Only two weeks to go until Star Legend book four, The Resolute, goes live! In this episode of the continuing story of Taylan Ellis and Major Wright, caught up in the return of King Arthur, Taylan has found a way to secretly operate within the Britannic Isles as she searches for her children.

If you missed part one, click here.

Chapter Two

Taylan adjusted her scarf, pulling it forward over her head so it concealed her face like a hood. Hoping she hadn’t missed something vital from her disguise, she pushed the pub door open and stepped inside.

She recalled how, before they were invaded, the British had loved to make fun of Earth Awareness Crusaders, saying they were ignorant fanatics with wild, irrational beliefs. In truth, no one was really sure what they did in their day-to-day lives because communication with the outside world was banned in every EAC nation-state. But rumors of their odd, regressive lifestyles had spread from the continent, along with smuggled images, vidclips, and audio diaries, confirming the stories.

In her short experience of the cultists she had seen plenty of strange things too, but she’d also found that in some ways they were not so different from her own people. For instance, both cultures liked to drink.

A wall of warm air hit her, heavy with exhaled breath, yeasty beer, and weed smoke. At the same time, sounds washed over her: arguments, laughter, the clink of glasses. If the pub patrons had been wearing different clothes and speaking her native tongue, the scene could have been any ordinary weekend night from her youth. She could have been there to meet friends and hear the latest gossip, complain about work, or just to have fun and relax.

But having fun was the last thing on her mind. She was embarking on a path that could lead to her death. It was the only way she might learn what had happened to Patrin and Kayla. She was convinced they weren’t in Ireland or in an EAC orphanage. If the latter were the case, Dwyr Orr would have found them. They had to be somewhere else. Perhaps a Crusader family was hiding them or they were in another place beyond the Dwyr’s easy reach.

They were not dead. She refused to believe that, but also she was sure if they were she would feel it. They were still alive. She clung to that conviction. But the information she needed to find them wasn’t readily available. To uncover it, she had to insert herself into Crusader society. And now that the Britannic Alliance had the Dwyr in custody, the vendetta the woman had been waging against her and her kids was over, she hoped.

She was at the lowest level of the pub facing a large, central bar surrounded by tables and booths. Two sets of dark wooden stairs led to the second and third levels, their seating areas and customers visible through balustrades of the same dark, old wood. She guessed the place had to hold two or three hundred people, perfect for her plan. However, the bartender, a stocky, broad-shouldered man, was already looking at her suspiciously, as if deciding whether to throw her out. If she tried to ply her trade immediately, he probably would.

She went up to him.

His frown eased a fraction. “What can I get you?”

Beyond him, two younger, female bartenders were giggling flirtatiously with the men they were serving, angling for tips. She was relieved the male server had seen her first. He might feel a little sympathy for her.

She reached inside her robes to an inner pocket and took out the card before handing it to him, heart in mouth.

The few simple words she’d written on it were the culmination of weeks of work. Of all the challenges she’d faced in returning to West BI, learning to write by hand had been the hardest. Stealing food, staying hidden, studying the examples of the costume she needed and sourcing the clothes, all these had been difficult, but they paled in comparison with the laborious effort of creating words on paper that didn’t look like they’d been written by a four year old.

She’d seen plenty of examples of handwriting on copies of old documents in history lessons. She knew what it was supposed to look like and she’d thought it would be easy enough to do it. What she hadn’t properly understood was that what she’d seen was the result of years of practice; hours a day spent writing, writing, writing, for every subject at school, and then, later, writing letters, diaries, notes, reports, and so on, as adults. Stripped of technology by their Dwyr, Crusaders had done the same. They’d grown skilled at the craft, and if she was to fit in her efforts had to match theirs.

Speaking to them was out of the question. Her accent would give her away in a minute. She couldn’t mimic it like Marc, Angharad’s son. He’d succeeded in fooling the people at the Crusader midsummer festival on Ynys Môn but she couldn’t take that chance.

“Hmpf,” said the bartender after reading the note. He peered over the bar, his gaze traveling from her embroidered shoes to the decorative scarf overhanging her face. “What do you do? Write? Point?”

It was safer to avoid testing her shaky writing skills unnecessarily. She touched the lever above one of the beer signs and then pointed at a shelf of glasses.

“Pint of Old Black Hen, coming up.”

Tension oozed out of her like ice cream melting on a hot summer’s day.

While the bartender was pouring her drink, she checked out the pub’s clientele again. A few were looking her way. She was already attracting interest. Good. She picked up her card from the bar and slipped it back into her pocket. Hopefully, it would come out many more times tonight.

When her beer was ready, she paid for it with a few stolen coins.

“Look,” said the bartender, scooping the coins into his other hand, “I know why you’re here, and I don’t mind. People like a bit of entertainment. But the boss won’t approve. If he comes in you can expect to leave soon after.”

She nodded her thanks for the warning and picked up her drink.

It wasn’t until she reached the second floor of the pub she found an empty table. Round-topped, sticky with spilled drinks, and wobbly, it was clear why the other patrons had avoided it. The table was also situated in a dark corner with only two single bench seats flanking it. For her purposes, it was perfect.

Old Black Hen was not bad at all, and her experience of beer was extensive. When she’d drunk a quarter of her pint, someone approached.

In the half light, Taylan couldn’t see her first customer too well, but the woman appeared very young, too young to be in a pub legally in old West Britannic Isles. Maybe the EAC didn’t care about such things. She was wearing a long skirt and a blouse, covered by a tabard decorated with symbols.

“Excuse me. I couldn’t help notice you sitting here alone. I was wondering, are you working? If not, I’ll leave.”

Taylan was already taking out her card.

The woman frowned as she took it and turned it toward the light. Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, you can’t speak!”

Taylan held out her hand. The woman gave her the card back.

“But if you can’t speak, how can you tell me my future?”

Opening her satchel, Taylan took out a sheet of paper and a pen. With a sweep of her hand, she invited the woman to sit down.

It had taken her ages to come up with a way to live among the Crusaders undetected. At first, it had seemed impossible. How could she live among people whose lives were a mystery to her and who were actively seeking her out to hand her over to their mentally unsound leader? Then she’d remembered the fortune tellers at the ceremony to launch the invasion of Ireland.

They’d been dressed in colorful, patterned robes and had gone from person to person, group to group, offering their services. She guessed they were probably itinerant, moving on to new grounds when interest dried up. No one would be surprised by the arrival of a new fortune teller, and it was the kind of job that required no skill or training. It wasn’t like she could get anything wrong. It was all nonsense anyway. And adding a vow of silence to the mix would only make her seem more mysterious and interesting.

People told fortune tellers all kinds of things, and what better place to hide than in plain sight?

I hope you enjoyed this snippet from The Resolute. For more information on the series, click here.