Chapter 1 ~ Ethney
Ethney
It was still a few hours prior to dusk when the ensemble left the walls of Fionain behind them. They headed south for the village of Bilberry and the woods beyond it to the west to tie up all their loose ends before leaving for the eastern half of Duthalia. Donavyn took the lead, and Ethney stayed farther back, still getting used to riding a horse on her own. Revelin had been right, thankfully. Her horse was gentle and well-trained. She kept pace beside her father toward the center of the group, but she had too much on her mind to speak. Besides, she could tell her father was uncomfortable with her current attire in which more of her skin was exposed than was covered. She knew it was his own shame more than hers that was bothering him, but she was tiring of the uneasiness.
She made an attempt at pushing her horse to go a little faster so she could ride beside someone else for a while. She didn’t even particularly care who she ended up with, as long as it wasn’t her father right now.
As her horse reached Cairbre Rose, the half-elf’s face lit up. When her horse tried to move right past him, she called out. “How do I get her to slow down again?”
The bard chuckled and met her speed, then showed her what to do.
“Thank you! I thought Nuada and I might end up in the next village before I could get her to slow down again,” she said with a smile.
“Nah, we’d have not let you get away that easily,” Cairbre said with a good-natured smile crinkling the corners of his pale green eyes.
“Have you really been out east? What’s it like there?” she asked him.
“Well, it has been quite a while so there are things that may have changed. The weather is harsher out there. Seasons are a bit more extreme, especially the winter. By the coast, the summers are hot and humid. But the culture is nicer. More celebrations. Proper ones, not just a bunch of hideous lord’s banquets.”
“Why’d you leave?” she asked, feeling curious about the bard’s past. Besides her father, she’d never met anyone from anywhere else, and he had always been very close-lipped about his past until recently. And then he’d had his hand somewhat forced.
“That’s a long story. Perhaps I’ll share it one night when we’re cold and bored and we’ve enough wine. But for now, suffice to say, I found myself in need of either relocation, or retirement. So here I am.”
She was even more curious now but didn’t push.
“So, what’s your story? You and your father aren’t from around here either, are you? You’re darker than the other villagers, and he has an accent I can’t quite place. Also I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but there are other differences,” he added the last bit while studying her features like he was trying to put a puzzle together. The people she’d grown up with had never made a big deal about her slight differences, so she’d thought nothing of them. But since she’d been interacting with the Luthgrian’s, she’d been forced to acknowledge them because they hadn’t known her for her entire life as the villagers had. So they constantly pointed out her height, curvier build, and muscular arms.
“I’ve only ever known Bilberry, but Papa is from south of here. I don’t know where exactly. Someplace that we can never return to.” She looked around at the rest of the group. Everyone else in their small party already knew of her father’s heritage, so there was no reason to try to keep it secret from Cairbre, who she suspected was too clever to fool anyhow. Besides, compared to some secrets, it didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. “You may have put together what I was too ignorant to realize until recently myself, but he’s only half Sogalta. His mother was a dwarf. She’s likely still alive and back with her own people now. I’ve never met her, nor any other dwarf.”
The bard eyed her speculatively without taking too much attention from the road ahead. He gave a slight nod to himself as if answering his own question.
“A fellow mixed blood! Alike, but different. You know in all my travels, I rarely encountered those with dwarven blood. They so seldom leave Carrdaich. Even rarer for them to mate with those outside their race. I suppose the blacksmithing must be more than a stereotype then, when both you and your father have such an affinity for the craft.”
She hadn’t realized he knew that much about them. About her anyhow. She didn’t think she had ever discussed these things at the banquets. Her father’s work as the only blacksmith in the village was certainly no secret. She hadn’t considered at the time that she might be playing right into some stereotype and wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
“Word gets around. I had little to do when not entertaining the lord and his sycophants, so I’ll admit I might occasionally have indulged in a little gossip with the servants and even the guards at times,” he said with a wink. “No need to be self-conscious about it though, I dare say more than a few were impressed. Macdara took the loss of his best apprentice hard.”
At the mention of Mac she felt a stab of remorse again, that she hadn’t made an effort to say goodbye. She remembered that he’d even sent her something, though she hadn’t seen it yet. There’d be time for that later.
She shifted in the saddle; her bare thighs had stuck slightly to the leather, and she realized it was already getting uncomfortable. They had barely made it into the farmland. She wondered if a blanket on the saddle would make it more comfortable. Not that she had one handy to try. She tugged at the gauzy cloth between her legs and was tempted to try and shove it under her. On either side, her legs were fully bared and exposed to the cool late autumn air. And since the top only offered the barest coverage, there was no support at all, so each trot of the horse causes her heavy breasts to jostle, steadily increasing her discomfort.
“Tynan’s choice in dress isn’t exactly practical astride a horse,” Cairbre noted as he watched her twist in the saddle.
“Hopefully, I’ll find some real clothes soon,” she said with a grimace as she gave in and tried to tuck some of the gauzy material between one of her thighs and the saddle.
