by JA Andrews
She ignored his question again. “When you tell stories, all I hear are lies,” she said, her voice cold. “Go back to…where ever you are from, Will.” Her lip curled as she said his name, as though she doubted even that. “You are not what you seem.”
Will flinched, and tried to cover it up by running his hand through his beard. “What exactly do you think I am?”
She narrowed her eyes and Will opened up toward her one more time. But her emotions were still clamped down out of his reach. She took two more steps, moving within arm’s reach, glaring down at him. The clay wall pressed unyieldingly against his back.
“Go home. Things will not go well for you if you stay.”
Irritation flickered at the threat and he took some grim pleasure in letting it show on his face. A bit of breeze slipped into the room swirling the scent of grass with the woman’s worn leather and causing the candle to stutter. She glanced toward it and Will’s heart stuttered with the flame.
She leaned closer and the uneven clay wall pressed harder into Will’s back. “I see you.” Her accent dragged the smallest bit along the s, almost like a hiss.
The words cut through him. It took everything he had to not shove away from her.
“Leave.” She held his gaze for a long moment before turning and striding the few steps to the door. She glanced back at him with her hand on the latch. “There is much to fear on the Roven Sweep…” Her eyes flickered toward the candle. “For a man like you.”
The door closed leaving Will in the darkness of the empty room. He strained to hear her in the hall. The flickering candle and the wobbling shadows it cast were the only movement.
How long had she been here waiting for him? His gaze searched the room as though it would give him a clue.
His books—
With a rush of fear that splintered like shards of glass, he dropped to his knees and his fingers scrambled back under the bed. For a heart-stopping breath he felt nothing. Then he brushed against the bundle and dragged it out. He clutched the books for a moment, the scarf around them undisturbed, before shoving them into his bag.
He could leave tonight. He could head down the sea road, find a place far from Porreen to wait out the night and wait for Borto to catch up.
He glanced into his mostly empty bag. He needed supplies. Dawn would have to be good enough.
There was no way the woman could prove he had used magic to light the candle, but justice on the Sweep rarely worried about things as trivial as proof. The Roven weren’t against magic, but if they found out he could do it, they’d know he wasn’t just a storyman. And if they knew anything about Gulfind, they’d know that almost no one there used magic. The questioning from there could only go downhill.
He blew out the candle, dropping the room into darkness.
A raised voice echoed down the alley. Will crawled quietly to the window, and lifted his head just high enough to look out.
Two men stumbled drunkenly down the street. No clan warriors coming to arrest him, no empty woman with narrow eyes.
Will looked for something to push in front of the door, but the only furniture in the room was the light table and the bed. And if Roven warriors came for him tonight, it wouldn’t be furniture or weapons he’d have to use against them. If they came, he’d just have to hope he woke up quickly enough to work some magic.
He let his head fall back against the wall. Except he didn’t exactly have an arsenal of magic at the ready.
Blackness bloomed around him, managing to be both smothering and empty. Normally manageable fears grew and shifted, looming like living things. Tentacles of anxiety pried him open.
Even assuming he could befriend Borto, would he find out where Vahe had taken Ilsa? Would Borto even know? It had been twenty years, even if he found Vahe, would the man remember?
Dawn couldn’t come soon enough. The hope he’d been feeling faded, strangled out by questions. The fear of failing surrounded him like a wall. No, a wall was too thin. It surrounded him like the grassland outside, vast and empty. He rolled back onto his bed. Fears that felt too real swirled around him. He pushed them back over and over, waiting for sleep that didn’t come.
Life felt like one long search after another. He’d spent a year on the Sweep searching for an army that didn’t exist, and for Kachig the Bloodless who was dead.
And it hadn’t started here. How many years had he spent looking for children born with the skills to be Keepers?
For the past two centuries, Keepers had appeared every seven to ten years with barely a gap.
Until Will.
