The sun sloped upwards in the sky. Its rays broke through the clouds, shining on the central courtyard, when Aithne arrived into the square. A lone fountain nestled at its center. radiating the soft red of millow grass that grows in tufts near water. The fountain was squared and simple. Sans reliefs or drawings. And erected from the same rough hewn, rose colored stone of Aithne's familial manor. It looked just as she remembered. Her entire body cackled with adrenaline.

The townspeople often gathered around the square and gossiped. Their children scurried about in a frenzy like small, wild beasts, tossing the fountain's water bathing everyone in the liquid treasure. Soon the tales of her adventures would be spoken in awe around the fountain as well.

Aithne had stayed off the main roads and made use of the forest. The whole country of O'tinel seemed to consist of nothing but forests. And narrow, long rivers made even more cramped by sidelong cliffs. Towering and sharp, they stood as if to pierce the sky. She barely stopped for rest and ate while tramping through the backwoods the whole night.

Triumphant, she briskly walked towards the fountain to refill her waterskin, finally allowing herself a much needed rest.

Taking her rucksack off over her head, she let it drop to the ground and flopped down on the fountain's edge. She reached for her container, made from a jakor's bladder, a huge animal with shaggy grey fur and a small trunk used for milking. Aithne pulled out the stone plug.

A small laugh escaping her Aithne leaned over and plunged the skin into the water. She watched as the gurgled bubbles created ripples on the water's surface, the waves slowly disappearing outwards. Similar to her food supply.

Aithne recalled that south from the fountain was a small market at the edge of the town. It served as a stopover for the trade caravan from Kamali. She can stock up on some food supply and a spot for passage across the plains to Matoha. Everything was going along perfectly.

"Father and Bowen would never think to look for me there," murmured Aithne, smiling to herself.

The skin was almost full when she heard it. Aithne's forehead crinkled. Ignoring the rapid beating of her heart, she listened closely.

Her stomach plummeted down to her feet at the approaching clanking of armor and weapons.

She grabbed her rucksack and dashed into the closest alley on her left, her sword banging against her leg. Soldiers flooded into the area, prowling over every inch of it. A group of them gathered around, one of them holding her waterskin.

"Tolak!" cursed Aithne.

She spied on them from her hiding corner. The man held her forgotten waterskin before his face as if to catch her scent. He flung it to the ground and snarled at the rest. They broke up into twos or threes, each group taking a different alley. A few remained on guard, spreading themselves around the courtyard.

"Tolak," Aithne whispered again, venturing deeper in. "I won't be captured so easily."

Readjusting her sack, Aithne took a quick look at the surrounding buildings.They stood at four to six stories, stacked up, down and over another. It had a pale brown color somewhere between sand and mud. The entire structure seemed like it could crumble at anytime.

Aithne old memory floated to her mind. A younger version of Bowen the usurper, had repeatedly told her not to go into the back streets. Even with a map, people who've lived there for years still tended to get lost.

She shook her head and headed in the direction outside of the town. She paused only to hear if anyone was following her. She wasn't adept at muffling her footsteps and Aithne had no intention of being caught and dragged back home.

Wiping the sweat that ran down her eyes, Aithne heard the clanking of metal again. She ducked left into a side passage when with a thud, a huge piece from one of the buildings fell from above.

"Argh!," yelped Aithne, clamping her mouth shut with one hand. Stunned she stared at the very spot she almost walked into.

"Over here!" yelled a feral voice.

Aithne took off, her feet slamming hard against the ground, leaving a trail for her captors to follow. Still she ran, dashing into a left passage and then a right. Taking a left turn, Aithne glanced behind her. There were no signs of her pursuers. Thrilled, she quickened her pace and went left again, colliding into a soft, squishy wall.

Aithne fell backwards. The sky crashed to the ground. And the ground was uprooted beneath her. Gripped with fear, she wondered if one of the soldiers had went ahead to trap her when a face hovered over her.

Aithne blinked rapidly at the person. She had expected the brutish looking soldier who picked up her waterskin. Not a woman.

She had hair that glared like the sun tightly wound in a chaos of short curls. The woman smiled warmly, her round cheeks forming small mounds that swelled. The flecks of gold nestled in her brown eyes seemed to twinkle at her. Aithne couldn't help but stare as the woman cradled her in her arms.

She was the type of woman, that men would clamor to propose marriage to her elders. On the other hand the entire country knows her as the stubborn ghost child. Aithne had the same brown-reddish hair as her mother's, but more ripply, that fell down her back. She even had the same brown eyes and the cackling laugh that would rise higher and higher. Their noses flared when angry the same and they both have the same fiery temper. Although others dared to say that in that regard, the mother could not compare to the daughter. She even inherited her mother's name. She was her mother's spirit reborn. A ghost child. And as of three nights ago, an enraged ghost.

