Young Writers Society

Summary:

The Kingdom of Woodlands is at the end of a 10-year war, which resulted in the formation of a new social class called the heroes. People are vying for power in the new regime.

Gerhard, advisor of the hero company nicknamed 'The Miscreants', is busy preparing for his new commander's inauguration dinner. Ceremonies like this are massively important to Woodlandian culture, where people are divided into guilds with complicated relationships and customs. However, his commander Golzar's reform efforts have stirred up enmity with the head of the Heroes' Guild, William, who is interfering with Gerhard's plans indirectly. In the middle of this, Bryn, the second-in-command, arrives and displays some unusual behaviour for them.

~

Today at the Miscreants’ halls, only Gerhard’s footsteps disturbed the silence. There was no one skidding around the corner of the corridor. No Tanya. She had gone out to help some villagers. Seemingly alone, Gerhard padded carefully backwards, so he could keep an eye on anyone who was coming after him. No one did.

He tucked the basket of bread closer to his side. With his other hand he gripped his walking stick. Since no one was appearing to scare him or ask about repairing Bob the training dummy, he pushed the door to the infirmary open with his hip and headed inside.

Light flooded his vision.

The windows were all open to let the cooling breeze of the hillside in. Many of the men were still asleep. One of them, a carpenter’s son called Ashton, rolled over to look at him, rubbing his eyes. “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’, Ashton.”

Gerhard walked around, distributing the bread. For the most part, the men’s injuries were healing well. He couldn’t complain. There had been worse during the war, and at least now they wouldn’t have the fear of attack bearing on their backs as they recovered. It was tedious, having to set down the bread basket on the floor each time to free his hand for transferring the loaves, but he was getting used to it.

When he was done, he sat down in front of one window. A chair and table had been left here. It was where the doctor would have been sitting, if he were not at the market. The bandages needed to be restocked.

Gerhard pulled out a stack of letters and scrolls from his pouch and begun to read, the morning light making the words clearer.

“’S that from the Guild?” Ashton’s words fell into a yawn. He had begun sitting up in his sleeping mat, stretching his neck.

“Hmm. Some of it is.”

There was a short letter. Gerhard picked it up first, thinking he could get it out of the way quickly. Skimming the title, he realised it covered some changes to the Guild Book. Nothing unusual. Unlike the Constitution, the Guild Book was modified often. It was filled with details and rules of ceremony, things that bound heroes to honour and the traditions of the land. Of Woodlands and home, Gerhard thought. He traced the Guild seal, which was grey and depicted the Many-rooted tree. The symbol felt busy and intricate under his thumb.

Reading through the rules was soothing, at first. He didn’t often admit that. Especially not in front of Golzar. For her, the restrictions and regimens of Woodlands were threatening, alienating. It wouldn’t be good, Gerhard thought, if I forgot that around her.

The duelling rules would be unchanged. Though the slot of plays in dinners was to be demoted, pushed to accompany appetizers rather than the main course, they were not to be excluded completely. Gerhard’s forehead wrinkled when he saw the next lines, however.

‘The following are henceforth banned from all of hero ceremony . . .’

There was a list of dancing troupes. Almost all were prominent in either the Witchfield area or the Lucrece area. Even those centered in Greater Lucrece, the strip of countryside surrounding the capital, were targeted.

‘The reasons for this are various. The Dancing Donkeys were considered inappropriate because of their history of mocking early heroes who had sacrificed themselves for the cause . . . The Singing Imps are known to make light of ceremony by disrupting parts of official proceedings . . . ‘

Gerhard frowned. This was going to be a problem. Entertainment for Golzar’s inauguration dinner was still up in the air. He couldn’t help but notice that many of these groups were ones he had invited for his own ceremony being inaugurated as Councillor, many seasons ago. What if this was meant to be an obstacle?

“Ashton,” Gerhard called out to the young hero.

“Hmm?”

“Do you remember that dance troupe we ran into? The one you introduced to us?”

Ashton’s face went red. “What, you still remember that, Gerry? I . . . yeah, sure.”

“You still see that girl now and again, don’t you?”

“How did you . . . ? Well. Yes.”

“What were they called again?”

“The Long Drakes.”

Gerhard scanned the parchment. No ‘Long Drakes’ mentioned in the ban list. There was a group called the ‘Northern Drakes’, however. He couldn’t act too hastily. They could have just changed their name. He took a deep breath and sighed, looking up from the paper to stare at the ceiling for a moment. There was a single cobweb up there, swaying with the breeze.

“Do you think you could give me where she lives, or where she goes to normally? I need to ask her if they’re still using the same name.”

