The Knight's Daughter

by S H Cooper

  Joseph, on the other hand, keeps trying to ask questions in loud whispers.

  “So how does it —”

  “Shh,” Torren interrupts.

  “But what does it —” he tries again.

  “Shhhh,” Torren hisses.

  “I just want to know —”

  Torren leaves my shoulder and zips up into his face. She slaps both hands over his mouth and leans in as close as she can get. “Shhhhhhhh!”

  Joseph, his eyes crossed to look down his nose at Torren, nods as best he can with his chin tucked in so close to his neck.

  “Good lad,” she says, overly sweet, and pats his cheek. After a quick glance at the guards, she continues in a hurried whisper. “The halomirs are the highest order of mages, second only to a court’s Halofain. They remain blindfolded at all times, they do not speak, they focus all of their senses on their magic. If you interrupt, you could ruin everything. So, mouth closed, hands to yourself, and just follow me.”

  Torren flits past me and Drake to flutter in front of us. The hall is narrowing and we’re forced to walk in a line to pass through an archway. Each of its stones have runes etched deeply into their surfaces. The only light now comes from a single red candle burning in the center of the chamber. In its dim light, I can just make out four figures standing around it. They’re wrapped in heavy robes, their hoods pulled up and casting shadows across their faces. They don’t move or acknowledge us as we crowd into one corner. Once Torren, my brothers, and I are all inside, the guards turn and vanish back the way we’d come from.

  A sharp clap from the four robed fae makes us jump and I clutch my new cloak tight against me. They’ve joined hands and bowed their heads so the candlelight flickers across their faces. Thick cloth is wound around their eyes and mouths, but they still sway in time with one another and I hear voices chanting from somewhere. It starts soft, but it’s growing louder, surrounding us. I can feel the words brushing across my skin like dust caught in a sharp breeze. Even the candle’s flame dances back and forth upon its wick.

  Every hair rises up along my arms and the back of my neck. My legs are suddenly weak and I lean against Joseph, who puts his arm around my shoulders, but he feels as unsteady as I do. The room around us wavers and blurs. I want to call out to Torren, but my tongue is leaden in my mouth. I’m falling. I can’t stop myself! I reach for Drake, who’s starting to turn, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open, but my fingers close on empty air and everything melts away into a bright white.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There’s no sound, nothing around me except white. I don’t know where my brothers are and when I open my mouth to call for them, nothing comes out. My stomach knots and twists like I’m falling a great distance, but I’m not moving. At least, I don’t think so. It’s impossible to tell.

  Just as the panic starts to take hold, cobblestones appear in a circle beneath my feet. The circle spreads quickly outwards, and then, in a burst of muddied colors, I’m standing in the middle of a dark alleyway. My legs wobble and I lean heavily against the wall beside me to stay upright. As I steady myself, my eyes adjust to the darkness and I’m able to make out the buildings on either side of me. They rise three and four stories into the night sky, all white stone, just like Father had described them.

  I’ve made it to Gladfife.

  Torren and my brothers, however, are nowhere to be seen.

  “Drake?” I call softly down the alley. “Joseph?”

  When I get no answer, I pull my new cloak over my shoulders and tiptoe to the alley’s entrance. It opens into a market square with shuttered carts and closed shops. Some of the hanging lanterns haven’t gone out yet, casting pools of yellow candlelight around the base of their poles. I don’t know if it’s a better idea to remain in the dark or scurry to the light. Neither option seems very appealing.

  “Lads?” I try again, hoping they’d just ended up behind one of the stalls. “Torren?”

  A doorway across the market swings open and loud laughter and song tumbles out after a man. He waves over his shoulder and stumbles off in the opposite direction, tunelessly whistling the same song from inside. Public houses are the same everywhere, it seems. Mother has always warned me to stay away from the one in Moorsden. Real ladies don’t make a habit of visiting such places. Father and the lads will occasionally eat supper there if their day has been a particularly long one, but I’ve never set foot inside.

