PART I | Chapter III
1:3 | Eyes Like a Tempest
Colony of Ire, Akuwa Residence As per his usual habit, Kedean rose an hour or so before the break of day, soft hints of dawn just starting to bleed into the rich navy of the night sky, diluting it with softer, paler blues along the horizon.
He dressed quickly and efficiently, skin still prickly with a morning chill by the time he stepped out the front door, and his breath made foggy, white clouds in the dark air, soft, wet shoots of grass folding under his bare feet as he moved further from the house until he deemed he had enough space. Then, he began to move.
Slow, empty-handed sets at first—stretching and warming muscles taut and bunched from a full night's sleep—familiar, habitual training routines, learned, memorized, and drilled into him as a much younger man so that now, his body knew each one as well as it knew how to walk or breathe. Once he no longer felt the chill, he turned to faster sets—solo sparring against a phantom opponent, then multiple opponents.
Every form stressed a different aspect—some self defense, others the defense of another, and still others pure offense—each one reflective of the time and conditions under which he learned it.
If nothing else, time and travel had taught Kedean to fill many roles, from serving as a guide and sentry for wealthy caravans through the more treacherous sections of popular trade routes, to bodyguarding for diplomats, lords, barons, and even, on occasion, royalty. He'd been at times a soldier, an attendant, and a convoy—but never an assassin—a warrior, a protector, and a killer—but never of an unready opponent.
Halfway into an open-handed defense form, the sun already near-free of the horizon and painting the grass with long swaths of pink and orange—catching in dewdrops like tiny jeweled prisms—a soft footstep alerted him to the arrival of company.
Outwardly, he showed no sign of acknowledging it, continuing on through his drill without pause—but his focus had shifted completely. His body moved by muscle memory, his mind on the shadow of a figure in the corner of his eye and his ears trained to the falls of whisper-light footsteps, softer than a sough over a still sea.
Ready, Kedean caught the first strike with an open palm, both diverting the attack and opening his opponent up, leaving him weak on defense and wide spread for an attack, but Zyric knew him well and sidestepped not a moment too soon, ducking in the next second to shorten up the distance and even the odds, at least at some level.
There was no question who had the size and range advantage—Kedean towering at least a foot over his brother and measuring nearly half again as broad in the shoulders—but close combat eliminated range as a factor, focusing the fight, concentrating it.
They quickly adopted a rhythm, relearning each other's habits and adjusting accordingly, like familiar dance partners reintroduced to one another after an extended hiatus. Kedean took the opportunity to test his brother's progress, leaving the pace mostly up to him, but pushing on occasion against basic boundaries and reassessing former areas of weakness.
When the sun was twice over its diameter from the horizon, the oranges and pinks of morning elapsed by the full, bright yellow of day, Zyric's movements began to betray the first signs of fatigue: a thin, glistening sweat breaking out over his brow, his reaction time slowing a fraction and his offense losing its edge, growing more brash and less refined.
"How long," he asked, making a broad, sweeping strike—easily redirected, "would it take you…to drop me?" and Kedean blinked. A second and a half later, Zyric gave sharp, startled yelp and grunted in the next moment as grass at his back knocked the air out of him.
Above, Kedean stilled and stepped back, watching as his brother shut his eyes and groaned, making no move to get up.
"Like that?" he asked.
Below, Zyric opened one, narrowed eye. "I'm that awful, huh?"
Kedean shrugged, offering a hand up—which Zyric took. "You're tired," he said, pulling his brother to his feet, "and defense has never been your forte…neither have stances, for that matter."
"Mm…" Zyric's lips made a pursed line. "So what
am I good at?" he asked. "Falling down?"
Kedean quirked an eyebrow. "Well, yes, that," he said, earning a fleeting smile and a shove to the shoulder. "You're unpredictable," he continued, more seriously. "When you slow down and tire, your moves become much easier to read, but at your peak, your spontaneity is one of your greatest assets. Your willingness to overturn your own strategies mid-throw forces your opponent to always keep one eye open and never get too comfortable."
Zyric considered this, looking oddly doubtful. Finally, he shook his head. "But you read me like a book," he argued, "before I ever threw a punch."
At that, Kedean snorted, only the faintest of smiles betraying his amusement as he rolled his shoulders and turned away, noting an approaching figure on the horizon as he shook any remaining tension from his arms. "Of course," he replied at length. "You're my
didi. Who would I be if I couldn't read my own brother?"
Zyric huffed. "That's-"
"Your red prince approaches," Kedean cut in, his tone neutral, but telling, and on cue, Zyric tensed, head snapping forward and eyes narrowing at the horizon.
A moment later, he scowled, tilting his head back and sending the dark look up to the last lingering wisps of pink clouds above, as if the heavens themselves were to blame for his every misfortune. "I wish you wouldn't call him that," he muttered broodingly, and Kedean, rather less dramatically, shrugged.
