“Oh,” Krea started at the beautiful woman’s suggestion. She had no other boots in her hand, but her husband had now joined her in the entry. “Oh no. These can’t be for me, lady merchant. They are far too fine.”
The merchant smiled, enveloping the room with her faerie magic. When she spoke again, her voice, like her hair, was as smooth as liquid silk. “They are for you, Eothi.”
Krea blinked and stared, trying to keep her mind focused despite the magic-laden room. “I am not Eothi,” she tried to explain, but her words drifted slowly away as she stared into the bottomless green eyes in front of her. “I don’t even know what that means.”
The woman took the boots from the counter and gently guided Krea toward the stool by the wall. “Try them,” she repeated, this time keeping her eyes averted.
The room came back into focus, and Krea snapped her eyes closed to find her center again. When she opened them, the woman was waiting for her to pull on the boots. Determined not to succumb to the magic again, Krea looked away from the merchant and pulled the too-small house shoes off her feet.
The boot leather was as supple as cloth, yet thick and durable at the same time. They were dark and smooth, made from the leather that Krea feared would be too heavy, but the merchant had done something to make the leather slide over her foot like a second skin. The outer surface smelled similar to her oilskin cloak, and Krea knew they would be nearly waterproof. To help hold out the weather, a piece of leather backed the place where the lace brought the boot together, assuring that the boot would stay straight along her leg and that water could not seep in through the laces. They were truly beautiful, but when Krea bent down to pull the laces tight, she froze. For the first time, she noticed a ghostly silhouette of shapes that had been carefully stitched on the inside ankle of each boot.
“How did you...?” Krea gasped, twisting her foot so she could better see the now familiar pattern. A spiral slightly larger than her thumb had been stitched just above the inside ankle of each boot. Three dots followed it down toward the sole, and two thin lines wrapped around her ankle. The thread used to embroider the pattern into the boot was so thin as to almost be invisible, but when Krea ran her hand across the stitching, she could feel its thickness and strength.
“I know the mark of the goddess,” the woman assured her quietly. “The thread comes from deep in the Nayli. It will neither break nor discolor. Your boots have been stitched together with it as well.”
Krea looked down and noticed why the boots had looked so strange. They appeared to be seamless. Where the leather sole met the leg of the boot, the overlapping leather had been secured with the ghostly silver thread. At first glance, the shoes appeared to have no binding at all.
“They are amazing,” Krea whispered. “I have never seen their equal.” She looked back up at the faerie-born merchant and frowned. “I don’t think I have enough gold to pay for these.”
The woman knelt down and took Krea’s left arm in her hand, turning it to expose the bloodred symbols. “You are Eothi. I have been given the highest honor in serving you.”
A surge of joy and lust surged through Krea with such intensity she lost her breath. Before she knew it, she was on her feet cradling the remaining boot, unsure whether she should dance with the merchant or run from the building. Confused, she turned toward the door, but couldn’t make her feet take her any farther. Then, as suddenly as the emotion had overcome her, it vanished.
“My apologies,” the woman said, guiding Krea back toward the stool. “I lose myself sometimes.”
Krea stared up at her in shock. “And you’re not even a faerie?” Krea gasped without thinking. The woman frowned, and only then did Krea consider how her comment must have sounded. “I mean no offense,” she said hurriedly. “It’s just that…how can you have such strong magic and still be a mortal?”
“It was passed to me by my adopted parents,” the merchant explained as Krea went about pulling on the other boot.
In short order, Krea stood to gaze in wonder at the faerie craft she now wore. They made her worn and dirty clothes look even worse. The gossamer threads shivered in the pale morning light as if they were trying not to be seen. “These will last me half my life,” Krea commented, rolling her ankle to make the ghostly patterns dance. “I wish I could offer you something in return.”
The woman smiled. Light spilled across her dark hair, making it shimmer like a pool of deep black water. “You have offered me a chance to be part of the prophecy, Eothi. That is more than enough.”
Krea had no idea what the woman was talking about, but she had already had her fill of faerie magic for the day and was keen to be on her way, but she couldn’t bite down her questions. “I don’t understand. What is Eothi? What prophecy are you part of?”
The woman waved away the questions as if they were errant children being scooted from the room. Without another word, the merchant grabbed Krea’s arm and ushered her out the door. With a little more coaxing, she finally climbed up on Caldir to leave. She glanced again at her boots and smiled down at the faerie-born cobbler now standing next to her grinning but silent husband. “Good day to you, lady merchant. Sir.”
The dark woman clapped her hands together and stepped in close to the bulking man at her side. “And good journey to you,” she called back as Krea turned her horse up the road.
As Sorin had promised, the supplier’s storefront was only doors down and across the road from the cobbler. She had barely situated herself in the saddle before she was there, and Sorin was nowhere in sight. At best, he was on his way to the mage’s broche. If that far. Looking through barrels of dried goods and bags of seed did not interest her in the least, so Krea peered around to find something else to distract her while she waited.
