Redport
Tamara turned her head this way and that, studying her reflection in the looking glass. Gemstones glittered in her hair as they caught the glow of orange light from the setting sun. Her hair was fetching, but not nearly as lovely as her ice-blue eyes.
"Hold still!" She received a warning tug upon her unfinished black tresses. A pile of hair was already gathered upon the crown of her head as a braided bun took form. Jeweled pins were placed throughout the twisted plaits. The ornaments cost a fortune that only the richest girls could afford. Ordinarily, riches were of little interest to her, but tonight was different—tonight was special.
She smiled at herself, the gesture hesitant. There in the reflection was a hint of emerging beauty where before there had been none. Gone were the days of her childhood. Her womanhood would soon be upon her.
Without warning she shrieked. A painful sensation forced her gaze away from her own reflection. Her mother's lips twitched before deft fingers tugged another willful section of hair tightly into place. "Gods, Mother! Must it hurt so?" Her long hair was a weight pulling at every strand upon her scalp.
"It must. I will not have this unruly mess of yours coming undone whilst you turn about the floor."
"Turn about the floor?" Her mouth opened. It took several slow breaths to process her mother's meaning. "I am permitted to dance, then?" Her father always forbade dancing, as was right for a parent with a daughter not yet a woman.
"Yes, I convinced your father. You are nearing womanhood—long overdue I might add." Most girls her age had already bled. She often got the impression her mother resented her for the lateness of it. A girl should be a woman by age fifteen. "Regardless of your lateness, I see no reason to hold you back. Should you not partake?"
"I...yes." A tingle of excitement seeped into her chest, moving down to the tips of her fingers and toes. "I would like to dance, very much so."
Her mother afforded her a slow, knowing smile, but something about it was off. The gesture was too forced. She ignored it and instead imagined herself turning about the floor, noticed by all, especially Redport's guests of honor. Would her glittering hair and elegant attire disguise her age? She was young after all, just old enough to be selected.
"Do you think the Drengr might pick me?"
"The Drengr, dear? For a dance?"
She hesitated on the brink of a gamble. "No. I mean...do you think they will pick me as a volunteer?"
"Gods, child! I thought your father made his point clear." Even in the wake of asking, Tamara knew it was wrong. The tight grip upon her shoulders and the reddening of Lady Redwynn's cheeks was answer enough.
"I thought if I asked you—"
"You thought I might override his decision?"
She nodded. Volunteering with the fort was the surest way to become a Rider, and with the current Search, there would not come another for several years.
"My dear, foolish girl—"
"But I want to become a Rider! Father knows this, as do you!"
"Nonsense, Tamara. As soon as you bleed, you will do your duty to your house and marry."
Her breath caught in her chest. Her mind whirled uncontrollably, repeating the horrid statement. It takes but a few words to evaporate happiness. Fewer still to shatter dreams. In such moments, it was easy for desperation to grow the way weeds do, strangling hope and eating away all that might come from it.
"Mama, please! That is not what I want. I cannot—I cannot do it!"
"You can. You must."
"I do not want to be a wife." She spat the word out like it was rotten greens, spoiled by a winter's mildew. "I do not want to bear another man's children, especially a man who is not of my choosing." She was not livestock to be traded and bartered for. "Please, mother," she begged, knowing full well her life depended upon it. "Let me volunteer. Let me to go to Fort Squall."
"Child! What makes you think you will be selected? You are hardly a fortnight past fifteen." It was the one question Tamara wrestled with when her fears whispered evil. Fears always knew how to chase away hope—the same as words did.
"I will be selected," she said, reassuring herself more than her mother. "I know I will." As she spoke the confirmation, it rekindled a vibrant flame, drowning out the growing darkness of failure. If she presented herself, she would be chosen. She was going to become a Rider. She knew it in her very being, the way a spider knows how to weave its web, or a bee knows how to make honey. This was her path.
"Your father will never hear of it. You will watch the spectacle like the rest of us. Tell me, Tamara, do you know what happens to those who are selected?"
