Sunwise

• KAY KING –

Connor Galain had never been overly fond of horses. They were far too large for him to be quite comfortable standing next to one, especially with his rather minuscule stature. 

There was an unpleasant intelligence in their eyes as well. It was as if they understood the position they were in as servants and pets to another caste of beings. The only thing holding them back from revolution: the lack of thumbs. If that revolution ever came, mankind would deserve it, if the treatment of the animals by many of the nobles Connor had seen was representative of the rest of the world. 

The chestnut beast before him raised its head and snorted, a nearly plum-sized eye locking with the narrow, amber ones of the young man, reminding him of the day all those years ago when a similar gaze had stopped him in his tracks. It had been in the middle of the street in Waterpoint, his older sister barely yanking him from the path in time, preventing his embarrassing demise by horse-drawn cart. 

Yes, Connor had never been fond of horses. 

“A truly magnificent animal,” he calmly told the young woman who affectionately patted the creature’s long snout. 

“I’m glad you think so. He’s sure to win the race today. My father has made his fortune raising horses, you know. No other lord or lady of Waterpoint knows the creatures better.” 

“Oh, I should think not, Lady Valbrooke,” he responded. This woman had, apparently, decided that she was adopting him for the duration of the Sunwise Festival. He played along and didn’t argue. It suited his purposes just fine. “Of course a man such as he, with enough wealth to host a summer celebration such as this, would be the master of his trade.” He ran a hand through the thick, auburn hair which curtained his diamond-shaped face, distracting himself from the equine-related nerves he could not afford to show her. 

“Well said, Connor. Tell me, are you a rider of any sort? I’ve heard that the elves of the wood ride much stranger beasts—beasts that can climb the trunks of trees and leap from branch to branch. Is such a claim true?” The lady brushed off the front of her outfit: a blue, green, and white dress made from so many different materials and clashing patterns that the man was sure it was made more with the intent of displaying wealth than actually looking good. The skirt of the garment also splayed so far out that he wondered what contraption might be holding the confounded dome up. He, of course, kept this to himself. 

“I wouldn’t know, m’lady,” he told her, twisting his full lips from their usual resting scowl into the most genuine smile he could muster. “I grew up no further from Lake Nila than you. I am only half Alfar, as you might recall.” He tapped one of his pointed ears which were connected across the face by a light dusting of freckles. 

“Of course, of course, my mistake,” admitted the woman as she adjusted her hair. The black ringlets were only half-visible through the thin, silk veil which fell around her head from the blue and silver headband she displayed proudly. 

“Now,” Connor began, holding out an arm for the lady as he adjusted the collar of his stuffy, yellow vest. “Shall we be going? Wouldn’t want to miss any of the festivities, would we?” 

“Right you are, ser.” She took to his request without hesitation, and to Connor’s relief, the pair made their exit from the building arm in arm. 

As the stable grew further behind them, so too did the elaborate manor which cloaked it in shadow, shielding it from the bright sun of the summer month of Vola. Instead of the massive house in which the Valbrookes resided, they were bound for the acres of land surrounding it. Much of the estate had been converted into a fairground for the festivities, that much was clear after walking no more than a few steps beyond the stable. 

A cool, lakeside breeze tousled Connor’s hair and caused the back of his worn, gray overcoat to flap loosely behind him as his companion led him through the gardens and into the fair. Lovely flora surrounded them on all sides, blue and purple flowers of varying shades lined the white bricked pathway as they sauntered along. As they stepped through a white archway up which vines and ivy crawled as if up the trunk of a tree, the wider land belonging to this young woman’s father was opened to Connor’s sight. The same wind which swept against him rustled the oaks dotting the landscape. The leaves of these trees cast a verdant green upon the landscape which, when combined with the stretching field of neatly tended grass, clashed against the deep azure of the great Lake Nila a fair distance off to the pair’s left. 

