The Rogue Trilogy

by Elizabeth Carlton

  Sven jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and the gypsy joined his side. “Introduced herself as Vanner. Says she's here to collect money on some new nets ye ordered.”

  Milo nodded and waved her over.

  “Your shipment came in early,” she greeted.

  “So I heard.” Milo had to remind himself not to stare, for Vanner reminded him quite a bit of his mate. Her skin was light, but not without color, testifying to a life that spent more time beneath the sun than indoors. Her eyes shared Levee's emerald tint, though they lacked the mischief that promised adventure should he linger too long in their company. She rose to about his chin, her wildly thick hair just a shade shy of blonde.

  Her outfit was Sarrokian, its blouse tied just below her bosom. A reprieve from the heat, he guessed, for her stomach glistened with beads of sweat. Vanner's waist bore a maroon sash adorned with silver trinkets that gave onlookers the impression she was a northern gypsy. Milo would have believed it, too, had he not spotted the edge of a brown marking peeking from the end of a glove on her left hand.

  A re’shahna, then. Milo didn't know much about the rahee’s cousins, but Levee had told him once that many of them were born with markings. Milo dipped his hat even lower over his eyes to shield his disappointment. It was never a good sign when Bry sent his kin to do a job.

  “Come aboard. We'll talk payment in private.” He climbed back onto his ship, then held out his hand to help Vanner onto the deck. She accepted, her eyes scanning the deck as he herded her toward his cabin. Opening the door, he motioned inside.

  “Just how privately are we meeting, Captain?” she teased.

  Milo nodded his head toward the steps and chuckled. “Ya ain’t that lucky, darlin’.”

  Vanner strolled down the steps, pausing for a moment as she studied a small, charcoal portrait of Milo, Levee, and a young boy. The glance was brief, but Milo caught the faintest twitch of surprise.

  “Is she here?” she inquired, her demeanor changing the moment he shut the door behind them.

  Levee appeared at the bottom of the steps. Tapping her forehead with two fingers, she extended her arm in greeting. “Teeyam, sister.”

  Vanner returned the gesture before bowing at the waist in a display of respect. “Teeyam, Melah.” Treading the rest of the way down the steps, the re'shahna embraced Levee as if they had known each other for years. “It is an honor for me to stand before you. I only wish our first meeting carried better tidings.”

  Milo went to the small table in the corner and pulled out a chair next to Sadikaye, who kept a cautious eye on the new stranger.

  “Who is she, Pa?” he whispered.

  Vanner turned an ear toward Sadikaye, followed by her gaze. “You must be the boy from the picture. Melah’s son, I presume? You are much older now.”

  “What's it to ya?” Sadikaye wanted to know.

  Milo elbowed the boy just sharp enough to make him sit up straight. “Manners, son,” he scolded. “This is Vanner. A messenger sent by an old friend of your mother's.”

  “How do we know for sure?” Sadikaye asked.

  Vanner turned to Levee once more. “A smart boy to be so wary. You are lucky our message reached you before you returned to shore, Melah. As you know, mercenaries have been attacking the tchaka as of late. We finally identified of a few of them. They have the pale skin of Nevahardans, and are inquiring about a refugee that fits your description. We fear Shadow may have caught wind of your presence here in Hikayah.”

  Milo raised an eyebrow. “You don't look so different from Lev yourself,” he pointed out. “How do we know their eyes didn't follow ya all the way here?”

  “They did. That is the point,” Vanner crossed her arms. “They suspect I am you. I can lead them astray for now, but it is best you make port elsewhere for a while.”

  Levee took a deep breath. “I appreciate your help, Vanner, but putting yourself in harm’s way for my sake doesn't sit well with me.”

  “It is not your decision to make, Melah,” Vanner replied. “Your gift is one we must protect. Our people will do what we can to keep them off your trail, but I urge you speak with Bry when you have a chance. Business has called him north, but he will return in a week’s time. You can meet with him then, I hope?”

  Levee nodded. Bry had been her connection to Patchi for many years now. She and Milo had met him at an inn they stayed at when they first began their new lives here. He shared a table with them and they traded sullen stories as to how they escaped Nevaharday the night it fell into Shadow’s hands.

