Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

Gregory didn’t realize it would be so hard. Seeing Armaila again, and then watching her leave, perhaps for the last time if the Legion returned. They had parted ways not even an hour ago, and he considered riding after her—but what good would that do? For her to tell him what a good friend he was.

And Eric. He was far too handsome, and a distinguished High Knight Commander in the king’s army. Half the kingdom is probably in love with him, he thought bitterly.

For Armaila, he pretended he could do it. He pretended they could be friends again. If the alternative was to never see her, he would manage, somehow.

Gregory knocked on a makeshift door in the wall surrounding Greenfields, and after several moments of scuffling inside, one of the townsmen let him inside.

“Hamsted, how are you?”

“Mighty fine,” the man replied. A dark beard covered his face and he held a large mug of ale. “It feels good to celebrate after our victory.”

“Enjoy the feast.” Gregory did not have the heart to say victory was still far out of reach. They had won a battle, but war was coming.

Armaila had always been more interested than him in the stories bards had to tell, and he had been too preoccupied with wedding plans to heed her words.

“Some cider?”

He turned to see a young girl with blonde hair offering him a mug.

“Thank you.”

She smiled sweetly as he sipped. The cider did not have the same bite his father’s liquor did, but it was pleasant.

“It’s fresh from our harvest this year,” the girl continued. “I picked the apples myself.”

She continued to stare at him and Gregory did not know what to say. “You did a good job.”

“Do you remember my name?”

“I…” She was no more familiar than the other girls at the festival. He had seen her around, probably, but he could not remember specifically knowing her.

“I have delivered apples every year to your father since I was old enough to drive a cart.”

Gregory did not remember her face, let alone her name. “I must admit, I have forgotten.”

His answer saddened her and he felt a twinge of guilt. “It’s Kathleen,” she said. “I can bring you more apples, if you like. Usually, your father makes two orders.”

Gregory wondered if it was her who had delivered the apples he had shot by the lake with Armaila—the bag had appeared on his doorstep one day. “I’m must decline, I have more than enough apples for this season.”

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Gregory excused himself and made his way to an unmanned position on the wall. The fresh air was a welcome relief. Usually he enjoyed the Harvest Festival, but he was far too troubled to take part in it this year.

“Hamsted, come over this way,” he called, stepping closer to the festivities to be heard.

The large man trotted over quickly, a grin on his face and ale on his breath.

“I may need to leave soon,” Gregory said. “If I do, you in charge of protecting Greenfields in my absence.”

“Aye, I can do that.” Hamsted’s beard bobbed as he nodded. “I’ll keep ‘em safe, especially the pretty ones.” He broke into hearty laughter as if he had made a funny joke and returned to the party with ale in hand.

“I hope I’m not making a mistake,” Gregory whispered under his breath. When sober, Hamsted was good man, but he feared he would forget the words come morning.

Perhaps I should stay, Gregory thought, but the lure of answers was too strong.

The night air was cool and sweet, and he lost himself in thoughts of what could have been as he followed along the road.

He stopped at the cottage that would have been theirs. The door was not locked, which surprised him, but nothing appeared amiss inside. He had not been to it since the day he had originally purchased it and arranged the furniture, now coated with dust and cobwebs.

Armaila would have liked it, he knew. He had purposely chosen her favorite things. And the tapestry was his wedding gift to her. He had made it himself from memory, a portrait of their families together, including her father she missed so dearly.

It took hours and she will never see it.

“I thought I would find you here.”

Gregory turned, surprised to see Gael so far from a tavern. The man leaned heavily on a cane to support his leg, or perhaps he was too drunk to stand.

“Did you come because you ran out of money for drinks?”

“No, I did not.” Gael frowned. “Well, maybe I did, but I also remembered something more about your mother.”

Gregory opened the cottage door and invited the old bard inside. A thin layer of dust covered the hand tailored furniture—mossy green, Armaila’s favorite—a cobwebs had formed on the windows.

This should have been our home.

He opened a cabinet in the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of fine apple wine, a wedding present that he had intended to surprise Armaila with. He would enjoy it with Gael instead.

“What else can you tell me?” Gregory asked once they each had a glass. The sofa was quite comfortable, and he considered replacing his father’s with it.

“I didn’t see the man your mother was with, but…” Gael paused to take a long drink of the wine. “I remember Alric told me there was something off about him. He could do funny things.”

Gregory waited for Gael to continue, and when he didn’t, poured him more wine.

“There were dancing and she fell, only she didn’t fall. He caught her without touching her.”

“You mean… like magic?”

Gael shrugged. “Between you and me, I think Arlic was drunk at the time.”

If the story was accurate, what did it mean? Was his mother’s lover a fairy? Did she runaway to the fairy kingdom?

They drank until the bottle was empty. It was strong stuff, brewed from last year’s harvest. Gregory remembered little of how he got home, only that the sun hurt his eyes when he woke and there was a loud tapping sound.

He stumbled out of bed, and still wearing his clothes, answered the door. A man wearing the royal colors stood at the door.

“Can I… help you?” The words were difficult to find and came out roughly.

The man handed him a letter bearing the king’s seal.

Gregory excused himself and closed the door, his head pounding from how loud the man spoke. Everything was loud.

He broke the seal and squinted to read the fine handwriting. It was from Mikayla, asking him to pass on information to Armaila if he saw her. The Legion had attacked Normar.