Godfire

by Cara Witter

  They continued in silence for several blocks before Saara heaved a sigh. “I sincerely hope you know where you’re taking us. And it better be somewhere decent.”

  Nikaenor snorted. “I think in this town, the term ‘decent’ might be relative.”

  “Well, maybe dry would be a better description,” Jaeme said. He didn’t actually know where they were going, but unlike either of his companions, he was used to entering new towns and finding lodgings. He looked over his shoulder to reassure Saara—or to mock her, he hadn’t decided—when he caught sight of another cloaked figure, farther down the street.

  The man wore a cloak over a robe, even in the dark, Jaeme recognized the purple hood coming to point on his forehead as the regalia of a mage from Vorgale. It was common enough to spot a Vorgalian in a town this size, though less so in their official robes. And especially wandering the streets in a downpour like this, though the man did seem to have tucked himself under the eaves. The lantern light from a nearby dwelling caught his face, and Jaeme could see that his skin was decorated with circles of intricate tattoos.

  But what drew Jaeme’s attention was not the markings, but the rapt way the man was watching them. And as Jaeme met his eyes, the man didn’t look away.

  Instead he smiled.

  Hairs rose on the back of Jaeme’s neck, despite the heat that hung around them even now that the sun was set. He beckoned his companions forward. “Come on,” he said. “Less complaining and more walking.” He led them confidently down the street, determined now to buy them all rooms at the first inn they reached, no matter how third-rate.

  Any shelter would be better than being exposed on the street.

  Thirty-three

  Kenton’s companions were clearly relieved to reach the town of Bothran, but Kenton didn’t share the sentiment. He was accustomed to traveling in unpleasant conditions, and entering the town significantly raised their chances of being spotted by one of Diamis’ blood puppets. Still, they needed supplies, and Kenton was about one complaint of sore legs or wet clothes away from abandoning them all and letting the world go to rot.

  Behind him he heard Perchaya and Daniella murmuring to each other. Perchaya laughed lightly and Kenton’s shoulders tightened. The two of them had formed some kind of bond which bothered Kenton to no end. Daniella had confessed to having powers she neither understood nor could likely control, and that was if she was being honest. If she was lying, they could be in for a surprise that would make Erich’s paralysis charm look like a fun festival game.

  Yet, even knowing that, he couldn’t do anything but allow her to continue with them. Kenton needed Sayvil, and Sayvil wouldn’t leave Daniella behind. Besides, Sayvil was right. He wasn’t about to return a weapon to Diamis.

  Now Perchaya, too, would resist his ditching Daniella at the earliest opportunity. He had enjoyed Perchaya’s companionship on the road down from Drepaine, but now that Daniella and Sayvil had joined them, he remembered why he preferred to travel alone.

  The road, which had been churned to mud from the rainstorm, seemed to become even muddier as they entered the large town. The few people still on the streets barely lifted their dirty, scowling faces to acknowledge four travelers on horseback. Bothran was well known for its black-market wares and abundance of knife-fights, but it was a main traveling stop between Sevairn and Foroclae. Another group of cloaked travelers didn’t surprise the townspeople in the slightest, granting them crucial anonymity.

  Kenton dismounted in front of an inn, and the others did likewise. Leaving the women outside with the horses momentarily, he entered the inn and dropped enough money for the two remaining rooms and boarding for the horses. The Sevairnese buds he handed over were eyed warily and bitten twice each before entering the purse of the lanky innkeeper.

  Kenton returned to where the women waited, looking around with varying expressions of nervousness. “All right, we’ve got rooms and stables, so let’s get the horses taken care of and then we can see if we’re here too late to gather supplies.”

  A rumble of thunder accompanied his statement.

  Daniella groaned, and he narrowed his eyes. “Any time you want to leave, Princess, go right ahead.” It was a lie, as he would never allow her to flee back to her father, but he liked her to think it was by her choice that she stayed with them. If anything, his reminder usually cut down on the complaining.

  Perchaya glared at him. “Kenton, stop it.”

