not hold a title that would afford her “Lady”, he uses it, nonetheless. His saccharine letter offends her: the writing, juvenile.

The letter set aside; she opens the box. The dress, like his letter, is overstated, past grand and into gaudy. Accompanying it are a pair of equally offensive shoes and a circlet.

“Will you be in attendance tonight, Lady Caitlin? And Sir Teige and Sir Rían”

The use of “lady” feels like sandpaper in her ears, and her fathers have never been granted any title, either. Prince Cian has been calling her ‘lady’ for some time, but his staff are now using it, too? And the same courtesy extended to her fathers? “How could I ever say anything except ‘yes’?”

“Very well, Lady Caitlin. I shall inform his Highness.” He doffs his hat and leaves.

She collapses into a chair and buries her face in her hands.

“Heavens, what are you doing?” Da asks as he and Pa walk in. “Did the meeting not go well?”

“It went well enough; the deal is as good as sealed. This,” she points to the box sitting on the table in front of her, “is altogether another sort of deal. One that I want nothing to do with anymore. I’m done. I’m done!”

Da picks up the box, and Pa grabs the letter beside it. “Tonight? All of us?” Pa says, running his hand through his ash-black hair.

“I am supposed to wear this dress this evening. I would rather drown than wear it, let alone attend whatever this event is.”

“You cannot cancel on the prince,” Pa says.

“I know, I know, it would be bad for business,” she says, flinging her arms in the air.

“No, Caitlin. It has nothing to do with the business.”

“Don’t say that, everything is business with you. That’s all you care about. And that’s all you want me to care about.”

“That is not true, please, do not insult us by putting words in our mouths. If this were an invitation from a business partner and you wanted to cancel, even if it were the most important deal we have ever been offered, we would not stop you from canceling.”

She rolls her eyes, knowing the lie for what it is. “I don’t want to wear that dress.”

“I do not blame you, dear.” Da says, holding it up and crinkling his nose. “The materials hardly complement each other, and what is this frill supposed to be adding? Beads and embroidery? Who made this atrocity?”

“Someone that the prince hired, and I am not going to ask any more than that.”

“Well, there is no getting out of attending this event, but I think I can find a way for you to wear the dress while not having to wear the dress.” Da says, setting it back down. “Where do you keep your sewing supplies?”

“I’ll grab them,” she says. “But he told me to wear it…”

“He requested that you wear it, and you still will wear it. Technically.”

“I would risk upsetting him,” she says. “But I have been doing nothing but trying to politely upset him for months now.” She frowns, brows furrowed, setting her sewing supplies on the table next to Da. “You think you can fix it?”

“Here, we can pull out the beads and add some of this trim on the sleeves,” Da says as he sets some remnants on the table.

“Why do you think he wants this? Why not send a regular courier? Why send a dress? Why hasn’t he tired of me? Why is he still doing this?” She pounds her fist on the table, knocking over the container of pins. “Why!”

“No one else has caught his eye, I suppose,” Pa says. “He’s made his way through half of the eligible noblewomen, and the other half are probably not as beautiful as he wanted.”

“I heard there is a new beauty at court.” Da takes a seam ripper to the frills around the sleeves.

“The Lady Arlina, daughter of Lord Byrne of Berach.”

“Yes, that’s the one. He hasn’t shown interest in her?”

“He was taken with her, yes.” Caitlin’s heartbeat quickens, Lady Arlina’s face clear in her mind’s eye.

“It is strange then that he has not started chasing her.” Pa sits down next to Da and hands him shears.

“She’s very strong-willed, well educated, well read; she has goals and dreams… She’s far too headstrong for him.”

“So are you, Caitlin.” Da looks up from his alterations work. “If you wanted to be.”

“That was a long time ago. That was before I had so many responsibilities. Seriously, what does he want with a widow? There are dozens of women in their twenties, younger and more gullible.”

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Copyright 2023 Dax Murray – All Rights Reserved

Content Note:

This is a work of fiction. It contains depictions, scenes, and discussions of topics that some may want to avoid. I have tried to make this list as exhaustive as possible, but I cannot know everyone's possible triggers and sensitivities. Please know that this book handles mature topics and themes. This chapter contains:

• Arson
• Police Violence

CHAPTER FIVE

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The guest room went unused.

Caitlin ripped off her shirt the second that she closed the bedroom door and Brenna didn’t waste any time shoving her against the wall. Her knee crept between Caitlin’s thighs. “Does this count as free time, Ms. Businesswoman? Or is this part of negotiations for you?”

“I…” Caitlin shivered as she spread her knees to accommodate Brenna’s advances.

Brenna held a hand over Caitlin’s mouth, while the other fumbled with the latch to Caitlin’s belt. “What sort of trade deal would you like to come to with me? Because I have a one in mind. Do you want to discuss it?”

As she pulled the belt free, Caitlin let her skirt fall to the floor, eyes never leaving Brenna’s.

“Do you barter in leather?” Brenna asked.

Caitlin nodded.

“Perhaps we should take our negotiations to a more comfortable location.” Brenna lifted Caitlin up, carried her to the bed, and pressed her into it, a hand on the small of her back.

Caitlin knew better than to say something at this point. Brenna ripped off her stockings. The cool air shocked Caitlin; even if she wanted to say something, she could not remember how to speak. “Do you barter in cotton?”

Brenna’s finger slowly crept up to Caitlin’s thighs, and both hands grabbed Caitlin’s hips and pulled her forward before slipping her thumbs into Caitlin’s undergarments. “Do you barter in silks?”

“I…”

“Because I would like to barter all of the above. What do you say?”

“Yes, please…”

“I have heard that some of the best negotiators are silent. If you are such a negotiator, tap your hand three times, or kick three times with your foot. Do you understand? Good. Let’s see how my negotiating skills match with yours.” Brenna took the stockings and bound Caitlin’s arms together and affixed them to the bedpost. Then she slowly unbuckled her own belt and set it on the edge of the bed, never breaking eye contact. “Is it the person who shares their wares first that has the upper hand at first? Or is it the other way around?” Brenna mused, one hand under her chin.

Caitlin smirks. “Why should I give away my secrets?”

“I believe I can persuade you to.”

“Try, then.”

“I think I will.” Brenna ran one finger slowly down Caitlin’s neck, traced it down her spine, down one of her thighs before making its way back until it was hovering achingly close to Caitlin’s sex. Caitlin twitched, pulling against the restraints. Too much, it was getting to be too much and yet not enough. Brenna had been so close to touching her, having her hand exactly where she wanted it. And Caitlin had missed the opportunity to put her own hands where she wanted them to be on Brenna.

“How shall I try to get you to talk, to say something that would spoil a deal, or end with you overpaying on goods?” Brenna pulls her hand away, waiting. Caitlin bit her tongue. She wanted to ask for more; she wanted to beg and whine and plead. She did not want to give Brenna the satisfaction of hearing her moan.

Caitlin is shocked out of her contemplations by a sting on her bottom. Brenna’s hand connected again, and again, little taps interspersed with slaps. It was too much. The taps grew harder and quicker. “What part of transactions is this? Does this part have a name?”

Caitlin writhed, wanting to lean back, to lean into Brenna’s body, into Brenna’s hands. Each circle and tap made her hotter and warmer. The vibrations ran up and down Caitlin’s body. Brenna stopped. Then leaned in to whisper in Caitlin’s ear. “Do you want to keep being an excellent negotiator?”

Caitlin nodded and moaned. She was pent-up lightning; she was a dam ready to burst; she was a goblet about to overflow.

“That’s m’girl. I hope you realize that I currently have the upper hand.” Without warning, Brenna grabs Caitlin between her thighs, her thumb resting at the apex of her slit. “This might be the best item in your inventory, and I intend to have it.”

Caitlin’s breath hitched. Eyes closed, she pressed herself into Brenna’s hand. “Oh, please,” Caitlin said, all thought of remaining silent gone.

“I hear that sometimes you give a potential buyer a peek at the wares, showing off only a selection of what might be.” Brenna pulled her hands away completely and backed away from Caitlin. Caitlin looked over her shoulder. Her eyes grew wide as Brenna pick up her leather belt. “I was only showing you a fraction of what I can offer, too.” She spanked Caitlin again with her hand, each strike making it warmer, more sensitive.

“Are you ready? Remember what I told you earlier? Three times.”

Caitlin nodded.

The first strike came, and Caitlin floated instantly. She was engulfed in a mist of sea salt and metal when the second strike hit. When the third strike landed, she stopped thinking about anything else, just the heat and yearning. “I like to see the other person’s reactions when I first show my hand. Gauge what they might be thinking. And I think you want another glance or two at my offer. Am I right?”

Caitlin nodded vigorously. Brenna cupped a hand around the wet and glistening spot between Caitlin’s legs, one finger entering Caitlin. Slowly, her finger slid in and out. “And I think I am getting a good feel of what you offer, the prize of your inventory.” Just as quickly, her hand pulled away, and the belt met Caitlin’s skin again.

Each strike, each grab, each word whispered in Caitlin’s ear sent her higher and higher.

“Are we close to the pinnacle of our negotiations? Are you ready to shake on the deal?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Caitlin’s voice was breathy, light. She could remember only one word. “Yes.”

Brenna’s hand reached between Caitlin’s legs again, fiercely, mercilessly. Incandescent fire coursed through her body, through her mind, and through her heart as she reached climax.

“Slowly, m’girl. Deeply and slowly. There you go.” Brenna undid the restraints and massaged Caitlin’s wrists. “Do you have a bath?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Let’s get you there then.”

They found that they had far more to haggle over still after the bath, though.

#

Caitlin is not sure what she is expecting, but it is not the nondescript row house in a more impoverished neighborhood. It is nothing outstanding, no more or less than the surrounding houses. He holds her hand as he knocks on the door four times. “Stop fidgeting.”

“I am not.” She takes her hand from him and pushes both deeply into her pockets. She rolls her eyes at him. The door opens, and the person answering looks Caitlin up and down. They are young, no more than twenty. “She’s safe?”

“She’s safe.”

The youth opens the door further and waves the pair in before quickly closing and locking it. The home was warm; if a little worn. There are scuff marks on the wooden floors; the paint is chipping; the rugs have seen better days. But, to Caitlin, it feels like home, the home she had shared with her wife. This house she has been in for less than a moment feels more like home than her current residence. The smell of coffee and muffins wafts from down the hall, and the sound of people chattering happily accompanies it. Diar puts his arm around Caitlin and leads her to the dining room. “Take a seat,” he says and then disappears somewhere else.

“Oh! You must be the young lass Diarmuid’s been going on about!” A tall Calla rests her chin in her palms and looks at Caitlin as if she is the most intriguing object. She is small, her russet feline-esque ears and hair a startling contrast to her striking yellow eyes, with only a thin vertical pupil. Caitlin has had a lot of experience with the Qatu of Sua. But their Fayn siblings, the Calla, are far less likely to be involved in trade. Apparently, all of these cat-like people are just as prone to bluntness and mischief, despite the Calla having migrated to Fayn from Sua several hundred years prior.

“If there is another ‘young’ lass, I don’t know her. Caitlin.”

The Calla’s sleek tail flicks behind her, ears perked forward. “Excellent! We could use someone new to play with!”

“Aine. She is a comrade, not your new toy. Here, you said you needed more.” He hands a pouch to Aine and walks away to speak to someone else.

Another Calla sits down across from Caitlin, tossing their long pale blue hair behind them and handing a glass of water to Aine. Their strikingly dark sapphire eyes are full of merriment.

Aine slumps in her chair, opening the pouch and removing a pinch of powder and sprinkling it into the water. “No fun.” Her ears swivel out to the sides and flatten, her face falling.

“You are his lass, though?” The newcomer asks, long ears perked up.

“I am not his lass!”

They both smile at Caitlin; she knows that she is, in fact, their new toy.

Everyone makes their way to the cozy basement once they have all had their fill of pie and sandwiches. As the meeting starts, the levity disappears, though. A Calla with forest green eyes and short, bright orange hair hands out meeting notes as people claim chairs, couches and spots on the floor. “Sharidan,” Diar whispers in Caitlin’s ear. “Xie is one of the leaders. The other is Valen, the dark bronze Ástfríður in the corner, the one with the pure white hair.”

“Who was the Calla I was talking to earlier? The one with the Greenwood tattoo?”

“That would be Kegan, and the Evenstar Calla is Aine. They are inseparable. Aine adopted Kegan so to speak. They make a game of ‘initiating’ newcomers.”

“I noticed.”

“The pins… everyone seems to have one just like yours. The lily, is that…?”

“A symbol? Yes.”

“Ah, and your friend at that tavern one time… Jocelyn?”

“Yes, indeed. She isn’t here today, though.”

“Does everyone get one?”

“Do you want one?”

“Well…”

“We’ll see. You haven’t passed the test yet.”

“Very well.” She flips through the meeting notes and is astounded by the sheer scope of poverty, neglect, and suffering her group is up against. Homelessness outreach, childcare for factory workers, food distribution, education initiatives, medical care; all listed meticulously with updates. This isn’t just riots and protests, it is a movement born of desperation towards an uncaring government that ignores its people at every turn.

Caitlin leans back into the couch. She has never had to worry about any of this, has never gone hungry, never been cold, never lacked for a physician. A numbing weight settles in her stomach as she realizes how little she knows of what is really going on. She thinks of the gold and silk and spices that have passed through her hands, the prices they fetched, the wealthy people she had negotiated with, and the sums of money involved.

Her heart pounds in her chest as she learns about the struggles the Red Front has been forced to endure while continuing to provide basic services to those who have been abandoned by their king. How they manage to operate covertly to provide aid to those whom the king has deemed unworthy of his help or protection.

She can barely breathe as she remembers all the derogatory comments made by Sir Liam and Duchess Aelena, comments she had been willing to ignore. A cruel and callous disregard for life. People are nothing more than tools: if broken beyond repair there are always others ready to take their place. She tries to concentrate, to listen to Sharidan and other Red Front officers discuss their plans to help a starving nation.

While she had been warm in a spacious house dancing with Brenna and playing cards with colleagues, people starved.

The members of the Red Front speak with a mix of hope and sorrow. Hope that the nobles will fall one day. That the men who made their money in unethical and unscrupulous ways would tumble from their perches and plummet. One day, somehow, the aristocracy can no longer tax their people into poverty, and the king will no longer have power over an entire country. Their sorrow that, until then, people will suffer.

Sharidan announces that the meeting is over, reminding people to check the schedule on the way out.

“No.” Diar squeezes her hand as she stands up. “Stay. We aren’t done yet.”

“But—”

“Stay.”

She adjusts her dress, glancing around as people prepare to depart. Aine and Kegan catch her eye—they are among the few still seated, seemingly in no rush to leave. They share an amused glance before sauntering over. Leaning in close, Kegan whispers in Aine’s ear.

Aine smirks. “You really are Diarmuid’s lass if you are still here.”

“I’ve told you—”

“She isn’t,” Diarmuid says. “You’ve had enough fun, for now, I am sure.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Aine says.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m going to grab water. Please don’t torment her while I am gone.”

“And now you are ours!” Kegan says when Diarmuid is no longer in sight.

“What is going on, though? Why are there people still here?”

“He didn’t explain?” Kegan says.

“No, he’s kept me in the dark.”

“There are factions, and they don’t always see eye to eye. This meeting is just for the faction we belong to.”

“Factions?” Caitlin looks around to see who else remains, remembering what Diarmuid had first told her. Sharidan and Valen are still there. Besides them, there is a pewter Ástfríður with short fiery hair reclining in the corner, a woman with bright freckles and purple hair tied into twin braids reading a large book, and an older woman with bronze skin and long hair the color of freshly fallen snow shuffling a deck of cards.

“There’s few. Not compared to how many people were crammed in here before.”

“Maybe not. But it’s the faction that the leaders belong to. The ‘leaders’ of the other one have not splintered off. Yet.”

Diarmuid returns and hands her a glass of water, scowling at Kegan and Aine. Valen enters the room again, their short hair a mess of waves and tangles and yet shining brighter than a star. “Thank you for staying. I promise to keep this brief. We have a new supplier. They will deposit the items in the second stronghold.”

“What are they talking about?” Caitlin asks Diarmuid.

“I’ll tell you later. I want you to meet them after.”

Valen brings out a map and starts putting red pins in it, seemingly at random, and they make no remark as to what they represent. “Seraph,” he says, nodding to the woman shuffling cards.

“I understand,” she says before turning her gaze to Caitlin. Her bright green eyes pierce into Caitlin’s soul, and Caitlin cannot look away. She is being judged; every sin was written upon her face and Seraph was weighing them. Seraph blinks, glances at Valen, and nods.

“Saoirse?”

Without putting down her book, the younger woman replies, “Twenty-five, thirty-seven, eighteen.”

“Thank you,” Valen says, marking something down on a scrap of paper. “And Imogen?”

“Five, nine, four, seventeen,” the Ástfríður says, barely audible.

“Thank you. Kegan?”

“Three,” Kegan says.

“Fifty-seven,” Aine says.

“Eleven,” Diarmuid says.

