THE LEGENDS OF ARRIA BOOK 1:
THE SMILING STALLION INN
By
Courtney Bowen
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
Published by
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC
Copyright Ó 2016 by Courtney Bowen
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-68299-210-4
Credits
Cover Artist: Kelly Martin
Editor: Merrylee Lanehart
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part Three
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
Torrid
Dedication
For my friends and family who believed in my dreams, and for all of the writers who inspired me over the years. Thank you all for being a part of my life and loves.
Arria is a land of rocky shores, myths and legends, of mist and magic, mystery and music. It’s a song that’s both familiar and unfamiliar. Like the woman who stands alone at center stage, singing her heart out, it moves you to the depths of your soul for one brief, yet long moment in the middle of the chaotic opera of life.
Part One
The Militia Tryouts
Chapter 1
On The Threshold
“Marry me, my dear, and I’ll give you
A bed of roses to sleep on. Marry me, my dear,
And I’ll give you the dreams we’ve to share.
Marry me, my dear, and you will know only happiness.”
—Love song from Mirandor
“You could wait, you know,” Oaka said to his younger brother, Basha.
“Wait for what?” Basha snapped, feeling nervous. He was already up, getting dressed in his freshest, finest clothes while Oaka lay abed in linen shirt and breeches, hands tucked beneath his head, his black hair a tousled, uncombed mess.
“In a few more years, you both might be ready.” Oaka answered.
“I’m not going to wait a few more years. If I wait…” He turned around to face Oaka, a little fed up with his brother’s criticisms. “…she might marry somebody else.” And that was the last thing he wanted. He was seventeen years old, and he was going to make this his best year ever by doing all of the things he’d wanted to do, but had never dared, namely proposing to his beloved Jawen. “Besides…” He turned back around to fix his tie in the small mirror inside the door of his armoire. “…Jawen will be ready to wed me; I know she will.”
“You know nothing for sure.”
Basha looked at the small bouquet of flowers atop the armoire, flowers he’d present to Jawen upon his proposal. New blossoms didn’t have the full strength and beauty later flowers possessed, but Mila be praised, he was grateful there were flowers to be had at all this early in the season.
His lips thinned as he returned his attention to his brother. “What is the matter with you anyway? Aren’t you nervous?”
“Why should I be?” Oaka said as he stared up at the ceiling’s wood beams.
Oaka was always at ease, like a cat after a kill, but Basha sensed there was something amiss with him. “You’re going to ask for Sisila tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes of course. Who else would I ask for?” Oaka asked and then inhaled sharply, sitting up in bed. “You don’t know that Jawen will marry somebody else.”
“She’s one of the most desirable girls in town.” Basha sighed, shaking off his unease as he pulled out his waistcoat and slipped his arms into the armholes. “As the merchant Lapo’s eldest daughter, she’s going to have a whole slew of beaus wanting to marry her for her father’s wealth and position, most notably Hastin.”
“And get Lapo for a father-in-law?” Oaka cringed. “The man’s a cheat, no matter how much wealth or power he possesses; Father said so. So who would want to marry his daughter…besides you, of course,” he amended, rolling his eyes.”
“Careful, Oaka,” Basha said, shaking a finger at his older brother before he pulled the waistcoat across his chest and started buttoning it up. “That cheat is also Jawen’s father. If you so much as say anything critical about him to her—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll give me a good wallop.”
“She’ll be part of our family if she likes me well enough to marry me.”
“Which is a big if, in my opinion,” Oaka muttered.
“Shut up!” Basha cried and then sighed as he realized that he wasn’t at all surprised by Oaka’s response. “Don’t you care enough about me, Oaka, to at least stop criticizing me all the time?”
“What are you talking about, Basha? I don’t criticize you all of the time.”
“I don’t want your opinion if you’re not going to be helpful. Why are you so against me and Jawen?”
“Because she’s not right for you,” Oaka insisted.
“Then who is right for me? Because I don’t see a whole lot of girls lining up to pound on the door of the inn for me to woo. Well, what can I offer them?”
“Yourself,” Oaka said begrudgingly.
“So how much is that worth in the big scheme of things?” He sighed. “Look, Lapo’s wealth and power don’t matter much to me. Yet I can’t earn as much as Lapo does to support Jawen.”
Basha turned to solemnly appraise himself in the mirror. He was a rather unimpressive figure when compared to some of the other boys in town, like Hastin and even Oaka. He could hardly be called homely, yet he wasn’t exactly handsome either. He was of medium build, not athletic, but with muscular arms and legs from working in the fields and training with a sword.