Unlike Trasdaak, where merchants sold goods from carts along the main road during the spring and summer months, most of Ryth’s merchants had permanent buildings from which to do business. Krea suspected that the difference was not only Ryth’s more central location, but also its placement on the riverbank. She turned Caldir to walk up the part of the main road she had not yet seen.
The occasional merchant or commoner dotted the main strip, but for the most part, the road was empty. A young woman and a boy wrestled with a small herd of goats that were all determined to go in different directions. Across from them, a small bakery began setting out dough to rise. Krea's thief brain took over, and in a second she had mapped out the best approach to the baker's racks. She shook her head. Trouble in Ryth she didn't need.
Krea reined Caldir up a small alley that ran behind a chandler shop. The rich scent of candle wax wafted through the air and mixed with the aroma of baking bread. Not far away, someone pounded steel against an anvil. Its rhythmic ringing chimed in the morning.
Krea wondered again why she hadn't stopped in Ryth if she had come through the town at all. Surviving here would have been much easier. Of course, the competition would have been a problem, but still.
She climbed down to more closely survey the back doors of the shops—just to satisfy her own curiosity, of course—when the ringing from the smithy stopped. Ahead, two people argued in hushed whispers. Their voices had been lost in the banging, and Krea had nearly ridden right up on them. Just what she needed: A chance to explain to Sorin why she was skulking around back alleys instead of waiting for him. She held her breath and prayed the banging would resume so she could get out of there without being heard.
“I cannot carry a box all the way to Shaylith,” a man said. She could tell from the way he spoke that the man was a noble, and probably from a young house, based on his tone.
“You are going to have to. You have no choice.” The second voice was that of a woman, and from the sound of it, she was a woman used to many years of getting her way. She carried authority in her voice that the young man lacked.
“Why can't I just hide it in a saddlebag?” the man asked.
“If the witch wanted it in a saddlebag, you fool, she would have
sent it in one. It is not for your hands. It is for the master and no other.”
Krea's heart raced. Could it be? Surely not. There had been no proth in Ryth. They could not possibly be talking about the same master. Could they? No. And the mage? Absolutely not.
On silent feet, Krea left Caldir's reins dangling and snuck forward along the chandler's back wall. With every step, she kicked herself for not listening to Sorin. With every step she knew she needed to be walking the other direction, but every step brought her closer to the voices around the corner.
“You must not touch it,” the woman was saying, but Krea heard the squeaking of a lid opening.
“I won't touch it,” the man said, dripping with patronizing impatience. “I just want to see what is so sacred that it can't fit in a saddlebag.”
Krea peered around the corner and nearly jumped out of her skin when the man shouted a curse and jumped back. A wood box as long as his forearm tumbled to the ground. The woman yelled, and the man pulled his arm into his cloak as the contents of the box spilled out onto the dusty road. A piece of leather wrapping fell back from the slender object it hid, and the glint of gold winked up at Krea like an old friend.
She jerked back and flattened herself against the wall. What are you doing? she asked herself. Just walk away, Krea. It's not too late. Walk away.
The ringing started again from the smith. Now was her chance. She tried to make herself walk toward the horse, but the memory of the glinting gold held her in place.
“You fool! I told you not…” The woman's words were lost in the clang of metal.
“…get a bag,” the man said.
Krea risked a glance around the corner in time to see the man pushing the box against the wall with his foot. He had apparently kicked the gold treasure back inside. He turned, and the hood that hid his face fell back just enough to reveal eyes she had seen before. The noble from the inn spun and stalked off in the opposite direction, his dark gray cape billowing behind him. Krea ducked back again.
Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl, she mouthed. The clanging continued in even, measured beats. The horse waited just a short jog away. But the gold. It called her. It begged her to save it from the arrogant noble. She started to peek just one more time when another voice rang out over the din of the anvil.
“You there. What are you doing?”
Krea squeezed her eyes closed and forced her heart to beat. A guard. She knew it without looking.
“I was merely checking the repairs to the gutter. I will be gone when the rains come, and I want to be certain all is well,” the woman answered.
Krea chanced a breath. He hadn't been talking to her.
“Lady Carene,” the guard said, his tone supplicant. “My apologies, milady. I didn’t recognize you. I thought you were away to Shaylith already. Is there a problem with the gutter? I will see to its repair immediately. Just show me the break and I will…”
“No,” the woman said, rushing to stop the guard from entering the alley. Krea heard the rustle of her skirt and guessed she was moving to meet him before he saw the box. When she spoke again, her voice told Krea she had guessed right. “No. It is fine. I just wanted to check. My guards are waiting that we may depart. I shouldn't delay. Would you walk with me?”
“Of course, milady. You shouldn’t be about without an escort. Even at this…” The guard’s voice trailed off as he left the building.
