Chapter 1
(A/U) Well, my first David Eddings fic. I've always been a huge fan of his, especially his sarcastic sense of humor, so I guess its only natural that I would try and imitate him. Yes, I killed Belgarion, I know that it's a horrible crime, but his character was not useful to my plot, so he got the axe. Those of you who think that this is tantamount to blasphemy, I would normally agree with you, but I'm going to ask you to do me a favor and just roll with it. And you will probably recognize a few names now and then of minor characters. I'm not going to make a big deal about why they are there, since it should be pretty obvious, and we all know about the relationships that exist between the characters, so I'm not going to make a big deal about that either. They are there to serve a purpose, but are not really essential to the story. I think that is about it, so read, reviews and comments are love, and enjoy.
Chapter 1
"Sera! Away from the riverbank." Aunt Pol's voice rang out across the lawn. "I didn't make you a new dress just so you could dirty it up."
"Yes, Aunt Pol," Sera responded automatically, though the slight pout on her face spoke of her disappointment. The tiny young woman pushed back a loose strand of flaming red hair behind her ear before turning away from the muddy bank of the stream. She had had plans which involved a fair amount of splashing in the small river that ran near the farm hold, but her instinctual obedience to her Aunt meant that those plans would have to be postponed.
"Thank you, dear. We want you to look fresh and clean for when we go to market today." Aunt Pol said gently, patting Sera's hair as the girl walked up. "We must make a good impression on the other ladies of the district, mustn't we?" She continued as she straightened the dress Sera was wearing. The deep green fabric, trimmed in a pale cream and laced and the bodice, highlighted Sera's brilliant red hair, and displayed her blossoming figure quite nicely.
"Do I really have to go, Aunt Pol?" Sera pouted, "I mean the other ladies don't pay any attention to me, except to poke and prod me, or to introduce me to their boring son, or nephew, or other eligible relative. I'd much rather stay here with the twins. Please Aunt Pol?" Sera batted her eyelashes the best she could. This technique usually worked; at least it did with Mister Rundorig, Mistress Zubrette, and all the other older hands on the farm. Unfortunately, Aunt Pol was not so easily swayed.
"Kamion and Asrana do not have the time to look after a girl as inquisitive as you. They both have their duties about the farm and do not need any distractions." Aunt Pol said in a tone which stopped any further discussion. "Now run upstairs and pack, we'll be spending several nights in town. And remember to pack warm clothes, the seasons are changing now."
Sera marched upstairs without any further comment, but her face was a thundercloud as she came in off the meadow and entered the farm complex. The ring of Uncle Durnik's hammer sounded across the courtyard, and Sera stopped at the door of his smithy to watch the man at his work.
It was not that Sera was afraid of her uncle, in fact she loved the man to pieces, but his calm, quiet personality was quite at odds with her own natural exuberance. Sera's relatively frequent outbursts of emotion always seemed so silly when compared to Durnik's own steady, dependable nature. So Sera, who hated even the thought of appearing silly, did not naturally seek out her uncle's company. But as she watched the immensely strong man shape the red hot iron into an as yet unknown piece of farm equipment, her irritation with being forced to go to town melted, and she could not help but smile, resisting the urge to run over and hug the dear man.
"Sera, did your Aunt find you? She had something she wished to speak with you about." Durnik asked the petite girl. Sera was always slightly unnerved by the way both her aunt and uncle could identify her without ever looking in her direction, but her young mind shrugged it off as a personal idiosyncrasy that they shared.
"Yes, she called me in to finish our packing." The devious girl turned to her uncle with her large green eyes wide with false innocence. "Oh Uncle Durnik, please don't make me go into town, there's really no reason for it, and Aunt Pol is being so unfair about the whole situation." Sera's voice throbbed with emotion, and her lip trembled ever so slightly, mute evidence that if she was forced to go to market and spend five days in the company of those old crones that seemed to want to marry her off to any remotely eligible man of their acquaintance, she would simply die.
