by Erin Beaty
The matchmaker’s words lashed out like a whip. “No man of breeding would value such a name above the filth of a common whore.”
Sage leapt to her feet, lightning flashing through her veins. Mistress Rodelle’s thoughts were laid bare. And Sage had submitted to this, betraying everything her parents had suffered at the hands of people like her. “I would rather be a whore than the wife of a man of such breeding.” Her voice pitched higher with every word. “Your name speaks of the same breeding, and I want no part of it!”
A palpable silence hung in the air.
“I think we are finished.” The matchmaker’s voice was so calm, Sage wanted to rake her painted nails across the woman’s face. Instead she tripped across the rug and flung the door open. Aunt Braelaura froze in her pacing next to the wagon. When her eyes met Sage’s, they widened in horror.
Sage hiked her skirt up to her knees and ran down the steps and across the street, stomping so hard her shoes were sucked off her feet into the mud. As she passed her aunt, collecting stones and muck on her stockings, she heard the matchmaker call out from the door in a voice everyone in the village could surely hear.
“Lady Broadmoor. You may tell your husband I will return the deposit on your niece. There is nothing I can do for her.”
As the driver scrambled to help Braelaura climb up and then turned the wagon to the road, Sage marched out of the village without looking back.
4
SAGE CREPT INTO Garland Hill in the early morning light two days later, wearing breeches and her father’s faded leather jacket. Uncle William had been so stunned by her disastrous interview that he hadn’t raged or yelled as she had expected, just dismissed her from his presence. Until he felt ready to deal with her, Sage had a narrow timeframe to decide her own fate by finding work. Yesterday’s inquiries in Broadmoor Village had yielded nothing, and asking around Garland Hill would probably be just as fruitless, but it was the only other place within a day’s walk. She’d also come to a very difficult realization.
Her tantrum could very well affect the matching prospects of her younger cousins, and Aster already started at a disadvantage. After tossing and turning all last night, Sage knew what she had to do.
She had to apologize.
So now she stared at the bell outside the matchmaker’s home as the village stirred around her. There were noises coming from behind the house, and she slipped down the alley and saw movement in the kitchen window. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the back door just loud enough to be heard.
Mistress Rodelle peered with one eye through the crack before fully unlatching the door. She wore no face paint at this hour, and her gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a loose braid that draped over the shoulder of her plain wool dress. “You’ve come back, eh?” she grunted. “Thought of some better insults?”
Sage had been ready to identify herself, but it now appeared unnecessary. “Y-you know it’s me?” she stammered.
“Of course it’s you.” The matchmaker scowled. “I know what you look like without your face caked and your figure padded. Do you think my evaluation begins when you ring my bell? What is it you want?”
Sage lifted her chin. “I would speak with you, please, woman to woman.”
Mistress Rodelle snorted. “Where is the other woman, then? I see only a proud, spoiled girl-child on my step.”
The insult rolled off Sage’s back. Nothing said today could make things any worse, which was an odd kind of comfort. She held herself still until the matchmaker opened the door wider to let her in.
“Very well,” Mistress Rodelle said. “Come in and say your piece.”
Sage stepped past her into the surprisingly bright kitchen. The walls were a soft yellow color, and the wooden floor and table shone with polish. A cheerful fire crackled in the iron stove in the corner, on which a pot of tea steeped, pouring its minty steam into the air. Two teacups sat nearby, making Sage think the woman was expecting company, so she ought to hurry this conversation along. The matchmaker directed her to a wooden chair against the table in the center of the room and took the seat opposite. Sage studied the grain of the smooth oak planks for several seconds before clearing her throat.
“I’ve come to apologize, mistress. My words and actions were rude and disrespectful, and I wholeheartedly regret them and any pain they have caused you.”
The matchmaker folded her fat arms over her chest. “Do you expect that heartfelt apology to change anything?”
“No.” Sage worked her jaw a few times. “I don’t expect it will.”
