Episode 02 - Ch 09: Greytown

The wagon's wheels creaked as they rolled through the gates and onto the town's dirt road. Grey stone buildings with red tiled roofs stood clustered together all around them. Smaller paths branched off from the main road and ran through the buildings on each side. And all throughout, people moved with a bustling energy. Women in wool tunics carried baskets over their heads and beneath their arms. Young men with heavy satchels slipped in and out of entryways. Wagons and carts filled with assortments of goods were pulled each way along the road. A group of children chased each other around a water fountain, their laughter cutting through the noise of the street.

Aelric's heart raced. It was not only rare for him to come to the town, each visit an exciting but brief event, but this time he felt the exhilaration of hope. Thirty-five arcas per litra his father had said. If they truly could sell their finely milled flour at such a rate, it would mean the family's future may forever be changed for the better. It would mean his parents wouldn't have to tighten their belts for a lack of food in the winter. An end to the family's mounting debts that had been haunting them for seasons. His mother's expression no longer tight with worry. The constant note of apology in his father's voice when he spoke to his wife and son, replaced with pride.

And beyond that, Aelric couldn't help but imagine what it would mean to be like the other families in the village. New tools, a few extra hens, a horse perhaps. A feather mattress. A cabin to call his own.

Then, there was another hope that was still raw with pain. His future with Feyna.

Looking ahead, Aelric saw the market square. It was a maze of color and movement. Bright canvas awnings in rust-red and deep ochre stretched over wooden stalls. Baskets overflowed with produce—dark purple eggplants, yellow squash, bundles of green herbs tied with twine. Aelric even spotted a couple shopkeepers with bags of white flour. They were all brightly dressed, standing behind their colorful stalls, parlaying with the equally well-garbed customers that browsed their wares.

"Is that where we'll be selling?" Aelric asked his father.

His father shook his head. "That's the merchant guild's market." He gave Aelric a quick smile. "Don't worry, there's a market for guildless sellers too."

Upon passing the square, his father turned the mule down a smaller road that ran through several workshops. A blacksmith's forge blazed hot, orange light spilling from the open doorway. To the left, a carpenter shaved curlings from a long wood plank. Aelric took in these sights, all strange and new to his eyes.

Then they were out onto another wide street, less busy than the town's main road. They followed the foot traffic a few more blocks until Aelric spotted another area ahead that was marked by tents and busy foot traffic. He saw a subtle change in expression on his father's face and knew this to be where they would sell their flour.

As they approached, Aelric noted that this market lacked the vibrance of the merchant guild's. Canvas tarps hung low and patched, stretched between flaking wooden posts. Both the shopkeepers and customers appeared different too, wearing simple cloth tunics of beige and browns.

But Aelric didn't let any of this deter the hope he'd built along the way. His father seemed to feel the same, saying, "If we do well enough, we can spare some arcas for our donation toward the harvest festival tomorrow."

Aelric nodded. The harvest festival was held each year, marking the end of the harvest season. It was a great celebration attended by all the families of the village, and each family donated a portion of their harvest to the great feast. Each time Aelric's family donated the least. But perhaps this time their contribution would not be as meager as before and they could stand tall with pride as the other families did when they laid their donations upon the feasting tables.

Even if they sold only five pounds of fine flour today, they would have earned over a hundred arcas.

A thunderous crash split the air, breaking Aelric from his thoughts.

A massive barrel rolled to a stop on the cobblestones blocking their way. The sound startled the mule and both Aelric and his father hopped off the wagon to calm the animal.

Then Aelric spotted her—she was huge, even bigger than he was—half a head taller and even more strongly built. Her long dark hair was wild and unkempt, and something twitched there at the top of her head—ears, fur-covered and pointed like a cat's.

Then Aelric saw her tail. Long and bushy, a brown nearly black, just like her hair. He knew it then. She was Bestian. He'd heard countless stories of the demi-human species, as many as he'd heard of the Elves. But the Elves were long dead, but here was a Bestian in the flesh. She picked up the fallen barrel with an easy grace and set it back on the large wagon from where it had fallen.

