Chapter 4
Aston
Aston is a half hour ride. From what I remember, the city was compact but vibrant. Teeming with life. It will be about lunchtime upon my arrival and thus easy to get lost in the crowd. No one will know who I am, of my title, and this thought thrills me.
Storm is a very nice companion for the trip.
Unlike her name suggests, she is rather calm, but lightning fast. It still feels like forever before we arrive, my anticipation ready to overflow.
I calm myself by soaking in the late summer sun kissing my skin, allowing it and the wind to dry my damp curls.
It is a beautiful, perfect day.
The limited knowledge I possess of our kingdom reads like a textbook.
The Kingdom of Gale, the kingdom I stand to inherit and my namesake, is a medium-sized territory to the northeast. It’s also referred to as the Kingdom of Clouds, due to its three aptly named courts: the Court of Cirrus, the Court of Cumulus, and the Court of Stratus.
At its southern edge, in the Court of Stratus, sits a treacherous row of jagged mountains: the Nimbus Range.
They’re said to be so tall that the highest peaks are lost to the low clouds.
I wouldn’t know, of course, as I’ve only ever seen underwhelming illustrations.
The Nimbus Range acts as a natural dam, as beyond it lies the Sea of Storms, a choppy and tumultuous body of water that separates the Courts of Cirrus and Cumulus from most of Stratus.
Here lies Galvestire too, the largest city in the kingdom, inland enough to avoid the worst of the Sea of Storms. Gale’s wealth depends on the success of Galvestire’s trade-driven economy.
Castle Gale, our home and my cage, sits where the three courts converge, much farther north, hundreds of miles from the Nimbus Range.
Aston is the closest neighboring city, and one of the biggest in the Court of Cirrus.
Even so, it is far from dense. Our kingdom is not the most populated, due to the desolate landscape and climate.
Summer is a very short season here—the rest of the year is as cold as the lonely corridors of the castle.
As far as any useful political knowledge about the various courts—any machinations, knowledge of allies or enemies, ideas of conquest, war, or treachery…
I know nothing. Father ensured my tutors only taught me the geography of our realm, the basic history, and little else.
In my two decades of life, I’ve heard constant whispers of general unrest, like he mentioned today, but nothing has ever come to fruition.
No wars, no battles, no skirmishes. If there has ever been a fight for King Tobias’s throne, my birthright—my keepers have done a suspiciously good job of sheltering me from it.
Soon enough, Aston’s sturdy buildings loom larger and a new feeling settles in my stomach.
There is something so satisfying about having no pressing duty, no royal instructions.
No tethers, no chains. For the first time in my life, I taste it, pure and raw: independence.
A mote of fear pokes at the back of my mind, but as long as I stick to the crowds and steer clear of side streets, I will be perfectly fine.
And worst case, I will fight back. Or… at least be smart enough to profess my title this time.
I lead Storm to the stalls on the edge of the city and dismount, my legs trembling after a longer ride than I am accustomed to. No groom attends these public stables, so I tie her to a post and give her nose a gentle pat. I whisper my thanks for her part in this day and promise not to be too long.
Several kingdom guards are visible just beyond the city limits, dressed in identifiable tunics of sky blue over their armor.
There’s no telling if any of them would even recognize my face unless they work shifts at Castle Gale.
But if any of them do, they’ve no idea I am allowed to be here and I cannot risk being whisked back.
I pull my hood over my head, tucking my dark curls beneath the collar for good measure.
I stare at the ground, blending in with the crowd moving toward Aston’s core, where the market nests.
The deeper I move into the city, the darker it becomes, the crooked buildings, shops, and homes blotting out the sky and shadowing every path.
I step into the square—open and bustling, an oxymoron, an island of brightness in the middle of all these walls—and chance a look around.
Fewer guards patrol this area, which should be cause for concern.
Instead, I am elated. I don’t recognize the few of them there are, so none of them should recognize me.
I lower my hood to shake out my untamed hair and hopefully my paranoia with it.
Aston’s market is as I remember. People everywhere.
Talking, shouting, bartering. A burly man yells about the deal of the day on fish.
Young children dart between legs with gleeful squeals in games of chase.
Laughter trills through the air. And the air.
I take a deep breath. To anyone else, that smell is likely shit, but to me?
It’s sticky, sweet buns, fresh cut hay, and spiced jerky. My mouth waters.
My first stop is a stall where a lovely, plump woman serves pastries. I hesitate, standing awkwardly to one side for a beat too long, but am reassured when her warm smile meets mine. “What’ll you have today, miss?”
I order two sticky buns and tip her an extra gold coin for her kindness.
I stroll leisurely around the square while savoring each bite of my decadent lunch.
The castle cooks are good, but nothing tops this.
With a contented stomach, I take in the townspeople as I walk, grinning at any passersby that meet my gaze.
Most seem to find this off-putting, but some return shy smiles or waves.
