by C. K. Brooke
Macmillan was about to join them when Cosmith clasped his shoulder, forcing him to stop. “Funny.” Cosmith gave Dainy’s departing figure a sideways glance. “I saved her too, but she’s never kissed me.”
“You’ll have to take that up with her, then,” shrugged Macmillan smugly, pressing past him.
WILD FERNS AND TOMATO VINES crept up the sides of Marlena’s little cottage. It was silent, so silent, in the absence of her son. Of course, there remained, as always, the birds and the squirrels. But no more was her son’s familiar conversation, his singing and laughter.
The woman sighed, resting her head into the soft tickle of a juniper as she prodded a thicket of parsnip roots. Her long mane of curls clung to the rough branches of the shrubs, and she closed her eyes, listening to the forest.
How she missed him. He’d neither told her where he went, nor when he would return. He’d only said he’d be going, and not to expect him back soon. He was twenty-one years of age. Marlena had known the day would come.
Wiping the earth from her hands, she searched the treetops. She stood and went inside. With a pang in her chest, she glanced at Marley’s spot at the table, and the corner by the hearth where he used to play their strummer.
She stepped into his tiny bedroom, untouched since the day he’d left. Why, it still smelled of him—like pine and campfire. Shivering slightly in the lonely emptiness of the room, Marlena held herself and lay upon his mat.
Alas, she felt something crawling against her skin. She sat up and pushed his blankets aside. The hay in his mat had not been preened since his going away, and was becoming infested. She should have to remove it, lest he come home to a bed crawling with insects.
Marlena stood and lifted the mat. Something papery fluttered out from beneath. She picked up the parchment and unfolded it, holding it to the sunlight at his window.
It was an official-looking post that had clearly been torn from a wall at town square. Marlena frowned. Bulletins were city property. He knew better than to steal and keep one. But as she skimmed the runes, a tightness mounted in her chest.
Marlena inhaled, pressing the paper to her chest.
She understood now exactly where her son had gone, and what he intended to do.
“No, Marley,” she whispered. “You cannot do this.” She glanced around his room helplessly before making up her mind. It was without question that she would make haste to Hessian Gatspierre’s estate and intercept her son before the boy made a grave mistake.
THEY TREKKED ON FOOT FOR days until, one evening, the trees grew farther apart and the terrain began to resemble the Bainherd Plains.
Cosmith headed up the procession, at times deferring to Macmillan, although begrudgingly. Ever since Macmillan had rescued the duchess from the ornery blue, Cosmith had been in uncharacteristically dark spirits. Eludaine had only given Macmillan a brief, chaste kiss on the mouth, but it had seemed to undo Cosmith. The usual spring in his step was replaced with a flat petulance, and Bos observed him with some amusement.
There was admittedly something entertaining about witnessing Jon Cosmith’s unraveling. The man was a piece of work, and could do to eliminate that ungodly arrogance of his. Then again, was there not something oddly pitiful about him now?
The only thing Bos had left to wonder at was why. Of course, he knew what catalyzed Cosmith’s soreness, and that was Eludaine’s bond with Macmillan. But why had Cosmith seemed to take it so personally that the girl had kissed another man? Wasn’t Cosmith only after the gold?
Or perhaps, was Cosmith jealous for the girl’s affections?
Bos contemplated this for a moment, then snorted it off. Jon Cosmith was nothing but a womanizer.
It was a sunny morning when they finally reached the guards at the border of the Bainherd Plains. Cosmith paid the toll for their party, and they were permitted to cross.
At first, naught but barns and unoccupied fields greeted them. But once they took the paved street into a village, the roads crowded over with folk bustling past, pulling wagons and steering mules.
“What’s all the commotion?” wondered Cosmith, watching the main square.
“Looks to be market day,” observed Macmillan.
They approached the congested square, and Bos took in the wooden wagons overflowing with cabbages, carrots, fresh bread and metal wares. The duchess, too, gazed about, eyes alight as she took in the farmers with their wheelbarrows, ginger-haired women shouting at their husbands, and portly men unloading carts.
