The Brotherhood (The Eirensgarth Chronicles Book 1)

by Philip Smith

  She listened to the chirping of the birds beginning to try and rouse the forest from the clutches of Mother Sleep, the fanciful fairy that supposedly enchanted children’s dreams, or so the old stories said. Soon she was in the line for the platforms and on the first lift down with a few drowsy hunters, a baker who was late getting to his marquee, and a couple of rowdy boys looking to go get into some sort of mischief, no doubt.

  “Princess, so wonderful to see you!” one of the hunters said as he helped turn the crank.

  “Good to see you, too!” Paige said cheerfully, not remembering the man’s name but smiling warmly. The village was filled with people who knew Paige by name, but if she had to guess, she only knew about half the population well enough to remember what family they belonged to.

  They continued down to the forest floor without any incident, aside from the baker yelling at the rowdy boys to sit down before they fell off the platform. As soon as the platform touched down, Paige quickly headed to the southern area of the market, where more of the visiting craftsmen tended to set up shop. There were a few from yesterday already hawking wares, but at least ten new vendors had pitched tents and were laying out tables filled with fine goods from the far east and southern border of the Wild.

  She started with a group of Venomitain jewelers who were selling various hairpins and accessories of carved bone studded with brass and semi-precious stones. Nothing there really caught her eye, so she stopped by several more tailors and milliners, perusing their wares and hearing every typical sales pitch.

  “I promise you, m’lady,” urged a gangly man wearing glass spectacles that made his eyes look four sizes too large for his head, “there is no other vendor with such corsets. An hourglass figure the likes of which this village has never seen!”

  “And for good reason,” muttered Paige, suppressing a disgusted snort. He was proffering a waist brace made of canvas and bone. They appeared to make moving a chore itself, not to mention dancing the wild motions of their Harvest Moons traditions.

  “What can I interest the noble woman in, then? A new mirror, perhaps? Or how ’bout a lovely pair of earrings for your lovely…” he trailed off as he noticed the slight taper on her ears, confusion melting into a dawning realization. Paige didn’t mind—she was used to such stares from the newer traders that came into town.

  “No, I’m really only looking for something that would complement a white dress, thank you.”

  She turned to go, but the merchant seemed to find his tongue.

  “Ah, but give me a mere moment of your time, lass, and I will make it worth it to you, I promise!”

  He turned to another small table behind where he was keeping his wares and opened a little chest with a key. He sorted through several objects that clinked and jingled and was soon back before her with a blue velvet cloth clutched tightly in one hand, peeling back the corners as if it were a pastry and all he cared about was the raspberry tart in the center.

  “I got this chain from a fellow south of the Great River. Swears up and down it’s Elvish, though I’ve no provenance to prove that.”

  He opened a knobby fist to reveal a beautiful silver chain that immediately had Paige’s attention. It was thin, exquisite wire craftsmanship. Each link was an identical replica of a silver rose, its thorny stem looping around in a figure-eight pattern, connecting to identical links on either side. The craftsmanship was undoubtedly wonderful, and it certainly would look good with her mother’s Elvish-style dress.

  “How much are you asking?” Paige asked hesitantly. The man scratched a scruffy three-day-old beard on his square, cleft chin.

  “I’d be able to part with it for fourteen Farthards.”

  Paige thought of the three copper coins in her vest pocket and sadly shook her head.

  “We use Cops here,” she explained, closing the merchant’s hand around the velvet and necklace. “And of those I only have three to spend. Thanks anyways.”

  “Wait, miss, hold on—maybe we can still barter?”

  “Barter for what, Paige?”

  Paige turned to see Matildra and three of her friends advancing towards her from across the street. The princess felt a fire light in her gut, ushering the morning chill right out of her bones.

  “Good morning, Matildra,” Paige managed to force out through a smile hiding her disdain. The other girl walked right up to the table, her dark pink heavy wool cloak and white fox fur scarf wrapped tightly about her so passersby could barely see her curly hair and cherry red cheeks.

  “What have we here?” Matildra asked, her false sweetness laced with a condescending edge. The merchant looked the bundle of wool up and down, then looked at Paige.

  “I was just—” Paige started, before the merchant interrupted.

  “I was just insisting how much I love this young lady’s hunting dagger,” he rushed in, gesturing to Paige’s sheathed tool that rested on her right hip. Matildra looked genuinely interested in this development.

  “I see!” she said excitedly. “Have you found something for your dress after all?”

  “The finest chain in silver I can offer!” the merchant said, displaying the silver for Matildra and her friends to see. They huddled around it like a flock of sheep about to get the local brewer’s mash leftovers.

  “It’s exquisite!”

  “Most magnificent!”

  “Does it come in gold?”

  Paige looked at the merchant curiously. He raised his eyebrows with a knowing look, and nodded down to her dagger.

  “Alas, ladies, this is my last one, and the mistress here just offered me a knife and three Cops, was it?”

