Chapter 1: New Beginnings
Leofwyn woke to the sound of gulls.
Their sharp cries pierced the thin cloth hung over the window, and a spill of white morning light fell across the bed. The ragged square of fabric stirred in the warm breeze, lifting and settling again against the wall. Even at this early hour the room was heavy with heat. Sweat clung to her skin. The off-white nightgown she had slept in stuck damply to her back. It had begun the journey in pristine condition. Two months of dust, bad roads, hard inns and hotter mornings had reduced it to something hardly fit to polish a cup. She lay still for a moment, listening. Gulls. Voices below. The creak of carts. Somewhere nearby, the restless slap of water against timber. The harbour. Beyond it lay the sea, and beyond the sea—Jude.
That thought was enough to bring her fully awake. She pushed herself upright on the narrow bed and looked around the little room. It was bare but serviceable: rough stone walls, a cracked mirror hung crookedly on a rusted nail, a washstand that had seen better years, and above the door a painted insignia of a crowned sun pierced by a sword. Judean. Boldly displayed too, considering how near they still were to contested ground. But then, harbours thrived on travellers, and travellers paid better when they thought themselves already halfway somewhere important.
Leofwyn swung her feet to the floor and winced at the warmth of the stone. It had been a long road south. Egberht, who had been sent with her as guide, guardian and general source of displeasure, had succeeded in making nearly every stage of it feel longer. Whatever patience either of them had possessed at the beginning had long since evaporated. At this point she could barely hear his voice without wanting to fling something at him, and suspected the feeling was mutual. Still. The journey’s end was in sight. That softened a great many things.
Her brother David had been in Jude for two years now, building trade connections and, if his letters were to be believed, making himself very comfortable indeed. He wrote of white stone and blazing sky, of markets dense with spice and silk and fruit, of a city unlike any he had ever seen. He wrote of noise, colour, sea light and heat. He wrote, more than once, that it would suit her. Whether that meant Jude was beautiful, or merely far enough away from Aiesh to be useful, remained to be seen.
She rose and crossed to the window, pushing the cloth aside with two fingers. The harbour below had already stirred itself awake. Masts stood in a close forest against the brightening sky. Small fishing boats bobbed near the quays. Sailcloth snapped in the wind. Men moved ant-like over the piers, shouting to one another in voices half-lost beneath the gulls. Jude, she thought again, and felt a faint flutter of relief. She had left home in such haste that there had scarcely been time to consider whether she had done something rash until she was already well on the road. By then it had been too late to turn back, even had she wished to. Her father’s temper had still been echoing through the house when she left. Her mother had pressed money into her hand with tight fingers and a face full of worry she had tried to conceal. Egberht had been told to get her south quickly, and had taken to the instruction as though he were being personally punished.
Leofwyn did not regret going. She regretted, perhaps, that the matter had become so loud.
A banging at the door broke her thoughts.
“Water!” called a woman’s voice from the corridor. Leofwyn hurried over to the door and opened it a crack. The old woman who had shown her upstairs the night before was already halfway down the passage. A wooden bucket sat outside the room. “Thank you,” Leofwyn murmured, though the woman did not turn.
She dragged the bucket inside and set it beside the washstand. The water was still cool. That alone felt miraculous. She splashed her face, neck and arms, then stood before the mirror and examined the damage.
Travel had not been kind to her. Her hair, once glossy chocolate brown, brushed smooth and pinned with care, had become a great matted heap of doom and despair. Her skin felt sticky with heat and road dust. She had done her best over the weeks to preserve some scrap of dignity, but dignity, she was beginning to suspect, liked a basin, a maid, and a room with shutters that closed properly. There was no point shying away from it - she was used to comfort, and while she was happy to do without, it was still a difficult adjustment. Still, she had water, and so she made the most of it. By the time she had finished washing and dressing, her hair was damp from having been more or less dunked in the bucket, and she felt almost human again. She gathered her things, took one last look around the room, and stepped out into the corridor with renewed determination.
