Sound hummed in a throbbing, droning way in the chapel. It was the way the room was shaped, a small semi-circular apse with harsh edges. Uncle Halvar Valewyn wasn't a particularly pious man. The reason why the chapel slowly shrank under his rule. But he met his maker in the end, in one of the same ways every noble does; either tucked up warm and ailing of old age in comfort, or grasping at their throat, cursing the lord or lady who snuffed their life out.
Uncle, despite his offences in life, died in the former way. But that was not for lack of trying on the part of their enemies.
Rhosyn bit back the ache in her legs. She'd been kneeling on the barely padded step for the better part of an hour, telling herself that she was there to pray for her father and brother who died in the latter way, so many years ago now. But truly, she enjoyed the peace she got from the odd, cramped room.
Smoke of too many candles mingled in the space, the heat intoxicating, barely bearable and the air thick with frankincense and myrrh. She inhaled deeply, letting it burn in her chest.
A soft rap sounded at the door behind.
"Lady Valewyn, I'm sorry to interrupt your prayers, but your carriage has just arrived," Sir Caerwyn spoke through the thick wooden door, his voice muffled and dampened like everything else in this box room.
"I'll be right out," Rhosyn called back, her own voice deafening in the tight space, but it likely reached no further than the inside of the chapel walls.
She bowed her head, closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, deciding that she should pray while she was there at least. It would be rude not to. If God truly was awaiting her meager words, her pleas, then she should at least voice them for him.
"Forever look after my father and brother, for I am sure their company is far more appreciated than that of my Uncle's," Rhosyn murmured, "and look after him, always—amen."
Climbing to her feet, her gown skirt swished around her ankles, her corset cutting in, in the familiar way that reinforced her resolve. Knights and soldiers wore armour—this was her armour.
Breathing one last potent breath, she pushed through the heavy door.
"Lady Valewyn, I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologise, Sir Caerwyn."
Rhosyn stood straighter. Glancing at the few faces that turned her way, eyes meeting, before bowing their heads in an attempt to hide. Caerwyn stood as still as a statue, his face a stoic scene. He wore his short sword and hooked blade as usual at his belt tied around his green surcoat embroidered with his House Hale famous silver willow tree.
"I'm sorry."
A line Rhosyn expected by now from her knight.
Caerwyn Hale had been Rhosyn's knight since the day she'd returned from captivity. He pledged himself to her before she'd even crossed the threshold. She didn't need to see the parchment of condolences or the headstones bearing their names. His oath was confirmation enough. A knight's oath was to death—theirs or their liege's.
"Let's go," Rhosyn said, Caerwyn flanking her as she led, like always.
Ravelocke's manor was always too large for Rhosyn's liking, boxed-shaped and iron trimmings. It was a richly furnished prison with staff planted by the king.
Lady Rhosyn of Valewyn was not permitted to govern such a prestigious title as that of the Duchy of Ravelocke. A woman was not afforded such freedoms. She retained her uncle's right as heir to the duchy. But until she comes of age, marries, signs off all her rights to her husband and allows the men of the land to govern her sovereign right, she's not recognised as a duchess.
The king, by right of receivership, would keep-safe her birth-right. Without him, the title would've been stripped from her when her uncle died and she would've been left landless. Rhosyn owed her life twice over to the crown—once for securing her safe return from captivity with the Crown Prince, and second for backing her right to her ancestral land. If not, it would've fallen to a distant far-removed branch, with little to no relation and with no regard for her or her family's legacy.
It was a small world she lived in, in a large estate she called home.
Rhosyn stepped out into the warmth of a late summer. Days would soon start to bite, in more ways than just the cold. Rumours held the northern lords were already mustering and the kingdom had seen enough war already to last it a lifetime. But yet it seemed to brace for more.
"Can't I ride horseback, Sir Caerwyn?" Rhosyn eyed the uncomfortable carriage of a contraption with disdain.
"I'm sorry—" there he goes again, "—My Lady, but after last time, I think it safer to use the carriage," Caerwyn interjected.
Last month she'd been recognised as a noblewoman near a village where they didn't particularly seem to like nobility. If Caerwyn hadn't been there, she'd likely have been killed, if not at least seriously injured.
Tensions seemed to be stemming down from the north ever since a flurry of flyers circulated at the beginning of summer. It wasn't as if any of the commoners could read, but one of the villagers happened to have a family member visit who was a scribe from a town in the upper lands. Rhosyn didn't believe in coincidences, just paper trails depicting the culprit.
The Duke of Harrowfen had become more bold, other northern lords rallying at his side. If the country was an ocean of unrest, he was the one fanning the waves. But Rhosyn had bigger problems closer to home to deal with, and until she found the right trail to point her to the conspirator, she'll refrain from jumping to conclusions.
Too many businesses were mimicking a new style of administration in the past few months. Local smiths switched to using ores from overseas, bakers relying on Celandre rye, rather than locally sourced wheat and barley from the low lands of Aramor.
Rhosyn knew prices had risen due to unexpected harvests falling short and with tensions in the north, the price of ore from the upper lands had all but doubled. Though she couldn't help but notice the waterway toll income increased substantially since then and any business that didn't choose to follow suit with these new optics was forced to close.
Checking her leg for the blade secured to her calf, Rhosyn took a hauntingly difficult step onto the carriage rung, feeling the whispers of terror trembling through her memories—and then they were gone.
"Rhos," her name called to her and she paused midway ducking into the closed carriage.
Hooves beating on cobblestone and the man sitting atop the fine breed, a pleasant sight—Crown Prince Edrien.
Rhosyn waited for him to near, Edrien dismounting swiftly before the horse had fully halted, a charming smile spilling across his face at the sight of her.
"Rhos, I need your help—it's urgent," he pleaded with her, stress lining his brow as he held out a thick wallet of writs.
Interest nagged at her and she took the outstretched wallet, hopping to the ground, Edrien's hand coming up instinctively to balance her. She flipped through the first few pages, reading snatches of headlines and bold lettering.
"It's a hit piece," she murmured, digesting the threat these papers portrayed.
"It came across my desk this morning," Edrien explained.
"All of it?" Rhosyn fanned the wad of papers.
He nodded. "This—" he flipped back through to an open letter at the front of the pile, "—is what came with it."
The words painted across the parchment were delicate—purposeful.
To His Royal Highness Edrien Vaudren, Crown Prince of Aramor,
I include the offenses the crown defends in a nice neat document for your personal use. A copy is being sent to His Majesty's Council Register, though I know they don't meet until Friday. As you are our future king, I thought it prominent that you be well informed of the kingdom's issues and men in it who are to serve you.
From your most honest subject,
Leoric Karsyn, Duke of Harrowfen.