  Paige pulled her hunting knife out and set it on the table and fished in her pocket for the three copper coins, placing them by the antler-handled buckskinner.

  “It’s lovely, Princess,” Matildra chirped, wrapping her cloak around herself even tighter. “I can’t wait to see yours and Olivian’s dresses at the feast!”

  “And I yours,” Paige fibbed, secretly pleased to hear something that didn’t come off as condescending escape Matildra’s mouth. The girls tittered on down the line of sleepy merchants, the odd squeak or two erupting and letting the world know they had found something else they thought adorable.

  “Thank you for that,” Paige said, reaching to scoop up her three coins. The merchant smiled at her and held out the necklace.

  “I know what it is like to be bullied, and it’s up to us to stand up for those who may not have the tools to stand up for themselves.” He held out the necklace expectantly, and Paige looked at it wistfully.

  “I can’t afford a price for such an artifact,” she said sadly. The man grabbed her hand and dropped the necklace in it, closing her cold fingers about the chilled silver.

  “If you are willing to part with the hunting knife, I will make you that deal.”

  “It’s not a very good knife, just the one I use when I’m out and about,” Paige warned, looking at the old antler handled knife she’d received as a birthday present several years ago.

  “I do not wish to take it if it is sentimental to you,” the man assured. “But if you can bear to part with it, I will take the three Cops and give it to my son.”

  Paige searched the merchant’s expression, but the only thing she could see beyond the glass spectacles was a look of sympathy and kindness.

  “It’s not… but only if you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure, my lady.”

  Paige handed him the Cops and slid the knife over to him, taking the sheath off her belt and tossing it beside the blade. He grinned and nodded his approval as she put the circlet of silver around her neck and slid the clasp shut. He reached under the table and pulled out a polished bronze mirror, holding it out for her to see. She failed to hide a grin. It was beautiful; all it needed was a pendant and it would be perfect for tonight.

  “Incredible, my lady,” the merchant said, returning the mirror to beneath the table. “I hope you outshine every one of those young ladies at
the festival tonight.”

  “Will you be attending?”

  “Probably not. I’m too old for dancing about like a young buck!”

  “But not too old for feasting and drinking!”

  The man laughed cheerfully at her response.

  “Perhaps not. I shall have to consult with ‘the Boss,’ you know.”

  He glanced back at his wife who was wrestling with what Paige assumed was a tired and cranky toddler. The man turned back to her and winked from behind his spectacles.

  “Well, I hope to see you all there if you get the chance!” Paige said, shoving her cold hands in the wooly pockets of her vest. “Have a good rest of your morning!”

  “You too, lass!” the merchant said, waving as Paige began to jog down the street.

  The smell of cinnamon wafted into her nose as she passed Dirgah’s tent, her favorite baker. She made a hard right turn and skipped over to a large tan marquee with the sides dropped down, a tall cob chimney poking straight out the top. A wooden sign dangling from a twisted iron pole read “Dirgah’s Loaves a’ Plenty” with the ‘e’ in ‘loaves’ painted backwards. The princess chuckled as she did any time she sidled past the bakery, ducking into the marquee’s opening as the warm, rich smells of spices, yeast, and burning hardwood embraced her.

  The interior was packed with people, all chattering and laughing gaily as they waited for their various orders. A ring of wooden plank tables circled a large, dome oven made of cob that stood in the center of the marquee, its chimney stack poking out through a hole in the roof. Around these tables, six young bakers were working furiously, kneading dough, dusting proofed loaves with flour, and sliding baked goods in and out of the giant oven. No sooner would a round, whole-grain loaf appear out of the dome, a customer would rush forward and take the piping hot bread into their basket and they’d be on their way. Standing round back of the oven, the hefty, tall, bushy head baker, Mr. Dirgah, pronounced orders. His rosy cheeks flushed with the heat of his operation but his coal black eyes twinkled in the crackling light the oven cast dancing around the room.

  “Harry, I need three more loaves for Mr. Albbus, please. Ronny, get me some more Cinniknot dough, if you would! Herman, how many times do I have to tell you the loaves don’t have to be perfectly round, just get them in the oven!”

  A young baker with wild, untamable hair that fell beyond his knobby shoulders rolled his eyes and continued to sculpt a loaf that was perfect enough to serve to a king. A lad with large blue eyes and a mop of close-cropped strawberry-blond hair hurried over to Dirgah’s table and deposited a large wood bowl filled to the brim with a white, fluffy dough that had risen up to look like a perfect dumpling for a giant’s stewpot. The baker plunged his ham-sized fists into a copper vat of flour and clapped them together to shake off the excess material, then ripped himself a hefty lump from the main doughball. The mountain of puffy proofing dough sank into its container as the master baker began slapping the dough back and forth between his hands. Paige pushed her way to the front of his table, flashing him her biggest smile.

  “What did that dough ever do to you, Dirgah!?” Paige teased. The giant of a man looked down his voluminous black beard at her and winked.

  “Ms. Paige! Right good to see you, it is. How’s your father? Busy getting ready for tonight, I expect?”