It was only then that Aelric realized someone was shouting. A short portly man dressed in fine robes who looked nearly like a child beside her. His face was red with rage, speaking with such a fast fury that Aelric could barely understand what he was saying. The Bestian woman watched him with expressionless golden eyes. A predator's eyes.

Whap!

Aelric couldn't believe it. The portly man had slapped her with his open hand. Still cursing her, while he rubbed his hand.

"That's the last warning you’ll receive! If you drop my merchandise one more time, that'll be the end of you, you hear me? I'll send you back to the hole you crawled out of, tick-bitten, bone-starved like I found you!"

The slap barely nudged the Bestian's face. Her expression had not changed. Subtly she turned her face down toward his, her gaze having never left his eyes.

The merchant shook with new rage. "Don't give me that look. You don't frighten me!" He raised his hand again for another slap.

"That's enough."

The voice was deep and commanding and all eyes turned to its source. To Aelric's shock, it was his father's voice. It didn't sound like it belonged. The look on his face didn't belong either, for his father’s kind features were replaced by a dark rage.

The merchant looked abashed only momentarily, but then a scowl took over his features. "Mind your own business, peasant."

"By what right do you have to strike this woman?"

"Woman? This is no woman, peasant. And she works for me. If she wants her wages, she'll do her job as instructed, and if she doesn't, she'll be punished. And if you know what's good for you, dirthand, you'll move along."

Aelric couldn't believe what he was hearing. Dirthand. It was a derogatory term for his caste, the Earthborn. He found himself taking a step forward, but then he felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

"Miss," his father said to the Bestian woman. "I apologize on this man's behalf. Not all of the Anthrian race is so cruel. Slavery is illegal in the Mael. If this man has bound you through coercion or other means, then he should be brought to justice. You may come with us. I can take you to a temple of Heleric that is just a few blocks away where you will be safe. The priests there will hear your case—"

"I am no slave owner you fool!" the man roared.

The outburst had the unintended effect of drawing attention from the street, and several pedestrians and onlookers began to linger.

"This is all a misunderstanding," the merchant was suddenly saying as he wiped sweat from his face.

Aelric's father ignored the man and kept his attention on the Bestian woman.

The woman watched him. Her gaze never changed in expression, and her voice was as hard as stone. "What makes you think I require your assistance?"

In that simple question, Aelric suddenly felt a complete shift in the way he saw this woman. It was the way she held her gaze and how she had spoken her words. The sweating portly man muttering excuses beside her truly seemed like a child then. As did Aelric himself and even his father. This woman was beyond them all. A presence that was solid to the core.

The portly merchant felt the shift too. He laughed uncomfortably in a high-pitched giggle and gestured to Aelric and his father with open hands. "You see what I am dealing with?"

There was a frown on Aelric's father's face, but he only nodded to the Bestian woman. "Forgive my mistake."

Without another word, he took the mule's reins and led it in the direction that they had been heading toward.

Aelric watched the woman with confusion and awe, not knowing what to make of it all.

"Aelric," his father called. "Come."

Aelric scrambled to follow, casting one last glance at the Bestian woman. Her golden eyes had already shifted, scanning the street with a detachment that suggested this moment was already forgotten.

Aelric wanted to discuss the altercation, but they were nearly at the market and his father did not look in his direction which meant he had no mind to speak on the issue.

They wound around the market, arriving at a side entrance before a booth that had a finer tent compared to all the others. A tall, skinny man in a frayed blue frockcoat stood before a table, bent over a ledger. When he looked up, he peered at them with a discerning gaze and a small frown.

"You have goods to sell?" he said to the pair.

Aelric's father nodded. "Fine flour. We would like a stall for the rest of the—"

"The market fee is thirty arcas," the man announced before Aelric's father could finish his words.

"I was hoping for a reduced rate," Aelric's father replied with a smile. “The day is mostly gone."

The administrator's eyebrow arched. His gaze swept over their wagon with practiced dismissiveness. "And who might you be to request such a favor?"

