Redbird and rogue scarle.., p.1
Redbird and Rogue (Scarlet and the White Wolf), page 1
Redbird & Rogue
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Kirby Crow
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Bloom
Corsair
Not A Bit
Sweet Words
About the Author
An adventurous trek through a harsh fantasy world | filled with magic, myth, earthy heroes, relentless villains, | and an unconventional relationship that | shines a new light on a beloved fable.
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Further Reading: Scarlet and the White Wolf
Also By Kirby Crow
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2022 by Kirby Crow
http://KirbyCrow.com
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All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form.
Special thanks to all my wonderful patrons on Patreon and my most excellent editor, Jennifer Montgomery. <3
Printed in the United States of America.
Digital Edition - D2D Smashwords
Cover Art by Kirby Crow
Foreword
This is a collection of 4 short stories originally available on my Patreon:
Bloom takes place in Lysia, the year before Scarlet and Liall meet.
Corsair is a bit of fun where I envision Liall, Peysho, and Kio as pirates who wind up with an angry new shipmate; Scarlet.
Not A Bit and Sweet Words take place in Rshan na Ostre between The Land of Night and The King of Forever. Scarlet and Liall are still at the Nauhinir Palace and have not yet left for the war.
Bloom
Before they even met...
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Well, this is a right mess, Scarlet fumed. He stood at the barn's open doors, looking out at the light snow that had begun to fall. He sighed heavily, causing his father to give him an annoyed glance. Scaja sat at a table where he worked on a broken halter, leather scraps scattered about on the scarred wood.
“That's the third time,” Scaja remarked, taking up his awl.
“Third time, what?” Scarlet asked absently. A beam of sunlight blared through a small break in the sky before gray clouds closed in on it, cutting off the light and plunging the entire valley into shade. That’s me, he thought. I’m penned in until the weather clears. He had already been anxious to be off, having stayed in the village for a month now, far longer than he should have. Missing Annaya and his friends and his mother’s cooking had delayed him, and now it would cost him.
“Third time you've moped at the will of the goddess.”
Scarlet turned back to the light and warmth behind him. “I have not,” he said in defense.
“Sighing at the weather is like telling Deva you know what’s better. She thinks it's time for snow, so it snows. Accept it.”
“How can I, when I need to get to Khurelen?”
Scarlet joined Scaja at the worktable. The musty smell of old hay was thick in the barn, along with the acrid scent of the tired animal in the stall. The horse was not theirs. It belonged to a ragged Morturii merchant who had taken refuge in the rooms above Rufa’s taberna. The merchant’s gear and clothing had been ragged, his animal hungry and—Scarlet thought—neglected of proper care. Scaja had made a bargain with the Morturii to trade three yards of wool for feed, stabling of his animal, and the halter's repair, but Scarlet thought it was a poor deal.
They had already harvested their hay, with no more to come this year, and they had a goat and cow to feed through the winter. The horses they had owned since Scarlet had been a small boy had been sold a year ago, along with their planting mule and the brightly-painted cart Scaja had made with his own hands.
Scarlet took up a piece of the buckle Scaja was repairing. “Good iron is as dear to us as silver these days. Mayhap you should have told the Morturii to keep riding.”
Scaja nodded. “Mayhap. But tell that to the horse.”
The horse stopped munching its precious hay for a moment and whickered softly.
“It’s not your horse and not your problem.”
Scaja put down the awl. “Well, it’s the horse’s problem, innit? Unlike you and I, the poor beast can’t choose where he goes or with whom.” He took up the leather again. “I didn’t do it just for the merchant.”
Scarlet lowered his eyes, feeling ashamed. “I know. I just... we don’t need a few lengths of moth-eaten wool. We need grain, meat, and silver. These shabby drifters pass through Lysia every winter, and their pockets are always empty. What did he say he sold, again?”
“Herbs, dried flowers, and healing oils.”
Scarlet snorted. “Another side-street healer, selling honey-water as a remedy. It’s illegal to pretend to be a curae, you know.”
“He didn’t pretend to be anything other than a merchant. At least not to me.”
“They only come here because they have no coin and know they’ll find a kind heart in a Hilurin village. They depend on it.”
“Good,” Scaja quipped.
Scarlet rolled his eyes. “Good for them, yes, but we can’t eat wool. I wish that such as him wouldn’t come a-begging so regular.”
“He didn’t beg, and I didn’t have to help. I chose to.” Scaja shook his head. “If the word out there in the world is that we’re good, kind folk, that can only help us, aye? And goddess knows we need help lately, what with the Bled raiding again.”
“What will help us is silver,” Scarlet insisted. He crossed his arms. “And I need to be away earning some, or we really will have to see if we can eat wool.”
Scaja placed the finished buckle carefully aside and rose. He took Scarlet’s arm firmly and marched him to the door.
“Out.” Scaja waved at the snow and the valley. “Away with you now. Help your sister with the firewood or go see your friends, but off with you until you’ve found a better attitude. I’ve more important things to do than cater to your moods.”
