Since then the Voyagers have preferred to sail north for trade, even though those routes are longer and more dangerous than sailing south to Meria or Edingham. And though Voyagers have been accused of atrocities beyond our shores, most agree the tales are just that. Stories and nothing more. What matters is that these people are not, by all accounts, dangerous to me and my men. Though from the looks we’ve been receiving, I doubt my sword will remain sheathed.
After tending to Dex, the inn’s stable boy as suspicious of me as the rest of the locals, I make my way toward the docks. The year before my parents died, I journeyed to this place with my father and his men. We took the usual route, past the Bay of Sindridge and up the east coast. When we came to the Cliffs of Murh, I struggled to keep from staring in awe. My father’s stalwart retainers showed little emotion, however, and I was ashamed of my reaction.
The smell of salt air and fresh fish is somehow slightly different than back home, even though both are on the coast. It is a wonder to me we share the same land. There are fewer smiles and warm embraces. Darker clothing but lighter skin. I suspect I’d be known as an outsider even without the mark of the king on my breastplate.
But one thing we have in common with these people is a love for the sea. Unlike the Highlanders and mountain men, both Voyagers and Southerners, as they call us, survive on the bounties the sea brings.
Following a path along the docks back toward the inn, where we’ll await Master Aldwine’s return, I stop and watch as a fisherman wearing a brown leather apron hauls his catch across the planks. He tosses a net up to a similarly adorned woman, and together they call orders to those still aboard the ship.
Another difference between us. I know of no women captains in Meria.
“Does the sight of a woman in charge of her own ship startle you so?”
I smell her before I even see her, the scent of lavender replacing all else. I turn and nearly lose my footing on, well, nothing. We stand on a dry dirt path that leads to the docks, nothing to become unbalanced over, except the sight of her.
“A Garra,” I blurt before thinking. The bright diamond on her nose identifies her.
I’ve met only one before, a woman who lives deep in the woods where the Terese River splits into two. All know she resides there, but few visit her for healing. I know of her only because Galfrid asked that we protect her. But this woman, the spectacularly beautiful, clearly defiant woman, stands before me with the small piercing in her nose conspicuous to all.
“So the rumors are true?” she asks.
“Rumors, my lady?”
“They say the Merian court is filled with men all praising each other for their esteemed maleness.”
An interesting depiction of my people.
“They say the Voyagers are willful and defiant,” I counter.
“And proud of it,” she responds. “I’ve also heard the king loves himself above all and his men have difficulty deciding who they adore more, him or themselves.”
This Garra is bolder than any woman I’ve ever met. For a man accused of smiling little, I do so now, more broadly than in recent memory.
“I’d not heard that bit of folklore before. But ’tis true,” I say.
“Why are you here?”
The question is flung at me like an insult. Instead of answering, I watch as the sun strikes the diamond in her nose, making it sparkle. It was always curious to me that this special group of healers, so hated by the Church, would choose to mark themselves so outwardly. Some call them witches, but most agree, connected by blood and taught by their ancestors, Garra are nothing more than highly skilled healers of the heart. The others I’ve heard of live in seclusion, in caves and huts deep in the woods, but this woman makes no excuses for herself.
“Why are you not hidden?”
Her laugh is not a dainty one, like the women at court. It is hearty and deep, though not at all amused.
“You’ve much to learn, Southerner.”
For all of this Garra’s bravado, she speaks to me for a reason. And I’d know that reason before returning to my men. The call of seagulls drowns out my next words, so I wait until they pass to repeat myself.
“Southerner. King’s man. Call me what you’d like, my lady, but it is you who approached me, not the other way around.”
Her intelligent eyes narrow. “I saw how you looked at her, as if she was a puzzle to solve.”
If there is a puzzle to be solved here in Murwood End, it is not the ship captain but the woman standing before me.
“We’ve no female ship captains in d’Almerita.”
It’s an honest answer, but she clearly dislikes it.
“Or in Meria,” she says, flinging the fact at me like an insult.
“True enough.”
“And how many women serve in the King’s Curia?”
“None.”
“You ask why I’m not hidden? Perhaps you ask the wrong questions.”
Her words echo a sentiment I’ve heard back home—a choir of voices that has grown louder since Edingham crowned their first queen. But none have ever spoken to me quite so openly, so brazenly, as this woman. I goad her, knowing I should not.
“’Tis not the Merian way to insult strangers. But I’ve been told Voyagers have formed their own traditions.”
“Ha! Been told? Have you not been so far north before?”
“Have you been to the other side of the mountains?”
The way she straightens her shoulders is answer enough.
“I am a mere blacksmith’s daughter, not a man who represents a king. Unlike you, who are so well traveled but seem only to know the customs of those who reside in the lofty castle walls of d’Almerita.”
My jaw clenches. I’ve faced opponents who’ve flung worse insults at me. Stared down well-armed soldiers intent on ending my life. Yet somehow this woman has inflamed me more than all of them combined. I nearly say something I’d surely regret, instead settling for a simple question. “What is your name?”
Her eyes narrow.
“You’re correct—I’m the king’s representative. If that means ’tis my responsibility to know all in the kingdom, I’d start with learning your name.”
Despite her low opinion of me, I bow and introduce myself.
“Lord Vanni d’Abella, Curia Commander to King Galfrid of Meria.”
Enjoying her momentary look of surprise, I add, “And I am indeed a stranger to these parts. I’ve been to Murwood End just once, as a boy, with my father.”
When her chin rises, I’m sure my Garra will not reciprocate, but she surprises me.
“Lady Aedre, daughter of Dal Lorenson, descendant of Athea.”
Athea, the first Garra.
The one who broke our kingdom, if the church is to be believed.
I let the name slip from my tongue. “Aedre, you may call me Vanni.”
She is unimpressed that I’ve offered her leave to use my given name. In fact, I am certain very little impresses Aedre, daughter of Dal Lorenson, descendant of Athea.
Myself included.
Chapter Four
Aedre
I should walk away.
We are healers, little one. Healers of the heart.
My grandmother taught me of love and attraction. When our ancestors’ remedies are needed, and when they are not. She taught me to trust myself, trust the knowledge of my ancestors and to pass on the belief in oneself to every person who will listen. Against my father’s wishes, she taught me enough to know that Lord d’Abella is dangerous to me, however much I hold him in contempt for his association with the king.