Outside, the harbour had fully come alive. The air struck her at once—salt, fish, tar, seaweed, hot stone. Men hauled crates. Nets hung drying. Gulls wheeled and screamed overhead as though the whole morning had been arranged for their benefit. The sea beyond the quays shone so brilliantly beneath the sun that it hurt to look at it directly. Egberht was already outside, loading her luggage onto a cart with the air of a man very nearly at the limit of endurance. His fair skin, never suited to southern climates, had gone a rich and angry red over the past fortnight, and his bald head reflected the light like polished copper. Leofwyn thought the colour suited him. It matched his temperament.
He glanced up as she approached. “Ah. Here she is now. Good of you to join us.”
She stopped before him, looking to the heavens, yet again, to grant her patience. “I have told you repeatedly that if you want me up earlier, you can just come and wake me.”
He gave a grunt and returned to his task. Leofwyn, deciding he was not worth the effort so early in the day, turned instead to the donkey harnessed to the cart. It was a gentle-faced little creature with velvet ears and patient eyes. She stroked its nose in greeting and was relieved to find it looked healthy and well-kept.
Behind her, Egberht let a box drop onto the stone with a bang. “Stop making friends with the bloody donkey and get on the cart.”
She jumped and frowned at him over her shoulder. “There’s no need to take that tone. I was just saying hello.”
An old man was seated on the front board, ragged reins in hand. He looked as weathered as driftwood, his clothes salt-faded and patched, but his eyes were quick. He shifted to make room for her with an unexpected little gesture of courtesy. Only then did she notice something odd. None of Egberht’s belongings were loaded.
Leofwyn straightened. “Are you not coming with me?”
He picked at a tooth with his thumbnail. “No. Change of plan. This cart will take you to the ship. Someone will meet you on the other side.”
A change of plan, she thought, was almost certainly not what it was. Egberht had simply decided he had taken her far enough. Once she was loaded and ready to go, he turned and began walking away.
“Well,” she said, after a beat, “goodbye to you too.”
He waved one hand dismissively without looking at her. Leofwyn turned instead to the old man and smiled to show that she was ready to depart. He clicked softly to the donkey, and they set off across the harbour. She would have preferred not to admit it, even to herself, but as the cart rolled away from Egberht and he dwindled behind them, she felt a brief and hollow little stir of unease. For all his rudeness, he had been familiar. Familiarity, even disagreeable familiarity, was still a kind of shield. Now she was alone among strangers at the edge of a foreign sea, with the last leg of her journey still before her. She folded her hands in her lap and looked ahead.
The harbour was already thick with labour. Fishing boats knocked lightly against their moorings. Merchant vessels loomed farther out, their rigging creaking in the breeze. Men shouted in several languages at once. Somewhere nearby a crate split open, spilling fruit, and three boys ran laughing to gather it before they could be cuffed away. Leofwyn breathed in deeply. Salt and heat and fish and tar. Whatever anxieties waited for her beyond the crossing, at least the world had begun to smell different. The old man beside her wore, pinned to his rough tunic, a small bronze badge bearing the Judean sun and sword.
“Are you from Jude?” she asked.
He sucked thoughtfully at the gaps in his teeth. “Mm. Been a long while since I was back, though.”
“How come?”
“Crossin’ got pricey. Too pricey for the likes of me.” He spat over the side of the cart. “Reckon they only want fine folk over there now.”
Leofwyn glanced at him. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”
“Aye, well, the king does what he does.” He gave a little shrug. “Still. A man touched by God’s not all bad.”
Leofwyn turned more fully. “Touched by God?”
The old man chuckled and waved a hand vaguely over his own face. “You not heard that one? About the king?”
“No.”
He lowered his voice, though there was no one close enough to overhear. “Some say he’s crossed over and come back. Some say that’s why he’s covered so. A man’s not meant to be looked upon after that.”
Leofwyn made a polite sound, though inwardly she was unconvinced. Every kingdom bred stories about its rulers. Most of them were foolish. Some were dangerous. Very few were true. Still, the tale lodged in her mind as the cart bumped on toward the quay.
