Alanna sat under the shade of the great boughs of the Trigrove that had trees to represent each of the Three Cities. Rowan for Romada, to the west in the Petrified Woods, where the Order had their true headquarters. A curved willow was grown deliberately so one could use its roots as a bench where she sat. The willow represented Dontos, in the south, where they were best known for their scholars and academies on top of their museums and libraries. Mages flocked there in droves. In the center of the grove stood a tremendous oak that towered over the others, the oak was meant to be a symbol for Aethel and its might and competitive nature.

Aethel’s Chalice was the last stop before the true Unholy Wastes began. All of the Chalices were surrounded by hostile terrain and foul beasts bent on humanity’s destruction, but Aethel was both the last stand and the stage for any expeditions.

Except, Fremr’s oak tree was dying. Beetles bore into its roots, rot blighted the leaves and it took the Council fatalistic care to trim the rot back and keep anyone from knowing. Father had told her and Isidora about it when he had been deep in his cups of Dontos ale months ago.

There hasn’t been a cure, yet. Even with [Herbalists], [Druids], and a lone [Dendrolamancer]. None of their talents, skills, or archetypes had been able to nurse the oak representing their Chalice back to health.

“Are you sulking again, daughter?” Sevra shook her head as she held two tankards up. One for each of them. “Celebrate. Both your sister and the boy will be fine.”

“Then where are they?” Alanna cast her glowering stare over the milling throngs of the crowds. Song, food and drink flowed freely and those selling pottery, produce, or anything else people had to sell made a killing of chips out of the back of their wagons.

Anyone within a hundred miles would be close by. Smaller villages and farms, homesteads, and anyone who wished to trade or celebrate the Pageship Festivals were here. Not to mention those with a plan to join, but she could tell by the mood of the crowd.

People celebrated with the brutal efficiency of a butcher with eight to feed with only a chicken to carve up. Every drink, bite of food, and conversation was to be the last morsel of happiness they had to ration out over the coming months.

She spotted Theo’s family selling produce, a few baskets of apples, some pies, and even some sewed and knitted clothes that looked halfway decent. Theo’s father, Kieran, and Elias had haggled since the first moment they’d hitched their horses.

“Perhaps they’re having fun before they risk their lives for a temporary title. Try it. Aleyr knows your father and I work you hard to the bone as it is.” Sevra shrugged when Alanna made no move to take either tankard from her and took a long pull from each.

Alanna turned to study where the rest of the crowd converged with admiration from children to those thinking about trying their luck in the games, to even those with gray in their hair. A pitch black mare, dark as the deepest night tossed her fiery mane and stomped when anyone unfamiliar tried to touch her.

Nightfire.

Theo would have been either helping his sister and cousin sell their wares or a visit with a horse that’d have her father eager to haggle or knife them in the dark for. Scant minutes remained before the Announcement. She stood on the tips of her toes to see over some of the tallest heads in the crowd, but he wasn’t there. They seemed to be taking a white chip from anyone who wanted a look at the horse fit for a horseBaron or maybe even a horsePrince.

Theo wasn’t here.

And Isidora wasn’t anywhere she could see either. Despite her sister being a moneylender in lieu of their father so he could work on Fremr’s Council, she was well loved. Even if she was harsh with those who were late on payments, but still. Granted, that love had more to do with Isidora’s talent than anything else.

People’s emotions were little more than clay in her sister’s hands. Even worse was that since talents started from within… well, Isidora never felt what she didn’t want to. Alanna couldn’t recall a time before her talent manifested that Isidora had ever been wracked with guilt or sadness.

“Are you sure you don’t sense Isidora’s talent anywhere in the crowd?” asked Alanna quietly to Sevra, no one would hear over the tumult, but talents were seldom spoken about openly.

“No. There are a few other than you and your father with stronger talents than I expected though.” Sevra pointed slyly with one of her tankards over to Garret and Modran. “If they throw their lot in for the Pageship races instead of that boy of yours…”

“What? What kind of talent do you sense?” Alanna shot up to her feet incredulously.

