I would like to apologize to each and every one of you. For months my life has been in every direction but that of writing, and I have felt empty without it. Now, after far too long, I find myself with time again to work on this story. I have not touched it since the same month I wrote chapter 9, and have decided that I will begin touching up, editing, and (slightly) reworking each chapter so that it will be a story at its utmost finest quality. I will work every day at least one full hour towards that goal, so that by the end of March I will not only have given you a chapter 10 but also a better story as a whole. If at any point along the way any one person feels as if an alteration I make is not good, or should be altered further, please do not hesitate to express yourself and rip me to pieces if you wish. I will accept any heat I am given with head humbly bowed. With tentative hopes for good feed back, here is my completed chapter one.
When food is scarce and the bed hard, a strong person will make due. If clothing fits too tightly and what skin that shows is brown with filth, a strong person will make due. When death lingers in the very air, threatening to steal a soul away to sleep forever, a strong person will make due then, too.
This I have lived by for twenty years.
One
"Rhynne, the sun is almost upon the horizon. The fields need misting." My father's voice barreled into my dreams with the force of an avalanche.
Instantly awake and half blind with panic, I fell off my cot with a hard thump and rain of straw. Pain blossomed in my right knee, but I did not dare wince in front of him as words poured from my lips even before I had found my feet again.
"Yes! I'll be ready and out before the first rays touch." I promised. It was difficult to stand still with the bruise on my knee already making itself known and my night clothes doing little to shield me from the cold of my bedchambers, but I succeeded with sheer strength of will.
"Do not be late." Father growled slowly after an agonizingly long moment of glaring, and then was gone just as soon as he had appeared. The staccato emphasis he placed onto each syllable made clear the anger he only barely held under the surface. I had little doubt that no matter how quickly I found myself done with the day's work I would find no supper waiting for me that day. The crop was everything, after all, and to risk its health by sleeping in was to risk our livelihoods.
Pushing away the tendril of fear that touched my spine, I focused my energies on pulling one still partially frozen layer of fabric on over the other. The roughly sewn furs and under tunics perpetually smelled of mold due to the constant moist state they found themselves in, but I had long grown so used to the odor that I hardly noted its presence anymore. On the floor lay the four pairs of socks, thick leather boots, and snow shoes that I had discarded from my tired feet only a few hours before. Now I gritted my teeth against the chill as I pulled them all back on again, finally finishing by tightly tying the snow shoes down. Last came the layers of fur that I wrapped carefully around my neck and lower face. These would prove to be invaluable against the winds that were ever slithering their way into your bones and sucking away any hope of warmth.
"Rhynne." Father's voice vibrated through my chambers from the main hall, the threat behind the word enough to send me into a renewed sense of hurry.
"Ready, father!" I said quickly, moving through the hallways as quickly as my shoes and layers would allow.
The front door was bolted shut with two steel locks and one large wooden cross bar as always. Getting the door free of its holdings and open usually took more effort than I had to give in the mornings, but that day I had the door open and shut again behind me in record time. There was no such thing as exhaustion if father was angry with you, and on these days I almost felt relieved to be stepping outside into the wasteland of our homestead.
The mountain cold never failed to strike the air from my lungs with its intensity. The wind was already strong that morning, almost ripping my furs straight from my shoulders, but I held on with white knuckles as I made my way across the pathway to the shed that held the mister. Inside the air was warmer, almost hot, and extremely humid. This was both my very favorite, and most hated, part of each day. The shed was quite large; it had to be, because its creaking walls enclosed the only naturally occurring hot spring for over one hundred leagues. The spring's boiling waters held certain minerals that our crop could not survive without. The shed kept the winds at bay, allowing me to fill the mister without much trouble, while also becoming a sort of safe haven against the bitter cold. What caused me to hate this part even as I breathed the warmer air was that the cold would become far worse once I left again. The moisture from the air settled onto your clothing and face then froze into a solid crackling mass while you worked. It was as unavoidable as breathing.
Once finished with my first and easiest task I strapped on the burden that was the water container and spoke the words that would activate the charm that kept the essential water from freezing. I was no enchantress, of course, but the actual device had carved into it a spell that could be made to work temporarily whenever certain words were spoken out loud. I had no idea what those words meant, though I had always gathered it was something along the lines of "start". Regardless of their true meaning the spell always came to life at my spoken demand, and that day was like any other.
