by JD Hart
It was while Conner peered through the thick glass window that he first sensed a trap. Risking detection, he recited the Night Vision spell he had been taught. “Ora energi anakafanos.” Immediately, he knew the form in the bed was nothing living. He turned to signal an alarm, but Bandit had already disappeared through a window into the adjacent sitting room. Conner whispered an oath. Just as he signaled Stick, a series of muffled yells broke out through the open window.
Conner’s feet would not move fast enough as he danced lightly across the loose tile roof behind the two rooms. By the time he reached the window Bandit had entered, Stick had disappeared over the rooftop’s edge as if the building were going up in flames. Inside, a nearly comic scene was playing out. Two city guardsmen, one tall and thin, the other short and stubby, were stumbling about in the dark, cramped space, knocking over furnishings while attempting to grab Bandit, who danced around, between, and under them with amazing agility. But the guardsmen were already beginning to coordinate their actions. It would be only moments before one of them had the boy. And with all the racket they were making, the entire city guard was about to descend upon them.
Having reached the same conclusion, Bandit flashed Conner a knowing smile and tossed a long wooden tube in his direction just as the two guardsmen sandwiched him into a vise grip. Without thinking, Conner slipped the tube over his shoulder and dove through the window, kicking a short sword from the thin guardsman’s hand, followed by a long, right hook. He was as surprised as the guardsman when the wooden statuette that had somehow made its way into his hand laid the guardsman out cold.
He rounded on the stubby guardsman, prepared to repeat the same maneuver, when Bandit took the initiative to knee the man in the groin. Stubby’s eyes widened, and Bandit twisted free from the loosened grip. Conner was back through the window in a heartbeat, confident his resourceful mate was close behind.
Conner grabbed the rope dangling over the edge of the roof. But when he glanced back, the stubby guardsman was climbing through the window behind Bandit, thick hands nearly snaring the boy once more. He signaled Bandit to start down the rope and squared off before the guardsman, who had pulled up, unsheathing his short sword. The man’s intense focus made it clear he would not be surprised again.
Conner counted the seconds Bandit would need to complete his escape, watching the guardsman step cautiously closer. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the statuette. The guardsman, surprisingly quick for his size, leaped to the side. But this gave Conner the opportunity he needed to grip the rope and heave his body over the edge of the roof. His hands moved with speed, finding each knot as he descended. Above, Stubby hacked tenaciously on the rope until, at last, it severed. Conner plummeted the last ten paces, landing hard on the street and twisting his ankle on a loose cobblestone.
From the roof above, the blast of Stubby’s whistle broke the midnight calm, a harbinger of Conner’s inevitable arrest. He gripped his useless ankle, pressing his back against the inn’s wall. And there he sat, each piercing shrill of the whistle sucking more resolve from him, until only futile despair and shame remained. He hoped word of his deeds did not reach the ears of his parents. This was no longer a story he wanted to tell Pattria or Pauli. Like being caught in quicksand, all his efforts to get out of trouble had only pulled him in deeper.
He sat lost in despair until hands gripped his shoulder, tugging him to his feet. He was confused. Had the city guard arrived so quickly? How long had he been there? He was even more confused when he heard a familiar voice whisper desperately in his ear. “Are you tryin’ to get yourself caught after all that effort to be gettin’ free? Snap out of it and let’s be movin’.”
Light from the windows of Cravenrock’s narrow alleyways often plays tricks on the eyes, so the half dozen haggard city guardsmen rousted from their beds never noticed the two shadows in the niche of an old building they ran past. In a few moments, the company disappeared to the west, where guardsmen’s whistles shrilled in the moonless night. The shadows did not move as the clamor of more heavy-booted feet grew louder from the east. A dozen more guardsmen, swords drawn, trailed swiftly after the first. The city guard was on full alert.
The shorter shadow pointed to the other’s foot. “How’s the ankle?” he whispered.
Conner shifted to test the foot, then flinched at the spasm of pain. “I can’t run on it. If we are seen, I will draw the guards’ attention so you can get away. There is no need in us both getting caught ...” The tall shadow thought about how strange that sounded before adding, “Again.”
Bandit’s voice whispered back with the sharp edge of stubbornness, “I’m not goin’ to be leavin’ you. You saved my life back there. Besides, we aren’t goin’ to be gettin’ caught, so that discussion isn’t worth havin’.” Bandit glanced down the quiet alley where the two groups of guardsmen had disappeared. “Especially now. So lean on me, and let’s be gettin’ out of this deathtrap before the guard’s grip be tightenin’ around our throats.”
Conner nodded agreement, too distracted by the pain in his ankle to suggest a better plan. He adjusted the long, hollow tube strapped across his back. Slipping his arm over Bandit’s bony shoulder, Conner checked the alley both ways before giving the ankle a full test.
The shadows hobbled away from the building. Bandit did his best to take Conner’s offered weight as they gradually wove eastward to the nearest entrance to the undercity.
