Oh. Melody sat back on her heels, disappointed.
Kaeliph, entranced by the strange text, couldn’t keep his nose out of the little journal for long. “Can I keep it?” He didn’t look up when he spoke. “Just for a day or two…”
She handed him the oiled piece of leather that served as the book’s wrapping.
Yes. I’ll let you study. She moved off, stepping around Jovan as he sharpened his weapon.
The sound of the steel recalled memories of events she would rather forget. Trying to ignore the clenching of her stomach, she skinned up the tree and finished the last of her weaving. Now she could rock to sleep beneath the stars, as she had for most of her life. Still the metallic scrape continued, and Jovan’s memories pushed to the front of her mind.
Nearly every vision held blood, and pain, and violence. There were too many to push away, all in perfect clarity as the Haven enhanced their connection. He had protected her, she told herself. He had taken her far from those who wished her harm, and yet… He was also wrapped in brutality and confusion and blood, and she could not hide from any of it. She curled into the hammock, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her arms clutched around her stomach.
The scraping of stone on metal stopped.
Jovan felt her fear. He saw the shadows of his own memories as they played in her mind, magnified. He felt how his past affected her, and he did not like that she would be afraid of him.
“Not you,” he said into the darkness, not certain she could hear him. “Never you.”
Melody heard, and took solace in his quiet words. He meant it. She could feel the truth in his thoughts, the magic of the Haven amplified everything.
Jovan turned to face the fire and emptied his mind by staring at the flames. When his memories faded, Melody was able to sleep.
In the days that passed, Kaeliph worked out the language of the journal while Melody tried not to bother him. The book, Kaeliph eventually determined, was written in a dialect of Elvish he was unfamiliar with. None save a scholar, or an actual Elf, could have written it so smoothly, he explained, which raised more questions than it answered about Melody’s heritage.
Jovan was restless. He had been ready to move on since his own energy returned, but stayed— for her. Watching Melody here, in this place that seemed as much a home to her as an arena did to him, he couldn’t bear to insist they leave. She was transformed in the Haven, no longer timid, no longer wide-eyed and weak. Here she was strong and serene, she was even playful. She frequently unhinged him with her ready smile.
He let a moon cycle pass, long enough that their hasty departure from Cabinsport and the nightmare on Bear Island were almost forgotten. Melody, aided by the energy of the Haven, learned to read faster than Kaeliph had imagined, but she had not yet mastered the journal by the time Jovan insisted they leave.
The morning they left was cold even in the perpetually warm Haven. Melody reluctantly braided her hair back into a thick rope while Kaeliph filled their water skins from the warm crystal-clear pond. They were both ready to depart by the time Jovan filled in the fire pit. She tried not to look behind her as she took up her staff and followed them out of the Haven, but she did pause long enough to lay her hand against the trunk of the largest tree.
Thank you, she offered, a simple prayer to the Haven, and the Power. For everything.
20
Attilus howled.
He could smell his master somewhere ahead – wounded – behind the stone walls. Yet his mistress had been so frightened when she sent him away. It was taking every ounce of obedience not to return to her. The ranger had ordered him to look after the girl, and Attilus had done so with pleasure. He would serve her to his last breath if he could.
She had asked him to find his master, though, begged him to bring the man back to her. He would not willingly disappoint her. He had come this far, but the journey had been difficult, and he could see no way past the wall. He needed rest. He turned around, settling under a row of shrubs, and laid his massive head on his paws with a soft whine.
He woke to a soft voice, and a new scent. The woman crouched in front of him was timid and fearful, but he was too exhausted to wag his tail in friendly greeting. She spoke to him in a soft voice and reached out a tentative hand.
His body ached, and he was covered in itching bramble scratches, but Attilus raised his head to sniff her fingers. Flowers. No trace of his master. No, the ranger had gone through the large wooden door, but for Attilus there was no entrance. He had to find another way, but he was so tired.