  At the time, Bry had claimed to be a northern gypsy who took refuge in the port town, just as Milo and Levee sought to do. Through the years, he made a name for himself selling horses in Sarrokye’s market, but Levee saw the trade for its true nature one day when she recognized a gypsy in his caravan as one of Patchi’s informants.

  Levee told Bry of her discovery, and he confessed he was there to protect her by Patchi’s request. The two formed a mutually beneficial relationship after that. The re’shahna became Levee’s primary resource for information, and in turn she used her gift to help him tame the wilder additions to his growing equine harem. “Have Bry send us word when he returns, and I will meet him in Sarrokye.”

  “I assume you have a plan for how to deal with these mercenaries?” Milo hoped.

  “I am a re'shahna, am I not?” Vanner sat beside Milo at the table and pulled a folded piece of parchment from her belt. She spread it out on the table, revealing a crude map. Several arrowheads, each in a different color, circled a black X. “Our scouts have made note of where each group of mercenaries is staying. I suggest you keep to the sea as much as possible for now. Dress like a Sarrokian, and be wary of the streets we have marked. They are watching all gypsies closely.”

  With one more tip of her hand, Vanner headed for the door. Milo followed close behind, handing her a few coins on deck as payment so that onlookers would see a transaction being completed between them.

  Vanner nodded to him in thanks before skipping off the boat and pocketing her coins as she departed down the deck. When he returned to the cabin, he found his mate staring intently at the map on the table as she nibbled on her bottom lip.

  “So back out to sea then?” Milo guessed. Levee was safer on the water and away from horses, where her gift could not expose her. He plopped down in a chair as he waited for his mate’s response.

  Levee nodded, then took a seat on Milo's knee and propped her elbow on the table. Resting her chin in her hand, Levee studied the map even closer. Milo draped his arm in her lap and peered over her shoulder, but he couldn't make heads or tails of the symbols.

  Levee could. Before Nevaharday fell, she and her former mate, Prince Jaycent, had lived with the re'shahna. They spent many months among the tribes of their cousins, learning their culture and how to better wield the innate magic that gave them their unique abilities.

  She ran her fingers across the symbols, each in a different color. “The arrowheads mark hunters. In this case, the mercenaries. There seem to be four units in all. The tick marks below them show that each unit has at least eight members.”

  Milo’s lips drew into an unsettled frown. “That is a lot of men to be chasin’ a hunch, darlin’.”

  “Pa’s right,” Sadikaye grabbed his staff. “Someone’s hunting you, Ma, and it looks like they know you’re here.”

  CAT AND MOUSE

  It had taken Darthek seven days to make it from Velagray to Sarrokye. Seven hard, dry, miserable days as he abandoned the gray northern mountains for sparse grass, a scorching sun, and sandstone towns.

  His undead steed moved with exhausting energy, undeterred by the heat of a relentless summer. Its light gray coat was now a dull brown, its fur matted in areas where the wind picked up the sand and pasted it across everything in its path.

  Darthek eventually settled at an inn in Sarrokye, only a block from the city market where he would meet with the mercenaries King Shadow had stationed there. He spent three days
catching up on their reports and watching the gypsies sell steeds to foreigners from a large corral within the heart of the market. There were a few females that matched King Shadow’s description, but none of them appeared to have any remarkable influence over the horses. At least, no more than any of the other gypsies in their company. They all whispered words to the horses which the animals seemed to respond to with an eager nature.

  It was unnatural, and fascinating, for the assassin had never seen the rahee’s gift at work before. He wondered if their command over the beasts came from their language, magic, or a bit of both. Still, another uneventful week went by with no solid leads. Many of the mercenaries moved on to scout other locations, and Darthek planned to do the same. He packed his things, then went to the market for one last sweep. The assassin brought his hart over to the corral run by the gypsies and with a polite smile requested assistance.

  “Excuse me,” he tapped the shoulder of an older gypsy with graying black hair. She turned and brushed her hands off on a well-patched skirt that was still brightly colored despite its evident wear.

  “Yes?”

