Chapter Text
Morning light fell like golden ribbons through the high windows of the Library of Marcia, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. The chamber was half sanctum, half disaster. Scrolls leaned precariously in teetering towers, maps lay unfurled across desks with inkpots left uncorked, and some long-forgotten candle had melted into a rivulet of wax that hardened over a ledger.
At the centre of it all, Marcia sat cross-legged on a broad cushion, her robe pooling around her like a second carpet. A parchment rested on her knee, quill darting with sudden flourishes. Every so often, she would pause, read what she had written, and then cover her mouth with her hand to smother a burst of laughter.
“No, no— ‘your wisdom is as deep as the well at Carmichaelton Ridge.’ That sounds like she’ll drown in it.” She scribbled furiously, muttering to herself. “Better: ‘as steady as the tide against the Great Meridian shore.’ Yes, that is lovelier. Oh, Soline will—”
The heavy oak doors groaned open, interrupting her giddy muttering. Minister Margh strode in, his long cloak brushing the stone tiles, his face a thundercloud. “My lady, the reports are piling higher than your scrolls.”
Marcia looked up with a grin. “Ah, doom on two legs! You’ve arrived just in time to help me decide whether Soline’s eyes should be likened to obsidian or jet. Both very shiny stones, though the poets quarrel endlessly about which shines better by moonlight.”
“This is no time for poetry.” Margh planted both hands on the desk, ignoring the ink that smeared his palm. “The outerlands are in chaos. Markets shuttered. Villages harassed. And you—” He gestured at the cushion, the parchment, the growing blot of ink. “—you are writing love-notes!”
“They are letters of scholarly fellowship,” Marcia corrected, eyes twinkling. “And besides, should not a ruler’s heart be well-tended before she tends the hearts of her people?”
Margh’s jaw clenched. “Your people do not need your heart. They need your justice.”
There was a pause. Marcia sighed, set down her quill, and rubbed the ink smudge on her fingers like a child caught at mischief. “Very well. Justice, then. If you insist upon dragging me out of my inkpot.”
The courtiers assembled in the chamber leaned forward in anticipation. Marcia rose, smoothing her robe, and with a theatrical sweep of her arm declared, “Henceforth, I appoint an Order. An Order of the Flame, in honour of my mother’s gift to our people.”
A murmur ran through the court. Margh blinked. “An order? You mean knights?”
“And priests,” Marcia added blithely. “Every tale needs someone to swing a sword and someone to write about it. Otherwise, future generations will be dreadfully bored.”
Margh pressed his fingers to his temple. “This is not a tale, Lady. This is governance.”
“Pish-posh.” Marcia waved him aside. “Now, where is Rheidyr Aberfa?”
A figure in polished mail stepped forward, helm tucked beneath her arm, auburn hair braided tight. She knelt briefly. “Here, my lady.”
“And Minister Macneil?”
A broad-shouldered man in simple robes followed, bowing low. His fingertips were still stained with yesterday’s ink.
“Splendid,” Marcia said, descending from her dais with sudden energy. She rummaged in a carved box until she found a small bronze seal, its surface stamped with the torch of the Flame. Placing it in Aberfa’s gauntleted hand, she spoke with mock solemnity, “Go northwards, to the town of Rollo Rocks. There are whispers of stone statues come to life. Terrifying, yes? Do put them back to sleep if you can.”
Aberfa inclined her head. “We will do as you command.”
“And,” Marcia added, eyes dancing, “if you find any statues with a taste for poetry, do not send them here. My shelves are crowded enough.”
The court chuckled. Even some of the priests smiled, though Margh glared at them all.
Marcia raised her hand in benediction. “Take my seal, and my blessing, ffortun da. Good fortune.”
The Old Nova words carried clear in the vaulted chamber. Courtiers cheered, applauded, even stamped their feet against the stone floor.
Margh muttered under the noise, shaking his head. “History will remember your jokes more than your judgment.”