"Are you okay," asked the woman.

Ah, thought Aithne, even her voice sounds lovely.

"You two. Check that way," bellowed the voice closer than before. "The rest follow me!"

"No," whispered Aithne, pushing the woman away from her. She scrambled to her feet and sputtered, "Sorry and thank you."

Aithne took off again but a vice grip on her wrist brought her crashing on to the ground again.

Kneeling face to face, Aithne tried to pry off the woman. Livid, Aithne yelled,"What are you!-"

Without a word the woman released her. But in a flash she grabbed Aithne's shoulders. Aithne had a brief view of the wall rushing at her when the woman twisted her around. She tried to break away from her but it was no use. She embraced herself for impact and clutched the hilt of her sword.

"Ah!" gasped Aithne. She landed with a thud the ground. Looking around, she saw that she was in a dark, enclosed place. It smelled dank of something rotten, probably an animal that crawled inside and died. Getting on her knees, Aithne creeped towards the opening when her sack snagged on something. Dust and debris rained down her. With nowhere for the dust particles to escape, they swirled around, setting her nose and throat on fire.

"Father," Aithne hacked unconsciously.

"Hush," grunted the woman.

The sound of something heavy scraping the ground pricked ears. She looked left and right but could not find the source. It didn't help that the hollow she was unceremoniously shoved into had been getting darker and darker.

The grating grew louder and to her horror, Aithne watched as a chunk of the same sand-mud rubble slid in front of the niche. She noticed it too late.

"Crazy woman!" gasped Aithne. She slowly crawled forward, cutting her hands on something. Pounding on the wall, she shouted, "Hey!"

Silence.

"Is that crazy woman still there," murmured Aithne, pressing her ear on the barrier of her new prison. Aithne heard nothing.

She found a sliver of an opening big enough to wedge three of her fingers. Then came the disheartening clanking.

Aithne tensed and listened with bated breath.

"We're looking for a woman," demanded one of the men breathing heavily. "Have you seen her?"

Aithne listened with bated breath.

"That girl that knocked me down. And dropped my waterskins!?" crazy woman replied. "She went that way. If you catch her, give her a good thumping for her rudeness."

"Let's go men!"

Several moments later the obstruction was pushed away and her face peered in its place. Aithne scuttled backwards.

"They're gone now."

"Really," questioned Aithne, her eyebrow disappearing into her temple.

"Yes," she nodded. Stretching out her hand, she blithely said, "Here let me help you. My name is Cassandra."

Aithne hesitated.

"Why did you help me?"

"Eh," said a confused Cassandra. "Why shouldn't I? It was my fault you fell when you were being chased."

"What if I was a criminal?," asked Aithne, refusing to take Cassandra's proffered hand.

Cassandra withdrew her hand and sighed. "True. But sometimes the one being chased is not the criminal. You're just one little girl pursued by many armed men. To me there is something wrong with that. That's why I helped you."

Aithne searched Cassandra's face. She could not find any trace of falsehood. The woman sincerely wanted to help her.

Cassandra stretched out her hand again and smiled. This time, Aithne crawled forward and accepted Cassandra's hand.

Out at last, Aithne gulped deep breaths while Cassandra collected the waterskins 'Aithne' dropped.

Aithne observed her. She didn't know what to make of Cassandra. First she saved her and then she thought she was going to betray her only to save her again. Aithne had never been so confused. Even the way she dressed was strange. The common dress in O'tinel were tunics, short for men, worn with trousers, long and belted for women, with toggle fasteners. Cassandra's dress consisted of a flowing green garment, caked with drying mud and a matching green wrap tied and tucked in around her waist, with leather sandals on her feet. Even her hands had dried mud...

Sandals, thought Aithne. Sandals weren't worn in O'tinel.

Cassandra picked up the last skin and faced Aithne.

"We can't stay here," urged Cassandra. "Follow me."

Aithne pondered whether or not she should follow. There could be no doubt that Cassandra was definitely a Zaeran. Zaeran's weren't to be trusted.

You can never be like your mother, floated the words of her father.

Aithne clenched her fists and nodded. Quick and nimble Cassandra led them through a series of paths like a native. Twice she stopped and the hid from their hunters. Once they had to double back and risked being nearly seen by another pair from behind.

"We're almost there," whispered Cassandra, crouched and peering from behind their hiding corner. She faced Aithne and predicted, "They should be looking for you north of here by now."