“I’m not sure. It’s difficult to copy it without seeing them use it. I’d be more surprised if they didn’t see red on us or your father since he always uses his.. Have you heard anything about either of those two?”

“Wait, they both have a manifested talent?” She hissed eagerly having to stop herself from pressing through the crowds to question them. Theo had never mentioned anything about this! You haven’t told him much about your talent or your sister’s, a voice murmured in the back of her mind.

“The girl has a minor talent on the cusp of becoming a major one. It’s… revolting. Underlying bitterness edged with the sweetest tang, like rot. Do you know anything about her?”

“I’ve always heard she was sick. Theo made it sound like she constantly straddled her deathbed. She almost never comes to town…” Alanna paused as she caught another glance of the girl. Modran was absolutely radiant. Her face was flushed, but now that she knew to look, Modran seemed to be almost glowing with a red light. Oddly enough, she wore a dense wool shawl stitched to her dress and gloves. In this heat? It was the dead of summer, only a month shy of harvest.

“She doesn’t seem sick at all.” Sevra murmured thoughtfully. “I’d stay away from that one. When families hide powerful talents…”

“The Chalices shake when they come to light.” Alanna finished the quote with a shiver. What in Aleyr were they hiding? She squinted in consternation.

Theo surely had a talent with the way he always seemed to know where she was whenever they practiced for the Pageship races. Her ambushes never amounted to much of anything. She didn’t think it had fully manifested yet though. Everyone had a talent, but trying to figure it out before it manifested was like trying to clean dirt.

Pointless and almost impossible.

Although, manifestation was a simple enough matter… if someone was around those with powerful talents constantly and tried to use their own. It’s why the Order and families with Lordships always had members full of those with talents.

“Your father is coming,” Sevra whispered as she hoisted the near full tankard into one of Alanna’s open hands. She took a small sip while Sevra said in a louder voice, “Have you heard the new Senatra songs fresh from Dontos? There’s a minstrel here somewhere who sings them rather well, I thought.”

“Really? That’s quite marvelous. I’ll have to listen before the announcement begins.” Alanna smiled and threw her hair back with false cheer. Grass crunched unevenly behind them.

“Bah! That singer? He’s hardly worth the scum under my boots. We’ll have to find someone to sing it for us in Aethel instead.” Father growled with a dark humor as he lurked over Alanna’s shoulder. “That cheating idiot Faram won a tidy sum from me in dice. Look at that smug bastard, I have half a mind to challenge him in a duel and show everyone that bastard’s stinking guts.”

Alanna turned to where he pointed and fervently wished Isidora would show up soon to smooth Father’s emotions before he did just that. Faram chatted with his wife and a few other farmers, waving his hands in grand gestures that soon enough had them roaring with laughter and cheers she heard clearly over the throng.

“Still refusing to take money from you?” asked Sevra bluntly. Alanna winced at the woman’s casual tone. Father had taken his seat on the Council by purchasing it. Apparently, a coveted position of trust and loyalty could be bought with a staggering amount of chips green chips that equaled a black. Plus, his now stale fame as a retired duel-and-horseBaron didn’t hurt either.

“He’s entirely too set on taking the wrong kind of money from me. Doesn’t matter how many times his fields are burned or wildlife finds their way into his wells, he still won’t sell. Prides himself on having one of the few farms free of me. He even refuses Isidora. Somehow.”

“Some of these men and women have steel for spines and far too much pride. You’ve pushed them hard in the twenty-five years you’ve carved a ruling from them, Tyren.”

“It’s less than they deserve.” Father grunted as he started forward with his hand heavy on his sword belt. “Far less.”

“Father!” Alanna blurted out. “Isidora isn’t here.”

“What?” He turned to pin them both with a snarl. “Why didn’t either of you say something? Or even look for her? She has to announce herself. It’ll start any minute.”

“Need I remind you I only have one daughter to watch?” Sevra said cooly. She placed one of her hands on Alanna’s shoulder. “You watch your daughter while I watch mine.”

