Even as a lad, Mirram Hild couldn’t understand the call of adventure. It was as if the young men of his little village were born blessed with the gift of a secret tongue, the whispering language of the wind that the bards sang but which he did not speak.

His daughter Meya, however, wasn’t born with the gift—she was made of it. He guessed she’d learned it from her mother alongside the Song she stole. And as she grew, so did her yearning, with every Miracle Fest he forbade her from clambering aboard Jason’s caravan to Aynor.

She managed to find her way there in the end as part of Lord Coris and Lady Arinel’s entourage—so she wrote in clumsy letters she’d also learned in her new post. She begged him to accept, for once, Jason’s invitation. She longed to show him Aynor, treat him to the sights and sounds and tastes with gold she’d earned from honest, hard work.

Although Mirram still couldn’t comprehend the call of the road, he’d follow his daughter’s Song even if it beckoned him to the unknown. He missed her mischievous grin, her unruly red-gold hair, her whining voice challenging his every command, although he was too bashful to admit. And now that the new Lord Crosset was on his way home, she too should finally be able to return from exile. He’d bring her back once she’d had her fill of the three lands.

One by one the barges slipped into place along the riverbank. Rowers set aside their oars and pranced onto the pier, then set to work unloading crates and barrels of Meriton’s finest products.

Jason had paid for Mirram’s place in the caravan, of course, but Mirram still joined the young men and lent his strength wherever needed. Once the last batch of glowing mushrooms had been tied and covered with tarpaulin, the remaining pony clip-clopped up the dirt road towards Meriton’s bridge.

Mirram dusted his hands and trudged alongside Jason back to the waiting women. Jezia was crouched, studying the knot tying the nearby barge to shore. Alanna was still marveling at their surroundings, Aynor’s variety of lights dancing in her blue eyes.

“I’ve never seen Aynor as a guest before.” She sighed as Mirram drew level with her, then met his gaze with a wistful smile, “I was always part of the decoration, part of the city.”

Mirram’s heart tightened as he gathered her into his arms. As if spurred by her sentiments, Jason too peered at the faraway bridges.

“And I struggle to not price everything in sight.” He agreed with a laugh. When Jezia straightened, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, gazing fondly down at the beaming girl, “But tonight, I’ll try my best. We’ll rest and enjoy.”

Alas, his promise was not to last. Having bade the caravan farewell for the night, they asked their way to the inn Meya had reserved for them. Before the gates of the Dragon’s Crossing Inn, however, Jason found himself wondering if he was back at the Crimson Hog.

Jason gawked at the copper sign embossed with a snarling dragon hanging from the stone post, consulted Meya’s letter, then blinked at the sheer sprawl of the establishment. The mansion hogged the entire stretch of land between two lanes for itself, its limewashed wall carpeted with vines. Peeking between swathes of blooming blue lobelia, its two-dozen-or-so windows set in two rows cast their warm glow upon the town square.

A handsome horse trotted by them, pulling a magnificent white carriage onto the inn’s courtyard. Its door swung open. Out spilled a belly draped in fine fabric, pinned with gleaming golden buttons, followed by a bald, mustachioed head. A doorman bowed him and his beautiful young mistress inside.

Alanna tugged her cloak over her shabby dress then leaned towards Jason,

“Jason, we pick up Meya here then we move on to our lodgings for the night, do we?”

Jason met her unblinking eyes, then scoured the letter for a second destination, even as he knew he’d find none. He shook his head,

“No, this is where we stay the night.”

A moment of silence as three pairs of eyes gawked at him, then Alanna turned again to the inn.

“I take it Meya’s serving in the Lady’s chambers, then.” She nodded slowly, then a trembling smile lit her face aglow, “What an honor. And how so generous of the Lady. She must be a favorite, Mirram!”

Alanna rattled her husband’s arm in excitement. Mirram stood blinking dumbly up at the towering shadow that was the inn,

“I guess Freda does perform miracles.” He said hoarsely. However, having finally realized what this entailed, Jezia faltered, shaking her head, her face bone-white in the light of the lamppost,

“I don’t care how much of an honor it is, I am not sleeping next to Lady Arinel’s chamberpot.”

“Hush, Jezia.” Jason scolded. The three adults met eyes, then ventured forth as one. Jezia shuffled in their wake, grumbling about Meya forcing her to share in her torment and how she’d empty Lady Arinel’s digested dinner on Meya’s head the following morning.

The doorman eyed them from windswept hair to raggedy hay slippers as they lined up before him. Jason cleared his throat,

“This is Mirram and Alanna Hild.” He gestured at the couple, who nodded vigorously. “Their daughter Meya serves the Lady Hadrian, and the Lady has graciously allowed us to meet her here.”