“Very well. Sharidan will tell you who to meet.”

Sharidan enters the room and points to Seraph, then motions for her to follow. One by one, Sharidan calls the members to speak with them alone. Diarmuid pats Caitlin’s hand before it is his turn.

Valen approaches and looks Caitlin up and down.

“Yeah?” Aine says. “You’re here to talk to Diarmuid’s lass, yes?”

Caitlin does not have the energy to protest the appellation.

Valen laughs, their silver eyes full of mirth. “I suppose you could say that. Come with me.”

She follows them to a small room off to the side of the main room. “That bracelet…Do you know what it is?”

“Yes. It is from my wife.”

“You are married?”

Caitlin hesitates. She knows this bracelet, Brenna’s gift, allows her many freedoms with the Ástfríður that others do not have. A symbol that she is to be treated as if she herself were Ástfríðuri. “Was,” she says at last. “I am a widow.”

Valen hangs their head, the gaiety gone, their mouth stretching into a thin line. “How?”

“I…Well…”

Valen gestures for Caitlin to take a seat and closes the door to the office. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry. It is plain that this is still a difficult subject. But our kind…”

“I know, I know…”

“I suppose you do. But that’s not why—”

“Xie was killed.” It comes out as one word. “Three years ago. The mourning period is over, and yet…”

“I’m so sorry. Thank you for sharing. It is a blessing to know that your Brenna was so loved. Again, that is not why I wanted to speak to you.”

Caitlin wrings her hands, forcing back tears. “What did you want?”

“I know that Diarmuid trusts you, but I also know that you are being courted by the prince. I trust Diarmuid, he’s told me that you do not want to—”

“No! In fact, I am trying to get the prince to leave me alone!”

“Diarmuid said so as well. But not everyone here is so sure of where your loyalties may lie.”

“You just let me sit in on the meeting, though.”

“Hmm,” they say, steepling their fingers. “Did you understand what we said? Well, in time, you may be trusted with more vital information.” Valen glances at the bracelet again, chewing on their lip. “While I trust you, you need to earn the trust of everyone else first.”

“I understand.”

“So, you will join us?”

“I don’t know. I told Diarmuid I would listen to what you have to say; I didn’t promise more than that.”

“Well, thank you, that is all.”

She rises and makes for the door.

“Wait. If you don’t mind, I have a personal question for you.”

She turns back to Valen. “Yes?”

“Brenna. What was xir metal?”

“Copper,” is all that Caitlin says.

They chuckle. “I should have guessed if xie was married to you.”

#

“Diar,” she says, grabbing his hand as they step out into the chilly night. “Why? How did you end up here?”

“Sharidan,” he replies.

“Sharidan?”

“Xie recruited me. Xie paid for my medical schooling on the condition that I join.”

“What?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m listening.” She pulls the hood of her cloak forward. “Tell me.”

“My mother, Rebecca, she was sick. And my father had very little money. Not many people purchase his wares, as I am sure you have figured out.”

She squeezes his hand. “Go on.”

“We couldn’t afford to go to a physician. There was a medicine woman, a Sister of Andraste, but by the time my mother finally admitted that she was sick, it was too late.” He pauses mid-stride. “It was preventable. The medicine, if we’d had it sooner… It was too expensive. And the Sister could do nothing.” “I’m sorry…” she says. She turns so that she is directly in front of him. If the night were not so silent, she might have missed it. A small cry, lasting not more than half a second. If the moon were not so bright, she might have missed it. His bottom lip trembles almost imperceptibly before straightening out into a tight line. She reaches her hand up, wanting to comfort him, to touch his face.

His own hand snatches hers before she can, though. “I am fine. Let’s go.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know. Anyway, I left my father behind and traveled to Janeuq, to Haut Ven. There is a medical school there, but I couldn’t afford it. I took on odd jobs around the school, though. Hoping to eventually have money to attend, and to pick up whatever knowledge I could just from being there.

“I was in town that day, trying to barter what little money I had for some food. There was a scream behind me, and I turned around. Sharidan was in the middle of the street, clutching at xir leg. I could see the blood quickly flowing from a wound. I ran to xir and provided what little medical assistance I could. I wasn’t very good. But I knew enough to stitch a wound and disinfect it. “I carried the fiery Calla to a tavern, where I could staunch the bleeding. Xie was very thankful and asked how much xie owed me. I wanted to lie, to give a high number, to get the money I needed to buy more food and to save for classes.”

“Did you?” She tries to imagine Diar lying, it seems to counter to what she knows of him.

“No, I told xir the truth. That I was not a physician. I was just some kid who hung around the university a lot. Xie told me to come with xir to xir townhouse. I was shocked and just followed without question, letting xir lean on me as we made our way up the street.

“I didn’t know such luxury could exist. It was grand, it was huge.”

“Sharidan? We are talking about the same Sharidan that just spent hours talking about how the wealthy are complicit in the subjugation of the poor? That Sharidan has a mansion in Janeuq?”

“Not exactly. It belongs to xir family, a vacation home of sorts. Xir family has all but disowned xir, but, like a cat, xie has ways of coming and going as xie pleases undetected. Xie treats the family’s staff well, so I think they keep xir secret.”

“Like a cat, indeed.”

“They may have disowned xir, but that does not mean xie is without money and funds. Enough to pay for me to go to school. Xie sat me down and explained only a hint of what xie was involved in. I learned later that xie was there to talk to Alliée Rouge, the Red Front counterpart in Janeuq. “In time, xie came to trust me and gave me all the details. In exchange for paying my tuition, I was to be the Red Front’s lead organizer on their healthcare initiative. I couldn’t say no. I could help keep so many alive, prevent so many other children from losing a parent. I could save every patient that walks in the door, and I could never repay Sharidan.”

“You have a big heart.”

“I studied hard, so hard. But still, I lose some of my patients. An expensive education and still just a mediocre physician.”

“You aren’t mediocre, don’t say that. Sharidan is quite wealthy to be able to pay that,” she replies. “Xir accent isn’t Janeuq, where is xie from then?”

“I believe somewhere in Sua, I know xie studied at Khidima Alam.”

“Are you joking? That university is nearly impossible to get into unless you are Sua nobility!”

“Precisely. I believe xie took on a Calla name when xie came here. Xie passes for Greenwood. I am afraid to ask what xir Qatu name is, though.”

“Is Sharidan also the source of money that is used to provide all of the material goods?”

Diar shakes his head. “I cannot tell you that. I do not even know where all of the funding comes from. Just that there are several wealthy donors.”

“Do you expect me to be one?”

“I expect nothing from you. Nothing except that you remain safe.”

“I feel so bad, though. I never knew any of what was happening, I never imagined… I feel so guilty.” Caitlin stops in front of her door. “Come inside, please…?”

Diar goes immediately to the living room, plopping himself down in the large armchair. “Stop. Stop feeling bad. Stop centering yourself. Stop with the guilt. It is unproductive. If you decide to donate money to assuage your guilt, you might as well just leave.”

“I just… How could anyone forgive me…”

“I said stop. You cannot buy forgiveness. You cannot buy absolution. You were ignorant, now you are not. Your ignorance was through no fault of your own. But now you know the truth. Now you can do something about it. And you must do something because it is the right thing to do, not because you want to make yourself feel better.”

“Where do I start, though?”

“I wouldn’t have brought you, I wouldn’t have told you all that I have, if I didn’t think you would know.”

“I see.”

“I was afraid when you started your… relationship… with the prince that you weren’t the person I thought you were, that I hoped you were.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“I know, I know that now. But I feared, for some time, that you might end up disappointing me.”

Disappointing? Something doesn’t sit well with the way he had said “disappointing,” but she brushes it off, attributing it to the long day. Instead, she asks him if he would like tea.

#

The aroma of roasted vegetables permeates the room as she moves around the kitchen, but her focus is on the Red Front. Sharidan gave up everything—status, money, and safety—to join the cause. And Diarmuid’s constant dedication to his patients, his constant worry that he was not doing enough… She tosses a pork bone into a boiling pot. There had to be more to it, though. All of the talk was about providing services. They spoke not a single word about protests or rallies or violence. But the way Diar had spoken about the “faction” he was part of… There had to be more to it. Diar had spoken about danger just in being acquainted with them. Why would anyone object to a few people handing out soup and free medical care? Each of the Twelve Orders had their own cause that they oversaw. Each went out once a month to provide services to the poor and less fortunate. If the priests and priestesses could do it, why would anyone object to commoners doing it?

Banging on the door draws her out of her thoughts. Who would be coming by at this hour? It was far too late. Maybe it was Diarmuid? She hopes it’s him; it’s been a week since she attended the meeting, and she hasn’t seen him since that night. She puts a lid on her pot, removes her apron and rushes down the stairs to the shop.

She swings open the door before even checking who it is. “Where have you been?”

“I did not know you missed me that much, my lovely lady,” Prince Cian says. “Enough to drop all formality?”

Her stomach tightens. “I am sorry, your Highness.” She bows, her unkempt hair hiding her blush.

“Tell me, who was it that you believed was calling upon you?”

“Oh,” she says, straightening and leading him to her office, the only room that is any sort of state that is not a disaster. “Oh, an assistant. He’s very late with something he was sent to fetch.”

“You would talk to someone that way? An employee?”

“Well, some assistants are not known for showing up when and where they are supposed to, and one can only handle so many disappointments.”

“My dear, I know exactly what you mean. I had not thought you were capable of losing control of yourself like that, however. Strange. You almost seemed human.”

“My lord, before we continue, I must attend to the kitchen. I was in the middle of making some stew.”

“Oh? My lovely lady wants to cook for me? I have already eaten for the day, but suddenly I am famished and only food touched by your hands can fill me. Lead the way; I am so curious to know what my lovely lady looks like in a kitchen.”

Her stomach churns, but she leads him upstairs to her living quarters.

“I must ask, my lord, what brings you here at this hour? I am hardly in a state to receive visitors.”

“Can a man not call upon the woman he loves?” He pulls up a stool and leans against the wall, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Loves? “Of course. But the hour is late, and I am unprepared.”

“I could not possibly go another day without seeing you. And you were so distressed at our last meeting. I could tell that my father’s decision weighed heavily on you.”

She ties the apron around her waist. “Yes, it was distressing.”

“I will not be like that, I promise you. I will not be the king that my father is. I remember his early days; I was still a child, then. But I remember, he used to be just, kind, forgiving. I know I can seem aloof and self-centered. But I am not without empathy or compassion.”

“I know, my lord.” She can think of nothing else to say while she quickly whisks flour into the pot.

“Something happened when he took the throne. Something changed him when the scepter was placed in his hands and the crown set upon his head. Power. Power changes people. I do not want to be changed, not like that.”

Caitlin stays silent. Any answer to this question could be the wrong one. What could she say that would not come across as also criticizing his father?

“When I am king, there will be no protests or riots. I’ve read the pamphlets. I’ve heard their chants. I will do everything I can to stop them. My father, I love him, I do. But… I won’t change; I’ll be a good ruler. I will ensure they have no reason to complain. What do you think, Caitlin?”

She freezes. He knows what they want? But…

“It is fine, my lady. You can speak freely. Speak to me as if I were a normal man, complaining about his normal father.”

“You are steadfast, my lord. I cannot imagine that the crown will change who you are.” Not a lie. He is very steadfast in being a bullheaded, stuck-up, arrogant ass. There is no way the crown could make him any worse.

“Your talents are wasted as a businesswoman. You are far more suited to politics and diplomacy.”

“My lord, I am flattered,” she says, setting the whisk down and facing him. “But I have no aspirations.”

“You do not? No, of course you do not. You can’t see further than the path your parents set you on. I wonder if you’ve ever asked yourself what it is that you want.”

Brenna. That first day, that first night, and every night after that. A question Caitlin had to answer. “You,” was always her reply. What she wanted was Brenna.

“I want what is best for my family. That is enough for me,” she says. “Isn’t that what most people want?”

“I suppose. I should not be chiding you, truly. I am also following the path laid down for me by my father before I was born. Can you forgive my hypocrisy?” “There is nothing to forgive, my lord.”

“How silly it must seem for a prince to complain about his station. Never once have my parents asked me what I want; I must live the life they want. Every other person in this nation has a choice; they can choose who to marry, where to live, what their goals and ambitions are.”

“But the smith’s son does not have a choice, nor does the butcher’s daughter.” She adds in some flour and whisks it furiously. “And desperate people may take jobs they hate just to ensure their children have food. And marriages of convenience or circumstance happen far more often than you can imagine.”

“Well, it has been at least two decades since someone has scolded me so thoroughly.” He laughs. “I find I quite enjoy it.”

“I am not surprised.” She cannot take back the words, so she presses on. “There are no shackles on you. Is there someone holding you at knifepoint to marry someone you dislike? Your parents did not force you to marry Princess Daya, even though that was the plan. And if you do not want the throne, you are more than free to hand the crown to your sister and do whatever you please.”

“Yes, yes, I do enjoy this. Please, my love, tell me more of my flaws. I desire your honesty.”

She sets the whisk aside and removes the pot from the fire. “I have nothing more to say, my lord. I meant no insult.”

“Why do you not bring out that fire more often? Why do you hide it?”

“It does a businesswoman no good to lose control.”

“Yet you have done so twice tonight. I shall count myself lucky to see such a rare event.”

“If you choose to see it that way. I am rather embarrassed by it. Excuse me, I will be right back. I just need to fetch the silverware.” She hides in the closet for as long as she dares. She has insulted him twice tonight, and he thinks he is lucky? What will it take for him to discard her?

“Your home is very plain,” he says, as she enters the kitchen again, the best spoons she has clutched tightly in her hand.

She squints at him, taken aback by the comment. “Excuse me?”

“I mean no criticism. But you do not have decorations, personal touches, knickknacks or mementos. You must surely have traveled the world and seen so many wonderful things; why don’t you have souvenirs? Where was your next destination?”

“Home,” she says, not realizing until after that she spoke.

“This is not home?”

Brenna. Brenna is home.

“You ask a question you will not like the answer to.”

“Whick, then. That is where you are from, correct? You still consider Whick home?”

She looks at her feet. Why is he here? Why is he asking her these questions? Why does each word he says a hot iron in her gut? “Yes, my lord.”

“Cian. Please, Caitlin. Call me Cian.”

She gulps. He stands up and in three quick strides is beside her, engulfing her in his arms and holding her tight. “It is no crime to be homesick. I do not fault you for it.”

She sobs, wishing she could hold it in until he was gone. Why do you always do what your fathers tell you to do? What is it that you want?

You, Brenna. Only you.

“Shhh. It will be fine,” he says, gently running his hand down her back. “Why don’t I take you there? We can sneak out tomorrow; no one has to know. We can spend a week there, you and me. Would you like that?”

“I… I cannot do that, I am sorry. I have to…”

“You have to be the obedient daughter, I know. I know. I apologize for imposing upon you, my lovely lady. Why don’t I finish making dinner then, and I can serve you?”

Too confused and disoriented to reply, she allows herself to be sat in a chair and watches as the Crown Prince of Fayn ladles soup into bowls and places a perfectly plated meal before her. “My sister would make a wonderful queen,” he says, jolting her out of her stupor.

“I am sure she would,” is all she can think of to say in reply.

“She would probably be better than I, truth be told. Maybe I could abdicate. Maybe find myself a cozy cottage in some port town. Live a quiet life. Maybe a garden, maybe some cats. Maybe a beautiful lady and a few children?”

She drops her spoon. Is he…?

“Forgive me. I again troubled you. But, if that is what you want, a quiet life, mornings that smell like salt, and evenings that are cool with ocean spray? If that is what you want, well. I could make it happen. Give you that life; just say the word, Caitlin.”

#

Diarmuid called upon her the next morning, apologizing for his absence; he had to go out of town unexpectedly, he says, but claimed he could give her no more information than that. He invited her to an early lunch with some of the other Red Front members, and then to help them with some charity work on the edge of the city.

She took his arm with more than a little hesitation; she had stayed up too late talking to Cian. At one point, he found a wine bottle, helped himself, and insisted she also partake. Her head spun as they walked, but she did not regret joining Diarmuid once she got there.

She falls into a pattern as autumn progresses. During the week, she works. On Saturday, she attends parties, hunts, and galas with Cian. And on Sunday, she enjoys herself with her new friends.

“Umm, here…” Caitlin says, handing a bag of food to an old woman who answers the door.

“Is this all there is this week?” the woman asks.

“Kayla, hello,” Aine says, coming up to the door with a second bag.

“Oh, Aine, thank goodness.”

“How is your wrist?”

“Oh, same old. Every time I think it is better, I hurt it again.”

Caitlin slips away, feeling awkward, and stands waiting by the cart.

“Did you think she would bite you? What was that about?”

“I just don’t know how to talk to them.”

“Them?”

“The people we are helping, I just feel—”

“As people, you talk to them as people. Just treat them as people,” Aine says, drawing her flask from her hip and taking several gulps, her upbeat nature ever-present, joking with the people they were helping and making mischief amongst us volunteers. “You are too used to negotiating, not giving, I take it?”

Caitlin looks away sheepishly.

