turned toward the river; her mare maintained a full charge and splashed into the cool dark water. Droplets of spray flew in all directions while Loran coursed over a little know rock shelf ledge, hidden just under the murky surface. The twins pulled on their horses’ reigns and slid to a full stop.
“What is she doing?” asked Rolam.
Gervest and Rolam briefly studied Loran’s movement and then Gervest dug his heels into his mount.
“She’s beating us, is what she’s doing,” yelled Gervest. “Let’s move!”
The twins coaxed their horses back up to speed.
“Did you know you could cross there?” yelled Rolam, as he maintained Gervests’s pace.
“No! How is Loran aware of it?” shouted Gervest.
Loran cleared the other side of the riverbank and paused for a sign of her brothers’ progress. It came shortly when she heard their horses crossing the wooden bridge further upstream.
“Not far now, Hermesis,” said Loran. She patted her white steed on the neck. “Let’s make our victory decisive.” A gentle nudge of Loran’s heels is all the encouragement Hermesis needed to resume the race.
Gervest and Rolam arrived at the agreed upon destination that concluded their contest and wager with Loran. Their sister greeted them, seated on the steps of the old wooden shed she knew so well from her youth. Its contents had not changed much in the intervening years—it still contained discarded pottery—but this spring, it also provided shelter to a family of raccoons, who kept their distance, but peered out through cracked boards along the front.
“How you split my responsibilities for the next two weeks is between yourselves,” said Loran as her brothers approached.
Gervest dismounted in a huff and stormed to Loran.
“You cheated.”
“She didn’t cheat, Gervest,” said Rolam from atop his horse.
Gervest shot back a stern look to his brother.
“You’re taking her view?”
Before Rolam could respond, Loran rose to speak.
“Did you think I would claim deceit had I lost to the strategy you employed against me?”
“Listen to her, Gervest,” Rolam advised. “Our sister has revealed a great skill to us today, a superior understanding of strategy. Congratulations, Loran, you have won your respite from your duties.”
With the passing years, Gervest had grown an intense temperament, and the smallest of defeats would often leave him sulking—as did this one. He was prepared to let Rolam know of his displeasure in honoring the bargain with Loran.
“Then you meet with the visiting women and chambermaids and discuss . . .” Gervest waved his hands in frustration. “I don’t know what they discuss and I don’t ever care to.”
A lone rider rode into their gathering. Michael Kileson had originally been part of their riding foursome when they cast the wager. However, not being as skilled as the Avileens on horseback, he trailed long behind them.
“So, shall we arrange for your companionship while I return to my province?” Michael asked Loran, the confidence of her reply assured in his mind.
Gervest brusquely mounted his horse and directed him past Michael with vigor.
“Gervest?” yelled Michael. The confusion in Michael’s eyes was temporary and faded with Loran’s next four words.
“No, we shall not.”
* * *
A young chambermaid, newly stationed in the castle, worked her way around the bedchamber of Gervest with a duster made from the feathers of a bird—who had long since provided sustenance to the castle occupants. Alongside a recent portrait of Gervest dressed in armor, were paintings of warriors and battlefields that hung prominently. When she came across a particularly gruesome battlefield depiction, she scrunched her face in revulsion of the carnage. The chambermaid had neither knowledge nor care of the artist, but a discriminate eye could tell these were not the work of Holt.
She maneuvered to the table alongside the massive canopied bed. A bottle of grayish, luminous
“What is she doing?” asked Rolam.
Gervest and Rolam briefly studied Loran’s movement and then Gervest dug his heels into his mount.
“She’s beating us, is what she’s doing,” yelled Gervest. “Let’s move!”
The twins coaxed their horses back up to speed.
“Did you know you could cross there?” yelled Rolam, as he maintained Gervests’s pace.
“No! How is Loran aware of it?” shouted Gervest.
Loran cleared the other side of the riverbank and paused for a sign of her brothers’ progress. It came shortly when she heard their horses crossing the wooden bridge further upstream.
“Not far now, Hermesis,” said Loran. She patted her white steed on the neck. “Let’s make our victory decisive.” A gentle nudge of Loran’s heels is all the encouragement Hermesis needed to resume the race.
Gervest and Rolam arrived at the agreed upon destination that concluded their contest and wager with Loran. Their sister greeted them, seated on the steps of the old wooden shed she knew so well from her youth. Its contents had not changed much in the intervening years—it still contained discarded pottery—but this spring, it also provided shelter to a family of raccoons, who kept their distance, but peered out through cracked boards along the front.
“How you split my responsibilities for the next two weeks is between yourselves,” said Loran as her brothers approached.
Gervest dismounted in a huff and stormed to Loran.
“You cheated.”
“She didn’t cheat, Gervest,” said Rolam from atop his horse.
Gervest shot back a stern look to his brother.
“You’re taking her view?”
Before Rolam could respond, Loran rose to speak.
“Did you think I would claim deceit had I lost to the strategy you employed against me?”
“Listen to her, Gervest,” Rolam advised. “Our sister has revealed a great skill to us today, a superior understanding of strategy. Congratulations, Loran, you have won your respite from your duties.”
With the passing years, Gervest had grown an intense temperament, and the smallest of defeats would often leave him sulking—as did this one. He was prepared to let Rolam know of his displeasure in honoring the bargain with Loran.
“Then you meet with the visiting women and chambermaids and discuss . . .” Gervest waved his hands in frustration. “I don’t know what they discuss and I don’t ever care to.”
A lone rider rode into their gathering. Michael Kileson had originally been part of their riding foursome when they cast the wager. However, not being as skilled as the Avileens on horseback, he trailed long behind them.
“So, shall we arrange for your companionship while I return to my province?” Michael asked Loran, the confidence of her reply assured in his mind.
Gervest brusquely mounted his horse and directed him past Michael with vigor.
“Gervest?” yelled Michael. The confusion in Michael’s eyes was temporary and faded with Loran’s next four words.
“No, we shall not.”
* * *
A young chambermaid, newly stationed in the castle, worked her way around the bedchamber of Gervest with a duster made from the feathers of a bird—who had long since provided sustenance to the castle occupants. Alongside a recent portrait of Gervest dressed in armor, were paintings of warriors and battlefields that hung prominently. When she came across a particularly gruesome battlefield depiction, she scrunched her face in revulsion of the carnage. The chambermaid had neither knowledge nor care of the artist, but a discriminate eye could tell these were not the work of Holt.
She maneuvered to the table alongside the massive canopied bed. A bottle of grayish, luminous
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