Lord Gillis regarded him with incredulity. “I told you, boy: on my property!”
“Yes,” Magnus hissed out. “But where exactly is your property?”
“Northern Mytica, of course.”
“Northern Mytica?” he repeated. “Who would refer to Limeros as Northern Mytica?”
Now it was Lord Gillis who regarded Magnus with confusion. “What is Limeros?”
Magnus shook his head, certain he’d simply been misunderstood by this idiot. “Lower that weapon, or the king will have your head.”
“King? King of what? The goddess Valoria is the only one on the throne here in the north, and I am but a humble servant of Her Radiance.”
Magnus’s eyebrows knit together. “Did you say Valoria is on the throne?”
“Of course she is. Where else would she be?” Lord Gillis pressed his sword closer. “Best find your way to someone who might help you with that faulty memory of yours, boy.”
“You’re right,” he repeated, now breathless as he recalled the words of the strange woman with the hawk-like hand. This wasn’t right—none of it. And he had neither the time nor the patience to decipher this riddle. “Yes, I do need to find someone. Is there a city nearby? One where I can find a . . . a woman by the name of . . . Samara . . .” He strained to remember her family name. “Samara . . . Balto?”
“Of course there’s a city nearby. What other route would bring you into my garden, unless you climbed up the cliffs like a sea-spider? But as far as any specific woman there, I can’t help you. Now leave of your own free will, or I’ll have you buried here.”
Pushing aside his uncertainty and confusion, Magnus picked up his cloak and the blade, then turned and stumbled away from the lord, away from the gardens, and away from the stone villa. When he reached the gates, he saw that in the valley below, a mile in the distance, a city rose from the ground where earlier there had been nothing but an expanse of ice and snow and ruins.
He started making his way toward it.
• • •
What had the witch done to him?
The glowing symbols on the statue. The symbol she’d cut into his hand. The black shard of obsidian she’d given him that he now hid in the folds of his coat.
True magic. Magic unlike he’d ever heard of, even in legends.
Either that or he’d gone utterly and completely insane.
She’d told him what to do, but he’d barely been listening. He’d been too preoccupied trying to get away from her. Now the memory of the woman’s voice echoed loudly in his mind.
“Should you return here after sunset, there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
While he wanted to do just the opposite, to ignore her words, to be defiant and assume all of this was nothing more than an unpleasant dream, he knew he didn’t have that luxury. This was far too vivid, and the pain of the wound on his right hand too real, to dismiss as only a sleeping fantasy.
The goddess Valoria was on the throne.
And the man referred to this place not as Limeros, but as Northern Mytica.
The witch’s magic has taken me a thousand years into the past.
His stomach lurched at the possibility that this could really be happening, and nausea swelled within him. He’d never heard of magic like this, not even in the books Lucia was so fond of.
Of course, there were the rumors of witches able to boil water with the power of their minds, or those said to coax the growth of herbs to concoct their potions, but this?
He had to stop walking for several moments, bracing his hands on his thighs, until more waves of sickness passed.
Denial would do him no good whatsoever. He chose to listen instead to his churning gut, which told him he had to do exactly as the old witch had instructed if he ever wanted to return home to Lucia and life as he knew it.
“Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Magnus turned with a frown to see a pretty young woman quickly approach him. She had blond hair and dark blue eyes, and she couldn’t be much older than he was. He was certain she had to be speaking to someone else, but then she clasped his hands in hers.
“What—?” he began.
“Please,” she hissed out from between her teeth, clenched into a bright-looking smile. “Please help me. I beg you.”
Interrupting Magnus’s confusion, a young man approached, his expression sour and his glare sharp. “Who is this, Bella?” he asked.
“This is the boy I told you about,” she said. “The boy I will marry this summer. Isn’t that right, my darling?”
Magnus’s brows shot up. But the pained look in the girl’s eyes, belying her light tone, kept him from immediate denial.
“Yes,” he said, forcing a smile. “Of course that’s right.”
“So you see,” Bella said, “you must stop pursuing me. My future husband won’t have it. Will you?”
At her prompt, Magnus made a show of furrowing his brow and glaring at the boy. It was easy to pretend to dislike him; he regarded Bella as if she were a prized cow that had escaped from his yard.
Bella could provide him with vital information about this city. For that reason alone, he knew he needed to play along.
“That’s right,” Magnus said flatly.” Bella now belongs to me. And if you are any wiser than you appear, you will leave her alone.”
“But Bella . . .” the boy whined.
“Or,” Magnus continued, “perhaps you wish to fight for her? I am first in my class in swordsmanship, however, I promise to leave you with one of your hands intact. Perhaps your left?”
The boy turned a challenging look at him, which Magnus returned, his eyes steady and unblinking.
His swordsmanship claim was a lie, but he was well accustomed to using intimidation among his peers, able to stare any of them down until they scrambled away, tail tucked between their legs like a cowardly dog.
This particular skill didn’t fail him today.
