Badgerblood: Awakening

by S. C. Monson

  The sounds of snarling and shouting faded as Peter entered the market. Tents and stalls loomed around him in a variety of colors. Merchants and traders from neighboring kingdoms shouted their wares at passersby, hoping to barter or sell. Peter kept his head low and tried not to limp, but that was nearly impossible with his injury. At the edge of the market stood a cluster of crimson stalls and tents. The canvas coverings of each were marked with the silhouette of a white hawk. Perabon’s traders, he thought, working his way through them.

  Each trade group distinguished itself using its country’s symbol. To the right, separate from the others, was a group of pale, sky-blue tents and stalls. Peter recognized the white badger profiles as belonging to the Nalkaran traders. He headed toward them. He could travel north with them after the market, then seek an audience with the Nalkaran monarch and petition for help. The time for caution was over. If he wanted to rescue Kor alive, he would have to act on his suspicions of Kor’s lineage. But first, he had to drop the cook’s disguise. It was too obvious. And he’d already been seen.

  As he passed a millinery booth, he dropped his beret in a pile of caps. At a boot stand, he swapped his felt shoes for a pair of brogans when no one was looking. And at a cloak display, he snuck a thick shoulder cowl and left his face mask in return. He glanced behind him as he draped the cowl over his head and wrapped it around his shoulders and mouth, covering his beard. He could find a longer, warmer cloak later.

  An arm came around his shoulders from his blind side as he turned to face forward. “Bit of a poor trade, don’t you think?” said a low voice in his ear.

  Martt. Peter’s hand shot to the butcher knife in his tunic’s belt loop. It was gone. A sharp point pressed into his chest beneath the cowl. He winced and glanced down. The butcher knife glinted up at him through a fold in the fabric.

  “Keep walking,” Martt said pleasantly out of the corner of his mouth.

  Peter scanned his surroundings for something he could use as a distraction to escape, but Martt steered him clear of tents and stalls. Under cover of a copse of trees, the commander finally released Peter and stepped back. “Clever, sending the badger after that soldier,” he said. “I nearly lost you in the distraction.”

  Peter snatched up a sturdy branch as Martt pulled his sword from its scabbard, still holding the butcher knife in his other hand. The woodsman braced himself for a fight, but Martt held out his weapons and dropped them on the ground.

  Frowning, Peter gripped his stick more tightly. “What are you playing at?”

  The commander raised his palms in a gesture of peace, and stepped back from the weapons. “You want Kor freed? I can help.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed Peter’s face. But he kept his stick up and glared suspiciously at Martt. The commander dropped one hand, keeping the other out to indicate peaceful intentions. Slowly, he reached into his jacket. Peter kept his stick high as Martt withdrew his hand again. The commander held a fold of worn leather with tattered paper edges poking out.

  “Recently, I discovered certain letters,” he said. “Condemning letters. I believe they may intrigue you.” He held out his hand.

  The woodsman glanced at the leather, but made no moves to approach Martt. The commander smiled. Moving slowly again, he crouched and set the leather envelope on the ground. Then he stood and stepped away. Peter hesitated, then drew closer, tossing the stick far aside and bending to collect the sword and butcher knife as he went. He retrieved the leather envelope and backed up. With his spine to a tree and keeping an eye on Martt, he flipped through the papers in the leather wrap. They were water stained and coal-smudged, and the same corner of each was singed, as if someone had tried to burn them. As he read note after note of the crooked, messy handwriting, his eyes grew wider.

  “Where did you find these?” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “In the king’s chambers.”

  Peter looked up. “This is treason. Proof the former king’s death was no accident. If you found these in Leon’s chambers, if he suspects you know, he’ll kill you.”

  Martt pursed his lips, and glanced away, nodding. “Yes, well, that’s a risk I’m willing to take. I think we both know the Nalkaran ruler will take an interest in our former king’s death. And Kor’s capture. If we show him these, I’m certain he will assist us in freeing Kor.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes. “Why should I trust you?”

