The Witchstone Amulet

by Mason Thomas

  A small window popped open and a bulging eyeball pressed against the opening. The eye didn’t react to Dax, but as it shifted to Hunter, it widened a fraction.

  “’S all right, Uri. Open up.”

  “Not supposed to.”

  “He’s with me.”

  “Not supposed to.” The eye shifted back and forth a few more times. “Does Quinnar know? He said nothin’ about this.”

  “He knows, Uri.”

  The eyeball disappeared, and the little door slammed shut again. A moment later, Hunter heard a metallic scrape of something being released. “He better not be cross with me.”

  “He won’t be,” Dax replied as he gripped the handle and pulled.

  Dax gestured for Hunter to enter first. Hunter hesitated, unsure—but what choice did he have? He stepped across the threshold, ducking his head under the low doorframe, and entered the heavy dark within. At first he saw nothing but thick shadow, but by the way sound echoed, he could tell they were in a narrow corridor. He put his hand to the wall to steady himself and felt rough natural stone. Dax pulled the door closed behind him, and Hunter heard the clank-thud of the door being barred. The daylight was shut away, bringing a small amount of relief to the throbbing behind his eyes.

  Uri stood to the side of the passageway, arms crossed, watching Hunter with suspicion. He was barely a teenager, lanky like a reed, with a thin face and an unkempt band of spiky black hair across the top of his head. His ears had a slight point at the top, and even in the low light of the passageway, Hunter could see the color of his skin was a pale blue, almost gray.

  Dax pushed between them and rested a hand on Uri’s shoulder as he moved past.

  “Has Quinnar returned?”

  Uri shook his head. “He sent word.” He paused a moment, eyes on Hunter, clearly reluctant to say too much in front of him. “Checking on a supply shipment.”

  Dax nodded. “Have him find me when he arrives.”

  Uri sat down on a little stool by the door, but Hunter could still feel the boy’s eyes on him as he followed Dax deeper into the hideout.

  The passage was dug out from solid stone, shored up by heavy beams, and it angled downward for a time. An occasional hooded lantern dangled from a ceiling beam, casting only enough light to safely navigate the tunnel. The air grew thick and sooty and coated the inside of Hunter’s throat as he breathed.

  “Where are you taking me?” Hunter asked. The passage constricted, and he twisted his trunk to prevent his shoulders scraping against the rough wall. He was having a hard time pulling in a full breath, and his gut fought with him to turn heel and get out. This was worse than the crowd. He already hated it down here.

  “Under the city,” Dax replied. “Old salt mines. Unused for centuries.”

  The passage opened into a wide and moderately better lit chamber. Bookcases and tapestries lined the uneven walls, and a mismatch of worn woven rugs tried to hide the gray plank floors beneath—an attempt to give the room a cozier and inviting feel. But despite the furnishings, it couldn’t escape the reality that it was still a dingy stone cavern.

  Three men and a woman sat around a table playing at cards. They glanced up as Dax and Hunter entered, and their quiet conversation broke the moment they spotted Hunter. They remained frozen in place, and as Hunter followed Dax toward a passageway on the opposite side, he could feel their distrusting eyes bore into him.

  Hunter followed Dax blindly through the grim passageways, paying little attention to their snaking route, his mind still wrestling with what he saw and what Dax had told him.

  Dax unhooked a hanging lantern from the ceiling, then cracked open a door and peeked inside. With a tilt of his head, he gestured for Hunter to follow him, and he slipped inside. The room was small and filled with wooden crates stacked along one wall and a table and stool pushed into the corner. Dax set the lantern down on the nearest crate and stood with his hand still grasping the latch of the door.

  “Remain here.”

  Hunter’s head was still in a fog and the stabbing pain behind his eye had intensified. Images of his mother on the balcony kept usurping his mind’s eye. “You’re dumping me here?”

  “There are affairs to get in order. And I can’t have you seen. Not yet. I will return when I can.”

  “When you can.” Hunter made an incredulous grunt. “What is this place? Your hideout?”