He wasn’t striking, like one of the ancient Knights of Arria, who had faced the evil of Doomba. He was just his humble and mediocre self, which frightened him most of all. Would he be enough for Jawen? Or was he just spitting into the wind, thinking he even had a chance with her?
Oaka hemmed and hawed a bit, as if he wanted to say something else to bolster his brother’s confidence, but Basha smiled forlornly and shook his head. “You know it’s true, Oaka. You’re going to inherit the inn; there’s nothing else for me to offer Jawen but myself and my promise to support her.”
“You know you will always have a place at the Inn.”
&nbs
p; “Yes, but you’re the oldest, the trueborn son of my adoptive parents. It all passes down to you by rights, whereas I have no family, at least none I know of. When my mother gave birth to me and died, she left me with nothing. Everything I have and am, I owe to your parents. I’m destitute.”
“Basha, it’s not that bad!” Oaka said.
“Even if I stay on at the inn, to work for you, I won’t have enough money to support Jawen. I’ll have to go into the militia or the Border Guards. But first, my application would have to be accepted and then there would be training…” His voice trailed off as he turned away from Oaka. “What am I doing?” he asked, hanging his head, “I’ve no hope to win Jawen’s hand.”
People walked by him every day without more than a casual glance. They knew him, these townspeople of Coe Baba, knew everything about him—except no one knew who his real family was or whether his birth parents were rich or poor, so his social status was unknown. He was unquantifiable in the legal sense, as no one could prove whether or not he was an illegitimate orphan.
He knew people looked upon him differently than the rest of his adoptive family. Perhaps his birth mother had done something wrong to bring shame upon her child? He didn’t know for certain, but he’d heard rumors. Were they true?
He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish I’d never been born,” Basha lamented.
“Oh, come on, Basha. Don’t be so melodramatic. Nothing in your life is as bad as you make out.”
Basha shrugged. “Try living my life sometime and you’ll see what I mean.” But he straightened himself. “I still have to try, though.” And he grabbed the bouquet.
* * * *
“Penniless Miller, come singing on the road, the lovely maiden passes by with a hope,” Basha sang as he walked down the main road of Coe Baba, adjusting the tie around his neck. “Blow her a kiss, and dance away from haven.”
His other hand gripped the bouquet of early-blooming flowers, barely more than weeds at this point. He had to watch his footing as the road was still wet from the thaw. He was glad the worst of Sna, the snow season, was behind them now. The rain would turn the last of the snow to slush and then run off once the sun shone brighter and the temperature warmed.
It was the first day of a new year and the first season of Reda, the season of rebirth in between the seasons of Sna, snow, and Plig, planting. For five months now, ever since their first kiss—if he didn’t count the months they’d been apart over a lover’s tiff—Basha had dated Jawen. Every night during their separation, he’d seen her sweet face in his dreams and so yearned so desperately for her, it was indeed a pain he’d had to endure.
Once he’d turned onto the side road that led south and west from the town square, he continued to sing. “I love you, I love you, that’s all I want to say. I love you, I love you, that’s all I want to sing.” I just hope I can say it and sing it without the door slamming in my face, he thought to himself.
He was now surrounded by the houses of Coe Baba’s rich, which wasn’t anything like his own neighborhood. He stepped around a herd of sheep headed for the fields by the river running through the baron’s estate and stopped to stare at Jawen’s magnificent home. It was a large brick house second only in size to the baron’s palatial estate at the very end of the lane. Two stories tall with blue shutters and red trim, the colors were almost too similar to the Baron of Coe Baba’s heraldic colors. A decorative cornice ran along the roofline, and pilasters supported a roof over the front porch. All of the windows of Lapo’s house, including the large dormer windows on the second floor, were casement windows with delicate, fragile, and expensive glass panes.
He rubbed his thumb over his scarred and calloused palm. He’d earned the imperfections through honest hard work at the inn and in his fencing classes taught by Sir Nickleby. He hoped Jawen would see his calluses and scars as signs he could support her with hard work. But he also wished he had smoother hands so he could hold her hand without his skin brushing roughly over hers.
Basha hesitated approaching the house. He wondered if he should go up to the front door or turn around and go home, but then Jawen wouldn’t like that, especially if she was still worried about her father. Always her father. Lapo, Lapo—everything was about Lapo. Basha thought he couldn’t hide it anymore, all of his anger and frustration over what could easily be solved if she wasn’t so insistent upon not upsetting her father.
“Someday, Jawen, you will see me,” Basha said aloud, a refrain he’d repeated over the years ever since he was eight years old. He’d repeated it to give himself strength, especially now as he stood in front of Jawen’s front doorstep.
