Sun frowned and looked down at a few tiny ridges on her knuckles. “That? That was no injury, only a blister from the back of my shield.”
“I knew that before I mentioned it,” said Albern. “Yet what I am trying to tell you is that Mag did not have even that much of a mark upon her. Her skin was perfect. Flawless.”
He paused, looking at Sun, who suddenly realized her eyes were wide and her mouth was hanging open slightly. Albern nodded.
“Yes. Do you understand now? Can you begin to understand Mag’s prowess? How skilled do you have to be—how naturally talented, I mean—to avoid any wound at all, even early in life? Even when you are first training to use a blade, or fight with soldiers by your side? And as time went on, we got to see Mag train—if you could call it training. Privately, I thought it was more of a demonstration that she was the best among us, and we were unworthy to march beside her. No one could touch her, no matter how many opponents they put against her in the practice ring.
“That was the beginning of her legend—right there, in the Upangan Blades. How could she be real? Think beyond her skill with a blade. How could she have avoided any cuts her whole life, even on her hands and knees as a child, running amid mud and rocks and scaling to the tops of trees?”
“It … it does not seem possible,” breathed Sun.
Albern slapped his hand lightly on the table. “And yet, there it was,” he said. “The evidence of it was plain—it lay right before our eyes. The Uncut Lady. I came up with that name myself, by the way.”
Sun felt herself entirely caught up in the wonder of it. But then the tavern’s door opened, and there came the sound of new voices. Sun glanced behind her—and felt her blood freeze.
There in the doorway stood the two guards from earlier, the ones from her family. They looked about the place, and for a frightful moment Sun thought they were still searching for her. But they stood relaxed and lazy, and when they saw an empty table on the other side of the room, they moved towards it.
They were not here for Sun, but only to get a drink. Although her pulse seemed to resume after a long moment of holding its breath, Sun still felt herself far too exposed. She glanced back at Albern, whose eyes had widened slightly.
“I take it you do not want those women to see you,” he said. “As with the constable.”
“You are correct.”
“Then ignore them, and talk with me as if we have been conversing all night.”
“If you will promise to keep an eye on them for me.”
“Of course.”
Sun sighed. “Very well. Tell me what happened in Northwood.”
A shadow passed over Albern’s face. “Many things, and nearly all of them dark. But it did not start out that way.”
WHEN WE ARRIVED TO HER inn, I asked Mag to let me pay for the food and lodging of my friends. She understood at once. I had never done so before, and she could see the pain in my eyes when I asked it of her. By those signs, Mag knew we had come to her on an evil road. She never troubled Loren or her friends to pay for their lodgings, and when, in the end, I tried to pay her, she refused me, too.
Loren met an old friend in Mag’s common room—a boy named Chet. They went off on their own, and the rest of us ate and talked and simply rested after a journey that had gone on far too long. Shortly after the sun set, I encouraged the party to ready for bed.
I myself did not go to sleep right away, but stayed up to speak with Mag and Sten. It had been years, after all, and I was eager to hear how they had been getting on. Mag and I could never have been lovers, but she and Sten could never have been anything else. You could see it in the way they looked at each other, the little touches on the arm or shoulder when they would speak. They would share smiles that turned into private moments between the two of them, and never mind the fact that I was sitting right there.
First I told them all that had happened to our party in the Greatrocks—of how we had ridden north through the mountain pass, and had been attacked by harpies and satyrs, and had found a growing darkness in an old fortress. Those matters had to do with the Necromancer, though of course we did not know that at the time.
“How under the sky did you get involved in all this, Albern?” said Mag. “I thought you longed for peace and quiet in Strapa.”
“I did. But even Strapa is less quiet than it used to be, and less peaceful,” I told her. “Has word of Wellmont reached you yet, this far north?”
Sten waved his hand vaguely. “Rumors. Some Dorsean border squabble.”
“It is a bit more than that, I am afraid,” I said. “I did not witness the battle, but Loren and her friends did. Dorsea seems intent on bringing the city down to its foundations.”
“Why?” said Mag. “Surely they cannot think the High King would let that stand.”
Sten snorted. “Who understands Dorseans?”
“Well, first I heard of Wellmont, and that weighed on me,” I said. “And then that girl Loren strode into my bowyery. When I saw her and her companion, I felt … I do not know precisely what I felt, but I knew I had to go with her. There was something about her—and the man she came in with, but mostly her—that told me something important was going on. Something I could not ignore. And besides, their road north brought me here to visit you.”
Mag raised her eyebrows. “Though you almost got yourself killed along the way. That would somewhat have diminished the pleasure of your company.”
I gave her a half-bow from my seat. “I am pleased to hear you value it enough not to want to lose it.”
That made all of us chuckle, and we spent a moment or two enjoying Mag’s ale in silence. As an aside, whatever tales you have heard about her brew cannot do it justice. It was sweeter than honey, and as bracing as a bear’s roar. She would chill some kegs of it in the river, and then it was like drinking a draft of gold pouring from the peaks of mountains. Other times she would serve it from barrels kept in a storehouse, and then it was like pouring the warmth of a good hearth directly into your gut. There are stories of people who have killed each other for a barrel of it. Those stories are not true, but they could be.