When they reached Gareth’s farm, the vision in the light of day was utterly devastating. The house itself, which was barely visible from the road, looked like it was still in decent condition. Though it was hard to eradicate her memory of walking in there and finding the bodies of Gareth’s mother and three youngest siblings brutally slaughtered. It seemed the bloodthirst of the orcs knew no limits as they had even killed Cecily who wasn’t yet old enough to walk. She could only imagine what it must be like for Gareth and Agnes to go in there every night.
The barn where they had found Ralph and Wil had been sacked already when she last saw it. But at some point after that, half of it had burned. Whether this had been purposely done or accidently, she didn’t know. It seemed strange that the orcs would come back for that one last insult. Most of the fields had recently been harvested, so little was currently growing in them. And with most of their tools gone or burned, as well as the loss of at least five other members of the family (not counting the two youngest children) who would have been working alongside them, sowing another crop anytime soon seemed unlikely if not impossible.
She was immediately thankful he would be going with them, and hoped he wouldn’t change his mind. They would kill themselves trying to save this place alone. And Keelan was right, a wife would not make enough of a difference to matter.
Gareth and Agnes were waiting near the road. Each of them had a small bag packed. They both looked thinner and tired. The weeks since their loss had been taken their toll on them.
Ethney slid off her horse, with a little difficulty in the black dress, and ran to them both. She embraced Agnes first, then Gareth. When he let her go, he stepped back and examined her.
“What on the goddess’s fertile expanse are you wearing?” he asked, his eyes wide as he took in the sight. The front to her navel offered a few inches of silk fabric which covered each breast mostly, but far from entirely. Her sides and back were bare. Her legs were draped in a skirt of black gauzy fabric with splits up to her hips on both sides. She couldn’t really blame him for the shock. She’d felt like that the first time she’d put something like this on and was only a little more used to it now.
“Our lord’s idea of amusement. Want to trade?” she smirked and tugged at his worn, off-white shirt.
He chuckled and shook his head. “He’s got a warped sense of humor. I think I’ll keep my rags.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a threadbare cloak. “Here, you can at least cover your shoulders. You’re going to give the villagers all heart attacks.”
“Thank you,” she said as he helped her put the cloak on. Though she couldn’t help but remember the time when the villagers had seen a lot more of her and had survived. Gareth had pulled his own shirt off his back to give to her then, after she’d been whipped. Remembering that moment brought back the trauma of that night, but also filled her with such intense love for her friend. Without warning she embraced him again, pressing her face against his shoulder. She wondered when he’d gotten so tall. He wasn’t quite as tall as these Luthgrian males, but he must be close.
She pulled back enough to look into his face again. His brown hair was getting outright shaggy. Without his mother, she supposed there was no one to keep it trimmed. Even with as tall as he was, the spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks beneath his sweet blue-grey eyes showed that he was still the boy she had always known.
Keelan and Donavyn had both joined them. Keelan was holding the bridle of the tan horse he’d brought and watching the two interact with that guarded look that gave away nothing of his thoughts. Donavyn’s lips were pulled tight, with his eyes on the cloak. Surely, he didn’t think it was any worse than what she wore already. She met his eyes but didn’t sense judgement in them. She wanted to step closer to him, but she still wasn’t quite sure how to handle whatever was between them. Instead, she looked the other way to find Agnes running her fingers across the flimsy material of the skirt.
The girl held part of the skirt between her fingers and stretched it out to look at in the light. “You can kind of see right through it! Is this what the ladies at the court there wear?” she exclaimed. Then she looked at Ethney again. “Your hair’s really pretty. Though my brother’s cloak is going to mess it up.” Agnes rarely held back a thought in her head. It was almost enough to make Ethney laugh. If she wasn’t still a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny, she might have.
Keelan rescued her by reminding everyone that they still had a few things to do before dark. She could have hugged him too, for that. Everyone climbed back on their horses. Donavyn joined her at hers, before she could attempt to climb onto her. She didn’t want to accept his help, but in the dress, she really did need it.
When he touched her waist, she wanted to wrap herself in his warmth. It took almost more strength than she had to resist the feeling. When she was safely on her horse again, she thought he looked a little sad, and that made it even harder. But then he walked back to his black mare, and she could breathe a little again.
Eventually, they reached the village of Bilberry. Dusk was less than an hour away. Her father went straight to the forge and started packing and cleaning up whatever had been left behind. Not that there was much to be found. It turned out that he hadn’t been back since they had returned. He’d been allowed to remain behind the castle walls working with the smiths there since he’d lost so much in the raid. She would have to ask if he’d met Mac later. But now he collected what he could find. He also intended to go around to any villagers he had any unfinished business with. While he did that, Gareth and Agnes did the same. The soldiers busied themselves hunting in the woods.
Ethney went into the house to find one of her old dresses that she could put on. It wouldn’t fit well, but it had to be better than what she was wearing. Donavyn followed her and helped her look through the small home for anything she might like to take with her. There wasn’t much though. There never had been. She couldn’t even blame the orcs for that. As Donavyn touched the few possessions, they had in the world she suddenly felt very conscious of that fact. She and her father hadn’t been poor by village standards. She never once gone hungry or unclothed. But they’d never had, nor bothered with more than they needed. It must seem like such a small, simple life to someone who’d grown up amongst the wealth of the nobility.