Marcia leaned close enough for only him to hear. “If history remembers me with laughter, Margh, I shall count it a triumph.”
She returned to her cushion with a satisfied sigh, already reaching for her parchment again. “Now, back to obsidian or jet?”
—
The Durward Road stretched north like a grey ribbon through fields still damp from spring rain. On horseback, Rheidyr Aberfa rode ahead, her mail catching dull glints of sun, while Minister Macneil followed with the measured pace of a man who preferred walking to trotting but had resigned himself to saddle.
“You ride as though the world itself were a battlefield,” Macneil remarked, adjusting his robes where they bunched uncomfortably at his belt.
Aberfa gave a faint smirk over her shoulder. “Better to expect battle and meet peace than the other way round.”
“A sermon in armour,” Macneil said dryly. “Providence may have paired us wisely after all. One to swing, one to sigh.”
She chuckled but soon grew serious. “I wonder, priest, if our Lady realises how grave this errand may be. Statues come to life, what sort of sorcery is that?”
“Or what sort of exaggeration,” Macneil countered. “Folk love to clothe their fears in marvels. Monsters make better gossip than quarrelsome neighbours.”
They rode in silence after that, the road narrowing between low hills. By late afternoon, they reached Ryskamp, once a bustling market town. Now its square was hushed, shutters barred, and only a few faces peeked from door-cracks.
“Quiet as a grave,” Aberfa muttered.
Before Macneil could reply, a figure stepped into the square. He was clad in battered armour daubed with red, a mismatched coat of plates scavenged from different battles. His helm was under his arm, showing a scarred face and a cruel grin. Behind him, a handful of frightened villagers hovered with baskets of grain and jugs of ale—offerings taken, not given.
“Well, well,” the knight said, spreading his arms. “More travellers on my road. You wish to pass? Then you pay.”
Aberfa drew her horse up short. “This is no longer your road. By order of Lady Marcia of the Nova Marks, it belongs to Providence and the people.” She held aloft the bronze torch-seal. Its flame design glinted even in the weak sun.
The villagers gasped. The Blood-Red Knight faltered, his grin twitching. But then he sneered. “A pretty trinket. Yet still the toll remains. Coin. Bread. Meat. Call it tribute, call it tax, call it what you like. Pay it, or bleed.”
Aberfa’s hand went to her sword-hilt. “I’ll pay in steel.”
The rogue knight hesitated, eyes darting to the villagers, then to Macneil, who sat calm upon his horse as if watching a classroom dispute. At last, with reluctant bravado, he drew his blade. “So be it.”
The ring of steel on steel was sharp in the square, but it lasted only a heartbeat. Aberfa had not yet struck when the Blood-Red Knight’s nerve failed. His face blanched, his stance faltered, and with a curse, he turned tail. Armour clanking, he sprinted across the square and vanished down the western road, leaving villagers staring after him in stunned silence.
Then the square erupted in cheers. Doors flew open, people spilled out, voices rising in relief, “The Lady’s seal! The Lady’s justice!” Children darted to Aberfa’s stirrup, tugging at her gauntlet with shining eyes.
Aberfa looked embarrassed by the attention, but Macneil raised his hand for quiet. His voice carried, clear and solemn.
“Providence has provided deliverance this day, not by miracle, but by the courage of those who serve in truth. Fear no longer, people of Ryskamp. Hold fast to the Lady’s virtues, and you will find that no tyrant, no pretender, no false knight can master you.”
The crowd murmured assent, some bowing their heads, others lifting their hands in silent thanks.
Aberfa leaned toward him, speaking under her breath. “You sound as though you’ve preached that sermon a dozen times.”
Macneil smiled faintly. “A dozen? Try a hundred. It always ends the same, folk need to believe Providence stands with them, even when it’s only flesh and steel.”
They lingered just long enough to share bread pressed into their hands by grateful villagers, then remounted and turned their horses northward once more. The cheers of Ryskamp followed them down the road until distance and dusk swallowed the sound.
