by K.N. Lee
“Shut up.” She whacked his arm playfully and he laughed.
“I’m serious, Isabelle. You have a Gift. One that, if you use it right, may win you the tournament.”
Isabelle heard the capital in Gift. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone has a Gift,” Silvan said. “Something they’re exceptionally good at. Their calling. The trick is figuring out what it is.” He strode over to retrieve the arrows. Isabelle watched him as he walked. He wore black, form fitting trousers and a baggy white shirt, the drawstrings loosely tied. Fetching the arrows, he brought them back to her. “Here.” He glanced at the sky. “We should start traveling again. If we cut across the country, we should make it in time for the tournament. We’ll pass close to Lady Ebony’s mansion.”
“The baroness?” Isabelle felt a flicker of interest. She’d never met nobility before, aside from the Fabled Hunters. “Won’t she be attending the tournament as well?”
“Yes, she will,” Silvan said. “That or she’ll send someone to act in her place if she doesn’t. She probably won’t have left yet, and when she does, she’ll have the luxury of traveling by horse-drawn carriage.”
“Too bad we can’t fly,” Isabelle sighed.
Silvan glanced at her sharply, his pale brow furrowed. “What makes you say that?”
Isabelle shrugged her shoulders, startled by his reaction. “Because we have a long way to walk and I might miss the tourney? I wouldn’t like being a bird all the time, but it’d be nice to switch back and forth as needed.”
“Ah.” Silvan nodded at her clarification and they walked in silence, Ash shadowing them from behind.
Isabelle bit her lower lip, wondering about what lay ahead. She still didn’t have anything to offer the king. She’d completed a quest with Jack, but he was gone, and so was the chicken. She would have to complete her own quest. Maybe her Gift would help her. Isabelle glanced at the tall man striding along beside her. His shirt hid the definition of his muscles, but she’d felt his strength. “What’s your Gift, Silvan?”
The man looked briefly at her, pushing a lock of silver hair out of his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“You know what mine is, tell me about yours.”
His smiled widened. Only a blind woman could miss how handsome he was. “It’s a secret.”
“Silvan.” Isabelle frowned at him with mock severity and he laughed.
“Maybe I’ll tell you some day.”
He was silent after that and she didn’t try to engage him in conversation. Isabelle thought about the tournament, and wondered what she could do to qualify.
22
Isabelle flopped herself on the ground with a groan. By Silvan’s approximation they’d traveled over seventy miles in the past week. Her legs were sore. “Even Jack didn’t push us this hard,” she grumbled.
“Jack didn’t get himself turned in a bird either,” Silvan countered. He’d been picking up dry twigs and branches as they walked for the past half hour and now cleared a spot on the ground to make a fire. Isabelle gathered some stones to form a ring around the pit.
“Tell me about yourself, Silvan,” Isabelle said, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
He fumbled and dropped some branches but recovered quickly, piling them in a tidy stack.
“There’s not much to tell,” he said smoothly. “I’m a traveler of sorts. I try to help people who need it.”
“By destroying cities?” Isabelle arched an eyebrow at him and he frowned back.
“I didn’t say I always succeeded. I—”
He broke off mid-sentence, head snapping up in alarm. Isabelle opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong, but he hushed her with a warning glance.
A moment later Ash rose to a crouch, her lips peeling back as a guttural snarl rose from her throat. She stared at the trees to the left of them.
Isabelle snatched up her bow in alarm as several men dashed out of the trees, yelling battle cries. Clad in armor they held swords aloft as they bore down on Isabelle.
Isabelle fell back, fumbling for an arrow. One of the men was so close she could see the whites of his eyes.
Ash leaped to defend Isabelle, but Silvan was quicker. His sword left its scabbard with a smooth hiss and flicking the blade, slipped it in a gap of the armor, impaling the attacker. The man fell, uselessly clutching at his wound.
Silvan darted with startling speed to meet the next ambusher. This one met him with steel, but the silver haired man moved like a snake, striking a mortal blow before the other man could parry.