  It’s the only place that seems to have any life in it.

  I huddle in the mouth of the alley, pulling my fur-lined hood up and hugging my cloak tightly around me. My pack feels impossibly heavy on my shoulders. The public house’s windows glow so invitingly and I watch the patrons lift their cups in good cheer while the barmaids hurry to and fro with more tankards held high. It looks warm inside. If the others had arrived before me, wouldn’t that be exactly the kind of place they’d go to wait?

  A cold wind blows through the market, as if pushing me toward the public house.

  Sorry, Mother, I think as I start to cross the square.

  I get as far as the door before I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the latch. I can’t do this, I can’t go inside. I need to wait for the others. They’ll probably appear any minute. Maybe there’s a delay in doorway magic, only one person can go through at a time. I just need to stay put and be patient.

  The door in front of me opens almost as soon as I’ve decided to turn back. A woman jerks to a stop to avoid running into me and squints down at me suspiciously.

  “Oy, who’s this then?” she asks, pursing her painted red lips.

  I stare up dumbly. I’m not quick like Joseph, I can’t just make something up on the spot like this.

  I’m relieved when she tuts, suddenly sympathetic. “Oh, you’re just a lass, aren’t you,” she says. “Are you looking for your da, girl? What’s his name?”

  “Michael,” I reply. Now that she’s given me something to work with, I gaze down shyly and shift my weight from foot to foot, playing the part of lost child. “He said to meet him here.”

  It’s a weak cover compared to what my brother could’ve come up with, but I’m rewarded with a friendly arm around my shoulders while the woman sweeps me inside. I’m not sure why I didn’t tell the truth, but a nervous gnawing at the back of my mind told me it was best to try and keep my head down.

  “Anybody seen Michael? His girl’s come looking for him!” she shouts over the noise.

  Hardly anyone pays any attention to us. The woman huffs and tugs me to a table.

  “Have a seat here, lass. I’ll go ask around for your da,” she says.

  My heart skips a beat when she pauses and turns to me again. Maybe she’s realized she doesn’t know any Michael with a daughter. I had thought I was being clever, coming up with a name so quickly, but maybe it isn’t common enough. I keep my grip tight on my pack, ready to spring up and bolt for the door, but instead of accusing me of lying, she just asks for my name.

  “Oh, uh, Kitty,” I say, deflating a bit into the chair with relief.

  “Oh, right, right, you do look like a Kitty, don’t you?” She pinches one of my cheeks with a laugh and disappears into the crowd to find a Michael who doesn’t exist.

  She wasn’t entirely wrong. I do look like a Kitty. Just not in the way she meant. I heave a sigh of relief, both at being inside somewhere warm and off my feet. I probably won’t have much time before the nice woman comes back to tell me she can’t find my father. I can only hope Drake, Joseph, and Torren show up before then.

  I watch the room from beneath the hood of my cloak. The woman has stopped at a table by the fireplace, loudly asking for anyone named Michael, and I feel bad for lying to someone who’s willing to go to such trouble for me. She’s leaning in, pointing in my direction, and people are shifting in their seats to have a look. Their eyes go from me to a wooden beam in the center of the room, where notices and announcements are tacked up, and back. The woman has dropped her voice and her expression has become
more urgent, her gestures, although small, more insistent. The man closest to her is nodding.

  Something’s wrong.

  I need to get out of here.

  By the time I’ve gotten to my feet, the nodding man from the table is standing between me and the door.

  “Kitty, you said your name was?” he asks casually. I’m sure he thinks the toothy smile he’s wearing is friendly, but I’m reminded of a hungry dog staring down a bone. “I know your da, a pal of mine. Why don’t you come with me, I’ll walk you home.”

  “No,” I take a step back, all too aware that others from his table are also starting to get up. “I’m meeting him here. It’s fine.”

  “It’s her, Cillian! The girl from the poster! Grab her!” the woman who had offered to help me screeches from beside the wooden post.