By the next evening, the road brought them within sight of the sea. The wind carried salt and spray inland, stinging their faces as they approached the cliffside settlement of Rollo Rocks. What should have been a bustling fishing town was eerily subdued. Shutters rattled in the gusts, doors were barred from within, and not a soul stirred in the streets.
Aberfa reined in her horse. “A town without laughter is a graveyard.”
Macneil adjusted his hood against the wind. “Or a sanctuary under siege.” He glanced at her. “Which do you prefer?”
“Neither,” she replied, loosening her sword in its scabbard.
They urged their horses further down the cobbled main street. Then, from the mouth of an alley, a figure emerged. Cloaked in grey from head to toe, the figure stood motionless, hood shadowing its face. In the dim light, it looked almost carved from the stone walls themselves.
“Statue,” Macneil breathed.
Before Aberfa could respond, the figure bent, lifted a rock, and hurled it with startling force. It would have struck Macneil’s temple had Aberfa not swung her shield with a clang; the stone ricocheted into the gutter.
Her horse reared; she steadied it with a sharp pull on the reins. “Show yourself!” she barked. “In the Lady’s name, stand fast!”
The figure gave no answer. The grey cloak shifted as it turned, melting back into the shadows between the houses.
Aberfa growled, ready to spur after it, but Macneil reached across and caught her bridle. “Wait.”
She glared at him. “It attacked you.”
“And yet it bled no magic. Look closely.” He dismounted, stooping to lift the discarded stone. Then he pointed toward the alley where the figure had vanished. “Cloak, hood, posture. Human. Flesh and bone, not statue. They make themselves into phantoms only by pretence.”
Aberfa’s jaw tightened. “Then cowards hide behind stone to frighten children.”
“Or to frighten strangers,” Macneil corrected softly. “We are both here.”
They pressed further into the town. Every street was the same: windows were nailed shut, smoke was absent from chimneys, and doors were barred with heavy planks. A single shutter banged in the wind like a heartbeat in the silence.
At one doorway, Aberfa dismounted and knocked hard with her gauntleted fist. No reply. From behind the door came only the faint scrape of movement, the sound of someone retreating further into the house.
“Providence preserve them,” Macneil murmured. “They live like mice in their own homes.”
Aberfa swung back onto her horse, scanning the empty street. “If they will not speak, then someone must. There will be a leader, a steward, someone who still has courage enough to meet us.”
Macneil nodded. “And may Providence guide our steps to their door.”
They pressed deeper toward the centre of Rollo Rocks, the sea roaring faintly beyond the cliffs, the silence of the town heavy as a shroud.
At last, a door creaked open. From the shadowed frame emerged a woman with greying hair bound back in a knot, her round spectacles catching the last glint of daylight. She carried herself with the weary dignity of someone who had spoken too many times to unwilling ears.
“Enough,” she called, her voice trembling yet firm. “If you mean to bring harm, then do it and be gone. But if you come in the Lady’s name, then step inside, for the wind will strip you of warmth soon enough.”
Aberfa dismounted, her boots clattering on the cobbles. “We do come in her name. I am Rheidyr Aberfa, Knight of the Flame. This is Minister Macneil, Priest of the Flame. By Marcia’s seal, we are charged to end your troubles.”
The woman’s lips parted at the name, a mixture of relief and resignation crossing her face. She ushered them in quickly, latching the door behind them as though to bar the sea itself.
The interior smelled of salt and parchment. Ledgers lay stacked on a long table beside rolled charts of the coast. The woman motioned them to sit. “I am Bronagh, administrator of this town. And since you have seen the grey cloaks, you deserve the truth of them.”
Macneil lowered his hood, folding his hands. “Speak freely. We are not here to judge, only to see.”
