The small entourage consisting of two horse-drawn carriages, one ornately decorated belonging to the lady and her closest servants, and a larger, plainer one for supplies, traveled on narrow roads paved through dense pine forests and vast grasslands.

  From what little Meya knew of her country, a few manors dotted the long road from Crosset to Hadrian. Far at the horizon, she’d spot castles with villages and wheat fields surrounding their walls. However, the head guard stuck to the humdrum of the wilderness, the wisdom of the river. They stopped only to refill water, ask for directions at inns, and when daylight receded, making the journey swift but excruciatingly dull.

  The sun was setting on the sixth day of their journey as they ventured through a patch of forest between Manors Clardarth and Hadrian. The guards wanted to breach the woods and cross into Hadrian before setting up camp for the night. Everyone hurried along on tired feet.

  Meya stopped. The forest whispered of sinister life. Meya had taken enough trips into the woods to feed her piglets or hunt for honey to know wind on leaves from stalking feet.

  “Get moving, lass! We need to get through this before sundown!”

  The guard of the supplies carriage hollered. Meya had opened her mouth to warn him, when chaos broke loose. Black masses shot forth from the walls of trees. Gleams of silver and clangs of metal pierced the falling dark as guards unsheathed their swords to fend off enemy blades, forming a ragged circle around Lady Arinel’s carriage.

  The maids were left to fend for themselves. Some froze and screamed. Others fought for safety in the supplies carriage, which was too crammed with supplies to fit them.

  Fortunate for once, Meya was behind the carriage. With one vicious, practiced tug, she unclasped the collar from her neck and tossed it aside. The fog in her brain lifted. Strength returned to her limbs. She dove for the space between the wheels and flattened her belly on the cold earth.

  The air echoed with the sickening sound of metal splitting flesh, usually limited to the vicinity of Brodel’s butcher stall. Blood sprayed and spattered on the ground, calling more shrieks.

  Meya’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as she panted for breath. Cold fear coursed through her veins, threatening to freeze her limbs. On one side was the forest. Her best chance of survival was to make a break while they were occupied, run into Hadrian or double back to Clardarth. With luck, she’d stumble upon a patrol guard or fellow peasant who’d lead her to safety.

  Two pairs of feet danced between the wheels, blocking her passage. Meya gritted her teeth in desperation. She peered through the gap between wagon wheels and counted roughly twenty bandits. Two guards lay on the ground, dead. Some bandits dragged screaming maids out of the wagon.

  Meya turned back. The supplies guard and his bandit were still blocking her way. If one would die already, she could finally get out.

  Meya turned to the battle on the left, back to the forest on the right. To the left, then back again. She stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle a scream. The lone guard dropped dead, his blood-spattered face obstructing her view. His lifeless eyes bore into hers, unseeing. Meya scrambled back, then froze at the icy voice thundering from the midst of the bloodbath.

  “Surrender now, or we kill you all.”

  The ultimatum came from the largest, most scarred bandit of them all. The five remaining guards stood united around Lady Arinel’s carriage, panting, bloodstained swords raised. Five of their friends were dead on the ground. The bandits dragged over the maids to join them, swords at their necks.

  Stay safe. Don’t make any trouble for the lady. Come home next Fest in one piece.

  Meya fumed at her rotten luck. With all the strength she could muster, she pushed the guard’s corpse aside and scrambled out. Even without the collar, she didn’t trust her legs enough to stand and more or less rolled down to the banks of the forest, landing upon the carpet of fallen leaves with a flump.

  “There’s one under there!” a bandit yelled. Meya had no time to care. She picked herself up and dashed off. Something cut through air and chafed her cheek. She banked sideways, lost balance and fell flat on her face, getting a mouthful of leaves and dirt.

  Ah, crap.

  A hot trail of blood trickled down her cheek to her lips. A rough hand snatched the back of her tunic, choking her. Meya scrabbled on unsteady feet as she fought to pull her collar away from her neck. The bandit took no notice as he dragged her sputtering and staggering back to the road. He tossed her into the other maids, who sent up a fresh wave of screams.

