Even through his glove, the rough bowstring cut deep into his fingers. It made the shaking more noticeable even when he tried desperately to find that calming breath. But it was like trying to swim against the rapids of a river, swollen to bursting from the melting snow caps. A pheasant, the first to arrive for spring, sat on a stump. The bird wasn’t fat, for it hadn’t yet had the chance to gorge itself on the bounty of spring, but it was still sport. 

 

Sunlight punctured the lush green clouds of leaves that made the blue sky seem like a distant thought. The wind howled through the trees as though a great beast was being roused from its slumber.

 

His father always said the forest was alive. 

 

When he closed his eyes, he could still feel his father’s guiding hands as he first showed him how to draw a bow, how to breathe, how to aim. How to be a strong person with a good heart. His hands steadied, his shoulder tensed, as he pulled the bowstring back just the slightest bit more. He had his target, everything was -

 

It snapped. The bow string snapped, lashing out against his face like a cat that had been prodded far too much and sent the arrow flying all of two feet before it plopped to the ground, with not even enough force to bury itself. 

 

“Ya missed, my lord.” Raphael’s dull voice bore through the tranquil forest with all the grace of a hungry bear. Even though Raphael was just over half a decade older than him, he served as a torch that could light even the darkest of storms. And not because of his shining personality. Rather, it was that his bald head could turn even the twinkle of the stars into a light so bright even a light house would blush. 

 

“How many times must I tell you, Raph? You are to call me Claude, no, that’s not a request, yes, that’s an order.” Claude smiled and brought a hand through his own brown hair and looked down at the bow in his hands. The bow his father had last strung.

 

“As you say, my lord.” Raphael grunted and hopped off of his horse, his footfalls sending small woodland critters scurrying away and even that oblivious pheasant flew off. Raphael, was by no means a man of exceptional size, certainly, he had a few inches on Claude and more than a few pounds on him, but he carried himself with the kind of confidence that most would assume came from winning every fight he ever got in. 

 

In Raphael’s case, he was simply born with it. 

 

Claude offered the bow up to his friend - attendant, advisor, or whatever the hell Raphael was supposed to be to him - less to show what had happened, and more to have him fix it. Raphael snatched it out of his hand all the same. “The string snapped.” 

 

“What am I going to do with you, my lord, you insist on inspecting the bow yourself, but I can’t even trust you to do that, now can I?” Ralphael squinted at the string before shoving it back into Claude’s chest. The wry smile on his face betrayed his gruffness. “Honestly, what kind of lord can’t even maintain a bow?” 

 

“My apologies, but as I was inspecting it, there was a terrible glare coming from your head that blinded me for a moment.”

 

“I shine my head in the hopes that one day, I’ll simply need to nod for you to see what a fool you are,” Rapheal coughed, hand rubbing his throat. “Might save my throat years of wear.” 

 

Did every lord of the land have to put up with an advisor as obnoxious as his? Striding over to his horse, Claude looked back to his oldest friend and raised eyebrows. Doubtful, no lord would be foolish enough to have an ass for an advisor. “You know most lords would have your head for talking back to them like that.” 

 

“You’d be doing me a favor.” The black mare that served as Raphael’s steed whined as he made his way near to her. Her saddles were filled with a wide assortment of things that Raphael insisted on taking with him whenever they sat out. It was a good thing she was an old work horse that wouldn’t win any races. Despite being his steed for over a decade, Raphael had only named her recently; Blackie. 

 

Raphael gave Blackie a few oats before hopping onto her back. “Without my head, I wouldn’t have to bare witness to your foolishness. Nor hear you whine.”

 

Claude’s own mount was a gray colt, that was the third fastest horse in the land. A title that had proven surprisingly difficult to disprove. While the fastest horse won all the time, and the second fastest won most of the time, the third fastest was allowed to lose some of the time. His name was Vigil. 

 

And much like his other companion, stubborn until food was involved.

 

“Why exactly are you my advisor again?” He asked the entire world. Unfortunately, as Vigil had a mouth full of carrot, Raphael was the only one that could answer. 