Silvan lunged at the next two men with a snarl, his sword humming with his speed. The men defended themselves but it was clear they only had moments to live. A third man charged at Silvan’s back, his sword aimed for Silvan’s neck.
Isabelle aimed her arrow, prepared to shoot the man, but as if reading her thoughts Silvan spun around and pulled a knife from his boot. He hurtled it in a deadly arc toward the man, hitting him squarely in the chest. The other two were already dead.
The remaining attacker turned and scrambled back toward the cover of trees. Silvan reached him in a few easy strides, sticking him clean through with his blade.
It was over. Isabelle felt sick looking at the men. So much death. So much blood. Silvan had killed them all. Even Ash looked thunderstruck, staring at Silvan with wide golden eyes.
“Silvan?” Isabelle said quietly. She walked over to him, careful not to touch any of the bodies. Silvan stood over the body of the last man he’d killed, his head bowed, his breath ragged. “Are you okay?” She reached to touch his shoulder.
Though there wasn’t any way he could see her, he recoiled from her hand, spinning around to face her. “Don't touch me!” he howled, his face twisted in rage. Isabelle stumbled back in shock. His irises were red. Silvan panted as if he’d run a thousand miles, his body rigid. He clutched his sword like a lifeline. “Don’t … touch … give me a moment.”
He stumbled away from her as if drunk, running for the trees where he disappeared. Isabelle stared after him, her limbs beginning to shake as the rush of adrenaline left her. What was wrong with Silvan? She didn’t know, but she strongly suspected she had just glimpsed the reason Tyro had called him a “demon.”
She went back to sit by the fire, wrapping her trembling arms around herself, suddenly cold. Ash lay down next to her, as if trying to comfort Isabelle with her presence.
Silvan wasn’t gone for very long. He returned less than a half hour later, appearing so suddenly both Isabelle and Ash flinched, startled.
“How are you feeling?” he asked Isabelle, his voice gentle. He sat across from her, the fire flickering between them. “Did any of them hurt you?” His eyes were blue again.
“I should ask you the same thing,” Isabelle said. She eyed the slaughtered men uneasily. “You … killed them all. Without help. Are you hurt?” She already knew the answer.
“No.” Silvan watched her, his eyes wary.
“How?” She glanced back at the dead bodies. “Silvan, you just killed six armed men and they didn’t even scratch you. How?”
Silvan shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” He looked away, and Isabelle’s eyes lingered on his angular profile. “It’s a dangerous world, Isabelle. You learn to fight, or you die.”
“I know that,” Isabelle said hastily. “I was about to shoot one, but you got him first.”
Silvan picked up a stick and poked it in the fire, watching the tip blacken and burn. “And were you prepared to kill another human?”
“If he hurt you, yes,” Isabelle said, immediately wishing the words back. Silvan smiled at her, clearly amused, and she almost fell over herself trying to clarify. “It’s not because I like you or anything. Or that you’re good looking.” Magic save her, she was a fool. Silvan laughed and Isabelle stared into the fire, hoping he didn’t notice her blush. Perhaps she was sitting too close to the flames. It was getting quite warm. “I still owe you,” she said. “For breaking my curse.”
; “I see.” Silvan smirked at her, hopefully unaware of how it tied her stomach in knots. “How inconsiderate of me to kill him then.”
Isabelle nodded. “Very.” She stopped, casting another look at the slain men, feeling guilty. “We shouldn’t joke about it.”
“You’re right.” Silvan nodded, his humor dropping from his face like a discarded mask. He frowned. “What I don’t know is why they went for you first. They ignored me and the wolf.”
Isabelle shrugged. “They probably thought I wasn’t a threat.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Silvan’s eyes narrowed. “If you weren’t a threat they would have gone for me or Ash. They would have taken out the most dangerous first. That’s the logical thing to do.” He glanced at Ash. The wolf stared back at him. “I think they were specifically after you,” Silvan said after a moment. He dropped the rest of the stick he was holding into the fire and stood, stretching his long arms above his head. “I’m going to search them and see what I can find.”
