Chapter Text
In the spring of Verglas, some fifteen or more years after their War of Ice and Snow, a young man passed over their border. He said only that he was a refugee headed for Ostfold, and any number of kind souls offered him food and respite. A mage, they assumed, but their assumption was wrong. He did not correct them, merely continued on his way with a dark look clouding his expression.
The cold of the northern country did not seem to touch him, though the warm tone of his skin spoke to his southern origin. His hair was a little less clear in its meaning, for though it was darker in color the sun brought out a coppery tint. His clothing was worn from travel, but though poor in style it was sturdy in construction and had held up well against the long miles.
“I am a refugee,” he said again when questioned by the guards that worked the gate of Ostfold. “I seek to speak with the mage princess and prince. How would I get an audience with them?”
“That’s easy enough. Follow this main road up to the palace and tell them what you told me. They like to greet mages that seek refuge in Verglas, but be warned - the prince is more than capable of handling any magic that might be used to harm the princess,” the guard answered and waved him through.
The man from the south was not surprised when he had to wait to meet the royals - a part of him was surprised that he was not turned away completely. Instead he was offered refreshment and left in the most sumptuous sitting room he’d ever seen. The upholstery was velvet, the floors, marble, and the room scented with the smell of aged wood, polish, and early spring flowers.
He nearly fell asleep waiting before the servant came to fetch him, a boy not quite old enough yet to go into a full trade. The child led him through the sturdy halls of the northern palace to a still more luxurious set of rooms guarded by a thin servant with red hair and a pair of muscled guards.
At a call from within he was admitted to see a beautiful woman with white hair and a man in light armor, his hair dark and his face scarred just below the eyes. The smile the woman gave him was not what he expected from royalty, and he paused just in the doorway. The assessing look the man wore was less of a surprise.
“Please, sit, Mr…?” The woman gestured to a puffed-up chair no commoner would ever have occasion to own invitingly.
“Fisk. My name is Fisk,” he managed to murmur as he took a step away from the heavy presence of a guard at his back. Despite her invitation, he remained standing a few feet in front of the pair and out of reach of the beautiful little table topped with a bowl of sugary confections and fruit.
“I understand you are a refugee, and have come a long way alone. Please let me assure you that you are safe here. You will be able to start a new life, and we will protect you from any master that may come after you,” the princess continued.
He finally managed to rally his thoughts and tongue to answer, though his hands wrung at the hat he’d been wearing for the majority of his journey. He’d taken it off upon entering these rich halls, and now second guessed his decision to come here in the first place.
“I… I have rather misled you and your people, princess.” He managed to spit out, and saw the prince’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I am not a mage, and I do not have any master coming for me.”
“You claimed to be a refugee,” the prince stated with a sharp edge to his words. His tone demanded explanation, even if no real question had been asked.
“Yes, sir. But I’m not here to start a new life. I’m here in the hope that I can help you and you can help me.”
The prince’s chin lifted slightly, a hard and proud look that did nothing to encourage Fisk to speak. Yet it was enough to harden his resolve as he remembered exactly why he was here and what he wanted.
“How can we help you, Fisk?” Princess Rakel asked softly.
“You can put me into your spy network in Sarthe.” Fisk was answering her question, but it was the prince that he watched. He had a feeling that she was not as involved with any such endeavors. The man shifted slightly, examining Fisk as much as Fisk studied him.
“What makes you think we have a spy network, and why should we trust you with such a role?” The prince asked.
“You have to have a network. You have been bringing slaves north for years, and Sarthe has always been a potential enemy. You need to keep an eye on them.” Fisk paused to take a deep breath before continuing. “You may be content to just watch them. I want to see the whole system topple.”
The air seemed heavy with the weight of his statement, the princess’s mouth slightly open in shock while the prince merely observed Fisk with suspicious eyes. He was very aware of the older blond guard behind him and the second that was just outside the door with the redheaded attendant. The door was closed, but even so the words he’d just spoken could well get him killed.
“Why?”
Fisk pushed down the roiling emotions that had driven him so far to try to articulate the truth. “Four weeks ago I watched my brother cut down in the gladiator pit. Six weeks ago my father tried to bribe a guard to get my brother out. A few days later I saw his body with the many others they bring out from the gladiator practices, whatever that really means. Three months ago I came home from work to find my mother and sister dead and my brother taken. There is nothing left for me in Sarthe. Nothing but the hope of stopping this from happening to anyone else.”