“What for, sir?”

“The dinner.”

Ashton’s eyes widened in understanding. He nodded.

Gerhard offered a smile. “Thanks, Ashton.”

In his head, Gerhard began to plan out another trip to the palace. He was there so often nowadays. It was exhausting him. Part of him was missing the smell of the trees around the Heroes’ Guild in Witchfield, the feeling of belonging. He blinked several times to clear those thoughts. Gerhard had to focus.

He would need to try and curry favour with the more famous dance troupes, if he wanted to hire them. William couldn’t possibly ban those if he wanted to keep the Guild’s already unstable standing with the nobility and the capital city as a whole.

Gerhard frowned. Another option was swimming in the corner of his mind. He could solicit duellists instead of dancers. Sword fighting was also considered a craft of the Mask-faced Goddess. He tapped the end of a stylus against his cheek.

In a recent joint edict from the House of Periwinkles and the High Tower, sword fighting had been praised. It was not surprising, given that it was how they had ended the war, how they had put Lucretia in power. To contrast, the more traditional centres of worship like dancing and the theatre have been in conflict with the High Tower as of late.

Gerhard knew why. There were spies and chains of secrets to be found all through the troupes. That was why he had warned Golzar not to get involved with the theatre. Even if the High Tower conventionally disdained the sword, they would rather elevate it than to give more power to networks of intrigue that could potentially conspire against them. Before Gerhard could proceed with another thought, though, one that was making his stomach twist, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said. Who could it be?

~

Bryn had carried the sack of pebbles over their shoulder all the way from the river. It wasn’t as heavy as it sounded, but Bryn was anxious to put them down for other reasons. I shouldn’t be so annoyed, they thought, grimacing. It’s a gift, why should I be annoyed?

The door to the infirmary opened with a creak, and Bryn was face to face with Gerhard.

“Bryn, you’re back – “ Gerhard started, at the exact same time Bryn began to say “Hi – “

Gerhard frowned slightly. Then, he stepped backwards and pulled the door wide open. “Why don’t we go sit down?”

Bryn didn’t want to look at all of the people on the sleeping mats. It stressed them out too much. Instead, they made a beeline for what looked to be Gerhard’s seat. A makeshift office, by the looks of it, they figured, eyeing the sheets of parchment. They found a clear space and begun emptying to contents of their sack.

Gerhard’s voice dropped to a whisper as his forehead wrinkled. “Where in the Goddesses’ name did you collect all these rocks?”

“Don’t worry.” Bryn picked up a smooth, cool piece of Lucrecian quartz. “I’m sharing ‘em.”

“. . . Why?”

Bryn rolled their eyes. “What d’ya mean why? Don’t ya’ think they’re neat?”

“I mean . . . I think what everybody else thinks about rocks, Bryn.”

“No, these ones . . . These ones can fetch ya’ a penny.”

Gerhard tilted his head to one side and arched an eyebrow. He was always incredulous about the value of Bryn’s rock collections. Bryn couldn’t blame him, he grew up in a place with no quarry and never really looked at a rock in his life.

Bryn turned around and walked towards Ashton, first. They gave him the pebble. “What’dya think?”

“Uh. This is real nice, commander. Thanks.”

“You can keep it or you can trade it at the market. The stall with all the colourful stones. Up to you,” Bryn said. They did their best to sound a more presentable. More leaderly. “But . . .you could try keeping it.”

“R-right . . . it’s magic or something, innit?”

Bryn smiled and nodded. Ashton looked like a confused mouse, already unsure what to do. He took a step back from Bryn, as though they would bite his nose off if he stayed too close.

“Tell the others they can have some if they share,” Bryn said, gesturing at the table with all the pebbles. Beside it, Gerhard was beginning to tidy up his letters, tucking them back into the pouch around his waist. It was a narrow table, Bryn realised. Probably not enough to hold the rocks and the parchment at the same time.

At that moment, Alexis’s ginger hair popped up at the door. Bright eyes blinked, as they rested one hand on the edge. “Robert said you wanted to see me, Bryn?”

Bryn nodded. “The rocks. You guys can have some. I brought more than I needed.”

Alexis tilted their head to one side. “You need . . . the rocks?”

“Bryn needs the rocks,” Gerhard said quickly. When Bryn cast him a glance, he continued. “But not all of them.”

“Well, sure! I can help distribute.”

Bryn handed them some of the quartz. When Alexis had left, Bryn shook their head. Honestly, it’s sad they don’t know about the precious stones trade. Guess that’s what happens when it’s left in the hands of freepersons. Speaking of which . . .

Bryn needed to tell Gerhard about Myra.