The doorman’s suspicion melted to terror, which he hid with a bow, then surfaced with a nervous smile.

“Ah, you’re guests of the Lady Hild?”

Alanna shared raised eyebrows with Mirram and Jason, then corrected with a hasty grin,

“Yes, but just Meya Hild—”

“Please, do come in. I shall lead the way.”

The doorman bowed and thrust back the door, seeming not to have heard the last part. After sharing another round of befuddled looks, the four trooped inside. Perhaps the inn referred to every guest as Lord or Lady as a rule, concluded Jason. That didn’t explain the Crimson Hog, however.

The doorman led them across the bright chandelier-lit hall, up the varnished wooden staircase, then down the carpeted floor of the left wing. He stopped halfway through, between two gleaming oaken doors.

“This room is for Sir and Madam Hild. And this room is for Sir and Madam Boszel.” He flourished his hand towards the door on the left, the right, then beyond,

“The Lady Hild is with the Lord Hadrian’s entourage in the right wing. I shall notify her of your arrival. Please wait inside. She will be visiting presently.”

He handed keys to Mirram and Jason, bowed deeply then retreaded his footsteps. Jason watched his shrinking figure until he knocked on a door deep into the right wing and vanished into the room, shared another look of bewilderment with Alanna, then filed into the Hilds’ room.

Now that she wouldn’t be roommates with the Lady’s chamberpot, Jezia’s mood lifted. She dashed into the room, prancing from one luxury to another. Jason dragged his tired feet towards the nearest chair by the fireplace, halfheartedly chiding her.

Mirram, however, had on a dark expression as he eyed the four-poster bed peeking from behind blue silk curtains, the roaring stone fireplace hosting a circle of high-backed wooden chairs, the powder-blue carpet woven with golden thread, the windows offering a view of the bustling town square. His fist clenched over the knot of his bundle, he stood in the doorway, not even deigning to set down their belongings or take one step further.

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Alanna knew his suspicions. She took his hand in hers and ran her free hand down his arm, soothing his tense muscles.

“Could just be a courtesy for me. You know they always do that.” She whispered with a mischievous smile and tilt of her head. Mirram melted at the twinkle in her blue eyes. Sighing, he left his bundle by the door and trudged inside. He’d barely touched his behind on the chair across from Jason when the door flew open with a bang, and he shot straight back to his feet.

For a breath, he thought it was Marin who had burst in, wrapped in a flowing dress of blood-red silk and flashing silver embroidery, rich rose-gold hair unfettered but for the part woven into a net braid, freckles powdered into oblivion, her smile radiant as the dawn. Yet, her eyes were glowing acid-green. They found Mirram before the fireplace, and she scampered in.

“Mum! Dad! Jason!”

Meya squealed as she shook their limp arms, then threw herself at Jason, almost bowling him over in the process.

“Meya, my good lass!” Jason laughed heartily as he slapped her back, then peered over her head at those who’d trooped in after her, familiar faces among them, “And Silvan and Sanvell! And Diana, too! It’s so good to see you all again. May I say, you look healthier than the last time we met, dear boy.”

He nodded approvingly at gangly Silvan, who inflated as if he’d swallowed a puff from a bellows. He, too, was wearing blood-red robes threaded with silver.

“I am healthier, Jason. Albeit only slightly. I still have a ways to go.” He corrected with pride, then stepped aside to reveal the man and woman behind him, “My parents, Silas and Vaila.”

Silas and Vaila were also dressed in the same crimson and silver robes. Something stirred in Mirram’s memory at the sight of the vivid red. Jason hurried forth and shook Silas’s hand, ever eager to strike new gold.

“Jason Boszel, good sir. This is my daughter Jezia. Humble merchants at your service. I’ve met your sons once, but it’s plain you’ve raised such fine young men. Sharp, too! I’d say Silvan here would make an awesome detective.”

Jason shared a few chuckles with the unabashed Silvan. Mirram frowned as he glanced between the Boszels and the new youngsters, having caught the air of familiarity they enjoyed.

“You know them?” Jason spun around at his tone of disbelief, nodding earnestly.

“They’re Meya’s friends from the castle. The Joplund boys and Diana Crestine. We met last time in Hadrian.”

Mirram studied them one by one. Silvan and Sanvell weathered his scrutiny. Diana, however, dipped her head and hid behind her curtains of brown curls. She eerily resembled Lady Arinel. Alanna didn’t seem to notice, though—she’d heard the word ‘friends’.

