The Valley of Ten Crescents Series (Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Tristan J. Tarwater

  “Not even for a free drink? With good company?” he asked. Tender shook the bottle.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure Cera will have plenty to drink at hers,” Tavera replied, grinning. “Besides, you have customers to see to and talk to, right? You spend too much time talking to me, Tender. Tend to your customers.”

  “Alright, have your game,” Tender said.

  “So nice of you to allow it,” Tavera quipped. “Don’t go and do anything rash while I have my bets,” she chided, wagging a finger at him.

  “I’ll see what I can do, Miss Point,” Tender said, smiling. “I’ll give you that free drink tomorrow.”

  Tavera cocked her head to the side. “Who says I’ll be here tomorrow?” She watched his brows knit on his forehead. “I’m going to win some money tonight and hit the road. I’ll be in Ayilkin proper well before supper, even if I have a nap for midday meal.”

  “Tomorrow?” Tender said. It was almost a squeak.

  “Yeah, know anyone heading into the Barony tomorrow? I’ll walk if I have to, but a ride is always nice.”

  “I…don’t think so,” Tender said. He seemed less interested in the drink now, his eyes set on the bar top.

  “Ah, well, a long walk it is.” Tavera smirked, and turned and left the bar, walking past a couple entering. She pulled her hood up and looked around, trying to remember how to get to Black Cera’s house. A few lamps lit the streets, illuminating the packed dirt roads of the town. Tavera found the street she was supposed to take and started down. Dark clouds wafted across the sky, a crescent moon shining beyond their reach. Tavera sniffed the air. It smelled like rain. She pulled her jacket about her more tightly and walked on, pushing thoughts of Tender from her mind and wondering what she would win at cards tonight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Stranger

  Tavera opened the door to her room and stopped. She wanted to laugh but she didn’t. Instead she walked inside, closing the door behind her. Tavera could still feel the effects of Cera’s home-brewed spirits but she could tell when someone was in her room. It was sad, really. “I’m surprised it took you this long to sneak into my room.” she said loudly.

  The room was dark but the faint light of a moon which was somewhere between a crescent and a half licked at the edges of the man sitting on her bed. He moved, falling into the light so Tavera could see the visage of the nosy barkeep, surprise still playing under his mustache. He brushed his hair back before he shrugged. Even in the dark she saw the gesture. “Well, no need to drag it out. Are you leaving?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, sitting on the bed next to him and nudging him hard with her shoulder as she unbuckled her boots. He scooted over a bit as she kicked off one boot and then the other. “My game went well. I’m thinking I should get myself to a place I can spend my winnings. Nothing here I really want to spend them on.” Tavera turned her face upward, locking onto Tender. “What’re you still doing here?”

  Her words made the barkeep stand up finally. He seemed uncomfortable in the dark, looking around and taking a few steps so his back was against the wall. She couldn’t help but half snort, half laugh as he bumped into something, the sound of metal and leather clattering to the floor. Tavera knelt down, picking up the shortsword, bringing it as close to Tender as she could without it touching him, leaning it up against the stool again. The man squirmed slightly and Tavera found a smirk remaining on her lips as she started to remove her belt.

  “Where’d you get that sword?” he asked, his voice seeming less steady. Tavera threw her belt to the side, the buckle hitting something before it fell to the floor.

  “What are you doing in my room?” she asked, deliberately keeping her voice low and calm to contrast his. Thin fingers began to pull at the cords of her underbust, loosening the article of clothing. The thin, taut fabric fell away, her shirt billowing slightly freed from the restrictive garment. A few items she had hidden in her bodice fell to the ground as well, bouncing and scattering as they struck the wooden floor. Tavera cursed, kneeling to pick them up, Tender doing the same. She heard him grunt as some part of him hit the side of the bed

  “Is it your room now? Have you grown attached to it?” Tender handed something to her; the cool, thin shape of it told her it was a pin. Tavera threaded it into the abandoned bodice, tilting her head to the side as she faced Tender.