"They become Riders," she breathed going starry-eyed. Far away in her mind's eye, she pictured herself riding aback a great dragon—any color would do.
Her mother barked a laugh, sweeping away the fantasy she had quickly conjured. "No Tamara. You suffer from many delusions if you believe such drivel. Few of those who get selected will ever have the honor. What happens to the majority who are not so lucky?"
This was fast turning into an unwanted lecture. Tamara pursed her lips and shook her head. Silently she chided herself for not knowing the answer.
Her mother afforded her a look of pity. "Drengr live very long lives, Tamara. They age at a fraction of the rate we do. A human's lifespan is but a small length of time to a Drengr. Few are fortunate enough to become Riders. Such a thing is not up to you no matter how badly you want it. It is up to fate and fate alone." The Lady Redwynn paused briefly. "No, what happens to the volunteers is a much sadder story."
Tamara listened, anxiety building in her chest. Her sweaty hands awkwardly picked at the gold embroidery upon her heavy skirts. She did not want to hear what her mother had to say.
"Those who are selected grow old, Tamara. They grow old, caged within the walls of the fort, riding on dreams of a life that will never come to pass, cooking food and cleaning chamber pots until they die. You were not born to such a life. I would give mine over and again to save you from such a lowly position."
Her mother's clear opinion chased away her every protest, which fled like the sinking sun outside the window. In its darkening wake, a deep hopelessness settled upon her like the weight of a grain sack. It was suffocating.
"There now. It is a mother's job to warn her daughter of such things. Reality is rarely to our liking."
A tear freed itself, sliding down her cheek. Another followed. She knew her battle with Lady Redwynn was lost. There would be no volunteering. How silly she'd been to foster the slightest hope her mother might acquiesce.
Noticing her upset, her mother's face softened. "Dear heart," said she. "You may not see it, but you are luckier than most. Many would gladly trade places with you, especially those volunteering tonight."
She doubted it.
"Those volunteering do not have governor fathers like yours. Yours is the Lord of Redport and all its lands. Tell me, how many governors are there in Dragonwall?"
She ground her teeth together. "Twenty, Mother. There are twenty lord governors in the entirety of Dragonwall, one presiding over each of the twenty Dragondoms."
"Precisely, and you are the daughter of one. The hopefuls volunteering for selection do not have duties to fulfill for their family name—the Redwynn name. You do." Her mother sighed. "There now. Last one." She pinned a broach into place. "You look stunning Tamara. Lord Rhal will be pleased."
She sputtered. Lord Rhal? Her vision blackened at the edges leaving her dizzy. She placed a hand upon her dresser. Her corset was so tight she could hardly breathe, no matter how erect she sat.
"I do not understand," she managed to gasp. "Who is Lord Rhal, and why should I care what he thinks?" She already knew the answer. She was appalled but she asked anyway. Lady Redwynn held her silence, failing to meet her eyes. "Tell me, Mother! I want to hear you say it."
"Lord Rhal is your betrothed."
"How could—?"
"He is an honorable man, Tamara—Governor of Squall's End and its accompanying lands."
"I know who he—"
"You would do well to see this for what it is and cease your squabbling immediately." Lady Redwynn raised her voice to be heard over Tamara's protests. "Few get such an opportunity for an alliance like this one."
She cared little for the implications imposed by such a union. She saw only one aspect. Her womanhood was not yet upon her, and already her father had traded her away. It was a betrayal at its deepest. A vicious hate welled up within her directed entirely at her father.
"Well!" she spat, forgetting her place. "I hope the return father gains will be worth the loss of his only daughter."
"Tamara!" She was fortunate her mother did not strike her. Such would be the case in these circumstances. In this, her mother showed patience.
"You let him do this? How could you?"
For the first time, her mother appeared upset. Color stained her cheeks. Was there some part of her that felt remorse? "I had no say in the matter, Tamara."
"But you are his wife—you are my mother! You are supposed to protect me."
"This is how situations such as these go in noble families. Gods only know, I certainly had no desire to marry your father when your grandfather arranged it."