Looking to fill the silence, Leofwyn spoke again. “What is your donkey called?”
“Peanut.”
“Peanut!” She couldn’t hide her delight. “Well, hello Peanut.”
The old man allowed a small smile to cross his lips, and clicked again to encourage Peanut onwards.
Their ship was waiting where the harbour widened—a broad-bellied Judean vessel flying the crowned sun from its mast. Sailors moved briskly over the deck and gangplank, hauling ropes, shifting cargo, calling out in practiced sequence.
The old man drew Peanut to a stop and gestured with one hand. “There you are, miss.”
Leofwyn climbed down. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
He tipped his head. “Once you see those white walls, you’ll not forget ’em.”
She smiled, stroked Peanut’s nose in farewell, and turned toward the ship. For a few awkward moments no one paid her the slightest attention. Men moved around her with the excellent concentration of people who know perfectly well that anything not tied down will eventually have to be carried by them. Leofwyn waited at the edge of the quay with as much dignity as a travel-worn young woman with damp hair and a patched satchel could summon, which sadly, was not much dignity at all.
Then a voice behind her said, “Miss Wynere, I presume?”
She turned to find a well-dressed man approaching. His deep red linen tunic was in better repair than those of the common sailors, though sun and salt had left their mark on it. His face was weathered, his hands rope-burned and strong. Whatever else he might be, he was a seaman first.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s me.”
“We had word you were coming.” He inclined his head. “Are you ready to depart?”
“I am. Very much so.”
He offered his arm with grave courtesy, slightly awkward in his movements as he was unused to such formalities, and escorted her up the gangplank.
“You’re welcome to sit in my cabin for the crossing,” he said. “The sea can be rough.”
“I think I would rather remain on deck, Captain, if that's all right with you?”
He gave her a brief look. “Your first crossing?”
“No. Well, it’s my first crossing to Jude. But I have sailed before. I like to see the water.” She suddenly felt foolish, but her answer seemed to amuse him.
“As you wish.”
She settled herself near a stack of crates, safely out of the sailors’ way, and turned her face toward the open water. The sea was a brilliant deep blue, cold but inviting in the warm summer sun. The surface rippled with occasional patches of white from the small breaking waves. After a calm period of loading the vessel, followed by frantic final preparations, they eventually made their way out of the harbour.
The crossing took longer than she expected. Morning stretched into noon. The harbour behind them shrank and disappeared. For some time there was nothing at all but sea and sky, both so fiercely blue that they seemed almost unnatural. The wind was strong, whipping her hair against her face so she was constantly fighting to hold it back. At last the sun drove her below for a while into the captain’s cabin, where she dozed lightly to the creak of timber and the thrum of the hull. When she returned to the deck, Jude had appeared. At first it was only brightness on the horizon.
Then line.
Then shape.
A white coast.
Then towers.
Leofwyn gripped the rail. King’s Harbour stretched along the shore in pale stone and ordered curves. Watchtowers rose above the quays, each flying the Judean standard. Beyond them, farther inland, there was no immediate city at all as she had imagined, but rolling sand, low dun-coloured rises under the pitiless sun. The sight unsettled her for half a moment. Jude, in all the stories, had always risen in her mind fully formed: walls, markets, courtyards, glittering terraces. Instead there was brightness, distance, and the sense that whatever truly mattered still lay hidden from view.
The ship docked. Cargo was unloaded with practiced speed. Sailors moved around her in a blur of routine and shouted instruction. The captain gave her a brief farewell from farther down the deck, and then she was making her own way down the gangplank into the glare.
A man stood waiting at the edge of the quay. He did not move with the bustle around him. That was the first thing she noticed. The second was his clothing: white linen, finely cut, with gold thread at the collar and cuffs. A mark of rank, or office, or both. A small golden pin fastened at his breast bore the Judean sun and sword. He was well groomed, black-haired, olive-skinned, with a neatly trimmed beard and a stillness about him that felt deliberate rather than idle. There was faint scarring along one side of his face, old and long since healed, but it did little to diminish the impression of careful self-command. When he saw her looking, he raised one hand.
