Rhordyn nods, chin notched on his fist. “And it will be fixed, Alstrich. I will see to it.”
Plucking a sack off the floor, he loosens the silver drawstring, digs through the clattering contents, and retrieves a black chip he then extends.
Alstrich lifts his crate and places his offering next to a leashed goat. He then takes five steps up the dais and drops to a kneel to receive his token. The currency of promises.
Made from a near-worthless metal and stamped with a Master’s sigil, a token can’t be used to purchase grain or stock or to buy yourself out of debt with a neighbor. It’s worth so muchmorethan that.
To hold a token means you’re owed a promise, and it’s only revoked once that promise is fulfilled.
A scribe at a nearby table scratches notes onto a roll of parchment as Alstrich backs down the dais and, with the vow held in his white-knuckled fist, merges with the crowd.
Rhordyn waves for the next person to come forth: a young woman I recognize from a previous Tribunal as being the medis from a nearby town.
Her eyes are large and tawny, cheeks flushed, hair long and brown and fastened in a low ponytail. Her black, ankle-length dress flatters her curvy form, its long sleeves drawing my eye to her porcelain hands and the deep blue and gold cupla secured around her left wrist.
A shackle of promise. One that wasn’t there last time I saw her.
She curtsies, head bowed in a sign of respect.
My attention slides to Rhordyn—to his straight lips and stony eyes—and I can tell he’s noticed the cupla just by the way his brow pleats.
“Mishka, what is your query?”
She straightens, worrying her bottom lip, smoothing the front of her dress. “High Master, I come to you with a full but heavy heart.” Her words are spoken softly in a reluctant cadence. “I’ve accepted a cupla.”
Rhordyn’s gaze doesn’t waver from hers as he says, “Congratulations. May you be blessed with a long and happy coupling.”
“Thank you, Master.” Her hands settle over her lower belly like a shield, then swiftly fall to her sides. “I ... I come today because my male is not from the West.”
There’s a slight lift of Rhordyn’s brow—a ruse of shock that doesn’t reflect in his stormy eyes nor the tone of his reply. “Oh?”
“N-no. He’s from the South. The capital.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“Quiet,” Rhordyn says, his voice a low command.
Starched silence sweeps over the room.
Mishka clears her throat, though it doesn’t stop her next words from coming out rusty. “My placement in Grafton as the town medis has been my greatest honor, Master. It has brought me so much joy over the years, but with my change of circumstances, I ...” She pauses, hands twisting before her. “I must ask you to bequeath me the sanction to cross the wall into the South.”
There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and even my own hand claps across my mouth.
People don’t often search for love outside their territory, but on the off chance of it happening, the male generally relocates so the female can remain close to her family for support in raising their eventual young.
Notthe other way around.
And for a female medis who loves her post? Who I’m beginning to suspect is already with child? It makes little sense.
“Mishka, I must ask. Is this decision your own?”
There’s a silent threat in Rhordyn’s question, and the crowd goes dead quiet, as if their intake of breath is hinging on Mishka’s reply.
Just like mine.
A territory’s strength is in its people’s ability to breed strong men and fertile females. Therefore, the law protects women, preventing them from being coerced into crossing walls and trading colors against their will ... by penalty of death.
Mishka’s feet shuffle, her almost tangible well of nerves serving as fuel for my hammering heart.