"If your Aunt thinks you should go, then I won't contradict her. You need to start learning how to behave like a proper lady, and the best place for you to learn that is in the company of the matrons in Medalia," the smith said, carefully avoiding Sera's wide-eyed stare.
Sera gave a huff before sitting on one of the benches in the smithy. "I don't see why I can't learn how to behave like a lady from Cousin Asrana. Why do I have to go to Medalia?"
Durnik gave a low chuckle. "Asrana is nearly as wild as you are, my dear. You just don't see it because she spends most of her time in the kitchen. Now that's enough complaining. You be a good girl and go pack like you Aunt told you." He quenched the hot iron, a plough blade by the looks of it, in a barrel of water beside his anvil.
Sera sighed mightily before rising off the bench and walking into the complex to the rooms she shared with her Aunt and rest of her family. When she got to her room, she began sorting through her belongings, deciding what would be needed on the trip and what would simply be excess weight. She decided on several plain gowns, as well as one holiday dress, and of course the new gown that Aunt Pol had made for her. She folded up a pair of breeches and a tunic between the dresses, folding the clothing in such a way that her Aunt would not notice the masculine outfit. Sera had plans, plans that did not include a chaperone, and the only way to sneak away from the many adults going to market was to have them think that the young person shirking their chores and running off was a boy, a girl would be immediately caught and brought back to avoid a scandal.
Besides clothing, Sera packed an ivory comb, several thongs to tie back her mass of hair, and the small mirror she, Asrana, and Aunt Pol shared when they traveled. Finally, she picked up a small silver amulet, one that she was told belonged to her mother.
Sera had grown up knowing that she was an orphan. There was a pestilence that had swept across the continent shortly after her birth, and her parents, as well as all of her siblings, had died of it. This amulet was her only connection to them. On the front was an engraving of a tree, some great oak or like species, with a crown woven in with the branches. She placed the amulet with the other items she was taking with her. She may have occasion to wear it in the city, and anyway, she did not feel comfortable leaving it behind.
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
The morning dawned cool and clear. The trees were just beginning to turn to their autumn colors, and there was a hint of frost as the caravan of wagons began to roll out of the farm. Rundorig was driving the lead wagon, and he turned frequently to wave back to his wife, Zubrette, who was staying behind to mind the farm and the pair's many children. The farm holding that Rundorig ran was rather close to the city of Medalia, and profited from selling directly to the markets in town, rather than those farmers who sold to merchants at the smaller country fairs.
Sera did not profit from the close proximity to the city. Since Aunt Pol often went with Rundorig to Medalia, and Sera frequently accompanied her Aunt, Sera was exposed to the many matrons of the city. They began by inviting only Aunt Pol, leaving Sera to run and play with the many children about the market, but a chance remark made by Aunt Pol about her 'darling niece' immediately included Sera in the invitation to tea and conversation with the old crones. Sera could not understand why her aunt would want to waste a perfectly good day in a stuffy parlor with the nasty old women when she could be out walking about in the fresh breeze. Aunt Pol was the most beautiful person that Sera knew, and she feared that her constant association with the local matrons would give her a decidedly crone-ish reputation.
However, Sera did have to admit that the wagon ride to the city was rather pleasant. The wagons moved slow enough that she could run and play with the other children on the holding while they trundled along, and whenever she tired, she had only to climb back into the bed of the wagon that Uncle Durnik was driving, find a space between the many metal farm implements that her uncle hoped to sell, and curl up for a nap, secure in the fact that her aunt and uncle would watch out for her.