“Come, Eludaine,” Cosmith beckoned her imperiously.
“Not if you summon me like a dog.” The young woman folded her arms, staying put beside Macmillan. Bos hid a gratified smile behind his goatee.
“Yeah, Cosmith,” smirked Macmillan. “Show some respect for royalty.”
Cosmith rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek, looking as though he would very much like to strike the young man. Seeming to regain his composure, he peaked his posture. “Forgive me,” he besought them exaggeratedly. “I only wished to invite Her Highness to select for herself a proper pair of shoes.”
Eludaine glanced down at her leather slippers. They were torn in places after so many days against the forest floor. “I suppose these will no longer do,” she admitted.
Cosmith held out the crook of his arm, and Eludaine gave Macmillan a small shrug before taking it. The man flung two pieces of gold over his shoulder, which Bos caught. “Treat yourselves,” he told them casually, then turned and steered the girl away.
Macmillan made to protest, but Bos placed a hand on his arm. “I’ll keep my eye on them,” he assured the boy. From his height, he could keep tabs on the entire village square.
“Right,” Macmillan muttered. “Well, then. I’m starving.”
SELUNA CAMPAGNA PRESSED HER BACK against the dark alley wall. It was market day, at last. Folk always came with their pockets brimming. This interested Selu more than the vendors’ goods themselves.
With a black bandana tied over her mouth and her long violet hair knotted beneath a bloke’s cap, Selu could almost pass for a male. So long as no one looked her in the eye long enough, anyway.
With stealth, she made her way toward the front of the alley, where outside, to her left, stood a cobbler’s cart. Locals bustled by, children chasing the heels of village cats, stubborn old grandfathers griping over the rising cost of firewood. Selu waited. If she was patient, a worthy target would head her way.
She didn’t have to bide her time very long, for soon, a young couple approached the cobbler. The man was dressed in expensive-looking cowhide, complete with matching vest and a rather flamboyant hat to boot, which obscured his face.
The blushing, shorthaired girl on his arm looked less than matched to him. Her skirts were patched, her tunic stained, and…what was that on her feet? It appeared she walked in leather pouches. No wonder they needed a cobbler.
Perhaps the girl was a ragamuffin, but her partner obviously had gold, thought Selu, moistening her lips beneath her bandana and preparing to take action.
She waited as the hatted man came to an agreement with the cobbler and helped his curvy, mousy little girlfriend into a new pair of satiny black shoes. They were, by far, the finest thing on her person now. Except for maybe those green eyes, thought Selu, which seemed to glow.
The couple waved to the merchant, the girl looking more at ease, and they strolled on, arm-in-arm. Selu’s heart pounded. Almost….
As they passed along her alley, Selu reached out and yanked the girl by her arm, dragging her into the shadows before she even knew to scream. As hoped, the girl pulled in her companion with her.
Selu bounded upon them, knife in hand as she aimed for the young woman’s throat. “Give me your gold or she gets it,” she rasped in the deepest voice she could muster.
“What the devil is this?” the man exclaimed, removing his hat.
Selu’s eyes widened. Even in the dark alleyway, she knew that annoyingly handsome face.
Why, it was none other than the man from the search party, the one who had caught her bathing in the creek!
“Well, well,” she growled. “If it isn’t Jon Cosmith.”
The man’s brow came together in puzzlement, and the girl, Selu’s knife still positioned at her throat, looked fearfully between them.
“Do I know you?” said Cosmith.
“Oh, we have met,” hissed Selu, pulling down her bandana with her free hand until it rested around her neck, revealing her face. “Although perhaps,” she spat, now removing her cap and allowing her violet hair to cascade down her shoulders, “you do not recognize me with my clothes on.”
At this, the girl looked stricken.
“You,” gasped Cosmith. “Give me back my gold!”
Selu laughed. “I’ve already spent it all.”