Eventually, the conversations Caitlin makes become less stilted and transform into the chatter of friends. She trades stories of childhood escapades and listens as young girls ask for advice on love, and older gentlemen tease and joke. The guilt lessens, and the hesitation that she would be bragging if she engaged in conversation lifted.

“Come, let’s go to the tavern after we finish up here, how about that?” Aine says, looking into her flask before turning it over in disappointment. Going to a tavern, Caitlin learns, is something of a mainstay. At first, this was uncomfortable. Caitlin would think about how most of the day giving food to people who would otherwise have none. How could they possibly sit down and enjoy themselves, eat warm food under a roof? How could we do this when there were people without?

Caitlin hesitates.

“You can’t help everyone,” Aine says, throwing a bag over her shoulder. “You deserve this just as much as they do. And you need it if you are to do this. You cannot spend your time on this guilt. You need time to recharge. You will run yourself to the ground if you don’t. You will burn out, become depressed, and then cynical or apathetic. You cannot do that. So, you sit back down, and you order more wine, and you play cards and make jokes.”

Caitlin sighs. She has received this lecture several times, and by now she does know why it’s necessary. She learns to dance and tell bawdy jokes and win more rounds of cards than people expected her to. Sometimes she glances next to her, expecting to see Brenna. Sometimes she thinks she hears Brenna. Of course, she is never there. I’m doing this for you, she says. Your life was worth so much. Greed should not have robbed me of you.

“Very well. I think I can get away from the office for a little longer.”

“Good girl,” Aine says. “I’m gonna take this back to the house and get some more water. Meet you there? Would you mind finding Kegan?”

“No problem.” Caitlin packs up her own satchels and boxes and finds Kegan waiting for her the next street over.

“So, that volunteer at the school this morning?” Kegan says.

“What about them?”

“They were flirting with you,” Kegan says, tail flicking. “I’ve been waiting all day to ask about that.” “They were not flirting with me.”

“They were too! You really are dense; you act like you don’t even realize it when people are flirting with you!”

“Stop it! They were absolutely not flirting with me!” Caitlin’s hands are full of empty boxes; so she jabs her shoulder into Kegan’s.

“Yes, they were! And you were flirting back!”

“I was not!”

Kegan’s pale blue tail flicked back and forth. They smile and tilt their head to the side. “If you say so.”

“You can be insufferable.”

“But you looooove me.”

Caitlin rolls her eyes. “My point still stands.”

“C’mon. Let’s get these back and then meet up with Diar and Aine for the regular round.”

“Sounds good to me. But please don’t sing again this time. We almost got kicked out.”

“Not my fault that they don’t like bawdy songs.”

“Kegan.”

“I know, I know. You grew up with pirates, and somehow my songs are too lewd.”

“You can’t just start singing about—”

A chorus of terror echoes down the alleyway as they turn down it. There are people rushing towards them, not even looking back behind them to see if whatever has terrified them is following. “What’s going on?” Caitlin yells to them as they race past.

“Guards! Royals, searching for something! Get out!”

“Oh, no!” Kegan drops the boxes and bags they are holding and dashes down the alley.

“Wait! Kegan, come back!” Caitlin chases after the young Calla, but soon the air is full of smoke, making it far too hard to breathe. She can’t push her way through the throng of people running the other way.

Kegan is fast and dexterous, bouncing over people, and leaping over objects in their way, but Caitlin is slow and clumsy and quickly loses them.

“No, no, no, no, no, no!” Even over the cacophony of the sounds of the masses and the shouts of Royal Guards, Kegan’s cries could be heard.

“Caitlin, they found us. We have to get people out, though; we have to see if there…Aine…Aine…” Flames rose high above the street; the main headquarters of the Red Front burned quickly and brightly.

“No, Kegan, we have to run!” Caitlin grabs Kegan’s wrist and tries to pull her way. “Kegan, please.”

“You run, then,” They look at Caitlin, their eyes narrowing, their tail bristling. “I’m going to save our friends.” They dig their claws into Caitlin’s other arm until she releases it, and then dashes away.

“Kegan, no!” Caitlin can barely breathe; the smoke is only growing darker, thicker. She tries to clear it by waving her arms in front of her, but it is no use. She reaches the back entrance to the house, and she finds Kegan, standing in front of the gate. They are not moving, rigid, and only the slow blinking of their wide eyes gives any indication that they are not stone.

“Kegan. We can’t go in there. The fire, it’s too big, and there are guards swarming.”

“No.” They shake their head. “No, no! Caitlin.” Their knees give out, and they fall, their hands balling into fists. “No.”

A gruff voice echos down the alley. “I heard something; are we sure no one was going to get out the back?”

“We poured too much gasoline back there for anyone to get anywhere within the garden.”

“Well, I’m going to check it out anyway.” The clack of the guard’s copper-toed shoes is louder than the screams of the fleeing crowd, pounding in time to Caitlin’s pulse.

“Kegan. Stand up.” They don’t move. Caitlin lifts the Calla to their feet.

“We have to save them; we have to save them.”

“We can’t do anything if we’re in the dungeons or dead.”

They nod, finally relenting. The smoke covers their retreat, or at least Caitlin hopes so. The guard who had said he heard something rounds the corner and looks directly at Caitlin, but she sees him only as a shade, not even sure if he is there. She hopes he can’t make them out either.

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#StarsAndSoil

Note: This is a [second] draft. The contents here may change or alter between now and publication.

Copyright 2023 Dax Murray – All Rights Reserved

Content Note:

This is a work of fiction. It contains depictions, scenes, and discussions of topics that some may want to avoid. I have tried to make this list as exhaustive as possible, but I cannot know everyone's possible triggers and sensitivities. Please know that this book handles mature topics and themes. This chapter contains:

• Riots and Violence
• Consensual Kink and BDSM

CHAPTER FOUR

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“The seams are fraying,” the Duchess of Clare says, picking at the embroidery on the cuff of her sleeve. Prince Cian had invited Caitlin to a “small” excursion. Small. But the hunting party comprised far more people than Caitlin had expected.

The Duchess of Clare, Lady Aelena, his cousin and the daughter of the king’s deceased brother, Tómas, is the tallest of the hunting party, and the youngest, though with her eyes perpetually crinkled in disdain, she could have fooled anyone into believing her to be the oldest. She looks Caitlin up and down upon her arrival as if she were looking at a rotten fish, and says nothing to her, apparently deciding that Caitlin is not worth her time or attention, and is probably just another one of her cousin’s silly infatuations, and so she goes back to complaining about the quality of various things. The dressmaker had not sewn the embroidery on her gloves well, the greens in the morning breakfast were too wilted, and the invitations were made on inferior parchments. What was this country coming to?

“We do not need to have this conversation in front of our guests,” Princess Eleanor says. The prince’s older sister is equally annoyed to be part of this hunting party, but due to her proximity to Lady Clare and not her disdain for Caitlin; the tension between the cousins fills the air. Princess Eleanor greets Caitlin kindly enough, her smile sincere as she takes Caitlin’s hand. The glare she throws at her brother afterward, though, would send anyone else fleeing. But Prince Cian, in all his pompous assery, is unfazed.

“Don’t you dare go insulting the table linens again; I am taking care of that.” Caitlin recognizes Sir Liam as one of the men who had been with Prince Cian at her fathers’ party. Keeping his chin high, he swaggers over to the duchess and claps her on the back. “I’m taking care of it.”

His husband, Sir Connor, grins at him and then winks at the duchess. The two husbands both sport short, neatly trimmed beards and both are partial to stroking them.

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “You had better be.”

“Don’t be so sour,” Liam shoots back, flipping his long brown hair over his shoulder. “You’ll never catch a lover that way.”

Princess Eleanor sighs. “Cut it out.”

Caitlin cannot help but notice how all the members of the Royal House of Fola share the same unnaturally pale blond hair that, in a certain light, looks nearly silver, and their eyes are all the same pale blue hue.

Princess Daya is just as warm in her greeting, taking Caitlin’s hand gently in both of hers. She is the smallest of the little party and the eldest by a decade. Her tight-fitting jacket and collared dress shirt make her appear more elegantly masculine than Liam and Connor, both of whom are dressed in poorly fitting and tattered breeches and shirts. She seems more open to sullying her clothes than Lady Clare, and unlikely to complain about the quality of said clothing. Caitlin likes her immediately. The sun makes her deep golden skin sparkle, a sparkle that is not unlike that of the Ástfríður, and her face is spotted with flecks of amber freckles. This princess from Qaewi had once been a potential bride for Prince Cian but had fallen for his sister instead.

“Fine. Where are the horses?” Lady Clare asks.

Some young adults, though they look hardly out of their childhood, meet the party at the end of the garden, several horses and hounds in tow.

“Have you ever seen such a beauty?” the prince says as he takes the reins of a black stallion. “I named him Lightning. He is the fastest in the country. Come, let him smell you.” As soon as Caitlin gets close enough, he puts his hand on her back and pulls her close to him. “He won’t bite.”

Caitlin obliges him and does not protest when he pulls her even closer. “This one will be yours for the day.” One youth hands the reins of a small chestnut mare to Caitlin. She appraises it; the horse is nearing her time for retirement but is otherwise in spectacular health and has a beautiful coat. The reins are fine leather; Caitlin can’t help thinking about the price this would fetch. As the rest of the party mounts their own horses, the prince gestures for Caitlin to come to his side. “We are hunting foxes today.” He grins at her, clearly expecting some sort of response, but Caitlin can’t figure out what that response would be.

“Let the hunt begin; I can’t wait to bring home the best catch!” Princess Eleanor raises her hand to the sky, grinning wickedly at her wife.

“This will be my, let’s see, the sixth time this year bagging one before you?” Princess Daya says to her wife as each swings a quiver over their shoulders, her eyes twinkling. “We both know who the better huntress is.”

“Ah, but my catches are always of better quality than yours,” Princess Eleanor retorts.

“You are entitled to your opinions, wrong though they may be,” Princess Daya chides her. They both laugh and kick their horses into a gallop.

The prince narrows his eyes, a dark and sour look on his face. “Well. Let’s get to it.” His petulance is grating. He kicks his own horse, and the rest of the party falls in line behind him.

The forest north of the palace is sprawling; dense enough for the fauna to feel safe, but too thick for horses to be unguarded. These lands belong to the monarchy, but the king has given Sir Connor permission to take its lumber and game. A privilege many others could only dream of.

“You can’t tell me that you don’t enjoy this,” the prince chuckles as he halts to find the rabbit he had shot. His sour mood fades away as he gets the first catch. It isn’t the fox that he had wanted, but he brags, regardless. He pulls the arrow out and tosses the rabbit into his game bag. “See how the arrow pierced the heart? Don’t you like the rush? The thrill?” When Caitlin does not respond, he continues. “You’ll understand when you get your first catch.”

“Cian, let’s go. You can still brag and show off on horseback.” Sir Connor winks at Caitlin; his jovial laugh carries through the woods. The duchess rolls her eyes and starts off again.

The prince comes around to help Caitlin back in the saddle. She wants to push him away, but she knows staying within his good graces is vital for both her and the business she will inherit. Hold him off, but keep him happy enough so that, when he ends this, his opinion of her will still be favorable. She holds back a sigh and allows him to lift her up. His hands linger on her thighs as she settles on the horse. “Not every woman looks as beautiful with her hair tousled from the open forest winds as she does inside the walled gardens.” She blinks at him, unsure what to say at all. He mounts his horse again. Caitlin hopes that this silent rebuff of his compliment will put him off a little and make him second-guess his affection. But he chuckles. “A modest lady? What wonderful world have I entered?” He tugs on his reins and takes off again, sending the hounds forward.

The princesses continue teasing each other, and accumulating their share of small game, each showing the other their catch and keeping a running tally. When they both surpass the prince in the number of prey caught, the whole party tones down their excitement. Princess Daya lowers her bow a hair’s breadth when she sees her brother-in-law aim for the same fox and waits a fraction of a second after he lets his arrow loose to shoot hers. His arrow pierces the heart, though not perfectly. Princess Daya’s arrow clips the fox’s tail. “Well done, my sister! You might have had this one yourself.”

“Do not believe I am not chiding myself, too. But the catch was yours from the start.” He takes it as a compliment. He does not see her scowl; a scowl quickly replaced with an enormous smile.

He holds his catch high and grins at Caitlin. “Impressive, my lord,” she says. “I could not have made such a catch.”

“We won’t leave these woods without you having a prize of your own!” He jumps off of Lightning, tosses the reins to Sir Liam, and climbs behind Caitlin. The party takes off at a slow trot, everyone now quiet as they scan for one last piece of game. Caitlin makes no comments as the prince holds her hips tightly, sometimes running his hands a little too far up or down for her comfort. She tries to control her breathing, lest she turn around and punch him square in the face.

“Shh. Right there. See it?” The prince points to a squirrel.

“I do.”

Deftly, he gets down from the horse and puts his bow in her hands. Caitlin knows very well how to shoot game and does not need the prince’s help at all. Yet she allows him to adjust her hands and fingers, grimacing; he is doing it all wrong. “Now pull back. Wait… wait… Let it loose,” he whispers in her ear. Even hampered by the prince’s help, she does not miss.

As the day presses on, they make their way to a clearing to picnic. Every time the prince tries to boast to Caitlin of his prowess, of his strength, of his intelligence, his cousin mentions his past paramours. “Remember when you brought Miss Alice here?” “You had a cake like this when we had a party with Lady Amelia.” “Did you help Lady Shennen, or was it Lady Marianna, bag the fox last year?”

Each time she does this, his irritation increases. Each time, Princess Daya tries to steer the conversation back to a subject that Prince Cian will be less sour over. But she can only do so much.

Tiring of her games with the prince, the duchess says to Caitlin, “You are from a merchant family?”

“I am, your Grace.”

“Does your family work with any of the garment makers?”

“Some, yes.”

“Do you sell to Sir Liam’s business?”

“I’m not sure, your Grace. I usually deal with silk merchants; other employees handle cotton, wool, and other fabrics. What sort of garments does your family make, Sir Liam?”

“Oh, it is not my family that makes garments. I have factories.”

“Have you always worked for your fathers?” the duchess presses.

“I have, your Grace.”

“And is it not just shameful that they have kept this rose hidden away in some small town?” Prince Cian puts his arms around Caitlin. “I hear they came here often, yet never thought to bring you with them.”

“I preferred to be at home, at our headquarters in Whick,” Caitlin says.

“Home? Is this not your home now?” Prince Cian leans in closer.

“Was there something that kept you there?” The duchess cuts in; brow furrowed.

“I liked it there.”

“There was not a person who kept you there? Anyone? A wealthy merchant’s daughter surely must have had at least a few overtures over the years,” the duchess continues, a wolf ready to pounce.

“I am much too busy with my duties.”

“You had no sweetheart? No one at all?”

Prince Cian looks back and forth between Caitlin and his cousin, equal parts angry and skeptical.

“If you are asking me if I have some lover waiting for me in Whick, I must tell you I do not. I observed the full mourning period before arriving in Eoi last year.”

“I heard otherwise,” the duchess grins, making eye contact with the prince. “I do not know what you may have heard, but there has been no one in my life since my late wife passed away.”

“You wound me, cousin!” the prince says. The duchess scoffs. “Have you no feelings for me? I am insulted that you would think this peerless maiden would deceive me! My dearest lady, tell my cousin how daft she is.”

“Yes, Caitlin. Tell me why someone as intelligent and beautiful as you would have no suitors aside from my idiot cousin.”

Caitlin takes a deep breath, calmly thinking through the best way to proceed. Does the duchess think she is playing him for a fool? Leading him on while pushing him off? It would humiliate him. That was indeed what she was doing, but she did not have anyone else waiting for her in the background. The best she can hope for is that he will tire of her sooner than he had the others. “I had no reason to believe any feelings I might have for someone would be reciprocated; I would not dream of harboring emotions for one who would never return them.”

“Ah! You should indeed dream, my rose. You should always hope and believe.”

#

The prince is in a sweater temper as they ride back from the picnic. His advances grow bolder and bolder as they continue toward the palace; he sings—badly—all the bawdy songs he can remember and asks others to join in. He boasts of his talents; trying to impress and amaze her. But each attempt is now accompanied by touches or meaningful glances. He talks about what he wants for the future, for the days when he will be the most loved king, the golden ruler, the jewel of the kingdom, the monarch that will reign forever in memories and history books.

But his speech on the meaning of kingly love halts when the guard tells the party that they cannot enter.

“I am the prince! This is my capital; you will let us in!”

“Your Highness, that is the problem. You will want to go in a back way.”

“This is my goddamn city; I will go in whichever way I want.”

“My brother,” Princess Eleanor says. “I want to take our horses on another quick run; I think they are still antsy. Please go in without us.” Princess Eleanor turns her horse, and Princess Daya waves at them before they take off again.

He waves his hand in dismissal as they leave. “Open the gates.”

The guards slowly do as they are told.

“I see nothing wrong,” Sir Liam says.

“The guards think too highly of themselves,” Sir Connor responds.

The duchess stays quiet.

