Web of Eyes (The Buried Goddess Saga Book 1)

by Jaime Castle

  “He died that day, didn’t he?” he said.

  Sora didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.

  He stood to walk over and comfort her but stopped, thinking better of it. She might be talking freely, but it was too soon. She obviously hadn’t forgiven him for leaving without so much as a goodbye all those years ago, when he disappeared like so many of the treasures he’d stolen from their owners.

  “None of that matters anymore,” she said. “My old life is over.” She turned her head and tried to subtly wipe her cheek as if it were an itch that drew her hand and not a tear. She didn’t fool Whitney, but the way her hair framed her face in the darkness made it look like she was wearing a hood, and flicked a spark in Whitney’s mind.

  After giving her a moment, he said, “Sora, I have to ask you something.”

  “I already told you, we aren’t cuddling.”

  “No… it’s just…. Those cultists back there were blood mages too. And… and you just happened to be there?”

  Sora stood to meet Whitney’s gaze, the arms of the fire rising with her.

  “Are you accusing me of helping capture you after I just rescued your worthless hide?”

  “No, not at all! I’m just saying, it is pretty coincidental.”

  “Yes…yes, it is quite coincidental that Whitney Fierstown would find himself thrown in prison for stealing the King’s crown on the same night the King died. It is also coincidental that he was somehow released from jail to adventure across the land accompanied by the Wearer of White. There are a lot of coincidences going on around here, Whitney, but unlike the others, this one is exactly that.”

  He had to admit, his story seemed unlikely. Maybe even more than hers. As he thought back over the past ten-day, it all seemed awfully strange. He’d been wanted in every major city and most small towns, but breaking free of his third imprisonment in as many days had to be a new record. He was rarely caught unless he planned to be.

  “Must be the hand of Iam, eh?” Whitney said, grinning.

  “A blood mage and a thief. I’d wager Iam isn’t too fond of us.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in every part of Pantego, it’s that the Gods don’t give a yig about us. Doesn’t matter what name they go by. We’re still alive, that’s all that matters.”

  “You sound like Wetzel.”

  “Must have been a brilliant man.”

  Sora answered with a soft grunt. She returned to her seat by the fire and lay her head back against a thick root. “We should get some sleep. We’ll need it for the Webbed Woods.”

  “Hey, I don’t remember agreeing to that. I can think of a million better places to go.”

  “Goodnight, Whitney Fierstown. Maybe when I wake up you won’t have run off again.”

  She turned onto her side, facing away from him, and tried to make herself comfortable. Sleeping in the dirt wasn’t hard for Whitney—not that he preferred it over a nice, soft bed—but if you’ve slept in a dungeon anything is possible. She had the look of someone who’d never slept without a thatched roof over her head and a cushion under it.

  Whitney lay back himself, listening to her struggle to find a good position. “I’m sorry,” he said after a brief period of silence, not sure if she was still awake. For one of the few times in his life he really meant it. Not for not bringing her along—the places and things he’d done were nothing a young girl should’ve experience—but for not at least saying goodbye. He was so intent on getting out of Troborough, he’d never even considered his only childhood friend might actually care.

  “For which part?” Sora answered after several heartbeats.

  “All of it, I suppose,” he lied. Sometimes it was the best way.

  No answer.

  He turned his head and lowered his gaze toward the fire.

  How can she complain when she got to stay home and learn how to make that without even a stick?

  He watched the embers waffling across the night sky, disappearing as they passed by Clora, the bright moon. He was trying to clear his mind when a clump of cloth landed on his face.

  “Hey!” he protested, pulling down the ball of clothing. He held it up and realized it was the robe she’d stolen.

  “In case you get cold,” she said. “Next time, bring a spare shirt, Thief.”

  XXV

  The Thief

  “YOU SURE this is a good idea?” Sora asked.