Several minutes later Silvan returned, a torn piece of cloth in his hand. He handed it to Isabelle. “I found this on their tunics.” It depicted an embroidered raven, wings spread and talons extended as if attacking. “Lady Ebony’s insignia,” Isabelle said blankly. “Why would they attack us?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Perhaps they thought we were bandits?” Isabelle couldn’t think of a better reason.
“Perhaps,” Silvan agreed, but he looked troubled. He shrugged his shoulders. “At any rate, it’s time to sleep. We should leave this place in the morning.”
Isabelle shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. “Sleep here? With them lying there?” She jerked her head in the direction of the dead men.
“I wouldn’t worry about any others. I think they were the only men out here.” Silvan misunderstood the reason for her apprehension.
“No, I mean, they’re…” She trailed off.
“Oh.” Silvan offered her his hand, helping her to her feet. He glanced up at the sky. Most of it was blocked by the trees, but the moon had come out, casting its pale light on the world. “I don’t mind walking for a bit.”
Ash trotted in front of them while Isabelle walked hand in hand with Silvan. His hand was cool and dry to the touch, his fingers curled around hers. Isabelle felt secure. She was safe with this strange, silver-haired man.
They walked in comfortable silence for a couple of hours before Ash found a suitable area for sleeping. Isabelle lay down, wrapping her cloak around herself, too exhausted to pull her blanket out. It wasn’t until sleep was creeping over her that she realized she’d never asked Silvan why his eyes had turned red.
23
The afternoon following the day of their attack found them in the city of Mortim. It was a dark city, the walls made of black stone. The guards were wearing the same uniform as the men who attacked Isabelle, and she shivered any time they marched by her and Silvan.
The blue-eyed man seemed ill at ease as well, though Isabelle suspected for different reasons. He made a point to not touch anyone they brushed past in the crowded streets, and actually flinched when merchants and peddlers called out to him.
“I’m not a city person,” he said through gritted teeth when Isabelle asked him about it.
“We can leave if you’re that uncomfortable,” Isabelle said, but he shook his head.
They came to an inn called the Flying Frog. Isabelle laughed when she saw the name. The faded sign depicted a frog with wings, soaring above a pond. “How silly.”
The innkeeper was a rail thin woman with a face that made Isabelle think of a frog: big bulbous eyes and thick lips that turned down at the corners. When Silvan asked for two rooms, the price was so high Isabelle almost swallowed her tongue, but Silvan reached into his belt pouch without hesitating and forked out the silver.
The woman had sniffed disapprovingly on discovering Isabelle and Silvan weren’t married and their rooms were on opposite ends of the halls. Both were gray, shabby looking rooms, each with a single, narrow bed.
Isabelle tossed her pack at the foot of her bed, putting her bow near the top within easy reach if needed. Silvan knocked on her door, coming in only after she invited him.
“Congratulations, your room looks even more depressing than mine,” he said, turning in a slow circle as he surveyed his surroundings. “I think the innkeeper gave me the nicer room on purpose. She has a thing for silver hair.”
Isabelle laughed, chucking the thin pillow at him. He caught it and threw it back so quickly it caught her in the face.
Isabelle sputtered in shock and grabbing the pillow with both hands, began whaling on him.
Silvan chortled, and grabbed Isabelle by the wrists, halting her onslaught. “As tempting as being bludgeoned half to death by a rock hard pillow may be, I’m going to have to pass. I still need to find out why we were attacked by Lady Ebony’s men.”
Isabelle’s smile slid from her face as she remembered. “Where are you going to search for answers?”
“The taverns. I’ll come back and let you know what I find out.”
“Why don’t I come with you?” Isabelle asked, and scowled when he laughed at her.
“You’d best stay here. Taverns are seedy and unpredictable at best,” he said.
“Jack was overprotective too,” Isabelle grumbled.