  “Not attached, no. I’ll be able to leave it easy enough.” Tavera quickly undid the buttons of her skirts, slipping them off before laying the thick garment on top of the bodice. She stood there in her shift, feeling chilled but resisting the urge to shiver. “I don’t stay in any one place too long,” she continued. “I move about. It’s my way.” She put her hands on his broad shoulders, turning him around, pointing him toward the door. “The door’s that way. Don’t slam it, I expect they’ve all fallen back asleep by now.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Tender hissed, wheeling around. The moonlight coming through the window played off the lines of his face as he stood before her. Tavera crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her chin out, waiting for whatever it was he had to say. “I asked you a question,” Tender said, more calmly. “This is my tavern. I have a responsibility to my patrons as a business owner and to the people of this town as their leader. Now tell me, Miss Point,” he said. He paused. For a moment she thought maybe he would drop the question but instead he just looked sad. “Why do you have a sword?”

  Her mouth went dry as the words registered. Why was he asking? Dark eyes searched his face and all she saw there was earnestness and concern. He didn’t ask in a malicious or even an accusatory way. For a moment she thought of Lori, who was not supposed to be on watch when the heist had gone down. There was something in Tender’s face which reminded her of him. She turned her face away, tears glimmering briefly in her eyes. As quickly as the thoughts had sprung up, she squashed them. Tavera kept her voice steady as she answered him.

  “I have the sword for the same reason most people have them. To stab people. Or at least make them think I’ll stab them. And as I’m leaving in the morning, you won’t have to worry about the safety of your patrons much longer. I doubt I’ll hack them to pieces between now and morning.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “It was a gift from a madman. At least that’s what I’ve heard of the man who gave it to me.”

  “And can you use it?” Now Tender’s voice was quiet. She felt like Tender knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it but asked all the same.

  “I wouldn’t carry a sword if I didn’t know how to use it,” Tavera said.

  There was a moment of silence in the room. A chill wind began to blow through the open window and Tavera stepped quietly toward it, closing it and drawing the latch to lock it. For a breath she thought Tender would leave the room but instead he just stood there. She heard him breathing, could almost hear him thinking.

  “Will you go for a walk with me?” Tender asked at last.

  Tavera looked to the side, not sure what to say. She was tired after a night of gambling and drinking; but after tomorrow she would probably never see Tender again, not unless she wanted to. Tavera finally nodded and pulled her skirts back on, not bothering to slip on her bodice. Instead she just smirked when Tender held her cloak out to her and took it, draping it about her shoulders. He held the door open for her, following her down the stairs and unlocking the door to the tavern before they stepped out into the night.

  It was still cold outside, the breeze biting through her cloak and sleeves. Tavera shivered slightly, hugging herself with her arms. Tender didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold night air. The village was quiet. Only a few windows were yellow with light, most of the people having turned in long ago. The farmhouse she had been gambling at was now just another black shape against a black sky, the ornery farmers probably going to bed not too long after she had left. Her thoughts strayed to what Tender wanted to talk about on the walk. Was this about her gambling? The weapon?

  “Tende
r has not always been our family name,” he started, his deep voice clear, his tone implying he was beginning a story. They continued for another few paces before he began again. “Our family name back in the old country of Haran used to be Baya, which means ‘Way Seeker.’ I come from a long line of caravan leaders, trail blazers and sky readers. Our family was in the business of helping people through wild places, back when all families were back east, in Holy Haran.”

  “How do you know this?” Tavera asked. It wasn’t entirely common for families in the Valley to be able to trace back their Haranian roots, with good reason. Many of the families who came to the Valley had suffered in Haran, wishing to put the abuse and terror behind them as they settled into the Valley. Many had chosen new family names upon their arrival, or so the priestesses said in their sermons.