“So you took a Mystic and three children into the mountains,” said Mag, sighing. “And you thought it would be a lark—a pleasant jaunt, after too many years standing still.”
“I had no reason to think otherwise,” I said. “And of course, that was before I found out about our fifth, unwilling party member.”
Xain walked into the room at that moment, as perfectly timed as if he had waited, listening, until he heard me speak of him. Most people know a few tales of Xain of the family Forredar, once a savior of the Lord Prince, once a dean of the Academy for Wizards, and all the other titles he acquired. But in that room, at that time, he looked far from impressive. He was thin and sickly, and his hair had become sparse upon his scalp. He suffered from a sickness, then, though that is too long a story to tell now. He would have walked right by us, had I not spoken just as he passed.
“Can you not sleep, Xain?”
He paused for the space of a few heartbeats, his arms wrapped tight around himself despite the room’s warmth, and surveyed us with shadowed eyes that glittered. Then he pulled out a chair and sat—but suddenly he went rigid, looking uncertainly at us.
“May I sit?”
“Of course,” said Mag, ever the gracious host.
“Thank you,” said Xain, sinking back into the chair and relaxing—at least somewhat.
Mag turned back to me. “You said that something bigger is going on. What, exactly?”
I suddenly regretted mentioning it. There was a curious light in Mag’s eyes, an interest she could not hide. I did not want to further stoke that fire. A darkness was gathering, it was true—as we know now, in these later years. But I feared that if I made it plain to her, it might pull her away from Northwood, the place where she had finally found Sten—and thus, found happiness. Mag deserved that happiness more than most people I had met in my travels.
But
while I hesitated, Xain did not. He knew nothing of my reason for secrecy, of course, and so he spoke before I could think of an answer that would forestall any more of Mag’s questions.
“You have been telling them of the Greatrocks?” he asked me. “Something bigger hardly begins to describe it. We found an ancient enemy in the mountains. An enemy of the Mystics, I mean. Our friend and leader, Jordel, perished trying to stop them. Now that he has fallen, it is up to the rest of us to warn Underrealm. I do not know everything, and I cannot say everything I do know. But we stand on the brink of a great conflict. The Mystics must be alerted, and the sooner the better.”
“Then where are you bound?” said Mag. “The Mystics have no stronghold here, and I do not know of any who currently dwell in the city. Will you ride for Cabrus?”
“They make for Ammon,” I cut in. Xain looked surprised, and I shrugged. “Did you think I was not paying attention? You and Loren did not take much trouble to conceal the plans you made.”
Mag frowned. “You say ‘they’ as though you do not mean to go with them.”
“That is because I do not, as I told them already.”
“And we understand that choice,” said Xain. “I would do the same, were I in your shoes.” But though he spoke the words easily enough, he did not meet my gaze.
“Then what?” said Sten, frowning at me over the mug of ale he had just begun to raise. “Will you stay here?”
“For a time, yes,” I said. “It has been too long since we saw each other last. But after a while, I will ride home for Strapa. I have had enough of wandering for a good long while, I think.”
Mag did not seem to think very highly of this plan—or of me, in that moment, if I am being honest. She did not scowl, exactly, but I could see a flash of anger in her eyes. “It seems to me that Loren and the others need help. Will you not aid them?”
“I do not mean to, no,” I said. “I am not beholden to anyone. They hired me to bring them here to Northwood and nothing more.”
Before, I had felt certain in my choice. But I cannot deny I felt a small bit of guilt as I answered. Yet I was sure that I was making the right choice, even if I had my own qualms about it.
In our youth, Mag and I had been mercenaries, fighting on battlefields across all the nine kingdoms. A mercenary’s life is not for everyone, and it is especially deadly to those who have a place they call home. A king’s soldiers are different—they fight for their home, and that is what gives them strength. But in a sellsword company, such a soldier is death to have beside you on the battlefield. They will be the first to break at any sign of trouble. I thought I had learned a lesson in the Greatrocks. I thought my days of far-ranging adventure were behind me, and that I had become a man with a home, a man who would wander no more.
What a fool I was.
Xain did not say anything, but he avoided my gaze as he took a sip of his ale. I wondered what was going on behind his dark eyes—whether he was thinking of what I had confessed to Loren. That secret was too painful to think about now, and certainly nothing I wanted to tell Mag. But if Xain was indeed thinking such thoughts, he kept them to himself, for which I was grateful.
Mag did not speak, either, but she was less adept at hiding her feelings. She fell into a silence full of thought, taking many long pulls at her ale.
Sten, sensing the sudden discomfort at the table, tried to pick up where the conversation had left off, asking me about matters of small importance. I answered him easily enough, and we carried on that way until Xain, wearying, at last excused himself to go to bed.
When he had gone, Mag put down her mug and fixed me with a look. I steeled myself, for I feared she meant to reprimand me. But when I met her gaze, she smiled at me.
“How would you like to go to the Reeve?”
