The Maiden

A Northund Story

This is set in the same world as my previous post, The Opportunist. What is in that isn’t strictly necessary for this, but it will be able to be appreciated more if you have read that. A character might make an appearance, maybe not. Galin’s dagger certainly will, though, that beautiful little thing.

I definitely plan to do more with Galin himself, I like his character too much not too. Though, what I’ll write about him I have no idea.

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          The group, who they may be I do not know, certainly those at the castle do not know, is knocking at the gates. At the head is a large woman in priestly robes. Perhaps they are priestesses, perhaps they are on a pilgrimage, perhaps they are a group of sisters traveling to meet some relative, or perhaps they might be going to betroth the last figure in the group. 

          Back to the first. Her robes are opulent, to say the least, and she is decked out in exquisite jewelry. Behind her are several other women, dressed similarly, but one can tell at a glance they are either servants, minor priestesses, or even acolytes—to put it simpler, nothing and nobody of note. However, the last is possibly the most important of all. Perhaps she is the reason for their journey. Then again, maybe she is not.

          She is small—she could be a child of eight or nine. Just a look at her face and it is apparent that she is no child. She is no Gold Dwarf either; she is not stout enough, being much too slim, and her face is a human’s. She is the most beautiful woman I, or anyone I think, have ever seen. She could be a goddess. She is dressed most finely, in a simple way, in a purple dress and hooded white cloak that are each worth more than the castle they are entering. And that is ignoring her jewelry. About her waist is a lovely dagger in an intricate sheath. Her perfume must be magical, for its scent cannot be described. It is most exquisite. And her black hair is long, almost touching the floor beneath her cloak.

          The door opens, and they are admitted inside at once. A well-muscled man in armor leads them into a lusciously furnished room, smelling of roses with a soft hint of delicious food from some distant kitchen. They all stand in one corner while the armored man runs off.

          Soon, he returns with a thin, bearded man, a duke or lord, or someone similar, the master of the castle without a doubt. He greets them and asks if they would like to see the castle. The woman in front nods and says they would be most grateful. She continues, saying that she is some relation, or so she is told, to the man’s mother and wished to call in before they finished their journey. He is delighted, and takes her hand and leads them.

          No one notices all the little things here and there, some on the royal ladies passing by, disappear, most worth fortunes. No, no one notices and probably won’t until that evening or later. Who could be doing such a thing? Surely it can’t be that lovely maiden, can it?

          They stop, and the bearded man seems to be noticing the charming woman in the back. “What a beautiful dagger,” he says. “But nowhere near as lovely as you, my dear. Please, if I may, forgive me, but would you stay here with me as my wife? You will come to know me and love me, and no one could provide a better home for you.” He holds out his hand. I wonder, given how grandly she is clothed, an emperor or king might give the maiden a better home. Maybe not a truer love, though.

           She is silent, prompting the man to speak again. “Why do you not speak? I am overcome by curiosity; I must ask. Where did you get such a magnificent blade? Why do you not answer me? Do you hate me?” 

          The large woman speaks. “She is dumb.”

          “Is she deaf as well?” the man asks, his curiosity piqued.

          She speaks again. “If she had accepted, she would have taken your hand. Forgiver her. She is not deaf. Her ears are sharp, and her eyes sharper. I do not think she detests you.”

          “There is nothing to forgive,” he says, bowing and giving an excellent, extravagant twirl of his hand.

          “The dagger, to answer your question, was a gift from someone. I don’t know who he was. I still think she charmed him out of it.”

          They walk off, and soon they are parting ways. No one notices that the young maiden slipped off on her own. And, is it my eyes playing tricks on me, but is she really a maiden or is she actually a man twice her size of about twenty-six summers? Yes, she has a neatly trimmed beard! How did no one notice? How did I not notice? And it is a man’s voice when she speaks, for speak she can! Was it all a lie, or did they not even know?

          “This dress,” he says. “How can women stand these things? Too tight in the stomach and sleeves. Much too tight! He rips it off and shakes many things out of it that should not be there. Tying the dress into a sack, he puts everything in it, along with similar bundles. Galin, for Galin it is—I can see it now—walks away, out a side door, and escapes. “He had it coming,” he says as he saunters off. “He owed me and certainly didn’t get it all legitimately himself.” Laughing, he goes his own way, deciding what to do next. Maybe he will go back home.

The End,
God Bless