The Failing Light; Part One

There is little to note about the inhabitants of the Ebon Hills that is not equally true of the barbarians who share their borders. Their culture knows little of the higher arts or philosophy, and what little they produce in salted fish or smelted ore is insufficient to lure the wandering feet of any but the most speculative of travelers. Their rulers are clan chiefs and feudal warlords, while the peasants are unruly and prone to superstition.

Of course I knew, dearest Cordelia, that the proper completion of my almanac demanded further rigor. In passing the town of Brightwater, I conversed with many rustic wayfarers regarding the journey that lay ahead. I must say, the proper dignity of the Imperial Charter seems oddly diminished in the eyes of such creatures. May the ancestors grant this journey be brief and my return to the golden shores and your beauty just as mercifully swift.

Yours in promissory,

Cleius Seveca

The stout dun pony burst through the woodland grove with surprising grace. Its rider was a youth of slim build who clung a little too desperately to the reins to be counted more than a novice. Even so, beneath the curve of the rider’s cowl, a wide grin was in evidence. Faint laughter could be heard with every wild turn and unsettling jump, as though the likelihood of a fall was a joy in itself. Steed and rider, they carved a route through the desiccated trees before pulling up short at the edge of a clearing. The pony pranced in place as the young rider struggled to gain a firmer grip on the reins of their horse, tempestuous in the hands of a learner, but trained to obey nevertheless. Standing firm at the centre of the clear ground, a man of middle years and fighting trim casually leaned upon a wayfarer’s staff. His eyes were a dark shade of grey, and reflected little of the morning’s weak light. Thick eyebrows and an untidily groomed beard dominated his face, giving him a deceptively wild look. To a certain state of mind, the gravelly tone and stiff rhythm of his voice might be thought intimidating.

“Mueno,” the man said, using the traditional word for ‘student’ in hilltongue, “you are late.”

The rider made a point of looking up at the sky, where the sun’s pale light had yet to break over the eastern treeline. Pushing back her hood, the rider revealed the feminine cast of her features; brown almond shaped eyes, curly black hair, and the pale skin and high cheekbones of her highlander bloodline. Though slight of frame, she carried herself with the self-assured grace of a young athlete.

“Balthur you called me to this nonsense woodland by the second hour, and there’s still time to spare,” the girl said, as she dismounted. Though her horsemanship might be unpolished, she spoke with the self-assurance of a highborn child as her feet met solid ground. On reflection, she thought, the sun was probably a little higher than that, but one need not concede such a point to a lowborn warrior, even if he was to be her ruwawu or trainer.

“Mueno,” the older man said, “here, you are not Wendelin, and the family name of Siebmaach means nothing.” He gestured with the tip of his staff to the uneven edge of the clearing, “within this circle, you will have no name, and you will call me by my proper title. Is this clear?”

“It is clear,” she responded clearly, before adding, “though I do not see the necessity. My brothers are trained in the sword and lance by Sir Kenwig, and he does not see the harm of reasonable hours and the comfort of our own family's practice yards.”

“Mueno gives two answers where one would suffice, and the latter makes a lie of the former. What is clear is not argued with or questioned, else it is not clear.” Balthur relented, “your brothers are squires, and learn to fight as noble sons do. Noble daughters do not learn to fight from knights. If Mueno is to learn to fight, she will learn elsewise, from the days when clan women could not afford the luxury of comfortable living. She will learn Destari, the Way of the Dark Spear. That is, if she is willing to submit to this standard. Your father assured me this was the case. Did he err?”

“He didn’t, and I do, but,” Wendelin began to protest, but caught herself, and let the response go unfinished. She knuckled her right hand into her left palm, “As you say, ruwawu.”

Her teacher gave a rare grin, running a hand through his salt and pepper beard. “You learn quickly, this is good. Now tend to your pony before we begin. It is going to be a long morning.”