“Oh, thank Freda.” She scurried forth, shaking both of Diana’s hands, gushing, “I was so worried she wouldn’t make any friends. Thank you so much for putting up with—all this.”

“Mum!” Meya cried, glaring at her mother’s gesturing hands. Silvan’s yellow-toothed grin seemed frozen on his pale face.

“Eh...not at all. It has been our pleasure, I assure you.” He answered Meya’s gaze. She was no longer glowering, nor he smiling. An awkward silence fell as the gathering turned as one to Mirram, as if awaiting his reaction.

Mirram lingered briefly on the others, then honed in on Meya. She clasped trembling hands over her middle, her eyes wide and fearful, barely blinking as her rouged lips quivered as if bursting with words. Words of apology Mirram realized then he didn’t need to hear. He stepped forth and drew a deep breath,

“Meya, I’m sorry. For—what I said.” He imagined Alanna rolling her eyes behind his back. Hours of rehearsing, wasted. Or perhaps not—Meya’s eyes filled with tears. He reached over and gave her hair a couple awkward pats, shaking his head.

“I dun want to scare you, but I dunno how else to tell you. I reckon, I may have lost my temper a bit too soon, but—we have a new Lord Crosset now, and—”

Meya’s small, feverish hand rested on his arm. He broke off and raised his eyes. Tear tracks gleamed on Meya’s cheeks over her exposed freckles. Her lips trembled from the sobs she held in.

“Dad, I know.” She whispered, “I was exiled. The Lady told me.”

“Lady Arinel?” Mirram’s eyes widened. Meya nodded. As Mirram wondered if it was out of compassion or spite, Meya shared a long look with Silvan, who dipped a single, firm nod. She turned back to Mirram, her head hung, her shoulders shaking, her hands now clawlike, clutching at her belly.

“Dad, I—I gotta tell you this, too.” A foreboding notion curled in Mirram’s stomach as he watched Meya hunch lower as if in agony. But no, it couldn’t possibly be. How could he possibly have two daughters pregnant out of wedlock in less than two months? The fault couldn’t have been Alanna’s—she was a woman of flawless repute. He couldn’t have failed this abysmally as a father, could he?

As the weight of the mystery threatened to buckle his knees, Meya raised her tear-streaked face, sniffling,

“Please don’t disown me, Dad.” She squeaked, slowly shaking her head. “I’m so sorry. I’m pregnant.”

Behind him, Alanna crumpled to the floor. Meya glanced at her, fresh tears falling at the sight of her mother’s heartbreak, then returned to Mirram with bated breath.

Mirram couldn’t move just yet. His eyes roamed the room. The luxury inn. The lavish dress. The rouge and powder. The pomp and titles. Honest hard work! She must’ve slept her way up to Lady Arinel’s bedside. Loyal confidante to one, lustful mistress to the other. Ice sped up his veins like disease, crushing his lungs, shattering his heart.

Meya gingerly took his hand. He flung her off. She recoiled, then mustered her courage,

“You dun have to worry. I’m keeping the babe. He’ll marry me proper. I won’t bring no shame upon your name, I swear. No-one will know—”

The ice in his arm broke, and Mirram swung. Meya crashed to the floor. With a scream, Alanna flung herself over the girl, sobbing. Meya picked herself up, crying in earnest now. Blood trickled from her split lips. Mirram turned over his hand. A drop of red glinted on his palm.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I just wanted to know what it feels like. I just love him. I’m so, so sorry.”

It was then that Mirram realized just how wrong he was, just how terrible a father he had been. For even believing such a thing of his own daughter. His poor, lonesome, lost daughter. He fell to his knees and pulled her into his arms. Meya crumpled against his chest, bawling as she had never done in years.

“Dad, I’m sorry.” She blubbered. Mirram smoothed his rough palm down her hair then pressed his lips to her crown.

“’Tis alright. ’Tis alright, lass.” He murmured distractedly, his imagination running wild, “Did he force you? Hurt you? Trick you?” He demanded sharply.

Meya peeled her face from his shirt, mopping it with the back of her hand.

“No, Dad. I was willing.” She froze, then lowered her head in shame, mumbling, “Actually, I—I kinda tricked him into it.”

Alanna wailed and clapped her hands to her face, smoldering to a heap. Meya hung her head.

“I’m sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry.” She sobbed. Mirram shook his head. Cursing through gritted teeth, he snatched Meya’s arm, yanked her to her feet, then flung her headfirst towards the door. Silvan caught her as she stumbled.

“Fetch your things. You’re going home. We set off first light tomorrow.” Barked Mirram over his shoulder as he stormed about, searching for his bundle.