Tamara bit back her words, momentarily stunned. The idea that her mother and father's marriage was arranged was unexpected. "But you and father love each other so much. I never..."
Her mother laughed, shaking her head. "Trust me, dear heart, we did not always. Love develops with time, as many things in life do."
She was at a loss. Lady Redwynn was not the deciding factor in the matter. She knew she was fighting a losing battle.
As if reading her mind, her mother staunched the matter. "Save your words, Tamara. There is nothing more I can do."
She was overcome with numbness. She could do little more than gaze at her mother's reflection with vague awareness. Was this to be her future? Truly?
"There now. I have a few obligations before the festivities start. Do not be late or your father will be upset," she added.
When Tamara next looked at the looking glass, only her reflection remained. Company aside, she was indeed alone. There was no one to champion her case—not even her doting mother. That loneliness was a stab to the heart.
Not long after she finished getting ready, the time to feast came. She was still fuming as she made her way through the stony corridors. No short amount of time would cure her dour mood.
***
Redport's dining hall was the second largest in the region, next to Squall's End. Her father took great pride in that and made sure to tell any new-comer of interest. Hers was an old family, one who ruled the ports of Stormy Bay for many thousands of years. Because she was a Redwynn, for which Redport had been named, she was to do her duty at the bidding of her family, so she found herself seated in her place at the head table on time, just as her mother instructed.
The food that night was spectacular by the highest standards, fit for a king's table. To her, every bite tasted like gravel and went down like gravel too. How could she enjoy the simple pleasures of food when her life was shattering to pieces? Even if she prayed to the gods, begging that they withhold her womanhood (as they already had), it would merely mean remaining in Redport longer. She wanted to be gone from this place as soon as possible, but neither did she wish to find herself in Lord Rhal's halls.
She threw her father a mean look. It was of no use. He did not notice. He sat merrily chatting at the table's center, presiding over the hall. How lovely it must be to enjoy the night at his daughter's expense.
At last when the food was cleared away, she was glad of it. Her plate left the table nearly full. Perceptive, Lady Redwynn took note, imparting upon her a look of dismay and warning. She pretended not to notice, feigning interest in the new excitement, but she was neither excited nor interested in what came next.
A hush fell upon the room as her father rose from his chair. Lord Redwynn cleared his throat before speaking. "As you all know"—his booming voice echoed around the hall—"it is the Drengr who keep Dragonwall safe." Many responses of "Aye" and "Yes" broke the silence. Men sat with their cups of ale, while women watched, secretly dreaming of what it might be like to become a Drengr's Rider. "These protectors and their Riders are always in need of those willing to lay down their lives in support of the forts. Not only that, as our young Drengr mature, new Riders are needed. That is the reason for the Search." His speech was hardly necessary. Everyone knew enough of the Search to forgo pretenses. They waited patiently nonetheless.
"Without further words from me, let those who would volunteer themselves for selection step forward." A loud clapping rang out and the hall doors opened. Some of the women rose from benches, but many others less fortunate in birth streamed in through the open hall doors.
It was the first Search Tamara was old enough to witness, for none under the age of fifteen were permitted into the hall that night. Just as none under the age of fifteen could volunteer. As she watched, she gripped her chair arms so tightly, it felt as if her fingers might fall off. It was all she could do to keep from rising to join the line.
A sudden flash of rebelliousness coursed through her. What if she rose? What if she ran from the head table and placed herself within the group of volunteers. What would her father do? Surely he would refrain from dragging her away—a scene would be embarrassing for the Redwynn name.
A hand gripped her arm. She looked beside her to her eldest brother, who afforded her a warning shake of his head before turning his attention back to the volunteers. His hand did not leave her arm. Whether there for comfort or restraint, she did not know.
Taking note of those who shyly presented themselves, she realized that her mother was right. There were none of great nobility present, only those of lesser birth like merchant's daughters, craftsman's sons, servants, and farmers. Each hoped that within the fort they might find a better life working for the Drengr.