Armed with my magic tank and its thin nozzle, I pulled the shed's door open and forced myself to step back outside. The wind seemed to have grown more vicious for the ten minutes I had left it. My feet moved forward almost of their own accord, driven by ten years of the same daily routine, and I found myself walking towards the swaying white flowers that were my family's life's blood. As always they glistened with their frozen sap, each petal covered in a thick layer of nectar. In is frozen state it shown silver in the winter sun. I liked it best this way, I had to grudgingly admit. At least when frozen it was unable to stain your clothing and skin for days at a time.
Dragon's heart, they called this flower. Its nectar, when thawed properly, created the most pure, beautiful purple pigment ever found in nature or made by man. As purple was the royal color, and the flower was extremely rare and hard to grow, there was a great demand for it. My father chose to take that to his advantage long before I had been conceived.
Pulling the little lever at the base of the nozzle I began to mist the Dragon's heart with its nourishment of the day. Not for the first time I thought of dumping the water into the soil and starving them. It took only a single missed day to kill an entire field of these frozen wonders. Perhaps, my mind wondered deliriously, if we were suddenly without a means of money my father would be forced to move us south from this terrible place and onto a true farm. The idea had no heart behind it, though. I had done so once before, as a child. Half the crop had shriveled by the next day, but father had not taken us away. Instead he had starved me of all but water for a week and three days and set me to the task of replanting the ruined fields. On the tenth day my will to fight him broke, as he knew it would, and I realized with bitterness that I would forever be at his mercy. I was to turn eleven in two days.
It took five hours to go up and down each row of Dragon's Heart, my mister sputtering out of water at the last flower as I had carefully rationed it to do. That task done, I began high-stepping my way back to the shed to put away my now empty tool. Days out on the mountain were very sort, and the sun was already only a few more hours from sinking below the horizon by then. There was still work to be done back in the house, though, before I would be allowed to strip myself of my boots and layers and sink onto my straw cot for the night. My knee groaned mournfully as I shuffled my way along, and I almost missed the two figures moving on the horizon as I reached the shed door.
So surprised was I by their unexpected appearance that I almost tumbled straight into the wooden wall in front of me.
Visitors!
At once I was both filled with an explosion of excitement and suspicion. The figures were too few to have been sent from the king's court for a shipment of dye, and the harvest was not ready if they were. I found myself going over what I saw a dozen times as I moved inside the shed with renewed vigor. There had been at least two, and their misty shapes too large to be anything but men on mules. This was not the first time men not of the king had come to buy from us, I rationalized. It was the best explanation I decided as I hung the nozzle and tank on their hooks.
Still, visitors meant hot food and a pause to the day's work. Seeing a face that was neither my father's nor the maid's and a chance to rest my weary bones from their labor was so welcomed and rare that every such occurrence was burned into my memory like bright stars. The last man to see us had been the king's very own right hand, sent to retrieve that year's harvest of dye. The crotchety old man had shaken my hand, saying that if I continued to work as hard as I did I might grow up to be the strongest lad in the North. He had not seen me for the woman that I was, as none ever did, though I never blamed them for it. My hair was cut above my ears, my own handiwork, and my clothing decidedly nondescript. There was no need for beauty on the mountainside. Such things were only an instrument of your own death.
The blurry figures condensed as I neared the house, becoming two men riding slowly on shivering mules. Their bodies shown blindingly bright in the sun. These were no servants of the king sent to buy dye. These were knights, and their arrival was never anything short of trouble. A fear entirely different than that I felt of my father quickened my step. Father would need to be warned of their coming.
My pace increased too late. The men arrived at our front door just as I did, their faces hidden behind their iron helms. Closed against the cold, I had no doubt. Without so much as a formal greeting the slightest of the two unseated himself and gripped me by the elbow. His gauntlet shown too brightly in the mountain sun as his hand locked onto my arm like a vice, and I squinted up at him painfully.
"Boy, where is your father?" The knight asked, his voice almost lost in the wind that whistled against his mask. I gulped softly, taking in the green and gold lion emblazoned onto the shield that declared him a knight of the king's guard.
"He is inside." I answered in the calm voice I used to placate my father whenever his temper became too dangerous. The knight spat on the ground, stating his distaste of my short answer. The fear already present in me tightened into a painful coil in the pit of my stomach. Nothing about these men's actions told me that this would be a pleasant visit.
"Do yeh know why we've come?" The larger man demanded thunderously, his booming voice and Eastern accent giving the wind no chance of sweeping it away. I shook my head slowly, making a conscious effort not to shake it furiously back and forth like a frightened dog. These men did not seem the sort you wanted to show weakness to.
