Welcome back to Silvanus and Empire! In our first chapter we met Caddoc, the poor bedraggled soul who spoke out against power and ended up banished to the ass-end of the Empire. Now, get ready to meet Lyrinn, another major character. Who knows what fate has in store for them? Keep reading to find out!

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Silvanus and Empire

Chapter Two

image from OneDSLR

Lyrinn rapped on the thick oaken door awkwardly as she balanced a large basket in her other hand. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other while she waited for the door to swing open.

Nesta stood in the doorway before her, garbed in a rumpled but clean dress similar to Lyrinn's; her plump figure eclipsed any view of the inside. She was pregnant. Again.

"Well, girl, are y'goin' t'stare at me all morning?" Nesta held out one meaty hand.

Lyrinn tried not to grimace. Girl, indeed, she thought. The fat old sow has barely seen a handful of summers more than I have. She did her best to give the woman a polite smile as she held the basket out at arm's length. "All here, just like usual," she said.

Nesta sniffed. She snatched the basket from Lyrinn's grasp and flicked aside the coarse scrap of wool draped over the top. Thrusting her hand inside, it came back out clutching a freshly baked loaf. She examined it closely for several moments, squinting her piggish eyes as she turned it this way and that, before stuffing it back in the basket. "I suppose it'll do," she murmured.

In her head, Lyrinn counted to two full hands of fingers (the highest number she knew) before opening her mouth. "Will you be payin' this time, mistress, or should I 'ave Master Baker add it to what you already owe this season?"

Nesta's doughy face contorted with smug resentment. "Your master can hang, and you can hang alongside him, you bloody savage." She stepped back and slammed the door, still holding Lyrinn's breadbasket.

"Thank you, mistress!" Lyrinn shouted at the closed door. "I'll be sure t'convey yer warm words t'my master!" She stomped down the muddy lane, growling to herself. Her thick ruby-hued hair unfurled like a war banner in her wake.

It was always her hair that the wretched villagers of Annex saw; always her bright otherworldly red mane that drew stares and veiled comments, and even outright hostility from some of the braver townsfolk. She was bad luck, ill omen, and scapegoat for every stillbirth and failed harvest simply by existing and being who she was. She couldn't change the circumstances of her birth any more than she could wear clogs on her hands and shuck corn with her feet, but half the village would believe her capable of such witchery, along with consorting with demons and filing her horns down every night so she could pass among mortals unnoticed. It wasn't even because of her hair! Well, partly it was, she mused; even the other redheads in the village were more ginger than deep blood-red like hers. Worse was what it signified: death, pain, and atrocities committed long ago by her forebears, as only the dreaded Wild People of the valley had what His Holiness claimed was a mark of favor of the dark heathen gods the Silvani worshiped.

"His Holiness don't know everything," Lyrinn muttered, too low for any passersby to hear. Last thing she needed was to be dragged before the magistrate for heresy in the middle of the night.

She made her way down the path from Nesta’s door as a sharp spring wind ruffled her clothes. The river behind her was still swollen with the recent rains, but the sun was warm and it seemed that the grass under her clogs was growing greener by the moment. Lyrinn closed her eyes and breathed deep, savoring the fecundity in the air. Summer would come to the valley soon, and with it would some small measure of peace for her as well, what with everyone too busy planting and tending and harvesting to pay much attention to the little Wild girl earning a pittance by delivering bread for the town baker.

Rubbing her right shoulder absently, Lyrinn opened her eyes and looked around her. Before her the great broad flagstones of the Cliffway stretched on. It ran deeper into the valley to her left; to the right it ran for a handful of leagues up to the Lemon Squeeze. Behind her she could hear the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of Annex's blacksmith over the rush of the river. The stink of the forge burned Lyrinn's nose; she started across the Cliffway towards the other side, back towards the bakery and the rest of town.

