Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Mikayla busied herself with last minute wedding preparations, humming nervously as she sewed a silver ribbon. Armaila sometimes wondered if she’d rather have Gregory for a son than her for a daughter, the way she carried on about him.

“Who was that woman?” Armaila asked as she packed her dresses into a chest. Florine had left early that morning, taking the strange object with her.

“No one important,” Mikayla said as she made the final stitches.

Armaila sighed, frustrated with the evasive answer. “What does it mean that the rumors of war are true? Who is the Legion? What was that thing you didn’t want me to touch?”

Mikayla still did not look up, but she clutched the dress tighter. “Greenfields in a peaceful town and I do not fear for our safety here.” The sound of hooves against gravel floated in through the kitchen window, and she put down her needle with a frown. “Stay inside.”

Armaila peeked through the drapes as her mother opened the door. There were seven men clad in dark blue and silver uniforms, the royal colors of Erithor, and an extra horse. Are these the king’s guards Florine mentioned?

“Greetings,” Mikayla said cooly.

A man dismounted and unrolled a large parchment. “Mikayla Farland, by order of His Royal Majesty King Theodore, you are to be brought to Normar on the charge of high treason.”

More words were exchanged in a quieter tone that Armaila could not hear, and then the solider handed her mother a tightly bound letter.

“Armaila, come here,” her mother called.

Armaila eyed the soldiers warily, standing closer to her mother than she had in years.

“I must leave for a while.” Mikayla folded the letter, keeping it from Armaila’s view. “You will stay with your Aunt Marie tonight, until the wedding tomorrow.”

“Marie?” Armaila said in shock. The two had not spoken for as long as she could remember.

“Stay away from Florine,” Mikayla warned. “I will return as soon as I can.”

High treason carried the death penalty if proven. And if not disproved beyond a shadow of a doubt, it meant life imprisonment, a fate worse than death. Armaila pleaded with her mother not to go but it changed nothing, like the weeks and months she spent crying over her engagement.

A deafening silence filled the yard once they disappeared down the road. The parchment lay on the ground, threatening to blow away, and Armaila picked it up. The only marking was a black raven drawn with outstretched wings.

Unsure what to make of it, she shoved the parchment in her pocket.

Armaila was unfamiliar with the route to her aunt’s house but it was already mid-afternoon and she knew it would be dark by the time she arrived. The trail was rough so she dismounted for better footing and pulled the mare along by the reins.

The moon was beginning to rise when she reached the small house. She knocked once, only to be met with silence. She knocked a second time and heard rustling inside. A moment later, the door swung open and she saw her uncle dressed in a nightrobe and squinting.

“Armaila?” he said.

She was surprised he recognized her. Marie stood behind him with an equally perplexed expression.

“Earl, don’t just stand there.” Marie shoved her husband to the side and ushered Armaila in, giving her a blanket and cup of warm tea. She was a plump woman with pleasant face and graying hair—it was difficult to see the family resemblance. “By the mountains, why have you come so far at night, child?”

Armaila told them of her encounter with Florine, and the way her mother had reacted. “Soldiers arrested her for high treason this afternoon and she told me to come here.”

Marie clicked her tongue and shared a worried glance with Earl. “Did they say anything else?”

“There was this.” Armaila pulled the now-wrinkled parchment from her pocket.

“Mikayla never wanted you to know much about their past,” Marie said. “I must admit, I don’t know a terrible lot of it either…”

“What do you know?” Armaila pressed.

“They worked for King Theodore before you were born. Very secret.” Marie shook her head as if riding herself of a bad memory. “You’d better get some rest before your big day tomorrow.”

Armaila didn’t argue and she allowed herself to be led to a dusty, old cot. She lay awake most of the night with apprehension over the wedding and worry about her mother, and when morning came, it hurt to open her eyes.

“Good morning,” Marie said. She had entered the main living area sometime when Armaila was sleep, and was now stitching the edge of a quilt. Green and blue squares with small, yellow circles formed the image of a rolling field in spring.

“My dress,” Armaila said, sitting bolt upright. She had taken the sack with her most important belongings, but had forgotten the wedding gown. After her encounter with Florine and the cloaked figures, leaving Greenfields alone was a less enticing thought than it once had been, and she’d only have a small head start on the men Baron Josef would send to look for her, anyway. The opportunity to escape had passed.

Armaila found her mare in the stable. It wasn’t often she was able to ride freely, without her mother watching to make sure she maintained proper etiquette. She allowed her legs to go over each side of the horse and the small act of defiance gave her a deep sense of freedom, the last taste she would have.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The sun crested the mountains as her childhood home came into view. The door was kicked in. Armaila summoned her courage and held her bow as she approached, stepping quietly so as not to alert anyone to her presence.

Inside, furniture and whatever belongings that were left were strewn about.

The house appeared empty and she relaxed slightly. The gown was still in her mother’s room, draped with care over the bureau. She shoved it into her sack.

The small possessions she had were all that would come with her to her new life. One day Gregory would be baron himself, and she would be a baron’s wife with many fine items to call her own. She could not bear to think of it.

Armaila paused to remember the room when it was filed with the laughter and smiles of a family. Even if her mother was found innocent and allowed to return home, she would be a married woman and her father was long dead.

A soft scraping at the back door interrupted the thought. Armaila reached for her bow and peered out through a crack. A goat happily chewed through her mother’s flower patch and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Go on,” Armaila said, clapping her hands to spook the animal. It wandered off a few feet and continued eating.

When she reached the baron’s house, Gregory answered the door. He wore a fine dark blue suit that bespoke his family’s allegiance to the king.

“I was afraid you’d be late,” he said in relief.

