Chapter 4

"Even the faintest of whispers is as mighty as to break the stance of a prevailing silence; even a gentle zephyr can ripple the face of the waters, its depths and fathom regardless."

~

The City of Shillingston,

Kingdom of Tristendyre,

Night without moon,

The first Thursnight of the Second month,

XXI Year of Regency

The stone streets of Shillingston, city between the Imperial Castle and the town of Hazenvale, were eerier than most nights, with a few of its people making their ways homeward.

As every late evening had it, a group of ladies slowly walked on, after their meetings, making vain and leisurely conversations. Each woman had her skirt hiked to avoid the ends thereof touching the puddles of water left from Tristendyre's first rains in three months. The cold weather could not deter their uncanny will and need for a natter.

"Can you possibly grasp the outrageous treachery, Mae-lynn?" said Lady Veronique Hanleigh, exasperation dripping from her voice, "Excitement composes my every frinze when I imagine the justice that will be served at this Jehu's gruesome execution tomorrow!"

"Was your household a victim to his theft as well?", responded one out of the group.

"Ah, of course not, but Lady Wendeline was talking about how the man was a prophet invited to bless houses and their hold."

"It is likely that visitation of residences and unrestrained trust can pave paths to temptation of robbery."

"Did not Lady Wendeline only pose her opinion that it was potential? I recollect being part of her company when she was speaking of this matter..."

"Ah, no, my dear, she was most certain!" claimed Lady Veronique, although the deluded lady had only been a mere passerby, eavesdropping on the conversation at the marketplace, and had spread her fair share of gossip in the past few days.

The idle souls found great amusement in lagging tongues at the expense of other people's reputation, as far as the stories they wove interested their passionate emotions, regardless of how true they were. Every word only multiplied with each time it was shared until it was completely false news.

The women continued contributing, each their own rendition of the case.

"I am more curious of how the punishment proceedings will be executed, since St. Erdengaur has been closed for a fortnight now."

"Per-haps, it will be instituted elsewhere? There was no official news that the place has been opened."

An odd aroma wafted its way into their conversation, as they jabbered on.

"My husband had seen the notice that pronounced the execution and it mentioned St. Erdengaur to be the location. I assume it was opened wordlessly, since shutting the place without good reason and prior report is an odd event."

"It had truly been a mystery, for there has been no word in such regard. I do earnestly hope it is nothing amiss."

"If it was of something sinister, Nathan should have written of it, but he hasn't in so long."

An uncomfortable silence slowly seeped into the conversation with a few of the ladies averting eyes. "He may have", came a man's voice from the shadows, "if his hands weren't under the siege of a cangue."

All the women jolted and turned their attention to the pillar at the side of the street that bore heavy shadows. A tall man stepped forth, into the archway where the ladies had gathered, whilst en route to the mighty castle.

"I do believe you were not invited into this conversation, sir", imposed Lady Avery, glaring at the man, only to see: the faint light of the night touch his face to reveal the most part of it covered in a scarf and a mask for his eyes.

The details of his attire were shielded under his large mantle that bore a single lapel of fur reaching down from his shoulder blade until it was fastened to fobs of the coat beneath, embellished with the insignia of the Crown's Royal Artillery. The cape left way for the right portion of sleeve and suit to stay revealed.

"Sir Oreius!" they collectively acknowledged with gasps, skirts held in their palms and a bow. The tall and olive haired walked past, barely appreciating the gesture of respect.

"Don't fret; my intention is far from engaging in your 'conversation', if it is even worth being called so much", said Sir Jaycob Oreius.

Lady Avery swallowed a bitter lump in her throat, knowing full well that upsetting the Royal Archer could not be of good. The ladies remained bowing until even the shadow of his long cape swept away from the place.

A cold and heavy silence hung over the company while an odd scent from the man slowly began to fade. The joy of the gathering seemed to have been snuffed out and they miserably looked at each other. Growing drowsy, despite the tension in the air that had barely passed, the women exchanged glances.

"Did you see the red stains on his palm?" said Lady Mae-lynn, her voice scarcely even a whisper.

"Do you think he went hunting?" another asked, the excitement of her voice completely replaced by choking fear.

"There has been no such expedition in recent weeks, only visitations to Hyll-Decanta. What else could have caused blood?"

"Per-haps, it was not blood at all", suggested Lady Veronique, as a yawn escaped her and played its game of contagiousness around the group.

The ladies turned to see Lady Avery looking as pale as a ghost. "Pay no attention to it, my dear; I ascertain he would not have noticed you individually. It was a passing comment", said one of the ladies, laying a palm over Avery's lavish sleeve.

"Even so, I can assure you the stain was, in no wise, blood. At least not of a human", said another lady, only making it worse, for the more it was said, the more likely it felt. Something peculiar seemed to have caused the women's high spirits to stay distraught, and it was more than the short encounter with Sir Jaycob Oreius.

They each trudged deliriously towards their waiting homes. None that composed the company, in their somnolence, had offered heed to the single unattended evidence that the Royal Archer had inadvertently let slide.

None but Lady Avery, who had remained mute and a-ghast for her gaze sank to obtain a glimpse: long strands of dark hair that had escaped the locks in the grip of his blood-stained hand and fallen to a puddle on the floor of the street, with droplets of dripped blood; hair that looked precisely as belonging to criminal Jehu.

~