  “My mam told me all this,” Tender said. A proud smile crossed his face, his eyes shining with nostalgia. “Ever since I was a little boy, she told me stories of our family beginnings, especially because us Tenders were so few at that point. Just me, her and Little.” He paused and the bit of happiness Tavera had seen faded slightly. He sighed. “In the region of Haran they came from, the family was well known. They were employed by wealthy nobles, able to find and secure safe, fast ways to get their goods from one territory to the next. The family worked together, forming a business of sorts, one part of the family taking one area, one part taking another, passing everything along,” he said.

  “Then, the war happened,” he continued. “The land began to separate, not physically, but…morally, idealistically.” Tender paused and looked towards his bar, the temple for the town. “It started in the pulpits and trickled down to the pews before spilling out onto the streets. People began to fight, using what they believed in their hearts as fuel to put their hands to violence. Old agreements went unhonored, contracts were burned and the repercussions physical. Houses no longer dealt with one another at best. Families began to come apart. My family was not spared from the infighting. They took sides. The only blood that mattered was that which was spilled.

  “However, my great-grandfather refused to take up arms. He tried to win people over with sense, asking how they could kill people they had been allies with just a season ago. He did not condemn the changes taking place but he publicly renounced the methods people were using to achieve it. People threatened him and his family. They set fire to his home, to his stores, destroyed his livelihood.” Tender winced and Tavera frowned in sympathy. “Yet he refused to draw a sword against someone just because their ideas were different and he would not kill someone in a religious fervor.”

  They stopped in front of a fence, Tender leaning against the split rails. Tavera stood opposite him, wondering about Tender’s ancestors and their own steadfast natures. “When the conflicts died down,” Tender started up again, “and the resolutions had been made, as we know, there were still those who were unhappy with the results. Our people, those who would come to live in the Valley, felt betrayed by their country and left. My great-grandfather was ostracized for not picking a side, for not killing people’s sons and daughters in the fray. He found himself disillusioned and when the Separatists left, he went with them, taking his daughter and wife with him. But not before garnering the nickname, ‘Tender,’ since the people believed he did not pick a side out of weakness and not because of the strength of his convictions. He wore it with pride and when his son was born, he gave it to him as his surname, as well as changing the name of his daughter to match when they did the Valley census.”

  Tavera could only nod as Tender told the story, his voice low and nostalgic as he told the tale. She had heard about the origins of the people of Ten Crescents, how they had come to escape religious persecution, to start anew after years of fighting in a faraway land called Haran. The stories of the great leaders were told on every Founders’ Day, about how they traveled for weeks and dealt with harsh terrain and harsh weather and creatures, all to escape oppression, and how they found this valley after a huge earthquake, the crescent lakes showing that the Lunar Goddess had indeed set this place aside for them.

  But she had never heard anyone speak of their family specifically, never heard an actual name inserted into the stream of events, save the great leaders of the Seperatists on Founder’s Day. As the story unfolded, Tender seemed to stand up taller, grow bigger, the same tranquility that she had noticed on his face during the fight lying on his features. He looked as if he was the hero in the story he’d just told.

  Tender stopped walking, turning to face Tavera. The night was still except for the sound of a horse snorting. Tavera tilted her head up slightly, looking into his eyes. The man was smiling, his eyes warm as he looked at her. “Do you know why I am telling you this, Miss Point?”

  “I don’t, to be honest,” Tavera said.

  “I am telling you this because I don’t want you to leave thinking that I am a fool,” Tender said. “I wanted to explain why I am the way I am. It’s in my blood to help people and I don’t mind doing it. The Tenders have a history of sticking by what they believe in and what they believe is to do what is right. Now I know you aren’t out and out bad. I’ve seen you talking to people around town, helping some children with their games and such. But I also saw you at the temple meeting and you looked so distressed.”

  Tavera turned her face away from Tender. She could tell he wanted to put his hand on her cheek or her shoulder, to comfort her with a touch, but he didn’t. “You’re too pretty to look so sad. Tell me…what is wrong?”

