Ash turned down an alley from the high road to reach the entrance to Mr. Ainsworth’s cramped chambers. The door was open and Mr. Crawford, a bailiff, lingered over the scribe. Ash slipped in behind Mr. Crawford and glanced down at the document on the desk between the two men. He saw to his astonishment that it was an arrest warrant for Tessa’s father, Donal Skye, who was “wanted for questioning in official matters.”
The bailiff snatched the document and threw a hard look in Ash’s direction. He clasped the parchment close to his chest as he left the office.
Mr. Ainsworth glanced toward Ash with an utter lack of interest. The scribe—mostly bald save for several strands of wispy white hair—appeared older than his years. Leather-framed spectacles hung on his nose beneath drooping, bloodshot eyes, and the tips of his fingers had become black from the permanent stain of ink. Mr. Ainsworth nodded toward a tiny desk in the corner, where had been placed a quill and inkpot, a scroll displaying the handwritten alphabet, and a stack of blank, lined parchment.
“Begin your practice,” he said in a nasally tone.
“What has the locksmith done?” Ash said.
Mr. Ainsworth paused and emitted a deep sigh. “This is your first lesson. All documents which are prepared in the scribe’s chambers are of a confidential nature. The scribe never speaks of them under any circumstance. Those who have observed the documents in the scribe’s chambers by reading what they were not given permission to read, are also bound by the code of confidentiality. Sit down, now. You won’t learn penmanship by standing about.”
Ash took his seat at the desk. He set his parchment in front of him, dipped his quill in the ink, and began to form the letter “A.” He tried to concentrate but he could think of nothing other than “A for Arrest.” What could Tessa’s father have done? Probably nothing, but that wouldn’t stop the authorities from persecuting him. What if Tessa is implicated as well? Ash knew better than most what passed for “justice” in Sorrenwood. He could not sit idly by and allow the man to be arrested without warning.
He shot to his feet. “Sir, I just remembered something. My mother was feeling pain in her stomach this morning. I was supposed to fetch Mr. Evanson, the physician, but I completely forgot in my excitement to begin my first lesson here.” He hurried to the door. “It won’t take long.” He ran out of the chamber before Mr. Ainsworth could protest, and continued running all the way to Ryland’s house. He banged on the door with his fist and shouted Ryland’s name.
After a minute, Ryland opened the door, looking as if he just rose from bed. “What is it?” he demanded.
“Donal Skye is about to be arrested. You have to warn Tessa,” Ash said. He had thought about going to her himself, but that might have seemed as if he wanted to usurp Ryland’s role as her protector.
“How do you know?” Ryland said.
Ash explained what he’d seen at the scribe’s chambers.
“I didn’t know you could read.”
“Well, I can,” Ash said, frustrated at Ryland focusing on the wrong thing. “You need to run; the bailiff will be there any minute.”
“I doubt it’s anything serious.”
Ash could not suppress his impatience. “If you don’t want to go, I will.”
“No,” Ryland said. “I’ll handle it. Go back to your scribe.”
Ash retraced his steps to Mr. Ainsworth’s chamber, thinking how stupid and cowardly he’d been not to go to Tessa himself. Ryland didn’t really understand what was at stake, and how a simple matter of questioning could escalate into an all-out accusation of treason. But it was out of Ash’s hands now; he would have to trust Ryland to do the right thing. He shook off the thought which needled him the most: that his own motive was less to do with saving Donal Skye, and everything to do with being on hand to comfort Tessa when things went awry.
TESSA
I woke early to the crooning of songbirds outside my window. Without thinking, I reached under my pillow for the amulet I always kept there, and only then did I recall Papa had taken it. I felt a stab of loneliness; the windrider’s presence had comforted me ever since the day Mama left, when I found it in her bedroom. Through the years I’d often taken it out and worn it for a bit, without having any idea of its power. I discovered its magic only recently, after blowing on it three times to polish it. It terrified me at first; I thought I would remain a bird forever. But eventually I had scraped my claws in frustration and discovered the way to turn back.
I lay in bed a while longer, listening to the birds’ sweet trills, and feeling that nothing could make me happier than to be among them. I remembered the key my father had given me, and lifted it up to gaze at its burnished gold. Sweet, kind Papa. He could never bear to disappoint me for long. Over time, I hoped to make him understand that a key, however dear, was not a replacement for a windrider. I reminded myself of yesterday’s events: the hawk attack, the need to take refuge at the castle, the prisoner’s dreadful death… but nothing could quell my desire to be a bird once again, to spread my wings and glide through open air.
I sat up, rubbed my arms, and picked up “The Trials of Kallos” from my bedside. It had been a favorite of my mother’s, a volume of epic poetry describing the adventures of the hero Jahn Kallos, who battled mythical beings in a time before conjurers even existed. She had read me passages from the book when I was too young to understand them, though I was stirred by the sound of her voice and the current of emotion that ran through it. I liked to believe she left the volume for me intentionally, because she so easily could’ve taken it with her. In time I grew to love its stories as much as she ever did, and I could recite many of its passages from memory.
