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."
The wind dragged at her, pulling at her skirt and shawl, hair wisping around her. It was cold and damp, the trees hushing in the breeze and the smell of myrrh faint.
Rhosyn turned toward the pristine white church, clean and brilliantly bright in a land clouded in grey. Crowds of bodies dotted around its entrance and the ring of bells singing in the air.
It must be Saint Michaelmas, the patron saint of unity. Which was ironic, as neither the south nor north could agree on the day of his passing. The south celebrated it on the first full moon of the winter, where the north always celebrated the day after. The saint was said to have died as the bells tolled midnight, but there was a disagreement on whether his soul ascended before or after the last toll.
"I should fetch some rations for the journey home," Elin explained, dismissing herself swiftly as she hurried for the small settlement about a mile past the church.
Rhosyn wandered, lost in thought as much as she was lost in general. Her journey was complete, and yet she felt more disoriented than ever. Caerwyn followed her closely as the path took her near the impressive church.
A finely dressed man strolled into view and Rhosyn realised she recognised the man from a summer fair celebration at Hemsgate Palace.
"Lord Regin?" she called and the short man blinked, startled at her as she approached.
He squinted, unsure.
"Forgive me, My Lord, I'm Lady Valewyn of Ravelocke." She curtsied, seeing realisation flood the man's face.
"Ah, yes, of course," he fumbled, bowing in turn, a little flustered. "I'm sorry I didn't recognise you at first, My Lady." He gestured to a young lady standing beside him. "This is my daughter, Lady Naome."
"My Lady." They greeted each other.
Rhosyn was sure it was difficult to discern her ranking from the very simple dress she wore—jacket long gone, a waistcoat over white blouse and deep blue navy skirt. She probably looked more like a commoner than of noble birth, especially with dirt lining the rim of her skirt.
"Are you attending St Michaelmas?" she asked.
"We already have, My Lady, yesterday," Regin replied. "Our carriage wheel was damaged, delaying our departure," he huffed, agitation knotting within the man.
"I'm terribly sorry to hear, is there anything I can do to help?" she offered.
"Everything is fixed now and we'll be leaving shortly, but I thank you for the thought," Regin nodded.
She'd heard he was a hot-headed chatterbox, but he looked like he wanted nothing more than to leave—and now.
"Safe travels, Lord Regin."
"You too, My Lady," he bowed again and stepped around her, glancing back at his daughter. "Come along now, Naome," he half snapped.
Rhosyn caught how the young lady's gaze was fixed elsewhere and she followed it to a small group of men standing outside the church. Something drummed within her chest—nervous and forewarning—and then her attention was drawn back by Lady Naome's departure.
"My Lady?" Caerwyn asked when Regin and his daughter were far enough away.
"It's nothing," she dismissed, heading toward the lake where a stony beach stretched along its edge.
The smell of water in the air, nipping at her cheeks was a familiar thing and something she missed from their long travel through the forest covered duchy of Briarwyn. Rhosyn inhaled deeply and then she folded her legs beneath her, settling atop the rocky surface.
The day was bitter and she couldn't shake the feeling that she cost people their children—even the ones that never existed.
"Why did you swear to me all that time ago?" she asked, raking her fingers through the rough stones and pebbles. "You could've got married—started a family of your own."
Caerwyn was quiet as normal, but Rhosyn couldn't pick up any of his feelings—which was unusual.
"I remember the day you were born, My Lady, never seen a man so happy to hold his daughter..." He went silent, lost in the memory for a moment. "You are my family—not through blood or ties, but something just as strong." Caerwyn's eyes sank into hers as she fisted a single rock. "I chose to swear to you that day, My Lady, because I've never seen anyone as strong and brave as you—and you were only eight. Look how much stronger you've become."
"But..." the words wouldn't come.
She blamed herself for him not finding love, and yet she didn't want to let him go. She was selfish and ashamed that she was.
"I should get the carriage ready for when Elin returns—it's a long journey home," Caerwyn explained, but he didn't move yet.
"Don't worry, I'll be right here—line of sight and all."
"Line of sight," Caerwyn confirmed and then he turned, his boots marching away, crunching stones as he went.
Rhosyn remained knelt on the shore, hand glossing over several stones, contemplating. Sometimes she didn't feel strong, she felt feeble and alone. But uncle had taught her not to let the outside world see her weakness. There was no time for hesitation, only action.
Her finger brushed a dark stone, its edge sharp.
"I think this one suits you far better," a voice jolted her from her thoughts.
Startled, she turned to find a blueish stone curled in a palm, smooth and delicate. Rhosyn glanced up at its owner to find a pair of perplexing eyes staring back—so sure and brilliant.
Something curled within her, and from the way his mouth was curved, she leaned in.
"You compare me to a stone?" Rhosyn bit, playful and dry as was her normal candor.
"Call them pebbles—sounds prettier," he replied swiftly, as light and unbothered by her tone. If anything, his brows lifted and interest pooled in his eyes.
"How about rocks?" Rhosyn fired back, plucking the stone from his outstretched hand and displaying it to him as if pointing out the obvious.
"Correct and wrong at the same time."
His pacing matched hers. The rhythm of humour dancing in the words, but every shot delivered a live round.
"You're not a northern lass with that accent," he stated, leaning in.
"And what can you tell by my accent then?"
"That you're not from the bordering south lands and by your clothing you are not a pauper's daughter," he pondered her and strangely, she liked it. It felt liberating, not being known. "And by your quick tongue I bet you're not a noble woman; so merchant's daughter trying to make a lord's match."
"You're so sure," Rhosyn squinted at the man.
"I'm hardly wrong."
The sentence was so arrogant and yet she hummed in humour of it.
"But, you are wrong, what if I don't want to marry a lord?" she quipped, the words dancing on her tongue.
Something lively lit in his eyes. "Well then, there's always dukes."
"Or maybe, I could just sell rocks," she responded.
"Call them pebbles and more people will buy them," he argued, a smile colouring his features handsome.
"Would people only buy pretty things?" Rhosyn's brows rose, trying to work out what the man believed.
"No, normally people like to buy honest things—"
"So, 'rocks' it is," she declared, and his silence told her she'd won. If not for her wit, at least for her humour.
He came out of nowhere, yet he easily fit into her dance of tongues. She pondered on him a little too keenly, rolling the blue pebble in the palm of her hand. Her lips parted, and—
"My Lady," Caerwyn called, with urgency in his voice, a tell that he was already rushing over.
"It looks like it's my time to go, My Lady," he smirked, bowing and turning away, his strides already carrying him from her.
"I'm not a lady remember, Mr Hardly Wrong?" she called after him, but he simply chuckled and continued to walk.
"Who was that?" Caerwyn asked, his boots kicking up the pebbles as he came to a halt.
"I don't know," Rhosyn watched the man's retreating form.
Clearly he was a northerner, by his accent, his attendance of St Michaelmas and unfamiliarity of who she was. But like many things today, he'd be forgotten—though it saddened her to think such a thing.
"He was armed," Caerwyn grumbled, tapping his finger against his guard in agitation.
So the man was either a soldier or a noble—and neither mattered.
"Enough, let's go."
She pulled on her armour and rose. There were so many things that demanded her attention that she couldn't linger on things already lost to her. Rhosyn stepped around her knight, heading for her carriage. She didn't look back, though it itched at her and balled in her stomach. Instead, she rolled the blue pebble in her hand.