Brille Covella's Arc

Chapter 1 of 13

Brille Covella had heard the songs a hundred times, and today the heroes in them were inside these walls. She stood at the head of her tribe's painted wagons, bow slung across her back, watching the pale towers of the castle rise past the gate. The recruiting board was posted in the market square by noon. If she could not pass the checkpoint before the bell, the company would ride out without her, and she would spend another season selling pots. The guard at the third gate did not look up when she approached. He was an elf in blue and gold, gloves white as new paper, and he made a merchant ahead of her repack an entire crate before waving the man through. When Brille led her horse forward, he raised one gloved hand. "Artisans use the south gate," he said. "The south gate is a half day's ride." "Then you should have started earlier." Brille pointed back at the wagons. Painted panels of dancers and cattle glowed in the sun. Clay pots sat stacked on a woven carpet, roped down for the festival. "We were invited. The steward's seal is on the manifest." Caelthir Silvershield took the paper between two fingers, as if it might stain him. He read it without moving his head. "The seal is genuine. The bearer is not noble. This gate is not for you." "The bell hasn't rung yet." "It will." Brille's hand tightened on the reins. Behind her, her aunt hissed her name. She was the youngest driver in the caravan, and the tribe had trusted her with the lead wagon because she asked for it. If she turned around now, she would be the girl who turned around. She looked past the guard at the crowd inside the arch. A boy in a stained apron was hauling a barrel through unchecked. A woman with a basket of onions squeezed past a cart. Caelthir did not glance at either. Brille stepped closer and lowered her voice. "You stopped the wine merchant ahead of me for twenty minutes. You waved that onion woman through. You aren't sorting by south gate or north gate. You're sorting by who you feel like stopping." His pale eyes moved to her for the first time. "Careful." "I'll go around," she said. "But the steward will hear which gate turned back his festival wagons. And the name on the manifest." She tapped the paper where his signature would be required to refuse it. Caelthir held the paper a long moment. Then he stamped it and handed it back without a word. His jaw was tight. "Move," he said. "Quickly." Brille clicked her tongue and the horse walked. The wagons rolled after her under the arch. She did not look back, but she felt him watching, and she understood she had made an enemy before she had made a single friend inside the walls. The market bell was still ringing when she crossed into the square.