The woman whispered some more, scratching lightly behind Attilus’ ears, and then gathered up her skirts and hurried away. He watched her go.
A rabbit, brave or young or foolish, decided that the hound was no threat, and moved close to eat the fresh clover beside him. Hungry though he was, Attilus paid no attention.
The woman returned, heralded by the tantalizing scent of meat. Cooked meat, like the ranger gave him. The rabbit bolted. Attilus lifted his head and blinked at her, gently accepting her offering with a twitch of his tail.
“Come,” the woman said softly, tugging almost imperceptibly at his collar. She held out more meat. “Come on.”
Attilus hauled himself to his feet. She was no threat, he would go. He followed her through the garden and to a different wooden door, accepting shreds of meat along the way. He padded up the stone steps and was rewarded with the last of the meat in a large chamber that smelled of lavender and women. His master had not been here.
“Lich’s minions— it’s Angus!” A second woman swished over to him in a flutter of long skirts and knelt at his side.
Attilus blinked at her curiously. He had heard the word before; long ago in his puppy days ... it was the name the ranger used to summon his sire, long dead. He thumped his tail.
“You look terrible,” she said softly. “What happened to you? How did you get here? Where is Calder?”
At the name of his master, Attilus stood at attention with a sharp bark, his ears perked. Both women gasped.
“He understands you!”
“It is Calder’s dog!”
And then he was being petted and gentle fingers were tugging the burrs from his coat, but if these women knew where his master was, he meant to find out. He barked again, breaking away and nosing at the door.
“Angus, hush,” the second woman scolded, a trace of panic in her voice. “You’ll bring the soldiers!”
“Who is this Calder you speak of, my Lady?” The first woman offered Attilus more meat to quiet him, which he took hungrily, but he would not stand down from the door.
“He is a ranger, a man who lives in the forests and rarely seeks out the company of others. He is— was— my beloved’s truest friend.” Her words tumbled over each other. “The last time I saw him was many years ago, when he guided Solus and I through the woods. It was when I was pregnant, we fled to hide my baby… Calder never goes anywhere without Angus.”
Attilus whined, nosing again at the door.
“Could this man be here, somewhere? Why would his dog be here?”
The second woman shook her head, her sadness almost tangible. “Oh, I pray he is not, Bashara. I pray it with all of my soul. Calder was to look after my daughter if anything ever happened to Solus.”
The woman called Bashara began to fret, and Attilus moved to her side. If they would just open the door, he could lead them to the man they spoke of. The meat had renewed some of his energy; his master’s name had done the rest. He was ready to go.
“My Lady, the soldier I told you of ... my Orrin ... He spoke of a man who had been brought to the palace a few days ago. I do not wish it to be so, but perhaps it is your Calder?”
Attilus barked again.
“It can be no other,” the second woman said. Her voice was trembling, nearly inaudible. “Jayden has Calder. Oh, my daughter ... what will happen to you?” She wept.
Attilus understood the woman’s tears. He laid his head in her lap as the first w
oman tried to comfort her as well. When she had grieved, she would act, and then he would be reunited with his master. He could wait that long.
21
“Enter.” Garen remained bent over the sketch he was reviewing with the local leather master. Early morning sunlight streamed onto the desk, reflecting off the facets of two rare, identical pieces of quartz.
“I apologize, Chancellor. Your young lady is insisting she speak with you, the matter is most urgent.”
“Take the young lady’s message, Corben.” He imagined the blonde’s indignant pout when she was denied. Spoiled child. He returned his attention to the craftsman.
“Continue, Master Jasper, please.”
“I was sayin’ I found a hide that would work like you’re wanting, m’Lord, but them gems are bigger than I planned for. It won’t be easy.”
“Two weeks to simply find a hide, Master Jasper? I believe I explained this was of utmost importance.” There was a threatening edge to Garen’s voice, and the leather master hurried to explain himself.
