by Cara Witter
Well, frankly, it seemed ridiculous. Perchaya felt as though she were talking to a madman.
But what if he was right, and she refused? What if she put on the ring and it did something else?
Kenton hesitated, ring still poised in his hand. He wasn’t going to force her. Maybe it was the horror of what she’d witnessed, or the way the world had gone mad, or the terror for her family, who had taken a terrible risk by caring for her as their own all these years, but for some reason, she wanted to trust him. Perchaya’s hand trembled, but she let him take it.
He slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. It had fit him well, so she expected it to jangle on her own hand, but the metal slid snugly onto her skin, as if the thing had sized itself to fit her.
“You’re really her.” Kenton shook his head. “I was so afraid that Diamis would already have gotten to you, that I was the only one left.”
Perchaya looked up at him, and now, instead of worry, she saw pain in his eyes—pain and profound loneliness. She ran her finger over the engraved runes.
“Isn’t it supposed to . . . do something?” she asked.
Kenton frowned at it.
And then the runes began to glow, casting Perchaya’s fingers in an eerie blue light. Kenton looked nervously over his shoulder, checking again to make sure they were alone. Perchaya resisted the impulse to cover her hand as the light grew, encircling her body, then gave a pulsing flash and disappeared.
Kenton grinned at her, and Perchaya felt her knees go weak again. “You did it,” he said. “You put out the call.”
Perchaya still had a hard time believing that, but she couldn’t deny that something had happened. She’d seen the light. She’d felt the power, deep in her bones.
“I’m glad I could help,” Perchaya said, lifting her hand to remove the ring. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting home to—” Perchaya tugged on the ring once, twice, three times.
It stuck fast. It wouldn’t even twist, as if it were sealed to her skin.
Her eyes widened, and she looked frantically at Kenton. “How do I take it off?”
His brow furrowed and he took her hand in his, softly, as if it might break. And then he pulled on the ring, gently at first, and then hard enough to make Perchaya wince.
The metal didn’t budge.
Perchaya cringed as he let her hand go. She could tell he was exercising restraint—his fingers were strong and could probably have broken her bones to release the ring. But though he’d twisted with more than enough force to remove even the most stubborn of jewelry, the ring stayed put.
He dropped her hand. “You can’t wear it. Not in the city. If anyone sees—”
“Believe me, I don’t want it.” Perchaya twisted the ring as hard as she could, making her knuckles ache. But still the ring held fast, as if it had become an extension of her bone. She stared down at it and then up at him, terror cutting through her like a cold wind. He was right. She couldn’t wear this in the city. She couldn’t wear it anywhere. So many had died for the sin of harboring Drim that all were quick to point fingers.
“What have you done to me?” she asked. “It came off for you.”
Kenton’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at her hand, as if the ring offended him. He shook his head. “I must have missed something. I’ll have to . . .” He trailed off, moving to the end of the alley and scanning the street ahead again. “I’ll fix this. I’ll find someone who knows how to remove it. Or I can go back to my source, though the book is back in Peldenar and—”
The strangled bird voice returned. “All the way in Peldenar—” It might take him a month to travel there and back.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m not going to leave you like this. I promise you that.”
If she returned to Reisa, she’d only put her family in more danger. But there wasn’t anywhere in the city for her to go where she might not be recognized as Reisa’s sister, visiting from the north, and the gates were all being carefully watched. She couldn’t try to exit through one wearing a Drim ring.
Perchaya wanted to yell at Kenton. She’d stayed hidden all these years, and now he might as well have posted a sign on her advertising her identity. But he looked as startled by the whole thing as she was, and she realized that he, too, must have spent his life hiding. Fearing the day that the wrong people found out who he was.
“If anyone sees,” she said, “they’ll accuse me of blood magic.”
Kenton nodded. “But Diamis is the blood mage. He framed our families for his own crimes.”
She had a hard time believing that, with as staunchly as the Lord General spoke out against blood magic. On the other hand, there was a priest of Arkista back home in Dov who gave long sermons against the evils of drink, but who always smelled of elderberry wine.
“Is it really true?” Perchaya asked. “About Maldorath?”
“Unfortunately. I’ve been in Castle Peldenar. I’ve seen the place where he’s sealed away.” He met eyes with her again, and Perchaya felt she never wanted him to look away. “He raised a body and wanted to kill me. He said he’d been looking for me.”
“Maldorath,” Perchaya said. “The God of Blood, he . . . spoke to you.”
Kenton nodded. “It was years ago, but it happened.”
“And you’ve been running ever since.”
Kenton looked a bit alarmed, and she gathered that he was used to being the one who knew everything.
That must be exhausting. And more dangerous than holing up in a place where you were loved, even dangerous as that could be to everyone involved.
“I live with my sister and her husband,” Perchaya said, “and they know what I am. They won’t hurt me, or turn me in.” She could stay inside, and out of sight. Under the circumstances, it would be the least danger to them all.
“I’ll take you home, then,” he said. “And I’ll figure it out. I promise.”
Perchaya bit her lip. “You already know where I live.”
