The carriage jolted again, Rhosyn's gaze snapping up and being held by a sympathetic Elin's. She'd endured the journey, though she suffered from travel sickness, and Rhosyn was grateful for it—if not simply for the company and comfort she brought.
They'd been riding for several days now, stopping at inns along the way with a quarter-day break to redress the body.
Rhosyn couldn't believe she was thinking this—but thank God it was cold. It bought them time and kept Hark's body in good condition.
A double knock from Caerwyn on the side of the carriage told her that they'd finally crossed from the Briarwyn duchy into Solmere—they were nearing the northern border where they'd meet the Weller family. She released a sigh and sat back into the uncomfortable cushions against aching muscles.
"Are you alright, My Lady?" Elin asked, spying the sudden relief relaxing her features.
"Yes, Elin," Rhosyn looked over at her friend, noticing the frayed exhaustion that came from nausea. "We'll be there soon," she reassured. "Why don't you try to get some more rest?"
Elin fought off tired eyes. "But who'd keep you company, My Lady?"
"Caerwyn will—I'll go get some fresh air and stretch my legs." She patted Elin's lap gently.
When Elin looked like she was going to put up a fight, Rhosyn cut in, "and that's an order."
The maid deflated slightly. She was weak and needed the rest, but sometimes Rhosyn forgot that she was just as proud and stubborn as she was. As she stood, Rhosyn caught her blanket and wrapped it around Elin, tucking her in and giving the maid a playfully stern look—sleep.
Opening the carriage door, the vehicle rolled along at a trudging speed. Rhosyn watched the path slip by, an over-curious desire drumming in her chest, and so, she leapt. Caerwyn yelped a little too late and she laughed as she barely stuck the landing.
"My Lady, do you have to try to find new ways to put yourself at risk?" Caerwyn grumbled, clutching his mounts reins a little too tightly
"Well, it's been three days already—"
"Nearly four," Tor corrected, throwing the words over his shoulder casually.
"Four." Rhosyn nodded at the correction. "Someone needs to keep you on your toes Sir Caerwyn, otherwise you'll become complacent."
"That'll never happen with you, My Lady—I assure you."
"Then I'm assured." A cheeky smile curved at her lips and she knew Caerwyn enjoyed their bouts—though reluctantly.
She'd fallen into step with the entourage easily, her measured strides kept in pace. A few extra guards rode ahead of the cart pulling the coffin, a priest sat next to the driver, Rhosyn's own carriage trailing behind.
They'd entered Fairleigh, the Stormcrown mountains looming overhead, growing from the earth like jagged teeth, clawing up to pierce the heavens. They were nearing the base of the range, where 'Raven's Staircase' began—the steep mountain pass that led into the north. It won't be long before they'd be able to see the church of Saint Michael, a sight she hadn't seen since she was a little girl with her father.
"You don't look too happy that we're nearly there," Tor stated, his eyes running over her face and she realised she'd been lost in a distant memory.
Caerwyn coughed deliberately, the young northerner glancing over and expression souring.
"My Lady." He deliberately dragged out the phrase, displeasure at being chastised and she wondered how much he hated to pay the south any respect.
For a moment, they walked on in silence. Rhosyn contemplating the delicate precipice the kingdom appeared to hang onto. The divide between the two seemed to be a widening chasm and she didn't know if there was any way to bridge it.
"So, I take it you don't like the north," Tor broke the silence, his eyes set on the horizon.
"North, south, aren't we all Aramorian? If we let something as simple as a mountain range split us, then we've clearly lost what it was that the first lords understood when they united the land."
Tor stared down at her in disbelief. Maybe he hadn't expected anyone to say such words, let alone a seemingly weak lady who held no true power.
"The north aren't the only ones who ruled their own petty kingdom before the coming of King Avelar I," Rhosyn continued. "House Valewyn ruled Ravearia, until Avelar came with his armies."
"I thought the Valewyn were the crown's closest ally," Tor interjected.
Rhosyn breathed a short laugh. "Not back then," she said. "Though Dalvin Valewyn did respect King Avelar after the conquest, especially after the inspirational building of Turnspan Bridge and Tidewell—the king funded it all himself."
Briefly, she wondered what Ravelocke would look like if Avelar never came, if Ravearia was a kingdom today. She wondered who she'd be, who her future would marry and if that would've changed anything with her family—or would death still find them.
"Dalvin fell in love with King Avelar's sister," she explained, Tor whistling at the words. "But as you probably know, Avelar refused Dalvin's request and Castansa was offered in marriage to Hadrik Karsyn, the petty king of the north."
Tor watched her from the side of his vision as he listened. "So, I guess there was a rivalry?"
"Mhmm," she hummed her agreement. "Though Dalvin despised Hadrik, his love for Castansa and his respect for Avelar led him to devoting his loyalty to House Morenne, serving them truly." Rhosyn met Tor's gaze and decided she liked the stubborn man—he had her pride. "Peace was accomplished and prosperity flourished—though the north clung to their ways and practice of belief."