  “It’s my idea, how couldn’t it be good?” Whitney laughed as he studied the town from the hillside. It wasn’t Yarrington, but it wasn’t Troborough either. Three sprawling roads made up the bulk of Bridleton, and in its center, Iam’s temple—a tall, thin structure made of old, grey wood and iron—cast a long shadow over the community.

  “If we are going to travel together, I’m certainly not wearing this.” Whitney gestured toward the brown robes draped over his body, a dab of blood on the sleeve. “And if you recall, it’s your fault we are in this position, Ms. Plays-With-Fire.”

  “Okay, fine,” Sora said. “We go in, get you some clothes. Then it’s straight to the Webbed Woods. Quick and painless.”

  “You’re really not going to drop that idea, are you?”

  She stroked his chest and put on sultry inflection. “Oh Whitney, I’m just dying to see your famed thieving skills for myself.”

  Whitney couldn’t hide his grin. Maybe it wasn’t a vocation one should be proud of, but that had never stopped him. “I appreciate the flattery, Sora, but it won’t get you what you want.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She sidled up next to him, her hip rubbing against his. The moment he turned to face her she hopped back, the cultist’s coin purse again strung around her finger.

  “Now, let’s go buy you a shirt,” she said.

  “Buy clothes?” Whitney scoffed. “Do you remember who I am?”

  “You plan to steal clothes from some poor merchant when we have the coin to purchase it?”

  “If I only stole that which I didn’t have the coin to purchase, I’d never have the coin to purchase anything.”

  Whitney sensed Sora formulating a response but started off down the hill before she had a chance.

  “I’ll buy them for you,” she shouted. “As a gift!”

  “We both know we aren’t on gift-giving terms,” Whitney shouted back over his shoulder.

  She hurried to catch up with him. “Clothing wasn’t really on my mind when I said, ‘renowned thief.’”

  “C’mon, it’ll be like old times.”

  “No, it’s just cruel.”

  Whitney stopped and looked her over. There was no room for softness in his game. No room for morality. From the smallest to the most ludicrous heist, any hesitation could get him killed, or worse, slammed behind more bars.

  Her brow furrowed as he continued to stare. She had a slender build, long fingers, and the ability to craft fiery distractions on a bloody whim. Whitney had never willingly worked with a partner—the mess with Torsten excluded— and now that he was free of him and done walling in boredom he knew for certain: taking on an apprentice was exactly what he needed to keep things fresh. Just the prospect of stealing a shirt alongside Sora had him more exuberant for a job than even the crown heist.

  “Would you stop staring at me!” Sora bristled.

  “I’m sizing you up,” Whitney said. “You say cruel, yet you want to take on giant spiders and warlocks. I say I won’t consider going into those woods with you unless I know you can handle snagging something as simple as a shirt.”

  Sora glanced at her fingernails, then nodded. “Fine, but I choose the mark.”

  Whitney allowed a smile to play at the corner of his mouth. “That’s the spirit! But, first things first. You’ll draw about as much attention as a giant in Brotlebir.” Whitney drew one of the dagger’s he’d taken from the unconscious cultist, and sliced the top of his robe and held the hood out to her. “Here.”

  “What’s this for?” she asked, not taking the cloth.


  “Tuck the frayed ends of the hood into your collar and pull it up to cover your ears. Keep your head down so nobody notices your eyes unless they’re really looking.”

  She took a step back, aghast. “Excuse me?”

  “Look, I don’t know how well-received you’re going to be here. Not everyone in Pantego is like the people of Troborough.”

  “What, simple?”

  Whitney squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “No, accepting. You were displaced young—really young. And with your parents…gone, Wetzel and the town took you in like one of their own.”

  “You were barely older than me,” she said. “Don’t act like you remember.”

  “All I’m saying is that not everyone in the Glass Kingdom has forgotten the Panping Wars. They were bloody, and Bridleton is on the road between Yarrington and Panping. I’d bet a lot of blood was spilled near here.”

  “You’re overreacting. Panping is part of the Glass now.”

  “Barely more than Drav Cra is.”

