***
Holding a fresh apple pastry in her hand, Silga chewed absently while she leaned against one of the exterior walls of the baker's shop. One of her uncles was inside, haggling with the owner. She watched some villagers scurrying about in preparation for the arrival of the friendly old Maker, Frimgar Winter-hand. His annual visit was due.
Silga remembered the Maker well and fondly. Bald and fatter than any man she'd ever seen, he was always smiling, chuckled often, and handed out flavored ice to all the children. In trade for drinks, a meal and a soft bed at the inn, Maker Frimgar would roll out an updated Kaldevarran map and tell stories of different places. Many came to listen and ask questions before the Maker got on with his business of refreezing meat cellars and then moving on to the next village.
Silga could just as easily have seen the old Maker when he stopped at the Oma-Krin estate, as he did every year after leaving Bruvaal on his way to Huuvik. He and her Auntie Vira were friends from long ago. Silga begged to go with her uncle in the wagon to go see the jovial Maker, feigning interest in hearing stories that might not be told in her Aunt's grand parlor.
Her true reason for visiting the village was to hopefully meet with Sten and finally express her feelings in full. There was a good chance that the young hunter would attend with his parents and siblings; Silga was determined to find a time and place for her and him to talk and move their relationship forward. While she thought Sten's casual air and reserved moments were charming, she had become impatient for the shy boy to make a romantic approach.
At nearly fourteen years old then, by the following spring Sten would easily be of age to request a formal courtship with Silga at the Vale Fest. Being only a season younger than him, she would be of age as well. Her daydreams were of that day - of him asking her to be his, of accepting to be courted by the next great hunter of the village.
Standing where she was, Silga was reminded of other events. The side road between the inn and the bakery... She stared at it with mixed emotions. It was over a year earlier when Sten saved her from those men down that path. Although the incident remained blurry, the feelings that resulted from it were still strong. Perceptions changed on that day for her - perceptions of Stenhelt, and of herself.
Over a year, and she hadn't seen as much of her would-be courter since then. Sten's visits to the estate had become less frequent, although he always seemed happy upon his returns. Silga hoped she was part of the reason for that. Those sporadic visits came with a subtle change over the last few seasons. A small thing, but Silga noticed. Stenhelt began arriving with his face, hands and arms freshly washed, most likely from the pond south of the estate grounds. She had come to think Sten was trying to appear more presentable to her without being blatant.
As Silga swallowed the last bite of her pastry, she saw Sten and his family arrive in their wagon. His father tied their ox to a post on the far side of the open square, and they walked as a group toward the inn. As they waited for another family to file in before them, Silga had the chance to catch Sten's attention with a wave. He saw her, raised his own hand with a slight smile, and then stepped inside. She imagined curing the cute boy of his bashfulness one day.
Silga's Uncle still haggled with the baker; she was becoming restless, hoping they would finish soon so she could somehow find a seat near Sten in the inn. She looked to the west and saw a grand sight. Flanked by armored guards - on horses, no less - was an ornate carriage pulled by two more large steeds. They were just coming over the bridge, passing the fishery and grain mill. Frimgar Winter-hand the Maker had come once again to Bruvaal.
The big guards had no cause to worry; the villagers waiting outside the inn respectfully gave the round, old Maker plenty of room when he stepped out of the beautiful carriage. The remainder of the crowd followed him in after he warmly greeted them. Silga fretted that the inn was too full for her and her Uncle to see the visiting Maker, let alone find a place near Sten.
Just as Silga was about to step back inside the baker's shop to somehow speed up the haggling, she saw Sten step out of the inn's front doors. Her heart leapt for a moment until he turned and hurried off in the opposite direction, not even looking at her. Miffed yet curious, Silga watched him turn past the far corner of the inn, heading back toward the inn stables.
Ignoring the order by her father and uncle to stay near the wagon, Silga jogged across the side road and past the front of the inn. She paused at the corner of the building and peeked around. Sten wasn't in sight, meaning he must have gone into the stables for some reason. She moved quietly toward the open barn doors, stopping suddenly when she heard murmured voices.
Peeking inside, Silga saw two of the innkeeper's oxen in stalls near the door. She then caught movement at the back of the stables, and heard a woman's soft giggle. Unable to stop herself, Silga crept inside a few steps. Back in the feed stall, she saw Sten and the innkeeper's daughter standing close together as they whispered and smiled and kissed.
Silga's young heart was crushed. In a dizzy mix of painful emotions, she turned and walked back out to the village square. Wandering over to the wagon just as her Uncle emerged from the baker's shop, Silga tried to hold back her tears. She wondered what she'd done wrong, how she could've misjudged their relationship.
On the bumpy ride back to the estate Silga initially decided to embrace the only optimistic conclusion, mostly because she couldn't bear any other possibility. Stenhelt, being naïve and ignorant in the ways of love, was not to blame. He was seduced, led into temptation by the large breasts and bright eyes of Annori. That trollop would eventually tire of Sten and open her legs for someone else. Then he would know what he truly needed, and Silga would be waiting.
By nightfall, though, the pedestal that Silga placed Stenhelt on began to crumble. Doubts and dark ideas slowly crept into her mind; perhaps his increasing absence from visiting the estate was for other reasons. Sten wasn’t altogether bright, but nor was he anyone’s fool. He may not have been another woman’s pawn, but rather the one who initiated this betrayal. Silga’s fitful sleep brought painful dreams of a crafty Sten slipping through Bruvaal at night, plundering the chastity of all the village maidens. She woke teary-eyed and sick with vengeance.
The old Maker Frimgar Winter-hand came to visit Tovira at the estate that morning. As with prior years, the old friends chatted over brunch and told stories to the Lady's relatives about other times and places. Silga, with a cloud of venomous malice hanging over head, wasn't present; she waited near the main gate for the revered guest to depart.
Frimgar's carriage and guards had finally gotten back on the South trail, heading east to Huuvik. He wasn't thinking of that village, though; his mind was pondering the words of the young woman waiting for him at the edge of Oma-Krin estate. According to her, a village boy named Stenhelt had some disturbing abilities.
The girl swore to accounts of the boy keeping pace on foot with Tovira's galloping stallion, of ignoring all but the coldest of winter winds, and of turning into some sort of half-beast and attacking two boys. The village bailiff wasn’t told for fear of putting him or his guards in danger of confronting the wild young man. The young lady, Silga, ended by saying how strange Stenhelt was, and that she was afraid of him.
Whether the account was true or not, Frimgar was obligated to give a report when he returned to Vallo. The Inquisitor of Mysteries might investigate. For Tovira's sake, he hoped the girl was a liar. If there was a hint of truth, an Inquisitor would find it. And, depending on who that was, they might be indiscriminate and merciless with their enforcement of laws.
Loathe as he was to admit it, some of Frimgar's fellow Order members were aggressive. Some were zealots, bent toward sadism. And a few were simply murderers with a cause.