  The assassin pulled his mount forward by the reins. “I recently bought this hart here, but the man I got him from failed to tell me he was an unruly sort. I cannot seem to get him to cooperate at all in the saddle,” he tossed the gypsy a pleading glance as the hart jerked moodily against his tight hold. “People here say you gypsies are good with mounts. Maybe you can do some of your fancy whispering to make the beast more amiable?”

  The gypsy’s expression grew uncertain the moment she looked at his mount. “We’re horse folk, sirrah. This is a hart. They do not speak the same language. We can sell you a horse, but we can do nothing for that creature.”

  “Please,” the assassin insisted, and he made sure to look desperate. “I have thirty gold in my pocket right now. I will give you all of it if you simply try.”

  The gypsy pursed her lips. “Let me check with the horse master.”

  She left to speak with a male on the left side of the corral who looked to be in his early twenties. The horse master wore his head shaved and didn’t seem to bother wearing a shirt under Sarrokye’s scorching sun. He glanced at Darthek for a fleeting moment, then continued to speak to a couple he’d been engaging in conversation.

  Darthek tilted his head to see the pair that so keenly caught the horse master’s interest. A Sarrokian wearing an old cowpoke hat leaned against one of the corral’s top rungs, his ears turned toward the voice of the female on the inner side of the gate and to his left.

  The girl caught Darthek’s interest. From the side, he could see she had straight auburn hair, bleached by the sun, that fell down to her waist. Her skin had been darkened by Sarrokye’s harsh climate, but it was still light enough to fit Shadow’s description. He watched her closely as he waited for the gypsies to finish talking.

  * * * * *

  “Are you sure they were asking about me, specifically?” Levee spoke in a harsh whisper.

  “The men that stopped by here earlier specifically asked for a rahee called ‘Melah,’ or ‘The Mare’. That is your title, Levee. No one else is known to bear it but you. Since then, we have seen them harassing a group of tchaka asking them the same question.”

  Levee leaned against the corral gate. “I can see why they stopped by here, but why would Shadow look for me among the tchaka? They are more exclusive than our own gypsies. The last thing they would do is take in a wanted outsider.”

  Milo rested against the rail from the outside, his shoulder brushing Levee’s as he kept a subtle watch for anyone suspicious. He hooked the boot of his weaker leg against the lower rung. “Perhaps he is trying to guilt you into coming out of hiding. I wouldn’t put it past Shadow to use cruelty to others as bait to lure you out and drag you back to Nevaharday.”

  “Velagray,” Bry corrected. “T’is no longer called Nevaharday.” He used his scarf to brush a trickle of sweat from his brow. “The attacks on the tchaka are no ruse, however. It seems they have been misled by rumors.

  “Remember the horses you freed from the highwaymen? They belonged to three different bands of tchaka. In fact, most of what you have done happened here in Sarrokye, which is considered the southern gypsies’ territory. I pay a fee to one of their bands every month just to keep my business here. Most northern gypsy refugees work in Hikayah or other towns to avoid them.”

  Levee opened her mouth to speak, but paused. An odd sensation lingered on the edge of her magical senses. She scanned the horses before spotting a man waiting patiently on the other end of the corral, a curious hart in tow. The beast caught her stare and jerked against his reins, his nostrils flaring.

  An older gypsy walked over to them, motioning toward the hart that had caught Levee’s attention. “The man over there wants one of us to try to tame an unruly mount he bought. I told him we only deal with horses, but he is offering thirty gold just for us to make an attempt.”

  Bry looked at the mount and frowned. “Tell him to spend his gold on a new mount. We do not deal with elven steeds.”

  “Wait,” Levee interjected. “I want to get a better look at it first.”

  Levee walked through the corral, and the horses around her lifted their heads with interest. One, a roan stallion, nipped her sleeve and grunted a warning. She patted the stallion’s neck, murmuring “thank you” before proceeding on.

  Bry joined her side, his own brow furrowed as he studied the beast.

  “Heed caution,” he whispered. His senses weren’t as keen as hers, but something about the animal bothered him too, further validating her concern. “I do not like the looks of that one.”