“We must talk,” Armaila said and he showed her to the guest room where she could change.

“There’s no time. Where is your mother?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about!” Armaila snapped. She continued the conversation through the closed door as she undressed. “She was arrested for high treason last night.”

“Treason?” Gregory paused. “The wedding is about to begin—we’ll finish this later.”

The bridesmaids, young women Armaila barely knew, poured into the room and began tending to her hair and face. They carried on about how lucky she was and how they wished they could trade places with her, and Armaila couldn’t help but feel they were more suited to the role of bride.

They wove Armaila’s hair into a traditional braid with strands of blue ribbon that wrapped around the side of her head and cascaded down her back. A bouquet of roses, expertly cast in silver, completed the look.

Armaila found it difficult to breath as she took her place at the far end of the aisle. She counted the seconds as music played and the wedding procession took their place, cursing herself for not being brave enough to run when she had the chance.

The music slowed and Armaila knew time had run out. She took her position beside Gregory without a word, looking straight ahead to where Josef stood. The baron recited their vows, each word taking them closer and closer to what they could not change.

“I do,” Gregory said.

Armaila felt all eyes turn to her. “I…”

The word was impossible to say.

“I do,” Gregory whispered, taking her hand with a gentle squeeze, as he had done at the rehearsal.

“I’m sorry.”

The hurt and confusion in his eyes twisted like a knife. Was it selfish to refuse the wishes of everyone around her? Armaila decided she didn’t care.

Urgent whispers spread like wildfire as guests discussed the unexpected turn of events. There were many important people from neighboring towns—even some barons—and their gazes made her want to vanish like a whisp of smoke.

The doors swung open with a loud bang and Florine stood in the entrance, covered in fresh blood. She ignored the gasping crowd and closed the distance between her and Armaila.

“You are not safe in Greenfields.”

Armaila recoiled, terrified by the amount of blood. Splatters of viscera covered the woman’s chest and her face was a mess of crimson smears from failed attempts to wipe it away.

“The Legion is coming for you,” Florine said. She leaned forward and added in a whisper, “Earl and Marie are dead.”

“Is that…?” Armaila gestured to the blood in horror.

“No.”

A man attempted to pull Florine away. She pinned an arm behind his back and shoved him away roughly. “Armaila, your mother did everything to keep you safe, but there are things even she couldn’t prevent. You must come with me.”

“Get away from my wife,” Gregory said.

“We’re not married yet,” Armaila said. She looked from him to Florine. “I will come with you on one condition. You must speak directly to King Theodore and ask him to free my mother.”

“Armaila, it is not what you think—” Florine began.

“Those are my terms.”

The woman nodded. “I will speak to Theodore.”

Armaila was glad to be rid of the frilly white gown. She exchanged the dress for a tunic and riding breeches from her sack.

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” Gregory yelled from the other side of the door as she changed. She could not see his face, but she knew it was red.

“This is a chance to save my mother,” she said. And myself.

“You know nothing about this woman. My father is a baron, by the mountains! He could write a letter on your mother’s behalf.”

“It’s complicated,” Armaila said. “If I don’t go with Florine, there are things about my parents that I may never know. She works for the king and my mother did once, too.”

“That's nonsense,” Gregory said. “Your mother—”

“I have to do this,” she said flatly, opening the door.

Gregory put his hands Armaila's shoulders and forced her to meet his gaze. “You can spend the night in the guest room and we’ll sort this mess out tomorrow.”

“No.” Armaila ducked under his arm and started down the hall. “I'm leaving with Florine.”

“You never wanted the wedding, did you?”

“You’ve been my friend as long as I can remember,” she said, “but I never had a choice in any of this.”

Armaila hastened her pace and was glad when she reached fresh air. Baron Josef scowled but made no motion to stop her. Despite the relief of escaping the wedding, there was an uneasiness in her stomach that she couldn’t ignore.

“Who is the Legion?”

Florine did not respond to Armaila’s question immediately. They pushed the horses into a canter, a pace that couldn’t be maintained for more than a league or two, but it ensured they left Greenfields quickly.

“I will honor the promise I gave your mother,” Florine said sometime later, once their pace had slowed. “There are things you must know but I cannot explain everything.”

Armaila had seldom been past the outskirts of Greenfields and Baron Josef’s reach. As a little girl, she and her mother would go to meet her father on his return from bringing grain to Normar. Her mother had hated when he made the trip, but the coin was worth it.

“Tell me about the Legion,” she said.

“They are a powerful force led by a man named Azghar.”

“I have heard the name,” Armaila said. “He lived centuries ago.” There were many versions of the tale, but all involved a failed plot to murder the king, some more daring than others.

“He was a dragon rider, and though he will succumb to old age with time, that will not be for many years.”

“Dragons?” Armaila nudged her horse closer to Florine’s, afraid to miss a word. “Dragons are real?”

A look of regret crossed the woman’s face. “Your mother didn’t…” Florine shook her head and muttered something in a language Armaila didn’t recognize. “Dragons are very real but they were killed more than eight centuries ago.”

“The legends are true, then?”

“Some more than others,” Florine said. “Tell me what you know.”

Armaila paused as she recalled the details. “A dragon and his rider traveled across the sea to the Great Lands and brought back a terrible curse. It spread like a disease and drove the dragons mad until they had destroyed everything in their path, before dying agony themselves.”

“That’s close enough to the truth. For now, just know that Azghar wishes to conquer Erithor and the Legion are is means to do it.”

Armaila attempted to pry more information from Florine as they road, but the woman refused further discussion. When night fell, they made camp in a small meadow and Armaila fell into a fitful sleep.