"Ha," he barked, humour and a bitter retort all in one. "As far as we are taught, King Avelar liked our spirit and customs, that's why he married his family into ours and allowed us to keep our ways."
Of course the north would assume their superiority, humility wasn't in their vocabulary, and neither was grace. They were a harsh people—rough and raw. Pride without humility was arrogance, and only a king could afford such indulgences.
"But one thing I can't understand is why would a lady like yourself bother to leave the comfort of her estate, to deliver a body so removed from yourself," Tor sobered, the question more of an inquiry.
"I know sacrifice, and I know loss," Rhosyn murmured, feeling the hollow of it all.
Something brittle hung in the air, cutting cold across their skin and gripping at their clothes like claws. Two figures waited up ahead, grief sitting between them like an old friend, and Rhosyn fell into the echoing fog, dazed and distant.
Tor rode ahead, dismounting when he'd reached the couple, a sob splitting the air from one of the two figures. Their breath misted in front of them, curling before spiriting away.
The cart slowed. The priest murmured a quiet blessing beside the driver.
Rhosyn's anger had carried her this far, but it faltered at the edge of the plains. Here, there was no politics to fight—only the raw arithmetic of loss. She drew a slow breath, gathered the simple cloth of her skirt in her hands, and stepped forward to meet the people her world had broken.
Their sullen faces twisted at the sight of her. Tor must've told them that she was a southern lady, his head bowed low as his lips moved with purpose. But Rhosyn didn't let their distaste of her cower her. Instead, she moved with purpose, respect displayed in the way she kept her head lowered.
When the distance between them no longer existed, Rhosyn legs folded underneath her, the damp of earth seeped through her thick skirt where she knelt.
The sorrow of a life snuffed out settled into her bones and she felt the familiar heaviness of it all. She'd been numb when she returned home, from a foreign nightmare to a house void of a sense of belonging. Her father and brother were gone and life felt meaningless. She'd survived. But for what?
She could feel their startled eyes locked onto her lowered form—a collection of breath lost in the wind whipping through them.
"I offer my deepest condolences, Mr and Mrs Weller," Rhosyn said, her voice carrying despite the aggression of the breeze.
Silence lingered in the moment, not even Tor had a word to utter. Maybe they hadn't expected a lady to prostrate herself for anyone but the crown or God. Guilt pooled within her because she knew how their world had fallen apart.
"There is nothing more precious than life, and though I cannot ease the suffering of your soul, I can help ease other burdens." She turned to Elin who handed her a small box, hefty in its load. "I hope you'd accept this along with my sincerest apologies." Rhosyn lifted the box for them, her head lowered and everyone remained still.
The box contained a small fortune. More than they'd be able to make in a lifetime and yet it wasn't enough. Rhosyn knew all too well that emptiness that'd never quite heal. But she could give them one thing she'd been denied.
"And I assure you that the man responsible will hang—your son will have justice."
A set of feet cautiously inched forward, the weight in her hands being relieved. The click of a latch and creak of a hinge, followed by a hesitant gasp.
Her gaze raised, colliding with theirs. The Weller's were lost for words, grief haggard in their expression and confusion lingering in their eyes as they stared at her. It was a look she'd worn once.
Mrs Weller choked on a sob—a mother's anguish.
"Thank you, My—"
"No," Rhosyn cut off Mr Weller, "there is nothing to thank. Today I am your servant and in your debt, for it was my man who wronged you," she expressed. "If there is anything more I can help you with in the future, please don't hesitate to ask—just send your request to me directly to my estate."
Mr Weller nodded his gratitude, offering his spare hand to his wife as she gripped him for support. Rhosyn knew what it felt like to lose family, but not a child—and she wishes she never finds out.
The Weller's turned away, following the cart as it tugged the coffin along. Tor took a step toward Rhosyn, offering her a hand and she took it, standing.
"You're not like the other southern lords and ladies," he explained and she could see in his eyes that he knew what he was talking about.
It wasn't just prejudice in his judgement, but experience. This man had witnessed it first-hand and Rhosyn could probably guess the culprit—though there were many possibilities.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she replied, noticing the softness of his skin and realising he was no labourer.
"Who's your father, My Lady?" Tor asked, curiously, catching how Caerwyn shifted. But his measured gaze stayed on Rhosyn.
"He was Lord Torren of Lockstow," she answered. "He died in the war, along with my brother."
Tor's brows rose in surprise. He'd known she was a lady, but didn't know to what significance. So he knew lords, but only localised—probably more familiar with Duke Fairfax and Duke Rhenald.
"I'm sorry—"
"We all are," Rhosyn cut the sympathy from between them—she couldn't let it strangle her further. "Thank you for accompanying me, Tor Wyke, but I suppose you must be going." She turned away, scanning the lands stretching south.
"Yes, I have my own family to visit before returning to work," he said, "farewell, My Lady."
"Farewell, Tor."