I balked. “Now? Tonight?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “The moons are right for it, and the sky is clear. Sten and I went just a few days ago, and it was perfect. We meant to go again tonight, even before you arrived.”
“If we all go, who will watch the inn?”
Sten waved a hand. “My wife still has reputation enough to keep filching fingers from our stores and our coin. We step out fairly often, especially at night.”
“I …” My voice trailed off, and I shook my head with a smile. When had I become such an old worrywart? I took a deep breath and released it, and suddenly it felt like we were young again, like we had just come here to Northwood together for the first time.
“I would like nothing more in all the world.”
Mag led us out through Northwood’s south gate. The city had no reason to close them at night, for the land was untroubled in those days. The guards waved to us as we passed, and then they returned to their game of Moons. The country beyond the wall was open and beautiful, the farms well tended, though of course they were now deserted. A wide road cut in straight lines through the fields, turning with the borders of each farm, but always at perfect angles—and always taking us farther south, in the end. We were on foot, and so the journey took us a little longer than it would have otherwise, but in less than an hour we had reached the Reeve.
I do not know for certain, but I would guess it got its name because it used to be a place of official business. It was easy to see it as a place to deliver solemn proclamations. The Reeve was a large hill, and though it was not really all that tall, it was impressive. There was something in the shape of it that gave a sense of eminence, of importance. If Mag’s tavern was a kindly grandmother, the Reeve was an old man, wizened but still hale, his arms folded as he considered you, judging your worth with eyes still sharp with wit.
A footpath cut back and forth across its eastern slope. We climbed it to the top, which was flat but surrounded with large boulders. The boulders looked natural—certainly they had not been cut by any human tools—but they stood about the edge of the hill like a crown, as perfectly spaced as if they had been put there. Mayhap it was something done by ancient humanity, a relic of the time before time. Mayhap that was where the hill had received its name, as well. I did not know.
But I did know what had been buried at the top of the Reeve.
My eyes strayed to the patch of dirt as we passed it. There was no sign it had ever been disturbed—but then, it had been many years since a spade had last touched it. I shivered, though the night was warm. Sten avoided looking at the site altogether, and his beard twitched with a frown as we walked by it. Mag did not seem to pay any attention, either. But I knew her well. I looked closely, and I could see her fingers flexing, anxious to grip something.
“Come, my fine boys,” she said suddenly, startling us both in the silence. “Show me you have not grown too old to be useful.”
She crouched and sprang, landing on a narrow ledge halfway up one of the huge boulders at the edge of the clearing. It was a leap I could not have made two decades ago, and I had no hope of it now.
“I am afraid we are both useless next to you, and always have been,” I told her. “But could you help two decrepit old men make the climb?”
Mag laughed loud at that, and she lowered a hand. Sten seized it, and she levered him up to the ledge beside her. I was next, and each of them took one of my hands to pull me up. I was momentarily shocked by the strength of Mag’s pull, though I should not have been. When you looked at Sten, you thought he was a man who should be able to lift you off your feet. Mag did not project the same strength, for all her plentiful wiry muscle. And indeed, when it came to sheer strength, Sten outmatched her. But Mag understood something about the way the world worked, and the way the human body worked within it. She knew how to twist, where to bend, and how to leverage every ounce of her strength into something much greater. It came naturally to her, as natural as a tiger stalking the jungles of Feldemar.
But as I said, they pulled me to the ledge beside them. Then Mag made another leap, and then she hauled us up again after her. It was like a game to her, and she urged us to move faster with each climb. S
oon we had reached the top of the boulder, where there was plenty of room for all three of us to lie down beside each other. Mag lay in the middle, and Sten beside her with his head close to hers—but I was on Mag’s other side, and I lay with my feet near her head. Sten and I breathed heavily with exertion, but Mag’s chest rose and fell steadily.
“You were right,” I told them. “The moons are perfect.”
Sten pointed. “The sisters are returning home. Enalyn leads the way, urging Merida to hasten her steps.”
“Enalyn may find that her home looks different than when she left it.”
The words came out without my even thinking them, and they surprised me as much as they evidently surprised Mag and Sten. Both of them raised their heads to look at me.
“You are very thoughtful tonight, and very dour,” said Mag. “I gave you ale to fix that.”
“Mayhap you are losing your touch, brewmaster.” We all three laughed, for that was a plain lie. “No, you are right. I … suppose I was thinking of Loren.”
“Were you.” The words seemed inquisitive, but Mag did not speak them as a question.
“If she returns to her home, she will certainly find it different than she left it,” said Sten. “What a long road that child has ridden.”
And has yet to ride, I thought. But this time I managed to keep the words to myself.
“Speaking of riding,” said Mag. “Do you think we ought to worry about that boy Chet?”
“Sky above, Mag,” said Sten. He actually sounded embarrassed.
I laughed aloud. “Though you might have put it more delicately—no, I do not think we need to worry.”
“Loren seemed distressed after they spoke,” said Mag.
“Likely he brought bad news of home,” I said. “But he seemed a good sort, if mayhap a bit foolish. But putting Chet aside, I have faith in Loren. She can care for herself, even if he is of ill intent—though as I said, I doubt it.”
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