  “He is. I think he’s seeing to the Great Hall’s preparations now!”

  “Right! Well, when you see him next, tell him the one hundred Cinniknots might actually be more like one hundred and fifty!” He chuckled, jabbing the strawberry-blond apprentice in the ribs. “Ronny here thought we’d want a little extra, so he accidentally dumped an extra half bowl of flour into the mixing vat!”

  “I said I was sorry,” the apprentice muttered, handing Dirgah a bowl filled with what smelled like cinnamon and allspice. The baker deftly sprinkled some on top of the dough ball and began kneading the ball with his large hands. Soon the ball became a rope that he nimbly tied off into a knot and let fall atop a large wooden peel with a plop. He grabbed a jug of what Paige took to be maple syrup and began drizzling it ever so lightly on top of the dough knot, finishing the piece off with another dusting of cinnamon.

  “So that’s what smells like heaven!” Paige marveled. The baker shoved the peel into the oven and laughed, yanking the paddle out so the knot stayed inside the heated dome. He then took out a similar knot that had just finished baking on the other side of the oven and dumped it onto a parchment napkin on the table. The maple sugar had caramelized and soaked into the knot’s golden brown top, the steam from the bread’s honey-amber crust rising up to caress Paige’s frost-nipped cheeks. To finish the masterpiece, the baker sprinkled some finely ground flour over top the loaf and and folded the edges of the paper over top. He wrapped the package with a thin square of leftover linen and extended it to Paige.

  “Cinnamon come in, then?” Paige asked.

  “Aye, the spice traders made it just in the nick of time!”

  “Lucky for you!” Paige smiled, snatching up the warm parcel.

  “You aren’t kidding!” The baker winked. “Do see this gets to the chief, Ms. Paige, won’t you? Need to know if they are acceptable tasting, don’t you know?”

  “I’ll see he gets most of it!” Paige said. “But I can’t promise some will go missing on the lift…”

  “What a mystery!” Dirgah chuckled. “Best not to spoil your appetite or get too full for all that dancing and carrying on later!”

  “Oh, trust me. I’ll be fine for dancing.”

  “Oh, ho, now? Ms. Paige finally got herself a suitor worthy of her favorable gaze?”

  Paige felt her cheeks flush a bit more.

  “Oh, Dirgah, you know you’re the only man who really gets me!” she teased, shaking the ever tantalizing Cinniknots package at him.

  “Princess, I may not be a poet, but I am versed in the true language of love. And there aren’t many paths to a woman’s heart as short and easy as a fresh honey cake or some Nutter Fluffers!”

  “You aren’t wrong.” Paige laughed, tucking the parcel under her arm. “See you tonight, then?”

  “I’ll be saving you a dance! If my wife lets me, that is!” The baker laughed, waving goodbye with his flour-covered hands. “Herman! This isn’t a sculpting contest, just get the loaves in the oven!”

  Paige popped back out of the marquee into the early morning light filtering through the trees, the leaves sparkling like jewels. There were more people about now, preparing for the feast. Children were causing mischief in their frolicking, taxing their mothers’ patience as the women tried to both corral children and get their shopping lists checked off for the big evening.

  Paige stopped by several more shops on her way over to the lifts just to gaze at the array of fine trade goods some of the new merchants had displayed. One band of troubadours were setting up a tent splattered with greens and blues that matched the dancing peacock. Another tent had a rather brassy woman exclaiming it was the “last chance you or anyone would have” to snatch up one of her fine copperware kettles and pots. The sound of wood chopping told her the coopers and wheelwrights were chopping firewood for the evening’s festivities. Paige could smell the sawdust as she passed their shops. Through the gaps in the tents, she could see all the apprentices dragging timber from the forest to the craftsmen, expressions of boredom slapped onto their tired, young faces.

  Paige made it to the lifts just as the first load of firewood was being hoisted up to the upper levels. Each day, the families of Kapernaum were all responsible for hauling their own firewood or buying it off the woodcutters, but on feast days everyone chipped in and helped collect the mounds of cordwood needed to sustain a bonfire all night long. The last lift was designated all day for just such a purpose, so Paige hopped in line for the second lift and soon found herself slowly ascending, nibbling off a small piece of her Cinna-Knot.

  Once Up Top, Paige quickly made her way to the southern end of Kapernaum by means of the bridge
s and platforms now humming with the din of hive-like activity. Women were sweeping the freshly fallen leaves off the platforms while men with wheelbarrows collected everything from firewood to stools and chairs in preparation for the feast. Some ladies wove garland together from bundles of spruce branches someone had cut and hauled up early that morning, twisting the the evergreen boughs around the platform railings like graceful serpents of emerald green. Paige ducked under a bench two older men were hauling to the Great Hall, who made comments about the “youth of this town ruining the village.” She found her father standing in the center of the platform with his secretary, a tiny feeble old man named Pontus, who was scribing on a slab of slate nearly as wide as his oversized head.