Dreamwalker's Bride - Chapter 2

A Soldier’s Release
Trace dismounted in front of the palace, standing beside his horse as he awaited the victory speech of King Harold. The pomp had barely begun, and yet he already hated every second of it. All he wanted was to get home. Why did he have to endure this condescending thanks for services he didn’t want to render?

Those who had magic were rare, and his parents had hidden his talents for years, but someone had found out, and he had been given an ultimatum: Volunteer and use his magic secretly for the war effort, or be drafted openly and pushed to the forefront with his secret laid bare. He didn’t even know who the person threatening him was, all he got were letters with instructions and threats.

War had not sat well in his soul or his conscience. He was not particularly adept at it and did not relish the battlefield at all. He wasn’t a political creature by nature, and didn’t care whether King Harold’s claim to a slice of border-adjacent land had been challenged by Lord Whoever-It-Was. Even if his own land was close to the disputed area, he couldn’t honestly say he cared which nation ruled so long as they left him alone.

He could only be glad the time for violence was finally finished.

“Soldiers, Faithful Servants of our kingdom!” King Harold boomed from a balcony above the troops.

They were to pound their gauntlets against their breastplates thrice in acknowledgement of his favor. Trace did so, halfheartedly.

“You have brought your king victory over our despicable enemy! We owe you a debt of thanks and gratitude for your protection of our lands, and our people. Your great deeds and honorable service will not be forgotten, and you will be rewarded for the victory and prosperity you have brought to our lands!”

Trace almost laughed. What prosperity? War could only bring famine and death.

“To every married soldier, a measure of gold to feed your family!” A cheer rose up for that.

“To every unmarried soldier, a wife will be found for you and delivered to your home. For the sake of our future, be fruitful and make many young children to enjoy the kingdom you have so valiantly defended!”

Trace frowned. Many around him let go of their decorum in favor of lecherous jeers and crude jokes, but he found the idea distasteful. A woman he didn’t know, deposited on his doorstep like a sack of barley. Did he not get a say in whether or whom he would marry?

It was insulting and a raging imposition. Suppose he got saddled with some spoiled brat, or worse, a raving harpy of a woman? He could find a bride himself, if he wanted one… but it didn’t sound like ‘not wanting one’ was an option, per the king’s decree.

These thoughts consumed him through the rest of the speeches and ceremony; he robotically imitated those around him as they cheered, knelt, and pounded their chests at the proper moments. The endless string of officials made him want to mount his horse and leave, but that sort of insubordination would land him in a world of trouble.

Just an hour or two longer, and he would be freed of his obligations to the kingdom. Free to go home. Why couldn’t they leave him alone to live his own life? He wasn’t even particularly talented; his efforts in magic consisted solely in his ability to dream. Trace could, when he concentrated, leave his own dreams and step into the dreams of others nearby.

In war, he was assigned to the front lines of combat. Secretly, per the instructions of his blackmailer, he was to try and get to the dreams of the enemy at night, to terrify them with ill omens and break their morale, or to see if anyone dreamed of battle plans.

He had halfheartedly tried, but the distances were sometimes too far. He spent most of his sleeping hours amongst his comrades at arms, making their dreams encouraging, strengthening, and restful, which he could still qualify as a service to the army.

The speeches ended at last. Finally dismissed from the pomp, the higher officers took final stock of their underlings before changing to report for a celebratory ball in the palace that evening. Trace was far beneath their notice and was not invited. He was thankful.

Bidding farewell to his captain as he mounted his horse, he realized he would need a place to stay for the night.

Not knowing the city very well, he wandered for a time in search of an inn. The first several he encountered were already full, and it was nearly nightfall when he finally chanced upon one with a bed to spare.

The innkeeper was friendly and welcoming, saying that a good supper would be ready for him to purchase as soon as he settled his horse in the stable.

Like many soldiers, he had brought one of his own horses to war. The gelding had been a faithful friend through many dangers, and he treated the beast kindly in return. Taking him into the stall, Trace turned to brush him and realized two makeshift bedrolls lay in the corner on some hay.

What was this? The innkeeper had said he had room. Who would be staying out here? His brow furrowed as he examined them. Perhaps a pair of stable boys, to keep the animals company in the night. With the revelry about this evening, it might be easy for them to get spooked.

Though the formal party in the palace was exclusive, the city itself had plenty of energy to lend to a celebration in the streets. Thoroughly brushing his steed and giving it water and food, he headed back inside the inn.

He made his way to a table and paid a coin to the innkeeper for a hot supper. The rations of war were not something to rave about, but then, neither was his own cooking at home. No matter how mediocre this food was, it would be better than what he was used to.

A young woman approached his table with a plate of food and a cup of mead and set them down. He smiled at her in thanks, and she flinched slightly away from him. He frowned.

“Thank you,” Trace said to the woman, but a short nod was the only response. What a curiously silent thing she was. He watched her walk away, her auburn hair tied with a cord at the nape of her neck as it draped down her back. He was oddly disturbed by the short interaction, and wondered what he could have done to offend her.

Shrugging, he dug into the stew and fresh bread, sighing happily as he chewed. His palate wasn’t the most refined in the world, but he appreciated the delicious food nonetheless. Eating in silence, he wondered whether most women were such good cooks. Certainly they couldn’t be worse than he was.

Briefly, he reconsidered his hard stance against getting married. Being well-fed spoke well for the institution of marriage, even if the woman were a raving harpy. Or—he glanced to the corner where the woman who had served him stood wiping off a table—a silent creature of mystery.

She caught his glance and her face hardened as she busied herself with other chores, causing him to look away. He couldn’t have done anything that offensive in his one smile and two words. Perhaps she was prickly by nature. When he finished eating, she suddenly appeared to take his empty dishes and spoke for the first time.

“Do you need anything else, Sir?” Her voice was formal and a little stilted, but musical in its quality. He looked at her more closely. Her dress was worn and old, but clean, in contrast to her apron, which was newer. The beginnings of a bruise on her cheek concerned him. Who had struck her?

“Have I done something to offend you? I apologize if I have.” He chanced smiling at her again as he answered.

She blinked at him in mild confusion. “I am not offended, Sir. Is there anything else you need?” The frown on her face seemed etched there, and it saddened Trace for some reason.

“Have you worked here long?” He tried to ask politely. She stared and glanced toward the innkeeper. Perhaps he was going to get her in trouble by keeping her chatting, but it didn’t seem that anyone else needed her just now.

“Long enough to know that I should be working and not chatting,” She smiled tightly and nodded her head, about to turn away.

“Are there stable boys?” He asked suddenly, changing the subject. It was a normal customer question and he felt compelled to ask it. The woman paused, a strange expression passing over her face that he couldn’t read.

“No, sir… not that I’m aware. Does your animal need attention?” She straightened her shoulders as if preparing to do whatever chore was needed.

“My horse is fine,” Trace hedged, “I was just wondering who it is that sleeps out in the barn. He likes company, but he can be picky about who he spends his time with.”