Upon this impressive pasture a great many people gathered, a crowd spread across the field all in various states of celebration. Nobles in high, formal dress danced around performers as lutes, flutes, and drums were strummed, played, and beaten merrily. Some stood in small groups chatting and gossiping, blowing puffs of smoke from pipes, downing pints of ale, munching on breads and cheeses at various small tables. So this is how the elite celebrate… Connor thought to himself. 

He was pulled from those thoughts quite literally when Lady Valbrooke began leading him with more enthusiasm, much like a dog on a leash. He wondered which of them was the dog. “So, Ser Connor, your heritage aside, I wish to learn more of your immediate family,” she told him as the pair walked past a small crowd admiring the dexterity of a man juggling knives. The giggles of children and the oohs and aahs of the wealthy crowd were only white noise, cut through by the rhythmic sharpness of the highborn woman’s voice. “What, if I may ask, is their business? Are any of them here today? It would be a shame if you had come alone.” 

“Our business is a humble one, but quite stable as well. My mother is a minor noble across the lake. She owns a ferry which transports goods and people around Nila. My elder sister and I assist her,” he lied. 

“Oh, wonderful!” the lady exclaimed. “A small family business! I’m so glad that this celebration has given me the opportunity to mingle with some of the less fortunate!” 

Connor blinked several times, each time his eyes opened he was greeted by the most genuine smile. Is she serious..? His cover had been purpose built to mark him as a humble noble that could blend in easily. Just how out of touch was this woman? 

“Yes of course…” he began to trail off. “To answer your other question, my mother was not able to make it, but my dear sis-” 

“Hey, Conny! Already making friends?” Both of them turned around to a voice which was instantly familiar to Connor. The woman that stood behind them was quite similar to him in many ways, particularly in the shaggy auburn hair, the small, piercing eyes, the light freckles, pointed ears, and raised nose. They were the striking image of siblings, their fraternal resemblance too great to deny. There were differences, however. The most obvious was height. Where Connor, though toned and far from weak, was small in stature, this was a beanpole of a woman: equally athletic, but far taller. The more subtle difference was her mouth, which was plastered in a thin smirk rather than the unenthused scowl one would find adorning the brother’s face. She wore a suit similar to her brother in style and coloration, though it sported a lengthened tailcoat and the shoes were noticeably more scuffed. 

Connor examined the well dressed noble ladies attached to his sister’s arms at either side. “You seem to be doing quite the same.” He turned to his partner. “Speak of a devil and she shall appear. This is my dear sister, Reagan. Reagan, this is Lady Valbrooke. That, Lady Valbrooke.” 

“Oh, lovely to meet you! Connor had only just mentioned you, so I’m afraid I don’t know all that much about you. What is it you do for your mother’s business, Reagan?” 

The taller woman eyed the shorter with an interested gaze, as if amused by Connor’s choice of company. Connor was already aware of why, but he remained silent and allowed her to speak, “Truth be told, I’m more a… skilled laborer than anything else, m’lady. My brother dearest is the real brains of the operation. The mastermind, as it were.” 

“Is that so?” Valbrooke smiled and gave the man a knowing look. 

“More or less,” he confirmed, “I tend to plan the majority of our undertakings. I do rely on Reagan’s skills quite a lot to make sure said plans are executed properly, however. My work would be rather difficult without her.” 

“So very humble, Ser Connor,” the lady swooned. 

He noticed the corner of Reagan’s smug grin twitch: something he was sure no one else noticed. Surely it meant nothing to anyone else but him. “Well, brother,” his sister said. “These two were eager to show me one of the performers, and it seems like your afternoon is going every bit as well as we’d hoped, so I think I’ll leave you to it. Lady Valbrooke, I trust you’ll look after this one.” She gave a wink to her brother and a nod to the lady, stepping away as the lady curtsied back. 

“She seems lovely!” the noblewoman told him enthusiastically. 

“Mmm. Yes, she does seem to be on her best behavior today, doesn’t she?” He pondered. Valbrooke laughed. Connor was serious. “In any case, shall we find your father? The horse race will be starting in a few minutes and I’ve no doubt he’ll want you beside him.” 