Father spun on his heel without another word unless his growl was non-verbal speech. Within moments he’d elbowed and jostled his way into the depths of the crowd. Alanna shifted, her hands seemed unable to remain still while they clawed at her hair.

“Mother…” Alanna started, but Sevra tsked and Alanna sighed before restarting. “Sevra, I fear he’s getting worse.”

“Your father has always been a brilliant man balanced on the precipice of disaster. He’s toppled over countless times and will do so again.” Sevra’s dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she followed his rough passage. “With any hope you’ll be in Aethel safely as a duelBaron by then.”

“Who can say? I’ll have to wait until the Pageships are over before I can compete.” Alanna crossed her arms to try and still the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach.

“You’ll win. Aethelians are all struts and boasts, but either way it might be time for us to visit Dontos or even Romada afterwards. With our talents and skills we could earn a living in either place, easy enough. Especially once you get enough skills to pull from more than the [Fighter] and [Duelist] archetypes.”

“Maybe.” Alanna sighed then stiffened as someone began to move through those at the edge of town flanked by cheers. Isidora rode on Silverwind with more than enough grace to make a cat jealous.

“Curious. It seems your sister has found some new strays.” Sevra wrinkled her nose at the two disheveled women who hobbled to keep up with Isidora. They limped as if they’d been running for miles.

Isidora peered through and around the festival-goers with a casual air of disdain until she spotted them under the Trigrove. She crooked her fingers low beside her saddle and instantly the two women leapt forward like well trained hounds.

“She has them well and truly in her net. Which emotions do you think she used?” Sevra grunted with disgust.

“Probably some worship, love, and most importantly a mountain of self-loathing.”

After a few moments of discussion the two strays raced towards them.

“M-mistress, your presence is requested,” the tall woman stammered out while playing with her dark gray swept hair. Exhaustion laced her words just as sweat fell in dribbling trickles through the blood and grime that coated her face in several layers, both dry and cracked patches and more fresh with dampness.

Alanna frowned wondering how long these two would last. Her sister’s games tended to break people sooner rather than later, especially when she put in this much effort. Emotions could be a scalpel or a hammer, but either way it wasn’t good for someone’s health to be under either for too long.

“Quickly. Quickly!” The other woman squeaked in a tragically incompetent curtesy, she was far shorter and younger with a slapdash spear with a head of crude iron held tight in her hands.

“Your sister forgets herself.” Sevra hissed under her breath, nearly too quiet for Alanna to hear. “Too bad Tyren spoiled her and she learned how to use her talent from that artist.”

“Tell Isidora if she wishes to speak with me then I’ll see her.” Alanna barked as the two women latched onto her arms and tried tugging her away. Her hands twitched towards the sword that hung on her belt, but she repressed the urge to poke a few holes in the two of them. It wasn’t like they’d done anything to deserve such cruelty, they were just the latest pawns.

“Alanna!” Sevra said, but Alanna ignored her.

“Let go of me,” she snarled as she ripped her arms out of their surprisingly strong grips. The two seemed far too malnourished to clutch at her like that, but their arms were like steel. She decided it was time to teach Isidora’s newest dogs some obedience after they ignored her polite pleas.

“Please! You need to come with us!” whimpered the younger woman, her spear shifted as her other hand fondled the haft with both hands now. Alanna narrowed her eyes in a glare at the two who cowered at Isidora’s imminent displeasure more than her own.

Cowards.

She reached for the simple bar of training sword that was more like a bar of steel than a sword, but Sevra spoke before she could whip it out and give them a few lashes.

“Alanna! Look over where they came from!” Sevra took Alanna’s hand before it could stray to her sword and squeezed it hard enough to set it throbbing.

“What? Did Isidora find another…” She trailed off as she caught sight of Theo limping towards the crowd who were eagerly listening to the commencement speeches as the Council spoke from their stage. Alanna hadn’t even noticed that they were speaking.

“Seems like your boy had a run in with some brambles.” Sevra muttered at the disheveled state of his clothes and hair. Blood had dried in a crust under his nostrils and where it had stained the front of his shirt, streaks of it remained on his cheek where he must’ve tried to wipe it away.