  The head bandit strode to his place amid his minions, then surveyed his captives one by one.

  “Your Lady Crosset will be mated to Lord Hadrian. According to Latakian mating ritual, she must bring to him assets of value as dowry. We want to know the contents of her dowry and its whereabouts.”

  He spoke in jarring vocabulary tinged with foreign accent. His voice, soft and calm, clashed with his suntanned face riddled with white scars. The five guards glanced at one another, then looked to their leader.

  The head guard gave a soundless, enormous gulp, evident from the bulge rolling down his neck. As sweat trickled down his pallid cheek, he returned his fearful gaze to the bandit’s leader.

  “We don’t have the dowry,” he shook his head. Meya saw truth in his eyes. “We don’t know what it is. Whether it’s to be handed before, at or after the wedding. It might even be the betrothal, a decade ago!”

  His yell of desperation petered into a whimper when the head bandit lifted him by the front of his uniform.

  “Am I supposed to care when it is handed?” His voice was colder than midwinter. “Unless you want Lady Crosset to join her sisters, I suggest you learn what and where it is quickly.”

  “I swear by Freda, we know nothing of the dowry!” the guard shouted, his voice trembling as hard as his body. “You gain nothing from killing us! But give us time and Lord Crosset will prepare a ransom!”

  “I do not want a ransom. Nor a dowry. I want Lady Arinel’s dowry,” the bandit repeated. He set the guard down to sputter and cough, then turned to his nonplussed hostages.

  “You may or may not have the dowry with or within one of you. There are two ways we can be sure. Either you hand it to us and we go on our way. Or we cut you all open to retrieve it, then we go on our way.”

  Fear numbed Meya at his bland statement. His curved sword gleamed red in the dying light. Cattle and horse, chests of gold, entire manors were given as dowries. This dowry must be small enough to be hidden on one’s person, yet priced enough and above all else to buy an alliance with Hadrian. Did such a thing even exist in the three lands?

  “Please. No. We truly don’t have it,” the guard stammered. Every eye turned to the silent white carriage. Their one hope. Lady Arinel would know best about her marriage, wouldn’t she?

  None dared demand the lady show herself and negotiate. One breath. Two breaths. Not a sound escaped the carriage.

  For Freda’s sake, weren’t nobility supposed to protect commoners? Why in Fyr’s name was she still hiding like a snail in its shell?

  Meya reached for the carriage door, but her loyal peers restrained her. Their loyalty was rewarded when the head bandit marched in, caught a girl by her red hair and dragged her shrieking away from her friends’ flailing arms.

  “I’m told spilling innards is an effective means of persuasion. You left me no choice but to experiment.”

  The bandit raised his sword high, and the girl screamed for her life. Guards charged in as maids panicked. Meya’s eyes grew wide in terror as the blade lowered.

  For Freda’s sake! How many of them would have to die before Arinel relented? Who was to say Meya herself wouldn’t be one of them? Wouldn’t someone do something? Couldn’t she do something?

  “Wait! I have a plan!”

  The bandit held his sword. Thirty pairs of eyes pooled upon her. Meya stifled her shivers in vain as she faced those cold, bottomless eyes.

  “You…you want nothing but the dowry, right?” She held up her hands. “We dunno what or where it is, we really dun, but please dun kill us yet. We’ll help you find it.”

  The bandit locked eyes with her, the tip of his sword hovering inches from the redhead maid’s bowels, calculating. Meya willed her eyes to show nothing but confidence even as she cobbled sentences together as she went.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “We’re only a day away from Hadrian Castle, and we have—” Meya cast a reluctant glance at the bloody corpses, “five…vacancies in our entourage. We’ll take you in there disguised as our guards. You may search every nook and cranny. If ’tis handed over at the wedding, you’ll be there to see.”

