Travel Log of a Raven
Of a Bastard Line
- Details
- Written by Michelle McCollyer
You may know me as Ari, The Legacy Liar, but my real name is Arriah. My Mum is a bastard from the Gracewater Family. Her sister married up, my Mum married down for the “love” of an Innkeeper, of all things. With all the privileges and opportunities given to my Mum as a Gracewater bastard, she discarded her status to marry without the Gracewater Family’s consent. Given the right situation, she could have charmed her way into the Gracewater line of succession or flirted herself into a marriage with a man equal to my grandfather’s rank... but she didn’t. Instead, she threw it away on a man who turned his tongue into honey. I am the legitimate child of her forbidden marriage. It didn’t last long. My Mum left my father; apparently, he kept to several women. I don’t remember him. She was reckless... just another idiot girl chasing “love”. Of course, the Gracewater Family refused to take us back. They wouldn’t even hide us away somewhere in a shack at the edge of their property.
My Mum was a lady though; she could never hide it. Ever the lady: graceful, honest, useless... She had no work skills to earn us a shelter. She knew nothing of raising crops. She knew how to hunt because her father made her attend the Gracewater hunting parties, but she knew nothing of preparing the meat. She couldn’t even pretend to be a peasant. The expressions she used and the way she pronounced words perked other’s ears. She tried her hand at embroidery, but staying anywhere for too long always raised suspicions. A noble lady wandering the countryside alone without a husband or escort...? Having me with her nearly confirmed their suspicions. Situations get frightening fast when others suspect loose morality. It’s why I dress as a man.
Blame or hang me!, as you like... Sirs, I mean no disrespect to my gender. As a man, I can work and need not worry about whether the virtues of my gender are at risk.
As a lady, my Mum could write. That earned us enough coin to get us from place to place. One day she’d be reading land rights contested between two farmers. Another day, she’d be commissioned by a lower house to record the stories of their favorite Troubadour. She tried to raise me as she had been raised, knowledgeable and elegant, but all rules of the civilized and the reasons for them seemed ridiculous when you’re skirting the edges of towns to avoid civilization. In the forests, a lady’s soft hands will tear on the bark when you need climb trees every evening to sleep above the wolf packs and gnawing vermin. To not show a lady’s ankles meant sweeping the meadows and ravines with hot heavy skirts, snagging and dragging them through the briars and dust, and providing more cloth for fleas and ticks to catch hold of. To advert a lady’s eyes down from any man’s gaze compromised my throat to his dagger. Besides, my face has become too browned to even pretend I am a lady. I did master my letters. Writing earned us coins to survive the winters; I would be a fool not to learn such a skill. She taught me to be honest, and I strive toward that end. With my history, complete honesty amongst strangers would land me in servitude or an early grave. I am more honest than most and more just than honest. Writing dishonestly always has a way of catching up with you, and a tarnished reputation lowers my wage.
I spent my childhood wandering the countryside, as I do now. We lived a hard life, but I loved it. I could not breath anywhere but beneath the stars. The awe of wild beauty and, often, near starvation... The way the earth opens up to the sky when the first rain touches a land in drought. The “lucky” jackrabbit bleeding out on a crooked branch in the sunshine. It’s how I know that the grapes blossom earlier in Ravine than those of Davernshire, and that the House of Benoval replaced their oat crops with millet after the oats caught the ash blight. I know that every seven years the sky cries so much that roads will sink, mountains will melt, and bridges will wash away, but the apples trees will produce twice as much fruit the next autumn. I know that the larger ships of the Merchant Kingdom sail faster than our own, but that their sailors’ loyalty travels with the purse. I know where to find the root that the warriors of the Spiritual Kingdom chew to help them see the souls of their enemies, and, as any warrior knows, their blue arrows only kill assholes.
I am the best man to assess the state of the Warrior Kingdom; I just happen to be a woman.
I disclose this about myself now so that you know I aim not to fool you, my King. Dressing as a male invokes all the excellencies naturally endowed in the quills and ink of every man so that I may rid the faults of my lesser gender. Dressing a boy preserves my female honor, so I may not tempt otherwise virtuous men into thinking wanton thoughts. I am yours to judge my King, but please consider the merits of my writings about your Kingdom before judging me for this crime. The value of my work and this disguise are inherently joined. I could not write as I do without dressing as I do.