“What happened to him?”

“Oh, that? Elora and I—” the one with the spear started to say before the roar of the crowd washed out any other noise and Alanna lost sight of Theo completely in the stampede of everyone stomping and clapping their approval for the beginning of the Pageship Festival. She dismissed Isidora’s dogs from her mind.

“As the Speaker of Fremr it is my grave honor to start the call for anyone with bravery in their hearts to announce their intentions to compete for a Pageship!” Father intoned once everyone quieted down again.

Isidora straightened in her saddle and opened her mouth to speak, her hand held high in the air before another voice called out first.

“I announce myself for the Pageship of Trade!”

*

*

*

Modran bellowed before anyone else could. Her heart pounded in her chest as her shout echoed in her ears. Heat flooded her face and hands especially, but she seemed to wear a sweltering shroud of it under all her clothes thick enough to ensure no one accidentally touched or grazed her.

“No!” Dad howled from where he and Uncle Elias stood at wagon. Modran blocked out the noise. She would succeed and no longer be a prisoner of her talent or her family’s fear.

“Are you sure?” Garret’s hand lashed out to catch at her wrist. Horror twisted with concern on his face at touching her even if he only held her through cloth.

She nodded as the fear in his eyes bolstered her resolve. It felt like she only took a few steps before she was in view of the stage where the Council stood above the crowd. Their unfamiliar eyes weighed her, dissecting her to try and ferret out the secrets of her aspirations and merits. It wasn’t likely, but there was a chance she could be denied still.

Murmurs and whispers droned around her while she pressed through the maelstrom of festival-goers. As a whole they seemed eager to avoid touching her out of some sort of primal fear. Animals reacted to her presence the same way.

Contact with her was poison. Death bloomed in the wake of her skin with the delicate petals of ash. She idly wondered why people and animals could touch her hair or anything else for that matter, but if she wasn’t prepared, a simple touch of her hand on someone else’s would kill.

Nausea bit at her temples and rifled through her from crown to groin at the stink of alcohol and charred cuts of beef and pork. Dirt and sweat added their own flavors as distinct to her nose as the individual clouds that raced across the blue expanse of the sky. She wanted to dull her life a bit to make it bearable, but then it’d start the boulder rolling and she’d be sick sooner.

Dad’s cries and howls stabbed at her which only fueled the drone of gossip in the crowd. Uncle Elias and Aunt Karis must’ve been holding him back so he couldn’t cause more of a stir. The law might say she had to compete once the festival was over, but it wouldn’t be the first or last time a family tried to prevent someone from becoming a Page.

Her mouth felt dry as if she’d stuffed it full with wads of cotton and as sour as if she’d soaked it with vinegar first. Her boots thudded on the rough hewn planks of the stairs up to the stage. She could feel the grain through the confines of her shoes, seldom worn and still unyielding to the shape of her feet. Being so fresh of life was full of little wonders and annoyances, she wondered idly if that was why newborns cried all the time.

“We have our first contestant for the Pageship of Trade!” Tyren stripped her glove from her hand with a sniff of derision, then he clasped it in his own, and thrust it high above their heads to the loud cries of approval from the crowds. It was almost official now. She still needed her arm bound in ribbon, but that was a formality at best.

“Modran.” Her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Where was his lifethread? Even though their hands touched still as he held hers for all to see… she couldn’t feel it. It was as if a wall stood between her and it. Not that she wanted to drain him of it of course.

“May you find the victory and glory you deserve.” He pulled away to study her with a distrustful squint of his cold, pale green eyes. He massaged his hand where they’d touched. “Stand with Rosri.”

Modran hurriedly rushed past him, almost expecting him to scream as his body crumbled to ash, but nothing happened. Before she reached the Councilwoman he’d gestured towards she’d donned her linen gloves once again and flexed her hand with relief.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Rosri bent her head full of curls beside Modran’s to whisper in her ear. “Elias has always told me you were sick with some malady or another.”