"Very well," he agreed amiably. "Your-"
"He's not
my anything," Zyric snapped. "He's a damned pest, and a snoop, and a rat, and-"
The patter of hoof-beats brought a forced end to Zyric's rant as the aforementioned 'pest' reined his horse in to a hurried stop before them, and Kedean decided in a moment that, for the record, Alroy looked even
more out of sorts than usual. With one glance at Zyric's expression, though, his mood brightened noticeably, and he raised both eyebrows with a tired grin.
"Talking about me already?" he teased.
Before Zyric could snap a word in edgewise, Kedean filled in, "Yes, actually," keeping his voice flat and impartial, dissuading anything other than strict business talk. "But I must admit, I didn't expect you this early. Did something come up?"
Quickly, Alroy grew serious. "Well…yes, I suppose you could say that," he admitted, brows drawing together as he dismounted, and it didn't take long to get to business.
Ten minutes later, Zyric was not pleased.
"
Now?" he demanded. "You said he had at least a whole-"
"I said he could
sleep on it," Alroy cut in, "and while I did think he had a bit more time…there was a miscommunication. The family
definitely intends to send Miss Merseille off today, and…it also seems as though they rather thought he had already decided and confirmed, so…"
"It's fine," Kedean said, ignoring Zyric's growing glower and rising from the table they'd settled at. "I can be ready in an hour."
"Good, good, that's…perfect," Alroy assured, looking truly relieved and stringing a hand back through already disheveled hair. "I'll notify—oh! Dean?" Kedean turned back. "One of the masters, the younger of her two brothers, I believe—the one who actually arranged to hire you—requested that he have a word with you in person, before you meet her…"
"Would he prefer to see me here, or at the docks?"
"I'll…have him drop by," Alroy said, and when Kedean nodded, he gave a weary smile. "Thank you, by the way…for taking this, despite the notice, and…"
When he didn't continue, Kedean shrugged. "I'd be foolish not to."
"Mm," Alroy gave a nod, "very well. I will…see you when I do," he said by way of farewell, offering a ghost of a salute before heading for the door.
Kedean was halfway to his room when Zyric, too, stood—and rather abruptly at that—following in the direction of Alroy's exit. Kedean paused. "Zyric…" His brother stilled, "…where are you headed?"
Zyric reached for the door. "I'm going to have a word with Alroy…I'll take Naja and be back quickly enough."
Though briefly tempted, Kedean decided not to bother with further questions—for time's sake—and nodded. Naja was the younger of their two horses, and it wouldn't hurt her to stretch her legs. Putting it behind him, Kedean focused on packing—light.
Fifty minutes later, the morning sun well into the sky, Kedean was by the stables, working through the final selection of which weapons to take, when he first picked up the sound of approaching hoofbeats. He exited right on time.
Kedean's first impression of the younger Master Merseille was that he was just that: young—Zyric's age, if that. His second thought was that he was beautiful, and as the boy dismounted, landing neatly beside his horse and barely kicking up dust, Kedean wondered if the family held some lingering traces of elfish or dragon decent in their bloodline.
"Mister Akuwa?"
Kedean lifted his head, nodding. "Kedean, milord," he replied smoothly, but then startled when the boy held out his hand.
"Master Rhyan Dale Merseille of Ire…" he greeted, and after another second's worth of hesitation, Kedean returned the gesture, extending his hand; it swallowed the boy's, and made the young Merseille's skin look white by contrast, "…it's a pleasure to meet you. The man to whom I'll be entrusting my sister's life, are you not?"
"I—yes, milord."
"You needn't fret," his employer assured. "I trust Mister Dering's judgment. However…I did come upon some information as of late which I thought I best deliver to you, in person…"
Kedean waited.
His employer drew a breath, and then, "My sister…" he began, carefully, "…is…not entirely pleased with the situation she's being sent off to – which is understandable, seeing as few girls are completely comfortable with arranged marriages – however, I have reason to believe she is more displeased with it than I had originally come to think and I thought you should be warned that…" He hesitated, again, obviously picking his words with care, "…she may prove to be as much of a danger to herself as any of the other members of the crew…"
Kedean blinked. He thought his sister would attempt
suicide? He supposed it wasn't unheard of, but the thought that a family would push its children so hard as to make them so desperate for escape…
"I care, of course, that she reaches her destination," the young man continued, "but I would have you know that if it came to a choice between her life and the completion of your mission to deliver her…I would far rather hear news of her disappearance than of her death."
'"
Don't let my sister die,"' Kedean thought, '
got it.' "I understand, milord."
"Good." The young man reached for his reigns. "Oh," He paused, "and Mister Akuwa?"