  “Yes,” Daniella said. “Before I decide to take up residence in Bothran and tell the tale of you to everyone with a listening ear.”

  “Enough, both of you!” Perchaya said firmly. “As much as Sayvil and I love hearing you bicker, I suggest we start getting supplies before we decide to leave you both here to drown.”

  Fat drops of rain fell onto Kenton’s hair and against his cheeks. Apparently, the conditions were wearing on Perchaya as well—her tone was far sharper than he was used to from her. He nodded to her and turned without another word, leading his horse around the inn.

  They found food easily enough despite the evening hour, as well as some breeches and tunics of thick wool that would suffice, although from the clear look of distaste Daniella gave the outfits, they didn’t live up to her standards. They also picked up a cloak for Sayvil, who was used to the colder climate in Andronim and had previously scoffed at the suggestion that she might need protection from the elements here in the south. Kenton hadn’t even tried to disabuse her of the notion, rightly assuming she’d come to see reason on her own.

  The rain had gotten worse by the time they left the clothier, and the shopkeeper locked the door behind them, closing up for the night. Far fewer people were conducting business on the street—and those who were appeared to favor the local pubs. A brawl erupted among four men just feet away from them, and the girls backed up, wide-eyed, as daggers were drawn. Kenton placed himself between them and the fight and quickly ushered them away from it.

  “All right,” Kenton said, digging into his light purse. “We have enough for a hot meal tonight, but if we’re not careful . . .”

  He looked over and saw Sayvil peering down the street at cloaked figures coming toward them.

  Well, one of them was wearing a proper cloak—a woman, Kenton guessed by her size. Beside her walked a man with an impressive looking sword strapped to his side, seemingly oblivious to the rain dripping from his hair. Behind them followed a person with multiple thick cloaks piled on top of their head, forming a kind of tent and concealing their personage entirely.

  Kenton wouldn’t have given the group a second glance—odd attire notwithstanding—were it not for the rapt way Sayvil was watching them. Kenton ducked close to her, shielding his eyes from the rain with one hand. Behind them, Daniella and Perchaya bundled themselves under the eaves of a smithy.

  “You know them?” Kenton asked.

  Sayvil didn’t even bother to look toward him. “I feel like I do.”

  Kenton’s heart picked up. There were three of them. He’d been expecting to have to find the bearers one at a time, but they should be drawn together. Perhaps—

  The man with the sword stole a look over his shoulder that was calculatingly casual. And that’s when Kenton saw the man farther down the street, wearing a Vorgalian cowl and robes.

  Sayvil followed his eyeline and swore.

  Kenton glanced over at her. “What?”

  She grabbed Kenton by the arm, hauling him back from the eaves alongside Perchaya and Daniella. “He’s the one from the alley—the Vorgalian mage I knocked out with the sleeping powder. He works for Diamis.”

  Daniella looked up with a start, following Sayvil’s steady gaze. Her eyes grew wide, and she shrank back into the space between the buildings, pulling a confused Perchaya with her. Kenton stepped into the alley—a space no more than two feet wide. “You,” he said to Daniella. “Tell me what you know about him.” Fighting
a Vorgalian could be an unpleasant experience, but if Kenton knew the man’s specialty and could avoid being caught in one of those paralysis charms—

  “Lukos—” Daniella sputtered. “He’s the one I heard talking in the chamber. The blood mage. I don’t know anything else about him, not really.”

  Ice ran along Kenton’s spine, and he cursed. A Vorgalian working for Diamis was bad enough—that particular Vorgalian was far worse.

  Perchaya moved to look down the street, but Kenton blocked her way. The last thing he needed was all four of them gawking and drawing the mage’s attention.

  Perchaya shivered. “But how could he have followed us here?”

  They both looked at Daniella, who was shaking visibly. “I don’t think—He said he couldn’t control me—”

  Kenton glared at her. “Do you have another explanation?”

