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This is Zaralle's biography. Additional chapters (moments in Zaralle's life as experienced by various point-of-view characters) will be posted.




Chapter 1: A Lynx and an Owl


Hadar thrust down his fork, reverse gripped, into one of the many green beans on his plate without intent to eat it; father expectantly glanced at him, his dark eyes resembling those of an eagle warding off would-be territorial trespassers.

He was seated right of Hadar, before one end of a long dining table. Hadar was seated before the side of that end.

The table was simply shaped, but it was made of flawless ebony wood, and waxed; Hadar did not need to look away from the reflections upon the exposed areas of its glassy surface to see that such marriage of plainness and quality—such elegance—was present throughout the interior of the room.

Two tabletop silver candelabras and a compact, cylindrical iron chandelier, which was suspended from the slightly-domed stone ceiling and hanging low over the table, were the only light sources; burgundy drapes were covering the window, and the fireplace, which was behind father, was not lighted. Except the red-bricked wall that the fireplace was set in, the walls were plastered and painted pale gold. The silk tapestries hanging from them were modest in what they depicted: One, woven with severe angles, was of a rearing red horse on a green background, the sign of Kandor, and another showed a tree bearing orange fruit on a divided background, sky blue above green—it must have cost a fortune on account of its vivid colors. A cream tablecloth, edged by tiny tassels, lay under the candelabras, and numerous white ceramic dishes, gold-rimmed glasses and silver cutlery in various states of use cluttered the tabletop. Five of the eight straight dark mahogany chairs around the table were occupied, including Hadar’s, and the tall white double doors that were set in the wall opposite the fireplace were closed.

Beyond the drapes and outside the window, the canyon-like streets of the inner city of Chachin likely were still flooded with golden sunlight.

Across from Hadar was sitting Zaralle, his twin sister. Her pleated silk dress, the color of evergreen needles at midnight, was silver embroidered along its short collar and tight, full-length sleeves—her eyes were lighter green. It had a narrow scoop that drew attention to her cleavage; father had not minded, for appearance was paramount to him. Zaralle wore two silver rings with green gems on the first two fingers of her left hand and a golden band whose face was etched and lacquered such that it depicted the sigil of House Taihane, a silver lynx on a blue background left of a black lynx on a gold background, on her right ring finger. Her two stud earrings and circlet were also silver. Her glossy black hair tumbled behind her shoulders.

Hadar turned over his hand and raised the excessively-spiced bean to his mouth; anyone who was looking at him would think that he was content.

Zaralle smirked. She somehow appeared amused and fierce at the same time. Almost anyone, Hadar thought.

Father proceeded: He looked across the length of the table and—with flair that would befit a bard—asked, "Did Chachin's gold stores make it through the winter, Anol?"

He leaned back and stroked his short full beard, black like his combed-aside, oiled hair. On his sturdy frame, Lord Enaven Taihane wore an exceedingly-groomed gray velvet coat with columns of black stitching and silver studs along its lapels and shoulder areas. Like Zaralle, he wore his sigil ring on his right ring finger, and a thick-linked silver bracelet and a matching necklace further adorned him.

The question that father had asked had not been entirely facetious: Besides inviting Lord Anol to tell about recent commerce in Kandor, he had unobtrusively asked after his wealth; Hadar had visited the Narokels with father more than a few times, but trade rather than friendship necessitated such visits. It was spring, and so father had to negotiate yearly dealings with merchants throughout Kandor; Zaralle and Hadar would accompany him to the far eastern villages before they three would return to Saldaea.

Anol, who was leaning on his elbows over the other end of the table, his hands clasped before him, theatrically contemplated the question: His thick thumbs drummed against one another while he furrowed his brow and tilted his head this way and that, blond curls swaying across his forehead. He wore a loose burgundy coat with gold buttons and white lace at its collar and cuffs, a gold ring on each ring finger and three delicate silver chains across his chest—those clashed with the rest of his outfit, but they marked him a member of the Merchants’ Guild of Kandor.