  Levee gave a subtle nod before she approached the blonde man and his mount. “What seems to be the issue, sirrah?”

  “The issue is this mount has tried to throw me every time I get in the saddle. I am starting to think it’s personal.” He gave a self-depreciating laugh. “Maybe you can help?”

  Levee climbed the fence, her sash adorned with silver trinkets jingling as she landed nimbly on the other side. In the corner of her peripheral vision, she saw Milo feign interest in a dappled mare as he positioned himself closer.

  Confident her mate had her back, Levee approached the hart from the side so that he remained aware of her presence. She offered her hand, letting the creature take in her scent. As she did so, she released a subtle wave of magic in an attempt to ascertain the nature of the creature.

  Usually every spirit, magical or not, had a shape inside her mind, but she couldn’t grasp this one. Every time she tried to focus on the hart’s essence, she saw little more than a gray, cold fog. It was as if the creature was a breathing shell with nothing inside.

  The hart nipped at her hand and Levee pulled away, shaking her head incredulously.

  “Sorry,” the man jerked the creature’s head back by the reins and rubbed his neck sheepishly. “He doesn’t have the best manners either.”

  Levee stepped away. “Keep your gold, sirrah. Use it to buy yourself a proper horse. That mount is cursed.”

  “Cursed?” He patted the hart’s thick neck. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  Levee shook her head. “When I say cursed, I mean it quite literally. Whoever you bought this creature from has tainted it with some form of dark magic. You would do well to get rid of it.”

  The assassin gave a disappointed sigh as he watched Levee leave to join the Sarrokian waiting a few paces down the gate. It was all in act. His satisfaction was high, and ever-growing as several horses in the corral broke away to follow the gypsy along the rail. She was a magnet for these creatures. More so than the rest.

  “Would you like to buy a horse, sirrah?” Bry asked, his tone telling him to make a purchase or move along.

  The assassin shook his head and turned away, the hart in tow. “Not today, gypsy. Thank you.”

  He had work to do now that he’d found his mark.

  * * * * *

  A large storm mov
ed in over Sarrokye, its thunderheads herding Levee and Milo back to Hikayah as it drifted south toward the sea. The afternoon drizzle gradually turned into a steady rainfall as the couple and Sadikaye worked quickly to prepare their boat for the coming rain. They finished their preparations just as the clouds settled in, and the family retreated inside their one-room cabin as nature took its course.

  Night came upon them when the wind picked up, crying like a mourning hill cat. It kept Sadikaye awake. His pale gold eyes stared at the ceiling as his parents slept soundly to his right. He hated being in the cabin during storms. All of the noises put his senses on edge. Sadikaye twitched every time strong gusts beat against the door, jolting him from the fringe of sleep.

  Finally, after several sleepless hours, he crawled out of bed. Strolling toward the small, round window facing the water, he watched the droplets stream across the pane. Sadikaye rested his arm against the round sill, his nose nearly pressed against the glass as he tried to peer through the sheets of rain.

  Even when he squinted, the view remained shrouded by his own reflection. Sadikaye considered his appearance. His skin was somewhere between Milo’s dark tan and Levee’s caramel complexion. He was neither Sarrokian, nor a gypsy, and he was perfectly fine with that.

  Although Sadikaye was born in Sarrokye, he wanted more than ever to return to his mother’s homeland. The stories of re’shahna, untamed mountains, and real-life heroes Levee had told him when he was a child had planted a seed of yearning in his heart for the north.

  Out of those many stories, one hero in particular inspired him. It was the tale of Prince Jaycent, who had escaped Shadow, braved the perilous journey to Bresan T’ahnya, and fought against traitors and spirits to retrieve an enchanted sword. When Sadikaye grew older, Levee told him the tales were true, and that she had been the one to travel with the prince on those adventures.

  Prince Jaycent died in the end by challenging Shadow for his throne and buying her, Milo, and hundreds of others the chance to escape to freedom in Sarrokye. Still, Sadikaye knew he wanted to be that kind of hero. He made the prince his role model, and dreamed of returning to the north one day to help the re’shahna finish what Jaycent had started.