An original story from Liquid Silver Books author, Darragha Foster

Please read Chapter One if you haven’t already.

Prince Hlini, or Lin, for short, is a man’s man. He enjoys riding, archery and killing animals in days-long hunts with his courtiers. He is also royal pain in the ass—literally. His voyeuristic and sodomite penchants have kept him much too busy to find a suitable wife in which to sprout his noble seed—because it’s safer to make love to page boys and stable-hands than it is to possibly produce a child who will someday poison you to usurp your throne. Prince Lin also suffers from a tad bit of paranoia. There is one woman whose tremendous beauty (and delicious potatoes) has caught his eye…Sigyn of the garden corner. But greeting her from horseback is about as close as he’s ever been.

Sigyn is the daughter of the village witch and the village undertaker. She is of the lowest caste in the kingdom, for she works on her knees in the dirt, mixing in compost created by her father from the burning of the kingdom’s dead. Still…she has the most successful vegetable stall in the realm. People come from far and wide to buy her fruit and veg. With strength, beauty and a height most women will never see, Sigyn could have many suitors—all lower class, uneducated dirt-farmers. She wants more from life. She wants to be king.

Eventide… a gratis lectori salutem (free to the readers) e-tale by Darragha Foster about that magic time between the end of day and the beginning of night. Beware the mist, the call of the geese and horny wood-wives.

Warning: If you’re familiar with Darragha’s work, you know this story will contain sex, violence, and all-around… quirkiness. If you’re not familiar with Darragha’s work…

And now the second chapter of Eventide…

Chapter Two

Sigyn, daughter of the undertaker and gardener extraordinaire, was far too clever to fall into the bed of a prince–though he obviously fancied her. She sensed his anxious discomfort when he took his daily apple from her hand.

Many men fancied her; courted her in their own crude ways. She wanted more than a stove to cook on and a belly full of children. Was there no man to offer her more in all the land? Even the prince could, or would, not. She would never be satisfied simply to be wife of the prince and someday queen consort. That held no more attraction for her than marrying the pig farmer or fish monger.

She wanted more, and would take no man between her legs until her dreams were offered to her on a silver platter. There was more pleasure to be had with her own skilful hands and a slender zucchini sliding in and out of her, any way. When a man could touch her as well as she knew how to touch herself, well, then she’d listen to his proposal.

She listened with great interest to the news spreading through the village regarding that tosser son of the king. Seems he was missing!

The royal hunting party returned to the castle with him, claiming they’d returned only after making an exhausted search for the prince. The captain of the guard took it upon himself to inform the king that his son had gone missing.

The king did not take the news well, as evidenced by the head of the captain of the guard displayed from the tower window but an hour later.

Sigyn sighed. The captain had been a good customer. Wonder if father knows there was a body to collect in the armory.

The king sent for his scribes and made a proclamation. He bade the scribes post copies where learned men could read it and instructed the town criers to spread the word.

One half of his kingdom would go to the person who returned his son to him alive. “I’ll give my throne, the castle surrounding it for the return of my son!” he proclaimed.

The next morning at market, Sigyn read the proclamation with great interest. “Say there, sir,” she called to the king’s squire milling about the market with hammer and tacks to post the hand-written parchments. “Which half of his kingdom does His Majesty offer in trade for the life of his son?”

“That is a question you must take up with the king, himself. But I heard tell that he would give up his very throne and the castle around it to have his son returned to him.”

Sigyn reflected thoughtfully on the subject. “Well, that would certainly be more convenient than having to build one’s own castle. Why would a person accept a reward consisting of swamp land and rocky bottom land when the other half of the kingdom is as lovely as,” she waved her arms gracefully, obviously meaning to encompass the entire region, “All of this? A ready made fief! I love it.” Sigyn patted the squire on the shoulder. “I accept the challenge!”

“It’s been nice knowing you, miss. I do hope your affairs are in order before you set off into the forest to find the young prince who has undoubtedly been kidnapped by thugs or worse—evil spirits,” the squire replied.