Pending News
Veressa had hardly slept, having spent most of the warm predawn hours wearing out a pair of slippers on her bedchamber balcony while tugging at her long blond hair. Slowly, she removed the residual effects of the braids she had worn through the night. Her mother would have been horrified to discover Veressa braided her hair before bed. But that was not what occupied her thoughts. She paused to reread the parchment she had received the previous evening. The letter was from her assigned protector, Master Ranger Annabelle Loris, away the past two fortnights on a royal assignment to deliver a regiment of new Archer recruits to Striker’s Keep near the eastern Borderlands. Annabelle would be arriving at Graystone shortly after dawn.
Veressa could hardly stem her anticipation. Being shackled to the castle without her protector was the worst possible torture she could imagine, even exceeding being forced to wear Gareth Nantree’s horrific dresses. She scanned the northern horizon as she leaned farther over the balcony railing, pushing more of the castle past her peripheral vision. But the vast open space did little to improve her sulky mood. With the near-full face of Erebus in the west, even the brightest stars were winking out of existence.
Veressa reflected on her many hunting adventures with Annabelle, the master Ranger appointed by the king to protect her since she was five. At an early age, Veressa had been incessant in her demands for Annabelle to teach her the fighting styles of the Rangers Order, to the point that Annabelle relented. The queen would never have approved, the Rangers Council even less, so each lesson had to be secretly and meticulously planned, leaving Veressa in a perpetual cycle between excitement and frustration. She had taken to her Ranger training as easily as an eaglet to the skies, consuming each lesson, impatiently asking three questions for each of Annabelle’s detailed instructions. And Annabelle had taken each question in gentle stride, attempting to calm the hasty princess. Which was why Veressa had given the woman the prestigious role of being the older sister she never had, no matter how much Annabelle disapproved of the awarded title.
It had been Annabelle’s comment at the end of her last lesson that had kept Veressa in a state of anxious anticipation. Veressa had successfully scored perfect hits on two dozen randomly placed targets on the Graystone range with a quiver of arrows, a belt of throwing knives, and her sleeves stuffed with chucking stars, all while dancing through the whirling wooden blades of six practice poles. For added effect, she had deftly leaped over a blade as her last steel-pointed star flashed from her hand, sinking deep into the head of her final straw target. Shifting into a
tight roll, she had come up a pace in front of her mentor, arms crossed, a victorious smile on her face.
Annabelle had eyed her pupil’s empty quiver and belt, the Grenetian longbow slung over her shoulder, properly positioned for easy access. “Hmpphh!” Annabelle countered. “You could have missed that last target with your grandstanding maneuver, Veressa. If that combat had been real, the target would not have just stood there admiring your marvelous fighting prowess. You do not take your training seriously enough.”
But this time Annabelle’s expression had not matched her words. Veressa was too astute to miss the telltale signs of admiration in her protector’s eyes and voice. The verbal admonishments had no effect on her stance or her smug smile. She waited.
Annabelle had rolled her eyes in frustration. “Cosmos help me properly train this child!” the Ranger exclaimed in mock frustration. Then she exhaled hard, and what remained of her somber guard crumbled. “Yes, Veressa, that was extremely well done. It seems you have mastered Ranger basics. Your training is now complete.”
“What? Complete?” Her confident stance dissipated as she reeled at the Ranger’s statement. “Annabelle, you can’t stop training me. I haven’t come this far to stop. I want to continue my training!” Each sentence came in a heated rush.
“Veressa,” Annabelle responded soothingly, her strong hands gripping the princess’s shoulders as she peered deep into the girl’s blue eyes. “I thought I had been clear on this. The Orderman’s Code is quite specific in this matter. Only those accepted into the Rangers Order can receive advanced training. I was already putting us both at risk by training you on the basic styles intended only for certain guildsmen.” This did nothing to quail Veressa’s anxiety. “What you ask of me is beyond reason. My hands are tied. I am order-bound to our laws, just as I am bound by the laws of Realm and gravity. I cannot teach you my order’s advanced style any more than I can teach you to fly.” Annabelle had let her hands slip from Veressa’s shoulders, making it clear she wanted no further discussion on this subject.
Veressa had been crestfallen. She had always thought advancing to the next stage was a matter of preparation. If she could prove to Annabelle she possessed the qualities of a true Ranger, then she had the right to be trained. Sadness gave way to anger, which bolstered her resolve. She resumed her stubborn stance before her mentor. She was the future queen of Griffinrock. Senseless order laws were not going to stop her from getting what she most desired.
Annabelle had seen that stance all too often in eleven years as Veressa’s protector. This was not a contest of wills she wanted to lose, though history did not bolster much success. “Why do you feel the need to take your training further?” Her question had been a veiled statement meant to remind Veressa that royalty did not need to be trained in the ways of any order. The Harmonic crowns maintained pacts with the orders in good standing to provide the necessary protection for the royal families and close relatives. She would also have a champion before she was given the crown.
“As long as I can recall, I have wanted the life of a Ranger. You, Annabelle, of all people, know I was born for this ... as you know I possess the abilities. While my head knows I will never be given that chance”—she swallowed hard as she searched Annabelle’s eyes—“nor allowed to braid my hair in the ranks of a Ranger, my spirit is that of a Ranger. My heart knows no borders nor laws limiting Cosmic justice. Do not ask me to give in to my head. Someday I will do so. Someday I will assume my obligations, but my heart is not ready to be caged. Not today.”
