by Jayne Castel
Saul strode forward, drawing another dagger as he went. The monk he had caught in the shoulder grappled for his own knife. He was about to lunge at Saul with it when a blade sliced across his throat.
Dropping the twitching body at his feet, Saul whirled to the other monk. His breath rushed out of him in relief to find the man lying dead on his back, his face a grimace of pain and fear.
Breathing hard, Saul stepped up to the plinth, his gaze resting upon the object he had come to retrieve.
A small iron box sat upon the smooth surface. Reaching out, he picked it up and carefully opened the lid.
Disappointment rushed through him.
Is this it?
A drab grey stone, slightly misshapen with a hole in its heart sat in the box. It had a silver chain threaded through it, as if someone had once worn it as necklace.
It looked like a hag stone, one of those charms folk hung over their doorways to ward off the darkness. It certainly did not look like the missing half of a key that could unlock chaos.
Saul snapped the iron box shut and thrust it deep into a pocket inside his cloak. He did not have time to dwell on the plainness of the object now.
He had to get out of this monastery alive.
Saul retrieved his knives from the bodies, hastily cleaned them off on his cloak, and then sheathed all but one. He sprinted up the steps, taking them two at a time, grabbed the torch he had discarded earlier and began the journey back.
Take the second right—again and again—till you reach the stairs.
It was easy to get lost down here. Tunnels went off in all directions, everything was curved and the lack of straight lines made it even harder to keep oriented. Saul was concentrating so hard at not missing the correct turns that he did not hear the sound of approaching men until it was almost too late.
The rasp of heavy breathing. The thud of heavy booted feet. The creak of leather.
Saul swallowed a curse, skidded to a halt and dove into the nearest tunnel, flattening his back against the mildew-encrusted wall as a group of a dozen figures stormed past.
Heart pounding, Saul stayed where he was until the last of them had passed, the men’s footsteps receding in the distance, before he emerged. He let out the breath he’d been holding; Saul couldn’t let himself be caught off guard like that again.
His body was slick with sweat by the time he emerged from the stairwell into the upper level of the monastery. He retraced his steps through the building, the cries and shouts of monks reaching him, even through the thick stone. They were still trying to defend their treasure from The Brotherhood—and would lay down their lives to protect it.
Saul took the service passage and stepped outside to find daylight nearly spent. The last vestiges of a gentle sunset streaked the heavens, and the waters of the Gulf of Veldoras sat dark against the dusk sky. Cold, briny air caressed Saul’s skin and he took in large, relieved breaths.
A swift shadow in the gathering dark, Saul skirted the southern edge of the monastery. He was just crossing the walkway and about to drop off the western edge when movement to his right startled him. Three men dressed in fighting leathers, dark cloaks flapping behind them, sprinted down the western walkway toward him.
Saul leaped off the edge and launched himself down the hill, slipping and sliding in his haste to outrun them. Shouts followed him, echoing across the barren hilltop, followed by the crunch of boots on stones.
Once Saul reached the bottom of the hill, he took off at a flat run. He was fast, faster than them. And he was desperate. His escape route was just yards away.
Suddenly it dawned on him.
His only means of escape was by scaling the rope. But the three men pursuing him could merely cut it, or use it to haul him back up into their clutches.
Saul skidded to a halt, heart pounding. He drew his blades and turned to face The Brotherhood.
It was time to stop running. He was going to have to fight his way out of this.
1
A New Start
The Isle of Orin
The cart rattled its way along the High Road, bouncing over potholes and deep ruts. Lilia clenched her jaw as the cart gave a particularly hard jolt. She glanced across at the lad seated opposite. Her cousin Loch’s lean face was screwed up in the same discomfort she felt.
“Uncle.” She shifted her attention to the sturdy figure perched at the front of the cart. “How much farther to Port Needle?”
“Almost there, lass,” he called back cheerfully. “Looking forward to starting your new job, eh?”