“Miserable succubus,” muttered Cosmith, as the girl, still clutching his arm, whipped her eyes jealously between them.
“Who’ve you got here, now?” Selu prodded with a pointed leer, tapping the tip of her blade against the maiden’s collar. She met the girl’s intent green eyes with her violet ones. “She looks a little inexperienced for you, man. Unless, of course,” she smirked, “you were going for that sort of thing.”
“Jon?” the girl breathed. “You know this woman?”
Cosmith grit his teeth. “Unfortunately. Lower your knife,” he ordered her. “And shut that over-wide mouth of yours.”
Selu cackled. “What is your name, girl?” she simpered. “Were you hoping it to be ‘Mrs. Cosmith’?”
The girl watched her defiantly, and Selu had to admire her resolve. She leaned in. “And has your darling Jon told you what he really is? A rake and a thief?”
“Name your price, then,” hissed Cosmith. “Tell me how much you want, and leave her alone.”
“How much? Why, all of it, Cosmith.” Selu fixed her gaze back upon his unsuspecting little companion, when a thought occurred to her. She took in the black hair, the freckles on her nose, and the way her stance looked strangely familiar, as if Selu had once seen someone prominent who resembled her, long ago.
She gasped. “Surely, this cannot be her?” Her eyes darted between Cosmith and the girl in astonishment.
“Who?” said Cosmith dryly. “This is my sister. You have robbed me once already and I’ve nothing left; now, will you please let us go?”
Selu sneered. “Liar.”
“Is there a problem back here?” came a deep voice.
The light from the market square was blotted as a hulking figure crowded the alleyway. Selu returned her knife to her belt, her gaze sliding up to find its face. Long hair rested upon sturdy shoulders, an unruly beard surrounding his mouth. His muscles positively bulged from his tunic, and Selu’s heart skipped. She recognized him as the giant from the search party.
“No,” she said simply. “None at all.”
Swiftly, she glided through the shadows and down the alley, rounding a corner and fleeing them. But she’d know where to find them again, of course, as she was certain they’d be heading north.
For the girl, Selu knew without a doubt, was none other than the lost duchess, now found.
INFURIATED, COSMITH WATCHED AS THE woman got away, disappearing down the alley as soon as Bos appeared.
To make matters worse, Dainy flung her arm out of his and glared at him accusingly. Cosmith swallowed, hoping she would avert her gaze, but even as they stepped back out to the crowded, sunlit square, she did not.
“What happened back there?” asked Macmillan, joining up with them and biting into an apple he’d bought.
“It was a stick-up!” Cosmith informed him angrily. “Dainy was held at knife-point. Where were you two?”
“Treating ourselves.” Macmillan chewed. “What do you mean, Dainy was held at knife-point?”
“What I want to know,” interrupted the girl, every syllable a threat as Cosmith braced himself, “is who that vile woman was. And what in hell did she mean by not recognizing her with her clothes on?”
To Cosmith’s dismay, Bos and Macmillan sniggered.
He shot them an indignant look, reaching for Dainy’s hand, but she pulled away. He sighed, and tried to explain. “It wasn’t like that.”
Macmillan laughed.
“I mean,” Cosmith shook his head, his thoughts jumbling, “nothing happened. Other than the fact that she stole all my coin,” he added bitterly.
Macmillan was positively squawking. “Are you referring,” he caught his breath, “to the lass who stole your money and clothes back in Häffstrom?”
The duchess was not amused. “Stole your clothes? What is he talking about?”
“I remember,” grinned Bos. “Cosmith showed up to camp wearing nothing but a smile. Thank goodness he had spare garments in his satchel.”
They snorted with laughter, but Dainy only looked livid. “Was that woman one of your many conquests, then, Jon?” she asked testily.
“I assure you, no,” contended Cosmith, his face reddening. He wished the men would stop guffawing.
“Well, forgive me if I find that rather difficult to believe.”
“Nothing transpired between me and that awful woman, I tell you!” avowed Cosmith, his neck hot.
