When the seagull's screams could no longer be heard, she relaxed.
The woman had been standing along the fore of the ship, watching the sloop cut through the grey, choppy waters that reflected the overcast sky above. The saltwater spray misted her hair, hanging like dew in the black, wind-whipped locks. Must be far enough away from land now, she thought with relief. Leaving the Crown City behind and sailing south to Naserna was a welcome event.
The woman had been standing along the fore of the ship, watching the sloop cut through the grey, choppy waters that reflected the overcast sky above. The saltwater spray misted her hair, hanging like dew in the black, wind-whipped locks. Must be far enough away from land now, she thought with relief. Leaving the Crown City behind and sailing south to Naserna was a welcome event.
The palacio of Miscadiz, the Wodenstaff ancestral home, perched on the top of a high hill overlooking the city of Naserna. The gently sloping hills of woodland that made up the areas surrounding the city gave way to open fields that terminated in the bustling shipyards that dotted the shoreline. And after the sloop moored among the fregats and schooners, a smaller ferry brought the landing party ashore.
The woman made her way down the gangplank, the Reseda Blades of Regalia at her back meeting her own Brigada Arvierta that waited for her on the dock. The colorful plumes and uniforms that adorned the Girobaldin corps were in stark contrast to the utilitarian guards behind her. The two forces joined as she approached the waiting party. There, servants that held aloft an embroidered canopy of blue and green flocked with gold, her Uncle standing below it, sheltered from the sun. He had made an effort today, she observed; dressed in the longer, full jackets that older men traditionally wore here, ran through with fine golden threads and blackworked linen. Her new puppy, Leal, tore down the walkway in front of her, an already exasperated Avilda giving chase. She took her kinsman's arm, as they made their way towards the waiting horses on the street. A gentle, reassuring squeeze of hands passed between them, the servants following behind them as they mounted their horses, bedecked with shining brass fittings, a parasol passed to the lady as the procession of fluttering banners, proud retainers, The Captain of the Brigada, and servants made its way through the colorful, crowded streets.
Everywhere was evidence of industry. Sailors roaming the streets in groups, outwardly anxious to ship out, and exerting one last burst of energy before they did. Dockhands moving bulky cargo on and off transport boats. Food sellers loudly peddling fragrant meats and exotic fruits to those weary travelers fresh off their tour. The riotous notes of guitar music flooded from tavern windows that tourists, sailors, and the idle rich celebrated behind. A stop to give alms to the needy along the way, pausing to greet a local baron, until finally, the entourage made their way to the front gates. Rising turrets of stone and brick loomed in the distance, while manicured trees, dark pools and moss-covered stone fountains ran along the main park of the palacio. The blueish-gray clay road opened into the central courtyard of the home, and the two family members dismounted, handing off their horse's reins, and moved towards the door. Staff and family parted, and a quiet nod shared between the woman and her older relative. So many letters had been passed between them that few words needed to be spoken just yet.
She climbed the steep staircase, entering the family wing of their estate. Pausing at the carved double doors of what used to be her father's chambers, she rested a light hand on the doorframe, a moment of remembrance and reverence there, before moving down to her own rooms. She followed her maid, Dona Petrella, into the bedroom where two more maidservants were revealed. They carried on bustling warm water into an adjoining bath. She held her arms aloft, and watched patiently as the maids fumbled with the intricate clasps and unfamiliar tailoring of Imperial style. Her shipworn clothing finally removed, she proceeded to the bath, where she sunk into the warmed, perfumed waters. Sluicing the bath, fragrance, and petals over her pale skin, she sat back and exhaled.
Hours later, when she had been dressed in the multi-colored flowing linen dresses of her home, and hair washed and combed, she left the refuge of her room. Slippered footsteps treaded over worn blue tile as she wandered towards her father's study. Things were just as she'd last seen them, albeit with dust, and evidence that a mouse had gotten to a stack of parchment. The woman moved behind the desk, and settled herself into the grand chair with a halting, relieved motion. How many times had she rounded the corner, seeking her father's advice, or permission about some trifle? The days of dresses, promenades, and regattas being the all-consuming worry of the week were long gone. And her father would patiently set down his quill, or dismiss whomever he was meeting with, to talk to her about it. He took her silliest worries seriously, always reasoning them out with her, presenting counterarguments – making her work for her wishes. She had thought him all-powerful then. Able to fix any ill, right any wrong he came across. And how, as she had matured, her hero-worship became respect and obedience.
Resting the curve of a palm against an arm of the chair, she mused that her family found a much different Viscount Wodenstaff in this seat. For good or ill. Was she as fair? As patient? Her father seemed to welcome nobleman and merchant alike. She fondly remembered a summer's night similar to this one – her father feasted the maker of his new carriage, for that is how pleased he was at the workmanship. The entire hall was in gales of laughter as the man described how many wheel designs he had gone through, before her father had been satisfied. And her stepmother, Dania, presenting the man with gold in a box shaped as a wheel spoke as their thank you. A pastoral scene, she ruefully thought. How many of her fellows in the bureaucracy would scoff at such simple pleasures? And when had she abandoned them, herself?