They come upon a large crowd, most of them trying to get a better look at something happening on a dais. Five guards are trying to pull a dozen people down from it, while those people toss pamphlets out into the mob. Sirs Liam and Connor move to the front of the party and part the crowd. Someone screams, and then more shouts join in the chorus. And then the crowd becomes chaos.

Caitlin’s horse rears up, tossing her from it. As she hits the ground, she rolls and is carried away by the riot. She twirls around, looking for her horse, but someone presses a pamphlet into her hand and then dashes away. Pushing her way further into the crowd and still not seeing the prince or his companions, she decides to return home.

“What are you doing here?” a familiar voice says. Diarmuid spins her around to face him. “It is dangerous to be here and for more than one reason.”

“I didn’t intend to be here! I just want to get home now.”

“Where did you intend to be?”

“The prince invited me to a hunt, and we were just returning; I fell from my horse. I don’t know where the rest of them went.”

“This is no good.” He scowls.

“Well, just let me get out of here, then.”

He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. “No, you need to get back to the prince. That is the safest place for you, much as I hate to say it. I’ll help you back there. And give me that pamphlet.”

“Why are you here? What is this about?”

“Not now.”

“Diar, you owe answers when I get home.”

He doesn’t reply, just grabs her arm and drags her behind him, leading her closer to the dais. “There he is. Now play nice.”

She runs to the formation of guards that surround the prince and his friends. “Find her! Now!”

“We don’t know…”

“Prince Cian! Please! I’m here!” She looks back over her shoulder, but Diarmuid has disappeared, and with him, the chance to leave. She has no choice but to return to the hunting party.

“There she is! Get her over here; she is not to be hurt.”

A guard scoops her up and puts her on a horse, and then the party and a handful of royal guards make their way to the palace.

#

“You never mentioned your date with the prince.” Diar is waiting for her, slouching in a chair in the back of the office, scowling. He does not even wait for her to take off her jacket. Caitlin is growing weary of moody men, and Diar is not helping her escape that.

“Hello to you, too. I’ll put on some tea. Sit straight, you’ll be in pain later if you don’t.”

He does as she says, running his hands down his face. “I’m sorry, Caitlin. Everything is just a mess, and I can’t do anything about it. Thank you,” he says, taking the mug she hands him.

“Tell me what is going on. What was that all about?”

“It doesn’t matter what it was about.” He throws his hat to the ground. “It doesn’t matter, and you should not concern yourself with it. Not with you being so close to the prince.”

“It is not by choice.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you fathers demand that you accept the invitation?”

“Well, no, but I can’t just turn down the prince; it would jeopardize the growth of the business.”

“When was the last time you put your wants over what you thought would benefit the business?”

“No, don’t change you the subject. You will not do this. You will tell me what is going on.” She punctuates her statement with a flick of her spoon against the edge of the sugar bowl and then tosses the spoon down onto the table. She doesn’t want to think about that question, not when the last time someone asked it…

“Fine.” He pulls the pamphlet from his coat pocket and hands it to her.

“Textile workers upset with dangerous factory conditions, long hours, low pay… I had heard that this was what they were protesting about.” She flips through the pages. “But some of these things, what they are asking for… Farmers unhappy at their lords? Taxes paying for palaces? This could be construed as treason.”

“Which is why you can’t have that pamphlet, and why you should not have tried to escape at the demonstration today. If you’d taken off…”

“These pamphlets make it sound like today was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration. But it got very violent.”

“There are a few different players behind this. The ones today were the ones who think change can happen peacefully.” He rolls his eyes. “That if we ask nicely enough, we’ll be given what we want.”

“But it became a riot. How is that ‘peaceful’?”

“That’s a brilliant question. But it wasn’t supposed to be violent. I am guessing they were provoked.”

She flips through the pamphlet. “Are these things true? Is it really this bad? It can’t be, surely.”

“Yes, it’s all true. There are farmers working from sunup to sundown, and more than half of their harvest must go to their lords or the king. And you have seen what that is spent on. There are people in those textile mills and those garment factories that are being worked to death. They are dying, so the factory owner can make a few extra coins.”

The duchess picking at a stray thread, commenting on the table linens. Liam saying he was working on it. The comments at the garden party that the people asking for better were upsetting the gods. “But the violence…” “Do you think people shouldn’t be furious when the wealthy and privileged think of them as disposable? Weighing a life against a larger profit? Calculating how much a life is worth?”

Brenna. Xir murderers… the people willing to kill for the chance at finding some mythical port and a road to riches.

“I don’t think you can change those sorts of things,” she says. “It’s just how the world is. How it’s always been.”

“It’s not something that can be changed peacefully. But it can be changed.” “Is that what the other groups involved believe?”

“Our meetings are much more secret.”

“Your meetings? You’re part of it?”

“Of course I am. Now, do you see why I was so worried? What I am involved with… and who you are gadding about with? You caught in the middle of that…”

“What does your group plan to do?”

“I cannot tell you. But I want to. I have been wanting to for a while now.”

“Why? If you claim you can’t tell me because you want me to ‘be safe’ then—”

“It’s not that. You must earn the trust of the leaders. And right now? I trust you, but do you think they trust someone who spends their day frolicking about with the prince?”

She stares at the pamphlet. Brenna. The worth of a life. “Is this… The club?” “Ah. Yes, it is.”

“I see. Why did you join? When? Is it why you overwork yourself with your patients?”

“It’s a long story, and I am exhausted. I will tell you, but not today. If you want to meet the leaders, I can try to find a way for you to prove you’re trustworthy.”

“I don’t know…” It’s too much. Each lap of a wave upon a pier is different but predictable. The sea is only chaotic for those who don’t know her, for those who don’t respect her. Caitlin much prefers the storm on the horizon to the earthquake, shattering her into pieces, scattered shards of her being taken by those who want something from her.

“I understand.” He sighs, shoulders sagging, and stands up.

Her chest squeezes and she reaches out her hand to take his. “It’s not that I don’t care…”

He squeezes her hand. “I know. I get it. Although, I am a little relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“It is your choice, Caitlin. Not a choice you make on a whim. You would be in greater danger than anyone else. But it has to be your choice. If you had decided so easily, I would have wondered if you were just doing it out of a sense of obligation.”

“But wouldn’t my current position make me a perfect asset for your group?” “Yes, it would. But there are some things—some people—that are more important to me than my cause. And if you choose not to join, well.” Without another word, he lets himself out of the back door.

The door clicks shut, and she buries her face in her hands. She wants to go home; she wants to crawl into bed next to Brenna. Removing the pins from her hair, she lets it cascade over her shoulders. Going back to Whick is all she wants; things made sense there.

#

He arrives without fanfare and with an entourage of knights a discreet 20 feet behind him. Although he claims he wants to go in disguise as a commoner, his clothes still give him away as someone of noble birth. He hides his distinctive near-silver hair by tying it up and tucking it under a wide-brimmed hat. There is no way to disguise his eyes blue eyes. Anyone who looks at him for more than a passing glance will immediately know him for who he is.

Despite this, Caitlin mounts the horse behind him, and the two head to the market. It has been nearly two months since she got lost at the protest, and four months since he started courting her. But he has persisted in his pursuit and the protesters have put a pause on theirs for the time being. The late summer air is heavy with the smell of storms, threatening the vibrant green trees with angry winds. Caitlin hopes the storms will at least hold back their fury until after her outing with the prince. The thought of his anger at the weather’s disobedience sends a shiver down her spine.

Despite the early hours, the market is already overrun with people. The prince dismounts from the horse, assists Caitlin, and then hands the reins to a knight. “I am so glad, my lovely lady, that you agreed to accompany me to the market today. I am sure you are used to seeing far grander things in your own inventories, but I enjoy sneaking to the market like this. I can be among the people I will one day rule. Have you been here before?”

“I have, at least once a month. I love coming here for fresh produce and essentials.”

“You mean you do not have servants? People who run these errands for you?” “I suppose I could hire if I wanted, but how would I know then that they chose the freshest eggs or the fluffiest bread?”

“You enjoying checking for those things? I suppose it is in your nature, then.” He throws his arm around her shoulder and leads her into the crowd. More than once, a beggar approaches them, only to see the prince’s eyes and think better of it. And more than once, a peddler approaches with flowers or trinkets and drives an even harder bargain once they recognize the prince; he pays twice as much as he should have for roses and daisies. Caitlin’s arms are full of flowers when they hear the woman scream.

“Thief!”

“Stop!”

“After her!”

“Help! Get her!” This last voice is one that Caitlin unfortunately recognizes. The priest who had harassed her a year ago. She had seen both him and the woman he taunted multiple times since that incident. Though, luckily, never at the same time.

The prince hesitates, looking between Caitlin and the direction of the shouts. “Stay put!” He snaps and out of nowhere, a knight appears beside Caitlin, as if she’d always been standing there. “Sir Dermont,” the prince says to the knight, “protect Lady Caitlin.”

The knight bows to the prince before turning her attention to Caitlin. “My lady, do not worry, you are safe with me.”

The shouts continue. Curiosity gets the better of Caitlin, and she sprints away from Sir Dermont before the knight can say anything to her. From a distance, she follows behind Prince Cian, shoving past other curious onlookers until she arrives at the scene. The priest is gripping a woman’s hands, preventing her from leaving despite her struggling, and Caitlin realizes it is the same woman from last year. She wants to assist the woman, but at that same moment Cian steps forward, and she takes two steps back to hide in the crowd.

“What is going on here? I demand to know,” Prince Cian says, tearing off his hat and shaking his long, near-silver hair free.

Both the priest and the woman stop their struggle and at the prince. “Answer me! By order of the prince!”

The priest raises an eyebrow and attempts a clumsy bow while still clenching the woman’s hands. “Your Majesty, this woman is a thief! She has been stealing from honest, hard-working people. She is a menace to this market! She shirks her divinely ordained responsibilities to work hard and instead—” “I do not have all day; concisely explain what happened.”

“Yes, of course, your Majesty. This woman was flaunting her figure to distract the hard-working people from her disgusting sleights of hand! By robbing them of their money and goods, she blasphemed against Culain!”

“Please! I didn’t do it. I’m innocent! He’s lying!”

“Are you accusing a priest of Culain of lying?” The priest hurls her to the ground and kicks her in the stomach. “How dare you! Of all your crimes, that must be the worst. Have you no respect for His Holiness Culain!?”

“Enough! I will hear both sides.” The prince points at the woman, and another knight steps forward and grabs her. “Gently, do not harm her further.”

The woman still struggles while the knight binds her hands behind her back. “Please, your Highness, I am not a thief. It is true I have no money and I cannot work, but I am no thief! He is a liar; he has been trying to frame me for crimes ever since I rejected him!”

“Harlot! Liar! I have taken a sacred vow of celibacy! Whore, it was you who approached me!”

“Sir, what is your name?” The prince rubs his forehead.

“Brother Conmhac, your Highness. At your service.”

“Ma’am, your name, please.”

“Morrin. My name is Morrin, your Highness.”

“Brother Conmhac, Morrin. I do not care what history you have between you. What I care about right now is what she stole, and proof that she did.”

“Of course, your Highness. If I may?” Brother Conmhac motions to Morrin.

“You may.”

The priest approaches Morrin slowly. If Caitlin had not grown up with less-than-reputable traders as mentors, she would have missed it. The priest draws something out of his own pocket and drops it in Morrin’s before making a show of patting her down. “What’s this? I think there’s something in this pocket,” he says to the knight.

The knight reaches his hand into the woman’s pocket and pulls out an expensive gold bracelet, holding it up in the air. Morrin grows pale.

“That’s mine!” A young woman shoves her way through the crowd. “That’s mine! It says my name on the inside of it! ‘Etaoine’ is engraved on the inside!” The knight inspects the bracelet, squinting at the fine lettering with a grimace. “Your Highness, it is hers.”

Morrin falls to her knees. “I did not steal that…”

Someone taps on Caitlin’s shoulder, and she whirls around to find Sir Dermont behind her, brow furrowed, mouth tight. Caitlin points back to the scene unfolding. Sir Dermont crosses her arms and shrugs. Certain that the knight was not about to betray her, Caitlin looks back at the woman, now being forcibly dragged away, screaming still that she did not do it, that it was some mistake.

“Your Highness, when will she be executed?” The priest shoves his hands in the pockets of his robes.

“Excuse me? Why would she be executed?”

“You heard her yourself; she refuses to work!”

“As far as I am aware, that is not a crime. It is stupid. But stupidity is not a crime.”

“It is a crime against Culain! It is written in his holy book! Thou shalt work!” “Even so, it is not a crime to the Crown, and even if it were, it would not be one worthy of execution.” Prince Cian crosses his arms.

“I thought House Fola were devout followers of Culain. I thought Culain had divinely blessed the House of Fola and granted them wisdom to guide in ruling this land! Or am I wrong? Is there another God, young Prince, that you follow? Have you instead given your piety to Andraste? Maddyn? Shea? Fianna? Which of the 12 can bless your family in as Culain does?”

The prince clinches his fist, sneering at the priest. “My family shall never turn its back on Culain. I am angered that you would even insinuate such a thing.” “Your behavior says otherwise, especially since you started consorting with a low-born commoner who does not know her place. If you want to prove your loyalty to Culain and your devotion to His Temple, execute Morrin and cease your association with that sea-swallower!”

Caitlin gulps, and Sir Dermont takes a step in front of her. The priest has called her ‘sea-swallower’ more than a few times, always as an insult. But the venom when he says it this time sinks into her bones.

The prince’s porcelain face turns scarlet. “I think that there is far more between you two than her rejecting you. I can see why she would do such a thing.”

“Maybe Muriel or Iden… That wench from Whick has converted you, hasn’t she?”

The prince raises his fist.

Caitlin shoves her way through the crowd, hoping to reach Cian before he punches the priest. She may not like him, but she did not want to be the subject of further gossip. She did not want to cause a brawl in the market square.

The prince takes a step toward the priest. And then another, and then he lunges.

Caitlin dives in front of him, slamming into him before his fist reaches the priest’s face.

“Caitlin!” Prince Cian says as they both crash to the ground. “What are you doing? Why didn’t you stay put? Why are you here?”

She scrambles off of the prince, her face burning vermilion. “Oh gosh, I am sorry, my lord.”

“Why would you do that?”

She turns away from him, head buried in her hands. Perhaps this will cause him to lose interest. “It wasn’t worth it, getting into a fight… in front of everybody here.”

He laughs and grabs her hand. “You wish to protect my reputation?”

“Well, I…” Her stomach drops. This is the prince that cannot be denied what he feels he is entitled to. He won’t let her go now, not when someone just challenged him over her. His anger at her disobedience cannot compare to the rage the priest now faces for trying to take away one of his toys. He releases her and turns his attention to the priest, lip curled.

“You are lucky that my lady cares more about decorum than I do, Brother. I hereby order your arrest for insulting the royal family.”

The priest laughs while Sir Dermont restrains him. “Oh, you do not know what you are doing. Sweet, spoiled child. You’ll regret this. Father Nael will hear about this, and you’ll regret this. And when you realize your folly, your penance shall be Morrin’s execution.” He continues laughing even as Sir Dermont ties him to her horse and drags him to the dungeons.

The rest of their outing is uneventful, but the prince never allows her to be more than a foot away from him. Outwardly, he shows no signs that anything unfortunate has happened, but Caitlin catches the way his eyes narrow whenever someone gets too close to her.

The end of the day drawing near, Sir Dermont finally returns and informs him that although the woman most likely was framed by the priest, and despite what the priest had said to Prince Cian, King Tarmon has released the priest and at sunset, Morrin will be executed.

#

This won’t bring Morrin back; she knows this. This won’t bring Brenna back. She knocks on the door.

This isn’t truly getting justice for her. This isn’t getting justice for xir. She wrings her hands and waits for Diarmuid to answer.

It’s only been a week since her execution. She can at least meet these leaders. Maybe it could ease some of the pain in her gut whenever the prince puts his hand on her back. Maybe it could fight off the chill every time she hears one of the prince’s friends disparage those less well-off.

She shivers. Autumn has swept in quickly.

“It’s late,” he says, opening his door. She falls into his arms. “I have missed you, too. But can I close the door first?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. Do you mind…?”

“Take a seat in the kitchen. I can warm up some tea for us. What’s wrong?”

“Last week…” She sets her shawl on the back of the chair and sits down. “There was a woman. Morrin.”

“Ah. You knew her?”

“You knew her, too?”

“Yes. From the organization. Well, she wasn’t part of it, but we helped her.” “I see. I ran into her sometimes at the market and gave her money now and then. She seemed very destitute.”

“She had a hard life.”

“What I saw, though; the way it all happened. I just… I want to come to the next meeting.”

“The next meeting?” Diarmuid says. “Did you speak to your fathers about this? Is this what they want? Or what you want?”

She wishes he would stop asking her that question; it reminds her too much of that summer they spent sailing, and those vacations they planned without tell her fathers, those days she was too “sick” to go to the pier and help manage the docks. It reminds her too much of the Ástfríður who reminded her too often that she was more than a dutiful daughter.

