The Ballad of the Grey Swan: Chronicles of Taeliana, #1

​Introduction, by way of robbery

The afternoon was pleasant in the woods, where the path cut through the forest, the leaves making a roof that let enough light through to shade the path. The carriage ran in the ruts left in the road, the ground quite solid despite the morning’s dampness.

Greetings, sir!

The carriage slowed to a halt at the gray horse in the road, and its rider remained before the carriage instead of moving out of the way. The fine mezzo-soprano filled the air, and the masked figure in the gray cloak and doublet inclined their head, covered by a wide-brimmed gray hat, in thanks. The mask covered three-quarters of the face, leaving the upper right-hand corner uncovered, and was rigid, bright white, and in the shape of a bird’s wing, with an eye hole for the left eye.

Within, the merchant who occupied the carriage frowned, then banged on the wall across from him. That would alert the cart’s driver that he was displeased with the situation. The driver banged back, indicating a problem. With a grunt, he roused himself from the cushion and then looked at the woman who was traveling with him.

Stay here, he instructed her gruffly, then opened the door and stepped onto the first step from the carriage.

He did not particularly want to stop in this place. He was dressed in fine clothes in the Jeweler’s Guild colors of a blue shirt, green pants, and a red muffin-hat, and his boots were made of a soft sueded leather that would be nearly impossible to clean if he stepped in mud.

He heard hoofbeats as he stepped onto the first step and looked to see the figure on horseback riding towards him. As they did, they paused to scratch the ears of one of the carriage horses, who lowered both ears in pleasure.

Do you know who I am? the merchant bellowed, echoing in the trees. I am Master-Trader Rivolo, on my way to the Imperial Capitol! I’ll have Imperial justice on you for making me late!

Oh, the figure said from behind the mask, a sweet feminine voice, I am quite aware of you, Master Rivolo. The figure bowed in the saddle. I also know you decided to leave early and are waiting for your guards to catch up. Ah, but I am being rude. I am known in this area by the appellation of the Grey Swan, and it is my pleasure to meet you at this time.

Master-Trader Rivolo went pale. The stories of a woman, single-handedly robbing travelers, had reached his business headquarters in the Eastern Reaches. Bold, brash, and if you didn’t fight...

Knowing the answer, he said, What do you want?

Money! Do not worry, Master-Trader, I will not leave you bereft! Present me the key, and I will not even break your strongbox. After all, she said, tilting her head, the Grey Swan is not a violent lady. There was a sound of a smile in her voice.

The Master-Trader frowned, then reached for his belt. He touched the hilt of his dagger, but then the Grey Swan adjusted her cloak to show her hand on her sword, and he rethought his plan. He continued past it and removed a key ring from a pouch. Holding it up, he sighed.

It was the work of a moment to go to the lockbox on the back of the carriage, unlock it, take out some money, close and re-lock it, and then return it to Rivolo. Thank you, good sir! See, I have returned your keys to you. I have taken some money, but I assure you, there are no other highway agents in the barony, so you will be quite safe for the rest of your journey. Ah, and! She reached into a saddlebag and withdrew a bottle. Please, take this to calm your nerves. It is a genuine pleasure to relieve a man of some funds with so little trouble, so I wish to reward you. Good evening, sir! The hat was tipped, revealing light blonde tresses, then replaced, and the highwaywoman rode off past them into the darkness.

The Master-Trader went around the back, unworried right now about his boots. He opened the lock box and checked the contents quickly. About half the money was gone, but not all of it. He then remembered the bottle he’d been holding and looked at it. It had a label in white pasted to it, with the silhouette of a swan stamped on it.

Keep going, he gruffly instructed the driver, then closed the door. Rivolo sat back down, heavily, hoping the rest of the trip would be quiet.

If they had felt interested enough to look, the Master-Trader and his companion would have noticed that after just a few feet, the Grey Swan’s horse’s hoof-prints vanished.