Bronagh adjusted her spectacles, her gaze moving between them. “It began with the floods. Norlund’s southern valleys drowned last year. Farms gone, houses swallowed, kin swept into the rivers. Survivors fled south, over the border, and arrived here with nothing but what they could carry. We gave them shelter. It seemed the only right thing to do.”
Aberfa nodded firmly. “Providence commends you.”
Bronagh’s mouth tightened. “Not all agreed. Some of our own townsfolk claimed the refugees were spies or that their misfortune would spread to us like plague. They spoke of mouths to feed, of dangers unseen. I tried reason. I begged them to see the children huddled by the hearths, to see men who had lost fields, wives who had buried husbands. But reason failed.”
Her hand trembled as she gestured to the shuttered windows. “So they took to masks. Grey cloaks to make themselves look as statues. Immovable, cold. They cast stones at strangers, at those who welcomed the Norlunders, even at me when I walked among the newcomers. They wish to drive the refugees out by fear.”
Aberfa’s hand tightened on her sword-hilt. “Then they are cowards, not statues.”
Macneil tilted his head, his voice low and reflective. “Or perhaps they are statues after all, hearts turned to stone, hardened against compassion.”
Bronagh sighed, shoulders sagging. “Yes. That is the truth of it. We are not plagued by monsters, Knight. Only by our own people, who will not soften.”
A gust rattled the shutters, and for a long moment, the three sat in silence, the weight of the tale pressing down like the wind itself.
Aberfa rose at last, the steel of her armour whispering in the dim chamber. “Then tell me, Administrator, will you have us duel your statues until they break, or is there still another way?”
Bronagh met her gaze, eyes glimmering behind her spectacles. “If another way exists, I have not found it.”
Macneil leaned forward, his expression alight with quiet thought. “Then perhaps Providence brought us to find it for you.”
Aberfa crossed her arms. “I already told you the way. Challenge them. One by one. Break their pride in open combat, and the town will see where strength lies.”
Bronagh looked stricken. “Rheidyr, these are our neighbours. Good folk once. Their quarrel is stubbornness, not villainy.”
“Stubbornness can be cut away,” Aberfa insisted, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword. “Steel persuades better than sermons.”
Macneil raised a hand. “Steel persuades only for a moment. Then comes resentment, festering like a wound. We need something that softens instead of hardens.”
Aberfa snorted. “And what do you propose? Invite them to tea?”
“Not tea.” Macneil’s eyes gleamed with certainty. “A feast.”
Both Aberfa and Bronagh blinked at him. “A feast?” they echoed.
“Yes.” He leaned back, folding his hands. “Food is a language even the stubborn understand. A table laden with Nova dishes and Norlunder dishes. Music, drink, laughter. Let the refugees show what they bring, let the townsfolk taste it. Let them discover that foreign hands can make bread as filling, stews as warming. And once wine flows, tongues loosen. Suspicion cannot thrive where bellies are full.”
Bronagh pressed a hand to her mouth, half in disbelief. “A feast … in the middle of this?”
“Why not?” Macneil smiled faintly. “What is a feast but a declaration of peace?”
Aberfa gave an incredulous laugh. “You think stew and song will fix this? You’re mad.”
“And yet you agreed to ride north on a rumour of walking statues,” Macneil countered smoothly. “Would you rather swing your sword at frightened farmers in cloaks?”
Aberfa hesitated, then exhaled through her nose. “Fine. But if this fails, I’ll have to duel them after all.”
Bronagh rose abruptly, renewed resolve in her voice. “Then we must begin at once. I will call the cooks, open the storehouses, and fetch what the Norlunders have brought. If Providence has indeed sent you, Minister, then let us test it with wine and broth.”
The next day, the town stirred for the first time in weeks. Bronagh directed servants and volunteers, her voice firm as she ordered benches dragged into the square and firepits stoked.
Aberfa, against her own protests, was shoved into the kitchens. “If you won’t let me duel them, at least let me cut something,” she grumbled, snatching up a knife.
