Chapter I. "Daybreak"

Dragontail Mountains, circa 2E 490.

Shaniera was already awake when the light of the quiet Hearthfire morning spilled through the rose-tinted glass of her window. The first thing she did was peer out over the garden below. The sight of Leanne’s scarf on the clothesline brought both relief and anxious excitement as she hopped from the sill to dress. The plan had been laid a week ago, and confirmed several times since, but it was that signal that she waited for. Each day, something had come up, and Leanne would have been busy with chores, or Shaniera with studies or dancing practice, but today seemed like the day. She slipped into a simple dress of fine silks that seemed to dance as she moved, soft pinks and reds trimmed with shimmering bronze, the colors remembrances of old Yokuda. She stood before the tall silver mirror, smoothing out the fabric with tremulous hands, then picked up a hairbrush and wrought her thick curls into a black crown around her head. One last look in the mirror, and then she slipped from her room swift as the morning sun.

Servants were already padding around the little palace as Shaniera bounded down the stairs. So long as I avoid Renoa and mother, I should make it to our spot just fine. She came close to barreling straight into Gro’shuba, a tall, grey-green boulder of a woman from Orsimer. The orc hissed contempt through her tusks as she regained control of the huge bucket of water in her arms. Shaniera hurried an apology to her, and the next moment found herself hurrying a greeting to her uncle Barentho.

“Shaniera! Slow your pace, or you’re liable to crash.” He had a habit of speaking just to say something, rather than having something to say. When he wasn’t speaking, he was stroking his beard, pretending to be thoughtful.

“Sorry, Uncle Bary!” She waved at him as she continued down the hall, around the corner into the north foyer. The back doors were a shiny cherry wood, carved with shapes of leaping tigers. The curved gold handle was nearly in her grasp before it swung away. Toren stood in the doorway, scratching at the side of his red-brown beard. He blinked at her, as if he didn’t entirely see who she was, but recovered himself quickly enough. “Beautiful morning, Shaniera,” he said. “Have you seen Renoa?” There was an unease to his baggy eyes.

Shani paused. If anything, she had expected the man to ask about his daughter, not her cousin. “She’s probably out in the garden, or picking wildflowers on the north trail. Why? Is something the matter?”

The Breton rubbed his eyes and yawned, shaking his head. “No, nothing’s the matter. Just, if you do happen to see her, tell her that your mother wishes to speak with her.” He started past her, then paused. “Oh, and if you see Leanne, could you please caution her against her wandering? I’ve been seeing a number of small animals dead on those trails, and I fear the mountain wolves, or packs of welwa, and gods know what else may lurk out there.” Don’t worry, I know where your daughter is, Shani thought. And I will see her, soon. Heat flushed her cheeks, but mercifully Toren had already walked beyond the foyer.

The cool morning air tickled her beneath the light flowy gown, but she knew it would warm soon—even in the mountains, Hammerfell was a warm place, and the sun shone ever brighter here. Autumn was taking hold, but the last of summer’s air still blew through the garden, a vast expanse of vegetation of all different colors and sizes. There were fruit trees bearing pomegranates, pears, bananas, apples, coconuts, tangerines, and other fruits that Shani couldn’t recall the names of, and row after row of bushes with flowers that didn’t grow anywhere else for miles around. Leanne knew every fruit that grew here; Shani was sure she probably knew every tree, right down to the number of worms under their roots. If the servant girl could help it, she was tending to the gardens that sustained the family here at the manse. Shani made her way through a field of fading green, steadily overtaken by gold and scarlet, and boldened by the crimson glare of the sun bleeding over the horizon. She passed a few rows of trestles reserved for watermelons in the summer, turned over to vines a couple of months ago that were growing pumpkins now instead. Some were still green, but there were many fat orange ones ripe for the scythe, and the biggest of them all had grown gargantuan, too wide for any one person to carry. Some would soon be diced, ground up, and roasted, and Shani could already taste the spice. She looked forward to a cup of pumpkin tea.

Her nervous steps slowed forcefully as a thought seized her. She shouldn’t rush so much. Why was she, anyways, when she and Leanne had already spent so much time together? She knew it was because their relationship was accelerating into something different, after having grown slowly there for years, filled with furtive glances and pushed on by shy experimentation. Now the experiments were bolder, more adventurous and personal, and every one of their arranged private meetings had become less of an escape and more of an event in themselves—preceded by anticipation, a need to prepare.

I’m a princess, she thought. Soon I will be nineteen years old. I am ready for anything. In truth, she wasn’t technically a princess, not yet at least. The lands of their estate were vast, and the surrounding villages were sworn to them, much in the style of the lords of chivalric High Rock to the north, but their manse was no castle, and they didn’t rule a kingdom. It was nothing more than a nickname that had stuck from when she and Leanne used to play pretend.

A trail led from the garden proper into the forest beyond. At its edge, she spotted a sleeping hare, sprawled on the dirt at the base of an oak. Its brown fur blended with the soil, hiding it well, but she just barely spotted the outline of its body—and the red stains on its neck and leg. Shaniera gasped, and knelt down beside it, her meeting momentarily forgotten. The poor creature’s throat had been ripped out. A thin pink cord trailed from the wound, but there was hardly any blood to be seen...

There was a high-pitched shout from behind her. She jumped up, turning on weak legs. It was only her little cousins, climbing atop the massive pumpkin. She allowed herself an uneasy laugh. Those boys were inseparable, and their energy was never scant. The garden was surrounded by low walls of unmortared stone, enough to keep out most scurrying pests, but predators might have an easier time of getting over them, and the boys had been warned plenty of times not to linger by the walls. The garden was huge, giving hundreds of feet in whichever direction for them to play, so they rarely ever got the urge to disobey the warning. Shaniera gathered herself and set off down the trail.

The walk on the trail normally took a peaceful ten minutes, but the first half went by in just two at Shani’s pace. By then, she had calmed down, and soon the meeting ahead was all that concerned her. She took in a breath of the warm autumn air, letting it fill her and cool her nerves. Life was everywhere here, you could taste it in the air, and it made you want more. Shortly after the trail banked left, she took off into the woods, where no path marked the way to the place she and Leanne had discovered in their youth. She pushed through low branches and cracked sticks in her path, until the wood parted and there was the clearing, and the river, and Leanne.

The Breton wore a blue gown, rough and simple. She was sitting on the big rock with the flat top, weaving a tangle of flowers together. A crown of persa flowers and mountain tails was already on her head, the red petals bringing out the auburn of her hair. It flowed down to the small of her back, perfectly undisturbed by her movements. There was always an air of uncertainty around her, so to see her so calm was a rare thing. Shani stood and watched her, until her heart began to pound again, and she went out into the clearing. The crackling of the leaves under her heel drew Leanne’s attention.