Months passed into the next spring until Farren recovered from her wounds, and two years passed until Midaelia did the same under the iron-grip rule of the new queen. The Royal Guard was hence dissolved, and there arose the Silverhaarts, followers of a great warrior of old.
Yet the years following the siege of Byton were not without upheavals, despite the end of the war. Beyond the hills in Drisia, rebellions raged on the streets as it did amongst the members of the Council, for Drisian representatives previously dominating most of the decisions found their seats shaken. Queen Lysandra utilized exactly that, and managed to enforce with renewed strength the law of restriction in Drisia, banning practice of necromancy all over Stormvale.
The world around her might have changed, yet Farren found herself yearning to tread paths long familiar, refusing the promotion to the queen's personal guard she was offered after two years of relentless service.
"My heart lies in Kinallen, Your Majesty," said she, "and that is where I wish to go. I ask no more than the humble rank I previously boasted."
Queen Lysandra sighed, as though she had long anticipated this answer. "So says the rest of your folk, Corporal." She then let out a soft chuckle. "Wonder if you're all conspiring against me, leaving me all alone to sort out this barely closed wound of a city."
Farren smiled. "Byton heals under your touch. We will make sure, in your stead, that the healing reaches the farthest provinces. If you need us, you need only call. Thanks to the hard work of our Royal Sorcerer, sorcerous carriages are no longer limited to mail service."
"Ah, speaking of the Royal Sorcerer..." Lysandra trailed off, rising from her throne and gesturing at Farren to follow, "he aims to leave for Kinallen in a few days."
Outside in the sunlit courtyard, an ornate high-speed carriage drew up, pulled by a pair of magnificent horses. Servants came carrying crates of wine, bags of tea, cups of porcelain and goblets of etched glass. Farren wondered if the sorcerer had worked on the carriages simply because he wanted to transport without harm his favorite yet fragile things—and his poor bones, as he so loved to say.
"Ryffin has taken a short leave from his teaching at the academy, and so they wish to visit his house at the wooded hillsides of Kinallen. I suppose two more carriages can be arranged, and you along with those of Brittlerock could set off on the same day."
Farren gazed at the queen. Sunrays glittered at the jewels above her brow, her features proud yet melancholic. The courtroom they stood in was so very enormous, the pristine walls far apart. When she held court here with her counselors filling the hall and guards flanking the throne, the picture was of grandeur.
Yet when empty, the same halls had a way of making even the mightiest of rulers look small and lonesome. And that was the way it had been most days of recent, for life around the palace picked up pace to meet the new challenges that arose around the land. Raising a ravaged kingdom back on its feet was a task both solitary and draining, when everyone turned to the queen in their times of need. And on top of that, the music of her life is missing, whiling away in a distant outpost.
Queen Lysandra regarded her with a quizzical smile. "What is it, soldier? Cat got your tongue?"
Farren shook her head.
"Come to Kinallen, Your Majesty," she said. "I do believe Captain Walric can hold fort in your place for a few days."
✦✧✦✧
"Don't eat it all by yourself. And do not blow it up. Understood?" said Finnian, packing cookies.
"For the last time, I did not blow up your cookies. The box just happened to be in a building that got targeted by a Firemount," groaned Farren as she struggled to fit a bundle of clothes in her knapsack, half knowing that Fin would fuss over it, take it all out again to fold them.
"Well, good for you that the packages of cookies won't get mixed up with others this time!"
Wisps of flour rose from the loft floor as he crossed the room to fetch boxes. These he set up on the table and placed the food inside, shutting the lid with a click. Like little crates they were, the top emblazoned with the brand CBW for Clearstrike's Baked Wonders. This name he had settled for, when his proposals of Bread or Alive and Silver Knife (and Fork!) had been met with tired eyed looks from everyone.
Outside, the streets of Byton bustled, the storefront ever crowded with customers especially this early in the morning. A gargantuan stone dragon sat high over the distant temple where bells rang, Rhilio's shrines few and far between.
As Farren set out, dressed in a plain attire of blouse and skirt, knapsack thrown over her shoulder, Finnian called back.
"Come back soon!" he cried, waving. "And bring the lad home. Gran wants to see him."
Farren grinned wide and waved back, unabashed of the flush that rose to her cheeks.
✦✧✦✧
Sunbeams fell in golden shafts and danced in the stream that flowed from the waterfall. Part of its stone wall had crumbled during the war, descending into a great pile of rock resting at the bottom. Moss covered them all, and vines had crept all over the fallen stones. Wildflowers, in their blues and purples and reds adorned it, as though nature had left a splatter of her brilliant colors in the midst of the deep green of these woods.
Farren lowered her buckets of water to the dewy grass with a groan and massaged her arm. Ever since she'd plunged the dagger into it, it had never healed right, despite the best attempts of the healers. It ached when the weather was wet and on days such as these when she would put strain on it. Perhaps she would stop by Ryffin's for a remedy on her way to the camp. Gods knew how stern a lecture Eliora would give her before actually doing something about it. She grinned to herself.
Colors of the rainbow flickered on the haze raised by the mighty, plunging water.
The sunrays warmed her cheeks, the scent of the flowers wafting in the breeze.
She was ever drawn to this place, for what reason she never quite knew. Even after nine years, she could never get tired of its otherworldly beauty. Her fingers brushed against the sapphire studded gold ring, an extraordinary jewel she could not remember coming into her possession along the journey of two years past.
On her way back Farren placed nightshades on Draedona's shrine in the cemetery in the woods.