  “Our main cell,” Dax replied. “We have others, but this is the most secure. Your presence here will cause a stir. Prepare for that.”

  He didn’t know what to expect today—maybe he’d be taken to some smoky backroom. He certainly didn’t expect this sprawling underground lair. “Zinnuvial made it sound as if your resistance wasn’t that big yet.”

  “She will not be satisfied until we have a full army ready to move,” Dax replied dryly. “But the queen’s behavior has driven more to our cause as of late. More are seeing what we claim.”

  “That she is an imposter.”

  Dax nodded. “More and more she tips her hand, showing herself to be cruel, vindictive, and petty. People are realizing she is not as she once was.” He moved out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him. “Talk to no one.”

  And before Hunter could ask another question, the door was latched shut.

  Hunter thought he heard a quiet click a moment later. Dax had locked him inside.

  14

  A COLD lump had formed inside him, he realized. Somewhere deep, and it was growing. It was born of a hatred of this world, of swelling resentment. He resented the circumstances that brought him here. He resented feeling trapped and being treated like a criminal. He realized, too, that he was angry with his mother. She had kept a whole other life from him. Keep the broach safe, she’d told him. Without ever explaining why. Might have done some good if he’d understood why it was important. And now he was stuck here because of it—and he still didn’t know the relevance of it.

  Had she said something to him, he might have been prepared. But then, would he have believed her? Would he have simply dismissed it as a delusion, a hallucination brought on by the tumors that ultimately took her life?

  A click brought his eyes open. Sitting on the table with his head against the wall, he must have dozed off. For how long, he had no idea.

  The door opened, and Dax leaned into the room. He made a single curt nod at Hunter—a signal he was to follow, apparently—and he disappeared, leaving the door ajar. Hunter slid his ass off the table and left the room to join him.

  They traversed more of the tunnels, passed some closed doors and a few darkened rooms. The size of this complex was staggering, and Hunter wondered about getting lost. He spotted warm light up ahead. It spilled into the passage from a doorway. He heard the low pulse of conversation drumming off the walls.

  Dax spun about and stopped Hunter with his palm to his chest.

  “Hold your tongue in there,” he said, his voice a low warning. “Stay by the door. Do not speak.” He punctuated each word like the crack of a gavel. “I’ll not risk you are as clumsy in diplomacy as you appear to be with everything else.”

  Hunter’s jaw clenched. “Not making any promises.”

  “The less they know of you, the better. Give them no reason to fear you.” Dax lifted a warning eyebrow at him as he entered the room.

  Hunter followed, but stepped no farther than the threshold. He leaned a shoulder against the jamb and folded his arms.

  The people huddled around the long conference-style table were a strange and varied cross section of what Hunter imagined medieval life would be. Some were clearly working-class and looked as if they’d dropped their tools and left their workshop only minutes ago to join this party. Others, dressed in finer and more ostentatious garb, were certainly higher on the social ladder. They had rings on their fingers and carried themselves with a self-important air that apparently was a universal human trait no matter what universe you hailed from. A few were military. This resistance had brought all manner of pe
ople to the table. This wasn’t the youthful ideological uprising Hunter had suspected it might be.

  He could immediately sense these people were serious. And anxious. The room stank with tension, like a locker room before a match.

  Most were seated but a few stood with backs to the wall, arms folded. Hunter couldn’t get much farther in than the doorway. He swept his eyes across the faces. Two he knew—Quinnar and Zinnuvial—others were unknown to him. Quinnar, positioned at the far end of the table, sat with his fingers tented against his chin as he listened. His eyes shifted briefly to catch Dax’s eye, but he made no other acknowledgment that they’d arrived.

  “These new taxes are intended to break us,” said a dark-haired woman to Quinnar’s right. “Plain and simple.”

  “They are to help pay for the extravagant renovation of the royal apartments, I’m sure,” someone replied from the far corner.