  Smiling grimly, Martt cocked his head. “Do you really want to die, knowing you could have saved Kor and didn’t even try?”

  At the words, Peter ground his teeth. He could run or fight, but with his bad leg he wouldn’t get far or have much success. And now, with his newfound knowledge, he was a liability to Martt. Especially if he refused to cooperate.

  Martt sucked in his cheeks and sighed. “My loyalties lie with the rightful heir, not that fop on the throne,” he said at last. “Now the truth is before me, I have a duty to make things right.”

  For a long moment, Peter studied Martt. An animal snarl finally broke the silence and Spart barrelled through the trees toward the commander.

  “Spart, stop.” The badger skidded to a halt and glanced at the woodsman, confusion writ large in his round, dark eyes. Peter eyed Martt. “He’s going to help us free Kor.”

  29

  Merrick crept from the secret passage in the wall of his father’s chamber and crossed the room, heading toward the king’s desk.

  He had discovered the secret passages in the castle nearly a fortnight ago, around the time of Kor’s hearing. Really, Allinor had discovered them—unintentionally, while experimenting with her charm. Several ants had interrupted her experimentations by crawling up a wall in her guest chambers. For reasons best left undisclosed, she had a strong disgust for the insects. Out of habit, she’d stared hard at the tiny bugs and wished fervently that they would go away. To her surprise, the ants had vanished. Upon closer inspection, Allinor found that they had obediently crawled away through a peephole in the wall. A cooler wisp of air from the hole had raised Allinor’s suspicions enough that she had brought Merrick to investigate. Together they had discovered the tunnels and the secret to accessing them. They’d used the narrow space to meet without others knowing. And it was there that they had forged the letter.

  The negotiations regarding access to Tilldor’s more fruitful trade waters and mining islands were finally complete and Allinor would return home tomorrow. So they were sealing Kor and the McPhersons’ forged pardon tonight.

  Merrick rounded his father’s desk, searching it for the king’s seal in the eerie shadows of the dying hearth fire. He lifted scrolls of petitions and checked under stacks of statutes. Nothing. The candlestick in his hand sputtered, dripping wax onto the cloth bunched around the rim at its base. He set it and his sealing wax down to feel under the desk.

  “Merrick.” Allinor’s faint whisper startled him. They were alone in the room. His father was out, hosting the farewell banquet for Queen Rhoswen, and Allinor and Merrick had retired early, one at a time to curb suspicion.

  The prince squinted at the stone entry in the wall near the hearth. He had left the stone cracked open like a door, to facilitate a quick return if necessary. Allinor called again to him through the crack.

  “Hurry. Even charmed, Alyss won’t be long with my bath water.”

  “I’m hurrying,” he said, irritated and nervous.

  He sat in the chair and felt everywhere under the desk, hoping against hope that he had seen right. For the past two weeks, he’d spied on his father through the peephole in the secret entry to learn how to open the locked desk drawer where the king’s seal was usually kept. At last his finger brushed a loose piece under the top of the desk and he pushed on it.

  “I think I found it,” he whispered, jiggling the drawer.

  It opened reluctantly, revealing the signet stamp resting in the center of a stack of papers. The end was an oval gemstone sanded to a gentle bevel. A raised image of a hawk head and the letters L-D were
carved into it: Leon Deverell.

  Merrick placed the stamp on the desk and reached in his coat for the forged letter. With one hand, he smoothed it open. With the other, he spread the candlestick cloth out beside it so that the material covered the gap between the candle and the parchment. He held the sealing wax over the flame until the tip started melting, the candlestick cloth catching the drips as he moved the sealing wax from the flame to the parchment. Time seemed to drag by as the crimson wax gradually pooled under Leon’s forged signature. When the puddle was finally big enough, he pressed the seal to it. He repeated the process on the outside of the letter, sealing the document closed.

  No sooner had he tucked the letter in his jacket and replaced the seal in the drawer than there was a rustle at the chamber door. Merrick quickly shut the drawer and pinched out his candle, sucking in a breath as the flame singed his fingers. Then he dove under the desk as a figure entered the room.