"Where's there," panted Aithne. Doubled over, Aithne looked over sideways at Cassandra. and asked, "What makes you so sure?"

"The market," explained Cassandra, her eyes became as round as her cheeks in surprise. "It's closed this time of year. Didn't you know?

"I knew," spluttered Aithne, a red flush creeped up her neck and camouflaged by her hair. "I just forgot."

Cassandra squinted at her.

Aithne cleared her throat and moved passed Cassandra. She peaked around the corner and a sigh of relief escaped her. Both the right and left were void of soldiers. Without a backwards glance, she marched out in the direction Cassandra pointed to earlier.

Coils of blond curls like the sun. Skin brushed by the sun from working outdoors. Firm muscles too possibly from tilling a farm.

"If it's closed then how did you a Zaeran get here?"

Cassandra led her past a shop submerged in shadows. "My friend is a trader."

Her breathing less labored than before, Aithne straightened up and quieted her growing dread. "Explain more to me. Why is the market closed?"

"It's the summer solstice," Cassandra explained slowly, "when the sun becomes hotter and redder. The color red has a special meaning to Kamali."

"Why," pressed Aithne.

"It represents strength, power and passion," answered Cassandra. "Kamali holds a festival every year, so there's no trading."

Firm muscles and skin lightly brushed by the sun. Probably from working outside for long periods of time. At least a head shorter than her Aithne estimated. Blonde hair was not common in O'tinel but Aithne heard the country of Zaera had a bountiful of blonde haired people..

Aithne bent down and picked up the last of Cassandra's skin. She passed it to Cassandra.

"Thank you," replied Cassandra, dropping it into her makeshift basket skirt.

"N-no," stuttered Aithne in excitement. "Thank you for your help back there. With the soldiers."

"I've never liked soldiers," shrugged Cassandra. "Besides, kin must help fellow kin."

"Kin?" asked Aithne.

Cassandra nodded and pointed to her shoulder. "You're traveling somewhere too."

"Ah," exclaimed Aithne, looking at the rucksack on her shoulder.Then her head whipped back to Cassandra. "You're a traveler too!? Or are you a trader!? Can you-"

Cassandra struck her, her hand smothering her words. Aithne tasted bitter grains as she grabbed Cassandra's wrist but she did not budge.

"Hush," admonished Cassandra, her eyes hardened and sharp like a blade. "The soldiers are still here."

"Sorry," muffled Aithne. "Can you remove your hand?"

"Oh," replied Cassandra. She rubbed her hand on her hips and beckoned, ". Follow me to a safe place and I'll try to answer your questions."

"Yes," Aithne nodded and fell into step beside Cassandra as she led her through a collection of lefts and rights with ease.

"So are you a trader," panted Aithne in excitement.

"No," answered Cassandra, "but my friend is."

"You're friends with a trader?," pressed Aithne.

"Yeah and good thing too. I woke up today wanting to go an adventure. But walking to Matoha would be impossible. Reckless right?"

"Yes, reckless," breathed Aithne, hanging onto every word.

"Just when I thought I should stop being crazy, he rode in to my garden in that salvaged carriage of his. Now, here I am!"

"You are very lucky," pointed Aithne. "Uh, do you think he would offer me passage to Matoha as well?"

"You're going to Matoha too," asked Cassandra. "Then you're the lucky one. Around this time there are no trades or traders happening between the god countries."

"Eh," asked Aithne. "I'm lucky?"

"Yes," said Cassandra. "There are no traders traveling at this time."

They turned a corner and entered the darkest passage yet. It eclipsed the littlest of the sun rays able to filter in to their light way as if there was no hope in the world.

"N-n-o traders," faltered Aithne. Her face had became an ashen white. "Why?".

"Kamali always has a festival during the summer solstice," said Cassandra, wrinkling her forehead."Didn't you know."

"No, I knew," spluttered Aithne. "I just forgot."

"Oh," replied Cassandra. "Well, you must be really lucky. We're here."  

                         ***                                                                                     ***

The room was made of the same grayish-rose stone of the estate and smelled of roasted spices. Bare at most, it was simply furnished with a book case, a desk, two chairs and a painting, the family's greatest treasures.

After walking in, to the right was a bookcase, bursting of every account of the family's achievements contained in diaries, treasured items and tokens of war of some of their most famous ancestors.

Up ahead, towards the far wall was a desk made of grendelwode, the strongest wood. It only grows in the forest of their god's dwelling, atop a cliff overlooking Odine's largest fjord. It was a gift given to her great-great grandfather from King Thor in honor of his prowess in battle and with the sword. Since the time of their great-great grandfather, the desk was passed down to each new successor of the family.