The head cook shoved a ladle into her gauntleted hand instead. “Stir. Carefully.”
Within moments, she had splashed broth onto the hearth and nearly toppled the pot. “By Providence, how do you fight soup?” she muttered, cheeks reddening as children snickered at her flailing attempts.
Meanwhile, Macneil moved among the refugees, listening intently to their unfamiliar words, repeating them back with patient care. He coaxed out recipes, noting the spices and herbs they had carried across the border, translating instructions for the Nova cooks who stared wide-eyed at smoked fish and strange root vegetables.
“You call this … sursild?” he asked, carefully sounding the Norlunder word.
A broad-shouldered refugee grinned, clapped him on the back, and corrected his pronunciation until both laughed.
By evening, the square was transformed. Lanterns swayed overhead, tables groaned with platters of bread, steaming stews, and roasted meats spiced with Norlunder salt and Nova herbs alike. The air was rich with smells both familiar and strange, mingled with the sound of fiddles being tuned for dancing.
Aberfa, wiping soup off her vambrace, muttered, “If this works, I’ll eat my own cloak.”
Macneil, arranging mugs along the benches, smiled serenely. “Better to eat stew. You’ll find it gentler on the stomach.”
Lanterns and torches sprang to life as the sun slipped behind the cliffs, painting the square in amber light. The air was thick with smells that made mouths water. Nova stews heavy with barley and beef, Norlunder fish cured in brine, flatbreads spiced with herbs that few in Rollo Rocks had tasted before. Smoke curled upward from roasting pits, mingling with the sea-wind.
Villagers crept from their shuttered houses, drawn by the scent and the music of fiddles tuning. At first, they came hesitantly, clutching bowls as if to shield themselves. But once the first ladles of broth were poured, hesitation gave way to hunger.
A Norlunder woman, broad-shouldered and laughing, pressed a platter of small smoked fish into the hands of an elderly Nova fisherman. He wrinkled his nose at the strange smell, but at her insistence, popped one into his mouth. His eyes widened. “By Providence, that’s … that’s good.”
Her grin flashed white in the lamplight. “Good!” she echoed in broken Nova. “Good fish!”
Children were the quickest to bridge the divide. Nova boys dared each other to try the sharp-salted Norlunder bread, sputtering at the taste before begging for more. Norlunder girls clapped their hands at the sugared Nova pastries, cheeks sticky as they traded bites. Laughter carried through the square like a balm.
Aberfa sat on the edge of a bench, arms crossed, her sword laid beside her, watching the mingling. She muttered to Macneil, “This had better last longer than a mug of ale.”
“Patience,” he replied, raising his own mug. “Ale takes the edge off. But food fills what bitterness cannot.”
Wine and mead soon flowed, and with them loosened tongues. Villagers who had glared at the refugees only days before now found themselves clapping shoulders, comparing fishing nets, laughing over mispronounced words. The Norlunder accent rolled rough against Nova ears, but Macneil drifted between groups, smoothing phrases, translating jokes, coaxing shy smiles into warm chuckles.
At the far edge of the square, shadows lingered. Figures cloaked in grey stood stiff as stones, watching the merriment with hollow hunger in their eyes. Children pointed, whispering, “the statues,” but no one jeered.
Aberfa saw them first, her hand instinctively brushing the hilt of her sword. “They’ve come.”
Macneil shook his head, his gaze soft. “No. They’ve not come yet. They’re waiting to be asked.”
He strode toward them. The cloaked figures shifted uneasily, as though ready to melt back into the night. But Macneil raised a hand, not in command but in welcome.
“Come,” he called, his voice carrying over the music. “There is food enough for all. Your place is at the table, not the shadows.”
The grey-cloaked figures hesitated. Hunger gnawed louder than pride. One stepped forward, then another. Soon they were at the edge of the square.