Several Drengr rose from the crowd and began walking along the line of volunteers. Nearly everyone earned a nod. How did they choose? Maybe the Drengr had a way of sensing an honest heart. All too soon it was over, and the applauding crowd grew rowdy. She exhaled her pent-up breath. Gods! How she wanted to cry! But she could not bring herself to do so in front of an audience.
In came the minstrels, strumming and plucking away at their instruments. Loud cheers of greeting went up around the room as tables were hastily pushed back towards the walls. It was time to dance—something she had wanted to do for a long time. The lively indulgence no longer held any appeal.
Happy conversations and shrieks of laughter wove themselves together with the loud music. Everyone was having a wonderful time, everyone except her. She sat scowling from her seat, watching the circles of dancers as they changed formation, skipping across the floor.
As the night wore on, still she remained seated, with no interest to mingle, not even when she saw her friend Josie beckon her across the room. The head table had emptied long ago. Her brothers were off socializing while her father and mother happily led the dance. She watched them together. Every time she saw her father smile, she grew angrier. Was her happiness of such little regard to him?
Her father, Lord Aaron Redwynn, was everything a good lord governor should be: honorable, just, and kind, except perhaps towards his own daughter. The city of Redport flourished under his meticulous rule. Over the years he'd mastered his title well, just as his father had done before him, and just as his sons would do after. She finally understood her place.
Married against her will! It felt like a crime. She had yet to meet this Lord Rhal of Squall's End, and she certainly had no desire to. For all she cared, he was a guilty party in the matter.
Gods! He was probably some wrinkled old man, fat as a pumpkin, and aging faster than a plucked flower. And now she would have to be with him. The idea was revolting. Even if he were young, even if he were handsome, she wanted no part in it.
As if the gods heard her musings, she hadn't long to wait before these questions were answered. Her watchful eyes followed her father as he approached a finely dressed young lord near the edge of the room. They cordially shook hands and began discussing something. She knew it was important because the expression upon her father's face was serious. The man smiled and clapped her father on the shoulder. It was only when they both looked her way, catching her gaze, that she realized the subject of their conversation. Her face flushed and she quickly averted her gaze, feigning interest in a group of gossiping women huddled beside the dancers. So that was Lord Rhal? He certainly wasn't what she expected.
The two men quickly parted and Lord Rhal directed his attention upon her, walking directly over. Her heart began to pound. The man's gaze remained fixed upon her as he approached. With every step he took, her stomach rose further into her throat.
"Good evening, Lady Tamara." The lord spoke as he came to a stop before the head table. His voice wasn't unpleasant as she hoped it might be. "I have not yet had the privilege of introducing myself. I am Lord Rhal." He dropped into a sweeping bow. It was an elegant show of respect, one which he was not obligated to pay in his position, for she was lower in rank than he. As was proper, she rose and curtsied, but her mouth was frozen shut.
When Lord Rhal stood, he eyed her for several silent moments, waiting for her to speak, yet she could not.
"Forgive me, but might I have the next dance with you?"
Her stomach lurched. "D—dance?" Was she to dance with him now? Marriage was not enough?
"Yes, my lady. It would do me great honor."
In that moment, she thought she might vomit. The lord was handsome in his own right—that was not why she felt so unsettled. It was reality crashing down upon her that left her head spinning.
"For—forgive me, my lord. I—I think I might be sick." Placing a hand over her mouth, she nimbly stepped around the table. Before the shocked lord could say another word, she dashed away, pushing through the crowd.
"My lady!" Lord Rhal called after her. She could sense him in her wake, following her, worried perhaps by her unusual behavior. She did her best to lose him. Navigating between all the bodies was difficult as she squeezed through the tight spaces others afforded her. If she did not escape soon, she would vomit in front of everyone. There! She could see the door not far from her. She focused entirely upon it as she took deep breaths, squeezing between the smothering bodies.
She was nearly free when she ran straight into the back of a man, causing both of them to stumble. As he jolted forward, he sloshed ale all over the floor. Her next step brought her upon the slippery mess. Without further warning, both legs flew out from beneath her. Cries of surprise rang out as she landed hard upon her back.