No—looking forward to getting off this cart, she thought grumpily. Her bottom was numb, her back ached and she felt chilled to the marrow despite the layers of clothing she wore. The wind had teeth this morning. It whistled in from the north, bringing with it the dank odor of ice, and a sharp reminder that winter held the world firmly in its grip.
They had set off at dawn from Shingle Ford in a cart laden with sacks of millet and barley. Her uncle Kevan made regular trips to the main port, furnishing the bakers there with grain. She had been grateful when he had said she could join him and Loch on their next journey.
Lilia now wished she had spent the bronze talent on the coach.
In an effort to get more comfortable, she pulled herself up off the floor of the cart and perched on a sack of millet. She risked falling but it was worth it just to change position. The wind whipped at her, pushing back the hood she had pulled up and freeing tendrils of hair from her braids. She breathed in the tang of salt, so different to the earthy smells of Shingle Ford, a farming hamlet surrounded by fields and dense woodland.
The High Road was an exposed highway that stretched along the southern length of the island—running between the Isle of Orin’s two forts: Eastwatch and Westwatch. Softly rounded, bald hills rose to the north, undulating like a rippling green sea into the distance, while to the south glittered the watery expanse of The Wash. Just beyond that horizon was a great continent, and a world she had never seen.
As she perched there, clinging to the edge of the cart to keep her balance, Lilia caught a glimpse of Port Needle spreading down the cliffs below. Slate roofs tumbled down the steep hillside in terraces, ending at a busy port.
Excitement rose in Lilia’s breast as she craned her neck to take it all in. Despite that the port was just half a day’s journey from her village, Lilia had not been here in years. Folk of this isle were not great travelers, only venturing from their homes when need drove them. In her twenty winters, Lilia had seen very little of the world beyond her hamlet.
That was about to change.
It may have been a small step, but taking a job as a cook and moving away from Shingle Ford was the most adventurous thing she had ever done. She had no idea if her new life would suit her—her mother seemed convinced it would not—but it represented freedom. The sight of the town, dun and ochre buildings hanging off steep cliffs, and the smell of smoking herrings rising up to greet her, filled Lilia with hope. For the first time in years she felt as if she could breathe.
Kevan turned the cart south off the High Road and down a wide swathe named Harbor Way. The cart’s wheels clattered over slippery cobbles, the shod feet of the pony drawing it clip-clopping hollowly. From here, Lilia got a clear view of the terraces that dug their roots into the rocky slope, linked by steep stairs. She was so intent on watching the boats—tiny at this distance—bobbing along the quay below—that she nearly lost her seat when her uncle brought the cart to a shuddering halt.
“Here’s your stop, lass.”
Lilia tore her gaze from the view and uncurled her aching fingers from the sacking. “What … we’re here already?”
Kevan gave a low chuckle and jumped down from the cart. “Aye. Here she is—The Grey Anchor.”
Lilia twisted around, her gaze settling upon a sprawling, low-slung building to her left. Constructed of mottled grey rock, the inn had a slate roof—missing a few tiles—encrusted in lichen. Peeling white paint covered its sh
uttered windows and the front door. A battered sign, showing a giant anchor against a churning sea, hung over the entrance.
Lilia’s excitement abated slightly. She had expected The Grey Anchor to be more attractive. It looked shabby. However, her father had assured her that Ailin, the inn-keeper, ran a reputable establishment.
She clambered down from the cart, wincing as blood rushed back into her stiffened limbs.
“Here, lass.” Kevan picked up the heavy leather pack she had brought with her and set it down at Lilia’s feet. “Is there anything else?”
“My satchel.” Lilia turned to her cousin. “Loch, can you pass it to me?”
The lad did as asked, favoring Lilia with a shy smile. “Good luck, Lily.”
“She won’t need any, lad.” Kevan crushed Lilia in a bear-hug before releasing her and striding back to his cart. “Clever girl like that. She’ll go far.”
