jeriendhal | Fic: Twenty Roads Cazaril Did Not Take

After the encounter with the enraged bathhouse owner, Cazaril's nerves had been put on edge. He decided it would be best to restore calm to his soul and rest the night in a room at one of Valenda's small, but comfortable inns, using the last of the unexpected largess from the soldier of the Daughter's Order. Half of a roast chicken chased down by watered wine filled his stomach nicely, and he slept hard in the bed he'd been provided, only waking when the sounds of the Daughter's Day procession filed past in the street below.

Cazaril opened the shutters of his window and watched it go by. He caught a glimpse of a smiling young woman with auburn hair, wearing the elaborate blue dress of the Lady of Spring, pass by on a white mule, led by older man. Behind her was a much older woman on a horse. Cazaril's breath caught as he recognized the Provincara, sitting straight and dignified in her saddle. He was tempted right there to call out to her, to rush down and beg for the position he dared hope for, but tempered the thought. Better to see her upon her return from the Daughter's Day ceremony at the temple, when she was likely to be in a mood both generous and pious.

He closed the shutters again and quickly washed his face and hands in the basin on the little table beside the bed. He'd worn the unfortunate merchant's shirt to bed, so dressing was merely a matter pulling on his trousers and mismatched boots, then slipping the black vest cloak over his shoulders. Heading downstairs, he found the inn's common room deserted, all of the other guests and the innkeeper gone to the temple to watch the ceremony.

Cazaril walked slowly up the empty streets of Valenda, listening to the distant, warbling sound of a children's choir singing, their voices rising from the temple to fill the air. Deciding to take this as a good sign, he strode up towards the Provincara's castle, his steps lighter than they had been since he had begun this long journey home.

Approaching the castle gate, he straightened up and gave a sharp salute to the guards, face set as if he was a man on a most important errand and would not brook delay. Out of their eyesight he slowed, looking around at the warm gold walls of stone that sheltered the buildings, most of them familiar, though there seemed to be at least one newly built since his days of page.

He sat on a bench set between two tubs of flowers, leaning his aching back against the sun warmed wall, and waited.

When the Provincara's party returned, Cazaril stood up, anxiously waiting the chance to catch the lady's attention, or perhaps that of the stout man in severe black wools who by the keys at his belt could only be the castle warder. But the Provincara's frowning attention was on the two girls who were dismounting from their horses, one the amber tressed avatar of the Lady of Spring, the other a slightly older girl with thick black hair who was evidentially a friend or an attendant.

"Iselle, Betriz, dy Ferrej, attend upon me," the Provincara ordered. Her eyes swept past Cazaril as she strode towards the new building, but did not pause, leaving him unrecognized.

Feeling his chance slipping through his fingers, Cazaril rose quickly, hurrying to catch up to the man before he reached the door. "Your pardon, sir. You are Warden dy Ferrej, yes?"

"I am," dy Ferrej admitted reluctantly. "I fear I do not know you, sir."

"Five gods grace, I hope the Provincara might. I am the Castillar dy Cazaril. I once served as a page in this very castle, under the late Provincar."

"I see," dy Ferrej said. His eyes swept down Cazaril's clean but humble robes, the lack of any jewelry or sword, and he seemed to come to a decision. "Forgive me, sir," dy Ferrej said stiffly, "but I doubt the Provincara will be receiving petitioners today."

He removed his sleeve from the grip Cazaril had upon it, and stepped through the door, slamming it firmly in Cazaril's face.