Page 1 of Awariye

CHAPTERONE

AWARIYE

The lodge stood on the border between what was once the Republic of Austria and the Republic of Slovenia. The contended area had seen better days but wasn't as badly off as the Central Danubian region or Helvetica, in the alpine valleys between where Austria and Switzerland once stood. The area itself suffered no direct raids but was in a region where the net of protection from the Danubian High King Ulbrecht the Great was somewhat thin. The risk of insurrection was, therefore, very real.

Pandemonium and blessed warmth greeted me when I opened the door of the lodge and located the owner behind the counter, the one man in the room who kept a sharp eye on the entrance. I approached with a friendly smile, surely in my current state looking quite harmless.

"Grüezi," I said in greeting, identifying myself as someone from Helvetica, then gave one of Ceredigion's many aliases. "I'm looking for an older tradesman, a writer named Ceridor."

The grumpy old man greeted me in Danu-Slovenian. "Pozdravljeni. Had a bard here a couple of days ago. Went by the name of Ceridwen or Ced, if I recall."

I swallowed down my excitement. That had to have been him: those were the names of Celtic goddesses we learned about at Diana Monastery. Though the last Celtic language spoken here died out two thousand years ago, a bard's sharpest tool was his memory. I knew the legends of Ceridwen and Ced like the back of my hand.

"That's the one, a mentor of mine," I replied. "Is he still here? I'd agreed to meet him."

The man shook his head and a drop of cold sweat trickled down my spine as he rummaged for something below the counter. "He isn't, but he left a message for someone he said would come looking for him. In a right state he was—injured."

He produced a folded piece of dirty paper, and as I opened and read it, a stone dropped in my stomach.

Not quite Kat of Alex,

but I must return to the archer,

or bid you farewell.

I read over it several times standing there, the chaotic tumult of an evening lodge house falling away. Kat of Alex was clearly referring to Saint Katrin of Alexandria, a Christian martyr who was tortured to death by a Roman emperor. Returning to the archer meant he must get back to our home of Diana Monastery, named after the famed archer of classical legend. My eyes rested on the final line:orbid me farewell rather thanandheld a dark meaning. If he didn't get to Diana Monastery soon and receive medical assistance, he would not only bidmefarewell, but also this world and his current incarnation.

He'd been attacked and was battered to the point that he could not afford to wait for me to arrive. He had to get through the mountains to our hidden nook of the Alpine forests before the snows locked the passages.

I was in trouble.

"Thank you,vielen Dank," I said to the lodgekeeper, folding the paper and tucking it into my breast pocket. "He did not, by chance, leave any funds for my stay?"

The lodgekeeper shook his head. He didn't hesitate, but all the same, he could still be lying and have pocketed any money Ceredigion might have left for me and planned to shake me down once I arrived.

I haggled for a place to rest. I had little coinage left, so he put me out in the stables next to the cows and pigs, with only food scraps he'd usually give to the dogs and the last of the broth he'd intended to toss. The scraps were bread crusts and some leathery root vegetables. The stock was warm, and—though old—such stew broth tended to be packed with nutrition. I would survive another night and live to see a new day. I huddled on the straw next to the animals and shook from hunger pains, my stomach protesting that I'd not given it near enough.

That night as I lay in the stables I brainstormed what I would do. The bards from Diana Monastery were few and far between. It wasn't a profession the large monastery in Helvetica usually trained for, since it was so difficult for them to make a living. In fact, it was only done in exceptional cases like mine, where my voice was such that my soul clearly intended to sing in this incarnation and would stop at nothing in order to do so.

What that meant was that aside from Ceredigion, I had no idea if anyone who would help me out was even in the area. This central Danubian region had been destitute from political instability and raids for so long, it wasn't a place where one might find a rich sponsor willing and able to pay for a bard's living expenses. The bards that had trained at Diana Monastery usually sought patronage in richer places: further west, deeper in Helvetica, or further east in the city-state of Vienna.

That I had stayed in such a troubled and blood-soaked place was likely unwise, but having grown up without a home, I didn't want to stray too far from the monastery, even though they'd warned me that they were unwilling to take me back in once I came of age and flew the nest. I'd stopped back several times but had taken care to always make those visits short so as to not be seen to abuse their generosity. And this time, I'd pushed it too far and strained my health to the point that I wasn't sure I could even get back at this rate.

Ceredigion had been my last chance, and now I was left with scarce few options, my stomach and hands empty. As the night grew colder and the animals huddled close, I pulled my worn blanket tight around me and forced my mind to think.

I prayed to my body to sleep, even though it taxed my energy reserves to truly rest and recharge. If this area was unstable enough that a harmless looking bard like Ceredigion had been violently mugged, then I needed to have my wits about me tomorrow.

I fell asleep to thoughts of my life before things got so hard. Then for the first time in years, I dreamed of my mother leaning over me, telling me that she had to leave, and that I was to go to the front door of the monastery and sing to the monks in the windows until they let me in.

* * *

I woke with a start, gasping as one of the cows mooed that she needed milking. Rustling sounds outside indicated someone might be coming to do that soon, so I gathered my pack and made my way back out into the dark, still an hour or so before the dim light of predawn might grace the skies. With most of the rest of my money, I hired a relay horse to take me to a mountain pass that could get me to Diana Monastery, deeper in the alps. I had to hope that this upcoming visit would be seen as an exception to my usual short stay, considering I was at risk of starving.

As my horse, slow but sweet, plodded along through the hungry day, I expended what energy I had to ignore my hunger and keep alert, not knowing how or where Ceredigion had been attacked, since it could very well have happened on the road rather than in town. I consoled myself with my knowledge of history. Bards had gone hungry before, during the bottoming out of previous dark ages, and the current troubled times surely could not last forever. A time would come in which bards would once again be adopted by kings to sing legends in their courts and create stories and art. My profession would flourish anew, marking a transition from tumult and near-constant instability from invasion into what might be considered a form of Middle Ages.

But for Ceredigion to end up on the receiving end of aggravated assault? We were not on the upswing yet, not even close. A bard, thankfully, was not likely to utterly starve to death, even in these times, but many still died young. Often on the roads, skewing the statistics—if you were so hungry you were weakened and only half-awake, an armed mugging could very well leave you dead.

I jolted awake, about to fall off my horse who kept plodding along. Glancing at the path, I realized she was taking me to the castle of the warlord king here in this Danubian region.