As she emerged on the village path, the familiar noises of the morning activities reached her. Flocks of cattle grazed on the green hills afar, children laughed and played. Here and there was left the ruins of destroyed homes. But there was something about the villagers, an undefeated spirit about those hard working hands that built new cottages and freed fertile lands from smoking rubble.
Day by day, Kinallen recovered from the losses and sorrows of the war, and so did the hearts of those guarding the village. There were still many leagues to go. Bumps upon the road would come, but together, they would overcome them all; rise from the smoldering ashes, spring from bare rocks like those wild flowers of the waterfall.
The amiable buzz and warm firelight of the Olde Weasel Inn welcomed Farren when she strode through its doors, having finished her chores. Hardly a day went by when the inn was not teeming with folk, ever since Hilda took up singing here. Under the cover of her mesmerizing tunes, the bard kept a sharp ear out for tidings along the frontier lands and of who came and went. Today she sang of the young queen's glory.
"Mornin', Corporal!" greeted many, raising their drinks. Farren smiled back.
In the midst of them all, upon the central table there was an uproar. Folk surrounded it, nearly climbing over each other to see.
A collective cry rose. "Not another tie!"
Farren knew what it could be all too well. She slipped into the seat opposite to Linder and Klo. "The Velan brothers at it again?"
"As always," said Linder. Not looking up from the papers she assumed freshly arrived from Brittlerock, he took her hand and planted a kiss on the knuckles as had almost become a routine gesture. The scars upon his face had faded somewhat, his right eye turned an opaque silver.
On the back of his chair dozed Midnight, head lowered into his luscious feathers. The ravens had bid the sergeant farewell after the destruction of the Chains. He was under Draedona's influence no longer. Yet this young one had stayed, so dear he had given him a name.
"They're twins. Of course it'll always end in a tie," said Klo, then threw Farren a wink. "Unless you join the fray."
"I'll take that as a challenge, my good ma'am!" Farren threw off her cloak.
That was all it took to heighten the chaos of the inn, and double the sales.
Thud thud went the flagons and ale flowed like a river turned gold.
Thump went Bjorn's arm as it slammed onto the oakwood table the very next moment, the match ending almost too fast for the cheers to rise.
"Edis have mercy, a worthy opponent is all I ask!" she wailed, taking a hearty swig of her tankard.
"The way you just sit and slam our arms these days..." said his brother Gunvald, examining the table with narrow eyes. "You sure you're not using magic, Corporal?"
Farren flashed a wide smile, bowing to the crowd as she poured herself another drink. "Gods know I got none. Unless you're referring to the magic of honest, hard work." She chugged proudly.
Yet the steps that took her to the merry disposition today had not been easy. Sleepless nights had been spent, countless hours toiled in solitary training of relearning all combat moves without the aid of sorcery she previously enjoyed despite the law.
Despite all, there had been not a moment where she regretted what she gave up.
The door creaked again and Rendarr and Gray came in, the former looking rather pleased with himself while the latter sauntered in, oddly disoriented and disheveled. A bunch of others strode in, a hooded stranger among them.
Gray threw himself on the chair beside Farren as Rendarr went to fetch the drinks. "Tidings!"
"Nothing new," cooed Farren, pretending to look into her own tankard. "Just lovebirds snogging behind the stables like usual. Tell me if I'm wrong."
He jumped, raising his cloak high over his neck to hide the telltale mark. "You are. That damned horse shoved me into that idiot," he muttered.
"It's always the horse," she said as she drained the rest of her drink.
"Wonder if we should send that lucky beast to Byton?" she then said, gesturing over to Hilda at a nearby table. Having hailed the queen in her song, she now sat forlorn in her thoughts, face down and hand scribbling idly over her notebook.
"You didn't tell Her Majesty?" scoffed Gray. "You had the chance--"
"Well, that's not up to me to tell, is it? Asking her to come here is the best I could do," she said, "not my fault that the bard can sing the filthiest songs, but stutters trying to make a move on her ladylove!"
Their argument could have gone on, but the hooded stranger caught their attention, even if they passed unnoticed by the rest-- including Hilda, whose job was to look out for shady folk. The newcomer headed for the seat opposite to the bard.
Gray and Farren left their chairs in silence, all disagreement forgotten. They hid themselves in the crowd surrounding that table, ears trained to listen.
The stranger sat primly on the chair before Hilda, who still had her face planted in her notebook. Two dainty hands emerged from the cloak to fold on the table before them.
"That you, Bjorn?" mumbled Hilda, "fetch me some more mead, my good lad."
The stranger raised their hood ever so slightly.
She was none other than Queen Lysandra.
"Oh, and another thing," Hilda went on, "next time the captain sends word, ask her if the court musician's position is vacant yet so I can have a chance. Old coot shoulda retire by now."
"Ah, but it is not vacant yet," said Lysandra. Then a cheeky smile lit her face. "But the consort's position is. Dare to...apply?"
Farren and Gray drew such sharp breaths that they gave themselves away at once. Lysandra gave them a knowing look.
Hilda sat upright with a start, eyes wide like saucers and face red like cherries. "Your Majesty--?"
She was cut off as the queen pressed her index finger to her lips.
"Hush, fool," she scolded in a silken voice. "I planned to come and go unannounced, and best you let it stay that way."
In the most un-queenly manner, Lysandra leaned back in her chair, hood hanging low over her face and booted feet planted on top of the table.
"Today, I am no one's queen, but a stranger to these lands, weary from her long travels. Play for me."
A heavy gold coin flipped in the dim light of the inn, and rolled to a stop before Hildegard of Goldcrest.
"Sing to me, my dear. Tell me a tale, an epic tale of Gods and warriors."
The end.