  She’s torn one of the notices off and waves it around over her head. When I catch a glimpse of my own face, sketched with frightening accuracy in dark ink, my blood goes cold. The public house has quieted with confusion and curiosity, save for the floorboards creaking as Cillian stalks forward.

  Do not show any fear, Father’s voice barks commandingly from a memory. You will be afraid, there’s no avoiding it in battle, but you don’t show it on the field. If you show fear, you’ve already lost. Remain calm, and the fight is yours.

  “What’re you doing, Cillian?” someone guffaws. “It’s just a lass. Let her be.”

  “Shut your hole, O’Daire,” Cillian growls, right before he leaps at me.

  I squeal and duck to one side. He catches hold of my pack, but I wriggle free of it before diving under a table and crawling as fast as I can out the other side. Cillian grips the edge of the table and flips it out of his way, sending everything on it scattering across the floor. A knife slides to a stop against my boot and I lunge for it. When I come up again, I’ve got its handle clenched in my fist and the tip pointed toward Cillian. It’s enough to make him pull back, at least for the moment.

  Do not show any fear, Father says again.

  I swallow hard and nod toward my pack. “Give that back to me. Please. And then I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, no you’re not, girl,” Cillian says. He kicks my pack roughly and it rolls further away. “He warned us to keep an eye out for you. Even left us with your portrait. You’re worth a tidy sum and I mean to collect.”

  Whispers start to ripple around us. How much am I worth, they’re wondering. More than a few have suddenly perked up, their features lit by a greedy spark.

  Meverick Conan’s already been here? But how? I’m not given the chance to think on it for very long before Cillian barrels toward me again. I’ve seen this before: the wild, reckless charge. It was a drill Father had run over and over again with his men.

  Hold, I could hear him shouting. Wait for them to come to you. Know which direction you’re going to move in and stick to it. Do not hesitate!

  Cillian is rapidly closing the distance between us. Every instinct tells me to run.

  Hold! Father orders.

  He’s reaching for me, his eyes glittering with triumph.

  Now!

  I had already planted my weight on my left foot. Kicking off with my right, I spin out of Cillian’s path at the last moment. He stumbles by with an angry shout, but I’m already running for the door, knife in one hand, skirt hiked up in the other. Someone catches the back of my cloak and tugs sharply. I reel backwards with a choked cry. The knife slips from my grasp and clatters to the floor.

  “Got her!” a man crows.

  “I don’t think so!” Another smashes his cup over his head.

  His hold on my cloak loosens and I rip it away, only for the cup smasher to catch its hem. Just as he hoots with success, Cillian rears up and slugs him across the face. The public house explodes in furious shouting and flying fists. People are pouncing on each other, pummeling each other! Plates and cups whizz by and smash against the walls.

  From somewhere in the mess, I hear Cillian roaring. “Let me by! Out of my way!”

  He’s pushing and shoving his way through the crowd, his neck craned in search of me. I stoop down low and dash for the door again.

  “No, no, you idiots! She’s getting away!”

  His enraged bellows follow me out of the public house. I run blindly through the empty market, skirting around stalls and narrowly avoiding a cart that’s been left in the middle of the street. I know I’m being followed, I can hear the clamor of footsteps behind me, but I don’t dare look back. My chest burns, my heart hammers! I can’t keep this up much longer!

  The street branches off into two directions and I veer off to the left. If I’m lucky, the mob is just far enough behind me they won’t have seen which way I went. My breathing is coming in ragged gasps and I stumble into a narrow side-street. I have to use the wall to keep myself up and moving despite how my legs shake. The voices of my pursuers are getting louder again as they start to catch up. I drag myself down the dark side street, desperately looking for a place to hide.

  I crash into something as soon as I turn the corner. Someone grunts and there’s the sound of a sword sliding free of its sheath.

  “Hold, Haroheim,” someone says.