  “This is ridiculous. I’m not a child. I can take care of myself.”

  “Sora, how many times have you left Troborough?”

  She grimaced. “A few.”

  “Well, I’ve been to every corner of Pantego. I’ve seen hate in every form, and it’s the quickest way to get too many eyes on you.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Would you just trust me?” He shoved the hood into her gut so she had no choice but to grab it. She squeezed it so hard her knuckles went white, then she dropped it.

  “I’m sick of hiding everything.”

  Sora set off down the hillside at a brisk pace without looking back. Whitney tried to keep up, but she had long legs and sprinting into a town for no reason was the best way to seem like you were up to no good. It reminded him of his childhood, chasing her down to the ravine where they’d play together until his mother called for supper. She wound up eating with his family more often than not too, as Wetzel kept a bed for her in his shack but little else... well, except for apparently a bevy of tomes on blood magic.

  “Would you slow down!” Whitney said in a raised whisper. He couldn’t help think it was ironic to be on this end of the discussion.

  She kept going, right toward Bridleton like she was on a mission. There were no gates—but two soldiers sat on stools, drinking ale and guarding the road through the town. They wore the blue and white of the Glass, Iam’s eye painted on leather armor. But judging by their grungy appearance, they were locals turned sentries for the crown, paid to watch out for another potential Black Sands attack while the real soldiers waited in forts. And judging by the ale dripping from their beards, they were doing a terrible job of it.

  The guards perked up the moment Sora got near. It wasn’t an abnormal reaction to seeing a beautiful, unfamiliar woman. But Whitney could see their eyes narrow in disgust after they gave her a thorough look over. The fatter and grungier of the two nudged the other. They both stood and clomped over in front of Sora.

  “Aye there! Knife-ears!” the fatter guard barked. Sora stopped as suddenly as if she’d been petrified. People didn’t talk like that in tiny farming villages near the capital. The war never reached that far.

  Whitney cursed under his breath.

  “What business have ye in Bridleton?” the fat guard asked.

  Sora’s fists clenched as she said, “Just passing through.”

  “Ye could just as easily pass around.” They both laughed.

  Sora took a step forward. They moved to block her, one of them giving her a healthy shove with his arm that was definitely not accidental.

  “Yeah, we don’t see yer kind much round here,” said the other.

  “Especially ones so pretty.”

  “Please, I’m just looking for somewhere to spend the night,” Sora said. She might as well have been mute because they didn’t hear a word.

  “I’m sure we can work that out.” The fat guard squeezed her arm.

  She leaped backward, her hand falling toward the dagger sheathed in her belt.

  “Knife-ear goin for her knife,” one of them chortled.

  “I’m beggin ye,” the fat one said. “Give us a reason to show you how accommodating Bridleton can be.”

  “Gentlemen, she is a child of Iam just as you are,” Whitney said before Sora could do anything stupid. He added a raspy effect to his voice, the kind Iam’s priests use in sermons to make each word appear to be bursting with wisdom.

  The men gave her an appraising once-over.

  “Ain’t nothin bout her like us,” one said.

  Whitney lay a steadying hand on Sora’s shoulder. With the other, he lightly guided her hand away from her weapon.

  “What more do you want, my sons?” he asked. “Her people renounced their lands and their false gods and now serve the One True. Should we not rejoice together in his light?”

  Whitney was impressed with himself for coming up with that on the spot, but that was nothing new. His only hope was that nobody questioned his knowledge of the Panping much further because he honestly couldn’t remember the name of any of the gods Sora’s people prayed to. She wouldn’t either. Sora was so young when war left her a displaced orphan in Troborough, she was raised by Iam’s followers.

  “Little young for a father, ain’t ye?” the fat guard asked.

  “Those robes ain’t look like nothin we seen Father Anyon wearin,” said the other.

  “Ah, please forgive my appearance,” Whitney said without missing a beat. His hand moved to where his daggers were hidden, hoping to not have to use them. He made a mental note to hide them better if he made it through this encounter. Priests didn’t carry weapons.

