by Taylor Hobbs
The climb had deposited the weary travelers above the foothills to rest for the evening. Fawkes seemed pleased with their progress, going so far as to pull a special treat from his bag for their dinner. “Apple?” he asked, before taking a bite out of the juicy fruit, and tossing the rest to Charlotte.
Sweetness exploded in Charlotte’s mouth, chasing away her negativity. Happily, she took another bite. “Where did you get this?” she asked, through a dribbling mouthful.
“I took it from outside the inn. Been waiting for the right time to eat it.”
Companionably, they passed the fruit back and forth until only the stem was left. Charlotte decided it was an acceptable peace offering, and finally asked the question she had been mulling over all day. “What did you mean when you said that the duke would be outnumbered if he crossed the border?”
Fawkes’ eyebrows narrowed thoughtfully. “Do you know what has been happening in the kingdom these past few years?”
Charlotte nodded. “King Otan is paranoid that there will be an uprising. That the Great War will happen all over again and destroy everything.”
“Yes,” Fawkes said. “But the uprising is already happening. There is already a war going on.”
Charlotte scoffed. “The country would know if we were at war!”
“The rebels have organized, striking out with small attacks throughout the kingdom. The king can’t fight an enemy that disappears before the smoke clears, nor can he declare all-out war without causing mass panic. The war is being fought underground right now.”
“Are…are you one of the rebels?” Charlotte asked, feeling stupid. Of course he is, she thought, why else would he break people out of prison?
His eyes hardened. “I care not for any ideology or political side. I get paid for my services. Nothing more. And I do not ask questions.”
“But you work for them, mostly,” she pressed.
“In recent years, yes. They seem to find themselves imprisoned quite frequently. Their gold is good, so—” Fawkes shrugged.
“You don’t care what they’re doing?” Charlotte asked, incredulous. “After the death toll and the famine that the Great War caused, and these people want to start it up all over again!” Another thought dawned on her. “The rebels have made the king and the duke so paranoid that they’ve begun arresting innocent people. They are the reason that Henry almost died for no reason!”
“Citizens have been falsely accused and imprisoned within the kingdom for centuries. This is nothing new. Just because it was not happening right in front of your face does not mean it hasn’t been going on in the shadows.” Fawkes almost looked disappointed, as though he expected more analysis and critical thinking from her. “Open your eyes, girl. There is never peace. We will never have true peace. We can only take moments of serenity as they come and do what is best for ourselves.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Charlotte snapped. “If you did, I wouldn’t be standing here. What was best for you was to abandon me the soonest chance you got.”
“Best does not always mean logical,” Fawkes murmured.
Chapter Six
Little droplets pattered onto Charlotte’s face like tiny kisses, cool and refreshing on her weathered skin. Her tongue reached out to lick her lips while her mind tried to hold onto a deep sleep. As she snuggled into her bedroll, snippets of an argument from the night before drifted to the forefront of her consciousness. Her frustration with her mentor never seemed to cease, and she suspected he felt the same way about her.
The memory of her last words to Fawkes crystallized, and she sat up in horror. Her frantic gaze swept the camp, but she caught no sight of Fawkes or Ghost. It appeared he had taken her words to heart, and Charlotte’s own sank. All trace of him was gone, save for the bedroll that Charlotte occupied. He left me nothing, she realized. No food or water.
As she was cursing herself for not waiting until after Fawkes got her safely over the border before pissing him off, she heard the familiar sound of Ghost’s upbeat trot. Rider and animal emerged from around a stone outcropping farther up the trail, and Charlotte choked back a sob.
Fawkes dismounted and said, “Roll up your bedding and load it. The storm is closer than I thought—” He was cut off as Charlotte jumped up and flung her arms around him.
“You didn’t leave me!”
He staggered under the unexpected affection. “I packed Ghost up early to avoid the rain. I rode him up to observe the storm…” He trailed off, bewilderment in his tone. “You were tired, so I let you sleep. You assumed I left?”