After Will had joined the Keepers twenty years ago, not a single new Keeper had surfaced. There should have been at least two more, maybe three. Instead, the existing Keepers grew older and weaker until only Alaric and Will ever left the stronghold. When fifteen years had passed, Will had begun searching in earnest, traveling Queensland as often as possible, visiting even the smallest towns while the Keepers worried that no more would ever come.
And he’d searched for twenty years for Ilsa. Twenty years of rumors and dead ends. Would this time be any different?
Sometime in the interminable hours of darkness, sleep must have crept into his room, because early morning sounds from the street and a gust of chilly air woke him. The sky had lightened to pale slate, anticipating the dawn.
With as little movement as he could, Will glanced around the room, finding it empty.
Of course it was empty. He rolled his eyes at himself. It was time to get out of the Sweep. He was going to turn into a paranoid mess if he stayed any longer.
The sky was clear. He searched it for a moment, looking for Talen, before rolling up his bedroll and grabbing his bag. Half uneasy, half annoyed with himself for the uneasiness, he cracked the door open just enough to peer into the empty hallway.
It was obviously too late to stop himself from turning into a paranoid mess.
The smell of warm bread floated upstairs from the common room. He let the homey, daytime scent fill up the hollowness that lingered from last night’s fear and followed the smell down to where the squinty-eyed innkeeper puttered in the kitchen. Will bought several small loaves and some smoked fish.
Near the door, something rustled. A shadow shifted and the morning light caught on a coppery-red braid.
Chapter Six
Will’s hand clenched his bag. The woman gestured out the door.
“Didn’t guess Sora was here for you.” The innkeeper leaned his elbows on the counter. “Careful, storyman. That’s not a woman t’ be taken lightly.”
“I’d noticed,” Will said. She stood between him and the door. Not that running was an option. Everyone who saw him would vividly remember the black-haired foreigner who’d run through the street. Like a coward.
Even as Will opened up, he knew it would be useless. The innkeeper’s curiosity darted into him with an eager brightness, but Sora was nothing but emptiness. In the grey-blue morning light, she looked less like a vicious sliver of darkness and more like a woman. A hostile, unreadable woman, but still a woman.
Behind her the alley lightened. Borto’s wagon could be trundling down the road already, the distance between them stretching like a cord. Frustration surged up, battling against his fear. He loosened his hand on his bag.
“Good morning…Sora.” He tried to cram as much of his irritation into her name as possible. “Coming to my room wasn’t enough last night? You needed to come back this morning?”
A spike of shock and amusement came from the innkeeper.
“Come with me,” she ordered.
Will looked around for any other option, but she stood at the only exit. He leaned against the bar, focusing only on her, blocking out the emotions coming from the innkeeper. “No.”
She raised an eyebrow, but he felt nothing from her. “Your services are required.”
“That’s flattering, I suppose. But I’m going to have to decline.” He felt the slightest irritation from her.
“La
st night,” he pressed, looking for more, “you snuck into my room like a gutless thief”—her lips pressed into a thin line—“and ordered me to leave the Sweep. Setting aside the fact that I don’t take orders from you, I’ve decided it’s time for me to go home.”
He pushed himself off the bar and walked toward the door, but she didn’t move out of his way.
“So,” he continued, “if your plans for me have changed, and I’d like to point out that it’s strange that you have plans for me, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s not my plans that have changed. This morning the Torch requires your services.”
A cold fear stabbed into his gut. The clan chief?
“You’d be wise to come with me. I’m your polite invitation.”
“Yes, you’re like a beam of sunshine.”
The edge of her mouth quirked up the slightest bit. “If you refuse to come with me, the next people Killien sends won’t be as pleasant. And if you try to leave the city…it won’t go well.”
The walls of the dingy inn pushed in a bit closer. He’d never heard of any foreigner taken to a Torch for a pleasant reason.
“It’s not wise to keep a Torch waiting,” she said.
“That’s true,” agreed the innkeeper.