“I’m fine. Never been better.”

“Will anyone else grace Fremr with the honor of their participation in the Pageships?” Tyren asked after a glare at the two of them for their side conversation.

“I will, Father!” Isidora shouted from her saddle as she nudged her gray horse towards the stairs of the stage. “I announce myself for the distinct privilege of the Pageship of Horse.” People patted her horse with shouts of encouragement. Aleyr’s sake, were people crying? Modran shook her head, even as she caught a shimmer of red light surrounding the girl.

Was she really going to ride on the stage with that thing? Modran resisted the urge to shake her head and wrinkled her nose at the thought. She did however raise an eyebrow when the girl threw a scowl and glare Modran’s way.

For what, she didn’t care, but she had to doubly resist the urge to yank her horse’s lifethread into her own being. If falling to a heap on the town’s green in a cloud of ash wouldn’t knock her down a few pegs, then she didn’t know what would.

Horror threatened to snap at her at the thought, but she shoved it down with her irritation.

Isidora tied her horse’s reins to the rugged handrail of the stairs before ascending the stage herself in a twirl of her skirts banded with a waist of neat and precise embroidery studded with drops of crystal that glinted in Modran’s keen vision.

Tyren repeated the ritual of lifting Isidora’s arm, but this time the crowd was full of stomping feet and clamorous applause. His fatherly hug was certainly not a part of tradition, but it didn’t take long before the girl strutted over to stand beside Modran.

For some reason, a docile complacency tried to worm its way through her. A desire to bow her head in shame and embarrassment at daring to stand on this stage reserved for her betters.

It wasn’t too late, she really should retract her announcement before it was too late. What was she thinking? There was no chance she’d ever escape her wretched fate.

No! Modran frowned at the doubts that seethed in the recesses of her mind. She was doing this. Win or fail. There was no way she’d let Theo race ahead of her and leave her behind in the refuge of her attic bedroom to watch everyone else have a life handed to them.

Isidora grunted softly beside her with a low curse too quiet for anyone but her to hear with her enhanced senses.

“Anyone else?” Tyren implored the villagers who lived here and nearby enough to name Fremr home. Mothers and fathers hurriedly laid hands on their children to keep them close. The Pageship was more an excuse to celebrate summer’s end and the approach of harvest more than to pull ahead.

Shouts rang through the square.

“First Modran and now you Theodran? Who do you think you are? Get off of Nightfire right this instant!” Dad shouted himself hoarse as he shook his fist.

“I am Theodran and I announce myself for the Pageship of Horse.” Theo’s challenging stare was as hard and cold as she’d ever seen. He heeled Nightfire forward right through the crowd. People parted more out of fear of being run down rather than congratulating him. Usually those who contested were celebrated as long as they were someone else’s children, but two members of the same family… that was unheard of.

The farther Theo advanced the more she winced at the state he was in.

His shirt was clotted with flakes of dried mud and blood. Fraying tears crisscrossed the front of his shirt and imprints of dust smeared over his side as if someone had kicked him with dirty boots a few times. Modran struggled to keep from gasping at the sight of so much blood.

Was it his own or someone else’s?

Theo looked as if he was about to spur Nightfire into a leap to carry him onto the stage, but at the last minute he dropped from his saddle and lashed the reins to the same banister Isidora’s horse was hitched to.

Silence hushed over everyone as he climbed the stairs with the weary stomps of a wounded man.

“Theodran,” said Tyren’s voice in what seemed to be a booming shout in the lull of the crowd’s enthusiasm.

“Tyren,” he said as if he were the Councilman’s equal or perhaps his superior. He halted beside him with a crash of wood on wood as he brought the end of his large staff down against the stage. Arrows rattled in the quiver slung at his waist, but it seemed to sag a bit more than she remembered as if he’d lost a few. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes. Let’s.” Tyren bared his teeth in either a grimace or smile as he took Theo’s hand to lift up the crowd. Theo’s blood and mud stained hand struck a contrast nestled as it was in the other man’s grip. “People of Fremr, it seems we have two contestants vying for the Pageship of Horse! May the best one between them win the right of honor to our fair town.”

