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

by Tristan J. Tarwater

  “How’d you get the plate?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. So, he wanted information. His annoyance had been tempered by curiosity and she would satisfy it, in order to get her money.

  “I stole it,” she said simply. She wrapped her hands around the mug and took a long pull off of the drink, glad to have some good beer in her belly after a long day’s travel. “I was in the village it was being kept in when the request was made. While the town was in a ruckus over the loss of their beloved priestess, I slipped in and found it.” She shrugged. It didn’t sound like something she wouldn’t do. Had the circumstances been different, it was something she might have done.

  “And you traveled alone? No one followed you?”

  Tavera snorted. “Yes and yes. I’m by myself. The people in the town are too stupid to figure anything out. The only person who seemed capable of doing anything won’t get far.” She drained her cup, her stomach feeling warm as the liquor seemed to spread throughout her middle. They brewed strong beer in this bar. It would probably be best if she slowed down.

  Tavera nodded, adjusting her hat again as she leaned back a bit in her chair. “One of them…zealous sort, the kind people don’t talk to, if you catch me.” The half-elf knew better than to have conversations when the drink was strong and so she slid off her seat, hoisting her pack and the well-hidden plate onto her back. She didn’t bother finishing her drink but instead set the mug on the table and tied her cloak about her neck. “Look, I’m more interested in a game of cards than speaking to you. Get them to show up with my monies and a dagger or I might be willing to part with yet another one in a rather bloody fashion.” The barkeep nodded, narrowing his one eye at her before taking her mug off the bar.

  “Ain’t you gonna pay for this?” he asked, looking down into the bottom of the mug, his face screwing up as he saw she hadn’t drunk but a third of it. Tavera shook her head as she pulled her hood over her hat, the brim pushing forward so that she had to adjust it again.

  “I only had a few sips, you can resell it, I suppose,” she laughed. “I’m just giving you another reason to help me out!” If he called after her, she didn’t hear it. Her heart thumped in her ears and even the extreme noise in the bar was drowned out by her working brain. Her legs felt wobbly, a combination of the strong drink and her nerves, she supposed. The moon was almost high, she told herself, stepping out into the spring rain. She wondered when she had last waterproofed her pack and couldn’t remember. Tavera cursed under her breath, steam rising out of her mouth as she made her way to one of the other buildings that made up the small community of Black Hills. If it rained harder, her things might get wet. If it rained harder, any tracks the cult made might be washed out.

  Details which could not be overlooked sprouted in her brain. Tavera sat down on the stoop of what looked to be an abandoned building, cataloging what had already happened and what was to come. She went over various scenarios in her head, making pathways of plans which branched out and crisscrossed, solutions and proposed reactions pointing all roads toward one goal: success. It was important not to entertain thoughts of failure but to plow toward the desired end, regardless of what obstacles placed themselves in her way. In their way.

  Tavera took a deep breath, the urge to walk around suddenly seizing her. She pulled her cloak off, the cold air and water threatening to seep through to her skin as she hurried to get her pack back on, draping the cloak over it and herself. It made the fabric hang on her in an awkward way, but at least the journals which had helped them so much would fare better.

  She was about to step off the porch when a figure walked around the corner of the house, the black cloak lined with red dragging on the ground. Tavera drew in her breath, the boots and cloak registering in her brain, dreading the face hiding within the hood. The scarred face of Cy stared back at her, his expression cold, though one eye glinted with what seemed to be amusement. Several other figures stepped out from around the house, all of them wearing the same robes. Their faces were harder to see but Tavera felt a chill run through her, knowing they were watching her.

  “Well, you’re early!” she said, unable to keep the nervousness out of the laughter she forced out of her mouth. Her mouth felt dry. The rainy mist made her squint. How long was it till the time she had given them? Would their tracks last long enough for Little to follow? Tavera rubbed the side of her face with her hand, scanning the area for a quick escape if needed. “Well this is lovely, we can make our trade and I can be on my way. Did Pense tell you about what I required?”