“I would have a better mood in Khurelen,” Scarlet grumbled.
“So would I.” Scaja gentled that with a smile. “Have patience, lad,” he urged. “You can’t help what is. Fussing about it only puts you at odds with folk. Go have a beer and think over your options. A plan will come to you by and by.”
Scarlet’s shoulders sagged. He jerked the gray woolen hood of his coat over his head. He hadn’t worn his crimson pedlar’s coat since he’d returned, and he sorely missed it. “You always say that.”
“And I’m always right.” Scaja patted Scarlet’s head and went back to the work table. “Away, now. There’s persa stew for supper. Don’t be late!”
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“Missed!” Osa crowed. “A blind barn owl could do better!”
Even in the noise of Rufa’s taberna, Osa was loud. But then, he’d always been loud.
Scarlet scowled at the dartboard. He’d missed the target badly and now had only one dart left. “Oh, very nice, Osa. Make fun of me when you’re winning.”
Osa bowed his head and drew his pint of bitterbeer closer. He wore hunter’s leathers, and his black hair was cut short above his collar. “You're terrible at this, you know.”
“I am not!” Scarlet set his tongue between his teeth and raised the dart, aiming carefully at the board. He threw.
And missed.
The dart clattered harmlessly to the floor and rolled under a chair.
“That’s three for five. I win! Whoo!” Osa stood up and hooted his triumph.
Scarlet retrieved the dart and returned to the table he shared with Osa. He dropped it on the wooden surface sticky with the dregs of cheap wine and ale. “How a hunter can be so loud and not starve is a wonder,” he complained.
Osa only laughed and pulled the chair out for Scarlet. “Sit. Drink. Maybe it will help that black mood of yours.”
“I’m not in a mood.”
“You’re always in a mood. Mope-face, that’s what we call you.”
“You never!” Scarlet felt the heat rushing up to his ears, turning his cheeks ruddy. “Who?!”
Osa chuckled and drank the foam from his tankard. He licked his upper lip. “Calm down. I made that up.”
Scarlet cast a furious glance around the crowded taberna. “Did you truly?”
Osa raised his right hand. “On my oath. Now, drink and tell me what devils you.”
Sullenly, Scarlet took a long pull from the tankard and wiped his mouth. “Things at home.”
“Oh, things at home,” Osa echoed. “Come now! Your da is mild as a lamb. Well, compared to mine.”
Scarlet lowered his gaze. “
“Ill of the dead, I know, I know.” Osa waved his hand. “But mine was a right bastard when he wanted to be. Everyone knew it. In the end, the temple priests were at our doorstep morning and night, pleading with Kerev to gentle his ways, but he never would.”
Rufa’s husband was an exile, or had been when he was still alive. Among Hilurin, exile was a last resort; a punishment meted out only when all other methods had failed. As an elder, the owner of a prosperous business, and the mother of the village hunter, Rufa commanded great respect in Lysia. She and Osa rarely spoke of Kerev.
Scarlet cleared his throat. “I’ve not enough wares to supply my traveling pack,” he admitted. “With all the work at the farm and what with materials coming so dear, Scaja hasn’t been able to make but a few things to trade. Annaya knitted two pairs of mittens and a scarf with Jerivet’s wool. She traded him an old doll for it, I think. Linhona carved three wooden ladles and a set of buttons, and I have what’s left from my trading in Ankar, but other than that....” His voice faltered. “My family works hard. Deva knows the fields don’t plow themselves, and then there’s all the other work that must be done. The roof needs patching, and there’s food to preserve and wood to chop and clothes to make. I know they’ve been busy, but what am I to trade? I can’t set off for Khurelen with nowt but mittens and spoons. And now Scaja is practically giving his good leatherwork away, all because some ragged-arse Morturii poured a sad tale into his ear and took advantage.”
“Deva hasn’t formed the man who could swindle Scaja,” Osa scoffed. “That’s not why he’s doing it.”
“Well then, why?”
“Maybe because he sees a bit of you in that merchant.”
“Are you saying I look Morturii?”
“You’re a pedlar, want-wit. That Morturii may not have the red coat, but he’s a traveler alone on the road, like you so often are.” Osa signaled to Rufa behind the bar for another round. She narrowed her eyes at him and pushed her tumbled gray hair behind her ears, taking up a pitcher and shuffling over to their table with her familiar, uneven gait.
Tankards full, she propped a hand on her ample hip. “Will ye be wanting anything else, milord?” she asked in a scathing tone.
“Ah... I’ll come get the beer me’self next time,” Osa said apologetically. “Thanks, Rufa.”
She huffed and returned to the bar, muttering about hoity-mannered boys.
“Maybe,” Osa said, leaning close to Scarlet, “Scaja thinks tending the templon and putting a new paper gown on the goddess isn’t enough. Maybe treating the Morturii better than deserved is his way of adding another prayer.”