He finally responded with vigor. "Ah, you know how th'Arafellins can be, Enaven. They pay less every time they buy something! But . . . they did a lot of buying, this winter. We're in a better position than last spring." Suddenly, he appeared jolly; "As for me, well, you've tasted my wine."

He chuckled, and then began telling of how difficult it had been to acquire the Ghealdanin sweet red wine that was being served.

Most Kandori noblemen that Hadar had seen wore forked beards and earrings; Anol was shaven, but his earrings, gold squares bearing numerous pink pearls, were more decorative than his wife’s.

She was seated on the second chair left of Hadar; the middle chair between them was unoccupied. Hers was a position from which she could view Zaralle, father and Hadar at the same time, but she was mostly eyeing Zaralle. Haughtiness dripped from Lady Kavale Narokel. Her handsome face did not suit her delicate physique; she was not short, though. Her eyes might as well have been black, but her straight, fine hair, which fell about her shoulders, nearly was the color of the pearls in Anol’s earrings. A black lace sash fastened her modestly-cut yellow silk dress below her bosom, which two intricate silver necklaces graced. She also wore gold earrings and rings; a large clear gem topped the ring on her left hand.

She sipped of her glass, which was still nearly full, and then held it before her red-painted lips, her fingers precisely positioned; she studied Zaralle as if she were a stones board in play.

Zaralle was aware, but she did not appear vexed.

Appearance often deceives; such was just as true of Zaralle as it was of anyone else. Zaralle could be as eloquent as Lady Kavale when she needed to, but she preferred to behave in a manner true to herself. That her resistance to aspects of nobility often was met with disapproval irritated her.

"We're heading towards a similar calamity," said Lady Kavale, responding to father, and then she looked again at Zaralle. "Zaralle, dear, imagine yourself in such a populous city during a shortage of soap." Her tone was one of challenge.

After eyeing Lady Kavale, Zaralle responded: "I would visit as many ladies' bathing rooms as possible. I'm certain that some wouldn't mind . . . sharing theirs."

Father leaned forward, while Lady Kavale tilted her head right and continued observing Zaralle without changing her expression. Zaralle quickly smiled. Anol, tapping the tabletop with his fingers, ponderously looked at Zaralle, and then grinned at father and began promising him that he would pay more for lumber than any other merchant in Kandor.

A few green beans remained on Hadar’s plate; besides those, he had had a large portion of peppered beef, a bread roll and sliced strawberries.

The sounds of footsteps on stone abruptly stopped beyond the doors, which opened outward; two black-clad serving men, the leaner one balancing a rotund bottle of wine on a wooden tray, bustled in from the hallway, which was dimmer than Hadar would have expected. The broader servant’s sour expression faded as he took the bottle and walked around the table, refilling the glasses of those who raised them.

When he neared Zaralle, she twisted about, took the bottle from him and poured its wine into her glass. Lady Kavale halted explaining Chachin’s current surplus of fox skins. Zaralle returned the bottle to the servant, who was trying not to look incredulous.

“My daughter’s industrious,” father said, smiling at Lord and Lady Narokel; Anol chortled, but Lady Kavale raised her nose. Zaralle looked as if she had not done an unordinary thing. “Please continue, Lady Kavale,” she said, and then raised her glass to her lips.

Hadar monosyllabically laughed; he admired Zaralle’s willfulness. After lowering her glass, she slightly smiled at him.

Lady Kavale took Zaralle’s suggestion, and, soon, father and Lord Anol were discussing their wares.

When the servants returned, they cleared the table and served wide white mugs of tea—which was nearly black. Anol and Zaralle traded their positions so that Lady Kavale could converse with Zaralle. She told Zaralle that her nephew might enjoy meeting her provided that she behaved her best; Zaralle smirked and assured her that he would enjoy her company however she behaved, and then laughed at Lady Kavale’s expression.

While Zaralle and Hadar—and Lady Kavale—would soon retire, father and Lord Anol likely would barter for hours yet. Hadar doubted that they would reach any agreements tonight, though.