“Fine,” the boy finally said, shoulders hunching in defeat. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then why exactly are you still standing here?” Magnus growled. “Leave me and my future bride in peace.”
With a last pained look, the boy turned and stormed away.
Magnus glanced at Bella.
“Well done,” she said, smiling widely. “He was such a nuisance. He refused to leave me alone. I knew I had to pick the most handsome boy in the city if I wanted to end things with him.”
The most handsome boy in the city? Magnus had no time for compliments, not even those from beautiful girls. “I’m glad I could help with your little game,” he said.
“Me too.” She slid her hand into his, her gaze moving over his face and traveling the length of his body. “And it seems that I’m the one who won.”
“Are you?”
Her smile turned flirtatious. “Now, I believe, you need to buy me a meal so that we can continue this conversation.”
“That,” Magnus raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against it, “would be my pleasure. But first, some information, if you wouldn’t mind. I helped you, now perhaps you can help me.”
“What kind of information?”
His heart fluttered with hope at the thought this unpleasantness could be over quickly. “I’m looking for a woman; her name is Samara Balto. It’s very important that I find her as soon as possible.” He glanced with trepidation up at the sun high in the sky. Still hours before sunset, but he didn’t want this nightmare to continue a moment longer than necessary.
Beautiful girls eager for his company would not prove a distraction to him today.
Bella frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t recognize the name.”
“It’s possible that she”—he lowered his voice, warily eyeing the other civilians passing closely by them—“is a witch.”
Interest crossed her expression. “Really?”
Her reaction had already dampened his confidence. “Really.”
“I haven’t heard of this Samara woman, but . . .” She too lowered her voice, her hand on his arm to draw him closer. “I have heard rumors that the witch boy is close by.”
Magnus frowned. “Witch boy?”
She nodded gravely. “Some say he’s only a legend, but I think he’s real. He can speak to spirits.”
Magnus would normally dismiss this as fantasy, but presently he was ready to consider any leads that might help him. “Is that so. Where can I find him?”
Bella shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Magnus sighed as he tried to rein in his frustration. “Who might know?”
“Perhaps we could ask someone in the Bronze Rooster while we’re having our meal? It’s a meeting place just up the street.” She hooked her arm through his, now studying his face as if appraising him for worth. A frown creased her brow. “Your scar . . . however did you get such a horrible thing?”
He touched the mark on his right cheek that stretched from his ear to the corner of his mouth. It was not something he enjoyed speaking about, especially not to a stranger who referred to it as horrible. It was ugly enough without any confirmation.
“Much gratitude for what little information you’ve given me, Bella. Best of luck fighting off your suitors in the future.”
Magnus unhooked his arm from Bella’s and began walking away from her, ignoring when she called after him.
She’d been willing to help him, but he felt he could find better help elsewhere. Also, he didn’t wish to be inspected from head to toe by someone he’d only just met.
“A witch boy,” he said to himself. It was a promising lead, but where might he find someone like that?
Someone possessed of magic wouldn’t exactly wear a sign around their neck proclaiming this. According to history, Valoria treated witches much the same as Magnus’s father did. Even the mere accusation could lead to arrest.
Still, the old woman had sent him to look for Samara Balto, and Samara was not the name of a boy.
He wandered farther up the street until he came upon the Bronze Rooster, a busy-looking meeting house. He entered through the front doors to find that the establishment had many full tables of men and women eating roast chicken, which was a familiar sight and smell, but the patrons also had their plates heaped with colorful vegetables and fruits—both a true luxury for those in Limeros, who relied on such foods to be imported from other kingdoms.
His mouth watered at the scent of lemon, his favorite fruit. It was sour, but mixed with honey in hot water, it was his absolute favorite drink, and he imbibed it whenever a shipment of exotic foods reached the docks of Black Harbor.
Here, with the greenery, warmth, and rich soil, Limerians—or Northern Myticans—truly didn’t know how lucky they were.
It’s summer here, he thought, not constant winter. And there’s a goddess on the throne in the north and the south.
While he wanted to deny the reality of this with every fiber in his being, he pressed on, trying not to let the tantalizing scent of the food distract him.
If he failed, he’d be trapped here without a family, without a future. The promise of a few lemons weren’t nearly enough to slow his steps.
His father once told him that when he didn’t know the answer to a question, he should still pretend that he did to look superior. Then, at his first opportunity, he needed to learn what he didn’t know so that he’d never be found out as a liar.
In other words, while trapped in ancient Mytica, one must try their best to fit in.
Magnus fixed what he hoped was a friendly smile upon his face and approached the nearest table. The two men sitting there looked up at him as he approached.
“Feeling a bit chilly, boy?” the lighter-haired man asked, his gaze dropping to the fur-lined cloak Magnus held. “Could practically fry a goose egg on the road today.”
“My mother wants me to have this mended,” Magnus said through his clenched smile. “I am going on an extended trip to a colder climate soon.”
Yes, he thought. Back to my home as soon as possible.