  Tavera wanted to smack him away. She didn’t want to answer. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Thoughts of Derk had sprung up during the sermon. Kella had spoken of the moonflower growing best on disturbed earth, dirt which had been upturned, and how it grew best on graves. Out of death and turmoil, the beauty of the flower proliferated. Her father’s capture and Lori certainly made Tavera feel like upturned earth, strange hands digging into her and turning her around.

  Could something beautiful bloom from her life in the state it was in? Where would the seeds come from? Sitting before Kella, Tavera had come to grips with the fact her life had never really been smooth planting, had it? But with Derk she had had some stability. Company. Love. Now what did she have? The Cup, possibly, if she could find them. And this Tender, standing before her, waiting for an answer as to why she was so sad.

  Before she could say anything, she heard a door slam open, light from within throwing an orange glow before the doorway. Two figures stepped out of a house, the first one stumbling over the threshold as if pushed. Tavera narrowed her eyes, trying to see who was being thrown out of their home, her heart thumping as she realized it was Kella, the priestess. From where Tavera stood she saw the priestess’ face was stricken with fear. The sister’s eyes went wide as they fell upon her and Tender. “Tender!” she called out, panic in her voice. “Help me!”

  “Kella!” Tender shouted, running toward the small house. Tavera ran after him, stopping just a few paces away from where Kella stood. Whoever had pushed the priestess out of her own home emerged from behind Kella, standing alongside her. He grabbed her by the hair. Kella’s head jerked back sharply as he brought a small sickle to her neck. The long, thin shine of the blade glinted in the scant light of the evening.

  The man was of an average height with brushed-back reddish hair. His skin was pale, almost deathly so and though his face was not old, it was worn by weather and bad living. Tavera cringed at the main feature of his face. His left eye, plucked out long ago was the focal point of a long, crescent-shaped scar running from his forehead, over his eye and under his nose. It gave his face a wicked appearance. The strange man snarled as he pressed the knife to the priestess’ throat, pulling her with him as he took a step back.

  “Take one step closer,” he hissed, his voice sending shivers down Tavera’s back, “and I will paint her dress red, do you understand me?”

  Tavera’s eyes darted to the side, looking to the horse and then thr
ough the open doorway. He had obviously come a long way. She glimpsed a table with a pitcher on it, one mug on the floor, a chair on its side as if it had been knocked over. Tavera scanned the priestess’ face and found a hint of shame trying to hide behind her fear.

  “I don’t think you will,” Tavera said, holding her hands up and not daring to take a step closer. She saw Tender looking at her out of the corner of her eye but she fixed her gaze on the strange, ugly man, tilting her chin toward him. “I know you don’t want to hurt her and you don’t have to. Let’s just all --”

  “How DARE YOU!” came the loud, booming voice of the barkeep, the shock of his words almost making Tavera take a step back. Obviously he didn’t think they should talk. Tender panted, his eyes shimmering with rage as they focused on the thin man before them. “You have the gall to threaten the PRIESTESS of this community?” His hands were balled into fists, his eyes dead-set and cold as he glared at the stranger. “Sir, you will unhand her or I will thrash you for daring to do such a thing!”

  “I will not unhand her,” the man shouted. He pushed the priestess to the ground, the older woman screaming. As soon as she was out of his way, Tender rushed the man, fists raised to do battle.

  Tender swung, a powerful blow which should have sent the man to the ground. The stranger was unmoved. The impact of the blow did nothing but shock the barkeep in its inability to hurt him. “Tits,” Tender cursed, as the strange man focused his eyes on the barkeep. Tavera’s heart pumped in her chest. She knelt, drawing her dagger from her boot, looking to where Kella lay on the ground. The priestess sobbed, her body rocking up and down, her face hidden. Tavera wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the dagger and looked back to Tender and the man. The man’s gloved fist struck Tender squarely across the jaw, sending him reeling. The stranger then sent a booted foot squarely into Tender’s gut, doubling him over.