Hadar, between the conversations, felt neither invited to nor rejected from either.

Drinking his tea, he watched father gain ground: Father played up his goods—and how easily he could sell them elsewhere—while Lord Anol feigned disinterest at times, claiming that his were the more worthy products, and boasted of how much he would pay at others.

Hadar later lay on a comfortable bed in a spacious guestroom, but sleep would not come. He stared through the window—there were too many stars in the indigo sky to bother with trying to count—and envisioned meeting Narin tomorrow.

Chapter 2: A Battered Helmet


Umadra glanced upward and glared: The sun above him blazed amid the cloudless cyan sky. He had been standing here since dawn and would remain for as many hours again; it would only get hotter before he could rest his feet—and it was hot. He raised his leather-gauntleted right hand to shield his eyes, lowered his gaze and spat upon the baked dirt beneath him.

In every direction, the air seemed to shimmer on account of the heat; Umadra would have given all the gold in his pouch for a single merciful breeze. The air was so thick that he felt as if his armored body was wrapped up in a rug.

Folks populated the crossing before him in fits and starts. Farmers’ wives stood about in small groups, conversing, while children, oblivious to the heat, darted to and fro and called out to one another. Farmers with heavy-looking sacks slung over their shoulders visited merchant tents, and every now and then a family passed through.

Eastward were a handful of farms, whose largest building looked about the size of Umadra’s thumbnail; the wide dirt road between them and the manor behind him—his lord’s—intersected a north–south road that provided travel through the southern countryside of Saldaea. In addition to the eyesore that was the merchant tents of every color, three shop buildings, two homes and an inn were situated about the intersection.

The central well, an approximate cylinder of large, pale brown bricks that looked ready to crumble, had not been made use of for hours; Umadra would not have wanted to haul buckets of water today, either.

Most walked in from the farms, but only riders and carriages had passed northward or southward so far today. For every person who came into view, Umadra determined whether or not they were up to ill deeds: He scrutinized the set of their faces and looked them in the eyes—most looked back, revealing a bit about themselves and their intentions, and those who did not displayed something about their character, too. Umadra had learned that judging such based on one’s clothes, way of moving and whether or not they were with others was unreliable: Drably-garbed, light-stepping, lone men turned out to be honest as often as they turned out to be thieves.

Such was just as true of the wealthy, two of whom were meandering among cluttered tables in a large bright yellow tent across the road: The broad man and the little girl beside him—she must have been his daughter—were impeccably clad.

The girl was looking back at Umadra—no, she was staring at him with genuine curiosity, but she also looked as if she found something . . . funny.


. . .


“He looks silly.”

Father, towering over Zaralle, looked down at her: “Who do you think looks silly, my dear?”

Zaralle pointed at the lone soldier, who was staring at her.

He was mostly covered in leather armor, but he wore a bulky chainmail shirt. Sheathed at his left side was a long sword, and a domed helmet of dull steel hung from his left hand. He looked younger, but more worn than father, and his shaven face, which was as sweat strewn as his short, dark hair, was grim.

Before, he had been turning his head again and again to look in every direction, as if he expected a trolloc army any moment now—he probably thought that he would defeat it all by himself.

He looked silly.

“He does,” Zaralle said. Father briefly turned to look at the soldier before bending down and holding her by the shoulders. He looked as calm as ever, yet something about him looked amused; he must have agreed with her. “Zaralle, that man’s keeping order—even in this heat. The locals depend on him; this crossing’s otherwise a reaping field for a thief . . . or worse.”

He stood, and they continued walking, father looking over the tables and stopping every once in a while to exchange words with peddlers or buy odds and ends; the leather satchel at his side was beginning to bulge with merchandise.

He had been speaking with a man with big eyes for far too long, and so Zaralle tugged at the sleeve of his black coat. He bent down, again, and told Zaralle that she could look at the things across the road, but to return in five minutes.