  Too early. It was too early. His father couldn’t be back yet. The feast wasn’t due to end for another hour at least. Merrick clutched the candlestick, cloth, and sealing wax to him, wondering if Allinor’s charm worked in the shadows. A weak flame still flickered in the hearth. She would be able to see the individual’s outline, even if she couldn’t see their eyes. Maybe that would be enough to wish them gone. So far, her wishes on people worked best if she could see their eyes.

  The figure approached the desk and reached under it. As Merrick watched, a gloved hand felt along the underside for the drawer’s release button. Dangling from the searching hand was a round, spiral shape. Something in Merrick felt drawn to it and before he could stop himself, he was reaching out. A faint half tingle tickled through him as he touched it. For a moment, he felt less tired and the ache in his burned finger dulled.

  Then wisps of thoughts pushed at the edges of his mind. Dark thoughts. Hateful thoughts. Thoughts against his father.

  Merrick jerked back and the feelings fled. His fatigue and the ache in his finger returned more sharply than before. The drawer opened. The stranger’s hand hovered under the desk again, as though the figure was considering something. Then the hand finally withdrew. The drawer closed with a soft click and the stranger left. The prince huddled under the desk, trembling.

  “Merrick, are you alright?” Allinor’s urgent whisper carried across the chamber.

  Merrick didn’t say anything. Instead, he crawled out from the desk and made his way to the stone entrance near the hearth.

  “Did you finish?” she asked as he dragged the stone open wider.

  In response, he withdrew the sealed document from his jacket and handed it to her through the knee-high entry. “Don’t bend it.”

  She took it, gently brushing the fresh seal with a finger. Before crawling through the little door, Merrick wrapped the candlestick and sealing wax in the cloth and stuffed them into his jacket.

  “Did you see who that was?” he asked, referring to the stranger.

  “I can’t be sure,” Allinor said. “It was a man. He slipped in quickly and shut the door behind him. I didn’t get a chance to see his face, but he was tall and slim.”

  As she spoke, Merrick pulled the stone opening shut, scraping his knuckles in the process. The stone was just clicking into place when the door to his father’s chambers opened again. Perplexed and more than a little anxious, he peered through the peephole into the room. Allinor started to speak again, but he grabbed her arm and squeezed. She seemed to sense his urgency, and held her tongue.

  Merrick watched as a tall, slim man stepped into the room. The lantern light from the hall silhouetted his sharp angular features and dark hair. In three quick strides, he was to Leon’s desk, and bending to look under it. Of course, there was nothing to find. Straightening again, he circled the desk and approached the hearth. For a long moment, he stood quietly by the closed stone entry as though listening. Then he turned for the door and was gone. Merrick slid down the wall into a sitting position.

  Allinor’s skirts rustled as she crouched beside him in the dark. “Who was it?”

  “Martt. My father must have sent him here to lock up that pendant they found on Kor.” Merrick shuddered as he recalled his experience touching the object. “Maybe he heard something, or smelled my candle smoke, and decided to return.”

  “Good thing you weren’t there,” Allinor said. There was a pause before she added, “He looked like he wanted to linger longer and search around the first time, too. I had to stare hard and wish all my charm on him that he wouldn’t.”

  Merrick stood. “I’m glad you insisted on coming, then.”

  They headed back down the passageway to a dimly glowing lantern sitting on the ground. In order to minimize the extra light coming through when they accessed the king’s chambers, they had left it a little ways from the entry.

  As they passed, Merrick picked it up by the handle and led the way back down the secret passage. Their teeth chattered in the cold. They didn’t speak until they arrived at the entry to Allinor’s room. When they could see through the peephole that her chamber was clear, they pushed the stone open. Allinor hugged Merrick and returned the document.

  “I put all the charm I could into forging this. At least I hope I did,” she added anxiously. “I’m not entirely certain how it all works yet. I just stare and wish and things seem to happen. Really, we won’t know if charming the letter worked until you try and free Kor.”