 

“Because if I had my old title of your keeper, people might be getting the wrong idea.” Raphael bit his thumb then looked at it like he’d never seen the digit before in his life, his thick black eyebrows skewed to one side. “Brookes village should be just through the forest, might as well stop there before we head back. Besides, need a new string.” 

 

“And hopefully they won’t chase you out of this one for being a thief?”

 

“Wrong village.” Raphael’s face twisted for a moment before he shrugged. “I think. Besides, I had hair then. Fortunately, your father had the wisdom to spare me, so I could watch over his troublesome son.”

 

His first public appearance as a lord since spring broke out of winter’s firm grasp. It should go well. The valley was the breadbasket of the empire, so even with its high population, the largest city was barely five thousand strong, while smaller towns and more villages than he bothered to count dotted the countryside. And still there were wide greenbelts of forests that made hunting good and travel a mild bother. 

 

“I don’t need a keeper.” He pulled on Vigil’s rein to match Blackie’s slow and steady trot. Why did it feel like he’d been saying that his entire life? “And I certainly don’t want one.”

 

“Oh, then why you gett’n’ married for?” Raphael bit his thumb again. “And to someone you’ve never met. What’s her name? Onry?” 

 

“Oriana.” Ideally, he would have been in the capital right now, getting to know his bride-to-be before their wedding, but circumstances had changed. Now all he had was a name, a date, and two letters on the way. “Because that’s an agreement my father made, and I don’t see any reason to go against his word.”

 

They came out of the narrow forest game trail and rounded up onto a much more well traveled road. Purple mountains dominated the horizon, their peaks packed with white snow that never quite made it down to the valley itself. The road acted as a river, dividing the thick green forest and farmlands. 

 

“What if this Princess Oriana is ugly?”

 

“Then I’ll have an ugly wife.”

“And if she’s a bitch?”

 

“Then my wife will be a bitch, and if she’s beautiful, I’ll have a beautiful wife, if she’s kind I’ll have a kind wife.” 

 

“But would you love her?” 

 

Why was he being so sentimental about all this? 

 

Claude turned to look at Raphael, “Love isn’t that important. If I end up falling in love with her that’s great. But, even without love, or even with it, learning to work together is what’s important.”

 

“I’m just saying, if you find someone to love, you’d be much happier. Why not look around the towns and find yourself a girl you fancy? It makes all the difference.” Raphael gave him a smile that had more than a few teeth missing. “Trust me.”

 

“And what would you know about it? Don’t tell me you’re in love.” The very idea of it just felt wrong. 

 

He sat a bit higher in his seat and gave a roguish wink while he wiggled those giant bushy eyebrows. “Zara Leblanc.” 

 

“The barkeep? Isn’t she married?”

 

“Just because there’s a goalie doesn’t mean you can’t score.”

Speech and thought left him for a moment, and Claude once more questioned the company he kept. Vigil too came to a complete stop as though he too was perturbed by what Raphael had just said. Blackie just continued to trot along. Shaking his head he caught up, he tried to gather the right words. None came. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Why? It’s good advice. For a lot of things in life, actually.” 

 

XXXX

 

Brookes Village was named so because it was a village that was near three to four brooks depending on the time of year. There were at least four other Brookes villages, each one had their brooks, a mill creek, a spring creek, and even a creek they called the creek. 

 

Each one looked about the same as well. A dozen or so homes, a couple of shops, a town square, a church, a tree they called The Old Man, and an overused marketplace that was half mud, half cow manure. Many of the people that called a village home, would actually live on the farm steads that dotted the land around the village. It was the kind of place where everybody knows everybody else's business. 

 

It was just another sleepy village that -

 

Wait. 

 

“Is that a mob?” Claude asked looking across a freshly plowed field, the plow and mule that carried it resting at one end. A rabble of peasants were were chasing after something, they couldn’t have number more than six, but they had pitchforks and even a torch despite the bright day. 

