Commander Avilyard, without his helmet, leaned against an archery target. Marai recognized him from his voice since she’d never seen his face before. He approached once Marai halted and held her blade to the side in a relaxed stance. How long had he been watching her?

“I can see now why the prince hired you to protect him.”

Avilyard had tan skin and dark hair like all Middle Kingdomers, but she noticed his eyes were hazel, lighter than Ruenen’s, when he came close enough. He was broad, with gray-speckled stubble across his jaw. Handsome and sturdy for a man in his late forties. Time had been kind to him; the wrinkles around his eyes added to his rugged quality. Those hazel eyes glanced down to Dimtoir.

He said, “I’ve never seen a fae blade before.”

“It was my father’s.”

“May I?” he asked.

Marai hesitated. She never let others touch Dimtoir, but she handed it over, and his face alighted with avid interest as he inspected the blade and the foreign words etched into the steel.

“Not a scratch or rolled edge. Amazing. Do your kind . . . do you imbue your blades with magic?”

Marai blinked. Humans never asked about magic. “To make it stronger. I’ve never seen one forged, but I’ve been told that’s what bladesmiths did. They’re all gone now. The craft is lost forever.”

“That’s a pity.” Avilyard handed Dimtoir back to Marai. “I had an aunt who befriended a faerie. She hid her and the faerie’s child in her house during the hunt twenty years ago. I remember that she and her son were gentle folk. They never used magic to harm anyone.”

Marai almost dropped Dimtoir from shock. People didn’t readily share such incriminating facts in Astye. No one wanted to reveal that they had any relations to fae, no matter how distant.

Avilyard frowned and shifted on his feet. “They were discovered, of course. Slain by radicals right here in Nevandia; my aunt alongside them, labeled a traitor.” Sorrow flashed across the commander’s face.

“Many people confuse magic with evil,” Marai said.

“You’re brave to come here.”

“I’m not one to hide.”

“I’m more understanding than most of the citizens, given my aunt’s death. You’ll need to change a lot of hearts and minds.”

“We intend to.”

Avilyard nodded, a little unconvincingly. “I dropped your . . . friends off at the cottages. They’re getting settled, although they were concerned with where you’d disappeared to.”

How long was I out here? Judging by the angle and heat of the sun, it was nearly lunchtime.

“I stationed two of my most sympathetic guards with them,” Avilyard continued. “I’ll do what I can to keep them protected, but I cannot control everything . . .”

“Thank you.” Marai gave him what she hoped was an appreciative look, but she didn’t have much practice with that kind of expression.

She sheathed Dimtoir. Marai then noticed the sweat on her temples and back. Hair was plastered to the base of her neck; her hands were coated in brown dust. She needed to gather her things from the room. She’d make final use of the bathtub, then she’d go to the cottages to help.

“His Highness is attending meetings with his advisors, but I know he was searching for you, as well.”

Marai nearly snorted at His Highness, but she held it in. She’d need to get used to Ruenen’s new set of titles. She didn’t want to show any disrespect towards the newfound leader when Ruenen needed all of their support.

“I’ll find him later.”

“If there’s anything you and your people need, come to me. I’ll ensure you get it,” Avilyard said with a courteous incline of his head. “Have a good day, Lady Marai,”

“It’s just Marai,” she repeated for the millionth time, causing Avilyard to smile, hazel eyes twinkling. He returned his helmet to his head and strode off towards the stables.

Perhaps the Commander was someone the fae might be able to trust.

Once inside the castle, Marai burst through her door to see Harmona laying out something on the bed. The young maid yelped, her whole body recoiling as if she was physically in pain from being in the same space as Marai. She refused to meet Marai’s eyes, keeping her head down at all times.

“I’m simply here for my things and a bath,” Marai told her.

Harmona nodded vigorously, then went to work on the bath. After heating water in the ewer over the fire, Harmona quickly dumped the contents into the tub behind the decorative partition, then scooted out of the way. She tried not to ever get too close to Marai.

“Can I assist you in any way?” she asked with a wince, as though it was the last thing she wanted to do.

“No, I can do this myself.” Marai yanked off her smelly, black tunic. “And I’ll be staying somewhere else from now on, so you don’t need to care for me anymore.”

Harmona’s eyes widened with relief, then she curtsied and disappeared around the other side of the partition.

Marai quickly scrubbed herself down in the basin, enjoying the final moments of pampering. Harmona had left a robe on the chair, so Marai wrapped herself up, then walked out from behind the partition. She was startled to find Harmona still in the room folding Marai’s black cloak. Marai blushed; she was entirely naked beneath the sheer robe.

“You can leave that,” she told Harmona, who jumped at the strong command.

“Your cloak is dirty, my lady,” she squeaked. “I was instructed by Master Bassite to take your clothing down to the laundry.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Marai said, stepping towards the girl.

Harmona shut her eyes tightly and flinched. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I will get in trouble if I—”

Sighing, Marai retreated to grab her clothes. She handed them to Harmona in a bundle, stifling a shiver. It wasn’t warm enough to be walking around soaking wet in a robe with the windows wide open. “What am I supposed to wear instead?”

Harmona gestured to the bed where a simple blue and brown wool dress, as well as knee-high cream hose lay. On the floor sat brown slippers. Marai grimaced.

“Ladies in the court wear dresses,” Harmona said.

“I’m not a lady, nor am I part of the court. Can’t you find a pair of trousers and a tunic?”

“Here in Nevandia, women wear dresses,” Harmona pressed, growing paler from Marai’s rising irritation. “Lord Holfast and Master Bassite were quite insistent. If you’re to be seen in the prince’s retinue, you must be presentable.”

With a groan, Marai approached the dress. She hadn’t worn one since she was a child. The sleeves were too constrictive, length too impractical to move in, nonetheless fight in. And it wasn’t as if this dress was particularly nice. It was a boxy peasant dress, nothing at all similar to the ones Marai had seen in the store windows in Cleaving Tides years ago, or the fashionable silk dress-robes in Kaishiki.

“Tell Lord Holfast and Master Bassite that I’m a member of the Witan now, and they don’t control me,” Marai snapped, making Harmona gasp.

The girl nodded timidly, then backed out of the chamber, holding Marai’s dirty Butcher clothes as if they were infested with fleas.

Marai scowled as she first drew a plain white shift over her head, then the dress. The fabric was itchy and baggy on her, like wearing a sack, and the slippers were too tight. Marai then hastily pulled her dripping hair back in a low ponytail, strapped her weapons to her side, and stormed into the hallway.

Down at the main castle doors, Marai spotted Fenir talking with three other black-robed council members. There was also a bald monk dressed in a plain brown robe.

Probably the same material as this horrid dress.