  “We fell upon hard times over our long journey,” he continued. “Wolves tore off my hood on a quest for my throat. This young lady happened to hear my cries and saved me.”

  “This puny girl took on wolves?”

  “I’m quite handy with a knife,” Sora said sharply.

  Whitney gave her a nudge in the side on his way in front of her. “We are merely searching for a bit of respite amongst your good people,” he said. “The road has left me weary. Tell me, did… Father Anyon was it? …teach you well enough to help a stranger in need? After all, you never know when Iam’s eye is upon you.”

  “Ain’t no way Iam gives one bit o’ horse shog about her kind.”

  “Iam cares for all who tread the path of light,” Whitney said. He bowed and traced his eyes with his fingers like a good, loyal servant of Iam would do. “Where can I find Father Anyon?”

  “Father Anyon died last week.”

  Whitney counted to five, not wanting to give away his excitement.

  “Ah, yes. Of course, how could I be so stupid? I am his replacement, Father Gorenheimer.”

  “Yer here to replace him and ye didn’t know he died?”

  “I knew he was dying. I set off as soon as I heard the news. I am sad to hear he finally passed.”

  “He was run over by a goods wagon.”

  “Yes, quite the tragedy,” Whitney said, lowering his head. “Agonizing way to go.”

  The man looked momentarily suspicious, but stepped aside. “All right, move along, but we’ll all be keeping an eye on her. Wouldn’t be the first time some Panping wench came along, tryin to impose her heresies on us. Them Panpingese mystics are worse than snakes.”

  “Priest’s lodgin’s by the church.”

  “Thank you, kind children of Iam. Praise be the Vigilant Eye in all His mercy.” Whitney again performed the standard bow to Iam. He was so close to the men they had no choice but to return the gesture.

  “Come, my daughter,” he turned back and addressed Sora. “For your help, you deserve a night in proper lodging.”

  He strode by the men and Sora followed, hand off her dagger. They whispered something in her ear on her way by that had her teeth grinding in anger, but this time she kept quiet until she reached Whitney.

  “If you sa
y, ‘I told you so,’ I’m going to burn off your nethers,” she whispered.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” Whitney replied. “But I do recall a similar conversation.”

  She groaned. “Where in Elsewhere did you drum up that name?”

  “Lesson one, long names make stupid people feel even more stupid. Gets them to shut up faster.”

  “Noted. But what happens when the people realize you’re a fraud?”

  Whitney chuckled. “You think this is the first time I posed as a priest?”

  • • •

  The next day began with a pounding on the door. He grunted something incoherent and saw light pouring in through the thin veil of his eyelids. He threw his feet over the edge of the bed as another series of knocks came. Although the old chapel-house adjoined to Bridleton’s church creaked and groaned the way old houses tended to do, Whitney hadn’t slept so well in weeks.

  “I’m coming!” he growled in his affected voice.

  The room was small, barely space for a bed and kitchen. There were two doors. One led outside and was currently under attack and the second led to the church. Whitney’s bare feet dragged across the cold wood floor and the door creaked as he opened it.

  “Father, I apologize for disturbing…” The young lady looked over Whitney’s shoulder and saw Sora lying in the bed. “Oh, I…I’m so sorry. I—”

  Whitney had forgotten about that part of taking Iam’s cloth. Though, he may as well have been honest: somehow they’d managed to sleep back to back all night without ever turning over. It was a part of the story he’d leave out of his own recounting of the time he’d posed as a priest in Bridleton.

  “It’s not how it appears, my daughter,” Whitney said as piously as he could manage. “After she saved my life, I decided to take her on as my apprentice. She took the bed and I the hard floor. I could do naught but accept his will.”

  “Of course, how noble of you, Father…” She hesitated, brow furrowing as she tried to recollect the ridiculous name Whitney had come up with. It took a few seconds for his own groggy head to dredge it up.