Scarlet hadn't thought of that. His finger drew circles in the moisture the pewter tankards sweated on the table. “Does he talk to you about me?”
Osa made a rude sound. “Scaja? No chance. It was Annaya.”
Scarlet's brows drew close together. “When did you speak to Annaya?”
“I talk to her all the time.”
“When?”
“When she comes to the lodge.”
As village hunter, Osa was entitled to the use of the hunting lodge at the edge of Lysia’s boundaries. It was closest to the forest and ringed by tall hedges and shading pines. The old structure was well-built and large but also very private.
“Here now,” Scarlet began hotly. “If you’ve been making eyes at my sister, it’s Scaja you should be telling, not me.”
Osa sighed. “Calm ye’self. It’s not like that. Wouldn't do her much good if it was. Besides,” he took another drink, “she's been making eyes at someone else.”
“Who?”
“Well, that's for her to say, isn't it?”
Scarlet knew his sister. She had her own mind about everything, which was right and proper, and Osa was not a bad choice if she was looking to marry. Osa was a steady man, a hard worker and a good son to Rufa. Scarlet had never heard a complaint against him. At the very least, Annaya would never go hungry.
But for some reason, the thought of Annaya and Osa together pricked Scarlet like a thorn. He didn’t like it and couldn’t name a single reason why not.
Osa leaned closer to Scarlet and touched his hand. His black eyes seemed gentler, and his voice turned warm. “Here now. Would I do anything to shame your family? We’ve known each other since we were in swaddling. Hipola nursed us both. You’re my friend, Scarlet.”
Osa was pure Hilurin, his eyes and hair black as soot, his skin like poured cream. His face was angular, giving his features a sharp cast like a satisfied cat. More than one girl in the village had pursued Osa, but none had caught him yet.
Suddenly, it was altogether too hot in the taberna for Scarlet, and Osa’s face seemed far too close. Osa’s tongue flicked out to swipe his lower lip, and Scarlet jerked his hand away.
If I stay here any longer, I’ll make a damn fool of myself, he thought. He mumbled an apology, dropped his last few coins on the table, and hurriedly left the taberna.
––––––––
Scarlet didn’t want to go home. Not yet. He’d already missed supper, and now Scaja would be back working on the merchant’s halter again. Another spat with him would be unpleasant and unnecessary. Scarlet didn’t want to see Annaya, either, for fear he wouldn't be able to hold his tongue about what Osa had said. He did want to speak to Linhona, but she was likely asleep by now. He could go to the temple in the town square, where the doors never closed, or perhaps the bakery for a bite... but no, the baker would have drawn her shutters hours ago. That hardly mattered since he’d spent his last coins at Rufa’s.
Scarlet stood outside the taberna in the gathering drifts of snow on Bell Street. The merry sounds of the inn cut off sharply when the doors closed behind him. It was early evening still, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. The horse trough near the steps of Rufa’s, hewn from a solid square of rock, had been filled in with earth. A dense jumble of bright pansies sprouted there.
He gently brushed snowflakes from the soft petals of the blooms. They were white and purple, and the cold did not seem to touch them. Their stubbornness and will to survive put Linhona’s delicate roses to shame. Like people, some plants were more resilient than others.
Like us, maybe, he thought, not believing it. Lysia had once been a prosperous farming settlement. Now, the only horse for miles around was the shaggy old dray that pulled Jerivet’s pottery cart.
Scarlet realized then that he had been struggling for a long time to preserve his hope for Lysia’s survival. He must let it go. It went against reason to hope when the proof was right before him. It was only a matter of time before they all must leave, and where would they go? Patra maybe, where there were still many Hilurin families. Or Nantua, which was a little better than Lysia, but not much. Certainly not Rusa. He hadn’t a prayer of convincing Scaja and Linhona to live in a large city, even a Hilurin one.
Scarlet put his hands in his pockets for warmth and gazed up at a lighter patch of clouds. The full moon would be there, rising fast. It was a shame he couldn’t see it. The full moon and the shortest day hadn’t happened simultaneously since....
He squinted up at the sky and tried to remember. He didn’t think it had ever happened. He would have to ask Scaja.
I shouldn’t have snapped at him, Scarlet thought. His mouth turned down. It isn’t his fault that we’re poor or the village is dying. Nor anyone’s fault, really. All the families are in want, and with winter here, it will only get worse. I shouldn’t have acted like that with Osa, either. Whatever will he think of me?
He had to leave soon, for his own sake and the welfare of his family. There was no work for him in Lysia, and if he did not have the goods for the pedlar route to Khurelen, he must go back to Ankar. The Ankar souk was busy year-round, no matter the weather. He would find work in the market and come home in the spring with coins enough to see them through the summer and autumn. There was no choice.
And next winter? And the next? The question shook him like a hound with a rabbit between its teeth, relentless and unsparing. He had no answer, only the knowledge that it was his duty to do whatever he could, even if it wasn’t enough.