Annabelle had been on the verge of tears as she listened. With a relenting sigh, she responded. “All right, Veressa. But there is only one way we can proceed with your training. I must leave in a few days on an assignment. While I am away, I will send word to the Rangers Council, explaining what I have done, requesting you be allowed to continue with your training. If, and only if, they give me their approval”—she emphasized this part to leave no doubt of her meaning—“I will begin training you in the advanced Ranger skills. Until I have their approval, your training is complete.
“But, Veressa,” she continued, “do not let your hopes run wild. You have not yet bonded. I know of no such request to have ever been approved in the history of the order.” Annabelle stepped back and bowed slightly. “I am proud of you, Highness. It has been my honor to be your preceptor.” Turning with a smile, she stepped past the pair of royal guardsmen waiting anxiously at the entrance for the princess.
It was the last time Veressa had seen Annabelle—nearly two fortnights ago.
The tip of Hemera breaking over the Royal Forest brought Veressa back with a start. How long had she been daydreaming? Again, she read the cryptic letter.
I have an answer from the Council regarding the matter of our latest discussion. Meet me at dawn. —A
Turning quickly, she skipped across her room, leaving both Hemera’s morning light and her anxious thoughts on the balcony. She was in such a rush that she completely startled the royal guardsman at his usual post outside her door.
“Good morning to you, Highness,” Ballett said formally. Noting the simple dark green Rangers cloak, clothing obviously not designed for princesses lounging in their bedchambers, his eyes widening at the sight. “I am sorry, Highness, but I cannot let you leave.” He uttered hesitantly, diverting his eyes from her piercing gaze.
Veressa donned her best regal posture, squaring her shoulders, arms folded firmly under her breasts. She scrutinized the guardsman in the way that made most men wilt. “Just how do you plan on stopping me?”
“Please, Highness. The king gave me specific orders this time to guard your chambers. I—”
“I see,” she interrupted him impatiently. “Did he tell you to guard my bedchambers or to guard me?”
“What do you mean, Highness?” Ballett shook in armor that would not protect him from this assault.
“Well, if my father told you to guard my chambers, then you shouldn’t care if I go.” She leaned forward, prepared to step through the doorway.
“It wouldn’t make much sense for me to stand guard over an empty chamber, Highness.” The words came in an anxious cascade of syllables.
“Then it seems your orders were to guard me. If that is the case, we don’t need to stay here. So, come along with me and do what the king instructed you to do.” Her left foot was through the doorway.
Ballett was torn between blocking her exit and attempting to reason with the queen’s only daughter. “Please, Highness, I don’t think that is what the king meant.”
Veressa paused for dramatic effect. “You don’t think? Surely, you’re not implying the princess is wrong in her logic?” Ballett’s unsightly gaping mouth made him look like a walleyed fish. “My dear man, the king gave you specific orders, but you don’t know what they were?”
The guardsman found new legs with her question. He collected himself before her. “Highness, you are trying to get me in trouble. I have a wife and two little girls at home I must feed. I will be released from service if I anger the king yet again.”
Ten years as a royal guardsman assigned to protect the princess had done little to teach Ballett that begging did nothing to slow Veressa when she was locked onto something. Twice in the past year alone, she had risked the poor man’s position by circumventing all his physical and mental efforts to control her. Though his best efforts were seldom a challenge, she found him charming. His heart was always in the right place. “Oh, Ballett”—she giggled gleefully as she reached out and touched his arm—“you know I would never let that happen to you. Who would father find to replace you?”
While the man seemed more relaxed, this did little to relieve him of his stress. “My deepest apologies for telling you this, Highness, but you don’t have anything to say about who is accepted or released from the royal guard. That is the king’s own business.”
Veressa’s smile broadened. She wagged a hooked finger under his nose, peering at him sidelong. “Then, Ballett, you don’t unders
tand the true relationship between a young woman and her father. It is a lesson I plan to instruct you on before your darling little girls wrap you around their fingers!” Her expression turned ominous as she continued. “Now, are you coming with me, or do I need to use one of the dozen remaining tricks I have to escape your clutches?”
Ballett rubbed at the back of his neck to relieve the persistent tension that plagued him around the princess. “I don’t know how you do that, Highness. I think sometimes I would be better off with a different assignment.”
Stepping through the doorway, a lighthearted chortle escaping Veressa’s lips from her expected victory. “Ballett, you would miss the challenge of my determined ways.” With a royal gesture, she added, “Besides, I plan to make you captain of the royal guard when I become queen.”
“Oh, no!” He shook violently at the threat. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
Veressa laughed. She started down the long, empty hall, pulling the green hood forward to hide her smile. Ballett failed to see the humor in the predicaments he always found himself in around her, but he assumed the proper position one step behind and to the left of the princess as etiquette dictated.
Indictment
Conner lay back on the blanket-covered straw that formed his bed, hands clasped behind his head. Lifting his leg, he gingerly rotated the ankle. At least the pain and swelling had subsided. He found some small solace in having not done more damage. He was counting unhatched chicks, but given his current situation, it would have plenty of time to heal.