"Gods be damned!" the man roared just as he turned. His eyes fell on her, briefly growing wide before relaxing into a friendly smile. He wasn't a man at all. He couldn't have been more than a year or two older than she.
"Apologies, my lady." He held out his hand to help her up. She gladly took it, her upset stomach all but forgotten. A slight tingle passed through her fingers at the touch of his skin, making her blush. Did he feel it too? He gave no notice.
Instead, he pulled her upright. She stood frozen before him. It was only now that her mind made a surprising realization. He was one of the Drengr. His tall build gave him away. All men paled in comparison to the Drengr.
"My lady, you must forgive me. Are you all right?" he asked with clear concern. She remained motionless and speechless, becoming suddenly shy. This was the first Drengr she had ever met. Before now, she had only admired them from afar. "My lady?"
Suddenly, the events from a few moments ago came crashing down around her. She glanced to the open hall doors, which stood a mere several paces beyond the Drengr. This was her escape. Any moment Lord Rhal would catch up to her, find her, ask her again for a dance, or worse—talk of their impending marriage. She had to get out. Without answering the Drengr, she imparted upon him an apologetic look and fled.
Once she was through the doors, she did not stop running. She raced across the flagged stone entranceway, down an empty corridor, and flung open the garden doors, sprinting out into the night.
The openness of the outdoors alleviated the building pressure within her chest. Few things in life weighed as much as her responsibilities did. It was only now that she was learning this. Hers were crushing. So she ran and ran. She ran until she was gasping for air. Only then did she stop. Hands on her knees, she let her blood rush back to her head until she felt it pounding in her ears.
A familiar red brick wall greeted her. She was near the south end of the garden where the large willow tree stood. It was older than Redport, and likely far wiser than the lords within. Underneath its cloak of leaves sat a garden bench—her garden bench. Her father put it there when she was young, when he constantly found her sitting beneath the wispy branches. She went to the bench and plopped down in a very unladylike manner, sighing loudly, as if that would make things better. She often found herself here, whenever she was in trouble, or needed a place to think. It was no surprise that her feet knew where to go.
She sat in the garden's peaceful silence, with only the sound of her hard breathing to break the calm. Even with running, her emotions were still too pent up. She was a full kettle, heated over the fire until the liquid within was forced to scream. The way she felt towards her father left her furious—furious enough to cry out.
She let go, allowing her frustrations to mix with her voice. Even the willow groaned in response. Lord Redwynn had sons enough to marry. Why did it have to be her?
"I won't let it happen," she whispered. "I cannot bear it." Whatever was necessary she would do it, because she could not allow her father to trade her like property. Just as she thought it, a new idea dawned upon her. It was a simple one. In fact, she was surprised it had taken so long to think of it.
"He cannot marry me off if I am not here..." There was a hint of glee in her voice. "He cannot marry me if I am gone." A slight breeze ruffled the branches surrounding her, as if the wise tree were agreeing. It was answer enough from the giant. She would run away.
Better still, her opportunity would come very soon. She would pass as a volunteer and sneak out with the others when they departed. She could escape undetected. It would be a large group of people. Surely no one would suspect her so long as she disguised herself and used a fake name.
Excitement coursed through her body until she was trembling. How thrilling such an adventure would be. After a life pent up in a castle, never allowed to do the things her brothers did, it would be an adventure indeed.
The sound of boots scuffing on the stone path made her grow still. Someone was approaching. She could tell by the gait and sound of the shoes. Lord Rhal had found her! It was too late to scurry away, and she was hardly in the mood for company. Especially not his. Unease crept back into the pit of her stomach.
But, no! It was not Lord Rhal. It was the Drengr from earlier. He stopped just outside the veil of the branches. "My lady?" he called. "I truly am sorry about what happened. I feel responsible for the mishap. I do hope you did not injure yourself or ruin your beautiful gown." His voice was rich and deep. She liked it very much. "There was no need to run away as you did. I was not upset." He smiled at her as he parted the willow branches.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She took a deep breath. "You are not at fault, sir. And I am fine. As it stands, it was I who bumped into you."
"What had you running out here in the first place?"