I don’t wish for anyone to notice me, but it is nice when they do.
It feels like truly being seen, as an individual—not a title or an oddity.
A particular stall catches my eye. It is the work of a potter.
There are various tea sets, dinnerware, and vases of all shapes and sizes.
The most charming set is a teapot shaped like a hen, its matching teacups shaped like various sizes of baby chicks.
When I look at it, I picture Mavick’s scream of delight at receiving such a unique gift.
Mavick is the only reason I even get this day of freedom—it would be gracious of me to repay them somehow.
I pull out two large gold coins with certainty.
The potter, an elderly man whose rich brown skin stretches taut over his bony frame, smiles in thanks as he wraps the present in stiff parchment paper and stuffs it in a sack.
After several more strolls around the stalls, a thorough perusal through an eclectic library, and a few hours spent people-watching while lounging on a bench, I finally remember my flimsy excuse for coming here in the first place.
There is no textile stand in the square.
I ask a kind-faced stranger if they know of a haberdashery nearby, and they point me toward a quaint building with big windows on the eastern edge of the market.
With a pang of unease, I realize it borders the alleyway in which I was mugged.
Today though, there are no suspicious stragglers.
A guard stands two buildings over, close enough that I hear him whistling to himself as he watches townspeople bustle by.
I steel myself and cross through the less crowded side streets.
I refuse to give the alley a second glance.
Upon entering the small shop, I take a deep breath of relief and almost choke on the intense smell of burning incense.
It’s not entirely unpleasant, but something about it reminds me of falling through the passageway into Mavick’s cottage.
Fighting the urge to cough, I greet the squat man eying me from behind the counter with a polite wave.
“How can I help you today, miss?” he croaks, as though the pungent clouds of incense he sits in have permanently coated his throat. Both his appearance and voice remind me of a bullfrog.
“I am making a dress for my—” I pause, realizing there’s no need to tell this stranger my business. “I am making a dress for my lady’s birthday,” I say. It’s easy enough to pretend I’m a maid. I’m dressed well enough and am the right age to be a lady-in-waiting, like Alma.
The clerk gurgles in delight, gold coins practically flashing in his eyes. He hops from his stool and waddles around the counter before me. He is even shorter than I presumed.
He takes his time showing me the most expensive swatches in stock.
They are all very pretty. I have never had a favorite color or style of material, and though this whole plot was a ruse…
I can’t resist leaving his shop a while later with five beautiful bolts of fabric. Plus Mavick’s present, of course.
Judging by the soft glow of the low sun peeking through the opposite end of the market, it’s about dinnertime.
I could stay longer, but my arms are full and—though I don’t want to admit having ever heeded them—Simon’s parting words replay in my mind.
The market is even busier than it was before.
Laborers, done with their workdays, grab last minute items before heading home for supper.
I struggle to see over my bolts as I squeeze through the bottlenecked paths.
Once in the main square, there is more breathing room, but people seem to be moving quicker here to take advantage of the open space.
I am breathless as I dodge hurried townspeople.
A high screech pierces my ears before something collides, hard, with my left side.
I am pushed back from the force, the wind knocked out of me in surprise.
The fabrics and Mavick’s gift fly from my arms. In bewilderment, I search for the source of the impact and find a redheaded girl, maybe sixteen, staring at me with large brown eyes.
She flashes a sly grin, shrugs, and laughs as she zooms away again.
I sigh, fighting the urge to huff like a toddler having a tantrum, and drop to my knees to pick up the scattered items. From my right side, another blur speeds past in pursuit.
The figure stops abruptly and backtracks.
They kneel down opposite me, panting from their chase, and help gather the bolts of fabric into my arms.
“Please excuse my friend,” a deep voice says, and I meet the gaze of a young man.
He can’t be much older than me. His chin-length, dark honey locks are messy, random pieces sticking to his forehead with sweat.
His eyes are the same shade of warm liquid gold as his hair, but the lightness of them is disarming.
He grins at me, his brow lifting in subtle amusement as he takes in my disgruntled expression.
His face is entirely too close to mine. My heart thuds against my ribcage as I avert my eyes to the ground. I attempt to clear my throat but am painfully reminded of my breathlessness. He chuckles, the sound also somehow reminiscent of warm honey, and nudges Mavick’s wrapped gift toward me to grab.
To my shock, the young man grabs me at the elbow and pulls me to my feet with ease.
Normally, unfamiliar touch induces an immediate panic in my chest, but the soft steadiness of his heats me.
He is very tall, lean, and stands on top of me, as though he has no concept of personal space.
I shift the fabric bolts in my arms to stare into his pretty face.
And that’s when I see it. The faintest glimmer of a silvery mist. Likely unnoticeable to those who have never witnessed it.
Glamours.
This man is using glamours.
The thanks I was about to mutter dies in my throat. I swallow hard.
With one last radiant smile, he’s gone.