"We are farmers from Village Aldin of the Five Villages. I am Aelryn and this is my son, Aelric. We're hoping to sell some well-milled flour before the sun goes down."

It was as if the administrator had not heard his father's introduction. Something hardened in the administrator's expression as inspected his father's features. "You're Mirebound, aren't you?"

Aelric felt something cold in his heart then, and he saw his father stiffen. "No," his father said. "My wife is Earthborn and by right so am I. I am allowed to trade."

From a hidden pocket inside his tunic, he produced a carefully folded parchment.

The administrator's fingers took the parchment and examined it carefully. When he reached the bottom, he reread it again, as if checking it for irregularities, but Aelric knew his grandfather Elder Steady had the marriage sanctified. He had never seen this document before, but it bore the official seal of Legionnaire Kallow. This market steward, who may well be a Sealed would not dare to question the Ironblood's authority.

The administrator handed the parchment back. "So you are."

"About the price of the-"

"Thirty arcas. That is the rate. Even for a special Mirebound like you."

Once again, Aelric's father had to hold him back by the shoulder. Aelric was ready to sock the man in the mouth. But he knew the wrongness of it once he felt his father's grip. Violence was never rightful when only words had been spoken. And if he were to strike a Sealed, the penalty would have been great.

"Very well. If that is the price, we require no special treatment," his father said, touching the payment tab on the desk. Liquid blue light drizzled out the tip of his command finger and hardened into a solid arcana chit. "Thirty arcas."

✣ ✣ ✣

They led by a market assistant to a far-flung corner of the market beside several tents that were empty or had already closed for the day. The tent canvas was torn and the table covered in sticky stains from previous use.

The nearest open stall was manned by an old man selling bruised peaches. He also had the look of a Mirebound, his skin tinged by a strong greenish complexion, although there was no way to know with certainty without looking at the man's birth certificate. But Aelric could not help but feel they had been wronged.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the stall's table. The market administrator's face burned in his memory—that condescending curl of lips when he'd pointed them toward this miserable patch of ground, so far from the market's center that they might as well have been invisible.

"He put us here to punish us. Just because he thought you were Mirebound."

"We'll make the best of it," his father said, his weathered hands already putting their carefully milled flour into smaller sacks for a better display. His father moved with a deliberate calm that infuriated Aelric even more. His father was always like this. Never angry… almost never, Aelric corrected, remembering the Bestian woman.

"You were angry when the merchant striked the Bestian, but this doesn’t make you angry?"

His father gave Aelric a smile. "Why indeed?"

Aelric let out a hot breath. His father often answered his questions like this, but the answer had already begun dawning in his mind. "No one hit us. He was merely rude."

Aelric's father nodded thoughtfully. "That indeed. But also there is little I can do about another man's prejudices. Another man's violence I can certainly do something about as long as we are in a town of the Mael."

"But now no one will find us," Aelric said, his heart dropping now that the anger was quieted.

His father's smile softened. "Markets have rhythms, son. People will come."

They arranged the flour sacks carefully. Each one was carefully placed upon the tabletop. At the center, his father placed a litra scale, an expensive posession that his father revealed he had bought when he made the plan to take his wheat directly to the market.

The white flour stood out nicely against the rough burlap bags, showing off their good work. Then they stood and waited.

It was not a long wait. Ten spells after they'd finished arranging their stall, a family rounded the corner of the market pathway. The father and mother were busy in conversation, and the child seemed to have led them the way down around the bend.

Aelric watched them approach, suddenly nervous with anticipation.

"Good day!" his father called out. "Might you be interested in some fine flour, freshly milled?"

Aelric stepped forward. "Double-milled flour. Thirty-five arcas per litra. Finest in the market," he added at the end, hoping his voice believed in his words.

The couple's conversation was cut short, and the woman's brow drew up in an arch.

"Thirty-five…? she trailed off, looking around as if she was confused how they'd gotten down this path.

"That's right, thirty-five arcas. A fine price for fine flour," Aelric's father said, smiling. "Would you like to take a look?"

The husband shook his head. "That's noble flour, and I'm no noble."