The Grey Swan rode off into the forest for a few minutes, then made a quick turn. She knew the path very well and rode it until it came to a small hill. Dismounting, she reached down to raise and prop up a hidden wooden door covered with plants, disguised as part of the hill. Then she took the horse by the reins, leading it into the tunnel, which quickly opened to a larger cave.

Tying up the horse at a post, and ensuring the beast had food and water, she removed the saddle, saddlebags, and bridle. After placing them on a rack near the horse’s paddock, she went back to close the door.

Once the door was closed and concealed again, she continued deeper into the cave. A few more moments saw her garments and mask removed and placed in a visibly salvaged armoire, a blonde wig removed and set on a stand in the armoire, and a completely different set of clothes donned: an undershirt, a maroon doublet and a pair of black trousers.  The figure revealed was still slender, but with black hair instead of the blonde of the wig. A swipe of the face with a small damp towel removed some cosmetics used to alter the shape of the brow and eye.

That taken care of, the figure went back to empty the saddlebag of its cache of coins. It was the work of a few moments to remove a cunningly carved stone, revealing a hole in the cave wall. The cache was placed within, next to bags of coins already placed there, and the stone fit back in place. The carving was such that it was nearly impossible to notice the hidden panel. The Grey Swan was rather proud of that work.

A few steps farther on, the cave became a narrow tunnel. It was dark, but she navigated it with the surety of longtime knowledge. As she came to its end, she quickly climbed the ladder mounted into the wall to the top. With a press of a switch to her right, the panel swung open noiselessly, and she stepped out into a garderobe, then out of that into a room.

The room was well-appointed, with a large desk, a bed, an armoire, and two doors leading out to a hallway and the garderobe. She took a moment with a cloth to polish her boots to remove the last of the dirt from the cave, then straightened up as a knock came on the door.

With a sigh, the Grey Swan shifted her posture, relaxed her throat, became Lord Jeyreme Corbeau again, and strode to the door. In a strong tenor, he asked, What is it?, and then pulled open the door.

My lord, a message. The Grey Swan has struck again, robbing a trader passing through our lands. Mackaver, the head of the guards that protected the family and their lands, saluted. Jeyreme returned the salute half-heartedly, as if tired.

Anything else I should know?

The older soldier, without a helmet on and showing short-cropped graying hair, shook his head. Same as usual, milord. Merchant traveling without extra guards, stopped by the Grey Swan, no violence, didn’t take everything, gave a bottle of wine with their mark on it, and rode off. Kindest road agent I’ve ever heard of. Didn’t even make a verbal threat, just showed their sword when the merchant thought about being brave, and he backed down. Mackaver had been in the Imperial Army before retiring and getting this job and had seen action in several places, including battles against bandits and raiders.

Privately, Jeyreme’s thoughts raced as he quickly considered how to deal with this. Probably farther away before hitting the target – she’d been too close if the report came in already. If Mackaver had been a quarter-candlemark sooner, she wouldn’t have been back yet. Concealing all these thoughts, Jeyreme nodded in acknowledgment, seemingly absently, to the guard captain.

Well, Jeyreme sighed, I’d best take this to Father.

Mackaver sucked in some air through his teeth. Good luck, milord.

Thank you, Mackaver. I suspect I will need it.

A Difficult Conversation, and a Pleasant Visit to a Tavern

It had become a very pleasant early summer evening. The air was warm and scented with blossoms on the fruit trees as the sun went down over the fields. The ruler of that land let himself relax, and hoped he wouldn’t hear a knocking on the door.

Baron Stefan Corbeau would not get what he hoped for that night.

A knock came to the door, and he groaned, then called, Enter!

The door opened, and a tall, slender, raven-haired young man entered, carrying a note and a somewhat glum expression.

It’s that blasted Grey Swan again, isn’t it? the Baron bellowed. Over the past decade, he had lost most of his muscle and gone to seed. His eyes, brown and reddened with his regular drink, peered out of a face gone soft, and often lately his brown hair was uncombed. Since the death of his wife, he had seemingly given up on the idea of a long and well-lived life and tried to achieve a drunken one that ended in death in a stupor.

