Part 1: Passions

  "Weather inside on a day that dawns red"- old proverb, speculated origin from Galadrin Nation.

  Gwynfor Flours awoke before the sun. She did not linger in bed, rolling out quickly; the morning would not be wasted. Her dressing was quick. Sturdy pants stained, a shirt fit for a day of work, and a brown apron with a deep pouch. She lingered longer than necessary, holding a purple headscarf in her hands. Unlike the rest of her attire, it was in fashion. She pictured it burning. With a look of distaste curling on her lips and deep in her eyes, she tied it around her head. It hid her hair–which sprouted out like leaves–and vanished her ears from sight. Gwynfor sighed. Now humans could more easily pretend she was one of them.

  Scratching at the covering, she left her room and descended to the kitchen. Despite the early hour, there was already languid activity. “Morning,” Gwynfor said to her pad and her moth. Her moth looked up, from where she was mixing together a bowl the size of a table filled with flour and water.

  She was all smiles and wrinkles. Some would say age had not been kind to her, but Gwynfor would disagree. Her moth was not pretty, but she was sturdy, wise, like a mama bear. A few vines of silver fell out from her own headscarf, and something seemed to glint in her eyes when she glanced at Gwynfor. “That scarf is too tight.”

  “I know moth,” Gwynfor replied, tugging at the cursed thing which had bunched up and was tugging at her hair. Her moth grimaced at Gwynfor’s use of the Galadin word for mother. Gwynfor pushed on, “I want to go out this morning when I’m done helping you and pad.”

  On the other side of the kitchen, where a massive stone furnace cackled with sputtering flames, a second voice rose. “What have we said about speaking galadin?” It was stern, the kind of voice people naturally wanted to listen to.

  Gwynfor sighed, as she stepped past her mother to a ceramic basin where she began to wash her hands up to the elbow. “Sorry dad.”

  Her father appeared from behind the counter, holding a pan with an overly long handle. He tucked it into the oven, and looked over at her. “So you keep saying. How are all those old books of galadin and meyet and whatever other language you have in your mind doing?” He shook his head, as he took out his bread knife and began to sharpen it. It wasn’t meant to be intimidation, but with each shink of metal against stone, it was hard to see any other way.

  She finished washing her hands, and walked over to her moth, who handed her the dough now mixed. Gwynfor hid the squeamish look on her face as she began to dump the dough into their rising trough. It squelched out and stuck to her hands and arms, both cold and somehow warm. She hated the texture, the feel of it on her skin, the way it clumped and refused to let go. But she did her job diligently.

  “What are you and mom doing today?” she asked, not emphasizing she used their preferred word. Why must she use another’s word in place of their own?

  “We have a big order in from the Greenwoods. They are hosting a banquet for our Lady Dragon’s seventh year feast, and we will be making cakes!”

  A smile found its home on her face as she looked up. Her pad had been stressed about this for weeks, wondering if this year they would be granted the boon of serving food for the feast. Despite being known as the best bakers this side of iron hill, neither the Greenwoods nor House Itterarkh had purchased anything from them. Nearly all other major families in the city used them for feasts though. Gwynfor pushed down the feeling of spite that rose in her belly–the anger that always seemed to be stewing. This was good for her parents, good for her, even if it came by the grace of humans. “When are we starting the order?” She called to the spirits in the hopes it would not be today, any day but today.

  “Today!” Her father said, puffing out his chest and beaming. His eyes seemed to glitter and his face was split in twain by a smile.

  Her stomach plummeted. They had done big orders before, and it meant days and hours of work which beat at your arms and hands, and covered you in flour and dough and starch until you looked like you had been rolling in snow. She recalled hands blistered and red from the rolling pins and the ovens. She sighed.

  “You won’t be needed longer than normal today though Gwynor,” her moth said.

  Gwynfor looked up, feeling as if the sun rose in her life.

  “She won’t be?” Her pad asked.

  Her stomach fell again.

  “No Allan,” Gwynfor’s moth said. Again the sun shone. “Did you not hear she wanted to go out today after work?”

  Her pad scratched at his beard, like small branches beginning to poke out from his ruddish skin. “Martha, we have–”

  “Let her have fun Allan.”

  There was a long pause–none of them seemed to be doing any work at the moment. Gwynfor stared at her pad with the best smile she could put on. She wasn’t sure how well it worked.