  Sayvil spoke from behind him, still hiding under the eaves of the smithy. “He’s not watching us. If he could see through Daniella’s eyes, he’d be coming straight for us. But instead—” She stepped back into the space between the buildings as the woman, the man with the sword, and the overly-cloaked figure passed them up the street.

  Followed by Lukos, who didn’t even spare them a glance.

  Sayvil cast a harsh look back at Kenton. “We need to know what he’s doing here. Come on.”

  Much as Kenton didn’t like to admit it, Sayvil had a point. He could see Lukos striding around an empty street stall up the road, his focus fixed ahead, paying Kenton’s group no mind.

  He was following people who might be the other three bearers. Gods, had Diamis beaten him to them?

  Kenton put a hand on Sayvil’s shoulder. “The rest of you stay here. You can take the back streets up to the inn and meet me there. I’ll follow and—”

  “No,” Sayvil said. “I have to protect them.”

  Kenton stared at her for a moment. The ferocity in her eyes, the insistence in her voice—it surpassed even her bullheadedness about escorting Daniella out of the castle. As if . . . as if she were being compelled.

  But how would the other chosen have attracted the mage’s attention? Were all four of them fool enough to tangle with Diamis?

  Cursing all four of the gods in one breath, Kenton turned back to Perchaya. With Lukos nearby, he couldn’t leave Perchaya alone without risking her life, even if the mage wasn’t yet aware of their presence.

  “Follow at a distance,” he said to her. “And watch your back. Don’t get out of yelling range in case you run into trouble, but stay far enough back that Lukos doesn’t catch sight of either of you. Understood?”

  Perchaya nodded and pulled her cloak farther down over her face. Daniella didn’t acknowledge the instructions, but she concealed her face further as well.

  That would have to be good enough.

  Kenton nudged Sayvil out into the street, and as soon as he did, Sayvil was off, striding down the street to keep up with Lukos. Kenton had to pull back on her shoulder, urging her to slow down.

  Fortunately, she did. As they followed Lukos, who followed the odd companions in the direction of the inn, Sayvil even managed to summon something of an air of nonchalance, although Kenton could tell from the briskness in her step that she was forcing it.

  Ahead, Kenton saw the man with the sword glance back again, this time unable to disguise the alarm on his face as Lukos closed in on them.

  Kenton rested his own hand on his sword, cursing the gods anew for selecting bearers who didn’t have the sense to steer clear of tyrants and blood mages.

  Thirty-four

  Jaeme stepped into the lead, drawing Saara and Nikaenor along with him. Normally he wouldn’t have pegged a single Vorgalian mage as a threat, but as they wove through the rain, the abandoned carts, and the few other passersby, the man was clearly stalking them with purpose. Jaeme had no idea what a mage in a Sevairnese border town might want with him. Saara hadn’t been on the mainland long enough to earn enemies, and Jaeme couldn’t imagine why anyone might want to threaten Nikaenor—unless they’d caught a glimpse of his scales. But the boy had done an admirable job covering up, even if he did look ridiculous.

  Starting to doubt himself, Jaeme glanced over his shoulder again.

  No. The mage’s focus was clearly fixed on them, and each step was bringing him closer. Jaeme picked up his pace again, wishing for his armor, wondering if he should already have drawn his sword. It was possible the mage only wanted to talk to them, but just looking at him raised hairs on Jaeme’s neck, even as water coursed down it from the pouring rain.

  Whatever the man wanted to say, Jaeme didn’t want to stick around and find out.

  As they moved into a market square, Jaeme was surprised to see that a few of the buildings had small groups of armed men tucked up under the eaves, out of the rain. The occasional group of ruffians wasn’t a huge surprise in a place like Bothran, and it made sense that they’d want to stay dry, but what alarmed him was the way each group turned toward him, a few of them placing their hands on their swords. And then, out of one of the alleys behind a closed market stall stepped one of the men he’d seen smoking near the gate.

  Gods. The mage wasn’t alone.

  And this time, when Jaeme glanced back at the mage, he saw several cloaked figures gathering behind him, following purposefully in the same direction.