  A man with a thick ruddy beard took heavy puffs from a wooden pipe and shook his head. White smoke blasted from the corner of his mouth like an old steam engine picking up speed. “Gold spent so she can live in greater luxury while her subjects starve.”

  “We are not her subjects, Master Azun,” the dark-haired woman said. “And she is not our queen. Let’s not forget that.”

  A hearty man wearing a brown vest and tight leather cap frowned and drummed his fingers on the table. “Our businesses are failing, crushed beneath these taxes and these absurd laws. People are suffering, many turned from their homes. Some starving. They cannot take much more.”

  “Which will only draw them to our cause,”

  “Not if they are imprisoned,” Azun said. “Or leave the city entirely.”

  “Or are too terrified to act. The Black Brotherhood is growing more bold each day,” the dark-haired woman added.

  “They were out in force today,” Dax said from his corner of the room. “And out in the open. No more skulking about the shadows.”

  Azun lifted his chin. “Master Dax. The rumor was true then. Pleased to see you safely returned to us.”

  Many around the table turned their gaze to him. It was clear many weren’t even aware he’d entered the room. Some followed with a “hear, hear,” while others bobbed their heads in agreement, but a few appeared almost uneasy to find him in the room.

  Dax bowed his head to the room but said nothing more.

  “Which,” Quinnar interjected smoothly, drawing the attention back to him. He wove his fingers together and let them drop to the table’s surface, giving time for all the eyes to settle on him. “Leads us to why I called you all here. I am happy to report that the mission was a success. But before we continue, we will need consensus from this council regarding our next steps. In my view, the path forward is rather clear.”

  “Clear?” challenged the dark-haired woman. She anchored her elbows on the table and leaned in. “Hardly. This mission of yours has depleted us of nearly all our resources. Risked our most skilled infiltrator. And for what? What did we actually achieve?”

  “The means to expose her,” Zinnuvial replied.

  “Dependent on the minor detail that she puts it on,” said a balding man standing against the wall. He had a narrow face and a pinched nose and wore a leather apron over his shabby blue tunic. “Which no one has adequately explained to me how we intend to orchestrate.”

  “That is why it is the next item on our agenda, Master Ronlin,” Quinnar put in calmly.

  “Well, we can forget using a member of the city council,” the ruddy-bearded man put in. “Now that she is dismantling that body, there is no one in our organization that can get close enough to her to attempt it.”

  “A move intended to consolidate her power,” Ronlin added.

  “And isolate her from potential threats on the inside,” Azun added. “She’s no fool.”

  “This increases the challenge,” Quinnar said. “But it is hardly impossible.”

  “Then, you have a plan in mind?” Ronlin asked.

  “Several, in fact.” Quinnar glanced up at Dax with a raised eyebrow. “Well?”

  Dax wormed closer to the table. “Confirmed.”

  Quinnar frowned and nodded. “Friends, it is important to note that the mission rewarded us with more than just the amulet,” Quinnar told the council. “But also with vital intelligence we require. We now have the definitive proof we needed. Proof that will bring more to our cause.”

  He reached down to his side, and when he brought his hand back to the table, he unclenched his fingers. The jeweled broach that Dax stole from Hunter’s apartment tumbled onto the table.

  Hunter’s chest constricted. The room was knocked into a stunned silence as they stared at it. Some lowered their chins, while others fell against the backs of their chairs.

  “Our beloved queen is indeed gone,” Quinnar continued, pushing the item farther toward the center of the table. “Sent to that distant world. We now know, without a doubt, an imposter indeed bears her crown.”

  Hunter wanted to throw up. Or better yet, punch Quinnar in face. The heavy-handed theatrics felt like nothing more than political machinations, a way to wrangle these people under his control. And he was using Hunter’s mother as a way to leverage it.

  He felt eyes on him. He glanced over at Dax, who was watching him from the corner of his eyes. As soon as their eyes met, Dax looked away.

