The Valley of Ten Crescents Series (Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Tristan J. Tarwater

  After she was allowed to dress the initiation took on a more festive note. They moved things out of the building and into the bar below the room Derk was staying in. Tavera and Derk already hadn’t been sharing a bed for a good spell but upon their arrival to this town Derk told his adopted daughter they could not stay together anymore since she was getting old enough to not be mistaken for his child and it was safer for both of them if they were apart. Any anxiety he had shown those first few days were drowned in ales and spirits, happy to see his daughter initiated. Tavera was ordered to drink anything they set in front of her and after a few drinks, unable to refuse anything set in front of her. Everyone laughed and drank, some sharing stories of trickster spirits, others telling graphic stories of exploits with members of the opposite or same gender, others told jokes or sang or danced. After a while it seemed like everyone was doing everything and Tavera blacked out while laughing heartily at a joke she thought she just heard. She dreamed fitfully of the young man she stabbed and an elven woman with long, black hair, her hands stretched out towards her but always keeping away.

  She woke up in the bed of the elven man who had run the initiation. The only reason she knew this was because she recognized his clothing strewn across the floor, the tunic hanging halfway out the window. He wasn’t in the room and she dressed and left the inn without running into him. If he saw her slip out, he hadn’t called for her and she hadn’t imagined he would have. It had been a relief.

  That was why she had gone to the temple in the morning. To sober up and sort through her thoughts but the solemn atmosphere hadn’t been enough to shake the girl clean. Tavera rubbed her eyes again, feeling the heaviness of them both, her head cloudy from deprivation and harried thoughts. Where the hems was she? Had she made a wrong turn again? Her eyes widened as far as they would as she spotted a landmark she recognized. All she would have to do is turn left at the shoemaker’s and….

  Tavera kept on walking down the street though her eyes had seen what they had seen and her heart was telling her not to do what she was supposed to do. She walked down the street, past the inn where Derk was staying, counting the two guards that still stood outside the door, the innkeeper gesturing wildly and swearing at them. At the nearest alley she turned, heading down the narrow street, the dingy grey of the cobblestones and bricks blurring as she stumbled, keeling over and vomiting onto the ground.

  They had Derk. She had walked by two guards who held his limp body between them, his head bowed and blood matting his hair to his head. He wasn’t dead. If he was dead they would have called a cart; if he was dead, she would not have been able to keep it together. She had to keep it together. Is this why there had been a vein of nervousness throughout the week of festive yet furtive preparation? He almost pulled out of the take, she knew he was thinking about it but at the last minute said he was back in, adamantly so. Why had they taken him? What had he done? What did they say he had done?

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stepping away from the puddle of mess left on someone’s back doorstep. Tavera peered around the corner, looking towards the inn and then down the street. They had taken him from her. She wanted to go after them and get him back, rescue him. But Derk had made her promise in the temple, before the Goddess. Derk was alive but said if she wound up in the Jugs besides him, it would kill him. He told her time and time again she must be true to what she was, and what she was was a thief. Tavi must strive to be the best she could be and part of that striving was to stay out of jail so she could continue to do what she did best. But Derk couldn’t go to prison. He told her not to get caught. Maybe she could get him away from the guards before they put him in lock-up. How could she do it?

  The Cup. Her feet were already flying back to where she thought she came from, not caring people were staring at her as she ran through the strange streets, her skirts fluttering behind her as she dodged between people and objects. A few wrong turns and some backtracking led her to the inn she had just come from and the stairs to the rooms. Tavera cursed as she tripped on the stairs, running up the rest on her hands and knees and throwing open the door to the room she had been in just a few hours before.

  It was empty.

  Empty. The bed was made, the window was closed, and the table and chair were in their proper place. Maybe she had the wrong room, she thought. But there was a crack in the mirror on the table that she vaguely recalled…had he left already?

