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.