It wasn't a magic quill, to my disappointment. I almost wanted to kick myself for believing that it could have been. Mundane as it may be, I found writing with it a pleasant experience. Greg, having spent so little on the quill, even bought me some ink from a traveling merchant. After presenting the three customary gifts to Bren, who was acting as my father, the marriage was finalized.
The wedding date was set after the turn of the year. Fortunately, it wasn't a winter year, so the roads would be clear. I was born exactly eight days before the turn of the year, so the timing worked out well.
I used my time wisely, refining my plan and gathering as much coin as possible. My mother’s insistence on my learning to be a proper bride interfered. But it wasn't unfruitful. I learned how the house managed its coin; how much they set aside for the taxman, and how to properly budget.
Learning more was never a bad thing in my eyes. Knowledge, I found, was power. No longer could I wear a simple canvas sack everywhere. Mother was strangely enthused about the entire affair; one overheard conversation was enough for me to learn that they were just excited to be rid of me.
I considered robbing them blind before I left, but decided against it. I wanted no one to suspect my flight to the capital.
It was another Eight-day, and I had the pleasure of visiting the house once more. Dim, whom I haven't seen in days, gasped as I approached.
“Wow, you look pretty.”
Yes, I was forced to wear a dress everywhere, as well as display the bridal band and deep red shawl Greg purchased for my second gift.
“Don't even dare,” I threatened.
Dim raised a hand in surrender, and flashed a stupid smile, “Your Mother in?” I asked.
“Ye. It's cleanin' day. So, might be busy for a while.”
I shrugged and entered, “I hope you're happy with your new husband, Ed.”
I gave him a warm smile, “I will be,”
As soon as I walked through the door, I was swarmed. Most of the whores were in cheap canvas dresses, mopping floors or dusting shelves. Rushing over, they fawned at my dress, shawl, and band, offering compliments and well wishes. I wanted to vomit.
“So, how's the man?” Helan asked as we sat at our usual table.
“Big, ugly, built like an ox. But he has coin,” I said neutrally.
“I know it's not what you want, but it could be worse.”
I’ve always hated the phrase: ‘It could be worse.’ Why should I settle? Should I be grateful that he wasn't five times my age instead of three? That I sleep under a roof and not in the forest? No, I wouldn't accept it meekly. The weak and powerless use that phrase to comfort themselves.
“I suppose, now, can we get to letters. It wouldn't do for a wife to not know how to manage her husband's business,” Recognizing that I didn't want to speak about it, she nodded.
As soon as I took out the quill and ink, she gasped, “My word, he must really want you?”
I gave her a raised eyebrow, “Is this so valuable?”
“May I?” she asked. I shrugged and handed her the quill. She dipped the quill into the ink pot and signed my name in a beautiful, flowing script. It would take me years to reach that level of penmanship.
“This quill is of exquisite craftsmanship, the ink flows perfectly, and by the looks. Whoever owned it followed proper maintenance. This is worth at least five silver. Get a proper pot, a newer feather, and a fine case. It could sell for much more,”
“I got it for a single bit.”
Helan looked at me like I had grown a second head. I shrugged, “An old tinker visited the village a few months ago. He was but a few months from the grave. He offered to tell me a story in exchange for a bit. I told him no, but he promised it would be good. A deal was struck: He would tell me the first half and, if it was good enough, I would pay for the second.”
“I’m guessing the story was good,” Helan said.
“Yes, it made me want to become a writer. I left to get coin for the rest of the story and ran into my brother. You know how that ended. Then, when shopping for bridal gifts with Greg, I ran into him again. He was even closer to death; no one paid him a second glance. I suppose he knew he was going to die soon and decided to give this to the random girl who listened to his story rather than have some brigand take it off his corpse. No doubt he is dead now,”
In the weeks since I had met him, I thought about Emyr often. Eventually, I decided that the simple answer was the most correct one.
These quills were probably used by anyone with the coin, including the Magi. Whether it was stolen, traded, or it was his own, I didn't know. But he encountered a delusional girl who believed she could become a magus. He must have found me amusing and decided that he might as well pass the quill to me. He wouldn't need it in death.
“A delightful story, try not to use that quill around random people. They might try to steal it.”
I nodded and began practicing.
~
The week passed in a blur, and slowly, my plan was nearing completion. I had a silver eagle and 32 bits, hardtack, Strong boots, two thick cotton pants and a shirt, wool socks, hard leather gloves, and a large brown cloak. Just today, I snagged a leather bag, large enough to hold all my belongings. I starved and worked myself to the bone to get enough coin.
Everything was complete; now it was the waiting game. The large trading caravans only came through once or twice a year. And we were overdue for one. I bartered with enough merchants for information to have a clear idea of how porters worked. Pay a certain amount of coin and they would reserve a spot on a transport for me. If bandits or highwaymen attacked, then the many guards would step in.
A single man owned most trading caravans, and independent merchants would contract with him for the safety of numbers. Porters offered the transport of people, not goods. Five to fifteen bits to get a seat on the transport. 20 to 25 would guarantee a meal a day. The best thing about the caravans was that they were usually too massive to stay inside the village. So, they would usually station further down the highway.
It was always a festive time when they arrived. Hundreds of merchants would sell their wares, and villagers, who were usually isolated from the world, could hear news and gain access to rare and expensive goods. In this chaos lay opportunity.
As the days passed, I stopped working for Grelleth completely. My mother forced me to spend more time learning to be a wife. Right now, she stood over my shoulder, looking down at a pot I was stirring.
“Don't over stir, you'll break the potatoes, some men like them whole,” She ordered.