“Miss Wynere?”
Relief arrived before she could stop it. Egberht, it seemed, had done at least one thing properly.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s me.”
The man bowed his head. “Welcome to King’s Harbour. I am Harun. I have been appointed your host during your stay in Jude.”
“My host?” Leofwyn repeated. “I thought I was staying with my brother.”
“You are.” He gestured toward a waiting carriage a short distance away and began to walk. She fell into step beside him. “In Jude, notable visitors are assigned a guide to assist them in navigating the city and its customs. I have served as your brother’s host since his arrival. I am now yours as well.”
Leofwyn glanced sideways at him. “Do all visitors receive such attention?”
“Not all,” said Harun.
There was, she thought, the faintest trace of satisfaction in the answer. Notable guest, she thought to herself. How very dignified for an utterly undignified arrival. As they neared the carriage, she took in the horses first. A strong bay mare stood nearest, ears flicking, harness polished. Leofwyn went to her at once and laid a hand on her neck.
Harun paused. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no, no, not at all,” she said. “I just like to see that horses are well and say hello.”
“She is well.”
His tone was not rude, precisely. Merely brisk enough to suggest that he thought the matter unnecessary. Leofwyn turned and found him holding open the carriage door.
“Shall we?” he said.
Inside, the air was oven-warm despite the open sides. The carriage rattled away from the harbour over the stone road, and for a while neither of them spoke. The cries of sailors and crash of waves faded behind them, replaced by a dry wind that carried dust instead of salt.
“Is it far?” Leofwyn asked at last.
“To the city? Half an hour.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“No.”
She could feel the sweat pooling on her back, and with an exasperated smile, she asked “Is it always this hot?”
“Yes.”
He said it like a man who preferred silence and had already granted her more conversation than he meant to. Leofwyn folded her hands in her lap and, sensing her desire for conversation was not being welcomed, instead turned her attention to watch the changing land through the open side of the carriage. Sand. Heat. Distance. No trees. No green. It was so different from Aiesh that it might have belonged to another world entirely.
Still, she was unable to maintain the silence for long. She glanced back at Harun. “You work at court?”
His gaze remained outward. “I am Master of the Quays.”
Leofwyn turned that over. “Trade?”
“Yes.”
That, at least, explained why he had been assigned to David. It also explained the linen, the gold, the stillness, the care with which he wore his position.
“Then my brother is in good hands,” she said. “I’m sure you are very busy. Thank you for taking the time to come and receive me.”
Harun inclined his head by a fraction. There was a pause.
Then he added, “Your departure was said to be sudden.”
Leofwyn looked at him. He had not turned toward her. The remark might almost have passed for incidental, but it did not feel that way. She thought of her father’s temper, of the hurried packing, of Egberht’s face when he had been ordered south with her. Of all the tidings that must have travelled ahead of her in letters not written by David.
“Yes,” she said evenly. “It was.”
He did not press. For that, she was grateful. Some little time later Harun lifted one hand and pointed ahead.
“Jude.”
Leofwyn leaned toward the opening and stared.
At first all she saw was white light.
Then the shape of it emerged. Great walls of pale stone, vast and sweeping, rising from the sand and stretching out and round into the desert so bright beneath the sun that they seemed almost unreal.
Towers stood at intervals along them, square and immense. Banners snapped in the hot wind. Before the gates waited carts, riders, caravans, guards.
Nothing softened the approach.
No trees.
No river.
No fields.
The wealth of the place did not lie spread across the land as it did in Aiesh. It had been drawn inward, enclosed, guarded, kept behind stone. The effect was not welcoming, exactly. It was magnificent.
Leofwyn stared, all thought briefly driven out of her. The city seemed less built than conjured, a pale mirage risen from sand and glare. Beside her, Harun said nothing. He did not need to. For the first time since leaving home, she felt not only relief, but something sharper and brighter. Anticipation. Excitement.
The carriage rolled onward toward the gates, and Leofwyn could not keep the smile from her face.
