2 — Silver Crest

Cassian watched from under the hair that covered his eyes, a loud woman yelling out a bargain. A traveling merchant, scolding his assistant for riding the carriage too carelessly and breaking the wheel. A butcher whose blood dried apron’s stench reached Cassian’s nose long after they had passed his stand. 

His head felt like it would explode.

“Steady, Finn,” Ricard said, “Your face is showing.”

Cassian adjusted himself, tugging at his tunic’s collar. “How much further?”

Ricard nodded his head up the street. “Around that corner we should see the bridge down to the lower city.”

They turned with a creak of the cart, moving slowly down the long, descending stone bridge. A flock of birds croaked above as they flew down to the pier below. 

Cassian felt the salty air nip at his face, the marine smell seeping into his nostrils. His head cleared for a moment, watching a red-sailed ship gently rock by the docks. The soft echo of bells and of sails fluttering in the wind consumed his attention. 

Cassian and Ricard were not the only ones with a delivery for the tourney. Carts of booze, meats, vegetables, even one carrying handcrafted tankards were in queue down the long bridge. All impatiently waiting to unload their goods down at the tourney grounds.

The tourney would be held on a big open field by the rocky coast. The tall white walls of the northern gatehouse surrounded it. It was clear this section of the city was kept unoccupied, to hold grand events such as this. A small part of it was where the lists were being built. Behind it, a large collection of tents where those who participated would reside during the event. 

It was the biggest tourney of the year, a celebration of Lady Priscilla’s birthday. Lord Ingram’s loud wife. It was told she loved duels, jousts and a feast to end. 

Knights from all over the kingdom came to fight for her. Were they lucky enough, they could be taken into her service.

“Wish I was a knight,” Ricard started, “oh to revel on the battlefield and honor her ladyship. Batter another fool and receive the folk’s roaring cheer. Then enjoy a feast such as this. Oh! I can already taste it! A bottle of Cordelaux Red. Fruity, sweet and a touch of bitterness.”

Cassian scoffed. “You could have a tourney like this every week if you wished.”

“I, Doren Bretwood have never tasted the luxury of such an event, what are you talking about?” Ricard mocked. Then under his breath. “Maybe I should arrange one for when I get back…”

”Which lady would you honor?” Cassian asked, with a raised brow.

Ricard clicked his tongue. “Stop ruining my daydream.” 

Cassian obliged for a moment. Until he felt it itch at his tongue, he added. “And you finished a Cordelaux before we left Greyport.”

“Shut your trap.”

When they made it down to the tourney grounds, Cassian jumped to the sound of a cleaver meeting wood. His skin itched as he watched a hunter carve the skin off a deer. 

The hunter met his gaze with a low growl.

Cassian watched for a long moment, unable to pull his eyes off the bloodied hands of the hunter. Red dripped from the skinning knife, and he watched every drop as it fell.

Finally they reached first in line. 

“Alright, let me do the talking,” Ricard said as he pulled the reins, stopping the cart.

A well dressed man approached with a parchment and quill, scanning the pair. “Name and manner of shipment,” he flatly requested.

“Doren Bretwood, we bring seating furs.”

“Bretwood…Bretwood…” his eyes traveled down his paper, “ah, you are needed over there by the lists. Move your cart over there and the Master of the Lists will tell you where to put them.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. 

A group of carpenters hammered away at wooden fences, their clubs sending deafening blows into the air. The lists were about to be finished. There was a dedicated section for jousts and another for formal combat. Then above it all, the benches for the people to watch the games. 

”Greetings, good man,” Ricard cheerfully greeted a carpenter. “We carry seating furs for the benches. Where can we leave them?” 

The man took a quick look at Ricard, then huffed and returned to his work.

Ricard raised a brow.

“Not much without your shiny sword,” Cassian mocked in a whisper.

“I’m much more than a sword, pup. Be quiet while I work,” Ricard retorted.

Cassian finally raised his head, then pointed. “There. The man shouting at people. And wearing that stupid hat with a giant feather sticking out of it. He’s the Master of the Lists.” 

“Stupid hat. That is the most astute observation, brother,” Ricard said, “Very well.” He hopped off the cart and raised a hand. “Greetings, good man!”

Cassian remained on the cart, watching as Ricard walked off. The carpenters caught his attention. He listened to the sound of wooden hammers slamming into poles and chatter. He took it in for a moment. Everything felt alive here compared to the plains. Compared to home. 

He got off the cart slowly. He felt dry, like gravel laced the walls of his throat. The only form of water he could see was the sweat that dripped from a carpenter’s nose.

A large man approached, his pace quickened when Cassian locked eyes with him.

”Oi! You can’t leave your cart around here. You’re in the way of my guys,” he yelled, flailing an arm.

Cassian bowed his head. 

“We bring seating fur for the benches—“

The man sent his palm into the back of Cassian’s head. “Insolent boy! I don’t give a shit, I got a job to do and you are being a splinter in my ass.”