She began bounding towards a table displaying all sorts of ceramic miniatures, painted the most eye-catching colors, but her feet turned her toward the soldier, who was pretending not to notice her approach.


. . .


Umadra had to have looked like he was too busy to be bothered, but the girl was skipping toward him! He took a deep breath and put on a kind face; he had no other choice.

Arriving before him, she stood still and continued to look him over. Though she was only half his height, she was wearing the finest things Umadra had ever seen: Her black dress was worked in silver wherever it fit, and queens wore less jewelry!

Y’never saw a soldier before? Umadra almost muttered his question.

“Greetings,” she said—her speech was oddly precise. There was mischief in her green eyes if Umadra had ever seen it.

He nodded at her. “Can I help ya’, miss?”

She took a step toward him. . . . Umadra’s left arm was yanked, and she was running off with his helmet!

Umadra found himself running after her. Principle, rather than need, incited him: It was not as if he needed his helmet, but it was his.

The girl weaved between—and under—sellers’ tables, shielding Umadra from her. She even had the audacity to laugh! Onlookers gawked at the scene, but Umadra ignored them, chasing the girl through an opened fence gate into the Erderans’ backyard.

He felt like a fool, really: He prided himself on his watchfulness, yet a child stole from him—and she was out-bloody-pacing him.

He glimpsed her turning the far corner, holding his helmet before her. He was too close to turn around and cut her off, and so he ran on behind her.

Just standing in his armor in this heat had had him sweating—running was not helping; sweat was stinging his eyes now.

The girl dashed under hanging laundry and leaped over wash basins. Umadra might as well have been navigating an obstacle course, but he would catch her.

Umadra grunted as the girl made it back to the road before the house and merged with the crowd. Armor was never meant for running, but he ran; bolting through the gap in the crowd that the girl had left in her wake, he noticed that a few of the sheets hanging behind the inn were swaying.


. . .


The helmet was as worn as its previous owner; Zaralle giggled, for she did not plan to keep it. The leather-lined pot of steel had more than a few dents and even more scrapes. Perhaps he had killed trollocs. . . .

A gauntleted hand grasped her right upper arm. Zaralle turned about see the soldier, who had drawn aside the sheets that had covered her. He looked irate. Wincing, she thrust the helmet forward, which he grabbed with his free hand. Her laugh deepened his scowl.

She allowed him to pull her alongside him toward the front of the inn. When father came into view, Zaralle pointed him out; before long, she was standing beside father, watching the soldier—he said his name was Umadra—explain what she had done.

Father apologized to Umadra, who frowned at her again before turning away, his shoulders tight and fist clenched.

Zaralle directed a wince at father that likely hid her amusement as much as the stern look that he put on hid his, which was not very much. She had known that he would understand. He even laughed when Umadra cursed.

“Come along, Zaralle,” he said. Hefting his satchel, he began walking to their horses. She skipped after him.

Chapter 3: Contrasting Colors


Those latches are going to break if that wind keeps up. As if in mocking, another gust shook the semicircular window in the far wall. The ragged bits of snow that the wind heaved against its exterior, lighted by the fireplace in the wall right of it, looked like candle flames, complementing the vivid purple evening sky over Maradon.

Outside, trees that were majestic not long ago were ghastly things now: The silhouettes of knotty trunks and branches resembling reaching arms were brooding over the snowy courtyard as if in agony. The row of buildings beyond the trees was obscured by the snow, a gray rectangle without edges.

Kaslen Tiadin looked away from the window and turned to the woman—and what a woman she was—seated left of him on the seat-and-a-half sofa that they shared.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked her.

She looked into his eyes; it might have been because of the dimness, but her face was expressionless.

“The fire’s keeping me warm, Kaslen.” She smirked, the reflections of that fire swirling within her green eyes.

Zaralle always responded with such wit, which was sometimes irksome.

“I appreciate your concern,” she added. Kaslen met her waxing smirk with a smile.

But she had to have been honest: The room was warm—uncomfortably so; such had to be endured, though, so that Zaralle’s parents and his, who were seated around the table in the dining room across the hall, did not freeze.