He nodded, almost guiltily. And Perchaya tried to force a smile, though it came out as awkwardly as their first interactions.
Kenton leaned toward her, his voice both comforting and conspiratorial. “You and me and the godbearers. We’re all that stands between the world and the second Age of Blood.” He smiled. “Together, we’re going to save them all.”
Five
Kenton Del Moro navigated the back alleys of Drepaine, staying clear of soldiers and away from the main canals with their tall narrow buildings leaning against each other like crooked teeth. It had been two days since he’d slipped the damn ring onto Perchaya’s finger—two days since he’d finally found the only other living Drim, as far as he knew.
Two days since, upon meeting her, he’d immediately marked her for death.
Kenton kept to the shadows. As he moved, he saw a couple skirmishes—guards roughing up passersby, most of whom he was sure had nothing to do with the rebel resistance. For their part, the resistance seemed to be lying low, letting the common people take the brunt of the consequences for their little rebellion. He should have expected as much from a group who couldn’t even manage to shoot the right girl.
Kenton’s first priority had to be Perchaya. Now there were two of them—two Drim that Diamis would need to complete whatever rituals he needed to release Maldorath. Kenton was unaccustomed to having others to protect; he avoided all entanglements. His life was far too dangerous for company and his mission far too important for distractions.
He couldn’t afford to care about anyone.
If only he had the first clue how to remove that blasted ring. Personally, if Kenton had created a ring that sometimes permanently attached itself to the wearer, he would have labeled it as such in huge letters. But the runes on the ring itself were Drimmish for protection, hardly a warning sufficient to have prevented this disaster.
Kenton had gone to his local contacts for aid, but the texts to be had here were useless on the subject.
Kenton had one more lead to follow, though it wasn’t a particularly promising one. A Vorgalian mage might know enough of magic rings in general to provide some insight, even if Vorgalian and Drimmish magic were far different from one another. Fortunately for him, this tenuous lead was tied into another source of information that he needed to follow up on, for completely different reasons.
Though perhaps not so different, he thought, pausing in the shadows of a closed-up silversmith shop to make sure there weren’t any soldiers patrolling the street ahead. Diamis needed to find the remaining Drim to release Maldorath, and Kenton needed to find the bearers of the gods to stop him—and this contact might have a lead to one of them.
A lone cart passed by, driven by a nervous-looking man taking the whip a bit too hard to his horse, but other than that and a small pack of dogs poking through rubbish a few shops down, the street was quiet. At the end of the road, the pure white spire of the temple of Arkista jutted high into the air. The moon was still several hours from rising, and so the temple courtyard was silent but for the few remaining priestesses preparing for the evening’s Temple Walk. Kenton made his way swiftly down the narrow street to the magic shop tucked neatly away between an apothecary and courier service, both closed for the day.
As he suspected, the Vorgalian’s shop was still open. Vorgalian mages famously didn’t claim any homeland but Vorgale, regardless of where they’d been born and raised. They gave up their family names and were carefully neutral in all political situations outside of their mysterious home. It afforded them a kind of immunity during a situation like the current one in Drepaine, though Kenton guessed in practice it was less due to their official neutrality and more due to the soldiers’ general discomfort with the thought of harassing a mage.
Kenton pulled open the door, and the door charm sounded the trill of a bird he’d only ever heard in western Mortiche. The shop smelled of a strange blend of copper and lemon, but Vorgalian shops always reeked of some unusual mix of scents. Vorgalians were incredibly secretive about the specific creation process of their magicked items, but one thing obvious to all was that it was pungent.
Kenton eyed the charms dangling from hooks in the wall—on the first hook, heating charms for cooking or bathing, though these were too expensive for regular use for most people. Another hook held wind charms, the type for cooling a room or to ventilate fires. Sound charms came after, like that on the door or one that could magnify the voice of whoever spoke with the small coin-like piece pressed to their throat.
He was wondering about one pendant—a small quartz-like stone wrapped in a blue feather—claiming to render one’s movements completely silent, when the mage stepped out from the back room, her skirt swishing against the wood floor.
If they worked, apparently she wasn’t wearing one.
“I have no more door-strengthening charms,” the woman said in a tone only a step down from hostile. Her dark eyes were lined with a heavy application of kohl. Her hair was hidden behind the purple Vorgalian hood that framed her face and came down to a point just above her nose.
“Good thing I already have a strong door,” Kenton said. He lightly traced the edge of the feather on the pendant. “And trustworthy locks. Not that the soldiers have been forcibly invading homes yet, that I’ve seen.”
The mage frowned. “Fear sells.” She didn’t sound particularly happy about it, though. She turned away from him to straighten a few ever-burning candles into a neat stack, and Kenton noticed a small painting on the wall of a house covered in lush green ivy, with mountains in the distance. The kind of house one might find in Mortiche, near Jenaium.
Perhaps this mage allowed herself some reminders of her previous life.
“I see you have some interest in that silence charm. Most powerful in all of Andronim.” The mage smiled thinly, as if remembering that profit could still be made, even from one stupid or cocky enough to be traipsing the streets alone on a day like this.