The distaste she had for me had lessened over the past weeks. Not because we shared any real connection, but because I had voiced not a single complaint, nor shown a single ounce of defiance, and never dared to speak back or defend myself against my siblings' harassment. I silently cleaned, washed, cooked, and obeyed.
‘I was the perfect daughter or perfect slave, depending on your perspective.’
Aalis was becoming frustrated; no matter how much she mocked my marriage, I never responded.
Taking a ladle, my mother tasted the stew. “A bit bland, but you make this for the taste of your husband, so be sure to check how much salt he desires. More often, if the man isn't tired, a bedding may occur; be sure that you have suitably prepared yourself.”
“Yes, mother,” I said, my voice carrying not a hint of emotion. Nodding at my acceptance, she pointed to the table.
“Set the table. Bren should be home soon. It is a wife's duty to have it prepared before he arrives,” she commanded.
By the time I was finished setting the table, Bren walked through the door, followed by his two sons.
Aalis was still in her room doing gods know what.
“Mother, the caravan's here, let's go see, there’s even a troupe performing tonight,” Treanor said. Aalis burst out of her room, apparently catching his words. Her eyes immediately found her father, who softened.
Bren nodded, “Supper can wait. It's not oft they come this far south,”
I stood frozen in front of the cookpot while pouring stew into a bowl. Taking my inaction as wanting to attend, Mother said, “Edith, you still have your chores; make sure they are finished. You're lacking in wifely skills.”
Mastering myself again, I answered, “Yes, Mother.”
Bren nodded, and a few minutes later, the entire family left to see the caravans. Like all previous years, they would stay for a day and leave in the early morning. I had to move now. I went to the window and watched as the happy family headed to the likely hundred-plus caravan that crowded the eastern road out of the village.
Bursting through the front door, I immediately ran south into the woods. After a few minutes, I started to tear at my clothes. I had at best an hour of sunlight. I ripped my dress first, as if someone was trying to rip the garment off of me, and I even dove and rolled around in the dirt for added effect. Once the cheap linen dress fell from me. I moved on to the shift and undergarments.
Now with my bare ass naked against the chill, I tossed my shift to one side, making sure to dirty and tear it. I bit my inner lip and let the blood pool in my mouth before I spat on the thin shift. I was grinning. Months of preparation, months of silence, and compliance had led up to this moment.
I sprinted west in a large loop, hoping that I wasn't leaving a trail. Trees and bushes licked my skin. Sprinting through the forest naked was even more unpleasant than I had expected.
Finally, I reached the western road, sitting behind a bush, I noticed a few people passing by in carriages. The sun dipped lower, rendering my crouched form invisible against the thick brush.
Finally, there was a break in the arrivals. I burst out of the shrubbery, crossing the road without anyone seeing.
It took another half an hour before I reached my stash. Quickly, I began to dress. Putting on shoes, pants, a brown cloak, and heavy boots. Opening a small container of oil mixed with fine clay. I poured it into my hair and slowly mixed it in. I slicked my shoulder-length hair back in the men's fashion. The fine brown clay from the river made my hair look more brown than black.
“Hello, good day. Good evening. Thank you very much.” I said, practicing my male voice. It sounded decent to my ears, at least.
After belting my dagger to the back of my waist, I left. From the tree line, I could see the many lanterns lighting up the long train carts and carriages parked along the road. I approached the road carefully, making sure that no one from the village could recognize me. I passed through a space between two carriages and slipped into the crowd.
Fortunately, as Treanor said, there was a mummer’s play, and that grabbed the attention of most of the village.
I examined the train of carriages for a quarter-hour before I spotted a few people gathered around a train of particularly large wagons, each pulled by four massive draft horses. Those had to be the porters. With a deep breath, I walked forward. There was a single large man in a set of steel armor, carrying a sword and shield. Since he was the only one in metal, he was likely the leader.
Assured that none of the people gathered around the wagons were from the village, I approached.
I stood, back straight, with a confident expression. The caravan guards who were milling about noticed my arrival from the street and stiffened.
I ignored the curious glances from the random assortment of people and approached the leader.
“Goodeve, gentlemen,” I said. Trying to sound casual.
“What you want, boy?” He asked. He sounded like he had gravel stuck in his throat. Much of the idle conversation from the surrounding peasants stopped.
The other guards took aggressive stances.
“I’m looking to head to the capital. You’re transporting?”
“Aye, that's my business,”
“What are your prices?”
He licked his rotten teeth, “25 for the trip,”
“Twenty-five! It's only two weeks away?” I exclaimed. I would be willing to pay, but not bargaining would be too suspicious.
He chuckled, “Three, and space is at a premium, this ain't Lothrin.”
Lothrin was a town at the border of the Redstone and Farketh Baronies. Now I knew his route, which meant he was halfway through.
I bit my lip, “Can we do 15?” I asked.
“Don't make me laugh, boy. Those wretches paid 15.” He countered.
I glanced at the peasants who quickly averted their gaze; clearly, I wasn't getting any help from them.
“17, and can I get a bowl of stew? As you said, I ain't from Lothrin,” I asked.
“20 and you get a bowl every day. Don't like my price, walk away, I'll find someone else to fill your spot.”
Sighing in defeat, I reached into my pouch and handed over the coin. That was almost twice the going rate for two weeks' travel. He grinned and yelled, “Stefan, come 'ere, boy, take his name down, I'll inform Sylus in the morn of a new passenger.”
“Name?” he asked.
Deciding to honor the man who set me on this journey, I answered, “Emyr,”