Sora stepped out into the alley and he followed her, his mind racing. He saddled Shadow while she stood in the stable door, blocking his exit. When they reached the end of the alley, the city gate would be within view. He led Shadow out of the stable, his mind scrambling to find a way away from this woman.
But when they reached the street, four guards stood in front of the barred gate.
“You don’t want to try that.” Sora walked the other way.
Because she’d stop him? Or because the gate was closed for him? Will tightened his hold on Shadow’s reins. It was barely dawn, the gate was probably just not open yet. The knot in his stomach didn’t go away with the thought, and he followed Sora numbly.
A spattering of Roven moved in the streets, casting unfriendly looks at Will’s black hair and beard. Sora turned down one street, then another. Each curved and doubled back intersecting others at odd angles. He felt like he’d shrunk and been trapped in the winding tunnels bookgrubs bored through books. He felt a sudden envy for the grubs. It’d be easier to get out of Porreen if he could burrow himself a new path.
I’m a storyteller from Gulfind, he told himself, attempting to reignite some small hope. It’s worked for months. Everyone has believed me. It’ll work a little longer.
Sora turned onto yet another road.
Everyone had believed him but Sora. The little flick of hope disappeared.
“What’s wrong?” A hint of amusement crept into her voice. “Afraid?”
“Yes.” He shot her a glare he hoped she could feel. “The Boan Torch is rumored to occasionally arrest any non-Roven he finds in Bermea and sell them on the slave block. I personally saw the Sunn Torch marching a chain of blond-haired slaves to be fed to their dragon. No one but Roven live on the Sweep, the only outsiders I’ve met were passing through. Quickly.” He didn’t bother to add that the Roven were so uneducated and barbaric that no one wanted to come to the Sweep. “Every foreigner with any sense is afraid to meet a Roven Torch.”
Which was why no Keeper had ever met one. The thought caught his attention. Was he about to be the first?
“Ours has nothing against storymen from Gulfind. He’s thrilled to meet you.”
She didn’t sound sarcastic. Maybe this wasn’t as dire as it felt. He wasn’t under arrest. The Torch had sent a single woman to bring him. And being the first Keeper to meet a Torch did feel significant. Granted the Morrow Clan was the smallest clan on the Sweep, so this was the least significant Torch. But if he had to meet a vicious warlord, it seemed best to meet the smallest one. And offered the opportunity to meet a clan chief, he could hardly run away scared.
Will breathed in a deep breath of the cool morning air. He would meet the Torch and get a sense of the man.
Then he’d run away.
If he could find his way out of this mess of a city.
Borto was getting farther east by the moment, but he pushed the thought away. An hour’s head start shouldn’t be a problem. Shadow could catch up to the slow wagon.
“You didn’t answer my question before,” he said. “Why are we going to the Torch?”
She ignored him and he opened up to her again, trying to eek any information out of her that he could. Why couldn’t he feel any emotions in her? It was irritating and fascinating. But mostly irritating. He’d never met anyone who could control their feelings this well. Maybe she needed some prodding.
“You do realize I’m a storyteller? If you don’t answer me, I’ll make something up.”
That earned him a response that could almost be called an eye roll, but no emotion.
“The obvious reason,” he said loudly enough for the few other people in the street to hear, “is that you’ve fallen in love with me and we’re headed to the Torch to be wed.”
She shot him a glare so venomous that he shifted away. But at the same time a jab of indignation shot into the side of his chest from her.
It was thoroughly satisfying.
“Not love then.” Maybe more prodding would draw out more emotions. “You must be after money. Has the Torch offered a reward for finding the greatest storyteller in the world?”
She tamped down her emotions again. “If there was a reward, this would be less irritating.”
Will stopped. “You’re dragging me through town with you at the break of dawn because your Torch wants to hear a story? What are you? His Master of Entertainment?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Hurry.”