She was halfway across when she heard a rather colorful curse off to her right, accompanied by the sound of a stridently braying mule. She turned in time to watch as a slim male figure crested a small hill and looked about. He was hooded and dust-cloaked, wearing thick-soled boots (boots! she thought. Imagine what they must have cost! ) that were caked with fresh mud. He led a sour-looking pack mule that had seen better days. Lyrinn gawked.

The young man shielded his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun and surveyed the town laid out before him. His gaze met Lyrinn's and held it for a moment. She looked away.

Lyrinn heard the pack mule's hooves clomp down the damp road towards her. "Begging your pardon, mistress," the traveler said in a tenor voice strong with youth, "how much further to the town of Annex?"

Lyrinn looked up. The traveler had thrown back his hood. Before her stood a young man that could hardly be much older than her. His dark brown eyes were bright and sharp. He was pale but looked healthy enough, if a bit thin. "I'm looking for the scribe in charge of the town's records," he continued. "I've been sent to relieve him." He smiled thinly at her; Lyrinn could see that he still had all of his teeth.

City boy, she thought. His dust cloak drifted open, and Lyinn caught a glimpse of a silver emblem hanging around the young scribe's neck on a simple chain. The design worked into the silver disc made her blink rapidly.

"Mistress?" A hint of exasperation crept into the young man's voice. He pulled his dust cloak closed with a self-conscious shrug. "Of all the blind hell-bound luck, the first human being I see in leagues is deaf and dumb," he muttered. "Come along, Malcolm; maybe we'll get some better conversation at yonder roadhouse." He began to walk on.

Jolted from her sudden reverie, Lyrinn scowled, bearing her teeth. "I'm not deaf!" she yelled sharply, stepping between the young man and the roadhouse and placing her fists on her hips. "I'm as fine a person t'talk to as any other in this town, Sonny Jim, and if that's the way you be talkin' to all folk you cross you won't have no'wt for company but yon tired old mule, don't y'be f’rgettin' it!"

The scribe stopped, his eyes widening at her outburst, then crinkling at the corners as he grinned. "So you can talk, then?" He crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow at her. "Or shout, at any rate. Would you mind not caterwauling quite so? Poor Malcolm's ears just can't take it, the old boy." The mule butted him with his muzzle.

Lyrinn harrumphed. "They don't teach little boys manners in those fancy schools back west no more?"

He laughed. "Little boy? I'm older than you, by my estimate. Though you're caked with so much dirt you could be old enough to be my mother and I'd never know it. Or do you bathe only whenever you fall into the river?" His eyes were twinkling. As if the exasperating lout were enjoying himself.

Lyrinn crossed her own arms under her breasts and hugged herself, trying to quell the urge to gouge the young rake's eyes out. Her left hand clamped over her right shoulder and squeezed. "If I were yer mum, you wouldn't be able t'sit doon firra whole month for usin' such language in front of a lady."

The scribe quirked a grin at her, and then nodded. "My apologies then, mistress. I vow to keep a civil tongue in my head if you'll but simply answer my question: is this indeed Annex?"

"Aye, yer in the right place," she responded, only slightly mollified. "The place y'seek is half a league doon th'road on the left. Even a half-witted sot like yerself couldn’t miss it."

He bowed to her, the emblem about his neck swinging free. Her hand tightened on her shoulder again. "My thanks, Mistress. Alas, I must take my leave of you now. Kindly refrain from tossing clods at me whilst my back is turned to you."

"With a backside as skinny as yours, how could I possibly hit it?" she countered.

"Ach, I am worsted!" He clutched theatrically at his chest and rolled his eyes. He then tugged on his mule's halter. "Come on, you old rat, we'd best retreat before another volley." He nodded to her and passed her by.

Lyrinn watched him go, still clutching her right shoulder. Who in blue blazes is that? she wondered, watching him go. Right before he disappeared around the bend, haranguing his mule all the while, she suddenly realized not once had she caught him staring at her hair.

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That's all for today! Come back for Chapter Three, coming soon to a Steemit blog near you. Don't forget to follow me for more!