  “Yes, he did, as a matter of fact.” Cy’s voice was low and measured, almost melodic in quality. And calm. Too calm. It made Tavera nervous. She struggled to hide it, push it down into her warm belly. Cy’s eye twinkled despite the lack of light. “Fifty white pieces as well as…a dagger?” He tilted his head to the side slightly, seeming to peer down at her. Tavera gulped.

  “Yeah, I seem to have misplaced one of mine in someone’s shoulder just a few days ago. I do seem to lose more sharp things that way.” Tavera spat the words, hoping she was convincing. She was no match for Cy and his friends, but they didn’t need to know that. Tavera knew where she would run if he pointed that sickle at her. She wouldn’t risk being knocked out again in Black Hills. That being the case, they had to believe she would stand her ground and send them to Her Hems if they didn’t deliver.

  “You seem to be misplacing a lot of things these days,” Cy said. Someone was pushed out from behind the building, led at knifepoint by yet another cultist. A smile crawled across Cy’s face as Tavera tried not to react, the thief biting her lip so hard she drew blood as she tried to keep herself from losing her semblance of control. Cy chuckled as he reached into his cloak. Pale, scarred fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger Tavera had attacked him with all those nights ago.

  “How about this,” Cy began. “Instead of trading the plate, which you don’t need, for the priestess, who you don’t need, I instead give you this dagger? Embedded in this bartender. Would that be more to your liking?”

  The look on Tender’s face made Tavera’s heart threaten to rip out of her chest. She felt sick. A million apologies were painted across his face, his eye swollen where someone had apparently hit him. Tavera’s legs felt as if they would melt beneath her but she drew in her breath, slow and measured. The sharp taste of blood in her mouth streamlined her thoughts to where they needed to be. Perhaps her original plan could yet be salvaged.

  Tavera made a point to keep her eyes off of Tender and fixed them on Cy, not breaking her gaze as she gestured at the barkeep. “Do what you like with that fapper. Did you even bring any money?” Exasperation rang heavily in her voice, though money was the last thing on her mind. She had to get Tender out of this somehow. Her hands reached up, undoing the clasp keeping her cloak fastened, and she let it fall to the ground, swinging her pack around so she could get to the object they so desperately wanted. “I have the plate.”

  She held it up, the leather bag with the silver clasp obviously holding something large inside. Hopefully, the presence of their quarry would distract them long enough for Tavera to think of a plan. Indeed, the robed figures seemed to hone in on the sacred item, the hoods all turning, unspeaking. A flicker of excitement shone in the single eye of Cy, the cruel scar jerking as he drew in his breath.

  “I could just kill the bar keep, take the plate from you and make you our prisoner,” Cy finally said. He flipped the dagger in his hand, catching it with his opposite hand rather skillfully. He turned his eye toward Tavera. She knew for a fact she disliked the look he was giving her. “However,” he continued. “In the short time we have come to know this barkeep, he has proven himself to be a very serious man. A very dedicated fellow. He is devoted to the Goddess in a way many men born in this time aren’t.” Cy flourished the dagger again before tucking it back in his belt, the folds of his robe falling into place as if they had never been disturbed. He didn’t look to Tender as he spoke of him, but walked backward,
taking a hold of the rope tied around his neck.

  “I have found it is sometimes easier to transfer a fire from one fuel source to another, rather than ignite one anew.” He yanked at the rope. Tender was caught off guard, lurching forward on his feet, stumbling. “I am so glad he followed you. This truly is an auspicious time for our people.” Cyric folded his hands in front of him and finally, Tavera looked at Tender, the rain seeming to rise off of her like steam as her anger grew.

  “Toss all this, just take your damned plate and leave me be!” A new plan formed in Tavera’s head, a different one. She had looked over the journals. She had deciphered the pictures and she knew what they would do if they got their way, if they got both her and Tender back to their temple. Tavera hadn’t told Tender what they were capable of. Perhaps this had been her biggest mistake. He had been more concerned about her than himself and the fact this might result in him becoming a bloody, raving mess on the temple floor rankled more than any wound she might sustain in the fight she was about to start. Tender should have been more scared going into this mess and now Tavera fought to keep her fear from stopping her from acting.