A woman ladled stew into bowls and offered them without question. A Norlunder child tugged at a cloak, pressing a hunk of sugared bread into the man’s calloused hand. He stared at it as though it were a crown. Slowly, awkwardly, the “stone statues” sat among the benches. No one scorned them. No one turned them away.
Aberfa exhaled, a smile tugging reluctantly at her lips. “Providence help me, you were right.”
“Providence helped all of us,” Macneil murmured, watching as the first grey cloak slipped from weary shoulders, draped instead over a Norlunder child as a blanket. Others followed. By nightfall, the square was awash not in suspicion but in laughter. Broken words mingled with clumsy translations, mugs clinked, hands clasped, and fiddlers played reels that spun Nova and Norlunder alike into the dance.
Even Aberfa was pulled into the circle by two children, her armour clanking as she stumbled through the steps. She barked a laugh, clumsy but grinning, while Macneil clapped in rhythm, his voice rising above the music with a hymn of thanksgiving.
The “stone statues” were statues no longer. Cloaks lay discarded on benches, repurposed as bedding for the youngest of the refugees. What had begun in silence ended in song.
When dawn came to Rollo Rocks, the square was littered with empty mugs, snoring villagers, and the faint scent of smoked fish lingering over the sea breeze. Aberfa leaned against the doorpost of the administrator’s hall, arms folded, watching children chase gulls across the cobbles.
“Peace looks untidy,” she remarked.
Macneil sat at a table inside, quill scratching across parchment. His voice drifted out to her, calm and steady. “Peace is always untidy. If it were neat, it would be a lie.”
She stepped inside, curious despite herself. “And what are you writing now?”
“The record.” He lifted the page just enough for her to glimpse the bold lines at the bottom. “A moral, to bind the tale together.”
Aberfa squinted at his careful script. Do not harden your heart; compassion softens what is rigid. Providence provided the Stone to endure, not to crush. Even what seems eternal can move; vigilance and adaptability are virtues.
She gave a low whistle. “That sounds grander than it felt.”
“It felt like spilled stew and broken words,” Macneil admitted with a small smile. “But the heart of it is there. That is what is written. This is what endures.”
They remained in Rollo Rocks for several more days, helping to mend what had been broken. Aberfa supervised the repairing of shutters, hammering nails with such force that she startled the carpenters. Macneil lingered with the Norlunders, learning their words, translating their prayers, his laughter mingling with theirs as if he had lived among them all his life.
When at last the settlement was steady again, they entrusted the record to a courier bound south along the Durward Road. The sealed scroll, tied with red ribbon, carried their account back to the Library of Marcia.
—
Marcia was reclining on her cushion when the courier arrived. She cracked the seal with ink-stained fingers and read aloud, her voice rising with delight at the moral penned at the end.
“Oh, splendid! Splendid!” She clapped the parchment against her knee like a giddy child. “A moral at the close makes the whole business sound almost … compelling.”
Minister Margh, standing stiffly by the desk, pinched the bridge of his nose. “The purpose of a record is accuracy, not entertainment.”
“Accuracy, accuracy,” Marcia repeated, waving her hand as if batting away a fly. “What is accuracy without a little charm? Generations will nod off if we give them nothing but lists of who threw stones at whom. But this, this has shape, colour, lesson.”
Margh muttered darkly, “Generations will remember your jests more than your judgment.”
“Good!” Marcia declared, rolling the parchment up again with a triumphant grin. “Then let them laugh, and let them learn. Both endure better than ink alone.” She rose, stretching like a cat. “I must write to Soline at once and tell her of our Order’s triumph. Perhaps I’ll even improve the moral into a rhyme. She does love rhymes.”
As she bustled back to her desk, quill already in hand, Margh let out a sigh that seemed to echo across the chamber. Yet despite himself, a faint smile ghosted across his lips.
The Library of Marcia was filled again with the scratch of pen on parchment, the dust-dim light catching in the high windows, as the Lady of the Nova Marks turned justice into story and story into laughter.