“Then why bother making it?”
The embers in Sage’s soul flared. “You see, the way this works is, I say I’m sorry for the horrible things I said, and then you say you’re sorry for the horrible things you said. Then we smile and pretend we believe each other.”
Mistress Rodelle’s eyes sparkled with amusement, though her expression remained grim. “You presume to come into my house and lecture me on manners, girl?”
“I presume nothing. But I’ve made my effort, and I wait patiently for yours.”
“You are on the wrong path.” Again the woman’s eyes didn’t match her harsh tone.
Sage shrugged. “I have every right to ruin my own life.” She twisted her mouth in a crooked smile. “Some might even say I have the inclination. But my actions are my own, not a reflection of the Broadmoor family. I’d like to trust my cousins will not suffer for my mistakes.”
“Nicely put. It’s a shame your words weren’t so refined the other day.”
Sage was growing weary of this exercise in humility. One could serenade a stone wall for hours, but it would never weep in response. “My father once told me there are some animals that can’t be controlled,” she said, picking at her painted fingernails. “It doesn’t make them bad, just wild beyond taming.”
To her surprise, the matchmaker smiled. “I think, girl, you’re seeing yourself clearly for the first time.” Sage raised her eyes to find a piercing, but much less hostile, gaze. “For a teacher, you’re incredibly obstinate about learning your own lessons.”
“I study every day,” Sage objected.
“I’m not talking about history and geography.” Mistress Rodelle waved her hand in irritation. “Look at me. I can barely read and write, yet I hold your future and the future of girls all across Demora in the palm of my hand. Not all wisdom comes from books. In fact, hardly any does.”
Sage wrestled with the matchmaker’s words. She wanted to reject them, but they sounded like something her father would have said.
The matchmaker stood and turned to the stove. She poured tea into the pair of cups as she spoke. “Now, I am sorry for what I said the other day. I aimed only to make you realize how much you didn’t want to be matched.” Sage’s eyes widened, and Mistress Rodelle glanced over her shoulder with a shrewd smile. “Yes, I understand you well enough, and no, I never had any intention of foisting you on anyone.”
“But—”
“And now your uncle realizes it, too, and he’ll be more open to what I do want.” She turned around and looked Sage straight in the eye. “I want you as an apprentice.”
Sage shoved away from the table and stood. “No. Matchmaking is backward and demeaning. I hate it.”
Mistress Rodelle set the cups and saucers on the table placidly, acting as though Sage wasn’t halfway to the door. “Would it surprise you to learn I once felt the same way?” She eased back down into her chair. “You won’t necessarily have to take my place someday. I just need an assistant.”
Sage turned back, astonished. “Why me?”
The matchmaker folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, drawing a long groan from the wood. “You are intelligent and driven, if not yet wise. Your looks are pleasing, but you’re not a beauty men will be dazzled by. I have the Concordium next year, and I could use some help picking the best candidates. Finally, you have no wish to marry, so you won’t stab me in the back.”
“How could I possibly do t
hat?” Sage asked. “Stab you in the back, I mean.”
“One of the simplest ways to get the result you want is to create a false choice.” She flicked her fingers at Sage. “I can offer a man the choice between the girl I want him to marry and you, acting as a pleasant but less appealing option, and I don’t have to worry about you bucking the process and stealing him for yourself.” The matchmaker calmly raised her cup to her lips and blew the steam away.
“So you want me to be rejected over and over,” Sage said, sinking back into the chair. “That’s what I’m good for?”
Mistress Rodelle leaned her elbows on the table and eyed Sage over the tea. “That and other things. Matchmaking is primarily a task of reading people, collecting information, and piecing it together, which you have talents for. It’s also not really rejection if you were aiming for it. Think of it as a game where the lowest score is the winner.”
Sage wrinkled her nose. “Sounds manipulative.”