  As quickly but more carefully than before, she rushed down the stairs into the main area where the tender was waiting on a few early patrons. Her finger tips tapped the bar top rhythmically, her anxiety apparent as she tried to make eye contact with him. After what seemed like an eternity the tender came by, an older man with a scar that ran over where his right eye should have been. “What’ll it be?”

  “There was a Forester here, tall, older than me, grey eyes, dark hair. He’s checked out, I believe but I need to know where he went.” She hoped he would sense the urgency of her situation, prayed he knew the answer to her question. The old man shook his dark, sullen head, taking a bottle out from behind the bar and setting a glass in front of her.

  “I ain’t seen him this morn, but yer father was here, asking about ye. Ye best be on yer way now, miss, he’s looking fer ye.” He poured her a drink and went back about his business, leaving her there staring at her glass.

  Milk. The guards were looking for her or at least asking about her. Tavera visited Derk enough times during the last few days. Someone must have placed them together and now the guards thought she knew something. Nervously she rubbed her wrists, anticipating the feeling of shackles around them, surprised to find the remnants of the gold ribbon, festively tied in a decorative bow by some other person last night. Her eyes watered as they fixed themselves on the frayed edges, ceremoniously cut by a simple dagger just last night.

  They were looking for her and if the tender was in the Cup, she wouldn’t endanger him by sticking around. She lifted the glass to her lips, gulping the milk down, careful not to swallow the coin he had been kind enough to drop into the bottom of it. She waved goodbye to the tender and left the bar, heading down the street that would get her to the eastern road the quickest.

  Tavera wouldn’t have to go back to her room. She had paid for the week and if she didn’t show up by the end of the day the innkeeper would be glad for the extra income and rent it out to someone else. There was nothing left to fence and she carried a few changes of clothes and her tools on her, all she needed. Not all she needed, she thought, keeping her eyes focused on her feet as they carried her out of town. Tavera had been through what most children growing up in cities had. She’d been sold and beaten and sold again, overworked and underpaid, abused verbally, physically and mentally. Hunger, thirst and loneliness were things she knew all too well. Fear and pain had visited her often growing up. But she felt as if her heart were breaking, ripped out of her chest and carried farther and farther from her the closer she got to the edge of town. Long, thin fingers touched the golden ribbon around her wrist and she set her teeth against each other, forcing herself to walk away. She would leave the city and do what she was supposed to do, what Derk wanted her to do above all other things. Tavera would be Tavera, would be Point, would be what she was supposed to be. By herself and with the support of the Cup whenever she truly needed it. At least she’d have someone to brag to when she pulled something off. The thought of Derk’s blue eyes not filling with pride almost made her cry and she felt like she was young again, alone with no one to love her anymore. Her arms crept up and she hugged herself as she pushed past people. Numbness trickled through her as she tried to brace herself against the emotions that wanted to well up again.

  Why did everything have to happen at once, she thought to herself rather sardonically, managing a sad smirk as she fingered the frayed edge of the ribbon. First the take, the boy, the initiation and now this. What was next? The sun was a few fingers over the horizon, yellow now and calling to her as more of t
he city fell behind her. People, the wrong people, were probably looking for her and she didn’t want to be here anymore. If she were to start fresh like Derk wanted her to, she would have to go somewhere else. Friends were easily made and connections established out of necessity. Family would have to be left behind. Fighting the urge to scream, cry or run, Tavera walked alone wondering what would come her way. She had her fill of bad luck. Someone owed her a bit of good and she was more than obliging to accept it. Tavera was too good to just wind up in prison or cry herself away. As she wiped her tears the gold ribbon brushed against her cheek. She stepped past the gate towards the Freewild and the Eastern Valley, knowing she was more than capable to meet whatever came her way.