Theo slipped from Tyren’s grasp, his staff clacked in time with his every step, and he said without looking over his shoulder, but instead staring straight at Isidora, “Thanks. I will.”

Isidora stiffened beside Modran and leaned across her to glare daggers at him long after he’d taken his place beside her. “Next time I should leave you to my new friends.”

“I’ll remember that. Fortunately, there won’t be a next time.” Modran whipped around to gape at her twin who seemed to have aged a decade in his single night apart from her. His once warm hazel eyes often crinkled with a smile were now shadowed with malice and fear.

“Silverwind and I will ride rings around you and that bedraggled thing you deign to call a horse,” Isidora hissed.

“Oh, do be quiet Isi. Your father is speaking.” Theo rolled his eyes as he turned back to the crowd. Modran wondered if he was trying to catch Alanna’s eye or even Garret’s in a show of bravado, but instead it seemed like he was studying the two women that came with Isidora.

It was hard to say who was more of a mess. The tall woman with pennants of gray in her hair or the shorter with a spear in her hands. Blood dotted the fronts of their pant legs reddish brown streaks.

Modran scowled.

“... time for our contestants to pledge.” Tyren peered behind his shoulder and beckoned Modran forward.

What in Aleyr was she going to pledge? She thought as she crept forward. Uncertainty wracked her mind. Safe oaths meant safe rewards, but generally people either vowed on their honor or that of their family.

Dad’s crestfallen face caught her attention like flies to honey. Aunt Sharia had her arms wrapped around her father where he sobbed silently into her shoulder. Her aunt scowled at Modran and Theo, weighing them on the scales of her judgment and clearly found them both wanting.

Uncle Elias had his hands on Garret’s shoulders, their heads bowed in conversation and their hands flashed in overblown gestures. She wondered if he regretted not joining them in this year’s Pageship Festivals, but he still had another year to try if he wished.

“Well?” Tyren mumbled startling her. She hadn’t realized she’d been standing there without saying anything. Mutters crackled in the crowd like the flickering tongues of a flame, nearly every eye on her.

Waiting. Always waiting and expecting.

Her fists balled at her sides, the seams of her gloves pinched at her skin.

“I, Modran…” she started, her throat tickled with a caged cough. She stripped her gloves off her hands, tired of being shackled and confined. “... vow to bring honor upon my family and show them just how talented I really am.”

“Talented? Did she say she’s talented?” Farmer Faram shouted in surprise, but he wasn’t the only one. Everyone’s attention split three ways.

Once upon her wondering what she was doing as she slid her small knife out of its sheath and ripped the seams of her woolen shawl stitched to her dress in a few quick cuts. Then she shucked her gloves off and balled them together before dropping them on the stage in disdain.

The crowd gasped in a storm of mutters and whispers at her pledge and actions. She smiled innocently at the suggestions that her family’s been harboring other secrets if she supposedly had a talent.

She frowned at the realization that her brother wasn’t even looking at her, but continuing his baleful study of the two women who had accompanied Isidora. His hand hung on his hip, coincidentally where his quiver was strapped to his belt.

Isidora tapped her mouth idly with her finger, her eyes slitted on Modran in contemplation. She almost shivered at the thought of having to face her in any of the upcoming trials. Theodran better watch out.

But she couldn’t watch over her brother, she had to worry about herself now. She began planning scheme after scheme of how she could manage to turn a fortune once she reached Aethel after the festivities.

“Very well. Your pledge has been accepted.” Tyren said loudly to still the crowd’s murmurs at her declaration. “What is your pledge, Isidora?”

“I vow to win and become a horsePage, otherwise I will give Silverwind to my competitor here.” Isidora said with an overly cheerful grin.

“And if I should win, I will offer my hand in marriage to Alanna, daughter of Tyren and Sevra.” Theo called out as he turned to smile at Tyren, then bowed to the cheers and hollers of the crowd.