But whoever she was aside from Heir to Peddigree Trading died the day Brenna did and was buried beside xir. She has nothing more to live for.

“There’s more to this than just Morrin. What else happened?”

“I am not talking about it.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“What? No.”

“If you want to talk to the leaders, I need to know if there is something going on—.”

“I can’t! I can’t talk about xir!” She covers her mouth with her hands, face burning crimson.

“Xir?”

“It. I can’t talk about it. Forget it. I’m leaving. Nevermind, just, nevermind about everything!” She leaps from her chair, grabs her shawl and makes for the door.

“Wait!”

She halts mid-stride and turns around.

“Caitlin, my Caitlin. Wait. Please.”

“What?”

“I won’t pry anymore.”

“Brenna.” She collapses to the floor and buries her face in her shawl. “Xir name was Brenna. My wife. I am sorry, I can’t. I can’t say anything more. Please.”

“Rebecca. Her name was Rebecca. My mother. She died when I was young. I understand if you cannot say anything more about Brenna.” He joins her on the floor, close enough that she can smell the harsh alcohol he uses to clean his instruments, close enough that she could reach out and grab his hand. Too close. “But I will always be here to listen, if one day you want to.”

“I want to join your organization. It’s my choice. I promise.”

“I’ll talk to the leaders, see if you can at least attend one of the meetings, and what you can do to earn their trust. If that is what you really want.”

“It is what I want. And besides,” she says, wiping away her tears on her sleeve. “I am sure he will tire of me soon and I’ll no longer be in that much danger.”

He smiles. “I don’t know how anyone would ever tire of you. But I hope he does.”

“He will.” She squeezes his knee.

“I am hungry. How about some soup and cards?” He stands up and offers her his hand.

She takes it. “That would be wonderful. I hope you’re in the mood to lose some money.”

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#StarsAndSoil

Note: This is a [second] draft. The contents here may change or alter between now and publication.

Copyright 2023 Dax Murray – All Rights Reserved

Content Note:

This is a work of fiction. It contains depictions, scenes, and discussions of topics that some may want to avoid. I have tried to make this list as exhaustive as possible, but I cannot know everyone's possible triggers and sensitivities. Please know that this book handles mature topics and themes. This chapter contains:

• Depictions of Consensual Intercourse
• Depictions of Consensual Kink

CHAPTER THREE

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After leaving the shores of the Veil, the Ástfríður only wore her ahnhörn on their wedding day. Otherwise, she kept it in a small box, tucked in the back of a closet. It might seem crass to treat such a treasure that way. Half-forgotten, gathering dust, mingling with old coats, brooms and dustpans, the etcetera that one might collect over the years. It was moot; one could tell she was Ástfríður even without it. Her eyes were too round, almost too large. Her nose was softer, her chin sharper and her mouth smaller. The sun reflected off of her amber skin in rainbows, glimmers and flashes even from a distance. There was no mistaking her. She had boarded a pirate ship that was returning to Fayn. She expressed her desire to see more of the world to the captain and joined their crew. For some years, she accompanied this ship, and then joined the crew of another for several more years, partaking in the undiplomatic negotiations just as much as in the drinking. Until she met Caitlin.

Caitlin was settling accounts with the captain when she saw her. Everyone saw her. Everyone wanted to both stare at and look away from the Ástfríður disembarking from that ship; all wanted to bask in the iridescence of her skin, watching as she set down a crate, her hair sparkling in the wind. She was a star descended from the heavens. Caitlin wanted to catch her.

Caitlin struggled to stay focused, inspecting the crates, haggling with the sailors or, more often, pirates. Later, Caitlin would ponder if she always knew what would happen at this moment. The Ástfríður’s arrival on one pirate ship could mark her as a potential guide for other pirates wishing to navigate the maelstrom guarding the Isles. Most of those who came and went at Whick were respectable, or as respectable as pirates can be. Later, when she looked back, Caitlin would further chide herself for assuming that she knew those who came and went well enough to believe they wouldn’t harm Brenna.

The Ástfríður approached Caitlin as she finished her transactions with the captain. “They said you were the one to speak to… To be honest, I’m new to this town.”

Caitlin stepped back a little, mouth falling open. “I…” She wanted to come up with something witty. Later, of course, a thousand flirty replies would come to her. But for now, Caitlin was speechless. “Yes, I am the one who runs the shipping and trading around here. How can I help you?”

“I just arrived and am not wanting to go back out to sea right away. Are there places to stay here?” “Of course, there’s an inn about five blocks away. Down that road—” Caitlin changed her mind and took the Ástfríður to the inn herself. “I’ll show you the way.” It wasn’t because she was gorgeous, her smile confident, her chin high and her eyes gleaming. It wasn’t because Caitlin was already smitten with her. It couldn’t be because of that. Caitlin was welcoming, forging a relationship with a potential buyer or seller, or, at the very least, a new resident of Whick. It wasn’t because she kept trying to flirt with Caitlin.

Maria nodded in greeting to Caitlin before taking another round of drinks to a table full of regulars; the crew of the Red Sword. They weren’t the most boisterous of the pirates who came and went, but they were not far behind. The Ástfríður looked them up and down, almost imperceptible, but skilled merchants and business people were often excellent at discerning these sorts of things; haggling was an art. Caitlin led the Ástfríður to a table in a corner to wait for Maria to come back around. “So are you the…” the Ástfríður paused. “The mayor? Executive? Lord?”

“I’m a director of the port. The town doesn’t have its own government. We are on duchy lands, but mostly autonomous. We work on a consensus at town meetings.”

“Ah,” she leaned forward. “So, you do dealings with everyone here, resident or transient. A real gem, this town has.” This wasn’t the confident, playful flirting from the dock; it was soft, warm. “You’ve been here your whole life?”

“Yes, my fathers were both employees of different merchants, but kept running into each other and fell in love. They moved here to set up their own business together and have been here ever since. I started helping them before I even finished my schooling.”

“They are lucky to have you. And this is what you want to do?”

“I guess. What about you? You’ve come a long way from your home. What is your hope?”

“I am not sure yet; I’m copper. There are places out there I want to see, so for now, that’s what I am doing.” This was the first time that the Ástfríður displayed anything but confidence. She looked down at the table and her eyes were seeing something far away for Whick. “For years now, I’ve been traveling with sailors,” she said. “Seeing much of the coasts of Fayn, the coasts of Garcelon, of Sua—strange lot, those hell cats—and even as far away as Janeuq. But little of the lands.”

“So, where do you hope to travel next?”

She brought her hand to her chin, looking up. “No clue. That’s the thrill, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Caitlin said; she’d never considered that the sporadic nature of pirates’ travels could be thrilling in their own right. “I’ve never traveled, or at least not much.”

“Would you like to change that?” The Ástfríður grinned, eyes alight, fire reflected from metal. An invitation, but Caitlin couldn’t tell how serious that invitation was.

“I must run the business here. I can’t.”

“Does this business consume your life? What do you do for you?”

“I have a lot of responsibilities. It doesn’t leave much time for anything like traveling.”

The Ástfríður cocked her head and squinted at Caitlin. “It doesn’t have to be traveling. How do you spend your free time?”

Caitlin almost spat out her drink.

“Why are you laughing? It wasn’t a joke.” She was serious, leaning over the table to get closer to Caitlin.

“I go over inventory, schedules for shipments, accounts, negotiations.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Why? Why do you do all of that? All?”

“My fathers trust me; who else would do it?”

“Anyone else! You can train others; you can delegate some of that responsibility.” Caitlin shifted in her seat and pulled at a stray thread in her sleeves. The Ástfríður backed away. “Look, I’m sorry, Caitlin; I didn’t mean to get like that.”

“It’s fine,” Caitlin said.

“Do you play poker? I got a deck of cards on me.”

Caitlin laughed. “How much money are you willing to lose, Ms.…?”

“Brenna. Just Brenna. And you have no right to be asking that, Ms. Mayor.”

Caitlin had learned how to play so she could entertain the crews of ships; hospitality went a long way to building favorable relationships. But Brenna was more than a skillful player that she was hoping to do business with.

“Another winning hand,” she said, scooping the coins from the center.

“Is this how you paid your way around?” Caitlin asked, setting her cider down. “How you fulfilled your obligations on that ship?”

She winked at Caitlin. “Sometimes I sing or dance, too. You don’t have to keep throwing your hands. I like you too much to have my pride hurt.”

Caitlin had been throwing a lot of them. She was exceptionally good at that sort of flattery; let the captains and crew think they had at least one thing over the person they wanted to swindle.

Caitlin won the next four rounds. “That’s m’girl,” Brenna said. She looked into Caitlin’s eyes and smiled. “That’s m’girl. You don’t need to be so shy.”

“Alright then.” Caitlin grinned and raised an eyebrow. She sat taller. “Let’s keep going then.” Something in Brenna’s eyes inspired a confidence that had nothing to do with impressing clients for the sake of business. She was incredible at haggling, fantastic at asserting herself to get the better deal, to impress a captain or crew. Caitlin wanted Brenna to like her and like her for herself.

The table filled with more people, pitchers and rounds. Brenna out-drank them all and won more matches than anyone else. She received requests from more than one person to share a room that night. And when Maria came by and informed the two that the entire inn was full, no beds at all, they offered more earnestly.

“I have a guest room,” Caitlin said.

“Well, who can refuse that offer?”

#

She knows she needs to study politics with haste, paying attention to more than just which nobles might be interested in purchasing what goods. She needs fluency in the language of the upper class; to dress the part of a socialite and gentry, a different sort of formal than the kind she used to conduct business. She needs to memorize the names of nobles and be able to recall the names of both their compatriots and those they quarreled with, if possible. While she has no desire to entertain a courtship with the prince, she intends to make the most of this party as a businesswoman. And she knows only one person she could ask to help her with this.

The sign above the door engraved with the sigil of Andraste makes no sound as Caitlin pushes it open, finding the waiting room empty.

“Who is it?” Diarmuid calls from the back.

“It’s me!” Caitlin says, walking to the back to see him, glad that she isn’t interrupting anything. He forces a half-smile and throws down a dirty towel on the table he had been cleaning. “I’m still swamped, you know.”

Caitlin looks back at the empty waiting room but doesn’t call him on his lie. “I just wanted to see you.” “Really?” he scoffs.

“Yes, really. Diar, what is wrong?”

“You would not understand.” He slumps into one of the waiting room chairs.

“You’re my friend; I hope you know you can tell me anything.”

He chuckles. “That’s just it, isn’t it?”

“Pardon?”

He looks up from the chair into Caitlin’s eyes. “You have more important people in your life than me.”

“Diar. Tell me.”

“You’re about to have new friends, anyway.”

“Is this about the party?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Diar, I invited you to go to it with me. You said you couldn’t. I told you that I wanted you there.” “Not your fathers’ party. The Connal’s party. You were invited and you’re going to attend.”

“You have heard about… How… What about it?”

“How? The entire city knows. He wants the whole country to know that he has a new target. You’re about to have many people more important than me. How can the object of the prince’s affection have any time for a physician?”

“I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want him. I could count the reasons I want nothing to do with that spoiled brat, but that would take more time than you have.”

“You are strange, Caitlin.” He raises an eyebrow, rises from the chair, and storms back to the exam room. “You’ve given everything to your fathers, to their business; why would you not stop at giving your hand to someone to further their business dealings?”

“Giving what?” She rushes into the exam room behind him, throat tight and hands balled into fists. “What? First, the prince won’t propose. Second, my fathers would never ask me to, even if that happened.”

“They don’t have to ask you. You’ll do it, anyway. You don’t want this, they know you don’t want it. But you’ll going to do it, anyway, if you think it will help their business.” He grabs a cloth and wipes down instruments, turning his back on her.

She struggles to find words to both deny his accusations and ask him for the same comfort he had given her last week; she had sat in the waiting room while he finished his last patient, and somehow, he knew why she was there and had hot chocolate prepared. Her fathers had left her house, and she ran not far behind them, racing to Diar’s clinic, in such a rush that she did not even clear the table. He knew somehow that her dinner with her fathers would not go well. He held her while she cried and cried and cried. She never even told him what she was crying about. And yet. She wants that comfort again now. But she can’t ask for it from the Diar that is standing before her now. She swallows the lump in her throat. “You aren’t being fair to me.”

His head drops. “And you’re not being fair to yourself, either. Listen, I am sorry, Caitlin. I had a rough day, and I was taking it out on you. I know that isn’t an excuse, but—”

She does not want to consider what Diarmuid was suggesting any more than she already has. “I need to go home. I have work to do before the night is over.”

#

The dice scatter on the table, and Caitlin pulls the coins on the table towards herself. “Surely these dice are weighted,” Diarmuid says, frowning as the silver pile in front of Caitlin doubles.

“Me? A cheater?” Caitlin says, grinning. “Never, absolutely never.”

“I’m sorry, what’s the correct terminology, then?”

“It is ‘lucky bastard.’”

“You’re a lucky bastard.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you!”

“You can be insufferable. I’m done with losing my money for the day. Why don’t I grab us lunch with my last gold coin?” He stands and offers her his arm.

Caitlin, glad that the awkwardness between them had dissipated, accepts it.

Diarmuid leads them from his clinic, locking the door behind him, and to a tavern that she had never noticed before, but Diarmuid seems to be acquainted with everyone there, nodding and smiling and waving to every other person before they sit down.

A young Calla approaches their table and plops a plate of potatoes and vegetables down in front of Diar. The Calla’s ears are flat, and the azure fur on the Calla’s tail is puffed up, but the smile on their felinesque face could almost pass as genuine. “You haven’t been around lately,” the Calla says to Diar, ignoring Caitlin. A statement. A question. An accusation.

“I’ve been busy, Jocelyn.”

The Calla flicks her tail and glances at Caitlin. “With that?”

“Her name is Caitlin.”

“Do Sharidan or Valen know?” Jocelyn fidgets with the pendant on the long, silver necklace she is wearing, a blooming lily, the same as Diarmuid wears on his coat.

“This isn’t the sort of relationship that they need to know about.”

Caitlin raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms.

Diarmuid runs his hands down his face. “Jocelyn, please. We can talk later. But for now, here.” He pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it to her, along with some coins.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. Whenever you’re done in the hay with your lass, make sure you’ve picked it all out of your hair before you come to talk to anyone.” She spins on her heel and saunters away.

“I’m sorry about that, Caitlin.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No, oh goodness, no. She’s from—I’m in a club, I guess. Haven’t been to the meetings lately. Been too busy with work and with—”

“—me. Too busy with me. And Sharidan? Valen?”

“Club leaders. Don’t worry, I’m not hiding a family.”

“What kind of club?”

“It’s more of a social thing. But for some, the club is family. Especially for those that don’t have any other.”

“I see.” Caitlin leans back slowly in her chair and taps her forefinger on the table.

“Tomorrow, then, I suppose,” he says as he gestures for her to take the food.

The topic that they had been avoiding for the last month. Caitlin shivers. The reason they were meeting every day, the reason that he was filling her in on how cruel the various nobles were. They’d been acting like he was telling her for no reason; acting like she isn’t about to attend a formal party at the personal invitation of the crown prince. “Tomorrow.”

The subject of their conversations since their argument has skirted the unwanted predicament Caitlin is in. The list of the prince’s many love affairs and romances is long. Some lasted a few months, maybe a year. No one is placing bets on Caitlin being the one he would marry; not because of her lack of nobility, nor her background, nor even the fact that she is a widow. There is simply no point in betting at all anymore. He might keep up this game, this hunt, of ferreting out the most beautiful, or the most alluring, or the merriest woman until he can no longer put it off as the crown is now on his head. Many lamented the fact that his father will most likely not be attending his wedding.

This is both reassuring and terrifying. Nobles have flung their daughters at him, hoping for a proposal. Or hoping for maybe a few months of extreme favor. Soon they all realize what the game is, yet keep sending their daughters in. That daughter is always later offered to a duke or a duchess as a consolation, still a most advantageous arrangement for families looking to rise in the ranks. Caitlin knows her fathers would never ask of her that sacrifice. They would not ask her to be a pawn, to be passed around to curry favor. If this prince only treated women as a fad, he would grow tired of Caitlin. She is sure that she will be no more than that commoner woman he tried to flirt with at a party. Forgotten within the month.

It will be easy to push him away as she had done at her fathers’ party. Doing so while not insulting the others at his garden party would be the hard part. Looking rude and uncultured would not be helpful in currying her own favor on behalf of the business. This garden party will be a business venture, nothing more.

#

“My elusive lady,” the prince says as he approaches Caitlin at the entrance, taking her arm and leading her inside. “I am so glad you accepted my invitation.”

This is a new sort of diplomacy, a change from any of the varieties or tactics Caitlin previously employed with a customer, to barter, to complete a deal, to prevent a brawl. There will be no bartering fabrics or ceramics; no discussing their weights, their worth, and if rivals show up here, she is not in any danger from swords or fists, but these nobles wield weapons just as lethal. The currency here is intangible but perhaps far more valuable.

Those she dealt with in the past were no more ‘proper’ than she was. Her peers, for all that you could be peers with captains, traders, travelers, pirates, and privateers, never cared much for flowery flattery.