  Book Two

  Self-Made Scoundrel

  CHAPTER 1

  The Sword and the Seat

  When Dershik Cartaskin was twelve years of age he saw his father Baron Darix Cartaskin beat down a farmer with the hilt of his sword in full daylight. The apologies made by the man’s wife and son, cowering a few paces away did nothing to stay the Baron’s hand. The sound of finely crafted metal and wood smacked against bone and flesh reverberated in Dershik’s ears; the glint of metal shone not with light but with blood. Mother and son stood there, holding each other, frozen although their faces were pulled in horror. They didn’t shout “no,” or “stop.” They only sobbed “Please, mercy!” The wife called out the name of her husband, trying to pull away from her son as one last smack sent the man plummeting to the ground. He fell with a low thud, dust kicking up around him. The woman cried out again, but still the man didn’t move.

  Dershik could only swallow and try to ignore the roll passing through his stomach, turning his face from the scene. He saw his father pull out a handkerchief, wiping the stained hilt of his sword with it before he let the square of fabric fall to the ground. He fastened his sword to his belt quickly and quietly; the sobs of the family were quieter. The Baron then turned and mounted his horse in one fluid movement and dug his heels into the beast’s side, spurring it on to continue their survey of the village. Dershik’s hands felt dead on the reins but still his horse managed to follow after the Baron, pulling up along the other horse with a smooth, steady pace.

  “Don’t look back,” his father commanded, low and deep. Dershik managed to keep his eyes forward though he desperately wanted to disobey. He wanted to see if the man lived, to see if the family went to the man’s aid. The boy couldn’t even remember why his father had done it. First, the Baron and the farmer had exchanged words and then without a shout, without warning the sword had been pulled out. The landscape blurred before him and Dershik looked down at his hands. He and his father continued down the dusty road and turned at the bend. Out of the corner of his eye the boy thought he saw some movement, but his fear of the man riding beside him kept his eyes on the road, his view marred by the tears he tried to keep from falling.

  “The sword and the seat,” his father said when they were back in their home, the large stone keep. The magistrates and scribes had all left in a bustle of activity. Dershik meant to leave with them but his father called his name loudly, freezing him in his seat. The boy squirmed in spite of the cushion. He placed his arms on the armrests, thinking it would feel more natural, but it didn’t so Dershik put his hands in his lap and waited. His father’s steps echoed in the large room. The boy heard his brother and other children playing in the yard, ignoring the priestess calling them indoors. He tried to keep his eyes focused on some detail of the room, the room he had been forced to sit in so many times. He felt his father’s cold blue eyes on him, drawing his own up to meet his.

  “This is our lot in life,” his father continued, walking in front of the tapestries. Gold and azure, the Cartaskin colors. His father stood there, like a monument to the Cartaskin lineage. His blond hair shone in the lamplight and his face just barely showed the golden stubble of his beard. “It is my calling and yours. In order to hold both well, you must have a firm hand. I know it’s hard to keep interest. You’re young and wish to play in the yard with your brother and the other children, climb trees. But the time will come when you’ll have to take up the sword and the seat and you will be grateful for the training and instruction I have given you.” His father smiled and Dershik felt like he should smile back so he tried. His father placed his hands on the back of the Seat, the chair a symbol of his authority, ornately carved with the Cartaskin symbols and the moon.

  Dershik leaned forward in his chair, momentarily not caring his posture was so relaxed. “But I don’t understand why you beat that…man earlier today. Why? How does that help us hold the Seat? Doesn’t that make people afraid?” His father smiled again though Dershik saw his grip on the chair tighten, his knuckles white against the deep brown.

  “The farmer questioned the Seat. So he received the sword. He was reminded where there is one, there is the other. He won’t die,” his father said in a voice not meant to reassure Dershik. “You should remember the two go together.” He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, his other hand still on the seat. Darix Cartaskin looked so natural there Dershik couldn’t help but wonder if he himself could ever stand there as his father did now. Would the magistrates all quiet when he entered a room? Or would they have to be asked and shouted at, like his friends?

  Dershik heard his father take in a breath and then sigh quietly. “Dershik, when you are the Baron and not the Baron-to-be you will learn fear works better than love. If you are wise and take my lessons to heart now, it would make your life and your training much easier.” His father finally looked toward the window, hearing the sounds of the children as if for the first time and he let go of the chair, nodding his head to his son. “Go. Play. You have sparring at first watch and you won’t be late. Your proficiency is not an excuse for delinquency.” His father smiled wryly at him as the boy vaulted out of his seat, rushing from the room and into the hallways of the keep.