He knew he was crazy. Coming here today to begin the Courtship Ritual with Jawen would immediately put his relationship with her at risk, both with Lapo and even with Jawen herself. She’d forbidden him from coming near her home. Lapo might answer the door, and if that happened, he just hoped that he’d be able to run fast enough.
He didn’t want to wait anymore, though, and to take a risk like this, so soon before the Courtship Ritual would start, might make Jawen think twice about what his intentions were and what she wanted to do. Maybe she might even realize that it was time for them to be together.
Taking a deep breath and holding his head and bouquet high, Basha knocked on the door. Today would be the start of his new future and his new life with Jawen. Or it would be the end of his dream forever.
* * * *
“Jawen! Can you get that?” Lapo wrapped his arms around his wife, Mawen, and rubbed his face into her neck as she cooked breakfast.
As Jawen walked past the doorway to the kitchen, she glimpsed her parents in their embrace and smiled. She liked that her parents still loved each other after so many years of marriage, but she could feel a blush pinken her cheeks. They were always so public in their feelings for each other, it was often embarrassing. No wonder they had so many children, she thought.
Jawen was the oldest child still living at home. Sencaen, who was nineteen, had already married and moved out of the household.
He was…Jawen couldn’t really describe him. She’d never been as close to Sencaen, as she was to her younger siblings. Sencaen had been close to her father before he left, traveling with him on his merchant trips, while Jawen had spent most of her time helping to take care of her younger siblings, especially Rajar, Annalise, and Tukansa, and the household in general.
Her father had been disappointed when Sencaen had abandoned him, absconding with a young woman he’d disapproved of. Lapo had wanted Sencaen to take over some of his duties in preparation for his inheritance. But for now, her father had to look elsewhere for solace and continue the family business on his own.
Tukansa—Tuki for short—was six years old, the baby of the family who had little idea of what was going on around her as she played with her dolls. Annalise was eight and starting to become more aware—or at least more curious—about what was going on around her. She often glanced over at her parents kissing whenever she thought no one was looking.
Rajar was ten and obnoxious. He was always pulling on Annalise’s hair or stealing Tukansa’s dolls, trying to lord it over his younger female siblings or get attention for himself. Jawen never could figure out his motivations. All she could do was to intervene and make sure that Rajar behaved, giving back Tukansa’s dolls intact and apologizing to the girls. Somehow, he’d have to learn how to behave, and grow up enough to supplant or suppress his arrogance.
Fence was twelve and had outgrown the worst phases of childhood. He was on the brink of manhood and almost ready to train under Sir Nickleby, commander of the town militia. Unfortunately, Fence had a swelled head, imagining himself a dashing knight or a daring highwayman.
Talia was fifteen, the sister closest to her in age, if not in temperament. Spoiled and conceited, she shared a bedroom with Jawen and held a lot of grudges against her. Talia was the closest thing she had to a family rival. She poked her head out of the kitchen and smirked at Jawen as she passed by. �
��I know who’s at the door.”
Jawen glowered at her and silently shook her finger at her. She didn’t want to say anything to alert her father to Basha’s visit. Just before coming downstairs, she’d glimpsed him through her bedroom window, walking down the street, dressed in a fine white buttoned-down collared shirt with a tie, and flowers in his hand. Her mouth had dropped at the sight of him, moving with a spring in his step. She thought about running outside to stop him, but her father would surely notice.
He was the most respected, richest merchant in town. He supplied the stores with things from the outside world such as books, clothes, and jewelry that people needed to sell, to survive and thrive. He also sold furniture and other goods from Coe Baba in other towns as part of the exchange.
He profited from his business, often more than he should. He partnered with other merchants to help transport their goods and he kept a little more for himself than was agreed upon in these exchanges.
“I deserve such rewards for what I can get for the townspeople,” Lapo had said to Jawen once when she tried to confront him about these extra cuts for himself. “I risk much on my trips, when my invested time and money, not to mention my life, is threatened by thieves, swindlers, and even nature along the way.”
“Not to mention the money and goods from other townspeople and the Baron,” Jawen had said. “And who knows what else from other merchants?”
“So what if I take a little money or goods? It’s not exactly what you’d call stealing,” Lapo had said.
“But you lie to them!” Jawen had cried. “You lie and shortchange the townspeople for the sales of goods from Coe Baba. You overcharge them on the sales of goods from other towns, and you still take money from them for your salary!”
“How did you learn all about this?” Lapo had asked.
The Smiling Stallion Inn Page 1