  Another sickening pause, then the bandit loosened his fist. The girl collapsed, coughing and sputtering. Other maids pulled her into their enclave, where they fell into each other’s arms, rocking with hushed sobs.

  Eyes still on Meya, the bandit covered the distance between them in one stride and crouched on one knee. He drove his curved sword into the ground beside Meya, jolting her.

  “Young female, you suggest we infiltrate Hadrian Castle, surround ourselves with their men while we search, instead of forcing the truth out of your lady here and now?”

  Search? Meya frowned as she cowered. She was sure now. It wasn’t gold nor land but something small, unusual. Were they regular thieves? Or did someone hire them to steal something specific?

  “If the lady knew, she would’ve said something long since. What’s more important here than her life? You’re right, we may or may not have it. If you kill us and find it, then that’s that. If you dun, then you’ve lost the one lead you’re never meant to have.”

  Meya fired out anything and everything that came to mind, caring nothing for coherence.

  “If you dun find the dowry with us, you’ll have to infiltrate Hadrian Castle anyway. If I was Lord Crosset and the dowry was so priceless, why send it with me daughter? I’d send out decoy Lady Arinels and send the real thing with the pony post. What if ’tis already reached the castle? What if you kill us now and the Hadrians grow suspicious? Your best option is to go with us.”

  Meya barely felt her lips. The bandit pored into her eyes, so she pleaded through them. Had she been less desperate, she’d know not to call attention to her eyes in such a delicate negotiation, but the bandit wasn’t put off by them. Rather, he seemed…sympathetic?

  She peered into his eyes in kind. Dark, emerald green. The same color as her dimmed eyes. Could it be?

  “What is your name, young female?” he asked. Meya blinked.

  “Meya Hild,” she went with honesty. Everyone had seen her eyes with no collar. Lying would be pointless at best, disastrous at worst.

  The bandit frowned as if reminiscing, then nodded. His expression remained neutral, something that couldn’t be said of any Crossetian upon hearing her name. Despite herself, an unwitting drop of camaraderie diluted her fear.

  “Your argument is solid, Meya Hild, but how can we be sure you won’t betray us to the Hadrians?”

  Meya wrung her brain. The bandit was relenting, but having a bloodstained sword sticking up before one’s face wouldn’t hasten matters, no matter how desperately one wished it would.

  “We could poison them and withhold the antidote, Gillian. That will make sure they cooperate with us until the end,” suggested a thin, rat-faced bandit on the head bandit’s right.

  Meya internally saluted Rat-Face. Brilliant suggestion, but she must make sure the deal was fair. As Gillian raised his eyebrows at his subordinate, Meya nodded her support.

  “Right. A slow poison, kills in a week or summat. We’ll give you ours, too. Then, after the job’s done, we arrange an antidote exchange.”

  Gillian smirked. Feeling surer of the way the wind blew, Meya turned to her companions.

  “I dun like having to work with them or having me days numbered, but I can’t think of any other way.” She met eyes with the guards and maids. “’Tis your lives as well. You should voice your say, too.”

  The maids glanced at each other, then turned as one to the guards, who again threw responsibility to their leader. The head guard turned to Meya, his face a rough mix of fear, uncertainty, and thankfulness. He settled on a resigned nod.

  “I’m at my wit’s end. So long as it keeps our lady alive, I support it.”

  At his tired permission, Meya returned to Gillian. He stood with arms crossed, waiting.

  “Do we have anything of the sort, Trunt?”

  A stocky bandit skulking near the maids perked up, cocked his head, then answered eagerly.

  “Don’t think so, commander, but we can stop by Old Angus’s. He’ll have somethin’ for every occasion.”

  “Then we go with Dockar’s plan.” Gillian nodded, then turned to his hostages.

  “Very well, Crossetians. You’ll live for a month at least thanks to Meya Hild.” He pointed his sword at Meya, spattering blood on her cheek, then swung it towards the five dead guards.