She pouted, looking around at all the revelry which surrounded the pair. “Very well, but do take me to him slowly. I wish to enjoy the merriment.” 

“Of course, m’lady.” 

The merriment she did enjoy. Valbrooke gawked and marveled at every sight the festival offered her as the pair made their way through it. Connor, ever the gentleman, did not dare complain. The young lady’s face lit up as she watched a juggler in bright scarlet and yellow toss a set of fine glassware into the air, attracting a decent crowd as he made each dish fly. 

Further ahead of them, several of the noble guests took turns drawing back a bowstring to see who had the best aim. Much to the surprise of these men, one of their daughters—surely no older than thirteen—outdid the lot of them. She brushed her dark hair aside and took up a bow which seemed as tall as she. Her arrow flew free, impaling the straw target just a hair away from the red painted bullseye. The men all gasped and sputtered, unable to process what they’d seen; that is, aside from the one who appeared to be her father. His large mustache was pushed upward by an ecstatic, proud smile. Lady Valbrooke clapped for her as the father hugged the girl tightly. 

Connor led his companion past the archery field and through a larger crowd of people who were gathering around several casks. As a besuited and behatted man slammed an ale-filled mug into that of his neat-bearded friend, the half-elf yanked Valbrooke back to avoid a splash of the golden liquid and saved her ever so expensive dress from a sticky and possibly staining situation. 

A pair of children ran past them, giggling, one of them carrying something that looked awfully similar to a mug in his hands. Clearly some mischief was taking place. 

Finally they exited from the other end of the crowd, and the lady pointed forward. “My father,” she said. The man to which she motioned had his back to them as he leaned over a fence, watching as a jockey saddled a dark haired mare. That quickly changed however, when his daughter ran to him—as gracefully as she could in that dress—and began to call for him, “Father! Dear father, there’s someone you must meet!” 

The lord turned around as his lovely daughter approached, dragging a disoriented Connor along with her. This new angle revealed a stern face coveting small, icy blue eyes, shadowed by dark hair slowly graying at the roots. He was well dressed, far more so than Connor, and his palette of color was white, green, and blue such that he matched his daughter. The patterns were more modest, though the quality of fabric was anything but. The crown jewel of his outfit was a long ascot of emerald silk, tucked deep into a vest only buttoned near the bottom. The long coat he wore also looked to be worth more than anything Connor owned. 

“Ah, Lizzy,” he said in a voice deep and warm, smoldering, not a fraction as snively as many of the nobles the young auburn-haired man had met or seen before. “Who is this you’ve brought me?” 

“Connor of Soford,” the younger man gave his half-truthful introduction himself, noticeably perking up. He felt eager to speak to this man, forgetting himself for less than a second. If anyone had what Connor was looking for, it would be the head of the house. He took a moment to maintain his composure, and in that moment his companion stepped in. 

“Ser Connor has been so kind as to accompany me through the festival today. I just showed him the stables a few minutes ago.” The half-elf was relieved when the lord did not raise an eyebrow at her use of ‘ser.’ Connor was not a knight, nor was he of any status that could afford him such a prefix. He had gone along with her assumption for extra cover, but her using the honorific in front of her father made him nervous. 

“Lord George Valbrooke, Head of my House and this estate,” the man’s voice quaked. “Thank you for keeping my daughter amused, young ser. She tends to grow bored when left to her own devices.” 

“It’s been my pleasure, m’lord.” 

A smirk crawled up the man’s face. “Good answer, lad.” He patted the fence he was leaning against. “Come, watch with me.” 

The two moved to stand at the edge of the fence next to the older man, his daughter in the middle. “What are we watching, m’lord? The race isn’t starting quite yet, is it?” 