  As he approached the yard the boy slowed his steps, placing one foot in front of the other, bending low so he wouldn’t be seen by the other children. He gazed over the scene and unfastened his cape, letting it fall to the ground. Dershik spied his brother, strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, his longer face from their mother’s side of the family. He watched his brother catch the leather ball and heard his triumphant whoop. His brother threw it in the direction of another child before he darted off again, like a longfly in summer. Dershik watched and waited till he was certain no one was looking his way before slinking behind the bales of hay piled in the yard for visiting horses.

  The ball passed back and forth, the children all running about and shouting, too engrossed in their game to notice him. His brother, red cheeked from running, laughed and took a step away from where Dershik lay in hiding. He sucked in his breath thinking his little brother ran away but the little boy bolted toward him, unaware. Dershik felt his heart beat faster. As his brother rushed toward him Dershik scrambled up from the bale of hay. He shrieked as he leaped down upon his brother. The younger boy’s eyes went white and wide with fear. He screamed in response, throwing his hands in front of his face. They both tumbled to the ground in a mess of gangly limbs and high pitched curses, the other children rushing toward them.

  “Derry, get off of me! Get off!” His brother struggled under him. Dershik felt his brother’s fist smack across his mouth, salt and metal flowing over his tongue. It made Dershik angry and he grabbed his brother’s wrists as he sat on top of him.

  “What was that?” Dershik asked. He was a lot bigger than Ceric and hadn’t played all day, being confined to his saddle and then the meeting with his father. He was angry and jealous. Ceric had played all day. He remembered Ceric chatting happily to the priestess about the games he had planned, his happiness that the metal merchant was bringing his daughter. Dershik pulled back his fist for another punch.

  “Get up off of him, Master Dershik, please!” said one of the other children. All the heat in Dershik’s body drained away and he felt
cold. He saw Ceric’s face, afraid. His brother’s face was already starting to swell. He looked up and saw the faces of the other children. Some of them had their hands over their mouths. Shame yanked him off of his brother and he scrambled up, tripping over himself as he sped away from the other children, pushing past the servants who had come out to see what all the commotion was about.

  The autumn evening air felt good against his skin as he ran, his boots clunking against the earth. The crisp air and the aroma from the kitchen mixed in his nostrils and he ducked into the kitchen through the back door. A quick glance showed all the servants were probably in the yard tending to Ceric. Alone, he pulled part of a cold roasted animal off of a plate and shoved it into a small loaf of bread. Two servants emerged from the pantry with braids of garlic and a bucket of whiteroots, nodding in greeting. Dershik nodded back and ducked out of the kitchen, ignoring the shouts from the yard as he continued on his path.

  The temple was cold and quiet. Vespers were over for the day and most people were busy getting chores done before the last watch. The temple was smaller than most keep temples Dershik was told, but it was familiar so he loved it. The boy took a bite of his meal and chewed as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb the sanctity of the holy place. It was only here people never yelled. Everyone sat as equals before the Goddess for one purpose. It was where every child born into the area was named, every child acknowledged as a man or a woman, every pair of lovers bound, every prayer for the dead recited. He gazed up at the life-sized statue of the Goddess, dressed in actual cloth garments which moved in the slight breeze from the window

  Footsteps came from behind him but he didn’t bother to turn and look. He knew by the cadence and quietness to whom they belonged. The priestess walked toward him and sat beside him. She was of an age with his father with long, brown hair, eyes grey like mirrorstone, and a square face. Her robes were various shades of grey that both hid and revealed the female form beneath them. The boy and the priestess sat there for a moment regarding one another quietly in the temple. Dershik ripped his food in two pieces, and when he offered her half she took it. He heard her chew quietly and the low swallow of her mouthful before she drew in her breath and spoke.