"Sir?"
The Merseille mounted—impressively fluidly, even more so considering the size ratio of man to horse; the beast was huge—and Kedean waited, expecting a '
Take care of her for me,' or '
See to it that you keep her well out of trouble.' Instead his employer smiled, something verging on mischievous dancing in his eyes for the first time in their encounter. "A word of advice, as a token of appreciation in advance for your efforts…"
Kedean resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow.
"It is usually wise to do as my sister says…and on a timely basis. Baisyl makes impressively unpleasant company when in foul spirits."
Kedean felt his lip twitch, of its own accord. "I'll keep that in mind, sir," he promised, and with a quick nod, a click of the reigns and tap of the heel, the boy was off.
Alone again, it wasn't long before Kedean finished his prep, and not long after that that he made it to the docks. There, he spent the better part of the rest of the morning familiarizing himself with the crew, the ship, and aiding in the loading process of last minute goods. It was past high noon before his charge finally made her entrance—but make an entrance she did.
"…and then all we'll 'ave ta do is git the last o' those there-" 'Murk' as the man had told Kedean to call him, cut off mid-sentence, and the both of them looked as one to the source of the sudden added ruckus in the streets.
Not one, not two, but
three carriages approached, the first and third obviously dedicated to luggage and the middle, presumably, actually carrying the "mini lordess," as Alroy had deemed her, herself.
"Well I'll be…" Murk folded his arms, sun-chapped lips drawing back to reveal a crooked, toothy grin, "…if that ain't a parade fer yer princess…I know I ain't never gonna see one…" and indeed, even without the bundles within, the carts themselves vied for among the finest quality design and craftsmanship Kedean had seen—and
that meant something.
At least half his mind dedicated to the thought that they would never be able to get everything in those carts into the remaining space in the bunkers of the ship—and certainly not before at least another half of the evening was gone—Kedean descended the gangplank.
How could one
little girl already own
so much?
Granted, many lords' daughters went through wardrobes full of gowns, most of which destined only ever to be worn once, but at thirteen or fourteen, surely it would be a waste to spend so much on so many, when she would only outgrow them in a few short years time?
While the other two stopped closer to the stern—to be unloaded up the rear plank and into the last of the space in the hull—the middle carriage drew up all but to immediately in front of him. No attendant saw to the door. The handle turned, the door pushed out, and-
Kedean's first thought on laying eyes on his charge was that Mistress Baisyl Merseille was
not fourteen years old; Alroy had lied (or at least not done his research). His second thought was that she had tiny feet (and how did women ever manage to
walk in shoes like those?). His third was that she looked exactly like her brother.
Dark, thick waves of mahogany red hair fought to spill past her shoulders as she first leaned out, framing her face like stains of deep, red-brown ink on skin as pale as a fresh snow. Silk gloves covered long, narrow fingers that gripped back multiple layers of thick, heavy-looking lace skirts as she worked to find footing. She had trim hips, a tiny waist, a modest but healthy bosom, narrow shoulders, a long neck—and then she looked up, and Kedean found himself pinned under storm cast, sea green eyes.
He couldn't have said how long she held his stare, but he knew he immediately felt uncomfortably like an open text, bared for harsh scrutiny as she studied him: drawing her eyes over him slowly as if mapping details, judging him, weighing him. Then, sharply, as if drawn from a trance, her lips pursed, her lashes dropping the barest fraction, eyebrows raising, and chin tilting a notch higher. When she held out a hand, it took Kedean an embarrassingly long amount of time to remember what to do with it.
The white silk of her glove was soft in his fingers as he helped her down.
"Mistress Merseille-"
"Baisyl, will suffice," she clipped—sounding oddly irritated as she cut him off—but apparently Kedean's unease showed, because she gave a put-upon sigh a moment later. "Very well, 'miss' or 'milady' if you
must…"
"Yes, Mistr—miss," Kedean corrected himself, and his charge hummed, thoughtful.
Then, "You
are my brother's idea of an 'escort,' I presume?" she asked, and Kedean blinked.
"Yes, milady, I would assume so."
"I see…
well?" she pressed, and he frowned, not quite sure what she was after. After a moment, she rolled her eyes. "You have two options. The first is to lead me onboard yourself, now. The other is to
trust that I not trip on that diseased looking thing passing off as a boarding plank, thereby drowning myself before this wretched voyage even begins, and go aid in attending to my baggage instead." She tilted her head. "Have you reached a decision? Or should we continue standing here uselessly several minutes longer until you-"
Kedean held out an arm. "I'll show you to your cabin then, shall I?" he offered, and allowed himself a brief, momentary pinch of pride at the faint, startled splash of color this brought about in her cheeks. Recovering quickly, she accepted his arm.
*didi - (DEE-dee) little brother
