Free The Ballad of Aramei by J. A. Redmerski

surpassed Filipa in learning to read and to sew and to cook—Aramei is still better at all of these things than her sister—but she has always been slow to judge when it came to recognizing danger when it stood in front of her. Curiosity and a heart bigger than her head, they were Aramei’s greatest weaknesses. Little did she know that they would also one day be the death of her.
    “Come,” Filipa says and she leads Aramei back inside their cottage.
     
    ~~~
     
     
    A storm blew through overnight, leaving the valley in a blanket of cool, misty air and rain-soaked earth. Aramei is up before the sun helping her father and Filipa find Vela, their skittish horse that had burst free from the stable spooked by the cracking thunder and lightning. For nearly an hour they searched for the horse, finally splitting up just as daylight creeps over the horizon, bathing the valley in warm light.
    Aramei pulls her coat tight around her form and heads toward the North Hill, where the sheep often graze. When she makes it to the top of the grassy hill and looks down at the base of the other side, there Vela stands, alone and calm, drinking from a water hole.
    “Oh, Vela,” she says many minutes later when she makes it down the hill to where the horse is. “Father will have your hide one day if you keep this up.” She pats the horse on its thick, muscled neck. A low whicker shudders through its body and its chestnut-colored tail swishes back and forth. Aramei goes to fix a loop of rope around its neck when the horse starts to appear agitated, its ears perking and a few whinnies rattle its chest.
    “Okay, girl,” Aramei says, patting Vela’s neck once more. “What is it?”
    Without warning, Vela rises up on her hind legs, knocking Aramei onto the rain-soaked grass and mud. The hooves come down hard against the earth as Aramei rolls through the mud to get out of the way.
    “Vela! Where are you going?”
    The horse whines and takes off back toward the village, the sounds of its hooves beating heavily against the ground.
    Aramei pushes herself up and goes to dust herself off, but gives up when she realizes it will take more than that to wash these muddy clothes. She sighs heavily, thrusting her slim arms down against her sides. Feeling that the mud has taken a hold of her left foot, Aramei gently pulls her sandal from the mess and steps over onto a mound of grass. “That awful horse!” she says exasperated.
    “They can be fickle creatures at times,” says a man’s voice.
    Aramei turns around, startled, to see Viktor standing in the shade of a nearby small cluster of trees. She presses her hand to her chest as if that might help to calm her heartbeat.
    She lowers her eyes and pretends to be straightening her dress and dusting more mud from the fabric, although it only makes her hands messier. She closes her dress robe tighter around her body, her gentle fingers clutching the fabric together at her chest.
    “You are not from my village,” she says, but doesn’t make eye contact.
    Viktor’s body moves closer, but he stops at a comfortable distance of five feet.
    “No,” he says and she can hear the pursuit in his voice, which makes her slightly uneasy. “I am just a traveler of these lands. I set up camp east of here—could smell the fires and something like sweet bread cake.”
    “You came here for bread cake?” Aramei tries to hide the smile in her voice. She’s weary of him, but isn’t ready to dismiss him just yet.
    Viktor’s charming close-lipped smile widens as Aramei finally looks at him, but her eyes dart off here and there every few seconds to keep from meeting his.
    “Bread cake,” he says, “and a beautiful young woman.”
    Aramei’s body stiffens and she gazes downward at her muddy sandals.
    “I do apologize, Milord,” she says, “but I believe all of the women who make bread cake here are too old for your tastes.”
    “You do not make bread cake?” he says with hidden, yet obvious meaning behind