  “Do what you must for your dead. Make it swift, bring us clean uniforms. First light tomorrow, we move out.”

  As Gillian ordered his men to set up camp, and the guards toddled uncertainly towards their departed comrades, muffled noises issued from the white carriage.

  “Milady, no you mustn’t! It’s dangerous!”

  “Let go of me! I said, let go!”

  After a final screech, the carriage door burst open, revealing Lady Crosset flanked by her two trusted servants. Though sheltered from the battle, she was red-faced and panting, her golden curls tangled and lopsided. The nurse and the masked maid were in similar shape, evidence of another fierce tussle inside.

  “Lady Arinel!” the maids gasped as the lady swept down the steps, shooting furtive glances at Meya. They’d struck a bargain in the lady’s name without her consent. From the look in her flaring blue eyes, she wasn’t exactly impressed with the outcome, either.

  “So long as it keeps our lady alive?” Arinel seethed, spitting cold fire as she stormed to the head guard. “Disgrace to the name of Crosset! Of Bayne! Sacrificing the Hadrians to trade our lives? Have you no honor—”

  “My lady, there is no other way.” The head guard attempted to pacify his charge. Meya stood, diverting Arinel’s ire to her.

  Meya wasn’t sure what had compelled her so. Perhaps she feared Arinel would derail their fragile pact and the bandits would return to their first plan, slaughter them all then root through their corpses. Perhaps she was insulted Arinel had watched from the sidelines then came gliding in by the end to speak her mind when the outcome didn’t meet her expectations.

  “Thank Freda you finally long for fresh air, milady,” Meya greeted through gritted teeth, injecting extra venom into the honorific.

  “Before you preach of honor and disgrace, ask the living if they’ve ever wished to die in the rotten name of Crosset!”

  Arinel slapped Meya’s bleeding cheek so hard she staggered. She glowered, tearful yet refusing to repent. Arinel lowered her bloodied hand, panting.

  “How dare you.” Her whisper trembled with fury. “How…dare…you!”

  “If even you dunno where that dowry is, tell us what else we can do.” Meya rolled her lips, drinking the blood trickling into her mouth, shouting, “you’re our lady, for Freda’s sake! Save us!”

  Arinel held her head high, lips pursed into a line.

  “I choose death.” She faltered. “I want no part in this. I’d rather rot in this forest than breathe shame upon my father’s name.”

  “Milady!” The old nurse threw herself at her beloved charge in despair. Arinel stood rigid and pale, her eyes unseeing. Meya gawked, dumbfounded, then anger consumed her. Her heart thundering, she clenched her hands into fists.

  “You choose death?” She cocked her head. “Typical of you noble folk. You dun give shite, do you, what becomes of us long as your honor’s intact?”

  Arinel pursed her lips, confirming with silence. Meya gnashed her teeth.

  “These men died so you’ll live! And you choose death?”

  She jabbed her finger at the bloody corpses in the arms of the living guards. The healthy blush drained off Arinel’s cheeks, leaving snowy white. She gaped at the dead men and met eyes with the remaining guards, some with silent tears streaming down their cheeks.

  “They’re…are they…dead?” Her voice was barely a whisper. The head guard nodded.

  Arinel staggered to the carriage stairs, sinking in horror. Meya rolled her eyes at the darkening sky. Now she was in shock. There was no rattling an answer out of her for a while. A while they did not have. Worse, she might choose to die out of guilt once she came to.

  Out of sheer desperation and annoyance, Meya heaved a sigh and declared,

  “Fine. I’ll be Lady Arinel meself.”

  Solid silence followed, undercut by the shrill song of early crickets, broken by cries of astonishment from the head guard and the nurse.

  “WHAT?”

  Meya spared them a glance, then returned to Arinel. The lady remained speechless, but the prospect of Meya assuming her identity had knocked her back to reality. At her glare of incredulity, Meya shrugged.