  “Alright, I suppose we can manage today without you, but tomorrow will be a busy one!” Her pad conceded with a shake of his head.

  “YES! Thank you pad–” she clapped her hands to her mouth. Her heart beat faster in the moment of silence that followed

  Her pad scowled a little, then laughed. “You really got to work on that Gwyn.” he turned away and continued to futz with the oven’s flames. He always did that, having to make sure the fire was just right. He claimed it was why their bread was the best in Redport. She breathed in relief.

  Behind Gwynfor, her moth walked over. “One condition before I let you go early,” she said, quiet enough that Gwynfor was sure her pad would not hear.

  “Which is?” she asked, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

  “For the next few days, I want no more of this…” her moth paused, searching for the right word, “game you’re playing.” Her moth waited, as if expecting retaliation. Gwynfor said nothing, though she fidgeted under that diamond pressure.

  “It is hard enough keeping up business as is in the city, without you causing trouble. We are tolerated as we are unobtrusive. I will not have you ruin your father’s work to get us this order. That means no sneaking out to go see the Banishment tonight.”

  Gwynfor froze. How had she known about that?

  Her moth’s eyes no longer seemed very friendly, and they burned like black pits in the night sky. “I am not nearly so blind as you think Gwyn.” She leaned closer, “I used to sneak out all the time as a kid. You are not nearly so far from the tree as you think. I haven’t said anything, because you are free to make your own choices. But right now, today? You will be my perfect young woman, won’t you?”

  Gwynfor nodded, but her shoulders slumped. For fourteen years she hadn’t missed a Banishment. But, for this, she had to make an exception. She forced herself to meet her mother’s eyes, and put as much sincerity into her voice as possible. “I will be,” she promised.

  There was another long stretch of silence between them, only the sound of the oven and her pad’s humming broke the quiet. Gwynfor felt it lasted an hour, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple seconds. Finally, her moth said, “Good, now help us get the bread done for today then you can go.”

  It took longer than Gwynfor would have liked. They made more bread than usual–word spread and would inspire more customers than typical. So they filled their display with bread and pastries, and Gwynfor’s hands were stained with sugar and starch. But, finally, the sun began to rise above the world’s edge and shine his light onto Redport. In that early morning darkness, the city began to breathe and come to life. And Gwynfor was allowed to go. She ducked out from the kitchen and ran up the stairs. She threw off her grimy work clothes and donned a more comfortable outfit.

  It would not be described as fashionable by the standards of the day–but Gwynfor had seen the wigs the ladies wore and wouldn’t trust their sense of what looked good. Just yesterday she had seen someone from House Itterarkh pass by with hair like ocean waves, a huge model ship atop her head. Gwynfor kept the scarf–without it she would draw attention and ire, neither of which she could afford this day. Then she wore a simple shirt cut in the style of House Magnolia. They favored airy shirts with puffy sleeves cuffed at the wrists, and it was wonderfully comfortable. Her pants were simple trousers with a skirt over them. She hated skirts and dresses, but they too were of fashion in the city, and Gwynfor would attract too much attention to forgo them. She got away with it most days, but she had to be a perfect example. Mostly.

  She grabbed a coat. It was an old thing, slightly too big for her, and broader in the shoulders. It was warm and made for traveling, and colored like a forest floor. A name was embroidered inside it: Allvan’Their’Tynal. She ran her fingers over the name, murmuring it to herself. She had never been allowed to call her pad by this name, he had left it behind in pursuit of a better life. It was like honey to her tongue. Months were spent deciphering the meaning from old books she had saved to buy from passing merchants and the old bookstore on market winding. It meant he under the sun.

  Gwynfor donned the coat. It clashed with the purple of her headscarf, and made her seem even more diminutive than she already seemed to humans, but it had a weight to it, a warmth–like a constant embrace. She left. Her pad was still hard at work behind the counter, while her moth was in the foyer, preparing the lobby for customers. Gwynfor snagged a loaf from a basket, nodded to her moth, and left the store.

  Outside, iron hill groaned awake. A wind howled from the west, carrying the scent of salt and misery from Ghost. No Banishment tonight. It nagged her, not being there, not being heard. But she would listen to her moth. She had to. She began to walk and was glad for the coat. Redport was on the western coast of Artaghan, and was dreary from the remnants of the perpetual storm of punishment around Ghost. She stared out across the many miles to where swirling gray clouds lit up with lightning flashes. Were it not for the storms, Gwynfor wondered if she could see all the way to the broken land, so very far away.