  “Just take the fapping plate and to Her Hems with you!” she shouted. Tavera spun on her heels, whipping the bag around by its thick straps, letting it go at just the right time. It hurtled toward Cy through the air in a wide arch. Tavera threw herself after it, pulling out her short sword as she shot toward him. Cy reached out for the bag, catching it, the bag covering his chest as he held it in his arms.

  But there was a spot in the groin Derk had told her about. She aimed for it. The point of her sword sunk into flesh. It grated against bone as she twisted, not able to keep the low, animal growl from bubbling out of her throat and past her lips as her blade struck true. Her scream matched his as he stared back at her with his eye wide, his pupil dilated in shock and pain. She drove the blade in until he dropped the bundle, something slick and hot splashing onto her grip.

  Everyone around her was shouting and Tender’s voice seemed to be one of the many in the din. Tavera yanked, trying to rip her sword out of Cy’s leg but it was stuck. Cy’s pale hand rose from his side, his fingers clawing towards Tavera. A ball of light smashed over her forehead as he struck her with something which had no substance. Tavera’s head snapped back from the blow. She found her joints loose and her muscles slack, her eyes unable to focus in her head. The thief felt annoyed as she slumped to the ground, the same shade of red creeping over her vision yet again.

  Before everything disappeared, she saw them put a bag over Tender’s head before someone picked her up off the ground. Tavera barely felt the rain as it washed over her and she dreaded the dreams which would come to her under the cultist’s spell.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Physical Escape

  Tavera’s mouth was dry. It was as if someone had poured salt into it while she had been sleeping. The sensation of her tongue being stuck to the roof of her mouth was about to make her gag. Tavera retched where she lay, working her mouth in an attempt to get her saliva flowing, trying to think of something good to eat. It usually worked.

  A pitcher sat just a few feet away from her, a loaf of brown bread beside it. Her joints still ached. Nothing felt broken and she wasn’t bound so she flipped over onto her belly, wincing as pain shot through her limbs She dragged herself toward the food, the cold, stone floor sucking her heat through her clothing. Tavera shivered as she reached out for the pitcher, managing to prop herself up on one arm to reach it.

  “Don’t drink it.”

  Tavera nearly screamed. Her mouth was too dry to even squeak. She sat up, her body trembling as her eyes made out the figure sitting on the straw mattress. The woman’s face looked ashen, her eyes bloodshot.

  Kella, the priestess. For a moment they just stared at each other in the dim cell. An oil lamp in the corner threw harsh shadows around the room. This was something like luck. Tavera had thought she would have to escape her own cell before finding the priestess. But here Sister Kella sat, staring at her. Her robes were dirty and stained with blood both old and new, but Tavera saw no wounds on her. She should assess the priestess’ condition before she moved her. If she opened the door only to find the woman couldn’t run or was in too much pain to move, her plan would be shot. Tavera stood up, grimacing as her own aches coursed through her.

  “Wing?” said Sister Kella.

  Tavera blinked as the priestess addressed her. Why had she just called her that? The priestess tilted her head to the side quizzically, the older woman’s stare blank as she regarded Tavera. “Wing…when are we going to get out of here? When will they come rescue us?” Kella’s voice sounded small, the older woman leaning forward with the question.

  Tavera thought for a moment before she answered. “I…I am going to rescue us, Sister Kella,” she managed, her voice sounding like gravel. Her throat burned as she spoke. She choked on her own words, taking a moment to catch her breath before she stepped toward the woman with her hands up. “But first…first I want to check you to make sure we can run for it. Is…is that okay?” The priestess stared at Tavera. It was starting to trouble her. There was no way the priestess could still be drunk, after all these days of solitude. Her peculiar alertness implied liquor was not the cause of the priestess’ strange behavior. Tavera’s thoughts turned to Kella’s journals and her warning about the water. In her haste, Tavera had almost drunk it. Whatever was wrong with Sister Kella, she had at least thought to warn Tavera away from the drugged drink.