Lilia smiled, despite the nerves that had tied her stomach in knots. She was glad her uncle, rather than her father, had dropped her off here. Both her parents tended to fuss, and Kevan had always encouraged her to see the world beyond her village.
The cart moved off, rattling down Harbor Way. Lilia watched it go, waving once more to Loch, before she turned to face The Grey Anchor once more. Then she slung her satchel over her front and shouldered her pack.
It was time to step over the threshold, into her new life.
Lilia pushed her way in, blinking at the dimness. Outdoors, it was a cold, bright winter’s day of silver sunlight that hurt the eyes. The door creaked shut behind Lilia and warmth enveloped her.
The gentle crackle and pop of the hearth broke the restful silence. She inhaled the scent of fresh rushes upon the floor and the tang of wood smoke from the roaring fire at one end of the inn’s common room—where a man dressed in a thick woolen tunic and leather breeches was stacking firewood.
At the sound of the door, the man straightened up, brushing sap off his hands. He was young, no more than a couple of winters older than her, and lightly built, with a boyishly handsome face, bright blue eyes and shaggy light-brown hair. As he rose to his full height, she realized he stood only a hand-span taller than her.
Meeting her gaze, he smiled.
Lilia’s breath caught in her throat. He had a sensual, beautifully-molded mouth and when he smiled, his left cheek dimpled. It suddenly felt hot and airless inside the dimly lit common room.
As if sensing her reaction to him, the young man’s smile turned into a grin. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Lilia, daughter of Shale,” she announced, finally finding her tongue. When he merely looked at her, his blue eyes twinkling, she flushed. “From Shingle Ford. I’m here to fill the cook’s position.”
His eyebrows raised. Still smiling, he inclined his head to the right and called out. “Ma, your new cook’s here.”
A small woman with fluffy brown hair bustled out of the kitchen. The harassed look on her face faded when she set eyes on Lilia, and she smiled. “Wonderful, you’re here! I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“Da said you were short-staffed so I should get here as soon as possible,” Lilia replied. She was aware of the young man observing her, but now that she had mastered her initial rush of attraction, Lilia ignored him, her attention focused wholly on her new employer.
At that moment, the door at the back of the common room opened and a man who appeared an older version of the one standing by the fire, hurried in carrying a wooden crate of clay wine urns. A mop of light-brown hair, threaded with grey, kept falling in his blue eyes.
“Ailin.” The woman turned to him, beaming. “Your friend has sent his daughter, as you asked. Meet Lilia, our new cook.”
The innkeeper put down the crate on the bar that took up the left hand side of the common room and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He approached Lilia and held out a hand. His warm grin was infectious, and Lilia found herself smiling back.
“Greetings, Lilia. I’m Ailin, the inn-keep here. And I see you’ve already met Neasa, my wife, and my son Dain.”
“Good day.” Lilia stepped forward and shook Neasa’s hand. She then reluctantly turned to their son and shook his. Dain met her gaze and gave her a slow, melting look. His handshake was firm and warm, and his palm lingered a moment against hers before releasing her.
Lilia broke eye contact and stepped back from him.
She knew his type. His looks reminded her a little of Ronan, one of the villagers of Shingle Ford. As children, Ronan’s cruelty and bullying had ruined her life, yet he had grown into a charming young man who had all the village girls after him. He had even tried to court Lilia, but she’d rebuffed him. He may have had a short memory, but she would never forget, or forgive, what he’d done to her.
Thoughts of Ronan quickly doused any lingering attraction for Dain, son of Ailin. Relieved, Lilia turned to where her employers watched her eagerly.
“How is Shale bearing up these days?” Ailin asked. “Still brewing that fine cider of his?”
Lilia nodded. “He wins prizes every year for it at the Harvest Gathering.”
Her pack was starting to make her shoulder ache so she placed it on the rushes at her feet. She suddenly felt weary after her early start and tiring journey on her uncle’s cart.
“I’ll show you to your chamber,” Neasa said, noting Lilia’s fatigue. She then turned to her son. “Dain—bring Lilia’s bags.”