“It’s two hides, m’Lord. Two different weights that have to work together. Leather’s finicky, and for quality work—"
“Can you do this or not, Master Jasper?”
“Aye, m’Lord. It will be wider than you wanted, though. I’ll be needing proper measurements. And it’ll take time.” He tapped the paper. The skin of the artisan’s blunted finger was as thick and tanned as the leather he was renowned for working. “To fit it like you want— I got to be precise.” He was cut off by a respectful knock.
“Enter,” Garen’s patience stretched ever thinner.
“The young lady says the trio you seek are in town,” Corben reported. “Shall I dismiss her?”
Garen paused, and allowed himself a small, pleased smile. “No, Corben. In fact, send her in.”
“Right away, Chancellor.” Ving’s steward slipped out, returning in moments to announce her. “The Lady Kallisti, Chancellor.”
The spirited blonde girl beamed at Garen, her exuberance held in check only by the unexpected presence of the leather master. “My Lord,” she breathed, her deep curtsey allowing both men a leisurely view of her ample cleavage. Her violet eyes glittered as she looked around at the luxuriously appointed office.
Garen interrupted her before she could speak again. “These men, they are the brothers you spoke of? From Rindale?”
“I am certain, my Lord.” Kallisti licked her lips, her eyes fixed on him as if she were hungry.
“And the girl?”
Her smile slipped. “I don’t recognize her, but it’s them you wanted. Wasn’t it?”
Garen nodded, appreciating the jealous flush in her cheeks. “I do. Now, describe her, please.”
“What, the girl?” Her disdain was evident.
“Yes, Kallisti.” His tone was exceedingly patient, though he was not. “The girl.” Garen settled himself behind the desk, pushing her ever so gently. “Tell me what she looks like, everything you can remember.”
“Quite small, she’s a scrap of a thing. Black hair, braided. Her dress is torn, it’s too short. Her feet are bare. She carries a staff.”
Garen smiled, encouraging her. “And her neck? How would it compare to yours, would you say?”
Confused, Kallisti frowned. Her hand drifted to her throat. “I— her what, my Lord?”
Garen lost patience, and gave a larger push. “Describe her neck, Kallisti. Now.”
“Yes, my Lord, but I only saw her from a distance. She is a tiny thing, her neck would be smaller than mine? I don’t know by how much exactly, my Lord, but perhaps by a knuckle?” The words spilled out of her mouth in her eagerness to make him pleased with her.
Garen stood, moving around the desk in a blink. “You heard, Master Jasper?”
The artisan nodded, knowing what the Chancellor wanted and knowing well enough to keep his thoughts about it to himself. “Aye, m’Lord. She'll do, if you say.”
Kallisti took a nervous step away from the rough-looking man, glancing at Garen. “My Lord? Do for what? What does he want?”
Garen had already turned his back to her, once more examining the sketch. “Hush and be still, girl,” he snapped. “Measure what you need, Master Jasper.”
Kallisti held her tongue, but gasped when the artisan quickly wrapped a strip of soft leather around her throat and scored it at the center of her neck with a tiny, sharp blade.
“That'll do, Lord Chancellor. I’ll get it pieced out this very night.”
Garen rolled up the parchment sketch and handed it over. “Work on nothing else until it is complete, Master Jasper. The quality of your work is legendary, but I require it before the end of the week. And take care with those stones.”
“Aye, Lord Chancellor.” The leather master gave a quick bow and left the room, leaving Kallisti staring after him with one hand at her neck.
“He— you—” She sputtered, on the verge of indignant tears, her chest heaving.
Garen wanted nothing more than to dismiss her so he could focus on the matter of the brothers and their companion. Regrettably, though, he still needed her. She would serve him better when she was calm. Garen moved to stand before her, suddenly all warmth and ease.