"You will in time. Take us inside. We would have words with your father." The smaller ordered.
"You still have hold of my arm, sir knight." I answered smoothly, trying to buy as much time as possible. Perhaps my father knew of the potential danger already, but there was no way to know. The knight's helmet dipped down as he shifted his gaze to the hand still holding me captive. With a rough squeeze he released it.
"If you'll follow me." I said with a small bow. Resisting the urge to rub what I knew to be the second bruise I had earned that day, I turned to the front door with a small prayer that father had remembered to lock the door behind me this morning. He had not. With mounting worry I pulled open the door and was met with an empty front hall.
"Father?" I called, "There are knights of the king's guard come to speak with you!"
"I am here." His voice floated in from the kitchen. I followed it, the men close behind.
Now that we were inside, away from the bitter cold and in a room with a large hearth, the men removed their helmets. Glancing back in curiosity, I was mildly shocked to see that the smaller of the two men was a boy no older than my own twenty years. His hair and eyes were as black as the night's sky, and his face was the sort of handsome that young kitchen winches sighed over. Such features were only known to the royal family. I wondered what had befallen this young prince that he would be punished by being sent to this hell. The second was an older man, perhaps forty. His only hair, apparently having grown tired of his scalp, grew on his face in a giant, rust red mustache that was currently frozen to his cheeks. Unthawed it would more than likely extend outwards even farther than his ears. I found I feared them both equally; the prince for his emotionless eyes, and the man for the sheer muscle f his build. Both appeared capable of killing me with but a flick of their swords.
In the kitchen father was seated at the great dining table, three plates already made up with goblets full of red wine. The single maid that lived among us had cooked a simple meal for the visitors. Roasted mountain fox and herbs, silver erl roots, and steamed turnips sat steaming in the middle of the table. The smell of the meat had my mouth watering instantly, but I ignored it and pulled seats back for our guests, for that was what they seemed to be. The larger man sank down gladly, letting out a loud "harrumph!" as his arse settled in the chair. It sagged a bit at the weight of him plus fifty pounds of metal but held. I had built that particular chair to replace the broken one before it, and felt a small spike of pride that it could hold against such stress. The boy sat slowly, keeping himself on the edge of his seat as if to make flight or fight at any moment. The boy made me nervous.
"Leave us, Rhynne." Father commanded softly after they had taken their seats, and I moved to obey. The younger knight grabbed my wrist before I taken my first step.
"The boy stays. I'm sure by your readiness that you received our letter and know of the reason we are here." He said coolly.
"I am aware, but I should like to hear it explained with my own ears." My father said too calmly. His anger was building. It was one thing for these men to eat our food and sit at our table, but quite another to give my father orders.
"I am Sarj, knight of the king's guard," The older man boomed. "The king is in need of strong hands. There's a war brewin' between man and the Ugran, and we've been sent to gather yer son."
"I am Arrus, third son to the king and knight of his guard." The younger added. "I am here also to remind you of the debt you owe to our king for his protection and leadership."
"Forgive me," I spoke up softly, causing all eyes to turn onto me. "But you mean to take me away from this place to fight in a war?"
"That is exactly it, meh boy!" Sarj cried, clapping me on the back and nearly throwing me off my feet.
I could scarcely believe my ears, staring at them both with wide eyes as I righted myself. War meant leaving this mountain. It meant long marches with thousands of other boys and men and days of endless training. I would have a purpose. I might even wake up to a warm sun and no wind to steal my breath from my lungs. With a fierce sort of madness I allowed myself to feel a tiny spark of hope for the first time in many years.
"You cannot." Father said simply, but those two words ground out of his teeth as lethally as a pit viper's venom.
Nobody had yet to touch the food the maid had prepared, and it sat unnoticed, growing colder by the minute. The spark of life that touched my chest immediately began to wither out again. Of course I could not go, and father would soon reveal to them why.
"Why is this, then?" Sarj asked, red behind the ears with indignation at my father's refusal.
"Because I do not have a son."
"You 'ave no son? Do not lie to me, man!"
"I say again, I do not have a son."
Arrus turned slowly to narrow his eyes at my face, and my small happiness died before it could be given life. Sarj stood in one movement, sending the chair I had spent weeks in carving clattering across the floor to rest against the wall. I barely noticed the loud clatter of its landing through the ringing in my ears.
"Who's this, then?" The man blustered, taking my wrist from Arrus' grasp and yanking me forward. A wretched sob found its way out of my mouth.
"My daughter."