His statements through clenched teeth seemed to bring tears to the woman’s eyes, but nothing changed in the prince except for a slight change in the angle he held his head. Fisk, feeling as though he was losing his attention, grabbed for the satchel that he’d carried so far.
“I am a citizen of Sarthe, a free man with the documents to prove it. I have a little money from the sale of my parents’ farm, maybe enough to start a smithy of my own as a cover.” He clenched the papers and held them out for inspection, though neither of the royals reached for them. “I can be useful in a way none of your mages or northerners can. But I can’t do anything about complete and utter crap that the nobility of my country does. Not alone. Not without backing, not without allies. I need your help.”
Prince Farrin sighed after a moment, then moved to rest a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Perhaps you would like to visit your brother while I handle this?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I think that would be a good idea. You will come tell us when you’re done?”
“Of course, love.” The prince pressed a kiss to the woman’s forehead, then nodded to the guard that had been standing watch.
The beautiful princess rose and gracefully swept to the door, pausing by Fisk to briefly rest her slender hand on his arm. “I am sorry for your losses,” she murmured before moving on and leaving Fisk alone with the dangerous looking prince.
“You are a smith by trade?” The prince asked after a moment, moving away from the table and towards a desk of sorts along the other wall, back to a huge window that let in a glorious amount of sunlight.
“Yes, sir. I finished my apprenticeship about a year ago and have been working alongside my master while I saved up for whatever I wanted to do next,” Fisk answered.
“So no training in fighting or stealth?”
“No, but in a way that may be a good thing.” Fisk hoped the man could be persuaded of that, anyway.
“Oh?”
“You move like a soldier. If I can pick that out, others would be able to see if I did it,” he pointed out.
“That's what the stealth training is for,” Prince Farrin said wryly, then shook his head. “It would be irresponsible of me to send you into such a dangerous situation without any training whatsoever.”
“Then train me,” Fisk pleaded.
The prince’s head tilted thoughtfully. “You seem very determined. Just what is it that you would like to see happen in Sarthe as a result of your work and our assistance?”
“Eventually?” Fisk knew it would take time for any lasting change to come about, but his core burned with the need for it. “I want to see that pit burned to the ground.”
A glint that looked like approval shone in the older warrior’s eyes, and that gave Fisk perhaps a little too much license to continue.
“I want the slavers and masters left as carrion for the birds. I want the nobles who supported all this stripped of titles and power, and I want to see that king of theirs hanging from a tree like the criminal he is!” Somewhere in his rage, Fisk’s mouth had run away with him, and he could see that the prince regarded him coldly now.
He forced himself to calm, slowly, then clenched his teeth as Farrin slowly shook his head.
“This is too personal for you, and your vitriol would be dangerous for you and everyone working with you,” the prince said firmly.
His hands balled into fists, but fighting the decision too vehemently would only reinforce the prince’s decision. If he could stick around for a while, learn to fight on his own time… maybe later he could convince Prince Farrin differently.
“Barracks dorm room seven is currently empty as the most recent recruits graduated and many moved out or to the other dorms. You may stay there for a few days or weeks until you can get on your feet,” the mage continued.
“Are there other Sarthans here? Non-mages, I mean,” he blurted.
Farrin raised an eyebrow. “Yes, there are a few families of mages that have sought refuge here. More of them prefer to go south and take their chances in Baris.” He paused. “You are welcome here, but I warn you not to make trouble.”
“I’ve no intention of making trouble,” Fisk assured him. “Just… trying to put together a plan.”
The prince did not look convinced, but he didn’t add to his admonishments. “Dismissed.”
Fisk was slow to realize he needed to get out, but hurriedly bowed and rushed out when it clicked. He found himself out in the corridor with a servant, who at his request guided him down to find the barracks that the prince had mentioned. He claimed a bunk, but didn’t stay. He had no use for sitting passively.
Instead, he started by asking around about the mage refugees in Ostfold. He got a dozen different directions, but eventually heard that if he wanted to find a whole group of them at once he should get up early in the morning to watch and (this was jokingly suggested) participate in the Sunshine Column’s exercises. Further questioning told him that the Sunshine Column was all escaped slaves, mostly gladiators.
He went to bed early that night, satisfied that he had something to start with.