Charlotte nodded, her head pressed against the folds of his cloak. Fawkes patted her shoulder awkwardly. She sighed and let go. “Quickly,” he said. “We need to crest the mountain pass today. The downward slope is easy to traverse. We could be in Croantis by nightfall.”
As if feeling the same sense of urgency, the rain started to fall frantically as the trio headed up the trail. The sky rolled like the sea, shades of gray shifting and crashing against each other with every gust of wind. The dirt under their feet disintegrated into slick mud. Ghost dug his hooves into the thick paste, but each step he took ended with a slide backward. Their progress seemed glacial to Charlotte, but it was impossible to tell the time of day while the sun stayed hidden behind thunderous clouds. Charlotte guessed she had been pushing upward for hours, but time felt like it stood still. She tried not to think about the increasing steepness of the trail and kept on the inside between Ghost and the stone wall the mountain provided.
However, morbid curiosity finally compelled her to peek over her shoulder to see how far they had climbed. Ghost continued his plod behind Fawkes, leaving Charlotte rooted in place as she took in a view that made her stomach flip. As the comforting bulk of the horse deserted her, an unobstructed view of the valley stretched out below her. All thoughts of proving Fawkes wrong about her phobia flew right out of her head. In fact, the very ability to form actual thoughts deserted her at that moment.
She didn’t notice that Fawkes had doubled back until he was standing in front of her, slapping her cheek. “Charlotte! Look at me.”
She tore her gaze away from the tiny blue river snaking through the valley and latched onto the blue eyes of her mentor. Her throat closed and her tongue dried up, rendering her unable to speak.
“It is not safe to stop here.” Fawkes’ voice was miles away as it struggled to reach her ears. He gripped Charlotte’s arm with both of his hands, as if to tow her paralyzed body back to Ghost.
At her first step, Charlotte felt the earth drop out from underneath her feet as blood rushed to her head. Her senses betrayed her as the vertigo took hold. Her vision clouded, confused as to why her feet remained planted while the path had slanted vertically. Overwhelmed, she slid down to sit in the mud, and started screaming. “I can’t! I can’t! Make it stop!”
“Stand up,” Fawkes ordered her, any patience for her condition washing away the longer he stood immobile in the pouring rain.
Charlotte remained on the ground and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to right her equilibrium in a world flipped upside down. Nothing is working, she thought. I’m going to die up here.
Strong hands grabbed her underneath her armpits and hoisted her upward. Next, she felt soft, velvety fur before entangling her fingers in a long mane. With a death-grip secure around Ghost, Charlotte felt his muscles twitch with the added weight, and he snorted his displeasure.
Each slide of Ghost’s hooves sent a jolt through his unwilling passenger. Charlotte was certain he was going to send them both careening off the mountain, but in her current state, there was nothing she could do about it. Her nerves screamed at her to run, to get off the mountain, to get away from the certain death that awaited her just a few lengths to her right. Charlotte remained trapped in her own personal hell, and the only way out was through.
At least with her last height-induced panic attack, the ride down the rope put her onto flat ground within a few moments. The journey
now was not close to completion, and she had to sit astride the horse, humiliated as the animal showed more courage than she possessed, for many hours more. Charlotte could not bear to lift her head, so she only surmised what Fawkes was thinking about her.
Finally, Charlotte couldn’t bear it anymore and said, with eyes still closed, “Fawkes?”
He remained silent, letting her stew in her doubt and misery for a while, before speaking. “We crested the top. We have been descending for a while now.”
Relief flooded through Charlotte, but the tone of his answer stopped her from asking anything more. He seemed, what? Resigned? That felt infinitely worse than disappointment, or even anger. She mulled over his words and switched her focus to Ghost. How could I have missed the obvious changes in slope and elevation? Her internal voice answered for her. Because you were too worried about yourself.