Cassian bowed his head. “Yes, sir. I will move it at once sir,” he replied, his head low as he moved past the angry man and to the horse. “My apologies, but where can I—“

”Don’t make me beat you again, boy. Your wench mother didn’t teach you to listen to your elders?”

Cassian stopped.

”What? Got something to say?” The man growled.

Cassian’s jaw tightened. His chest puffed as he curled his fingers into his palm and turned back around.

The man raised his hand, ”You little—“

”Woah, there!” Ricard jumped in. “I apologize for my helper, sir. He hasn’t been the same since his mother passed last winter. You will have to excuse his lack of manners. We will get out of the way of your men.”

”We are working here, we can’t be having horses and carts cluttering the area,” the man repeated. Slightly more respectful when he saw Ricard.

”Of course, sir,” Ricard replied, “we will go at once. Now move it, boy!” Ricard sent his hand into Cassian’s head. “Please, take this as a token of my sincerest apologies, good sir.”

Ricard tossed the man a coin.

Cassian growled to himself, and hopped on the cart. 

“Was it really necessary to hit me again?” Cassian complained as they moved.

Ricard snickered. “I felt like it.”

“Can we please just drop off these smelly furs? I’m so thirsty,” Cassian complained.

Ricard grinned, patting the horse as he walked beside them. “Right here.” He pointed to a pile of neatly stacked planks. “Stupid hat guy said we can leave them here.” 

As Cassian got down from the cart, Ricard placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Now while I load this off, run up to the tavern and get us a table and some ales. Bask in it while you can. Later on we will meet with a contact there who has the information we need about the traitor.”

Cassian nodded and left without a word. As he ran back up the long bridge, his eyes wandered once again at the calming sea. The sun had turned red as it fell behind the horizon, casting glimmering lights off the water. Cassian wanted to take a seat and watch for a while, but he shook his head to himself. He had no time for leisure, his brother and father counted on him. 

The air shifted as soon as he entered Half-Moon Tavern. It was warm, humid and instruments consumed the space with life. Laughter and cackling echoed through slamming of tankards and ale being poured. 

Cassian crushed a piece of stale bread under his shoe as he made his way through the suffocating crowd. After squeezing through damp bodies he felt a sigh of relief let out as an empty spot appeared. He quickly sat down to claim it. 

“What will it be, young master?” A passing barmaid asked, holding a tray of ales.. 

Cassian faltered for a moment. “Two ales, please. And… and a sausage with some bread.”

“Coming at once, little lamb,” she said with a wink.

Cassian frowned as she walked off.

“You ever seen one of them crows up close?” 

Cassian paused. The table next to him was taken by a handful of labor worn men, ending their day with a couple of ales, he assumed.

“No, and I’d like to keep it that way,” one man answered, muttering into his ale.

The hairiest of them raised his ale but stopped by his lips. “Some say House Vaelthorne created them.”

”The only thing Duke Hetark Vaelthorne has done is rot in his castle while the rest of his people work. The king gave him a handful of fiefs and all he does is hold on to them like a scared child, hoping no one will take away his toys.”

“My cousin up in Riverstone swore he spoke to the same man twice. First he was a cook, then a guardsman.”

The hairy man snorted. “That’s called changing clothes, idiot.”

“No, this was different,” the other insisted. “He said it was in his eyes. The way he looked at him. Different smile. Different posture. Different voice. Like his whole face changed without even changing.”

A wrinkled old man at the end of the table grunted. “That’s why they scare people. You never know when you’re speaking to a crow. And that’s how they get you.”

”What do they want?” 

”You never know. But they always get what they want, people say.”

“Are they even human?” 

A chill went down Cassian’s spine.

“Better to keep to yourself. Be honest with what you do. If you have dirt on your hands, they will smell it.”

The old man slammed his tankard on the table. “Don’t be talking like that! You’re only spreading fear, like they want us to do.”

”But it’s the truth!”

They all were silent for a moment, until another man raised his finger and spoke softer now. “They are even training the young’uns. Breeding child killing machines, they are. Imagine someone the size of that brat over there—“

In the corner of his eye, he noticed a finger in his direction. 

“—killing grown men like ourselves in the blink of an eye. These are dark times. When you cannot even trust a child.”

The barmaid returned with Cassian’s request. And all the voices turned silent when Casssian noticed what she was carrying. A steaming hot smoked sausage, the aroma hit quickly. Smoked, spiced pork sausage topped with fresh herbs. Then a side of soft, steaming bread and ice cold ales served in metal tankards to keep it cool.

His belly twisted painfully at the smell. 

For a moment the voices of crows and rumors faded beneath the hunger. 

He started with the ale, taking three big gulps before digging into the bread with his hands. He tore it apart easily, more steam rising as it split. He let out a soft groan after the first bite. Then the sausage, he split it in two and bit down on it. Flavorful spiced meat calmed his heart instantly. He closed his eyes as he chewed. Every bite felt like a warm embrace.

Before noticing, only a crust of bread and the butt of a sausage remained on his plate.

‘Shit, forgot to save some for Ricard.’