She paused, contemplating her words. "Can you keep a secret, sir?"
"I can." He smiled and nodded.
"I was running away, but not from you. Escaping the hall was my chief goal."
"I...see."
"It was nothing to do with you. Please do not take offense." Something about the warm surroundings of willow branches made her bold. There was no other explanation for the confidence in her voice.
He bowed his head. "I am glad of it, my lady. But tell me, from whom were you running?"
She considered telling him about her marriage to Lord Rhal, but decided against it. "Not from whom, sir, but from what."
The Drengr tilted his head slightly. "And?"
"I was running from my responsibilities. And hopefully I am free—for now."
He laughed. It was a deep and hearty roar, one only a Drengr might make. "Gods! I cannot blame you for it."
"You—you have felt the same way?"
"Aye. And often. My responsibilities are numerous."
She breathed a heavy sigh.
"But tell me truly, a woman such as yourself, should you not put your responsibilities aside for a night and enjoy the festivities?"
She shook her head. She could not, not when her responsibilities went hand in hand with what took place within the dining hall.
"I see. So you have come out here to be alone and I have disturbed you. For that, I am sorry."
"Please—" She almost shot to her feet to stop him. "You do not need to leave. Come and join me on my bench." At her words, he moved beneath the willow and sat down. "I—I could use the company," she admitted. He nodded. "Tell me, sir, since you have had dealings with responsibility, have you ever been made to do something against your will? Have you ever had to follow orders simply because others demanded it of you? Even if it meant sacrificing your own happiness?"
He was silent for a moment. The handsome silhouette of his face stilled her heart. "My dear lady, those are heavy thoughts for one so young."
So young? He couldn't have been much older than she.
There was a sparkle in his eyes. His gaze seemed to penetrate the very depths of her being as he studied her, perhaps looking for answers. He smiled. "It sounds like your responsibilities are getting the better of you."
She sighed. "They are. I simply cannot accept the future others have chosen for me. That is not who I am."
"And who are you?"
She opened and closed her mouth, uncertain. "I suppose I still have not figured that out yet. But know this, I am not a product of the desires and schemes of others."
"I should hope not," he said, barking a laugh. His agreement felt good—too good. It was all the reassurance she needed. Her plan would go forward. Running away was the correct path to take. There would be no submitting to her father's wishes.
She looked closer at the Drengr. His golden hair, his striking features, a long fine nose, they were something of merit. Almost immediately she could feel blood rushing to her cheeks. Thank the gods it was dark. Out of necessity she turned away from him, fearful he might perceive her.
"Will you be at Redport long?" she asked. She needed to know when the volunteers would depart if she was to pose as one of them.
"I am afraid not. Matters of importance must take me back to Fort Squall immediately."
"Immediately?"
"Aye, I leave after the festivities tonight." It was better news than she could have hoped for, because he would not attend the departing party to see her with them. With him gone, she could slip into their ranks unnoticed.
"And what of the volunteers?" she asked.
"Ah. They leave in the morning, just before sunrise. Several of my party will escort them."
It was good news. She breathed a sigh of relief knowing her adventure was soon at hand.
"Now, my lady, I am afraid I have intruded upon your solitude for long enough. I must return to the festivities."
She was almost sad to lose his company. "Of—of course, sir."
He rose to leave. Just before he parted the veil of the willow, he paused. Then he turned to her and said, "I do apologize once more for earlier. And for my rude manners. I am afraid I never asked for your name, nor properly introduced myself."
Her name? The beating of her heart quickened. "For earlier, sir, I forgive you. Regarding my name, you may call me Amber."
"Lady Amber. Well met. You may call me Byron." He smiled and held forth his hand to take her forearm, as was common for Drengr to do. She reciprocated the greeting, gripping his in return. Through the fabric of his shirt, there was no intimate contact. She was almost sorry for it, for she longed to feel the tingles of his skin again.
All too soon Byron was gone, and she was left to her solitude, but not for long. Amber had work to do if she was to depart before sunrise. Not long after, she scurried away like a little mouse, and set about her plans to run away.
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