  “Of course, my love.” The priestess smiled as Tavera walked up and knelt before her. She looked over the priestess’ feet, which were dirty but uninjured. Her ankles seemed fine; the priestess laughed as Tavera took each foot in her hand and tested them. As she inspected the woman’s legs she spotted one of the causes of the bloodstained robe. All along her leg were small scars and scabs, some fresher than other. They had been made with a very sharp blade. Tavera reached for Sister Kella’s hands, only to have the priestess grab her face. Startled, Tavera fought the urge to push her away, cringing as the priestess pressed her cheeks too hard.

  “Wing, how did you get here? I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you, I couldn’t. I wanted to, but….” The priestess’ fingers brushed the tops of Tavera’s ears and she drew her hands back, recoiling as Tavera sat up, staring back at the holy woman.

  Sister Kella shook her head and put her hands on her face, rocking back and forth on the small mattress. “No, you’re not Wing, you’re not her. Wing is dead, Wing is dead, Wing is dead and I’m alone. Why did you do it, Wing? I’m sorry I wasn’t as strong as you, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know, I couldn’t help you.”

  Tavera dared not move; instead, she tried to lick her lips, her skin cracking as she moved her mouth. It hurt and it bled but the scant bit of moisture seemed to do her tongue some good. Just when she was about to stand up, the priestess grabbed her by the arm, her eyes wild with emotion though her face was blank.

  Tavera struggled against her hold, unable to shout. The strength in the crazed priestess’ hands made Tavera wince. The thief could not risk getting injured by the priestess or no one would escape. With a twist and a shove, she managed to ram her knee into the Sister Kella’s stomach, loosening her manic grip enough for Tavera to slip from her grasp.

  The older woman doubled over on the floor, clutching her gut as she moaned, her graying hair spilling over her face. Tavera backed up till the cool slickness of the cell wall pressed through the fabric of her clothes. She watched the woman, waiting to see what the priestess would do next.

  Sister Kella looked up after what seemed like too long, her hand shaking as she brushed her limp, greasy hair out of her face. Though her breathing was rapid, her eyes seemed calmer and she fixed them on Tavera, licking her lips as she tried to sit up on the stone floor. “You’re…you’re Tender’s girl, aren’t you?”

  Tavera snorted. She began unlacing her belt, plucking at the cords quickly before pulling the article off.
Goosebumps crept over her skin but her fingers were able to pull at the stitching, undoing a few seams before she found what she had hidden there when she first obtained the garment. Two lock picks carved from bone were quickly pulled out of their sleeves and the garment tossed on and laced tight enough for the sake of convenience. There was another one sewn into the hem of her trousers, this one metal. With a few rips, the bit of wire was produced. Tavera held it in her hands, warming it up as she considered the priestess.

  “I am not ‘Tender’s girl.’ I’m someone who thinks you don’t want to be here. I’m working with him, though.” Apparently they hadn’t changed the locks since last time Kella was here. Just like in the journals, they were locked with a key. The plate which kept the mechanism in place was held on with four screws. She had always been good at picking locks, better than Derk, which he had seemed to resent on occasion.

  The thief listened carefully for the telltale signs of close company before she rapped lightly on the door with her knuckles, waiting for some kind of audible reaction. No one pulled back the peekhole and all she heard on the other side of the door was silence. The only noise came from her own, raspy breathing.

  “They are getting ready for the ritual,” the priestess said, her voice melodic. Tavera heard her approaching from behind. The thief hunched her shoulders instinctively. She had come to rescue Sister Kella but at the moment, she did not trust the priestess. Being here again had caused the woman’s mind to break. It meant she would more than likely be a burden when they tried to escape. Tavera was bent on getting Tender out as well. There would be no leaving without him. She used the end of one of the bone picks to begin unscrewing the plate, finding the age of the metal giving her a rough start but not making it impossible.

  “You are probably correct,” Tavera said quietly, undoing the first screw and letting it fall to the ground with a satisfying metallic thump, the object bouncing across the floor before it made a few lazy circles and stopped. The thief would try to feel the priestess out and direct her thoughts to more pleasant matters. After all, Tavera had read her journals. She knew what Sister Kella had gone through and planned to use it to her advantage. Her mouth was still dry and her lip stung where it had cracked but she had to keep the priestess with her. “Tell me, did Tender say I was his woman?”