  The early morning sky was red, and the sun seemed to burn crimson. Gwynfor looked at it for a long moment. The sunrises in Redport were invariably beautiful and today was no exception. She continued on, moving through the neighborhood.

  Iron hill was where the wealthy of Redport lived. Built upon the ruins of old Redport after it had mostly been swept away by a massive tsunami. The higher you climb, the more opulence you find. It was an old adage, but one Gwynfor saw all too true. Her family lived near the very lowest part of the hill, practically neighbors with market winding. What a difference designations made; if they were on market winding they would be just another bakery, but on iron hill? They were the bakery.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  She did not climb further up the city, but instead wound downwards, towards market winding, though she skirted to avoid the main streets. This time of day they would already be busy with life. Instead she travelled parallel through Redport, catching glimpses of market winding, but never stepping foot on the street. She made her way north, towards dockside. It smelled of fish and salt, an acidic and unpleasant smell which burned her nostrils. She saw fumes sputtering out from many of the buildings. The structures here were different from most of Redport. Instead of terracotta and fired bricks, the buildings here were often ramshackle or failing that–big bulky buildings of wood frames without much in the way of walls. She soon left the side streets. This close to the docks, it wasn’t always safe to be away from where people congregated.

  She luckily drew less eyes here than she would have in market winding. The elves in the city hid their hair and ears to avoid notice, and that worked for most of them. But Gwynfor was known in the city, her parents were like a circus. Elves with notoriety, prestige, out of their element and pretending to belong. They were tolerated for their skill and given a veneer of respect but were met with a sneer the moment their backs were turned. But in dockside, lived sailors and tradesmen and passersby. They were an odd sort, people who lived their lives on the road or open sea, never getting attached to any one place. Here she could hide and simply be.

  As she darted through a darkened alley, the kind you did not wish to linger in, something drew her attention. There was a flash of red, right in the corner of her eye, barely in sight. It was crimson as blood, and she felt the urge to whip around to see what it was. Instead, slowly back she glanced. Nothing. The alley was barren aside from a single door raised off the ground by a wooden step, and a pile of trash a few feet away. Neither of those had any red. She looked up, the sun wasn’t shining his light here and there was nothing reflective to have caught on.

  The wind howled through the street, whipping at her clothes and at her scarf, tugging it askew and forcing her grab hold. Stupid wind. She really should have tightened the thing better. She shivered, and as she rubbed at her arms, felt goosebumps dotting them. Had she seen what she thought she had? Her mind could be playing tricks on her, or she could have just imagined it. Maybe a bit of cloth even flew with the wind and managed to hide around the corner. Even still, as she finally began to move again, she found herself in greater haste, nearly at a run. She kept glancing over her shoulder too, just in case.

  Soon, the streets were left behind. She climbed atop a rickety staircase of wood and stepped onto the hobbled together planks that spanned outwards. The docks were a miserably looking thing. The water was rolling up and down and looked sickly. Buildings here were sorry looking things that sagged and looked ready to break. The air was filled with the scent of salt from both sea and sweat, and choked with smoke from pipes. She had seen not a soul nor sign of red the last ten minutes. Head down, moving quickly, she came to a building. Its only distinguishing trait was a painted siren sprawled out and beckoning people inwards. Whoever painted it had a particular taste in women and not the most artistic of hand. Gwynfor pushed the door open and scurried inside just as she began to hear the pitter-patter of rainfall.

  The room was nearly devoid of life. A couple of tables stood lonely, a few booths without attention. A single person slumped in the back corner, empty bottles around his drooling face. She started as she noticed someone she had missed on her first glance through the building. He was a frightful figure, his face a mess of scars, like someone had decided to drunkenly take up woodcarving and decided this man’s face would be an ideal canvas. He was entirely bald, missing even his eyebrows. He wore one of those waxy-looking coats made by the Reef in Ghost and he stared at her with blue eyes disturbingly discerning. Nothing he wore was red. Not that she was still dwelling on that little glimpse.