“Kallisti. Dear Kallisti, I’ve been unforgivably rude,” he purred, stroking his fingers from her wrists up to her shoulders. “It pains me to see you in such distress.” He let his hands encircle her upper arms and draw her close, gazing down at her with practiced contrition. He barely had to push at all. As expected, she was forgetting everything, and could focus nowhere but on his eyes, his mouth, his touch. “I don’t deserve it,” he whispered, “but please, tell me you forgive me?”
“I forgive you.” Her response was immediate, and she pressed up against him, utterly willing.
Garen was careful not to push too hard – there was little to work with as it was, too strong a touch and she would never recover. He laid his lips on her forehead, but his eyes were unfocused as he imagined Melody, this malleable, in his arms.
“Sweet, sweet Kallisti. When I have completed the Duke’s work here, perhaps we could …” He trailed off, letting her imagination fill in the blanks. “But now, dearest, I must focus. I’m sure you understand. You will help me, won’t you?”
“Anything,” she whispered, dizzily wishing he would kiss her. He withheld, bringing his face inches from hers. His voice was a caress.
“I need you to stay out of sight, Kallisti. They must not see you. Wait for my summons, and I will explain everything then. Do you understand me, my sweet?”
Trembling, she nodded. “Yes, yes, anything for you.”
He kissed her then, sealing his hold on her mind. She was eager and hungry for more, but he would not oblige. Not yet. “Go, precious one. I will see you soon.”
Kallisti swished out of the room with a dreamy smile. Garen followed, and bumped into Corben.
“Chancellor," the steward said. "Tovar has arrived.”
“He can see that.” The catlike twin appeared behind the steward, though he had been instructed to wait.
Garen motioned his man into the room with one hand, looking down the empty hall behind him. “Excellent,” he said to no one in particular, shutting the door behind him without so much as a nod to the steward.
Corben watched the sharp-tongued blonde girl drift down the hall, singing like a lovesick bird, and shook his head. He would be glad when Chancellor Garen was through with Foley, and that was the truth.
“They’re here,” Garen said. “Did you find someone?”
Tovar’s nod confirmed both Kallisti’s report and his own success. “Yes, my Lord. He understands what is expected, as does his partner. They will act on my word.”
Garen rubbed his lower lip with a sleek, satisfied smile. “I want them unharmed, but off balance. You will see to this personally, Tovar?”
“Of course, my Lord. Shall we move up the tournament date now that they’re here?”
“Change it to three days from now
,” Garen said. “The Arena will be finished, and there are enough fighters here already.” Let them believe they had escaped, he thought. Let them feel safe in this place where the Duke’s colors did not fly. But not too safe.
“Yes, my Lord.”
Garen settled behind the desk. “Make certain they are given room at the Inn, and have them watched. They don’t take a step without me knowing where and why. Tell our new friends to act this evening.”
Tovar rocked on his heels, ready to be off. “Yes, my Lord.”
Garen waved a dismissing hand. “Go, friend. Keep me informed. We cannot afford a mistake.”
The Hunter managed to look obedient and offended in the same slow blink. “There will be no mistakes, my Lord.”
22
“You are certain your soldier will help us, Bashara?” Lady Bethcelamin wrung her hands, pacing. It was not the first time she had asked.
“Orrin is a good man, my Lady,” Bashara replied. “His heart is true. He will do as he says.”
She had seen him each evening since that afternoon under the tree. Their love was imperfect, of course, old wounds were slow to heal. They were finding their place with one another, though. It just took time. Bashara trusted Orrin and the information he had given them, but as the hour grew ever later, even she felt the creeping of doubt in her stomach.
“He is sure, Bashara? This man— It is my Calder?” Bethcelamin could not hide the tremble in her voice.
“The certainty was yours, Lady. It was the dog…” She gestured to the massive hunting hound that lay in front of the door, his ears twitching.
“Yes, Angus, of course.” She nodded, but did not stop the wringing of her hands. “It can be none other. This is Calder's dog, and why else would he have been in the gardens?” She took several deep breaths, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “This will work,” she said. “It has to work.”
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