“No, lad,” he confirmed. “But you can learn a lot about a man from how he cares for an animal.” He waved a hand toward the rider ahead of them, patting his beast on its long nose, having just pulled the straps of the saddle taught. “In this case, I am only trying to learn who might win the race, based on their connection to their mount.” He nodded as if he were a second person acknowledging solid advice. “What about you, boy? Have you any horses at your estate in Soford?” 

Connor’s eyes widened for a third of a second as the lord turned to him. The hand that had been creeping around Lady Valbrooke and toward George’s coat pocket snaked back to his side. In a perfectly calm voice and a posture free of suspicion, he replied, “None that I’ve ridden often, I’m afraid. Never been good with animals, m’lord. Truth be told, I’m behind a desk more often than not.” One of Connor’s first truths of the day. 

“Ah. A shame,” the lord turned his gaze back to the track, giving the younger man another opportunity. “You’re rather small framed. You could do quite well for yourself in the races.” 

“Is that so, m’lord?” came the response from a Connor only half listening. He needed to keep the man talking and focused on the track long enough… His arm snuck behind the woman’s back, as if to comfort or embrace her. She only moved closer to him. This was helpful for his cover, as uncomfortable as it made him. 

“Very much so,” the lord confirmed, his vision now fixed on another horseman across the track. “My son is quite skilled at caring for the animals, but he’s much too bulky to gain the speed for success in our sport. I’ve been trying to convince Elizabeth to take up the reins for years, but she’s never had the interest.” 

Connor’s hand moved to the entrance of the coat pocket, looking for an opportunity to slip inside unnoticed. 

“I’m light, but I haven’t the athleticism, father!” the lady told him, seemingly for the hundredth time. “Not like cousin Elaine. She is a talented rider for one so young.” 

The older man chuckled heavily, “Yes, quite promising, that one. I do wish she had chosen to ride today…” 

As George shifted dominant legs, causing his coat to move, Connor took his chance. His fingers were in and out of the man’s pocket in but a moment, carrying with them the item he coveted and passing it quickly to his own. It was very lucky indeed that he had selected the right pocket on the first try. He could have succeeded regardless, of course, but it made things considerably simpler. 

“Let the poor girl be a child for a little longer, father,” Lady Valbrooke requested. “She would have had to spend most of the day preparing had she decided to race. You know how much the festival means to her.” 

The older man sighed, “You’re right, of course…” 

Not wanting to appear suspicious, Connor rejoined the conversation as if he had been paying diligent attention for its entire length. “As wonderful as it would have been to see this young lady race, I think you did right to leave it to her decision, m’lord. There’s always next year.” 

“Right you are, Connor. Right you are,” the lord accepted. He scratched his chin and eyed the racetrack. Many of the jockeys seemed to be all but ready for the event. “I suppose we should find our place in the stands. I would be happy for you to join us, lad.” The daughter beamed at this invitation. 

Now was the time that the young man had to slip away. He just so happened to have already planned his excuse. “If it please you, m’lord. Though, I should say I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. I must collect my sister, you see,” as he explained, he leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Between the three of us, I’m worried she might be getting to know some of the good ladies here today a little too well, if you catch my meaning.” 

The lord snickered, but the lady gave a full belly-laugh. “I knew she was the flirtatious type. How droll!” She inched away from Connor and towards her father, which brought the half-elf a small relief. “Do fetch your sister. We will save a space for the both of you… And a companion, should she choose to bring one.” With a wink, she took her father’s arm and the group split, the young thief now on his own. 

The celebration he turned to re-enter was less lively than before, as much of it had already begun migrating toward the stands surrounding the horse track. He found himself moving against the crowd much like a salmon swimming upstream as he traveled the path to his sister. That part had not been a lie; this had always been the plan. What was a lie was the idea that he must look for her. In fact, he knew exactly where he was going. 

The crowd continued to thin as he found himself closer and closer to the stable from which he’d come with Lady Valbrooke less than an hour previously. Passing the structure and certainly leaving the eyesight of any festival-goers around, he slipped behind the stable to lay his eyes on a small warehouse some distance behind the manor. 