  She almost bolted out the door right there, and might have if the person she hadn’t come here to meet hadn’t poked his head up from behind the bar. As he did, the scary man staring at her turned away and stared out the window. Behind the counter, Willow was a wiry looking kid, a few years her junior. She still remembered when he was shorter than her, but now he was two feet taller and not used to it. He was covered in freckles, his hair a fiery tangle that never seemed to look good. He ran towards her and hit a low ceiling beam. He fell flat on his back. Gwynfor covered her mouth to avoid laughing at him.

  Surprisingly, the scary man barked out a laugh, but also leapt to his feet and offered Willow a hand. She saw her friend scramble back at first, surprised at the man’s quick movement. The scary man seemed to recoil and twist away after Willow’s scramble, leaving Willow stranded on the ground as the scary man left his former seat and disappeared into one of the shadowed booths hidden away in the back. She blinked a couple times, and then ignored the man. Maybe he was moon-mad, or whatever similar thing humans called it. She rushed over and saw Willow had already pushed himself to his feet, rubbing at his head.

  “Hiya Gwynie,” he said, face scrunched up in pain.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said, but was smiling. She pushed away his hand and moved aside his hair.

  “Hey,” he protested.

  She ignored him. There was already a bruise where his head struck the beam. “You dolt,” she said, stepping back. “You must watch where you’re going.”

  He waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah,” then his stomach rumbled, and Gwynfor saw him hunger at the bread poking out of her bag. She handed it to him and he tore into it like a ghoul. Gwynfor sat down at the bar, and glanced over at the other guest, but he had withdrawn into the dark and seemed to be ignoring them. He was still unnerving. Willow sat across from her behind the bar.

  “Fanks,” he said, his mouth full of bread.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied.

  Willow choked down another huge bite of bread, and wiped the crumbs off the counter–into his hands– and downed those too. “Your parents are angels.”

  Gwynfor shrugged. “So you say.”

  Willow frowned, and stared at her. “You’re in a bad mood.”

  Gwynfor was quiet.

  “What’s going on?” Willow asked, and glanced around.

  Gwynfor leaned in, and lowered her voice. “I can’t go to the Banishment tonight.” That was the only thing which she was thinking about. The only thing.

  She barely managed to put her hands over his stupid mouth before he could shout out his surprise. She glared at him, as his eyes widened. He shrank back. “Thorry,” he mumbled behind her hands. She let him go.

  “Quiet,” she hissed.

  “Why can’t you go?” He was trying his best to whisper, Gwynfor knew, but he was dreadfully bad at it. The scary man did not seem to be paying attention.

  “Moth and pad got an order from the Greenwoods for the seventh year feast, and she wants me on my best behavior. I promised her I would.”

  Willow was silent for a moment. “That is sad,” he said limply. “Anything I can do?”

  Gwynfor shook her head. “No. Got any news?” she asked. It had been a while since he had last heard anything. For once, she wasn’t sure she wanted news or not.

  Willow looked around warily, there was something about the way he shifted that displayed nervousness. “Spill it Willow,” she said, leaning forward. It couldn’t be.

  “You sure? It’s only going to make you more sad you’re missing tonight.”

  Gwynfor pressed herself up on the table so she was level with his eyes. “That alone makes me more curious and sad I’m missing it. Tell me.” She had to know.

  Willow sighed, turning away. “Lydia’s back.”

  Gwynfor froze. Now? Why? It had been three years. A bubbling mix of excitement, anger, disappointment, guilt, and anticipation boiled in her belly. If Lydia was back, then something big either happened or was about to happen. She laughed. Relief as well as a twinge of disappointment joined the already chaotic potion she brewed.

  “That’s not even the biggest news,” Willow said, no longer seeming so sad. In fact, he was much his usual self, grinning from ear to ear and looking like a kid who just learned something cool.

  Bigger than Lydia? She fell deathly still. “What?” she whispered.

  “Apparently some big important person was found dead the other night. They’ve been kept all hush hush, but word is leaking out thanks to some handsome and mysterious person. The church folk think the Red Wraith killed him.”

  Two words. A name known across Artaghan. Feared by many, a name which struck fear into those who ruled with fists of iron. A name who others waved like a banner of crimson.

  And exactly what she dreaded and hoped to have heard.