 

“At this time of year?” Raphael shot back leaning forward onto Blackie’s neck. “I don’t think you’ve been that shit at being a lord.”

 

A girl screamed.

 

Vigil let out whine when Claude snapped the reins and dug his heels on to spur the beast forward. Loose dirt exploded in all directions with each hoof fell onto the field. From in front of the mob, he could see what they were after. A woman, one with long red hair, dressed in thick clothing that was laden with pockets and covered in dirt. 

 

“Woah!” He half-screamed to get the crowd’s attention and half because Vigil leapt over the stone barrier and crashed down between the woman and the crowd. The mob backed away - a single pitch fork was aimed at him - and the woman held her satchel closer to her person, her green eyes stood out to him. 

 

“What’s going on here? Why are you chasing after this woman?” He asked the crowd, then looked down towards the girl as Vigil circled around her. “Why are they chasing you?” 

 

“They think I’m a witch.” She shrugged, with the casualness of talking about the weather. “I’m not.”

 

“She’s a witch!” An old man from the crowd stepped forward, his skin tanned and wrinkled from a life of hard work. Any hair that had once been on the top of his head had likely moved to his eyebrows, nose, or ears. The man’s scowl had become a permanent fixture on his face, he was the kind whose number of days spent working under the sun were only outnumbered by the number of complaints he had at any given moment. “And who are you?”

 

“I’m Claude of the Vale, your lord.” He held his head high and squared his shoulders. His father had the right presence for this kind of thing. It was an intangible air of nobility that was bolstered by years of experience and feats that commanded respect. 

 

The old man squinted for a second before his eyes went wide and he placed a hand over his heart. “My apologies, Young Lord. I’m sorry to hear about your father’s passing. He was a good man. My name is Gram Brookes, elder of this village.”

 

“Thank you Gram, now could you please explain why you think this woman is a witch?” He looked back to her. She bit into her bottom lip so that the white of her tooth was exposed while her green eyes scanned the horizon and the nearby forest. Her hands were covered in more dirt than the villagers, but her skin was pale and lacked their usual tan. She wasn’t a farmer. 

 

And then there was her hair. Even with the variety of twigs and leaves that were so tangled in her locks she might be trying to cultivate a few of them, her hair was a vibrant apple red. He didn’t recall meeting anyone with hair that vivid. Though, he did meet a wizard with green hair once.

 

“If her hair’s not proof enough,” Gram half spat, now back to glaring at the woman. “She showed up a few days ago, laid a curse on the Earnstead’s farms and now half their harvest is dead or infected.” 

 

“I did not!” The redhead protested. 

 

“And she growled at the Bales kids, set an old oak on fire, killed three of my chickens then buried them out back, stole some bread, and has, in general, been a nuisance.” The old man stuck his broad chest out and nodded. 

 

He was certain that anybody that didn’t say ‘good morning’ the right way would be considered a nuisance by the old farmer. He looked back to the redhead. “Well?”

Her face bunched up like she had just smelled something awful. “What? I did those things. I had a reason for it too.” 

 

“The Witch admits it!”

 

“I’m not a witch!” 

 

“Now listen.” Claude hopped off his horse and held his hands up between the two parties. “I’m certain if you just let her explain herself there would be a reasonable-”

 

Vigil’s neigh followed by the thunder of his hooves told Claude all he needed to know about what had just happened. 

 

“And now she’s stolen your horse, Young Lord.” Gram crossed his arms, his age old scowl still managing to show even as the old man let out a smile filled with missing teeth. 

 

“That proves that she’s a thief, not a witch.” Claude sighed and looked over to see Raphael, nearly rolling over in laughter from the other road. “I’d be grateful if you’d be willing to spare me a horse.”

 

“It would be our pleasure, Young Lord, and while we have you, I’d like to borrow your ear to list a few of my grievances.” Gram gestured towards the village with a mock bow. “And no, only one of them is about the witch you just let free.”

 

Shame he didn’t even get her name. That might have been worth his horse.