It wasn’t an ornate building but it was tidy and stable, clearly a structure given just enough thought to look respectable and decent, but no more. Solid wooden boards made up the walls and roof alike. It was evident that aesthetics were second to practicality in its construction, likely a decision made easy due to its position behind the main house blocking it from polluting the front silhouette of the estate. A pair of towering, barnlike, wooden doors secured the entrance with a blocky, iron lock. 

Inside this lock was a pair of steel files being used as lockpicks, led by a pair of clumsy hands attached to a cloaked figure. Connor could see that figure from his hiding spot around the stable’s corner, and excitement shot through him in a shiver as he knew the main stage of his plan was beginning. He watched as this person played gracelessly with the lock, knowing the door would not open. It was his sister beneath that cowl, as he knew, and she was not truly trying. 

“Oi! You there!” a stern voice came a short way off from the shed. “What the ‘ells do you think you’re doing?” 

The cloaked figure looked up just as the guard marched into view. Clad in a breastplate, a sword sheathed at his side, the man’s eyes locked onto Reagan. His head didn’t swivel nearly enough for him to catch Connor out of the corner of his eye, even as the half-elf peeked around the corner of the stable. 

Reagan winged both lockpicks at the man, which pinged annoyingly off his skull as she took off running. 

“Ow!” the guard yippied, startled. “Get back here!” The vandal and her pursuer dashed into the treeline, and for a moment Connor felt he was watching some slapstick comedy on stage with how this man chased after his sister. 

The young thief only emerged from his hiding place once the pair had disappeared from sight. He glanced around and noticed no other guards, clearly most of them were at the racetrack. He couldn’t help but smirk. All was going according to plan. 

He reached into his pocket to find the item he had stolen from the lord of the estate. The iron key felt cold in his hand. He twirled it around his finger as he paced briskly over to the warehouse. The key turned in the lock with a satisfying click vibrating into his hand. He pulled the handle on one of the large doors, allowing it to swing open with a loud, lazy creak. 

Connor’s prize finally stood before him, unguarded and ripe for the taking, like a juicy fruit hanging low to the ground for him to pluck as he passed. A beast of burden gave a curious whinny as an extra ray of light poured into its current home, but otherwise didn’t react. It made sense that they would have used the most well-tempered horse for a task that would bring it near so many people. After all, its cargo was specially gathered for the festival. Connor Galain had never been fond of horses, but what this horse pulled behind it was worth the discomfort of big, creepy eyes and the frustrated stomping of hooves. 

He pulled the sheet up to look inside at the cargo held by the large cart. It was everything he expected, and it was all there. He resecured the cover and made sure the horse was properly fastened. When all was right with the cart, he pushed open the second door and clambered up onto the front of the wagon. The leather reins were firm in his hands, and before he cracked them to move forward, he heard a signal horn blown from brass upon the wind, followed by the thunder of dozens of hooves hammering the dirt below them. Perfect timing, he thought. The steps of his own animal joined the precision, only audible as one of many. 

It was hours later when he had reentered Waterpoint. He had passed off the duty of driving as quickly as possible: a task his sister now performed. Instead, he had spent much of the trip taking inventory on the cargo. It would be easier to divide the spoils of victory with a clear idea of what they had. 

Starrick—one of the two others the siblings had recruited for the job—leaned back from his seat next to Reagan to face Connor. “The guards didn’t even think twice about letting us in. Moving the cargo to another cart and ditching the other one along the road was the right call, boss.” 

“If they can’t identify the vehicle or the horse, they’ve no hope of catching us. I’m impressed, Starrick. You and Eirin finished that in record time. I’m glad we let you in on this, mate. Things went smoothly.” 

His sister grinned over her shoulder. “Think we’ll have a chase or a fight on our hands if they see what we’ve got in the back? That guy back at the festival was too easy to shake.” 