Yes, Father, his third son, Jeyreme, said, as if prepared for a torrent of outrage, and he was not wrong.

That wench is a menace! the Baron roared, rousing himself from his chair with some difficulty. How does she know every time a trader travels without guards? Then she charms them into giving her what she wants! He snatched the paper from Jeyreme. And this time she gave him a bottle of wine? He tossed the note aside, as Jeyreme stood against his storm. Our best trackers cannot find her or where she hides! He spun to point at Jeyreme. Have you even given them the orders?

Of course I did, Father, Jeyreme replied, with the tone of someone whose patience is rapidly coming to an end but is trying to hide it. They tracked the hoof-prints for a few feet, but they disappeared. They went a mile in each direction but couldn’t find any other signs of the horse. Jeyreme had told his father this before, but it hadn’t been remembered.

Corruptor’s Forgotten Name, I want this person dead! They’re making a mockery of my guardsmen, robbing people on MY land! The baron paced for a moment, then turned back on his son. I’ve sent word to the Capitol to have Simon return. HE can handle these duties if you cannot!

His face immobile but eyes glaring, Jeyreme asked in a tightly controlled voice, Will that be all, Father?

The Baron glared back at his son, then gestured. Get out of my sight!

Jeyreme turned on his heel and marched out, closing the door behind him. With it closed, he clenched his teeth, and then turned left, walking away from the door. Calling Simon home from Calliasha was ridiculous and a waste of time and money.

As he passed an open door, he heard a voice whisper, Jeyreme? He turned to see his younger brother, Tomas, peeking out the door. Is Father in one of his lovely moods? There was an audible ‘again’ implied in his tone.

Tomas, like Jeyreme, took after their late mother, with black hair, green eyes, and a slender build. He was also dressed in a maroon doublet and grey slacks, tucked into black boots. The main differences between them could be summarized by Tomas having his father’s nose and being three years younger.

Jeyreme nodded, once. The Grey Swan has struck again.

Tomas opened the door a bit more, looking thoughtful. I do wish I knew more about her.

She’s a highway agent and steals from rich people coming through our lands. What more is there to know?

Tomas turned a surprised gaze at his brother. Why does she do it? What reasons are there to do that? Why here? Why now? So much to know! Frankly, it would make a most epic poem.

My brother the bard, Jeyreme said fondly. Written anything recently?

I’m working on a poem about sunsets. I think it’s about halfway done.

That’s good. I think I’m going for a ride to clear my mind.

Do enjoy an evening at the tavern, brother. At Jeyreme’s surprised expression, Tomas sketched a half-bow as he smiled. Did you think that the last time we went out I did not notice your attention to that lovely redheaded maid? I’m a poet – I’d be a terrible one if I didn’t know how to read people.

Jeyreme cleared his throat, then shook his head. But are you going to make it into a poem?

Not one Father would listen to, I assure you, Tomas said with a smile. Have a good evening.

With a wave, Jeyreme continued, heading down the back stairs, through the passage behind the kitchen, and then into the stables.

Good evening, milord, said Jakes, the evening groom. Out for an evening ride?

Yes. Is Edmond available?

Edmond is your horse, as far as we’re concerned, and always ready for you. Do you wish to do him up, or should I do it for you?

I’ll do it – keeps me in practice. With that, he walked to the stall that held the chestnut, who raised his head and nickered quietly. With practiced hands, Jeyreme fitted the bridle and reins, then the saddle, and then pulled himself up and into the saddle. Taking up the reins, he guided the horse to the stable door, which had been opened by Jakes, through them, and then soon enough out of the courtyard and onto the road, riding it towards the tavern.

There, he felt he could find the comfort he could rarely find at home.

The Thankful Gentleman was the main tavern, located a hundred yards from the edge of the town that centered the Barony of Corbeau, and it was bustling with local activity that evening. There was a fancy carriage parked in the back by the stables, presumably with the horses that drew it in the stable.