  They were nearly surrounded.

  A chill spread over his skin even though the night was still warm. Jaeme stepped toward a narrow alley. “We need to move faster,” Jaeme said, covering his mouth with his hand as he spoke, under the guise of wiping away water.

  Jaeme saw Saara turn back for Nikaenor and urge him forward. The poor boy couldn’t walk much faster when he could hardly see his own feet underneath the pile of cloaks, and Jaeme wasn’t keen to find out what kind of a panic they’d start if he revealed his soggy form in the middle of town.

  Even if the only people Jaeme could see at this moment already seemed eager to apprehend them.

  As they walked faster, Saara’s hand tightened around Nikaenor’s arm. She was clearly doing her best to help him keep up, but her grip caused the cloaks to slip slightly, and Nikaenor stopped to readjust them.

  “Come on,” Jaeme said.

  But it was too late. The Vorgalian stepped into the alley behind them, approaching Nikaenor. Nikaenor spun around and the cloak slipped, revealing a scaly arm. Jaeme reached to draw his sword, but the man closed in on Nikaenor quickly, grabbing the boy’s arm and yanking him violently toward him.

  Saara grabbed Nikaenor by the other arm, trying to pull him away from the mage. “Hey!” she yelled. “Leave him alone!”

  The mage gave her a wicked smile. “I’m going to suggest you come with me.”

  Jaeme drew his sword, though in the tight confines of the alley, he couldn’t get past Nikaenor or Saara to use it effectively. “I think we’ll pass.”

  The mage’s grip on Nikaenor’s arm tightened, and the cloaks slipped further, barely covering the boy’s head. The mage wrestled with him, grabbing Nikaenor’s arm with both hands. Nikaenor cried out, and Jaeme calculated how to push Saara against the wall and charge through to protect Nikaenor, when suddenly the mage stepped back and away—but not before Jaeme caught sight of something glinting in his hands.

  A vial.

  Poison?

  Nikaenor’s body went limp, and Saara reached out to steady him. He remained on his feet. Jaeme had no idea what the mage was playing at, but they could figure it out after they got away. As the man backed off, Jaeme hurried along the alleyway again, his companions stumbling after him.

  “He cut me,” Nikaenor sputtered. “He cut my arm.”

  Jaeme knew there were poisons that could enter the bloodstream through stabbing. But why would anyone want to poison Nikaenor, of all people? Even if someone had seen a hint of his scales, that should have rais
ed general alarm, not calculated attacks.

  Or maybe the man wasn’t injecting something into his blood. Maybe he’d been taking his blood.

  Jaeme wasn’t sure which would be worse.

  As they reached the end of the space between the buildings, a heavy stench hung in the air. Jaeme emerged from the alley, still clutching his sword in his hand, and promptly stepped in a pile of dung. Ahead he could see block after block of livestock pens, many of them filled with cattle, though a few were occupied by overlarge swine.

  The rain was letting up now, which might work against them as they escaped. Nikaenor followed on Saara and Jaeme’s heels, but he was fumbling with the cloak, which had continued to slip with the increased pace.

  The clouds thinned a bit, enough that the faint impression of the moon was barely visible. In the increased light, on the far side of the stockyard, Jaeme could see shadowed figures gathering in the intersections and alleyways. And while Jaeme couldn’t see the mage behind them, he was certain he and his cloaked companions were still there, waiting in the dark.

  Gods. They’d taken the only route left available to them, but they hadn’t been escaped. They’d been driven here, like the cattle, to a quarter of the city few would have reason to enter in the night, in the rain.

  Jaeme gripped his sword, and he saw Saara draw her dagger beside him. Nikaenor had a hunting knife, he knew, but the boy was still preoccupied with his cloaks. Jaeme was confident he could take on a number of the guards by himself, but he’d never seen Saara fight, and they were more than a little outnumbered. It was far, far too late to suggest that they hide, and Jaeme couldn’t see a single clear direction they could run.