Looking through the white archway at the top of the three steps of black marble behind Zaralle, Kaslen could see his father addressing the others.

Kaslen refocused his eyes on Zaralle. Her eyes, scarlet dress and myriad of gold and silver jewelry stood out, for the sitting room was all but colorless. Olive walls met a floor of black wood panels, which was edged with tiles of gray marble—similar tiles climbed the black bricks of the fireplace. The step ceiling was white, and the chairs and sofa, which were also made of black wood, had white cushions with pale green stripes.

Zaralle’s hair was blacker than the floor; Kaslen slowly lowered his eyes, following it down the front of her right shoulder—women liked nerve sometimes.

Her high-necked dress did not expose any of her skin below the base of her neck, but it did not need to: Thin and clinging, it revealed every curve and contour of its bosomy wearer. Maybe she hadn’t been honest.

Her hair ended below her right breast.

Kaslen noticed that Zaralle had been watching his eyes with her right eyebrow arched; she smiled at him as he raised his eyes to hers and then raised the gold goblet in her left hand. As she drank, her eyes searched his.

Her skin had the look of pale sand and made harmony with the shiny goblet.

Kaslen also drank some of his wine, during which he thought of what he would say to Zaralle next. He had been doing so since he had woken, but the words that he had put together had fallen apart when the Taihanes had arrived—when Zaralle Taihane had arrived; if what he had planned to say had been a soap bubble, Zaralle was a needle.

He lowered his goblet. “Zaralle, I . . .” He could have frowned at himself, yet he smiled at her and strengthened his voice, “It uplifts me to see you again. You look . . .”

He had spoken with her during dinner, but this was different.

I would marry you this moment, he thought. Kaslen very nearly rolled his eyes at himself, for he could not say that to her. His mother had told him that he would marry her, yet he did not know whether or not Zaralle had been told the same. In truth, he was not sure how he felt about the idea.

Zaralle turned more toward him and leaned back against the arm of the sofa, waiting for him to say more—she wore a wry smile.

Time passed as honey trickles from a tipped jar. The fireplace hissed expectantly.

“It will put me in danger to have you on my arm, my lady,” he managed with a smirk of his own.

She laughed smoothly—infectiously—and then retorted: “I’m your lady, am I?” She turned her head left and then right, peering at him. “One should exercise caution when staking one’s claims.”

So she doesn’t know. But perhaps she did; Kaslen had never much succeeded in figuring Zaralle out.

“I like spending time with you too, Kaslen. I’d have preferred visiting months ago, though. Traveling here was unpleasant.”

She smiled, which was at odds with how tersely she had spoken; although Kaslen was acquainted with the discrepancy between Zaralle’s manner of speaking and playfulness, it still puzzled him. Her fiery face complicated her further, and she behaved with as much formality as audacity.

They discussed their recent happenings, sharing things of interest and complaint. Zaralle turned every point and inquiry that Kaslen made on its head for the sake of humor. The contrast between her intensity and playfulness intrigued Kaslen as much as it puzzled him.

As their parents were leaving the dining room, Zaralle was informing him of where he would take her tomorrow. Kaslen interrupted her, drawing his fingertip along her left side from her cheek to her upper arm. He pinched her dress there to frame his coming sarcasm: “And somewhere that I can buy some winter clothing for you. This dress is much too . . . heavy.” Zaralle actually giggled.

After walking her to her chamber door—an upstairs bedroom, whose painted walls and dome ceiling depicted a garden enclosed by vines reaching for the sun, had been prepared for her—and exchanging wishes of well rest with her, Kaslen kissed her cheek. She kissed his cheek in return before they parted.

Kaslen would meet Zaralle’s demands tomorrow—he would exceed them; he had tonight to figure out how he would do so.