  “With respect, Quinnar, how is this proof?” asked an older woman with braided white hair, tied with a green ribbon. She seemed kindly at first glance, but Hunter could see a strength in her eyes that said she was not someone he would want to cross. “Sorcerers might be able to confirm the amulet’s authenticity, but that will hardly sway those still skeptical that Jenora was exiled to this other world. They will say it was stolen from the palace in an elaborate heist.”

  “We can confirm,” Quinnar told her, “by witness account, that she was in fact in that world. And has since died. When people hear—”

  “A witness?” someone asked. “How is that possible?”

  Several around the table nodded.

  “This man?” the dark-haired woman exclaimed. “Is he your witness?”

  The entire room turned to Hunter at once, and the air seemed to thicken around him. Eyes bore down on him like nails being driven into wood.

  A man in a cloth cap with a bulbous red nose shifted against the arm of the chair as he studied Hunter with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. “Master Dax, isn’t this the man you found wandering about in Heneran territory?”

  A collective gasp circled around the table.

  “I heard word of this as well. Master Dax? Is this true?”

  “Friends,” Quinnar said as he lifted his hands into the air, an attempt to draw the attention back to him. “That is not precisely—”

  Ronlin pushed forward between two of the chairs and slapped a palm onto the table. “Why are we even discussing this with him in the room? Why is he even here?”

  “I would add why was he even allowed into our base?” the dark-haired woman added.

  “How did you allow this to happen?” someone else asked.

  Quinnar rapped his knuckles on the table several times. “Good council, please. I approved of his being brought here. All will be made clear in time, but I believe he could prove be a valuable resource—”

  “Too great a risk, Quinnar. He’s a liability.”

  “A liability?” Dax asked, with a dangerous sort of calm.

  “Master Dax, you know I respect you. But you ask too much this time. You cannot expect us all to trust him on your word alone. He could betray us.”

  Quinnar shook his head. “I assure you, he will be monitored at all times and not be allowed to leave.”

  Hunter leaned closer to Dax’s ear. “Still claiming I’m not a prisoner?”

  “Quiet,” he snapped.

  The balding man shook his head. “I’m quite uncomfortable with this, Quinnar. If he is a witness, as you claim, and can prove that the queen is false, who knows what wrath
it will rain down on us here if they learn of it. He should be under lock and key in a safe location. Not here.”

  “He knows too much already,” someone else chimed in. “If he were captured, he could not only reveal the location of this base but could now identify all of us as well. The entire council is in danger.”

  “There are already too many rumors of a mole among us. His presence will only serve to heighten them.”

  A number of them around the table pounded the surface.

  Quinnar stood and slapped a palm to the table. “Good people of the council!” The voices around the table dropped to a grumble and then fell silent. “When have we become the warren of frightened rabbits that I see before me? You have all put your faith in me to guide this coalition, and I promise you I am not casually putting you in any direct danger.” He waited a moment, raking his eyes over each of their faces to see if any were about to challenge him, but the room remained quiet. “I am not deaf to your concerns, but I promise, in time, more will be revealed. In the interim, have trust. There is no need for this panic.”

  A few around the table shared looks, but most looked down at their hands. The firm reprimand had, for the moment, shamed the group into silence. No one challenged him.

  Quinnar nodded slowly, clearly satisfied with the result. “For now, he remains.”

  For now? Hunter’s heart rate spiked, pounding a fresh surge of anger through his bloodstream. So he was allowed to stay here conditionally, hanging on the whim of this slick politician? A change in the wind and Hunter had no doubt he’d be tossed out onto the street in a city he knew nothing about. Or worse.

  “A break is in order, I think,” Quinnar continued. “We’ll reconvene later. I’ll send word when I’m ready.”

  At first no one moved. The entire group seemed to pretend they hadn’t heard the dismissal. Zinnuvial was the first to make toward the door—not in anger, but as an obedient soldier. Then, one by one, people lifted from their chairs and drifted away from the table, grumbling and whispering among themselves. The members of the resistance pushed past Hunter, some brushing against his shoulders as they exited, but Hunter made a point of not budging. He made them all move around him.