The grass is almost too well kept to be real, the roses nearly too perfect in their blossoming. The fountains reflect rainbows onto the immaculate walkways, and the tree branches create the ideal amount of shade. She usually has no opinion on decorations, interior or exterior. Though everyone else is spending much of their time airing their own opinions.

“I was most happy to receive and accept your invitation, your Highness. As heir to Peddigree Shipping, I would never turn down an opportunity to talk business with those who wish to do so. Where is the honorable count today?”

His head tilts ever so slightly, an eyebrow-raising imperceptibly. But he quickly draws himself up. “A lady who is loyal to her family and does not shirk her duties. So, the rumors are true.”

Caitlin knows he is baiting her. Having no experience chasing men and, to her knowledge, no experience being chased by them, she has nothing to go by to gauge the caliber of his attempt. “I am a businesswoman through and through.”

“And what does a businesswoman do in her spare time? Surely you must have some leisure time.” His hand slides behind the small of her back, and leads her away from the crowd, instead of toward it. More than a few words, none that a noble lady should know but part of the standard vocabulary of a sailor, claw at her throat.

“As you have said yourself, I do not shirk my duties.”

“Your responsibilities cannot be so great that you cannot enjoy time away from them.”

“And yet they are.” She closes her eyes, hoping she is playing this correctly. She is a hard-working woman; she must appear to the upper classes as the professional businesswoman they will happily transact with if her fathers—soon to be her—business is to grow. But she must act plain enough that the prince will drop her within the week.

“Ah, I see the weight of them on your shoulders. Gentle lady,” he stops and turns her to face him, his hand not leaving her back. Flinching away from his stare, his face too close, is not something she can do, though she wants to slap him and run. She meets his gaze. “Gentle lady, I insist you take more time for yourself. You found time to be my guest here; surely you can find time to do so again.”

“I came here most selfishly, my lord. I came here on business.” Her years as the wife of a pirate taught her quickly how to show no weakness, to keep a straight face while nervous. Though this is the first time in over a decade that she must put effort into this façade.

He takes a step away from her, his hand leaving her back, and throws his head back in laughter. It is not the polite chuckle of the nobility; the only thing Caitlin has to compare it to is the laugh of a captain after pulling a prank on his rival.

“You keep bringing it back to your business. Your fathers really should be proud; they would hand the business over to you even if you were not blood, I should think. Well, in any case. If you do not take time off yourself, I shall have to order you to do so. Next week we shall have fun; I shall teach you what leisure feels like.”

“My lord, I am quite serious—”

“You are very serious, yes. Overly so. If I, in all my royal duties, can find time to attend parties and go hunting and ride through the countryside, how can you not? It is a royal order.” He pulls her closer to him again and tilts her head up to face his. “You are so beautiful.”

Caitlin swallows as he holds her longer than would be proper for any noble to court another. Smirking, his eyes hold the same mix of joviality and cunning as captains playing cards. But none of their camaraderie.

“My lord?”

“Ah, well. I suppose you will want to speak to the count.”

Cataloging inventory is easy—silks, spices, metals, clay, raw materials, or finished products; the ever-shifting contents of any shipment, any item in any of the storehouses. The names, the numbers, the weights, the worth of so many things, and tomorrow those numbers will change again.

Cataloging people is difficult, though at first it may seem like such cataloging would present no issues.. People rarely change; their names often stay the same, their relations generally remain consistent, their residence and homelands and accents rarely diverge. Surely it would be easier than keeping inventory. But meeting so many people in a few hours does not lend itself to accurate and comprehensive internal ordering.

He leads her to Count Seamus, and it is soon clear that the reason for the invitation was pre-textual. They find the count having a conversation with Lord Allil, Duke of Hern, the prince’s uncle. He excuses himself promptly. The count has a fascination with foreign oddities. Knick knacks and bobbles. He wants to purchase trinkets, if the business has any. He has heard they travel most of the world now, and he regales her with many stories of his own travels as assistant to the ambassador and the baubles he purchased in Alsha Dhabu and Arrinhu. This is not about commerce; it is an interest in collectibles, the same as he might express at a Sunday market.

The prince leads her to countesses and earls, to third daughters hoping yet to make a place for themselves, second sons who want to gain more favor to compensate for their lesser title. They eye her under hooded lids and assess the extent of her interest in the party—many asking about business but not paying any attention to the details. People have less curiosity about recently found artifacts of gold and gems than they do for her. Caitlin is the rarity. Caitlin is the oddity.

The prince’s presence at her side distracts everyone from actual conversations with her about trade deals; everyone now knows her invitation is just a pretense for the prince to show off his latest quarry. While most of the gossip at this party revolves around Caitlin, the party-goers speak of other matters, too.

“I heard they were planning to raid—”

“Same men as last time—”

“—and no one knows how many got away—”

They speak in hushed whispers when they think the prince can not hear them.

“They need to learn their place.”

“They are lazy; they shouldn’t complain.”

“This is how it has always been; this is how the priests and priestesses tell us it should always be. They should realize they are insulting the gods.”

“If they want a rebellion, we will give them the defeat that comes with it.”

“The king is far too forgiving of them. Their children should watch every one of them hang.”

The wine now tastes like poison, and the cake like ash. She has been evaluating the monetary worth of the flatware and the plates. Calculating how much it can sell for, and how much the count paid for them. The figures in her head were based on material goods.

But these lords were calculating lives. The palace was far from Whick, far from any consideration Caitlin had to make previously; the only need for interactions with the government was sorting out incorporating a business, buying the license to sell and trade, paperwork to leave these shores and return to them. In all the business dealings, in all internal abstraction, never was a life considered collateral.

Brenna. Her Brenna. Her wife. Her face appears in Caitlin’s mind, though this is not the place. This is not the place.

Prince Cian takes her hand. “You seem to have struck my guest speechless, Lord Seamus. Caitlin, you have never heard of stag hunts? Fox hunts?”

“Oh, oh. No, my lord. I haven’t.” She blinks and shakes her head.

“Ah! I know what we will show you on Saturday. Do you have anything sturdier? We will be outside; I would not want you to stain your gorgeous gown. For then, you might have to take it off.” He laughs at his own terrible joke.

“I have something that will suit.” There was no way out of this now. She sighs and looks away from him.

“Fantastic.”

The party ends, and the prince finds every reason to tarry, to stay just a moment longer, but eventually concedes that she must return to her fathers. She ignores them when they ask her how it went; she ignores them when they ask her what is wrong, and she ignores them when they shout after her, asking her where she is going.

She wants to ask them for help, ask them to send her back to Whick, to hide her from him, to send her overseas, somewhere, anywhere but here. Instead, she locks herself in the guest room, tears off the dress, and sobs.

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#StarsAndSoil

Parties and Princes

Note: This is a [second] draft. The contents here may change or alter between now and publication.

Copyright 2023 Dax Murray – All Rights Reserved

Content Note:

This is a work of fiction. It contains depictions, scenes, and discussions of topics that some may want to avoid. I have tried to make this list as exhaustive as possible, but I cannot know everyone's possible triggers and sensitivities. Please know that this book handles mature topics and themes. This chapter contains:

• Depictions of Consensual Intercourse
• Depictions of Consensual Kink

CHAPTER TWO

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Ástfríður are not rare in Fayn, but they are not common either. Skin that shines like diamonds; the people from a far-off archipelago; these are a people that are different in a way that is unlike any other.

Their ahnhörn; a glowing horn upon their head.

Their songs are like chimes, and their movements are like liquid copper. They sing of the waves that brought them here and the clouds they say will bring them home again. The Isles of Ástfríður are home to many clans, tribes, and factions. However, the traditions of all those who live in the Valley of the Veil are united in their distaste for anything that outsiders have touched. Even their own children: once one of their own leaves those glittering shores, no matter the reason, they cannot return until they hear the song that beckons them back into the aether for their reincarnation.

Only one island clan allows outsiders; traders may land at one port and that port only. These traders know that the goods that the Ástfríður trade to them are cheap. At least, to the Ástfríður. But those outside of those Isles prize their gemstones, their metals, their stones and granite and marble. Kings send their treasurers to that port to procure the most beautiful gemstone, lovers save for years to buy a real Ástfríður diamond for their sweethearts. Blacksmiths value the strength of Ástfríður metal, and jewelers value the pliability. These unworldly beauties are trivial to the Ástfríður; the flawed rejects of their harvests. People speculate that if what they so willingly trade away are their discarded defects, what they keep for themselves must be fatally resplendent. When Caitlin’s fathers asked about the veracity of such rumors, Brenna would smile and say with a shrug, “maybe.”

There are attempts to raid the islands, but suspiciously well-timed and viciously deadly storms always rise to meet these plunderers; harsh winds, drowning waves, and lethal lightning. Caitlin saw many come and go at her ports, boasting that they will be the ones to take the spoils of the Isles for themselves. But only one member of one ship came back from those attempts in all her years overseeing the ports, rescued by more scrupulous traders on their way back to Whick. The would-be thief rarely spoke of what they saw, except to say it was a nightmare.

Every time she heard someone speak of the sacrilege of spoiling another’s home, of coveting what they had never even seen, wanting what they could speculate existed, she wondered at what could possibly be worth the crime. What could make someone willing to risk the lives of their crew and be ready to take the lives of others? Was it worth it? The treasures thought hidden under those boughs, concealed on those islands? Was it worth more than a life, Lohyue, Calla, or Ástfríður?

How much is a life worth?

How much was Brenna’s life worth?

#

“Caitlin,” the letter reads. “We will visit soon. Don’t worry, we’ve obtained our own lodgings. We are having some parties with many wealthy buyers and traders on the more respectable side of Fayn.” She had waited for them to call on her, or at least visit the office. But a week went by, and then another. Her invitations for lunches went unanswered, invitations where she hoped to introduce them to the people she had met and worked with and found to be friends. But she kept waiting.

That waiting harbored a thousand thoughts. If they are coming here, and meeting with the upper echelons, and in such settings… They have reconsidered who to station in Eoi. She had gotten used to living here, used to the way people talked, lived, and thought.

With the friendship she had found in Diarmuid, she had noticed herself no longer depressed. Since she had met him last winter, Diarmuid had introduced her to many other people, equal parts potential friends and potential business opportunities. She could introduce her fathers to him, introduce them to all of her new professional relations, and then…

Go back to Whick… Going back home…

And now her daydreams will be real. Wringing her hands, anticipating the joyous news, she opens the door for them. Wasting no time, she ushers them to the dining room and motions for them to take a seat, hoping that the food is not too cold. “What is going on?” she asks, not even wasting time with the usual small talk. Her stomach is in knots, making her own enjoyment of warm food moot, but she picks up her fork, anyway.

Da pulls out the chair for Pa and then settles into his own. They stare at each other in solemn silence. Pa fiddles with his wedding ring. “The business is very profitable now,” he says. “The owner of such a business, one that can continue to expand and grow, should have primary operations here.”

“You want me to go back to Whick?” She is going back home. She is going home! Her fathers would move here, taking over this townhouse. Or maybe the “accommodations” they had found for themselves would be their new home.

Her fathers will staff the office here, and she will go home.

Neither of her fathers speak.

“You… you are moving here, aren’t you? You’re the founders and owners. You should be the ones here.”

“We want to retire,” Da says, voice flat.

“When?” Not the news she had been hoping for, or expecting.

“Within the next year. But we want to have enough time to slowly hand it over to you.”

Her fork clatters to the floor. “Now?” Thoughts of returning to Whick, all the daydreaming of returning to her small house on the shore… “I see.”

“Caitlin. You have seen the books, you’ve done the inventory, you’ve made large deals, you’ve made important deals. You’ve made us quite successful; the profit we needed to further expand,” Pa says. Caitlin looks to Da, hoping he sees the desperation in her eyes, hoping he sees how much they are asking of her. But he turns away and looks out the window.

“You need to be the face now,” Pa says. “You need to be socializing; you need to be overseeing the managers we’ve stationed at all other ports. And you need to be gaining the trust of the nobility. That is how we continue to expand. That is how we get new ports built; that is how we can sell higher valued items, that is how we will afford to go to even more distant lands. Find someone else to handle your current responsibilities here at this office—”

She throws down her napkin. Somewhere between her move here and now, a small seed was planted in her heart. And today, that seed blossomed into a blood-red rose, emotions she had never thought to have, had never believed herself capable of. Anger that she did not want to admit to, anger at all the times her life veered off-course, forced to change and adapt when all she wanted to do was go back to Whick, to sleep next to Brenna… “You want me to take over and uproot my life again. ‘Find someone else’ for here? Where are you sending me to this time?”

“Caitlin,” Da says.

“Don’t ‘Caitlin’ me. You’ve been distant this whole trip. And now you drop this on me. I went along with it when you gave me responsibilities as a teenager; I happily accepted all of the promotions you gave me after that. I was happy to help you better manage Whick while you came and went in your dealings. And I came here when asked, even though it broke my heart.”

“We understand…” Da says.

“You don’t!” She does not want to hold back the thorns of that anger. All of the changes that they have demanded of her, a rose in a garden she did not know she had been tending. “I’m a widow, and you asked me to give up the home Brenna and I had built. I could have quit, you know? I could have refused, found myself another vocation. But I have been a loyal daughter. And you avoid me for weeks and then tell me you want me to, yet again, uproot my life?”

“It wouldn’t be too far. The home we’ve been staying in is actually up for sale.”

“Are you kidding me? Are you actually saying this to me? Did you just hear what you said? It wouldn’t be too far? How does that matter when it still means changing everything?”

“You never—” Da tries again.

“I’ve been trying this week to introduce you to my friends, to the people I have bartered and traded with here, with the other merchants with homes here, with so many people that trust me. That know me. And you would not meet them. That is not just poor business; it takes no interest in what I, the one you want to hand the reins to, have done here personally. The ways I have adapted to fit your business needs.”

“There’s a social event we are hosting—” Pa says.

“Oh! So, I shall meet your friends.”

“Caitlin, you will run this business soon; we need this time to pass on our knowledge, to show you how to run the entire operations we have built.”

“Get someone else to do it.” Words that she had never dared herself to even think, suddenly on her tongue. All of the times she had said ‘yes,’ to them, but not this time.

“Your father and I—” Da cut in.

“That’s just it, isn’t it? You built this together. Husbands and business partners. You grew up together and grew this business together and had a family together.”

“If this is about Brenna…”

“Do. Not. Say. Her. Name.”

“I’m sorry.” Da looks down at his plate. The energy Pa came into this dinner with is now gone, abdicating to the gentler nature of Da.

“You are asking me to rebuild my life. Again. You are asking me to take on the responsibility that you two shouldered together. And not just that, you are leaving it to me larger than when you started. Do you realize the responsibilities you are asking me to take on? The magnitude?”

“We don’t trust anyone else, though.”

Caitlin retrieves the fork from the floor and cleans it with her napkin. “Find. Someone. Else.”

“Will you at least come to the party we are having? We have some dresses for you to try on, shoes, someone to do your hair…” Da says.

“You are truly set on impressing them.” She turns away from them to carry her plate back to the kitchen, not knowing how to both scream and cry, at least, not know how to do it while not making a sound.

Da follows her. “I know we haven’t been as supportive of you as we could have been. We loved Brenna, too, you know. We didn’t know what to do, how to help any more than we did.”

“No, your help was what I needed. That isn’t what this is about, though.” She knows she cannot endure yet another upheaval. Another uprooting. Another change she had never agreed to and never wanted. Every time her life has changed, she has adapted, despite wanting desperately to cling to what she truly wanted. She has learned to live here, despite it all, to make a small amount of happiness in this part of Eoi. It still might be Eoi that they are asking her to live in, but it’s a different Eoi entirely. Even more removed from the camaraderie of a port town.

Da tries to take her into his arms. “You always put us first; you always put our business first. We took that for granted.”

“I don’t want more responsibilities!” She steps back, holding her hands up. “I am happy with what I am doing now. I am happy with what I’ve found. It isn’t the happy I wanted; it isn’t the happy I dreamed of all those years ago…” She lets out a sigh, she knows what will happen next. She knows that she is not, despite everything, going to shirk this request. She has always known this was coming. She just thought it would happen differently.

He sighs. “I hear you.”

“I’ll do it.” She slumps down into a chair in the kitchen’s corner. The anger gone, spent. The only one left standing from the fight is Da.

“When I said I wanted you at the party, I meant it personally, not as a calculated business maneuver. I really would like you there to spend more time with you. We have been so busy; after the party, it will just be the three of us for a week. You can take me on a tour; introduce me to the people here you spend time with.”

“I would like that. May I bring a friend?”

#

Brenna would have laughed at this dress; the crushed velvet, the fluttering sleeves, the way that it slowly fades from the color of grape wine to lilacs. It is not the sort of attire Caitlin would wear normally, not even to a wedding. Brenna would have laughed and asked Da if he could get xir a matching tailcoat. No, she can’t think of xir right now. Can’t think of Brenna. But Brenna is all she has thought about since the fight with her fathers.