“And did you listen?” Silvan still looked amused.
Isabelle felt her face redden, remembering the curse. “No.”
“How did that turn out?”
Isabelle didn’t answer.
Silvan’s smile faded to be replaced by a speculative look. “Tell you what. You listen for rumors in the marketplace while I check the taverns, then we’ll meet up here around the dinner hour.”
Isabelle nodded gratefully, following him down the hall and out of the inn. She knew he’d probably guessed her insecurities about feeling useless. Ever since the witch at Bethyl, Isabelle’s doubts about her incompetence grew. What if she found herself in another scrape? Would Silvan need to bail her out again? She gnawed the inside of her cheek. Now that she thought about it, Jack had saved her on more than one occasion, too.
“You feeling well?” Silvan had shortened his long stride to keep pace with her. His face softened, his eyes filled with concern. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Isabelle lied. “I’m fine.” She managed a smile. It must have not looked very convincing because Silvan narrowed his eyes.
At that moment the street expanded, turning into Mortim’s market square. It was large, filled with vendors, customers, peddlers, traveling minstrels, and street urchins. Isabelle ran head first into it. “See you later.” She waved at Silvan before she lost herself in the crowd.
24
Isabelle was jostled by the press of people. The market was huge, larger than anything in either Seabound or Erum. She passed a baker selling bread. Her stomach rumbled when she caught the scent of sweet, sticky buns. She considered buying one before remembering why she was here. She continued walking slowly, taking in the sights and sounds of the new city.
Two women stood by gossiping, but when Isabelle nonchalantly walked past them, she couldn’t make out more than a few words at a time. It sounded like idle chatter.
A street performer twirled by, waving silks about her in a dance, and Isabelle paused to watch. The dancer was dressed scandalously, her breeches skin tight, her blouse baring her stomach. Isabelle noted sourly that most men in the crowd paused in whatever they were doing when the willowy woman breezed by except for one man; an older man with a large mustache who was looking at Isabelle. She stared back and the man looked away, turning to speak to a vendor. Isabelle shrugged. He must have mistaken her for someone else.
“Please, miss? Do you have a copper to spare?” A little girl that barely came up to Isabelle’s waist tugged on the hem of her cloak. “For food, miss. I’m so hungry.”
Isabelle stuck a hand in her rucksack and pulled out a
copper, handing it to the child. She quickly slung the pack over her shoulder when she noticed a few other bedraggled souls looking her way, an eager light in their eyes. She didn’t have enough coppers to help everyone. She turned around and almost walked right into the man with the large mustache.
Isabelle leaped backwards, nearly upending a farmer’s stall of asparagus and spring onions. After she caught herself, she turned to looked at the strange man. He wasn’t there.
“Sorry,” she called to the vendor who was glaring at her. Isabelle merged back into the crowd. The market was a plethora of noise; talking, singing, yelling, music; the jingle of currency as items were exchanged. Jack would have loved it here. He seemed as comfortable in the city as Silvan was uncomfortable.
Maybe it was fate, maybe a hidden sixth sense, but Isabelle turned to her left as a dagger sliced through her cloak where her torso had been seconds before.
The mustached man lunged at her again with a feral snarl. Isabelle didn’t even have time to scream before he leaped at her, his weight dragging her to the ground. Isabelle grabbed his wrist, keeping the knife at bay. The man laughed. His strength was much greater than hers, and the knife inched closer to her throat.
She didn’t know why he was trying to kill her, but she knew she was going to die. She screamed and bucked, trying to throw him off.
A wooden bucket came sailing out of nowhere, slamming the man upside the head, the contact making the bucket crack. The man’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.
“Are you all right?” An elderly woman hurried over to help Isabelle to her feet. She glanced at the man with disgust. “I hope you’re the first he’s attacked, but I suspect he’s behind the other murders. The guards will take care of him.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than several of Mortim’s city guards marched up to survey the scene. Within minutes the man was clapped in irons and taken away.