As is only common in a community of any size, Sera had several playmates that were old enough to be sent along to help at market. Doroon, the son of Rundorig and Zubtrette, was a year or so older than Sera, and was vastly amusing. He had acquired the best traits of both his parents, and somehow managed to avoid their more noticeable shortcomings. He was notoriously brave and always very proper, remnants of his father's Arendish background, but was also witty and clever as his mother. He was tall and rather muscular, in a way that made Sera jumpy for some reason, with sandy hair and the most beautiful blue eyes. Sera and Doroon were the oldest of friends, but his muscularity meant that he was treated as a man, and spent more time out in the fields that playing with Sera and the others. Sera was rather upset about this, but her aunt and uncle always seemed to be more at ease when she played with the other children on the holding, and were always watching nearby when she did spend time with Doroon.
Then there were the Drasnian brothers, Davon and Alten. The boys were separated by four years, making Davon the oldest child in Sera's circle of acquaintances and Alten the youngest. Although Davon was a little more than a year older than Doroon, his small, wiry frame gave him the appearance of being much younger, and so was not required to join the men in the fields. His brown hair was rather unremarkable, and he had a face that naturally diverted attention away from him. Alten, who was two years younger than Sera, had the same small build and unremarkability as his brother, and this paired with his younger age meant that he was naturally the one chosen to sneak into the kitchens and steal the many sweets and assorted goods that the older children wished to consume. Sometimes these ventures were successful, but more often than not the boy was chased out by the head cook, who usually did the chasing with her broom.
All of the children were usually conscripted into helping at market, so they kept each other company, saving the older farm hands the agony of trying to keep the young people amused. Usually, the group would stay close, sitting in one of the wagons and talking, so those who were assigned to watch them had an easy time of it. This was subterfuge of course, for as soon as the children were into the city, they would quickly slip away from their unwary guardians to explore the market and other areas that they would not be able to see if they were under the watch of the adults.
The morning before the wagons reached Medalia, however, Sera's Aunt Pol called her up to the wagon which she and Durnik were riding in. "Darling, there are some dishes in the back of the wagon that need washing, why don't you run to the stream over there and fetch a pail of water so you can get them clean." Sera was about to protest, but her aunt interrupted her. "You are going to wash them, dear," she said, "and the sooner you start, the sooner they will be done. You don't want to give the grease and food time to harden on the pots while we sit here arguing, now do you?"
Sera sat silent for a second, trying to think of an argument that would get her out of this most distasteful of chores, but came up empty. "No, Aunt Pol," she sighed, "I guess I don't." She then walked sullenly to the back of the wagon, grabbed a pail, and trotted down to the river for water.
For the rest of the day, Aunt Pol seemed to come up with endless chores for Sera to do. The girl was kept so busy that, when the wagons finally rolled into Medalia, she didn't even notice. Only when the wagons stopped did Sera look up from the torn cloak she was mending to realize that they had not only reached the city, but were at the centre of the market. Looking back to where she and her friends had gathered earlier that day to discuss their escape plans, Sera noticed that her friends had already disappeared into the crowds. Sera thought that that was extremely rude of them, especially since now, she was directly under the scrutiny of her Aunt Pol, and escape from Pol's eyes was going to be nigh impossible. With a great huff, the girl furrowed her eyebrows and pouted at her abandonment, only assuming a more pleasant expression when her Aunt offered to make her a tonic to fix her sour disposition. Aunt Pol was a great healer, but her treatments often tasted vile, and Sera did not wish to have to swallow one if it was not absolutely necessary.
Aunt Pol did not stay to help with the unloading of goods, since no one would ever consider asking her to do manual labor, so she left for the inn in which they would be staying, with the dismal Sera in tow. Once in the rooms, a message came from one of the many ladies of the city, asking Aunt Pol to tea, and reminding her to "bring that adorable niece with you". Sera could not help but frown at those words, since it effectively cut off any escape she might have planned until the following day. Aunt Pol seemed rather pleased with the invitation, and quickly sent word to the innkeeper asking for a bath to be prepared. Sera could not help but think that her Aunt Pol was taking pleasure in her obvious dismay, but, when the bath was prepared, she followed her Aunt to the bath house without comment, keeping her opinions about baths, tea, and matronly old ladies to herself.