The family turned back round the way they came, and Aelric watched them go feeling as if he'd been punched in the gut. He looked at his father.

"Don't worry, I saw a few stalls with signs selling for the same price when we came in. It'll be alright."

Two chants passed and the market's traffic began to ebb. Desperate, Aelric and his father began standing at the pathway near the busier part of the maze, calling out to the passerby. But they weren't the only ones. Other shopkeepers called out their wares and prices too.

Finally, a man dressed in a fine vest paused as he walked by, turning to Aelric.

"Price?"

"Thirty-seven arcas. Double-milled. Highest quality—"

The man scoffed and kept on walking without another word.

"We'll drop the price," his father said, a tinge of defeat in his tone.

They went from thirty-five thirty, and when that didn't work, they dropped to twenty. Each reduction felt like losing a piece of their hope. Aelric could remember the days he spent under the sun toiling for the wheat that became their flour. And now no one wanted it.

Then he spotted a boy holding an empty bag looking around the stall. He rushed back.

"Hello there, are you interested in buying some fine flour?"

The boy nodded without meeting Aelric's eyes. He was no more than ten. "How much?"

Aelric's father answered. "Seventeen arcas. Double-milled flour."

"My ma told me to get two litras."

"That's thirty-four arcas," Aelric said.

The boy nodded and placed his finger on the payment tablet. Blue light spilled his finger and solidified into a chit.

Aelric's father took the chit and nodded. Then he scooped out two litras into the boys’ bag and weighed the portion on the litra scale. He added another scoop until the scale evened at two litras, and the boy carefully wrapped the flour sack and scurried away.

"Thank you, and please come again!" Aelric called out to him while wondering if the shy boy had come to this side of the market to avoid the noise and bustle of the central area.

For a while, they were hopeful again.

They did not make a second customer that day.

✣ ✣ ✣

The straw mattress shifted beneath Aelric's weight as he turned again, unable to rest. Moonlight spilled through the small window, cutting through the darkness of his room. He stared at the ceiling, replaying the day in his mind.

During the ride back, Aelric could feel the weight of failure pressing down on his father. There was nothing that could be said. The plan had not worked. For some reason, no one wanted their fine flour, even though it was sold at the other stalls in the market.They had earned thirty-four arcas from the single sale to the boy. After the cost of the market, they had only earned four arcas. Four arcas for two litras of fine flour. It would have been more pofitable to sell Trader Lorrek two litras of wheat, let alone fine flour.

"I'll think of something," his father had said just before they arrived home. But Aelric wondered what they could do. They could perhaps mill another hundred pounds coarse and see if it would sell better, but even then it would be difficult selling at that market. Especially if they got the same market steward again.

Aelric turned onto his side in his bed, pulling the thin wool blanket tighter. He thought of Feyna again and of the arca chit she had given him. The frew hundred arcas would help his family, he knew, but he hated the thought of accepting it. Because he knew, deep down, that to accept it, to spend it, was to accept losing her. And he couldn't do that.

Tears flooded his eyes then. If he didn’t think of something soon, he knew that he would have no choice in the matter. Legionnaire Kallow would be sending his tax collector any day now to collect on the family’s debts. And Aelric could not withhold Feyna’s chit when that time came.

He turned on his bed once more, and again the day replayed in his mind. But this time, his thoughts drifted to the Bestian woman.

He remembered her muscular frame and powerful hands. The way she stood and the way she gazed the portly merchant and at his father.

Aelric wondered about her life. Rough hands gripping heavy loads, muscles straining under the weight of endless labor. Not much unlike his own in that regard. But he had his village and his family. Did she have such things? The way the merchant described her, it seemed her life had been even worse before she became a laborer. Then the merchant had treated the way some farmers treated a hated animal, barking orders, threatening her with a raised hand.

Yet it had done nothing to her. She was not defiant. She was somehow more than that.

His mind drifted to the market. To Feyna. To his family's struggling farm. And then back to the Bestian woman.

"I want that," Aelric said quietly in the darkness. "Whatever that is."