Kenton tried to look impressed, though he knew well that the charms and baubles and potions sold in magic shops were hardly the most powerful that Vorgalians could create. They saved the real power, like the secrets of their magic, for themselves.
“Not today. My employer has a specific request regarding his wife.” Kenton found that posing as a hired hand generally reduced scrutiny, and he had worked often enough as a bodyguard over the years to confidently play the part.
The mage narrowed her eyes. “If he’s wishing for something to increase his virility, he’d be better off going to the apothecary next door.”
Kenton shook his head. “Nothing like that. My master’s wife is with child, and a family heirloom ring has suddenly become a bit snug on her finger. It’s too pricey a piece to cut, so he thought to check if there is some kind of charm or potion that can manipulate metal to remove it.”
The mage pursed her lips, while a flicker of movement over her shoulder from the open door at the back of her shop drew Kenton’s attention. A stocky, middle-aged man stood in the doorway, his eyes wide in surprise at seeing Kenton here, in the shop where the man worked as an assistant.
Colm, the other source Kenton needed to speak with. Usually he set up meetings with Colm via less public methods, but there was no reason to waste a trip to this end of town when he could hopefully accomplish both things at once. Kenton scratched at the back of his ear, deliberately meeting Colm’s eyes. Colm gave the barest of nods and disappeared into the back of the shop.
The mage considered the request long enough that Kenton felt a sliver of hope. Then she shook her head. “No, I have nothing that could do that. Have you tried lard?” She smirked at the last bit.
Kenton fought to keep the irritation from his face. “I doubt my master will take kindly to my bringing back nothing but lard. Is there anything else that might work? If there are magical rings that can shrink and expand to fit, perhaps using the same methods—”
“There are no magic rings that do such a thing, outside of child’s tales,” the mage replied. “I’m afraid I can’t help your employer, unless he wants something I actually have in my shop.”
Kenton let out a breath. There very clearly was at least one ring that could do such a thing, but he supposed it was outside of her expertise. Here was another way in which Diamis had made things difficult: he’d murdered everyone who might have been able to answer Kenton’s questions.
Kenton’s eyes flicked once more to the feathered charm that supposedly masked the sound of movement. Something like that could come in handy, but he wasn’t fond of trusting his life to a bit of magicked rubbish he barely understood. He shook his head. “Not today. Thank you for your help.”
The disappointment wasn’t particularly unexpected, given that it was the last effort short of giving Perchaya a pair of gloves, but it sat heavy on his shoulders nonetheless. He had little hope that speaking with Colm would net him any better information.
Kenton made his way to the tavern a few streets away, slowly, as he figured it would take a bit for Colm to make up a reason to leave the shop—a delivery he needed to make, perhaps, though Kenton didn’t particularly care what the excuse was, as long as it was convincing. Kenton couldn’t stay out on the streets much longer. There was always the chance a blood mage might be watching through the eyes of that Vorgalian, in which case it would only take the time for the mage to tip off the soldiers before they came after him.
He hoped the mage was careful with her blood, because Diamis would surely love to learn the secrets of a Vorgalian.
The tavern was open, but a quick glance through the bottle-glass windows showed it to be nearly empty. Kenton decided to circle the block again rather than go inside and attract attention as the lone patron. When he came back around, Colm was leaning against the outside wall of the tavern, munching on an apple i
n an obvious attempt to look casual. He caught sight of Kenton and lowered the apple, his eyes darting around nervously. Kenton wasn’t sure whether the man was more worried about being caught by the guards or the mage.
At least Kenton could be fairly certain he wasn’t a blood puppet. The man wasn’t particularly stealthy or clever and tended to make those around him too nervous to leave him in places where he might see something useful.
Besides, Kenton had interacted with Colm before and was still alive.
“I didn’t expect to see you in the shop,” Colm said. Sweat beaded along his receding hairline.
“My employer has concerns,” Kenton said with a small shrug. “But those concerns aren’t yours. Do you have anything new for me?”
Colm’s eyes darted around, and Kenton resisted the urge to roll his own. Searching for information on the bearers—even on behalf of some made-up employer who was a secretive religious scholar—was definitely something Kenton wanted to keep quiet, but it was Colm’s demeanor, not Kenton’s secrets, that was going to draw the guards.
“I heard,” Colm said, leaning so unnecessarily close that Kenton could smell rotting bits of the man’s dinner, “that the rebels didn’t kill the princess after all.” He sniffed dramatically. “They got the wrong girl.”
This time Kenton gave in to the urge to roll his eyes. He dearly hoped Colm had some information that Kenton hadn’t witnessed for himself. He wished they’d gotten her—Diamis’ daughter. Knowing that unnatural creature was dead and gone would have put Kenton’s mind at ease. The girl wearing the deep green dress who stepped from the carriage had been far from where he stood, but he knew it was her. That long-ago image had flashed in his mind so vividly he could smell the salty metallic tang of blood. “Unless you think the princess is a godbearer,” Kenton said, “I’m going to have to question why you think that’s relevant.”
Colm gave a shaky nod and went on. “I also heard a rumor about a girl in Sevairn who can remain underwater for near an hour.”