The house they have been staying in is far nicer than the townhouse Caitlin is living in, and that’s already far grander than the small house in Whick. It feels even more uncomfortable than the townhouse when she first moved in. She cannot believe the sprawling grounds that surround it, the gardens and ponds and marble benches. Inside, she scans every inch, nose crinkling. This might be her residence soon. She shies away from the thought; the neighborhood here is too pristine, the guests too perfect. Certainly not the people she would ask to throwback ale and play poker with her.

Looking around, she wishes once again that Diar had accepted her invitation. When she asked, he rubbed his hands together and said that he had a patient in critical condition and he needed to be nearby in case the patient took a sudden turn for the worse. He has become her friend, accompanying her to lunches after business meetings, or asking her to stop by his clinic after hours to go out for dinner. He is terrible as a poker partner but makes up for it by being a good drinking buddy. But he isn’t here. She’s alone, once more in a situation she doesn’t like.

She retreats to the spare bedroom her fathers are letting her stay in, needing another moment. She finds Da waiting for her. “Thank you for coming. I understand that you feel less than happy about this. So, thank you. Open it.” He places a simple brown box in her hand. A thin gold chain falls out: an elegant, but not ostentatious, necklace. Understated beauty. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” she says, and she truly does.

“Then let’s go.”

He escorts her out to the ballroom, but soon leaves her to mingle on her own. She sips wine and tries to navigate the highly choreographed chaos that has engulfed her. She doesn’t know the language of the nobility; she doesn’t think she can master it or adapt to it; she certainly does not think she can learn it before her fathers pass the reigns to her. If, she corrects herself. If she decides to take the reins from them. There are some who find comfort in the rules and formalities of politeness or the facsimile of it. Caitlin knows now that she is certainly not one of them. The politeness of a business negotiation is far different from this.

She downs her drink in what she knows is a very unladylike manner; a server immediately appears to offer her another, but she waves him away and steps back, bumping into a gentleman speaking to a large group of nobles, all clearly hanging on his every word. His eyes are almost translucent blue, and his long hair is unnaturally blond. There is something that feels almost wrong about him, not quite human, but also more mundanely human than anyone else in the room.

“I’m sorry,” she stammers.

“And who are you?” His eyes travel down and then up again, grinning while he motions for another drink for himself.

“I am Caitlin Peddigree, sir.”

“Oh! The lady of the house herself. Where have your Teige and Rían been hiding you?”

“They haven’t; I prefer to stick to the accounts and inventory side of the business.”

The man’s companions follow his lead, surveying Caitlin. Some grin, some roll their eyes.

“Ah, you should come out more often. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Peddigree.” He takes her hand and kisses the back of it.

“The pleasure is mine.” She waits for him to offer his own name. One of his companions taps him and whispers to him. “Excuse me,” she says, her heart pounding in her ears. “I think my father said he had someone he wanted to introduce me to, and it looks like he’s with her now.”

“I hope to see you again.” The man winks and slowly turns back to his cadre with a chuckle. She turns on her heel and doesn’t waste a second in finding Pa.

“How much longer will this last?” she asks.

“Not too much longer. Here, let me introduce you to Emily Namara. Emily is a trader we met recently while overseas in Sua. It was so comforting to have another Fayn to talk to.”

“Our competitor, then.” Caitlin laughs.

“If you want to see it that way,” Emily replies.

#

Emily’s hands grab the hair at the nape of Caitlin’s neck. Caitlin can’t look away from her, her face brutally beautiful in the rays of moonlight. Her arms move to snake around Emily’s torso, wanting to finally pull her lips toward hers, wanting to pull that gorgeous woman down onto the bed with her. But Emily is quicker, pulling away, and then shoving Caitlin back onto the bed. “Not yet,” she growls. Squirming, writhing. Reaching, Caitlin’s hands cup her breasts. Emily smirks. “I said: not yet.” Emily’s knee presses into Caitlin’s chest, and she releases her hair from her grip. There is a moment where Caitlin thinks she may free herself. But she doesn’t try, or at least, not in earnest; instead, letting Emily quickly pin her hands above her head.

“Shh, shh,” Emily purrs. Her fingers lightly trace along Caitlin’s cheeks, skipping down her neck, grazing past her collarbone. Caitlin moans, hoping Emily will keep going further down.

“Shh,” she sighs. She lingers between Caitlin’s breasts, quickly leans forward to take each nipple into her mouth, a gentle lap of her tongue, quick enough to for Caitlin to want more, not long enough to savor it.

Caitlin tries to encourage Emily’s hand, pushing into it, trying so hard to not scream out in need. “Oh, my darling. Tell me what you want,” she whispers into Caitlin’s ear as her hand finally reaches its destination, hovering ever so slightly, so very close and impossibly far away.

Caitlin looks up into her eyes, lost words, dying words in her throat.

“Use your voice, pet. Speak up.”

Caitlin twitches and squirms, aching. Trying so hard to not thrash wildly.

“Tell me,” Emily says.

“Please,” is all Caitlin can manage. “Please!”

“Hmm.” She pulls her hand away. “If you won’t tell me, I don’t know what to do.”

Caitlin whines. “Please. Please take me.”

And she does.

#

She sits down for breakfast in the morning. Da expresses no complaints about Caitlin’s use of the guest room. Caitlin has no compunctions about it. Emily slipped out quietly before dawn, kissing Caitlin’s forehead and making a comment about doing business in the future.

They both knew it was a fleeting moment of shared needs, of just a night of meaningless indulgence. Pretty words spoken as the final coda to their short song. Caitlin is glad it was nothing more than that, a fleeting comet in the sky.

This is the first time she has had sex since Brenna died. She waits for the guilt, the shame, the hollowness to bubble up. Every ounce of unexpected happiness had been met with a pang of guilt for enjoying something, enjoying things without xir. The guilt the first time she had genuinely smiled since moving here, the shame the first time she laughed—how could she laugh without xir?—the guilt that has been chasing her.

It’s not cheating, she tells herself. It can’t be cheating.

But then she remembers the phantom hands, the phantom tongue, the burn of scratch marks on her back, relishing the bruises. Her traitorous mind wants to etch every moment into memory.

A servant comes out to serve eggs and bacon. Caitlin finds it strange that her fathers hired staff while here, too distracted before to realize just how profitable the business is now.

Pa comes into the room and sits down next to her. “Seems you made quite the impression last night.” “I, umm, I’m sorry. I hope I don’t make things awkward with—and I hope we didn’t wake you… you see… she left early and—” There is no point in one’s life, Caitlin knew, where discussing one’s sex life with one’s parent was not awkward.

“What? Oh. Her. No, don’t worry about that,” Pa says.

She tilts her head. “Then what are you talking about?”

“Here,” Da says, handing her a perfumed envelope, her name on the front in elaborate script. She gasps when she turns it over and sees the seal wax. The crest of the Royal House of Fola. An invitation from Prince Cian to a garden party hosted by Count Seamus Connal and his new fiancé, Lady Marianna Gradae. The count has been looking for some rare items from overseas to present to his bride-to-be, and he thought Caitlin would be a perfect guest for this party, as she is charming and alluring, and she might provide the count with the opportunity to browse the Peddigree collection.

“Prince Cian,” Da says. “After you slipped off, he asked me about you. I believe he intends to court you.”

“Did you tell him how impossible that would be?”

Da sighs. “It wouldn’t matter.”

Previous || Top || Next

#StarsAndSoil

Note: This is a draft [second draft]. The contents here may change or alter between now and publication.

Copyright 2023 Dax Murray All Rights Reserved

Content Note

This is a work of fiction. It contains depictions, scenes, and discussions of topics that some may want to avoid. Please read this list carefully. – Depictions of consensual sex, including consensual kink/bdsm, consensual sex work – Protests, riots, violence, police – Grief and death of a loved one – Torture, Rape, Arson – Domestic violence – Abortion, Dangerous childbirth/labor/delivery – Misogyny, Patriarchal religions

I have tried to make this list as exhaustive as possible, but I cannot know everyone's possible triggers and sensitivities. Please know that this book handles mature topics and themes.

CHAPTER ONE

Chapter One

Caitlin does not want to leave Whick. The autumn air is warm and full of salt, and the quay is loud: as many ships making port as leaving. For a place where no one stays long, Caitlin wants to stay forever. Business, such as it is, changes far faster than most would like. Brocade is out of fashion before one can fill their shop with it; gold-trimmed flatware is yesterday’s fad before one can make their first sale. Her family’s business is not any different. Caitlin knows she should be happy about this change, and yet. It should satisfy her that her family’s business is so profitable now that they need a permanent placement at the capital.

Someone will have to go to Eoi to establish that new headquarters; to that city on the other side of Fayn, to that city where all that people speak of is the prince and his newest paramour; the merchants there talk of Lady Shennen Ahernn and how scandalous it is that Prince Cian is courting a Calla lady who is distantly related to the Suan noble family without their permission. The vendors ponder why he left that marquess, Lady Amelia Devlin. The traders there gossip about the Duchess of Clare, Lady Aelena, and why she once again snubbed a marriage proposal, this time to Lord Tynen Byrne, the Earl of Berach’s son. And, and, and… Information that is ultimately meaningless to Caitlin. But sometimes they do speak of more critical issues; how favorable the ambassador from Garcelon is in the eyes of the king; if tensions are still fraught with Janeuq; if the riots of the lower classes are impeding trade; if these uprisings are growing larger and more violent or are waning and now easily contained; if the recent death of a Tsvetokrasan noble was the work of mysterious assassin Fiadh Róisín? That city is so full of overt etiquette and comportment, but lurking beneath that is rumor and underhanded dealings that Caitlin knows she cannot navigate it, seeing as she spends much of her nights in taverns with sailors or traders with questionable obtainment methods. Or, at least, she used to. She used to go with xir and gamble and sing and drink.

A residence needs to be found and purchased. A decision needs to be made on who will live there. Living in a city where the buildings are brick, or sometimes marble, not limestone. Where half of the houses have elaborate crown molding of pure gold and the other half crumbling from neglect. All the documents for such will require reading and signing, enacting and enforcing. While Caitlin knows how to write a contract for selling and buying merchandise, she does not know how to navigate real estate. She has never had to. After she married, her fathers gifted her a small house. This purchase now involves an entire estate and office space. An estate is nothing like spider silk. No doubt, Caitlin will do these tasks. She stares out at the shores, the piers, the vast ocean on the horizon. The sights that do not exist in the city. The river that runs through Eoi cannot compare to the turquoise jewel she spends so much time admiring here in Whick.

She is leaving this port city, leaving the humid air on summer mornings, and the crack of lightning on spring nights. The stinging crispness of winter. The radiant sunsets in autumn: burning fire on water. She sets the documents down again and paces back and forth, running her hands through her hair, stitching them together behind her head. Her thoughts skit away from xir, xir name, xir face, xir scent. No, she tells herself. It is Whick that she does not want to leave; it is nearly thirty years of habits that she does not want to break; it is leaving behind the years of wishing to leave, the thoughts of a teenager dreaming of adventure. It is falling in love with this city after realizing there is no adventure beyond the gates. It is the comfort she has found in her small home. Her home. Their home.

“It is not about leaving xir,” she says aloud, only the scraggly tabby in the open window for an audience. The stray yawns, stretches and leaps outside. “It is not about leaving xir. There is no reason to want to stay only for xir. Shouldn’t I want to leave old ghosts behind?”

Old ghosts. Xir ghost. Though, Caitlin knows that xir people don’t believe in ghosts.

It is the closeness to her fathers, Teige and Rían of Peddigree Trading Company, having outgrown the desperation in her youth for them to leave her alone, to let her live her own life. But now she has learned to love her parents, in ways that are only learned after spending her teen years believing they were holding her back. They are the first people she goes to with a problem; both before xir, and now after xir.

She pounds her fists on the desk. No, it is not about xir. It cannot be about xir. Xie cannot be the reason Caitlin wants to stay; xie can’t be the reason; it makes no sense for xir to be the reason she wants to stay.

She can’t leave. She can’t live without xir. She will not live without xir.

It is not about xir.

It is the friendship Caitlin has found with all the regular sailors and merchants. Yes, that is the reason. Surely that is the reason. She wants to drink with these friends until the dawn, for fun… at least, at first. But then to drown out the memories.

She scrunches the papers in her hands and then incinerates them in her fireplace. It can’t be because of xir. Anyone in her position would want to leave this town of sorrow and memories.

There is a tradition in these ports. No one knows how it started. For being such a large port, there is not even a monument to the god Iden, so it is not a tradition of His. There is a fountain at the center of Whick with the shells and wave emblem of the goddess Muriel. Perhaps this tradition belongs to Her. Regardless of which god can claim this rite as theirs, it starts with still-wet shells collected at dusk. It requires small bowls forged with sands from the shore, filled with seawater on the night of a new moon. It ends with a song.

It isn’t because she wants to carry out this ceremony once a month, every month. Even the ones where the cold might freeze the water before she arrives at the grave. Xir grave. If she leaves this city, she can’t do that anymore. And that is a silly reason to not want to leave. So, it can’t be that.

Xie told Caitlin about the last rites for xir people. There is a cycle for xir people, and what happens at the end of this cycle. It starts with a child appearing at the base of a tree, a metal bracelet on their wrist. And later, a journey to shape that bracelet into something personal, something meaningful: a circlet of impossible, unearthly beauty to adorn their head. They call it ahnhörn. Magic and intuition; magic that only xir people know. Xie told Caitlin that when xir people die, they disappear back into the aclaere; the life force of the planet. And then they will be born again one day, again materializing from the currents of the aclaere at the base of a sacred tree. Xie told Caitlin how important it is that they go back when they hear the spirits say it is time to return to their birthplace. But Caitlin knows it is too late and carrying out this last rite is impossible. If she leaves, there will truly be no way to see this cycle to its end. But that is in the past, a truth that she has accepted. It can’t be because of that.

It is not because she won’t be able to carefully run her fingers over the indented words; the letters spelling out xir name, and the numbers the day xie died. The day her wife died. It is not because she doesn’t want to leave the home they shared, to pretend every night that she doesn’t hear xir close the door gently behind xir when xie comes home, pretend she can still find xir fingerprints on the mirrors, xir warmth on the pillow next to hers. That is not the reason she cannot leave.

She must let her fathers know that she wishes to stay here, that she will not be moving, and provide a list of candidates for the new role in Eoi.

She cannot leave this place. But it has nothing to do with xir. It has nothing to do with Brenna. Her Brenna. The beautiful Ástfríður she called her wife.

She collapses into her desk chair, dips her pen into a nearly empty ink bowl, and lets her fathers know that she will start planning for her move to Eoi promptly.

#

The townhouse is larger than her home, but it feels claustrophobic. She feels hemmed in, as though the walls are shrinking in on her. She deemed it more efficient to furnish it when she arrived than to move all of her belongings with her. A sly lie to herself, that. She left her home just as it always had been, frozen in the single moment before she got that letter from her fathers; that letter that led her here. Locked in time until she returns. She brought only a few trinkets with her; Brenna’s ahnhörn included. If she could not carry it back to xir birthplace, Caitlin could at least keep it with her. Hidden. Safe.

Her fathers say they will keep the house clean, free of dust and mold. She wanted to refuse them. She wants the air inside to have been air Brenna might have breathed, the stray hairs in the carpet, ones that might have been xirs. With each cleaning, a little of xir is being cleared out. Caitlin couldn’t share these thoughts; not wanting to dwell on them longer than she had to, embarrassed for even having them.

“Follow me, and I will show you the kitchen,” Rían, her ‘Pa’, says. A winter storm had rolled in as Caitlin had arrived. The coachman had mentioned that winter comes late in Eoi, but when it does, it rolls in fiercely. The townhome is chilly as her fathers give her the tour, and she wonders how long it will take for the hearth to warm her new dwelling.

It is different, and living in that difference, rather than appraising it, is uncomfortable. This is not her warm hearth; it is not her—their—soft bed. It isn’t a home to Caitlin. Business has had her stay overnight in various inns across Fayn. That was temporary; that was a night or two; always knowing that there is a home waiting. Brenna was waiting.

She makes notes in her head of what she can move and re-arrange. Maybe even replace. Her fingers graze counters, eyes land on the oddities, her skin trying to adjust to the dryness of the air. “And this is your office,” Pa says. He has the mannerisms of his usual spark, but Caitlin knows it is an imitation. Teige, her ‘Da’, stoic as ever, turns away, shoulders slumping, to look out the large window into a meticulously kept courtyard.

“This will do,” Caitlin says, turning away from both, not wanting them to see any more of her sorrow.

Da grabs her arm. “Caitlin. I know, I know you don’t want to be here. I understand.”

There are a thousand words she wants to say to him; words that have been building in her stomach for months. Words that she needs to tell him. She looks at the floor, then back at Da. “You don’t, though.”

Outside, the rain turns to snow.

#

Whick has just two temples; one for the Order of Muriel, and one for Iden. Eoi, however, has several dozen; multiple Temples for each member of the Tudáe pantheon. It is the towering Temple of Culain, patron god of the Royal House of Fola, that overlooks the market square.

