I Accidentally Caught a Falling Goddess - The Open Road North
At the foot of the seven gold-plated steps leading to the throne knelt Corin Frankland.
He wore no velvet. He was dressed in a brand-new cadet tunic of dark navy wool, cut plain and unadorned, with polished tin buttons and simple leather boots that squeaked with embarrassing, loud persistence every time his heels shifted on the waxed imperial parquet.
Emperor Pierre the Sixth stood before the throne, clad in his full ceremonial armor of silver plate, holding an illuminated sheepskin scroll stamped with the great gold seal of the realm.
“By sovereign decree and the witness of the High See,” the imperial herald’s voice rang off the high timber ceiling, “for unyielding fidelity in the defense of the living vessel, Corin Frankland, baronet of the Oakhaven March, is elevated to the hereditary rank of Knight-Protector of the Dawn, with permanent tenure of the North River Marches and an annual stipend of three hundred gold sovereigns from the imperial treasury.”
The hall erupted into polite, measured applause from the rows of dukes and earls, though many an older lord looked upon the dyer’s son with narrow, calculating eyes.
Emperor Pierre stepped down the final riser, resting his hand on Corin’s shoulder. “Rise, Sir Corin. The empire owes you a debt it cannot pay in coin. What is your first petition to the crown?”
Corin stood up, his boots squeaking once more on the polished floorboards, his back straight, his eyes looking directly into the Emperor’s face without blinking.
“With your Majesty’s leave,” Corin said, his voice carrying clearly to the farthest corner of the great hall, “I ask that fifty gold sovereigns be paid directly to Master Sona of the lower dyeworks to replace the copper boiling cauldrons in the South Ditch. I ask that four hundred sovereigns be set aside for my sister Lucia’s marriage portion, and that a permanent widow’s pension of ten silver groats a week be settled upon my mother,
Suzanne Frankland.”
The Emperor smiled—a genuine, warm smile that reached his tired eyes—and nodded once. “It is granted. And for yourself, Knight-Protector?”
Corin reached beneath his navy tunic, touched the unpolished iron pommel of the broadsword at his hip, and looked out through the tall lancet windows toward the high, snow-capped mountains of the northern frontier.
“A good horse, your Majesty,” Corin answered. “And an honest road.”
The spring thaw had come early to the southern province, turning the North Post Road into two parallel ribbons of soft, brown mud between the greening clover meadows.
The air smelled of melting snow, wet birch bark, and fresh horse-sweat.
Corin stood beside his mount at the Great North Toll-Gate, checking the cinch-strap on his heavy leather saddle. His kitbag was packed with three clean homespun shirts, a bag of dried oats, a tin of northern calendula salve, and the worn, rush-paper manuscript of Arch-Magus Bancraft tucked safely inside an oilcloth sleeve.
At his hip swung his plain five-foot iron broadsword, its leather grip re-wrapped in honest black cord, clean of rust and ready for the march.
On the porch of the toll-gate tavern twenty paces away, leaning over the timber rail with a tankard of dark ale in her hand, was Dame Elspeth Phillips.
Her right arm was still bound in an embroidered silk sling, and she leaned on a blackthorn cane when she thought nobody was looking, but her color was good and her square jaw was set with its customary dry amusement. The scrawny grey she’d bought off a baggage-master at Oakhaven was saddled and tied to the rail beside her.
“You’re thirty minutes late, Frankland,” Elspeth called out over the rail, her raspy voice cutting through the morning breeze. “The mud at the first ford will be four feet deep by noon if the sun stays high.”
“I was waiting for the bread to cool, master,” Corin grinned, slinging his kitbag over the cantle.
Down the road from the city gates came the sound of galloping hooves.
Three riders pulled up before the toll-barrier in a spray of gravel and spring mud.
Judith Runcorn sat high on a massive grey gelding, wearing her heavy purple fencing coat and a broad-brimmed hat with a ridiculous red feather, her iron halberd strapped across her saddle-bow, grinning from ear to ear.
Beside her was Annabel Logres, riding a sleek chestnut mare, dressed in a sensible traveling pelisse of dark green wool with her short red hair blowing in the wind, a brass-bound chest of evocation books lashed behind her cantle.
And riding between them, on her colossal white warhorse, was Diana Salmond, her steel cuirass gleaming in the morning sun, her golden braid straight as an arrow down her spine, her broadsword resting easily beneath her hand.
“You didn’t think you were riding to the northern marches alone, did you, Frankland?” Judith shouted, tossing a fresh honey-cake across the horses’ heads straight into Corin’s hands. “The third-year trials start at the border garrison in three weeks! We have six hundred miles of mud road to cover!”
Annabel turned her chestnut mare alongside Corin’s stirrup, her green eyes flashing with that sharp, haughty spark that time and fire could never fully extinguish.
“And you still owe me for the wardrobe, dyer,” Annabel said, though a small, beautiful smile touched the corner of her lips as she tossed him a small leather purse of mint lozenges. “Don’t you dare fall into a river before we reach High Crag.”
Diana Salmond looked at Corin, raised her right gauntlet in a clean, formal soldier’s salute, and pointed her horse’s head toward the open northern horizon.
“The road is clear, Knight-Protector,” Diana said softly. “Lead on.”
Corin caught the honey-cake, tucked the mint purse into his belt, and swung up into the leather saddle with a single, smooth pivot of his hips.
He looked back once at the slate roofs of Skan-Tor — the wash-lines out over the wynds, the smoke off the bakers on the High Promenade — and then the road curved and the city was gone, just like that, the way it always is.
Judith was already arguing with Annabel about whose turn it was to buy supper at the first posting-house. Diana rode ahead with her chin up, taking the weather. Corin let his mare pick her own pace through the mud and thought about nothing in particular, which took him a while to learn how to do, and was probably the most expensive skill he’d ever acquired.
Author’s Note
Thank You for Reading
Thank you for reading I Accidentally Caught a Falling Goddess.
I hope Corin’s journey—from the dye vats of Skan-Tor to the impossible burden of protecting a fallen goddess—stayed with you.
If you enjoyed the book, an honest review would mean a great deal. Reviews help other fantasy readers find the story and support future books in the series.
Thank you for your time, your trust, and your place in this world.
— Silas Drake