In failing to overcome her fear, she had endangered not only herself, but Ghost and, most importantly, Fawkes as well. The mission. She had almost cost them the mission.
****
Charlotte rode face-down on Ghost until the weary, muddy travelers reached the foothills on the other side. She slid off without looking at either of them, and Fawkes said nothing to her. Thank you for saving me. Again. For getting me off the mountain, and not abandoning me. The apology remained lodged in her throat.
Ashamed, she risked a glance over to Fawkes. The light was fading fast, but she could still see him. Barely. His usually-magnificent cloak was covered in mud, enabling him to blend in perfectly with their surroundings. Charlotte was so used to his silence that she jumped when Fawkes finally spoke. “Come. I know where we can find shelter.”
“Are we across the border?”
“Not yet. But Ghost cannot go much further this night.”
Charlotte laid a gentle hand on the horse’s trembling flank. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the animal. Fawkes opened one of the saddle bags and pulled out their foodstuffs, slinging the sack across his back, lightening Ghost’s load. As tired as she was, Charlotte followed suit and loaded her arms with as many supplies as she could carry. She hoped it would be enough to make it up to the horse, while vowing to take extra good care of him once they were somewhere safe and dry.
Instead of leading them toward the border crossing, which should have been a half day’s journey straight ahead from the mountains, Fawkes turned left. Hugging the curve of the mountain, he seemed to be looking intently for something hidden within the rocky crags. There was no marked path, but Fawkes’ agitation hinted that they were getting close.
Darkness was already upon them when he finally halted. Charlotte wondered if he was lost, as there was no sign of a village or cottage anywhere. We should have tried to reach the border tonight, she thought grumpily. It would have been idiotic to risk the road at night, in the rain, while they were being hunted like animals, but at least they would be closer to their destination. She did not relish the thought of spending the night exposed and soaking wet.
Fawkes crept toward a large crack in the mountain, a gaping maw that looked like it would swallow him whole. Cupping his hands around his mouth and leaning into the pitch black, he said, “Desmund.” Just once.
After a few moments, during which Charlotte seriously questioned her mentor’s sanity, a warm glow spread from the gash in the mountain, growing brighter and brighter. A lit torch clutched by a withered hand shot out from a hiding place within the rocks. The orange light bathed Fawkes’ face as his usually serious face broke out into a grin.
“Are you trying to frighten a man to death?” a reedy voice grumbled.
“I expected you to be long-dead already, old man,” Fawkes said.
Charlotte couldn’t tear her eyes away from Fawkes’ face. He looked ten years younger and even boyishly charming. She was shocked even further when he reached out and pulled the white-haired man from the shadows to embrace him.
The ancient figure pulled back first to hold Fawkes by his shoulders, examining him. “Aren’t here because you’ve gotten yourself into another spot of trouble, have ye?”
“Do you always regard your visitors with such suspicion?”
“When it is you, always.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh at the old man’s brazenness. The torch turned her direction, and suddenly she stood in the spotlight. “And you haven’t come alone,” Desmund said. He appraised her with dark, clear eyes.
“I’m Charlotte. His apprentice,” she added bravely. It heartened her that Fawkes did not immediately contradict her statement.
“You are a young’n, aren’t ye? Come. All three of you, inside. This weather’ll be the death of me.”
She feared that Ghost wouldn’t fit, but when Fawkes removed the saddlebags, the horse was able to squeeze through with minimal prodding. Charlotte followed last in the line as Desmund led them through a short, winding passageway and into a cozy cave within.
Fire crackled merrily in a hearth built into the mountain. A small table, barely big enough for two, sat in front of it. In the recesses near the back of the cave, Charlotte could make out what looked like a bed. Satisfied with the basics, she was soon distracted by what filled up the rest of the cave.
Books. Piles and piles of books. Thick ones, thin ones, some that looked to be her own height. They teetered, precariously stacked, filling every possible space with no rhyme or reason that Charlotte could discern.
