Charron's Lot

 

 

 
 From Ebrada's high balcony, she looked out over the sprawling canopy of the woods, a forest that the local peasants spoke of in hushed, superstitious tones.

To the village, the forest was a place of shadows and teeth. To Ebrada, it was where her sister Charron visited regularly." They are restless today, Ebrada," a soft voice drifted up from the courtyard below. Ebrada leaned over the crenellations. Standing near the edge of the moat was Charron. She wore her light grey brocade dress. A stark contrast between her vision and her non-human friends, which sometimes raised eyebrows among the court's people. She did not care, because she had decided long ago what was best for herself. Perched in a nearby tree was a Great White Owl, its golden eyes fixed on the Duchess with an intelligence that felt unnervingly human.

Charron decided to ask about the family  before  she relayed any more news.  Ebrada told of Lee's visit and hearing of Captain's coming visit, and then moved on to the more pressing matters."The border lords are restless Charron,"  Ebrada informed, her voice weary. "Come inside. The frost is settling." Charron shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "The stags have moved to the low valley. They scent fire on the wind—iron and ash. The wolves say men are marching from the north, through the Hidden Pass." Ebrada stiffened. The Hidden Pass was a secret known only to the ducal line and the cartographers of the crown. If an  army was moving there, the castle was blind to it. "Are you certain?" Ebrada asked, her hand tightening on the cold stone.

Charron reached up, stroking the owl’s feathers. The bird let out a low, rhythmic hoot. "The mice heard the rhythmic thud of boots; the crows saw the glint of steel through the pines. The forest does not lie, sister. It has no politics."

Ebrada looked back into the warm, candlelit halls of her sigil-draped solar. She had spent the morning arguing over grain taxes and marriage contracts, while the truth of her realm’s survival was being whispered in the ears of a girl who sometimes slept on a bed of leaves. "How many?" Ebrada whispered. "The squirrels cannot count past their fingers," Charron said, her expression turning somber. "But the bears have retreated to the deep caves. That only happens when the woods are filled with the scent of a thousand men."

Ebrada turned to her captain of the guard, who stood like a statue by the door. "Sound the bells," she commanded. "Ignite the beacons. We prepare for the siege." The captain hesitated. "Your Grace? Our scouts reported nothing."

"My scouts look for tracks on the ground," Ebrada said, looking back down at Charron. Her sister was already turning back toward the tree line, the owl taking flight and circling her head like a crown. "My sister listens to the heart of the land. Move, Captain. Before the iron reaches our gates." As the heavy bells of the castle began to toll, shaking the very foundations of the keep, Charron vanished into the emerald gloom of the woods. She had delivered her warning. Now, she would lead the creatures of the wood further into the dark, where the steel of men could not follow.

Duty Calls

Ebrada was assigned  by Earl to gather the tithe this year. She didn't look forward to the task, but alas the time was here. She wondered silently, will there ever be a time when men didn't dictate to women their duties? Did other women wonder such things? She pushed the thoughts aside.
She sat upon her iron-banded throne, her spine unyielding despite the seventy-four years of weight it carried. Beside her, Earl remained a silent, steady presence. He didn't speak, but the way he adjusted the heavy fur across her knees was a language in itself—a quiet defiance against the cold and the prying eyes of the court.
High Steward Thorne stepped forward, his staff striking the stone floor with a rhythmic thump.
"The Tithe of Intent begins!" Thorne’s voice echoed. "Let the people of our Dukedom present their needs and their loyalties for the coming year."
The first to approach was a man named Garen, a sheep-farmer whose face was as weathered as a sun-dried hide. He knelt, his knees cracking in the silence of the hall. Behind him, a young boy held a small wooden box.
"Your Grace," Garen began, his voice trembling. "The winter has been cruel. The wolves took four of my best ewes, and the frost has claimed the cellar. We ask for the Duke's mercy—a reprieve from the wool-tax until the spring shearing."
Ebrada looked down at the man. In her peripheral vision, she saw the King’s messenger in the gallery leaning forward, his quill poised over a ledger. Every act of "mercy" she granted would be framed as "weakness" in his report to the capital.
She felt the vial of cobalt pigment in her pocket thrumming again. It was a low, melodic vibration that only she could feel—a call to see the world not as it appeared, but as it truly was with her eyes.
Without breaking her stoic expression, Ebrada dipped a finger into a hidden pocket of her sleeve where a small, dry brush was tucked. With a practiced, subtle motion, she traced a sigil in the air just above her lap, invisible to all but her.
As the magic took hold, her vision shifted. The Great Hall didn't change, but the colors deepened. Garen was no longer just a ragged farmer; he was surrounded by a faint, sickly yellow aura—the color of true hunger and desperation. But behind him, the boy holding the box radiated a sharp, jagged violet.
Deception, the pigment whispered to her soul.
"You speak of wolves, Garen," Ebrada said, her voice cutting through the warmth of the hearth. "And yet, your boy carries a box that smells of salted mutton, not wool. And your boots... those are not the boots of a man who has lost his livelihood. Those are new-soled, stitched with the mark of the Southern Barons' tanners."
Garen froze. The hall went deathly silent. Earl shifted beside her, his hand tightening imperceptibly on the arm of his chair. He knew that tone. It was the sound of Ebrada finding a crack in a lie.
"I... Your Grace, I only meant—"
"You meant to test the limits of an old woman's memory," Ebrada interrupted. She stood up. "The wolves did not take your sheep, Garen. You sold them to the Barons to avoid the tithe, thinking I would pity a 'starving' man on the first day of the year."
She looked up at the King’s messenger, her woodsmoke eyes locking onto his.
"Thorne," she commanded. "Seize the box. If it contains the mutton I suspect, Garen shall spend the first week of the year in the chill of the North Tower. He asked for mercy; he shall receive justice instead. It is a far more durable gift for the winter."
As the guards moved in, Earl leaned toward her. "The cobalt warned you?" he whispered, his voice for her ears alone.
"It never lies, Earl," she murmured back, her heart racing. "Even when I wish it would."
She sat back down, feeling the drain of the small spell. She was seventy-four, and the magic took more from her than it used to. She reached out and found Earl's hand under the folds of her cloak.
"One petition down," she whispered. "And the King's man already has a story to tell. But where is Lee? The sun is beginning to dip."
"He will be here," Earl promised. "Look."
At the far end of the hall, past the line of startled petitioners, a commotion started at the gates. A man drenched in the slush of the road, wrapped in a travel-worn cloak of deep forest green, pushed his way past the sentries. He wasn't a farmer or a merchant. He moved with a lithe, familiar grace that made Ebrada’s breath hitch in her chest.
It was Lee. And even from across the vast, cold hall, she could hear the faint, ghost-echo of his laughter.