  A group is gathered around a horse and cart in the alley. A man and two women, all dressed in leathers and fur. All armed. The man is large, with a big belly and bushy beard. Half of his face is covered in dark, swirling tattoos that deepen his threatening scowl. One of the women, hardly older than me, steps towards me, the torch in her hand lowered to illuminate my face. She’s got narrow, hawk-like features and golden eyes. I stumble a few steps back, muttering breathless apologies.

  “It’s just a girl,” she says. I realize she’s the same one who stopped the man, Haroheim, from drawing his blade.

  The next thing she says is drowned out by the shouts and footsteps of those chasing me. They crowd the street, blocking any chance of escape. I back away, until I’m pressed against the wall like a cornered animal, my eyes desperately seeking a new way out.

  But as the mob closes in, the woman with the torch steps between us. She’s followed by her two companions.

  The crowd quiets immediately and shuffles back a bit, their temperament suddenly subdued. Whispers and nudges replace their loud shouting.

  “What is this?” the torchbearer demands. She gestures toward me.

  “This isn’t your business, wanderer!” someone shouts from the safety of the group.

  “Just give us the lass!”

  “Has she wronged you?” The woman remains steadfast, undaunted by the fact that she and her friends are outnumbered.

  Cillian, now less enthusiastic than he had been before, is pushed to the front. He sticks out his chest and tries to stand as tall as he’s able, his chin jutted out. If he’s trying to intimidate her, the woman seems unimpressed and places her free hand on her hip.

  “We told you, nomads, this doesn’t concern you,” he says harshly. “Give us the girl and go about your business.”

  Haroheim’s sword comes free of its sheath, and this time the woman doesn’t stop him. The other two also draw their weapons. Cillian blanches, but doesn’t back down entirely.

  “She’s worth a lot of money! We—”

  “You mean to sell her, then?” The woman’s tone has become dark.

  “No! It’s a reward!”

  “Leave, before I let my friends spill your guts upon the stones.”

  “Y-you can’t do that,” Cillian says, but he doesn’t sound confident. “There’s more of us than you! If we have to, we’ll cut you down where you stand!”

  “Haroheim, Falasia, did that sound like a threat to you?” the woman asks curiously.

  “I think it did, Reena,” the other woman, Falasia, replies.

  “I know it did,” Haroheim rumbles with pleasure. He’s looking forward to a fight. His sword seems to glow in the moonlight as he gives it a few cursory swings. “It’s been a while since I had the flesh of soft cityfolk. Do you think it’s stil
l as tender as it used to be?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Reena says chillingly.

  I stare at the three in horror, trying to convince myself I hadn’t just heard them say they were going to eat people.

  One by one, members of the mob slink away, back into the night. Cillian tries to rally a few to fight with him, but as his men thin out, so does what’s left of his bravery.

  “You better not show your faces here again,” he shouts as he backs away. “You’ll regret it!”

  “I’m sure we won’t,” Reena says.

  Haroheim’s laugh as Cillian breaks out into a run shakes his broad belly.

  The street is empty again and the three turn to me.

  I feel myself shrink and tug my cloak protectively around myself. Haroheim snorts with amusement and slides his sword back into its sheath.

  “She’s a little thing, isn’t she?” Falasia says with a chuckle.

  Even if I were standing straight, she’d tower over me. She’s solid as an oak, with the muscled arms of a fighter. Her light hair is cut short and pulled into a tuft at the top of her head. From behind, I might have mistaken her for a lad, especially given the blade that rests on her hip.

  “Aye,” Haroheim agrees. “A wee country finch, by the looks of her.”

  “What did they want?” Reena is holding the torch toward me again.

  My tongue feels wooden in my mouth. They’re waiting for an answer, but all I can blurt out is, “Please don’t eat me!”

  The women purse their lips, unable to completely hide their grins, and look to each other while Haroheim bursts into another fit of deep laughter. If I weren’t so terrified, it might have been infectious.

  “Calm yourself, finch,” Reena says. “We’re not going to eat you.”

  “But you said…” I trail off, confused.

  Haroheim lowers himself into a crouch with a grunt. “Can you keep your beak shut?”