Caitlin had not meant to get so caught up in work that morning, but she did. The last nine months have been day after day of her not meaning to get so caught up, but doing so anyway. And now she must battle a crowd at the market; all of the choice meat and produce long since plucked from the stalls and stowed into bags by the early risers. At least the chill of dawn has left, and it is a pleasantly warm autumn morning.

“Our people are being misled by unholy miscreants who preach idleness and slovenly attitudes,” a priest cries from a dais raised in the center of the market square. “Culain calls upon the people to show their dedication to Him through work, and in doing so, He will bless them with wealth!”

Acolytes of the god surround the dais, all wearing the snow-white robes with high collars and cuffed sleeves that mark them as Culain’s devout, distributing pamphlets to any who catch their eye when walking past. Caitlin lowers the brim of her sun hat, hoping they will not notice her. She has no such luck. “Beautiful lady,” an acolyte says, blocking her path. “Do you know of the grace of Culain?” “I am not interested, thank you.” She tries to get around him.

“But you should be! It is no mistake that King Tarmon and Queen Isleen have chosen Culain as their patron deity. He has rewarded the entire Fola line for their devotion. He ordained and bless their rule.”

“That is all very nice, but I must be getting back to—”

“Please, do take this. Honor Him with hard work and dedication to the righteous path, and he shall grant you all the riches you desire.”

“I have no need for riches, thank you.”

“Are you devoted to a different god??”

“I do not have time for this. I am sorry.”

She elbows past him, ignoring him as he makes one last attempt to engage her.

“How much for a dozen this morning?” She picks up the eggs, examining them for any cracks.

“Five dollars. But if you get two dozen, it’s eight dollars and I’ll throw in a pint of butter.”

Caitlin fishes some coins from her pocket, her mouth a thin line. “They were only two dollars for a dozen three weeks ago.”

“Can’t help it. Lost half my hens and don’t know when I’ll have the means to replace ‘em.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” She hands over the money; there’s a time to haggle, and this isn’t one of them. With her basket now full, she makes for a bench on the outskirts of the square and listens to the gossip.

“Princess Daya’s sibling has disappeared. Do you think there was a fight about…?”

“The prince has taken another lover! Captain Alice Halloran. Yes! The High Admiral’s daughter!”

“…you can’t go to work all beat up like that, especially for the wage you make! There’s a cheap clinic….”

“…The Marquess of Muiris has rejected yet another suitor!”

“But why? Is Lady Amelia hoping the prince will come back to her?”

“…can’t help it, ma, I need to do another day a week at the factory. Can you watch Mal and Lorne or not?”

“King Tarmon has made Sir Connal a count. Apparently, Ambassador Cariveau suggested it…” “Please, miss, do you have a dael to spare?”

Startled out of her reverie, she takes in the disheveled woman in front of her. Clothes no more than rags, deep lines on her forehead, and dark bags under her eyes. Without hesitation, Caitlin hands the woman the last few dael in her purse. The woman thanks her and hurries away.

“What are you doing?” An acolyte approaches her. “That woman does not need help. She needs Culain! Please, you are doing her a disservice by giving her your money.”

“What? She was hungry.”

“We have offered her our services many, many times. She still will not renounce some of her wicked ways, and so she cannot receive our charity. She also refuses to work, another way in which she could honor Culain. You are only enabling her.”

“Wicked ways?”

“You are truly as lost as she is. Please, take this. Our Temple is hosting our weekly worship tomorrow morning. I hope to see you there.”

The follower makes a gesture from his chin to the sky and resumes mingling with the crowd while the priest on the dais continues his proselytizing.

Caitlin has never cared for politics except inasmuch as she must care about taxes and having business paperwork in order. She has never cared for foreign affairs unless it impacted importing and exporting luxury items. And until today, she had never had a firm opinion on religion.

The idea of having a strong enough opinion one way or another seems too strange. She still cannot adjust; adapting to an environment that has frequent enough unrest and more than enough gossip. The unrest here is unlike anything she experienced at home. This is not the brawls that sometimes happen when rivals make port at the same time; a flash of violence and then quite glowering at the tavern. This is something larger and but much more silent. Much more serious. She has never felt this out of her depth before.

She doesn’t have anyone whom she can ask questions; how to live here, how to survive here. Someone she trusts enough to explain life here, what is normal and what is not. Three seasons without laughter at a tavern, lunches on the pier, games of cards with friends. Friends that came and went, and then came again as ships left and returned, and left again. But always friends.

#

Rains came and went; sweltering dry days passed by, and when the snow came back around, she still did not know how to live in her new residence. Home is a word reserved for a place that is now an old myth, so ephemeral that she is not sure if it ever existed. The entire world changed, and each season is a fresh new set of changes she must adapt to. She didn’t know how to accept spring here, and as soon as she thought she had it figured out, it became summer.

An entire year has passed, and she is still a stranger.

She knew of the protests and riots before coming here, but in the last year, she has had to accept them as part of her life as they have become more frequent, more disruptive, and more violent. She makes her way around the market, a large scarf obscuring her features. She is in no mood to spar with the acolytes of Culain today.

“Businessmen are working their employees to the bone,” she hears someone say behind her.

“They should stop complaining and work harder, as Culain instructs them to.”

“Serfs in the country are being killed by their lords,” an apprentice trader says to his employer.

“They owe a great deal to their lords for allowing them to work those lands. It is as Culain, in His divine wisdom, has ordained it.”

She decides that she does not actually need eggs today, and besides, she needs to hurry home before the sleet comes down even heavier.

“Factory workers are working in dangerous conditions,” an elderly man says.

“If they were truly so dangerous, why would the factory owners allow it? They wouldn’t do that. The workers are just lazy,” a youth replies.

She doesn’t need bread, either.

“There are more and more people begging on the street.”

“They should get a job, not make demands on the sovereign. To work is to be closer to the gods.” She ignores them; these conversations, ignores everything around her, and walks back home.

“My apologies, ma’am!” She bumps into someone, hardly noticing that she drops her basket and everything in it spills into the streets.

“Oh, no, I am at fault. I was not watching where I was going,” she says to the man. He is tall, almost inhumanly so, but thin, and for all that his stature is imposing, he looks like one more inclined towards anxiety than aggression.

“Let me help you,” he says, setting aside his umbrella and placing the bruised produce back in her basket.

Caitlin packs the last of her items back in the basket. “Thank you, sir. I am sorry to have caused you any inconvenience.”

“Let me escort you,” he says, holding the umbrella above her head.

“I couldn’t, possibly. I am almost home, anyway. Just one more block.”

“Oh? You wouldn’t happen to be Miss Peddigree, would you?”

“How—yes, I am.”

“Ah, then we share a destination!” He beams; the smile of a child on the face of a grown man. “Now you simply must let me escort you. After you,” he says.

She allows herself to be escorted home. “How did you know who I am?”

“I asked around. I wanted to make a good impression, so… Some people gave me more information than I asked for.”

“I see,” she says, turning the key and opening the door. “You have business then?”

He stomps the snow off of his boots, sets his wet umbrella on the stand next to the door, and removes his jacket. He looks as though he attempted to dress the part of a businessman, but none of the items match; the seams are worn, and everything is a bit too baggy. The only item that could be considered professional is the golden pin he wears over his heart, a blooming lily. “Yes. I am here on business. Are you purchasing carpentry items?”

“That depends.” She motions to her desk in the corner. “Can you provide me with business credentials? And more specifics of what exactly these items are?”

He chuckles. “And how do I do that?”

“Do you have any paperwork about the wares you sell and what you wish to sell them for? The articles filed for incorporation as a business?” This man does not need to know how little she actually cares for articles of incorporation or permits or any other paperwork at all. She buys from whomever she chooses, from whoever has the best items. But she has learned, in the year that she has now lived here, that purchasing from pirates and brigands is quite frowned upon, and while she could get away with it in Whick, business done in Eoi must at least look official, even when it isn’t. He slouches. “He never tells me these things. I’ll be back, I guess.”

“The weather is only going to get worse. Please, stay at least long enough for it to pass. I have tea or coffee, if you would like.”

“Now it is my turn to decline assistance. I have other pressing business I must still attend to.”

“Before you go, please tell me your name and when I can expect you back.”

“Diarmuid Marr,” he says. “And probably next week.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Marr? She’s heard the name before. An extremely talented craftsman, who is also extremely reclusive. But she was sure that his name was not Diarmuid. A relation maybe? If this was concerning the person she thought it was, though, it would be an excellent stroke of luck for Peddigree Trading, especially if they could make an exclusivity contract. She notices too late that he forgot his umbrella. With no other information about him, though, she must hope he sticks to his word and returns.

A week passes, and then two, and then more. Caitlin forgets about the anxious man as surely as he forgot about his umbrella; sellers who don’t keep their word aren’t worth the space in her mind, no matter the value of their wares. #

The wind outside carries the songs of the protests several miles away, yet loud enough to carry. The doorbell rings in harmony with them as he pushes it open, a worn folder in his hands. “Oh, that’s right. Mr. Marr, I’d thought you wouldn’t return.”

She leads him to her back office for more privacy and gestures for him to take a seat. He runs a finger across the edge of her mahogany desk, laughing to himself. “I hope these are the right papers,” he says.

The papers are dog-eared and, in many places, smudged and torn. She rifles through them, glancing at Diarmuid.

“You are the craftsman, then?”

“No, that would be my father, Seth. He is the owner of the business. I am just his errand boy.”

“These papers will suffice.” Her chest tightens. She does not know what half of these papers even say; she does not care; he has confirmed that she could indeed make a deal with the reclusive but talented craftsman. These papers could say he was a convicted murder and she would not care. To have Marr pieces in their inventory… “What sort of commerce are you looking for?”

“My father can’t sell his furniture, even though it is the best in the city. He wants to sell it at a fair price, but only the nobility and aristocrats can afford it. They come asking, but rarely. He has heard that you have an extensive network, and maybe we could work out an agreement.”

“I see.” She puts the papers back in the folder; there is no point in attempting to read the poor handwriting on the yellowing paper of the few pages that weren’t stained with wood varnish and coffee. “I trust these are handcrafted, then. So, you would like us to purchase some of his stock and sell it abroad? Foreign markets? Or here? Are they all unique? Does he take custom orders?” She tries to speak slowly; letting her excitement get the best of her would not be conducive to sealing this deal. His head droops, and he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes?”

“Which one?” She taps her fingers on the table.

“All?” He shifts in the chair.

“Alright.” If she didn’t pity the man, she knew she could swindle him. “Are you authorized to sign contracts? I can have a mediator help draft one up…”

His eyes widen.

“Is there a problem? We can go over all of the details with the mediator. We don’t have to figure out all the details if we get a rough overview…”

“No, no, no. It’s not that.”

She cocks her head to the side. “You aren’t authorized to conduct these sorts of transactions in the paperwork?” She pulls the folder back towards her, flipping through the pages. Again, it matters little to her. It matters very much to the lawyers and judges who are now her neighbors.

“No, the thing is, my father is terrible at this. He barely got the legal part of making a business, and as you can see…” He motions toward the papers and sits back in his chair.

“I see.”

“I’m not even officially an employee,” he says with a chuckle. “I tell him all the time he needs to actually find someone to do the business side of things, but all he wants to do is build.”

“But he ropes you into it?” She laughs. That is how she originally started working in the business.

“Rarely, but when he does, it’s stuff way over my head. I am a physician! I’m not even good with people most of the time. Terrible bedside manner and all. I don’t—”

“I understand, all too well.”

“That’s right, you’re the daughter. I take it you enjoy this though? That’s why you’re still doing it, right?”

“I suppose,” she says. “I’m good at it.”

“Not what I asked. But I won’t pry. Anyway, what do I need to do to get the paperwork legal for you Do you know?”

“It is not hard. If it were not almost dinner, I would call upon our lawyer to help you.”

“And how much does this lawyer charge?”

“She would help you at no cost. I will tell her tomorrow to draw up the paperwork, and then I can bring it by or you could stop over to sign it.”

“That is awfully generous of you. It sounds almost too good to be true.”

“I am not about to swindle you. Do not fear.”

“Speaking of dinner, though, would you like to get some with me? Tonight?”

“Tonight? Well…I have not the faintest idea of where to go, though. I do not get out of my office except on market day.”

“I know just the place, then. Let’s go.”

Their journey to the tavern is cut short by the sound of loud screams and chants.

“No… why are they heading in this direction?”

“A riot or protest?”

He sighs. “You shouldn’t be caught up in it. Can we postpone our dinner until another day?”

“Of course. Will you be alright to make it to your home?”

“Oh, I am going to my clinic. There will probably be injuries among those in the protest. I want to be prepared.”

“You agree with the rioters?”

“Why should I deny medical care to someone based on their beliefs?”

“I see… well, good luck. I shall see you again soon. And this tavern better be worth the wait.” “Oh, the beer certainly is. The food? Not so much. The company? More than worth it.” He winks and sprints away from her with a small wave.

She laughs for the first time since she moved to Eoi over a year ago. She does not make it home before finding herself caught between the rioters turning down her street on one side, and the King’s Shield appearing out of nowhere to flank them on the other.

The sound of metal clashing echoes as she hurries towards home, hoping to make it before the chaos reaches her. She grabs ahold of her skirt tightly and dashes, trying to ignore the yells of the protesters crying for better working conditions and more reasonable rents, trying to ignore the stringent smell of freshly lit torches, trying to ignore the clatter of hoofs as the King’s Shield advances, trying to ignore the taste of blood as she bites her lip in concentration.

She jams her keys into the keyhole, turning it so hard she almost breaks it. Safely inside, without hesitation, she locks the doors, closes the blinds, and goes upstairs to wait, to distract herself, to pretend that the calamity outside is the familiar brawl of two enemy pirate gangs and the colleagues who took bets on the winners. Nevertheless, she keeps glancing down at the protest from the second-floor window.

By now she knows what they do; corral the protesters from all sides, pinning them in. They arrest as many as they can; destroy whatever belongings they have; kick and punch and hit the protesters until they are barely conscious.

She didn’t think she would ever have an opinion on this; it never seemed to be her business. Whatever they were upset about has very little to do with her. But watching the royal guard run their horses over the protesters, swing torches at them, lock them in like this… If this is how terribly the king treats his dissenters, she wonders what he has done to earn their dislike. But she does not want to care about these things. All she wants to concern herself with is if the king has raised taxes on imports.

One by one, foot soldiers grab protesters, forcing them to the ground, and binding their arms behind their backs. Once or twice, as she peers out the window, she swears she sees the insignia of the King’s Shield flash on the hilt of a soldier’s sword. The elite of the elite, selected warriors who are more weapons than human. Some protesters slip away, pulling others behind them, evading the guards and soldiers, and running down allies. There are shopkeepers who surreptitiously pull people inside. There is no keeping count of who escapes and who is taken away in iron and chains.

The afternoon becomes evening, and then twilight. The clash dies down as more protesters either flee or are apprehended. And now it is silent. Burned-out torches discarded, fliers scattered, glass adorning the street.

Diarmuid materializes out of nowhere, limping as he makes his way back and knocks on the door. Why does it feel as though doom is standing there on the other side of the door? She lets him in.

“I’m so sorry about that interruption,” he says, removing his hat. “Do you think it’s too late for dinner?”

“Excuse me? You cannot be serious.” She crosses her arms, eyebrows raised.

“I am quite serious. I’ve attended to all the emergency patients for the evening and now I would like to have a full dinner with good company. Shall we?” He holds out his hand in invitation.

“I suppose I can. You better not be lying about the quality of the beer.” She laughs, hoping it will make the nervous knot in her stomach disappear.

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Caitlin had her whole life planned out.

She would live in the bustling port city of Whick with the reformed pirate she fell in love with and, one day, inherit her fathers' growing trading business.

She did not intend to stumble into an anti-monarchy riot and become involved with the revolutionaries determined to overthrow the nobility and create a world without hunger, poverty and homelessness. A world with justice for all, and not just those with means.

She did not want to catch the eye of a spoiled prince. She did not want him to pursue and court her, plunging her into a world of bickering dukes, suspicious foreign ambassadors, and scheming politicians.

She did not seek out the attentions of ancient and secret religious orders, intent on controlling the machinations of a kingdom from the shadows.

But she did.

Caught in a web of deception and conspiracies, she must now she must fight for her own life in the coming political chaos.

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Welcome to SCIONS AND SHADOWS.

IN AHNLISEN, OLD GODS PLOT REVENGE on those that displaced them, hidden cities hold ancient secrets, kings and priests vie for control of powerful relics, forgotten realms rise from ashes, spies and assassins of murky loyalties operate from the shadows, rebels and revolutionaries covertly arm themselves for discord, and oracles and scryers predict the rebirth of fallen immortals.

The world of SCIONS AND SHADOWS is one of magic and intrigue, spanning centuries of political conspiracies, divine machinations and conflicts of ethics, morality, and conscience. Swords and spells clash chaotically, forcing people to decide between what they want, and what is right.

SCIONS AND SHADOWS is a series of novels and novellas that share the same universe. There is an overarching plot, but each book can be read as a stand-alone and in any order.

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