DARKHAVEN | "Three Sisters" Book One

Chapter Nineteen

Roslin

It was quite the sizable party that rode out to the village. Four Lords, the same three commanders who escorted them everywhere (despite the Lords' collective distaste for them), the three sisters, and each half of the party was flanked with armoured guards from both Darkhaven and the Mansilla host. If they were to face another ambush en route, it made sense to have strength in numbers.

It seemed to the sisters, though, that Lord Orvelle almost hoped to encounter trouble. His eyes, so brown they were nearly black, shrewdly searched the road and treeline, and he wore an overly large, overly ornate dagger the length of his forearm at his side. He seemed to be itching for a fight with a sort of bravado that seemed characteristic of the Sunset Kingdom—at least, based on the little they'd gathered about said kingdom.

The Lyons brothers had also joined the party. Linus was the Captain of Arms, so of course he shouldered his way in, and Leopold...Leopold joined with a mumbling mutter about needing inspiration for a new song. 

"Not only markedly talented but also incredibly dedicated to his art," Lucien had quipped with a touch of giddy delight.

The presence of the brothers was an unnaturally cold mar on an otherwise pleasant, sunny day.

Leopold had not a steed of his own, unlike his brother, who rode a destrier whose eyes Blodwyn had sworn were red. The minstrel, therefore, followed on a knobby-kneed pony that seemed to be moments from death at any given time. 

Jon had seen to this himself.

And as they watched Leopold hoist himself on top of the swaybacked beast of burden, all who were watching thought it would collapse into a heap of dust. But alas, sadly, it did not, and once settled, he breathlessly sought out Roslin with his eyes.

"This is cruel," Roslin said to Jon quietly from horseback.

Jon blinked. "I think he could do with humbling, my lady."

"Not the bard," she hissed, biting back a laugh and forcing her face to be stern. "The pony."

So forth they rode, and this time it was done safely and to the singing of Lord Orvelle Mansilla, whose lilted southern accent echoed off the trees and cliff faces and even the sun above.

The village, though modest, was beautiful in the simple way that the towns in fairytales were. Surrounded by fields of crops and smatterings of trees that stretched out beyond the stone walls,it had a quaint storybook charm unlike anything the sisters had ever known. The outer edges were lined with thatch-roofed cottages, the ivy-covered walls giving way to cobbled streets bustling with life within the gates. The sisters glanced through those same gates as the party reigned up at the stables.

"Ah, Darkhaven Village," said Orvelle from atop his sleek black mare. "What trouble shall we cause here today?" He turned in his saddle and looked at Blodwyn, who gave him a supportive thumbs up at the notion of being set loose on the unsuspecting town. Surely, Roslin figured, there had to be a tavern around here somewhere, and if there was, then it would be Blodwyn who found it.

Aleksander reined up beside Orvelle. "You're heading this party, Lord Orvelle," he told their guest. "Where to first?"

"First?" Orvelle looked around. "It's not that big of a village, my friend, and this isn't my first time here. I don't imagine I need a guided tour."

"What a relief," said Aleksander. "Don't go mucking up the streets. Leave your horses at the stable, if you'd be so kind."

When at last the horses were stabled and left in the hands of a pock-faced stable boy sporting a fashionable bowl cut, the Lords, sisters, and riders convened in the streets. Lucien repeated the same question Aleksander had posed to Orvelle. "Well, ladies," he started, which Aleksander did not say to Orvelle, "as it's your first time here, I do believe it's ladies' choice. Where to first?"