Riding up to the paddock, Jeyreme began to tie up his house. A figure came out of the stables, then stopped short. She bounced on her toes expectantly, looking at the new arrivals. Brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and she wore a green shirt, brown pants, and a pair of boots that had seen better days but were still functional.

With a grin, she gave a small bow. H’loo, Milord! D’ye want me to give ‘em a brush-down?

With a smile, he dismounted and smiled. I don’t think Edmond would mind that at all. The horse nickered and tossed his head. You like it when Miss Linsie gives you a brush, eh? The horse tossed its head again, and he patted the horse’s neck.

Linsie was the daughter of the tavernkeeper, and fourteen. She had yet to fill out and was more of a tomboy than anything else. Her love and passion were horses, and any time the mansion’s stablemaster came to the tavern, she would ask him questions, to the point that there were times he came to the tavern and went to the stables first, to talk to her. He’d privately mentioned to Jeyreme that the girl was a potential Imperial Horsemaster, if they could get her to go to the Imperial Academy for training and education – a sign the stablemaster gave her some respect.

Jeyreme turned, knowing his horse was in good hands, and walked to the door. He glanced at the yellow wandering dot of a firefly, unusual this close to town. Pushing it open, he stepped into the common room of the tavern. It was a large room, with furniture once roughly built, now polished and settled with decades of people sitting on benches, drinking at tables and the bar, cleaned nightly. A fire sat banked in the fireplace, to go higher if the room became chilly. The tavernkeeper stood watch, as people talked and drank. In one corner of the tavern, a lively game of sha-va-sha was going on if the calls meant anything.

On the small stage in the corner of the room, a red-haired woman was singing a song, accompanying herself on a fiddle. Jey listened for a moment to it, recognizing it as a love song, with the performer telling their lover that they just wished to hold them in a deep quiet, without speaking.

One of the tables held Master-Trader Rivolo, who was busy regaling the nearby people with stories of his encounter with the Grey Swan. People were nodding and commiserating with him, especially since he was buying drinks for that table. Enough people were giving him sympathy that he was embellishing his story with each retelling, and no one seemed to mind at all.

Weaving through the crowd, he went to the serving bar, waiting his turn and getting his tankard filled. The maid handling the ale finished with a customer and turned to him. Gentle blue eyes regarded him from below auburn hair and dark brows, and her generous smile grew wider at seeing him. Her hair was brushed to one side of her head, falling across her forehead, with the rest of it cut to just above her shoulders. and she was dressed in a white shirt and green skirt, with a green apron over it.

As it always did on seeing her for the first time on a day, Jeyreme’s comprehension of the rest of the world went away, falling into a tunnel of nothing but her and a rapidly pounding heartbeat. His mouth went completely dry. All he could do was watch the lovely face before him, and all he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

And then she spoke, and he could hear that too. The eyes broke contact with his, as she curtsied and asked, Welcome, Lord Jeyreme. Would you like some ale? She glanced up and gave him a very quick wink.

The world came back, as he offered his tankard. Regaining his composure, he gave a small bow in acknowledgement. Thank you, Miss Maisie, I most certainly would. With a practiced motion, she filled the tankard and offered it to him. He inclined his head in thanks, took it, and then went to the chair that was reserved for a member of the Baron’s family should they visit, as per the law. The mug was placed on the small table placed next to the chair, and he settled into it. Under one arm he felt a small piece of torn paper, which he palmed, then took a deep drink of his ale.

And he continued to watch Maisie.

The evening was pleasant, and with the ale and the company that did not scream at him, Jeyreme felt himself slowly relax. Here, he was the Baron’s son, yes, but most of them acknowledged that he was also the acting baronial seneschal. His father issued orders, and Jeyreme was the one to arrange for them to be carried out. Jeyreme also took care of all the things that his father either didn’t care about or just expected someone else to deal with.

The Baron wasn’t a very good ruler – in Jeyreme’s opinion, Simon would be a far, far better Baron than their father, because Simon gave a damn – and with their brother Mikyael resigning his place in line of succession to become a priest, it fell to Jeyreme to