And on the left, in tribute, was a painting of a woman with a thicket of russet waves, her brown eyes gleaning defiance and a mischievous smile peaking from her lips. She was the deceased lady of the estate, Lady Aithne. The greatest swordswoman of their school and young mistress Aithne's mother.

Two men were standing within the room, one young and one old, Bowen and Ragnar. Bowen was twenty-three years of age, with black hair falling over his hazel eyes, almost caressing it, framing his squared jaw line ending in a prominent chin. He stood at the same height of 188 centimeters, the same as the older man and a rarity in Odine. Broad shouldered and of fair build, he had the strength of two men. His sword was solid, heavy and without weakness.

The older man, Ragnar, had cropped black hair with flecks of gray. His pale blue eyes were almost hidden beneath bushy eyebrows, and had a neatly trimmed beard making his pointed chin as sharp as the point of a blade. A man of great military repute, his family's sword school is flocked by those who wished to garner higher military status. And although the war five years ago abruptly ceased, his palpable strength still exuded from him even when holding a quill.

They were often mistaken to be father and son by strangers. But Ragnar only had one child, a daughter, by his wife who died shortly after childbirth. Bowen was the son of his best friend and his best pupil.

Now the two men stood in a somber mood, on the cusp of adding another, not quite so redeeming history to the House of Arlen.

"Did you find her," asked Ragnar in a grave voice, standing before the portrait of his deceased wife. Less than three days ago, when he called Aithne into this room, he did not think that his own daughter would resort to running away. Her fury was understandable and predictable. Typically, the successor of the family estate was also the successor of the family's sword school. Yet Ragnar feared that any students entering under his daughter's reign would become nothing more than men brandishing swords. They wouldn't be true swordsmen.

To save the school, he decided to have his best pupil inherit his family's sword school. Aithne would succeed the family as is her birthright. He had pondered for months that maybe he'd have those two wed and split the responsibilities but even he knew that both will adamantly oppose it.

What does that girl plan to do, thought Ragnar. Indeed she inherited your stubbornness as well. Least you were sensible.

"From the report, the soldiers started their search in the square. Then they spread out to search the allies. There was no trace of the young mistress."

Bowen painfully watched his surrogate father, walked towards the desk, sat down and heaved a great sigh. Placing his head in his hands for several moments before opening and rustling around the drawers. Out he took a scroll and a quill.

Bowen remained at his position, hands clasped behind his back. There was no one to blame the current situation on but himself. Ragnar had informed him of his intentions beforehand despite Bowen's protestations against it.

Having wearingly been challenged by and sparred with Aithne on many occasions, Bowen understood as a swordsman that Ragnar was right. Nonetheless he's also a witness to her dedication and hard work. Bowen thought that with more time and inflection, she would find her way.

When asked when that day would come, of course he could not answer. He knew that Ragnar had watched her progress. But he's been waiting long enough. Too long.

Unknown to Bowen, Ragnar had posed the same question given to every successor of the family before becoming the new head.

Why is it that you pick up a sword?

Bowen's answer was to restore and defend peace and justice to those who have been wronged. Aithne's answer was to follow in the footsteps that came before her.

And Ragnar made his final decision.

"What is the current status of those affected by the smoke of the laxian flower," asked Ragnar as he tore off the piece of parchment, rolled it up and opened the top-most drawer, retrieving a small pouch.

"The young mistress wasn't mindful of the laxian flower's potency. It is enough to just dry and burn the petals. But she threw the entire bunch into the central fire in the main hall. Most of the servants have woken up with mild headaches. Yet there are a few others who still sleep."

Filling the pouch with pieces of silver, coins with emblems of a lightning bolt and a ferocious looking beast, Ragnar looked up at Bowen, nodding his assent to come closer.

Standing before the desk, Ragnar began to fill the pouch with colorful nuggets of precious stones. "How much time do you need to revive them?"

"I've already taught the servants the remedy to reduce their headaches and revive the others."

"Then I shall have Gilda prepare your horse for you, as well as, other effects," Ragnar replied, rising from his seat. Picking up the pouch and small parchment, Ragnar grasped Bowen's wrist, placing the items in his hand.

"You will need the silver; and though they are few, the coinage of the other countries. I hope you would not need them... You must bring her back," implored Ragnar.

"I will."

Accepting the pouch and parchment with both hands, Bowen gave a bow, and then turned to walk out the door. One final look back into the room and Bowen saw that Ragnar was again standing in front of his late wife's portrait.

Silently closing the door behind him, Bowne made an immediate right to head to the kitchens. First, he would find Gilda. Afterwards, go to the herb garden.