“Dad, wait—” cried Meya desperately from Silvan’s arms. Mirram spotted his bundle where he left it beside the door and marched in—then someone stepped squarely into his warpath.

“Farmer Hild!”

Mirram cocked an eyebrow. Thin, pale, brown-haired Silvan Joplund. For a blink, the realization froze his heart, then rage like iron tongues of flame strangled it. So, this was the bastard who befouled his little girl.

The boy wetted his cracked lips, scorched dry by the ray of pure hatred flaring from Mirram’s eyes. Yet, he held firm, his gray eyes barely blinking as he sank heavily to one knee.

“The child is mine. Please. Allow me to ask Meya’s hand in marriage.”

Mirram stared down his nose at the boy, hands curled into shaking fists.

“You should’ve asked before you ruined her with your filthy seed, you mongrel!” He swung his fist back with a roar. Silvan squeezed his eyes shut, braced for the blow, but Meya had thrown herself at Mirram’s arm, shrieking her guts out—

“DAD! NO! HE’S REALLY—”

“Silence, Meya!” Silvan snapped. So did whatever was left of Mirram’s restraint—

"YOU DON’T TELL MY DAUGHTER TO SILENCE AS I LIVE AND BREATHE, YOU SON OF A—”

“HE’S CORIS HADRIAN, DAD!”

Meya bellowed. Mirram continued to struggle in the few moments it took for her voice to reach his brain, for his brain to digest her words. His arms fell limply to his side as he stared down at the boy in bewilderment.

So, his guess was correct, after all? Meya was Lord Hadrian’s mistress?

Coris picked himself to his feet, straightening his clothes as he went.

“Farmer Hild. We haven’t met.” He swallowed, eyeing Mirram warily. His hands remained at his side, not extended for a kiss as was customary of nobility. “I am Corien, Lord of Hadrian.”

Mirram showed no outward signs of acknowledgment. Coris shared a swift look with Meya, then decided to set the remaining stories straight,

“This is my father, Baron Kellis. My mother, Baroness Sylvia. My brother, Zier. And, of course, Lady Arinel of Crosset.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Jason appeared green in the face as he mulled over his most recent dealings. Jezia muttered ‘I knew it,’ then sighed heavily. The hyperventilating Alanna massaged her heart as if it would stop. Lord Zier pursed his lips as if he’d wished nothing more than to bust out a roar of laughter.

Coris shot his younger brother a look promising revenge, then returned to Mirram with a little bow.

“I apologize for the deception. I did not wish for you to learn who I am until you have given your blessing. I wanted to prove my worth as a simple man who loves your daughter, and wishes nothing more than to do right by her. Not as Lord Hadrian.”

Still, Mirram said nothing. Desperate to unwind the tension, Meya crept nervously up to him once more,

“Dad, Coris did nothing wrong.” She clasped her hands above her heart in plea, “I was disguised as Lady Arinel, then. He didn’t know I wasn’t his wife. It was my fault—”

“—And my fault as well, Meya.” Coris added sharply. He turned back to Mirram, his expression grim, “Even after I learned she’s not my lawful wife, I continued our affair in secret until she fell pregnant. You deserve to know.”

Mirram narrowed his eyes as he peered into those defiant gray eyes. The boy’s honesty would have impressed him, perhaps, if he remained the commoner he first said he was.

“And what do you expect me to say, milord?” He hitched up a sardonic smile, fury roiling under his calm voice, “I am but a lowly farmer. Should you desire Meya and your child, I have no right to keep them from you.”

“Yes, you do. The choice is yours, Farmer Hild,” said Coris simply. At Mirram’s frown, he dipped his head, acknowledging his suspicion, “Of course, I’m willing to support Meya and our child, but I shall claim them for Hadrian only with your permission. That you may rest assured of.”

Mirram blinked, hardly believing his ears. Meya was a mere peasant girl. Lord Hadrian could’ve taken her by force, could’ve ripped her babe from her arms if he so wished, and the most Mirram could’ve done would be to die trying—and failing—to prevent that. Could he trust his words? Why was he so generous to Meya?

“Meya, how could this happen?” Alanna cried out the same questions pummeling inside his skull, “Why were you even disguised as Lady Arinel in the first place? Why have you kept this from us for all this time?”

“That is what we’d dearly love to know as well,” said Baroness Sylvia as she coolly observed her son, arms folded over her bosom.

Meya and Coris locked eyes across the divide. The young lord held out his arms, and the peasant girl toddled into his embrace. The two then took turns sharing the tale of their three chance meetings, spread over the course of seven years, and the ancient quest they had decided to unearth, which had brought them from the forests of Crosset, across sand and over water, to the cobblestones of Aynor.