“So it is. While blacksmiths bend iron to their will, matchmakers bend people to theirs.” She took a sip and shrugged. “We aren’t alone in our vocation. Actors and storytellers manipulate their audiences as well.”
Sage eyed the teacup before her. The high-quality porcelain was sturdy and functional, just what she would expect in the home of a well-off but practical person. One who valued quality over looks. The matchmaker had known exactly when and how she would come to her. Sage raised the cup and took in the sweet whisper of spearmint—her favorite—rather than the more popular peppermint or chamomile. “How long have you been watching me?” she asked.
“Most of your life, but don’t be flattered—I watch everyone. I knew your parents. They may have thought they matched themselves, but some of my work is subtle.”
Sage’s head rocked back like she’d been shoved. The cup in her hand dropped a few inches. “That doesn’t sound profitable,” she retorted. “How’d you collect your fee for that one?”
Mistress Rodelle arched her eyebrows with an amused look, and Sage plunked the cup back onto the saucer, sloshing tea over the side. She knew the answer already. “Your large fee for my aunt’s match came from Mother’s forfeited dowry.”
The matchmaker nodded. “It was quite a tidy profit, actually. I have no regrets. Your parents belonged together.”
Sage’s only response was an openmouthed stare.
After several seconds of silence, the matchmaker rose from her chair. “You may think about my offer for a few days, but I doubt anyone else in the village will offer you a place,” she said. “I’m not taking anything from your future. We both know you cannot be matched, wild Sage.”
Sage stood and let herself be guided to the door. Before the matchmaker closed it, Sage heard her name called. She looked back over her shoulder.
“Your family expects a visitor today, yes?”
Sage nodded. A young lord was to go hunting with Uncle William, though his secondary purpose of being introduced to her was now pointless.
“Consider him an exercise in observation,” said Mistress Rodelle. “When you come back to see me, be ready to tell me all about him.”
5
CAPTAIN ALEXANDER QUINN peered over the jagged edge of a rock jutting from the hillside and squinted through the trees. The bright glade spread out below him, making it impossible for him to be seen in the shadows above, but he still crouched to stay hidden. His black leather jacket creaked a little, and he flinched at the sound, though it wasn’t loud enough to give him away.
He’d pinned his gold bars inside his collar; they were too shiny—flawless—which declared how recently he’d been promoted and how little action he’d seen since. Once the awe of making captain a month before turning twenty-one wore off, the glare bothered him to no end, but at the moment he was more concerned with the enemy seeing the bars flash in the darkness.
To his right, twenty yards away, sat two of his lieutenants, both hooded—his oldest friend and second-in-command, Casseck, covering his blond head, and Luke Gramwell, hiding the ruddy tints in his brown hair. Quinn’s mother was from the far eastern region of Aristel, and he’d inherited her dusky complexion and black hair, so he had no need for such precautions. Nor did Robert Devlin, positioned beside him. Rob had begged Quinn to pick him last fall. A new cavalry captain was granted his choice of officers so his first successes or failures were his own, but it had taken some smooth talking to convince the general to let the crown prince join a regular company.
At the moment Rob’s hazel eyes were wide and his face pale, his gloved hands clasped to steady their trembling. Other than in height and eye color—the prince was slightly taller and Quinn’s eyes were so dark they were nearly black—they looked so much alike, people often confused them. Quinn eyed his cousin, wondering if he’d worn the same terrified look just before his first battle. Probably. There was only one way to lose it, though, just like the shine on his gold bars, and that was experience.
Heavy snow and ice storms through March had confined the army to their winter camp in Tasmet, near the border with Kimisara. Patrols had started up again only a few weeks ago, and Quinn had been eager to prove his new company’s worth. As the most junior commander, he had to wait his turn.
And wait.
His opportunity came last week, and his riders picked up the trail of ten men almost immediately. While he wasn’t positive this group had come across the border, as far as Quinn knew they were the first potential Kimisar raiders anyone had seen this year. After two days of watching, he’d reached the point of needing to know more than just tracking could provide.