The creak of the door drew her from her thoughts. Her younger brother, Torbin, peered around the doorframe, his trademark wide smile stretching across his face as he strode towards his sister. Her pensive mood pushed aside in favor of joy at seeing her sibling and a happy laugh emerges as she stretches her arms up. Without hesitation, he swept her into a tight hug. Clinging to each other in this quiet space, she rested her head against his shoulder, reveling in the nearness of her brother once more. When they finally pulled away, the woman smiled up towards her brother, and he cupped her chin in his hand, murmuring. "You look tired, conejita." She bats his hand away, brow furrowed. "Still so sensitive, sis?" he laughs as he backs away, hands up in surrender, before lowering them, and offering an arm. "Dinner, then. They made your favorites. Uncle said something about you looking like an Ithanian. Too skinny and twice as miserable."
It had been odd, she mused, as she sat with her post-dinner glass of brandy, to sit at the head of her table. Previous journeys home had been too brief for there had been too much travelling between the estate and various holdings to have a proper family dinner like they used to. But it had been good, seeing her Uncle's comforting smile, the press of her Aunt's hand against her back; a support. Her little cousins crowding around her, jostling for the sweets and fripperies she had brought back for them. They had eventually gone to bed, with sticky hands and smiles, leaving their parents and elders to talk. Gathered around the fire, they enjoyed the peace that only recently departed children could bring.
The flames became lower and lower, and quiet conversation died as one-by-one, the family drifted off to bed. Soon it was only her and her Uncle left. The man eyeing the girl in front of the fire with a serene sort of forbearance as she debated beginning the conversation. The silence drew out for an uncomfortable moment, before she murmured. "Go ahead. Voice your opinions on my judgment."
"I think we can skip that for now," he returned kindly. "I have many concerns. Few of which you might be expecting. But what happened with the bastard?"
A click of her tongue as she sat back, face falling into misery. She sighed, and turned a baleful, apologetic look towards her elder. "His whore mother's blood won out, I expect. Da declared that Wodenstaff blood coursed the strongest, the hottest. But whatever viper gave birth to him must have had blood made of poison, such was his treachery."
"Your father always did take advantage of life's pleasures, from when we were young. Our father used to caution us to not sow such wild seeds far from home. But after Leif's first wife died, he was never content. As much as he did love your mother."
She eyed the man, a mixture of annoyance and impatience coloring her words. "I'm not a child anymore, Uncle. No need to candy the past. My father sired children between wives. He philandered his way through his travels. It is the product of his past that now troubles me."
"Honor is not always carried in the blood, sobrina. Betrayal and heartache can only come from those you have let into your heart. The rest of the world, well-" he idled, musing. "People can only take what cannot be contained within you."
"After Da and Dania died, I was lost. And I thought, perhaps, this was the world giving a bit of family back, when one had been lost. What a naïve thing I was. And that I am still," she muttered bitterly, finishing her drink and setting down the cup. "Do you think I was wrong, to cast him out?"
"I think you should never have recognized the whelp in the first place," her Uncle answered grimly.
"Hindsight makes fools of us all, doesn't it?" she retorted, face burning hotly in shame as she stood.
"Paz, sobrina. But you have endured wave after wave of trauma. With no one by your side to care for you. Your parents gone, your fiancé abandoned you, and your little cousins yet too young to know such heartache. That illegitimate whoreson denied all family ties, responsibilities, and rights. Your brothers are spread throughout Aloria, helping the family succeed. The capital is now run by a harem of evil men who would topple Cedromar, and all those who support him. I see you in clothes that bind you like a shroud. A pale face that is without happiness, eyes that seek relief, not beauty. Come home, my girl. Come home and let the family take care of you, for a while. You are of no use to everyone else if you are half-dead from exhaustion."
She turned away from her Uncle, then, peering out into the inky night through the beveled window. She thought of all that had transpired – the attacks, the trial, the desertion. She thought of her inner terror watching the very firmament of Regalia be pulled apart, brick by brick. It was a heady thing, realizing how quickly things had devolved. And that what was to come – was probably worse. Looking towards her Uncle again, she gave a small nod. He smiled in response, and offered his hand.
"Good. You will rest. We will prepare. And when you must go back you will go restored."
Clutching his hand tightly, she sighed. "But there is much to prepare before I do. Have the Captains been told?"
"They are ready. Exercises have started. And the aldermen have begun their work," he murmured.
"Good. Let the Brigadas numbers be increased," she paused. "And begin the culvert construction projects to our west. Everything else as we said before. Oh and….we're to have a guest. Or two."
At that, her Uncle perked a brow. "Are we? Honored guests?"
She grinned. "Something like that. But a feast will be needed. Call the Consejeros to the estate. And you and I will assign a steward to Elesarra. Aunt Viveca will be pleased." She stood with her Uncle's help.
"Are you sure?"
She paused, then nodded, "Yes. Life may be a gamble, but the smart man picks the best horse."
"Conejita, one day you will stop surprising me. But I doubt it is anytime soon. May your tenacity only increase." Vidar Wodenstaff replied, following his niece out the door, chuckling. "The whole city will fiesta for days."
Walking the darkened halls of home, Sigurna Wodenstaff smiled to herself as she headed towards her long-awaited bed.
"Forever growing, Uncle. Forever growing."