“Ah, you should’ve been there, Dainy,” crowed Macmillan.
Bos glanced at him. “Then again, she should not!” he roared, and the two nearly fell over each other howling.
“There were at least fifty men watching,” wheezed Macmillan, a hand on Bos’s back. “And here comes Cosmith, stark naked in broad daylight….”
Bos hooted. “Prattling on like nothing was out of the ordinary!”
And then, to Cosmith’s horror, Dainy cracked a small, reluctant smile. All too soon, their hilarity had caught on, and she covered her blushing face to conceal her snickering.
“Oh, for the love of—” muttered Cosmith, as all three bent in the middle of the crowded street. “Go ahead then, laugh it out.” He sighed, crossing his arms as he waited for them to subside.
“Can we please move on?” he demanded, mortified by the way Dainy’s shoulders shook as she doubled over.
Cosmith replaced his hat atop his head. “I’m leaving, if anyone should like to join me,” he appealed, but to no avail. Anything he said now would only make them laugh harder. “I hope those shoes fit nicely, Dainy, and that you walk very comfortably in them.”
But she only turned away in hysterics, unable to look at him.
“Honestly.” He stalked ahead. When they didn’t follow, Cosmith glanced back. “By all means, keep laughing about it for the rest of the afternoon. Just remember who has the money pouch. You’ll need me when next you grow hungry, or must pay the tolls to cross into Häffstrom.”
Eventually, they straightened, gasping for breath.
“We were just having a bit of fun, Cosmith.” Macmillan grinned.
“Aye, after all the fun you’ve had with us,” came Bos’s satisfied voice.
Cosmith glanced furtively at Dainy. He was glad she wasn’t looking his way.
IT WAS CLEAR THE LADY bandit followed them. Why she so persisted, Dainy could not fathom. But she didn’t like it at all.
By evening, Dainy had resumed to boiling from the interaction between the strange woman and Jon. The two had clearly encountered one another before, apparently both unclad, yet Jon maintained that nothing had “transpired” between them. Somehow, this did not make Dainy feel any better.
Feeling rather as though she’d rather like to strike something, she kicked a stone from her path. Dust flew into her eyes, and she rubbed them furiously, coughing.
“That awful woman still tails us,” Jon muttered to the men.
“What does she
want?” demanded Dainy pointedly from behind them. She would not be left out of the conversation.
Bos shrugged. “She is only a woman. What harm can she do?”
“She has a knife,” snapped Dainy.
Jon glanced at her uncomfortably, as though wishing for her to hang back so that he could speak to the others in private. When he seemed to realize she wasn’t going anywhere, he relented. “I suspect she knows who Dainy is.”
“And?” asked Macmillan, unfazed. “Bos is right. She’s just a woman. It is not as though she can compete with us.”
“Perhaps not. But she once told me herself, she intends to steal the gold from the victor,” Jon informed them darkly.
“So that’s what you’re so worried about?” snapped Macmillan. “That, should you win the prize, she might try to pry it from your greedy hands?”
Dainy glared at Jon.
“I only mean to convey that she cannot be trusted,” said Jon evenly.
“Nor can you be,” retorted Macmillan.
The sun fell lazily beneath the skyline, and Jon walked alongside Dainy, Bos and Macmillan in the lead.
“How do they feel?” Jon asked her tentatively, gesturing to the satin shoes he’d purchased for her earlier.
“Fine, thanks,” said Dainy dismissively, fixing her gaze elsewhere.
“Why have you refused to look at me all evening? Have I suddenly sprouted a second head, making me so hideous?”
Dainy bit her lip. “Perhaps with a second head, Mr. Cosmith, you might actually possess a brain.”
“You have been sour since our encounter with the bandida,” Jon observed, and Dainy’s insides curdled. “I don’t see why you should care so much about our acquaintance,” he added quietly. “After all, you’re the one who kissed Macmillan.”
Bos glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. “Jealous, are we?”