  “You okay Gwyn?” Willow asked, his head tilted. Concern for her. She looked at her hands, and saw the goosebumps, her skin paled to the shade of a redwood. The Red Wraith. It would make the nobles panic, make the soldiers prickly as cactus. The pricklier the soldiers, the more who got banished.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and realized she was feeling dizzy. Had she seen the Red Wraith? The only evidence they left in their killings was the smell of sulfur and claims of people seeing red in the corner of their eyes.

  “Don’t know? What in Mor-Morterran’s dirty name does that mean?” He stumbled over the curse. He didn’t quite look over his shoulder in fear of being overheard swearing, but she saw him twitch towards it. It was exactly what she needed to get a grip on herself. She forced herself to smile and shake her head.

  “I…” she hesitated, wondering what to say. She glanced back, the scary man was still hidden in shadow. Was he listening? It didn’t seem like it. Even still, she spoke as quietly as a mouse. “I think I saw the Red Wraith.”

  “Really?” Willow said.

  “Quiet,” Gwynfor replied, glancing back towards the man.

  “When?” he asked, still too loud for her liking, but better.

  “On my way here. I saw a glimpse of crimson in the alleyway. You know who she killed?”

  Willow smirked. “Perhaps,” there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Like I said, a handsome and mysterious–”

  Gwynfor punched him on the shoulder. “Come on Willow, I’m missing the Banishment, don’t tease me!” If he dared keep this from her, she would punch him much harder the next time.

  Willow rubbed at where she hit him, smiling. “It wasn’t easy to learn. I was all sneaky, climbing over the wall of the big old church. I need payment. Ain’t easy sticking my neck out.” His smile was wide as a merchant’s and glittery as a scale.

  “Two loaves of bread tomorrow.”

  “Tonight,” he countered.

  “You got to meet me halfway then.”

  “Deal,” he spat in his hand and held it out.

  She spat on her own and shook his. “Tell me.”

  “It was one of those big church people, Elder dood-something. I glimpsed the room,” he seemed to mellow out again. “It looked bad, Gwyn. Nearly lost my stomach up there.”

  “Duhnlaid?” she asked, a chill running up her spine. The Twelve Elders of the Church were among the most powerful people on the entire continent. As a whole they were more influential than most of the lords of the High Houses. She wasn’t surprised to hear about it looking bad. She had read accounts of the other people the Red Wraith killed. Rarely were they clean deaths. Gwynfor’s hands tightened into a ball. To a person though, the victims deserved their demise.

  “That ain’t all either,” Willow said, a glimmer now in his eyes, apparently recovered from his memory. “I heard some of those black-shawl church folk talking and said they needed help with this. I think they’re bringing in Atilan!”

  “The high father’s vessel?” Everyone at least knew the name Atilan. He had been an inquisitor before he was chosen as the hand of the high father. Gwynfor had seen him before, he lived in Ghost now, supposedly he was working towards making the cursed island better, but its name was still feared. Atilan often passed through Redport, and did nothing to help them, despite claims of his great charity.

  “Yeah!” Willow said, beaming. “I overheard them saying they think the Red Wraith is after more important people in the city, they think there is a conspiracy that–”

  “Quiet,” Gwynfor hissed, realizing they had long since stopped whispering.

  They both slowly turned to look over to the scary man. He still sat silent in the shadows, but was watching them both. He flashed them a smile of crooked teeth, several of them missing. Gwynfor glanced at Willow, who shrugged but looked uneasy.

  She stood up, mind racing with both what Willow had told her and with the possibilities of this man. She shook her head. “I got to go,” she whispered. That man unnerved her. Why was he watching them? How long had he been at that?

  Willow nodded. “I’ll meet you halfway, around sunfall?” He asked.

  She nodded. “Where is Lydia,” she asked, very quiet. Lydia needed to know about this, about the Wraith. It seemed a dark coincidence for this to be Lydia’s moment of return.

  Willow was silent for a long moment, and stole a look at their guest. “At her house I think, she didn’t say.”

  “Thanks. See you at sunfall.” She left quickly, mind racing. Lydia’s house. Even with Lydia gone, Gwynfor had been there many times in the last few years. It was where she met with the other members of the Red Wraiths, where they planned their protests, their next actions. It was where she always failed to be her moth’s perfect young woman. Now, she had to know what they would do when confronted with the one whose name they had adopted. She slid out the door of the siren, hoping the scary man did not follow.