Desmund scurried around, clearing a path while he mumbled to himself. Fawkes walked Ghost through to the back of the cave and began tending to him. Transfixed by leather-bound spines, Charlotte reached out to touch one, and knocked over the tower with a crash that echoed through the cave.
“Sorry! Sorry!” she stammered, and started stacking them again. Desmund tottered over and touched her shoulder.
“No need to fret, child. You must have quite the interest in The Magick of Herbs to feel such a strong pull to it. Have you studied it yet?”
Charlotte’s cheeks burned, and not because she was finally starting to warm up. “I don’t know how to read,” she whispered.
He pursed his lips. “Well now, isn’t that a shame.”
Fawkes wove his way around the books to interrupt their conversation. “Thank you, again, for your hospitality, Desmund.”
“I didn’t have a choice, did I?” The old man snorted. “Appear at my door for the first time in two years, with this poor girl in tow. She’s the only reason I let you in, I’ll have you know.”
Charlotte turned her attention back to the rest of the books while they bantered. The two men obviously had a history together, but she could only guess how they were connected, because they couldn’t be more opposite. Fawkes roamed the world, free, reckless, and strong. Desmund appeared to live most of his life in a makeshift cave, alone, reading books. Was he hiding from someone? Or was he hiding from the rest of the world? Why was Fawkes privy to such an isolated life?
Soon they all sat around the wobbly table, Charlotte and Fawkes enjoying their first hot meal in days.
Their host spoke. “Now tell me, what kind of trouble have ye brought to my hearth this time ’round?”
Fawkes lowered the bowl of soup from his mouth and sighed. “Hardly trouble. Just a duke eager to show how big his sword is. Wants to prove to the king that he is stronger than his father was and make a new reputation for his family.”
“Not Duke Belaq?” Desmund asked.
“The very same.”
“I’ve heard wind of him in recent years. He is ruthless, that’s what they say. Some wonder if he is even truly his father’s son.”
“He is determined,” Fawkes admitted. “No evidence of his father’s cowardice in him as far as I could tell.”
“Until you get him alone with a woman,” Charlotte muttered.
The two men turned to her with questioning eyes. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?” she asked. “All the servants have been talking for years. But then again, everyone is too afraid of him to speak very
loudly.” Charlotte tried to sound nonchalant. In reality, the rumors that swirled around the duke’s desires terrified her to the core during her time of employment. Charlotte considered herself lucky that she had started her scullery duties early in life and had kept her head down since. Girls who came looking for employment at the castle, the more attractive ones at least, were often assigned to the duke’s personal serving staff. The games he was rumored to play with them appeared on their flesh months later.
“It takes a certain kind of man to torment women for the sake of tormenting them,” she told her audience.
“Rape?” Fawkes asked, face stony.
She sighed. “None that I ever heard of,” Charlotte confessed. “Not with his…you know…One girl swore he tried, many times, but always had to resort to other various methods instead. But no matter what, he never let them go unless they screamed themselves hoarse first. I believe him to be a coward, for no truly brave man would behave that way. He can act as high and mighty as he wants, but there is a sickness in him. Not that it makes him any less terrifying.”
“He only recently received his title, correct?” Desmund asked.
“His father died seven years ago,” Fawkes said. “Until called back to claim his title, he was away, traveling the country, competing in tournaments and the like. His violent exploits must have been few and far between in his youth, too rare for anyone to construct a pattern. Now, as a full-fledged duke, he feels himself to be unstoppable.”
“And he will stop at nothing to see the former glory of his family name restored, all memory of his father’s retreat erased. Instead, he wants the Belaq name replaced with fear and awe,” Desmund said. “I’ve seen it time and time again throughout the years. Read about it in many of my books, see. Families always fighting, always feuding, struggling for the power that wasn’t theirs to begin with. It will end badly for him. Belaq is not fighting for the kingdom; he is fighting for himself.”