Page 5 of The King’s Commander

Chapter Three

Vanni

“Shall I take Dex, my lord?”

“Nay.”

My squire doesn’t question the reason. He knows it pacifies me to care for my own horse, and at this moment, I am in need of pacifying. We’d considered the possibility Master Aldwine might be out to sea. He is, after all, a Voyager. What we didn’t consider is that none seem to know, or be willing to tell us, where he went or how long he’ll be gone. Now all we can do is wait.

“I’ll be along,” I tell him and the others. Three men in total including Christopher, Thomas, and my loyal friend Salvi, more than I’d wanted to bring, but the king insisted. Murwood End does not pose much of a danger. The small hamlet tucked behind the Loigh Mountains along the northernmost tip of the island is home to a fiercely independent people. Isolated by the mountains we’ve traversed over the past days, they are better known for avoiding battles than engaging in them.

For years this place remained empty until the distant relatives of Lord Bailor, a current resident of Murwood End, sailed here from Hempswood in Meria. Weary of the politics regarding the splitting of the kingdom, he settled here. Those that later joined his family and their men were given one edict . . . to serve neither king. To this day they claim allegiance to neither place.

Since then the Voyagers have preferred to sail north for trade, even though those routes are longer and more dangerous than sailing south to Meria or Edingham. And though Voyagers have been accused of atrocities beyond our shores, most agree the tales are just that. Stories and nothing more. What matters is that these people are not, by all accounts, dangerous to me and my men. Though from the looks we’ve been receiving, I doubt my sword will remain sheathed.

After tending to Dex, the inn’s stable boy as suspicious of me as the rest of the locals, I make my way toward the docks. The year before my parents died, I journeyed to this place with my father and his men. We took the usual route, past the Bay of Sindridge and up the east coast. When we came to the Cliffs of Murh, I struggled to keep from staring in awe. My father’s stalwart retainers showed little emotion, however, and I was ashamed of my reaction.

The smell of salt air and fresh fish is somehow slightly different than back home, even though both are on the coast. It is a wonder to me we share the same land. There are fewer smiles and warm embraces. Darker clothing but lighter skin. I suspect I’d be known as an outsider even without the mark of the king on my breastplate.

But one thing we have in common with these people is a love for the sea. Unlike the Highlanders and mountain men, both Voyagers and Southerners, as they call us, survive on the bounties the sea brings.

Following a path along the docks back toward the inn, where we’ll await Master Aldwine’s return, I stop and watch as a fisherman wearing a brown leather apron hauls his catch across the planks. He tosses a net up to a similarly adorned woman, and together they call orders to those still aboard the ship.

Another difference between us. I know of no women captains in Meria.

“Does the sight of a woman in charge of her own ship startle you so?”

I smell her before I even see her, the scent of lavender replacing all else. I turn and nearly lose my footing on, well, nothing. We stand on a dry dirt path that leads to the docks, nothing to become unbalanced over, except the sight of her.

“A Garra,” I blurt before thinking. The bright diamond on her nose identifies her.

I’ve met only one before, a woman who lives deep in the woods where the Terese River splits into two. All know she resides there, but few visit her for healing. I know of her only because Galfrid asked that we protect her. But this woman, the spectacularly beautiful, clearly defiant woman, stands before me with the small piercing in her nose conspicuous to all.

“So the rumors are true?” she asks.

“Rumors, my lady?”

“They say the Merian court is filled with men all praising each other for their esteemed maleness.”

An interesting depiction of my people.

“They say the Voyagers are willful and defiant,” I counter.

“And proud of it,” she responds. “I’ve also heard the king loves himself above all and his men have difficulty deciding who they adore more, him or themselves.”

This Garra is bolder than any woman I’ve ever met. For a man accused of smiling little, I do so now, more broadly than in recent memory.

“I’d not heard that bit of folklore before. But ’tis true,” I say.

“Why are you here?”

The question is flung at me like an insult. Instead of answering, I watch as the sun strikes the diamond in her nose, making it sparkle. It was always curious to me that this special group of healers, so hated by the Church, would choose to mark themselves so outwardly. Some call them witches, but most agree, connected by blood and taught by their ancestors, Garra are nothing more than highly skilled healers of the heart. The others I’ve heard of live in seclusion, in caves and huts deep in the woods, but this woman makes no excuses for herself.

“Why are you not hidden?”

Her laugh is not a dainty one, like the women at court. It is hearty and deep, though not at all amused.

“You’ve much to learn, Southerner.”