Daughter of the Sun

The sun was peaking over the top of the Nightshift Mountains, though it was hard to tell. The sky reminded the Duke of a cauldron of burning blood. It was a bad omen, but he could not say for whom.

Duke Gideon Kaebal looked around, pulling on his tight white lace gloves that fit like a second skin. He hated this town and everything it stood for. The village was already awake, peasants scurrying around him, their filthy tunics and cloaks flapping in the crisp fall breeze. Without a fault, every piece of so-called clothing he looked at had ragged edges and stains they had not bothered trying to remove. Their hair was the same: rough cut and dirty. There was not a pure head of hair to be seen.

He lifted a hand, two fingers signalling to the soldiers behind him. He did not bother looking. They knew their jobs. They would not be here otherwise.

He ignored the rutted lane before him as he ordered his thoughts. What would the Overlord say about the time it was taking him? Could he get more time, or was he already pushing it too far? He had not found the woman yet. He did not even know her name but knew he would recognize her when he saw her. She was his passage to the throne. She did not know it yet.

“Hector,” he said to his Lieutenant, who marched a single step behind him. “Any word of the Red?”

Hector cleared his throat, nervous. “No, milord. Nothing yet. We expect riders from Harts Haven today or tomorrow.”

“How hard could it be to find one redheaded woman, ten to fifteen years past childbearing age?”

Hector was a good soldier. He always followed orders, often anticipating Gideon’s requests. He was a brave and loyal man. It was a pity his parentage had left him stained with dirty blond hair. The Blood could use someone like him to strengthen the line. It would be a shame if he had to die.

The well was in the centre of the village, amidst sweaty children and scared villagers. Its stone wall was crumbling, like half the buildings in this pit. The thatched roof–big enough to cover a dozen people from the rain–had bare patches that would not keep a rat dry.

Gideon strode to the well, bending over the edge and peering at the water. In the dark morning light, it was hard to tell how clean it was. He expected to smell mould, and the Father knew what other diseases were, but he found that it smelled fresh enough. It would have to do.

Taking a step back, he turned to Hector and nodded his approval. The soldiers rang the well, their backs turned to him so they could watch in all directions. He needed to be undistracted for this.

“The bucket,” he said.

Hector had already started towards the wooden crank and reached it about the same time Gideon had asked for it. He turned it, his arms flexing as it found resistance near the top of every circuit.