Connor chuckled, “Not unless the guards are clairvoyant. I reckon we had a ten minute head start before anyone realized the cart was missing. Much longer before they figured out what direction we left for, if they’ve even managed that. To anyone here we look like any other trade wagon. Forget knowing what to look for, no one here even knows they’re looking for anything yet. By the time they do, all the evidence will be in a hundred different locations.” 

The three other thieves made small talk for the rest of the short journey to the slum they called the Drowned Quarter. Eirin leaned up from her spot in the cart with Connor to chat with the others. He, however, stared out at the city they swept through. Solid structures and houses built from firm timber and clay upon stilts gave way to shacks half-sinking into mud and water, buildings made from the same materials yet plagued with crumbling walls and foundations slowly swallowed by the lake. As the young man saw himself returning home, he also heard it in the stamping of hooves through puddles. He felt it in the bumpy, rolling vibration of the wagon’s wheels braving cracked and uneven cobblestone. 

The organizer of the heist took a deep, serene breath as his sister pulled the reins and brought the horse to a stop. He was the first to drop from the back, one foot splashing into a puddle he hadn’t seen. He was used to that. 

“Alright. Eirin, Starrick, start gathering folks over here. So everyone knows, I’ll read off the inventory I wrote. We have: four casks of ale, three barrels of smoked fish, six large baskets of bread and meat pies, another three of fresh produce, six pots of boiled vegetables, and six pots of some kind of stew.” 

His sister remained atop the cart as the other two leapt down. “I’ll get one of these barrels open!” she exclaimed. 

A few minutes passed as the other pair gathered people, and the siblings prepared the cart for a large crowd. Connor was distracted, however, by a small figure lurking around an alleyway. It darted away as he focused on it at first, but he was able to coax it from the shadows eventually, with enough friendly smiles—an expression he rarely wore- and reassuring gestures. 

The child—a young boy in a torn tunic—cautiously approached the cart, staring up at the half-elf. “Can I… Can I…” the boy stuttered, staring at the massive gathering of food. 

The man didn’t need the kid to finish the sentence. He tore off a piece of bread from one of the baskets and handed it to the child, who looked between him and the bread in awe. 

“I…”  the boy looked down at his feet, unable to match Connor’s gaze. “My mother,” he said weakly. “She’s too sickly to walk here. Can I…” 

“You have containers at home, kid?” The child nodded and the thief continued, “Why don’t you eat that bread as a snack then run home and grab one? I’ll make sure to set some aside. Enough for you and her both.” Tears began to well up in the boy’s wide eyes. He hugged Connor’s legs. Surprised, the thief froze for a moment, but the awkward paralysis soon thawed and allowed him to pat the kid on the back. “Happy Sunwise, kid.” 

Behind them, the other two thieves made their way down the street, followed by a crowd of hungry and poverty-stricken masses, many with bright eyes for the first time in a long time. 

Reagan stood tall in the back of the festival cart, one scuffed boot on the side wall. Loud as ever, she called out into the growing crowd, voice booming through streets beginning to fill with laughter and merriment,
“Happy Sunwise!”

Kay King is infamous in several friend groups for writing instead of sleeping. An anthropology student at Gulf Coast State College, they have a passion not only for writing fiction about fantasy and magic, but also nonfiction about past civilizations. When they aren’t writing, Kay spends time reading classics in community parks and thinking about the many, many stories they’ve yet to tell. They can be found online at: wattpad.com/user/KayShadedBlue and instagram.com/kay_shaded_blue/

In the Paddock by William Dowling, part of the Genesee Valley Council on the Arts New Deal art collection, and the chosen painting for their 2022 writing competition.  The competition challenges writers to use a painting chosen by the staff at GVCA as inspiration for a short story. In support of GVCA and the selected authors, we have printed the 1^st and 2^nd place winners of the 2022 writing contest. here. We will also post the stories online (along with the 3^rd place story–Fair and Square by David James Delaney). You can also read all three stories (and learn more about GVCA) at gvartscouncil.org.