“What know you of these things?” Sigyn asked.

“The courtiers said a strange fog befell them at eventide and the prince became separated from the party. It was an omen of malice and ill-intent. The geese sounded and the fog came. Everyone knows this is a sign that ogres are afoot.”

Sigyn laughed. “Of course there are ogres afoot, sir. It is the forest, after all!”

*

She knew the forest better than any man for her mother had schooled her in the habits of the trees and the disposition of herbs growing therein. Sigyn knew it would take more than a barefoot girl in a simple dress to rescue the prince if he were held captive by enemies of the king, or ogres, or if he were at the bottom of a crevasse with broken legs.

She would need shoes, at the very least.

She’d never owned a pair of shoes, but knew that for a long trek, shod feet were better than bare ones. Funny…she always thought her first pair of shoes would be those left on a dead man when her father made the round for corpses. So far, no shoes had been left on the feet of kingdom’s dearly departed. Even the most bloated, stinking, rotting corpse apparently had good shoes worth keeping.

A peddler of footwear had been doing poor business a few stalls down from hers. His children played listlessly behind him on a dirty blanket. She had not seen them eat all day.

“Say, cobbler, I’ll trade you a bushel of potatoes for a pair of sturdy walking shoes. I believe this shall be a trade of benefit for us both,” Sigyn offered.

The peddler looked at his children, who were nearly salivating at the thought of eating their fill of lovely purple potatoes. “That is a generous offer, and I accept.”

“How long will it take for you to fashion a pair of foot coverings worthy of a long trek?” Sigyn asked.

“I have a pair ready now. Ordered but never picked up. My wife sewed the uppers from leather she softened with her own teeth and the soles have been kiln-dried. Though I think they may be too large for your delicate feet, I can stuff them with wool,” the peddler replied.

“I accept. Send your children to my stall to collect a bushel of potatoes. Have them bring my shoes with them, for I wish to leave immediately. And please, may I ask your oldest son to mind my stall while I am away? Any unsold produce may go home at the end of the day with you. He need only take the cart to the garden corner every evening so that my mother can restock it.”

The peddler nodded. “Yes, of course. But, please…your mother is a witch and I do not wish my son to suffer a misunderstanding with her. He is a simple boy and may offend her with his crude manners.”

“No enchantment shall fall upon your son. You have my word on it.”

“Then it is upon the love for my children I wish you much success, Sigyn, of the garden corner,” the peddler replied.

Sigyn smiled sweetly. She had long grown tired of her society’s polite mannerisms and machinations of civility. What I really want is to dye my hair as blue as wild blackberries and run naked through the corn field. I guess when I exchange the prince for half the kingdom, my half shall be host to those wishing color and nude spectacle.

Convention called for her to seek permission of her parents before passing beyond the boundaries of the city. There was no time for convention.

After instructing the boy on the fine art of selling produce, Sigyn walked to the edge of the city, and took a step beyond the enclave walls with square shoulders and a proud-set chin. So determined was she not to be stopped, and politely questioned by the sentries, that she was certain it was the fire in her eyes that kept them standing in place, mouths agape. She may have been the first woman to cross the boundary unescorted. It just wasn’t done, you see.

Until now.

Stay tuned next week for Chapter Three…

____________________________________

Ripped from her LSB bio:

Darragha lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and daughter in a one-hundred-sixteen year old house continually under renovation. The house is haunted by the spirit of a Union Civil War-era soldier who seems to enjoy watching the construction every now and then. Someday, he may turn up as a character in one of Darragha’s stories.

This an original story given generously to us by Darragha Foster. DO NOT post any part of this story on your site without attribution to Darragha or a holla-back at her site. That’s not cool. Always give credit where credit is due, yo.

Note: Hey, other writer-types, do you want to contribute to The Serial? If so, email me and I’ll hook you up, yo. Peace!

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