  “No need for worry. If we fail, I’ll confess to me crimes. Your family’s honor will be preserved. You can die rest assured,” she added dryly, then shrugged again. “Me dad’s got six decent children left. He wouldn’t miss one Greeneye.”

  Meya maintained her bravado as the bitter poison of her words paralyzed her tongue. Arinel blinked, pondering the offer.

  “And if you succeed?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “I’ll continue being Lady Crosset. Ain’t that the reward I deserve?” Meya braved another shrug, striving to look as insulting and aggravating as she dared. Arinel was too distracted to take offense. Her eyes grew even wider.

  “You’ll marry Coris in my place and be me for the rest of your life?”

  Meya almost jolted. Chione’s Ninnies! How could she have forgotten? The sole purpose of this ill-fated journey was for Arinel to get married! But she couldn’t stop now. Arinel must believe she was devoted to it.

  “Of course.” Meya tilted her head as if it were the most obvious thing in the three lands. “You chose to die, but your name’s still useful. You threw away a name thousands would kill to have. I’d be a fool to leave it here.”

  Arinel clenched her jaw, then rose to her feet, glaring at Meya with cold fury in her eyes. Meya couldn’t resist a smile.

  “I’d even say it’s me right. After all, I came up with the plan, not you. Everyone alive here is alive thanks to me, not you. I protected the people of Crosset, while you hid behind their corpses. Dun’t that make me worthier of being Lady Crosset?”

  Anger vanished from Arinel’s eyes, replaced with guilt and shame. Even as Meya called her bluff, she found herself falling for it.

  Meya did something she had never done before. She’d done something useful for others, and they appreciated it. For once in her life, she had succeeded, or at least didn’t fail so spectacularly.

  “I spent me life fattening pigs for me family. Since they can’t eat me, I gotta make meself useful some other way. And I need your name for that.”

  Silence fell over a clash of ice blue against acid green. Arinel surveyed Meya for an excruciating moment, then her lips finally moved.

  “You’re Meya Hild, aren’t you?”

  Meya blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question and Arinel’s incredible calm. Frowning, she eked out a reluctant nod. Meya didn’t like revealing her name to a fellow Crossetian, for obvious reasons. Arinel unfurled a slight smile.

  “May-lah Awn-ya Hild, my name is Arinel Annetta Crosset. You take it, and I take yours. Until the day you’re worth more than a pig, and I’m worthy of my name.”

  Meya took a moment to register Arinel’s offer, and the fact she flawlessly pronounced Meya’s true, full name even she herself couldn’t spell.

  “What?” Meya croaked, eyes bulging. Arinel nodded.

  “Since you’re so confident you can make more out of my name than myself, take it. Keep it forever if you must. I hope you use it well.”

  “Milady!” the nurse cried, but Arinel was unwavering.

  “I’ve been humbled by shame, but I will not let any insolent peasant girl insult me twice.”

  Arinel reached for her necklace and tugged, snapping the brittle chain. She tossed the silvery emerald-studded crest into Meya’s hand. As Meya stared, mouth agape, she pulled off her jewelry one by one, depositing them in her overflowing hands.

  All she’d meant to do was persuade Arinel. Never in her wildest dreams did Meya expect Arinel to take her bluff word for word and throw away her titles in favor of Meya’s worthless name.

  Although it may have been for the lady’s safety, Meya felt something akin to respect for the proud, noble lady, that was soon engulfed by fear for herself.

  She was becoming a lady. And she was marrying a lord. Not just as a mistress, but a fully-fledged, lawfully-wedded wife.

  And, no matter the outcome of this heist, regardless of whether her life would end in less than a week or fifty years, she’d be spending a large part of it as Arinel Crosset.

  https://storyoriginapp.com/universalbooklinks/0dcea44e-7cd2-11ef-936d-4312a3d8a901

  Which school do you think Meya has attended?

  

  48%

  48% of votes

  52%

  52% of votes

  Total: 25 vote(s)