He hoped the man wouldn’t ask him for specifics about his destination. His knowledge of geography was, at present, vastly outdated.
“Mothers,” the man said, nodding. “Always with the chores.” He gestured to his friend. “This is Emil. And I’m Kalum. What’s your name, young friend?”
“It’s Magnus.” He had to stop himself from including his royal title as he fixed his tight smile back on his face. “I wonder if I might trouble you for some information. I’m looking for the seamstress, and I seem to have lost all my instructions on how to find her. Her name is Samara Balto.”
A silent moment passed as the two men studied him.
“I know Samara,” Emil finally said.
Magnus’s heart lifted. Perhaps this would be an easier nightmare to navigate than he’d thought. “Tell me where I can find her,” he demanded. Then added: “If you please.”
“That’s a nice cloak,” Kalum said, bolding reaching out to fondle the fur collar. “Got to be worth quite a bit, eh?”
“I wouldn’t know about such things,” Magnus said.
“The boy wouldn’t know about such things,” the man said, winking at his friend. “But would the boy have enough coin on him to pay for the information he seeks?”
“Coin?” Magnus stared down at them with confusion. “You want me to pay you for telling me something you know?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Then I guess you’re not going to find your seamstress. Is that really what you’ve been told Samara is?” Emil snorted. “You won’t get far with her either without money. And I’ve heard she gives much higher priority to those who grace her palm with gold rather than silver.”
“Can’t blame her,” Kalum commented drily.
“No, indeed. I can’t.”
Bribery, Magnus thought. How incredibly common of them.
Unfortunately, Magnus didn’t have a single coin on him. And if he did, that currency would have had his father’s face stamped onto it, not the goddess’s.
“But wait,” Emil said, plucking the obsidian blade from the folds of Magnus’s cloak. “What’s this pretty thing peeking out at us?”
Magnus quickly reached out and snatched it back. “It’s not a coin.”
“Clearly not. Perhaps this is your payment to Samara. I’ve heard she likes all sorts of shiny baubles in return for her particular talents.”
“If you’re unwilling to assist me, I’ll ask someone else for help.” Magnus moved past the table, but the dark-haired man stuck his leg out, and Magnus tripped over it, crashing to the wooden floor. He scanned his surroundings to see other patrons staring at him, and a few snickered that he’d managed to find some forbidden ale to make him so clumsy in the middle of the day. Embarrassed and outraged, Magnus looked toward Kalum to see that he again had taken hold of the obsidian blade.
Magnus scrambled up to his feet and held out his hand. “Give that back.”
“Get enough coin, boy, and I might consider a trade.” He placed the shard down on the table. “And make it quick, or I’ll be happy to take this to the lovely Samara myself.”
Magnus fought the urge to jump the man—to grab hold of his neck and squeeze—but it was no use. He had no weapon on him and no idea how to make two grown men obey his command if they had no idea who he actually was.
Here in Northern Mytica, the name Prince Magnus Lukas Damora meant nothing.
And he was already running out of time.
Heart racing, he left the tavern and began searching the streets, ready to beg, borrow, or steal whatever he needed to get information o
n Samara and have the shard returned to him.
His palm stung, but he clenched his fist, his short fingernails biting into the bandaged wound. The pain reminded him of the witch who’d caused this mess. He needed to focus.
The door to an inn opened, and two figures emerged, pausing long enough for the woman at the doorway to hand over a thick pouch that made the unmistakable sound of coins clinking together as the taller of the two cloaked figures took it from her.
Magnus drew close enough that he could overhear them but not be seen.
“Your fee,” she said. “Much gratitude for your help, Livius. This is such a small price to pay for your son’s assistance today. My family will sleep well tonight for the first time in months.”
“It is our duty, my lady, to assist those who need my son’s very special skills. I trust that his secret is safe with you.”
“Of course.”
Livius bowed before her. “Then we shall take our leave.”
Livius and his son left the inn and moved down the road.
Magnus followed, his gaze steadily fixed upon the sack of coins.
“Care to share why you hesitated today?” Livius asked, his tone less friendly now.
“I didn’t hesitate.”
“We were there since dawn.”
“Sometimes it’s not that easy for me.”
“Then you should make it look easy,” Livius growled. “We nearly lost her interest, not to mention our payment.”
The boy sighed. “But we didn’t, did we?”
“Are you disrespecting me again?” Livius grabbed the boy by the back of his neck and directed him forcibly into an alleyway.
“Apologies! I’m simply tired.”
Magnus heard the all too familiar sound of a hand striking a cheek before he turned the corner to see the man’s son recoil from the blow.
Outraged at the sight, Magnus clenched his fists so tightly that his short fingernails dug painfully into his palms.
Focus, he reminded himself. Focus only on the money. You care about nothing else.
But when the man raised his hand to strike his son again, Magnus couldn’t stay put. In a few strides he closed the distance between them and shoved the man backward.
Obsidian Blade Page 2