Mama had written her name, Gillian Skye, inside the cover. It was my morning habit to open the book to her signature and trace its letters with my finger. This, the windrider, and now the key, were all that I had, the only physical remnants to prove she’d been in our house or had ever even existed at all. Without any explanation, Papa had burned everything else that had belonged to her. Once he even crept into my room late at night and tried to steal away with “The Trials of Kallos,” but I woke and threw a terrible fit. In the end he had relented and promised never to touch the book again. Overall, his actions seemed like those of an angry, resentful husband, and yet he never uttered a word against her.
As I closed the book, my thoughts returned to the windrider, and I glanced toward the door. What would be the harm in a short flight taken and finished before Papa ever woke up? I rose from my bed, being careful not to make the wooden frame creak, and tiptoed out of my room. I paused outside Papa’s bedchamber, looking in to find him sleeping on his back, snoring in his usual style of an explosive wheeze followed by a gap of pure silence. Unfortunately, my necklace was nowhere to be seen. I stole across his room, avoiding the planks that creaked, thinking wistfully that my intimate knowledge of his floorboards reflected poorly on me and my habit of sneaking about. Seconds later, I regretted not knowing his dresser as well. The wood scraped loudly as I pulled open the top drawer, and Papa stopped breathing in mid-snort. I froze in place, my mind forming a blank as I tried to think of what excuse I could possibly give for getting into his things.
But Papa breathed in and drifted back to sleep. I felt inside the drawer without finding my necklace, then closed it carefully and reached for the next. I paused as the thought occurred that Papa often left items in his pockets. Whenever I washed his trousers, I was sure to find a key or sometimes several. Chances were high that he’d forgotten to put the windrider away. I darted to the chair where Papa had lain his clothing, and reached under his shirt, into his trouser pockets. The first was empty, but the next held the object of my desire.
I raced back to my own room, nearly broke the chain in pulling it over my head, and blew on the windrider three times. The familiar feeling of elation ripped through my body from head to toe—or claw—as I became a russet sparrow. Delighted chirps emerged from somewhere deep inside me. I wasted no time in hopping up to the
window sill and flying out into the open air. When I’d cleared the trees, I leveled off and began a joyous acrobatic dance, full of swoops and dives and somersaults. I sang a song which did not seem anything like what a real sparrow might sing, but it felt like laughing to me.
In the midst of my celebration, my sharp sparrow eyes caught movement below: the shapes of men approaching our house from the road. What bad luck to have visitors when I most wished Papa not to be disturbed. All I wanted was for him to sleep until I was ready to fly back and replace the windrider in his pocket. I cursed the rudeness of the visitors for calling so early in the morning. They’d probably been careless and locked themselves out of some building or other, and they were too selfish and impatient to wait for normal working hours before summoning a locksmith.
I dipped down to get a closer look, and what I saw alarmed me. These men were knights. What are they doing? As far as I knew, no knight had ever had business on our street before. At least, not until last night when they had arrived in Lord Fellstone’s carriage. Now there were three of them regaled in chain mail and carrying broadswords. The largest looked as solid as a tree trunk, though the one beside him appeared more dangerous, with a grim set to his eyes. The third wore a blank expression as if whatever they were about to do was all in a day’s work. The tree trunk moved ahead of the others, approached our door, and without pausing to knock, threw himself against it. The frame splintered and our flimsy door fell open. Panic surged through me, as there could be no further question that they’d come with foul purpose. As they rushed into the house, I thrashed my wings and dove toward my window. In the last second, when it was too late to turn back, it flashed into my tiny brain that I should’ve flown to my father’s friend, Mr. Oliver. He had brought us meals during the dark times just after Mama went away, and his advice was always sound. What could I do against one knight, let alone three? But instinct had driven me with one thought in mind—save Papa.
A dreadful howl arose from my father but he was cut off mid-cry. I soared into my room, directly into a shield held out by one of the knights. I felt an explosion of pain, and then nothing.
CALDER
Farmer Joshua had kindly allowed Calder to spend the night, despite his current status as an escaped prisoner accused of the horrendous crime of telling a young woman the fortune she most wished to hear. The hay pricked at his skin, but at least it was better than the bed he’d occupied at the rear of the blacksmith’s dwelling, full of hard lumps that jabbed his innards every time he shifted in his sleep. In any case he would not sleep there again. If the constable insisted on wasting the town’s resources tracking him down, his former lodgings would naturally be the first place they would check.
However, he could not bed down on a block of hay for long. Last night had been warm enough, but the seasons were changing and soon the crisp autumn air would force him to find shelter indoors. Today, he must visit the locksmith and his wife, and then it would be time to decide. If all went well, he might never need venture to the place he dreaded most.
He rose sufficiently early to glimpse streaks of red and orange across the horizon. His plan was to find the locksmith family at home before their work began for the day. He would call on them under the pretext of delivering the promised fortune to Tessa—he had a story in mind he hoped would please her—and go from there. The sooner he resolved how Gillian Skye came by the fox bracelet, the better. It weighed on him to think Faline might have lost it, or worse yet, given it away, but perhaps she’d rewarded it to Tessa’s mother after the woman performed her some great service. He also had to consider the possibility that Gillian Skye had stolen the fox from Faline, in which case she would be highly unlikely to admit anything. Still, he must try to persuade her to speak using as much charm as he could muster (ha, ha, said the voice of Faline in his head), and if this failed, he would find a more devious approach.