Someone sat down opposite him.

A hooded man reached for the second ale.

Cassian grabbed his fork and stabbed it into the table. “That’s not yours.”

A sly smirk stretched under his shadowed eyes. He grabbed the ale anyway.

Cassian’s fingers twitched.

“You will blow your cover, little crow,” the man said before he took a sip. “You think you can take on five scared grown men like those over there who talk ill of your family? I’m sure if they knew who you were, they wouldn’t hesitate to beat you bloody and dump you in the sea.”

Cassian stayed silent, his eyes sharp.

“And you definitely don’t want this crowd to know whose clothes you are wearing,” he added, “it would be a bad look for your father to hear his own son couldn’t even blend in like a crow.”

“You’re the contact.”

The man clicked his tongue. “Correct.” He leaned on the table, the tankard comfortable in his grip. “So you’d wanna listen to what I have to say.”

Cassian pulled the fork out of the wood and lowered his shoulders. His eyes scanned around him without moving his head.

“Good,” the man said, “though I’d prefer it to be your brother, but I don’t have much time.” He slid a folded parchment across the table. “This will get you and your brother on the benches tomorrow. Make sure you get a seat as close to the lord’s pavilion as you can. There you will get all the information you need if your wits are sharp enough.”

Cassian frowned. “I thought you were supposed to give us the information?”

”If life was that straight forward, I would be sitting in a noble’s hall enjoying a fine red and not talking to a snot-nosed child like you.”

Cassian clenched his jaw.

”I hope you know the gravity of this situation, little crow,” the man said, his eyes judging the boy, “I still do not understand why Raziel thought it was time to put you in the field, but the old man is no fool. He must see something special in you. Something we certainly do not.”

The man looked at Cassian in silence for a moment. Then huffed to himself. “There’s something off about you, little crow. I can’t put my finger on it,” he pointed out, “or maybe it's for the best that I don’t. Either way, I will be watching.”

“Watch all you want,” Cassian retorted.

The man grinned. “Maybe there is hope for you, after all.” He finished the ale and got up. “What must be done.”

His final words hung heavy as Cassian watched him slip into the crowd. 

Cassian’s eyes stayed stuck in the last spot he saw the man. 

‘What must be done.’ 

He studied the folded parchment. Sealed with Lord Ingram’s personal insignia, the crowned white antlers of House Silverton. 

Cassian ran his finger over it slowly, then pocketed the parchment.

A crimson flash blinded his vision.

He looked down at hands that were not his own. They were hairy like that of a grown man. Streams of blood dripped from his knuckles. The stink of cold copper consumed his nose. A tear that burned at his eye trickled down his cheek. 

The blurry silhouette of a small frame laid in front of him. A boy. Not older than 10 years old. 

Cassian whimpered loudly as he broke free. 

A pair of hands grabbed him and pulled hard.

“Hey! What’s up with you?”

Cassian squirmed, his face wet from crying. He opened his eyes.  “…Ricard?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ricard asked, then noticed the tavern had gone silent. Watching. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“I felt it. Like I killed him with my own hands, Ricard,” Cassian whispered, as his brother hurried him out. His eyes were wide, as if he watched it happening again. “I killed him…”

“Enough,” Ricard snarled and pulled Cassian out the door and rushed him into a dark alley. 

Cassian mumbled to himself inaudibly, completely oblivious to his surroundings.

Ricard threw Cassian down on a crate then growled and ran his hands through his hair. “I knew you weren’t fucking ready for this!”

Finally Cassian’s eyes returned.

“Now I gotta fucking babysit you, and return the target at the same fucking time.” He turned to Cassian, pointing a finger at his brother’s face. “You are done here. I’m putting you on the next carriage back home. I cannot be having you blowing our cover. I fucking told you to—ugh!” 

“Brother,” Cassian called. 

Ricard faced the other way now, hands on his hips.

“Brother, I can do this, I’m sorry. It was just so real,” Cassian tried again.

“You’re too weak, Cassian! I thought you were stronger than this,” Ricard snapped, “we trained you for this. How many times does Raziel have to beat you? How many pets need to be killed in front of you until you fucking harden?”

Cassian's face heated. 

“I’m not weak—”

Ricard scoffed. “What do you know of it? You’re barely old enough to hold that dagger. You cry all the fucking time, and you have barely showed me proof of any competence. What would father say?”

”I’m sorry,” Cassian mumbled, his eyes on his feet, feeling himself dwindle at Ricard’s remark. 

Ricard stood silent for a moment. His shoulders lifted with a deep breath. After he let it go, he turned slowly. Then placed a warm hand on his brother’s neck and clutched it hard. Hard enough to make it uncomfortable but not painful.

”Keep it together. Okay?” He said calmly. His silver eyes deep into Cassian’s black. “This is your chance. Maybe your only chance, to prove that you have what it takes. No more crying. Got it?”

Cassian nodded. 

“Use your voice.”

“Yes, brother.”

”Good,” Ricard said, “because I need you. Tomorrow we are kidnapping a Lord.”