He started moving again. The sun crept above the mountains, and in the morning light something about Sora’s leathers nagged at him. It took a moment to realize they were plain. Not a single rune marked the dark leather around the armholes or the neck or anywhere. None were sewn into her grey-blue sleeves. The only thing she wore that could be called decorative was a brown cloth wrapped around her upper arm. Leather strips wound around it, fastening on a vicious white claw.
When he didn’t look away, she shot him a glare from eyes that were bright green. Green. Roven eyes were always blue. Weren’t they? This woman was an enigma. She should be in a story.
The streets widened and the buildings ordered themselves into less primitive shapes. Soon the ends of actual beams of wood, a rich brown against the dull mud, protruded out of the walls holding second floors above them.
Sora made one final turn onto a broad street. It ran past two sprawling houses on each side before ending at one that could only be described as massive.
The entire first level was stone. He hadn’t seen a building with this much stone in months. The rock rose out of the ground, unyielding and severe next to all the clay buildings. Wide stone steps spilled into the street like a stack of petrified puddles. Sora motioned to a blond-haired slave who took Shadow. Will spun his ring as he followed Sora past a line of empty wagons and up the steps. He was fiercely envious of her calmness.
An intricate carving of a snake surrounded by stars flowed across the thick wood door. The tiny scales of the Serpent Queen were coated in something faintly green that caught the morning light and shimmered, one lidless eye flashed red from an inset gem. Light rippled along the snake, making it appear to slither across the door. Knife-thin fangs tipped in a shimmer of red stretched wide around the star-shaped doorknob.
Sora reached for the knob, putting her hand in between the fangs, and Will straightened his shoulders. He needed to keep this quick. Get in, meet the warlord, get out. Easy.
For such an easy thing, it took an inordinate amount of effort to step through the door and follow Sora into the large room. A slave worked along shelves, packing things into reed baskets. The warmth of the room smothered him after the chill outside. A fire burned along the side and torches fl
ickered with the opening of the door, sending a flurry of shadows darting over walls and Roven faces.
The room quieted a little as Sora strode in, and more as Will stepped in behind her. He heard murmurs of “fetter bait” and “storyman” trickle through the room. Sora crossed to a small table where two men sat. One of them was enormous, with a bright red beard and hair so wild and wiry it lay like a lion’s mane around his face. Two braids as thick as Will’s thumb hung from the bottom of the beard, the ends cinched with thick silver bands. His leather vest was decorated with plenty of runes, tooled in and died a deep red. Will paused in the center of the room, feeling awkward.
“Killien, Torch of the Morrow Clan,” Sora introduced flatly, “meet Will, storyman from Gulfind.”
Will pressed his fist to his chest and bowed low, knowing that when he straightened the enormous man would be towering over him.
But it was the other man who rose with a wide smile.
“Thank the black queen!” He extended his hand. “Someone who can spin me a tale!”
Will reached out grasped the Torch’s wrist, the man’s hand locking around his own like a shackle. Killien wore three wide silver rings encircled with runes and inset with small gems on that hand, two more on his other.
The Torch was an average-sized man, dressed in warrior leathers that were not purely functional like Sora’s. Intricate protective markings ringed the shoulders and neck, some inset with a coppery die that caught the firelight. His auburn hair was cut short. His beard was trimmed to a shape only slightly too wild to be called neat, and decorated with thin, subtle braids, bound off with silver beads. He couldn’t be much older than Will. At least a handful of years from forty.
“A storyman…from Gulfind.” The Torch looked pointedly at Will’s fingers spinning his ring. “And with gold to prove it. I’ve always thought it takes a certain kind of bravery for your people to wear gold out into the world.”
“Or stupidity,” Sora said.
“Probably a bit of both.” Will held up his hand so Killien could see the ring. “I wear this more because it was a gift and because it spins than because it’s gold.” He turned the band so Killien could see it spin. “That and because I can’t get it off anymore. But I don’t carry any other gold with me. I’d rather pay for my lodging and meals with stories. Not many brigands want to steal them, and if they do, they have to keep me alive to do it.”