When the group of men came into view, walking—almost marching—down the road, every muscle in Quinn’s body tightened. They carried themselves like fighters, and he didn’t like the look of those staffs they carried. What if they smelled a rat? Beside him, Rob craned his neck to watch, going even paler, though Quinn hadn’t thought it possible.
At that moment, another figure came ambling from the opposite direction. He slowed his pace briefly, as was prudent for a solitary man suddenly faced with ten. The group of ten also looked at the stranger with caution, but they obviously didn’t feel threatened. Quinn’s mouse could take care of himself, but five crossbows were backing him up from other angles in the shadows, just in case.
Quinn’s tension increased as the men came together, and Ash Carter held up his hand in friendly greeting. The strangers offered few words from the looks of it, but seemed cautious. He turned and pointed back where he’d come from, probably describing the distance to some point ahead, or telling part of his story. Ash always said the trick to coming across as real was to change as few details as possible. Maybe that was why he was so good at this kind of scouting. Quinn would’ve had to change a lot more, starting with his name.
The talk concluded and both parties continued on their ways. A few glances were thrown back at Ash, but he never looked around. He didn’t need to—over a dozen pairs of eyes were already watching their every move. Quinn relaxed and sat back. He’d never get used to putting his friends in danger. With a series of hand signals, he gave the pair on his right some instructions, and the lieutenants eased back up over the ridge behind them and disappeared.
A few minutes later, Ash scrambled down the hill to join him and the prince, having looped around behind them once he was out of sight. “They gone enough?” he asked quietly.
Quinn nodded. “Cass and Gram went ahead to watch. What did you learn?”
“Definitely not from around here,” said Ash. “Most didn’t speak, but the two accents I heard were Kimisar. Not that uncommon in these parts, though.”
The province of Tasmet had belonged to Kimisara less than fifty years ago, and Demora had annexed it after the Great War, using it as a buffer against invasion more than anything else. For many this far south, Kimisar was still the primary language. It made identifying raiders more difficult.
The prince, who’d been uncharacteristically silent for the last three hours, stared at no
thing. Ash leaned over and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Wake up, Lieutenant.”
Rob jerked out of his thoughts and scowled at his half brother. “Watch it, Sergeant.”
Ash grinned. “Yes, sir.” Ash had trained as a page and squire like the rest of the officers, but refused a commission last summer, never wanting to risk outranking his brother. Most soldiers treated him like an officer, though. He often joked that his position in the army reflected his life as the king’s bastard son: all the perks of rank, but none of the responsibility.
“Any distinctive metalwork?” asked Quinn, drawing the talk back to the matter at hand. Kimisar soldiers usually carried symbols to invoke their gods’ protection.
Ash shook his dark head. “Nothing visible.”
“Did you find out where they’re headed?”
“They asked how much farther the crossroad is. I told them they’d reach it by sunset,” Ash said. “They looked happy to hear that.”
“Weapons?”
“A few carried short swords—not long enough to draw attention, but bigger than knives. Couple bows, but that’s to be expected if you’re living off the land and traveling as light as they are.” He paused. “Those staffs didn’t look right, though. They looked hinged on the top.”
Quinn nodded grimly. “Folded pikes. We’ve seen those before.” It also pretty much proved the group had entered Demora with hostile intent, but in twelve years with the army, he’d never met or heard of any Kimisar who hadn’t. Raids had been especially numerous in the last two years as Kimisara had suffered some sort of blight that destroyed half their harvest. There wasn’t much in Tasmet to steal—the population was sparse, and the granaries were all the way north, in Crescera. “The bad news is that means they’re ready to repel horses. The good news is they’re not as strong as solid pikes.”
Ash smiled. “Also that we’re just as good on foot as on horseback.”
“I guess that settles it, then,” said Quinn, pushing to his feet. “It’s time.”