  Merrick put a hand on her shoulder to stop the nervous chatter. “Thank you,” he said.

  “If it doesn’t work…”

  “It will,” he reassured her.

  She nodded, hugged him again, and crawled through the entry. Once in, she pushed against the stone, but to no effect. Merrick set the lantern down to help and pulled from the other side. At first, the stone grated heavily against the ground. Through the slowly narrowing gap, Merrick could hear Allinor muttering under her breath at it.

  “Close, close, close, you stubborn thing.” And the stone seemed to slide shut of its own accord.

  It pushed against Merrick and he let go in surprise as it clicked closed almost indignantly. For a moment, he stared at it. He didn’t know how Allinor’s charm worked, but he could almost swear the magic had a personality all its own. Shrugging, he brushed the thought aside. With the lantern lighting the way, he returned to his room down the tunnel. The stone entry to his own chambers was far more difficult to open and seemed to mock his strength in the attempt. As he struggled against it, he found himself wishing he had charm.

  Inside his chambers, he wrapped the forged document in velum, then set it in the secret passage. As far as he was aware, no one else knew about the tunnels. The order would be safe there until he was ready to deliver it to the Isle.

  30

  The guards shoved Kor into his cell, sending him sprawling on the ground. With a groan, he crawled to his mattress and collapsed on his stomach. Straw jabbed his chest through the thin, grimy mattress cover, and his back burned. Since his arrival on the Isle nearly a month before, the borlan marks had scabbed over. But he’d been whipped the day before and they were raw again.

  He shivered uncontrollably. A pitiful shaft of light leaked through the tiny grated window high in his wall. Hoping to soak up what little warmth it offered, he reached out a hand and tickled the beam.

  His palms ached with the raw blisters he’d earned chipping at the salt cavern walls with a pickaxe. The guards had worked him all night and into the next morning. Usually his shift only lasted six hours, but he had tripped Rimak for teasing Serah. The guards had flogged him and worked him straight through three shifts. Kor supposed he should be grateful he hadn’t been put on the rocks instead. Prisoners usually died from that punishment.

  He rotated his hand, soaking up the ray of sunshine. A pale welt marked the underside of his forearm—L-D, the king’s initials and seal. Leon Deverell would be forever seared into his flesh. And memory. Kor could almost feel the hot iron again, hear the droning call of the brander.<
br />
  Enemy to the king, breaker of the law, the iron will sing to keep you in his paw.

  Kor flexed his hand, watching the welt ripple slightly with the movement. The ashen fingers from his nightmare returned suddenly with the motion, tormenting him. Instinctively, he reached for his pendant and squeezed his eyes shut. All he felt was his Isle-issued, cotton vest. He curled up as the woman’s familiar plea entered his mind.

  Remember your blood. Remember me. Behind the words echoed the persistent call from the fight dreams to Rise, and Find the girl.

  Len’s face flashed before him. But Kor thought of the prison fortress walls and the ocean keeping him in, and curled up tighter.

  A stinging sensation racked his skin. He groaned. More often of late, the fur-sprouting-pain from his fight dreams had been carrying over into his waking hours. It was just the stress of Isle life, or so he’d been telling himself. He felt, too, the by-now-familiar rustling in his bones, like something trying to break free. To distract himself, he thought of a tale—The Badger, the Borlan, and Man.

  The Borwood Timberland was a massive forest, sheltering creatures large and small, harboring light and darkness.

  A man and a woman roamed free in the trees…

  Their son grew, with all the wisdom and goodness of his mother, and all the vitality and determination of his father. Their gift to change form was within him, restlessly dormant, waiting to wake at the appointed time.

  The father showed the boy his gift, hoping to entice him with the brute strength of borlan. He demonstrated, too, his portion of the forest’s power to create the shells of creatures, warn in nightmares, and purge the old and weak to make room for the new. He shared his hopes that one day they would reign together, that one day a portion of the forest’s power would pass to the son.