Chapter 4: Loose Ends


East–west rows of bright gray clouds were all that was visible in the sky, moving northward with the wind, which was steadily pushing against Zaralle’s front as if attempting to impede her flight. The orange, red and yellow leaves of the trees along the sides of the trail beneath Bolt’s hooves would have been vibrant if the sun was out, but color-leeching light was coming from every direction—there was not even a single shadow in view.

Leaves had only just begun falling; less than one week ago, southern Saldaea had been green rather than orange. It had been warm then, too, but Zaralle would have been enjoying the chill if not for the bloody wind; she otherwise adored the somber scenery around her.

The only sounds besides those of Irinjavar behind her—children yelling, blacksmiths hammering metal and horses whinnying—were of the wind, the rustling leaves and Bolt’s steps and snorts. Zaralle was keeping him at a walk, for she had planned to arrive at the docks at sundown, which would be in about an hour.

I’m not running away. It was a silly thought, for of course she was not: Zaralle had made her unwillingness to go through with the expectations that had been made of her clear to . . . almost everyone. She was not an ill-tempered chit who was fleeing the better judgment of her parents; she was a lady who was making her own decisions. Why should whom she would marry not be among those?

However, she was willing to admit that her departure was rash: Worry, upset and longing—in that order—would result from it. Father would understand. He will. Mother would require time.

The letter that Zaralle had left with Hadar would have to suffice. He would reveal it tomorrow—she would be well on her way to Andor when upset would replace worry. Leaving the letter was risky, but leaving nothing would have been unbearable; Zaralle had not even considered asking Hadar to wait more than one day to reveal it.

My leaving should not bring forth alarm, for my decision to travel resulted from meticulous consideration during the past months, she began reciting the words that she had written, but stopped herself. Perhaps she should have used the word depart rather than travel, but travel was softer.

Hadar. She would miss him as much as he her. They would see one another again, though—little was permanent. He understood why she was leaving, which did not surprise her. You’re far more than a bridge between Taihane and Tiadin, Zaralle, he had told her.

Hadar had helped her with planning and preparation. While Zaralle had arranged to travel by boat, he had inconspicuously purchased more than she would need, packed Bolt and tied him south of Irinjavar. They had always supported one another’s doings; such was even true during the rare times in which they had been in disagreement.

Even when he wanted me to stay.

But they had had months during which to part. Father, however, would return tomorrow, expecting to see his daughter; ink on parchment would greet him in her stead. Quelling the abrupt urge to tear up was difficult. She had spent her life in his watch, though; there was no need to worry whether or not they had had adequate time together. That was something. Besides, he knew her as well as—or more than—Hadar did. Enaven Taihane was keen beyond words; he would understand everything even had she not left the letter.

Truthfully, it was necessary for mother; Zaralle did not want to think about how Irya Taihane would take the forthcoming news. They had had a parting of sorts, a routine conversation that Zaralle had coopted for saying goodbye; mother would realize that that was what she had been doing soon.

The sun, which was still hidden, was beginning to set, turning the western sky blood red. Ahead of Zaralle were more and more trees—she might as well have been riding into a forest. The wind was not quitting, and it was getting cold. There was also the scent of winter in the air, which was like that of an empty cellar. Suddenly anxious to reach the docks, Zaralle sped Bolt to a trot.

Winter was coming, and during the following spring, Zaralle would have been in binding engagements, one of which would have been an actual engagement.

Her thoughts came full circle: Although she felt . . . regretful . . . when she thought of Kaslen, she reminded herself that she had had little choice but to leave. Neither he nor she had had any control in their pairing.

That she had lacked control had been the crux of the matter; that she might have liked to have been courted by Kaslen of her own accord was beside the point. Zaralle smiled to herself.

It had been surprising to learn that he was not without backbone.

Through the trees, the first of the ships’ sails came into view. Its western side looked red in the light of the setting sun, standing out against the gray sky. It was followed by almost a dozen more soon, and the River Arinelle came into view left of Zaralle, looking as if it was on fire.

Zaralle relaxed her muscles; worrying over whether or not she would make it—and go through with it—would end soon. What would begin was outside the scope of her meticulous consideration.