He avoided the main thoroughfares, where soldiers would likely be making their rounds. Those villagers whom he passed along the back roads were intent on their business and paid him no heed. He made good time despite his meandering route, and approached the locksmith’s as the sun poked above the house.
It appeared the door to the house was open, though Calder had to squint, as even his one good eye was only “good” as compared to the other, entirely unusable one. A few steps closer and he could make out a large piece of splintered wood jutting from the door frame, clear evidence that someone had broken into the place. He had no time to speculate before three burly knights tromped out of the house, the last one holding some sort of bag behind his back.
Calder slid behind a tree and waited for the knights to disappear around the corner. They’d entered the house using violent means and now there appeared no sign of the locksmith or his family. His skin went clammy with dread at the thought of what they might have done to that sweet-faced girl who saved him from the pillory.
The instant the knights slipped from view, Calder sprinted to the house. What he saw upon entering confirmed his worst fears. The locksmith lay on the floor with his head tilted back and his eyes staring up, empty of life. A great deal of blood had spread across his chest and onto the carpet that he lay on. Calder caught his breath and looked round the rest of the room, thankful not to spot any more bodies. He knew he must check the bedchambers, yet his feet pinned him in place like stone weights. He wasn’t sure he could bear to see the girl or her mother splayed out in death like the father; neither could he allow himself to turn and walk away. Step by step, he forced himself to the threshold of each room, both empty, with no signs of any violence having taken place inside them. He closed his eyes and breathed out. When he’d steadied himself, he entered the girl’s room and sat on her bed, lowering his head and gathering the will to do what must be done.
He glanced up sharply at the sound of footsteps entering the house. Have the knights returned? Calder rose and turned to the open window. He trod lightly toward it, meaning to make his escape. But the sound of a woman’s sobs gave him pause, and drew him back to the main room. A plump, grey-haired woman, weeping over the locksmith, looked up and started at the sight of Calder.
He hastened to reassure her. “The lord’s knights did this,” he said.
“Aye, I saw them leave,” she said. “Where’s Tessa?”
“Not here, thank the gods. Madame, accept my deepest condolences for your loss.”
A veil of suspicion lowered over the woman’s face. “My loss?”
“I’m new to these parts. Are you not Gillian Skye?”
“Nay, I live next door. Bettina Flanagan.”
“Calder Osric,” he said. “I came hoping to repay a service. Do you know where Tessa and her mother have gone?”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Flanagan said. “Her mother went away when the lass were not much more than a babe.”
“Went away? Where?”
She shrugged. “No one has laid eyes on her since. Not that we ever saw her before. Since the day Donal Skye first brought her to his home, she kept to herself. Never left the house that I could tell. I glimpsed her through the window from time to time, just enough to tell what a fair lass she were.”
If only Calder could speak to Tessa, perhaps he could begin to make sense of what had happened. He said, “Do you have any idea why the lord would order his knights to kill Donal Skye?” Over the years he had often found answers in unexpected places, and therefore he did not hesitate to question even the most unlikely sources.
“I can’t imagine,” Mrs. Flanagan said. “He has always been a law-abiding man.” She lowered her voice and glanced behind her. “It must have to do with the strange visit last night. I thought it were an ill omen then, I did. The royal carriage rode up and stopped on our very road, directly outside this house. Never have I seen it happen before.”
“Lord Fellstone’s carriage? Did anyone get out?”
She shook her head. “Not that I could see. It waited for a moment, then moved on.”
Calder squeezed his
eye in concentration. There could be no further delay. He turned to Mrs. Flanagan. “Can you help me lift him to the table? Let’s not have Tessa find him like this.”
Bettina Flanagan—salt of the earth—nodded and pushed up her sleeves.
TESSA
I woke to a throbbing head, feeling groggy and confused. It was bewildering and just a little bit terrifying to expect to be a person and instead find myself as a bird. Never having gone to sleep as a sparrow before, this was my first experience waking up as one. Worse—much worse—I realized I was in a net, which was bouncing off the back of the tree-trunk knight, who carried me as he walked alongside his two companions. Why did they capture me? Where are they taking me? I remembered what had happened, remembered my father’s cry and how it cut off and… I must not think about that. I had to focus on a plan of escape, otherwise we might both be doomed. My first thought was to scrape my claw three times and change back to myself, but just as quickly I changed my mind. As a girl, I couldn’t possibly fight off and elude three knights, but sparrow-me had the advantage of flight if I could escape from the net. I began to peck and chew at the string with frantic urgency.
“What do you think they want with the bird?” the grim-looking knight said.
“I dunno. Stuff it and mount it on the mantel?” the knight who carried me said. His words made me tremble, though the idea of me as some sort of trophy was absurd. Still, this reminder of my utter helplessness spurred me to work faster and yank harder at the threads of the net.
Dreadmarrow Thief (The Conjurer Fellstone Book 1) Page 4