Lilia’s chamber was long and narrow with pitted stone walls and a single window at one end. The shutters were open, letting in the icy noon air. Neasa had made up a narrow straw pallet with blankets and scattered fresh rushes, strewn with lavender sprigs across the dirt floor. A small hearth sat against one wall. A lump of peat sat in it, ready to be lit later in the day. A wooden clothes rail with wicker baskets under it lined the opposite wall.
Neasa bustled in ahead of Lilia and pulled the shutters closed. “Shadows, it’s cold today.” She placed a burning oil lamp on a low table next to the sleeping pallet and turned to Lilia.
“It’s small, but I think you’ll find it comfortable.”
Lilia smiled. “The room will suit me well, thank you.”
Dain followed the two women inside the chamber, hauling Lilia’s pack after him. He set it down at the foot of the straw pallet before catching Lilia’s eye and winking. “What have you got in there, rocks?”
Lilia pressed her lips together and looked away. She did not want to encourage his flirting.
“Don’t tease the girl, Dain—you can see she’s exhausted.” Neasa pushed her son toward the door before bestowing Lilia with an apologetic look. “Make yourself comfortable and get unpacked. I’ll bring you a tray of food.”
Lilia gave the older woman a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
Alone in the chamber, Lilia let out a long breath and looked about her. It was a little smaller than her bower at home but it was clean and would hopefully keep warm at night. Best of all, it was her private space—one she could make her own.
Opening her pack, she started to pull out the items she had brought. Lots of skirts, underskirts and petticoats, shawls, linen tunics and blouses as well as long woolen tunics for colder days. She had also brought her treasures, objects she needed to have with her in order to feel safe. A feather from her favorite pet hen as a child, a smooth white pebble she had found in the river near her village—her luck stone—and a book with a collection of flowers she had pressed. Just laying these items out neatly, side by side on the table by her sleeping pallet made her feel as if everything was right with the world.
The anxiety that had churned in her belly ever since leaving her village at dawn eased. Humming to herself, Lilia set about hanging up her clothes.
2
The Fighter
Dain wound a strip of leather around his hand, his gaze shifting to where his opponent readied himself for the fight on the opposite side of the tavern. A wiry sailor with sharp features, the man’s cold grey eyes snapped up to meet his
gaze. The two of them eyeballed each other for a few moments, each daring the other to look away first.
“He looks mean,” Ardan murmured next to Dain.
“Aye,” Dain agreed, his gaze still upon the sailor. “But I’ve fought meaner.”
“You’ve got to watch the thin ones,” his friend continued. “They’re stronger than they look.”
Dain smiled. “So am I.”
Across the tavern, one of the sailor’s companions called out to him, forcing him to break eye contact. Still, Dain watched him, taking his measure, while Ardan finished fastening the bindings over his knuckles. Fist fights could be brutal; it paid to look after your hands.
“How much have you got riding on this one?” Dain asked Ardan.
Ardan pulled a face. “Two silver talents, so you’d better win.”
Dain eyed him before smiling once more. “You could have had this fight, if you think your chances are better.”
Ardan grinned back. He was the same age as Dain, although bigger and broader, his dark hair cut close to his skull. He was not the sort of man that others picked fights with in taverns.
“Can’t—now I’ve joined the Port Guard I have to behave myself.”
Dain snorted. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”
Secretly, he was envious of Ardan, who was now making a living as a soldier. Dain was expected to help run the inn until his parents retired and handed the business over to him—a future that depressed him.
He was at his happiest in environments such as this—a dingy quay-side tavern called The Barnacle. The stuffy air reeked of stale sweat, ale and burning peat. Men in salt-encrusted leathers leaned against the wooden-paneled walls, tankards in hand, while serving wenches in long swishing skirts and tightly laced corsets carried jugs of ale around the room. Twice a week The Barnacle held fist-fights in the evening. The men, red-faced and loud with drink, were here to bet, to hail the winner and heckle the loser.