Krea peered around the corner. An empty alley. She drew back and paused again. She knew she shouldn't. The clanging started up again. Perfect cover. She chastised herself for even thinking it, but it was too easy.
She looked again. There it was, calling her. When things are this easy, it's a gift from the goddess, right? She didn't wait for an answer or for the noble to return with his bag. She snatched the first decent-shaped rock she could find and snatched the box. From the safety of her hiding place, she pulled her pant leg out of her boot and used the dead man’s knife to cut a thin strip from the bottom of her breeches. The box seemed plain enough. She tried to pull off the top, but it didn’t move. She twisted it and wiggled it and held the box between her knees, but it didn’t move. Voices in the street grew louder as someone approached, but she wasn’t willing to give up yet. “Just open!” Krea whispered, giving the lid one more pull, and as if it had never been a problem, the lid slid off with a tiny squeak and the rich scent of oiled mahogany.
Rich red silk lined the entire casing, padded to protect its burden. Or to keep its contents quiet if it were, say, a long oval rock instead of whatever it was. A thin piece of belly-soft black leather blanketed the treasure inside. Krea didn’t want a repeat of whatever happened to the noble, so she saved the investigation for another time. In an instant, the box was back against the wall, the rock tucked inside wrapped tightly in her strip of pant leather to assure its silence. The box's former resident was tucked just as snuggly against her leg.
Caldir spooked when he saw her running toward him. He was already turned around and on the run by the time she was fully in the saddle. Krea barely managed to slow him to a trot before they were back onto the main road. She had no more than cleared the chandler's cottage when the noble rounded the corner, the narrow box peeking out from a small bag under his cloak.
Krea nodded toward him as she would any noble, but didn't make eye contact. Every muscle in her body wanted to run, but she forced an even pace and pretended not to notice that his eyes followed her as she rode.
At last, she turned back up the road that led to the supplier and chanced a backward glance. The noble was gone. With any luck, he never even opened the box.
When she reached the supplier, she pulled Caldir up so close to Sorin’s mount that they nearly touched. She pretended to dig something out of one of his packs, and in one smooth motion slipped her stolen goods into a pack already stuffed with her new clothes. It was too easy. Just to make it better, she pulled out the tan and brown chemise and tunic set she had ordered and tied the bag closed. Clean clothes in hand, she slid to the ground and walked inside.
“What took you so long?” Sorin asked when he saw her walk in.
Krea just shrugged and held out one of her boots for him to see. He glanced down at them, then back up to her, and frowned. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself. “Take Dane and wait outside with our things,” he instructed, pushing the child toward her.
Dane looked like a different person. His hair was combed, and it looked like the mage had at least made an attempt at cutting it. He wore a dark-green tunic that fell low over nearly black leather breeches and boots that cuffed over at his calves. They looked a bit large, but sturdy and comfortable. A light-brown chemise poked out from under the tunic, and he had the sleeves rolled just past his wrists. A leather thong stretched across his neck, but the end disappeared beneath his shirt. That would be where the burl was.
“We wouldn’t want anyone to steal our things,” Krea said as she took the boy’s hand and turned to lead him from the small store.
Sorin snapped his head around at her comment, but remained silent.
When they were safely outside, Krea looked down at Dane. “Where did you get the clothes?”
The boy looked up, as if just noticing that she was there. “The mage gived them to me,” he explained in a quiet, solemn tone.
She frowned. He didn’t look like a wizard to her, but whatever he had gone through last night must have been an ordeal. His face was puffy from no sleep, and he seemed ready to drop from exhaustion. “You all right?”
Dane nodded.
“Did you eat?” she asked, looking for any sign that he had been beaten. She didn’t think the mage was the type, but she knew little else that could so profoundly affect a person’s spirit.
Again Dane nodded, but didn’t speak.
Krea ran her fingers through his hair to check for bumps or cuts, but he had none. The little lice that had been bedding in his head were gone as well, and he looked up at her in silence, as if surprised to find
her still standing in front of him. “You look great,” she said, giving his linen chemise a tug.
Finally, he smiled. It was faint, but it was at least something. He smoothed his hand over the front of his tunic, obviously enjoying the feel of the material. “The mage said she thought she was ’sposed to be saving them for you, but she was really ’sposed to be saving them for me. She gived me more, too. They’s in one of them bags.”
She smiled and nodded, hoping he didn’t want to show them to her. “I need to change. Watch the horses?”
Dane nodded.
Krea ducked behind the building, half expecting to find another noble there. The narrow byway was clear, so she slipped into her new clothes and hurried back to join Dane. He wasn't doing any better. She was still shoving her old clothes into the bag, neatly burying her new acquisition, when Sorin walked out of the store with yet another set of bags tossed over his shoulder and several packages of the dreaded salted meat in his hand.
“Here,” Krea said, hurrying over to relieve him of his burden. “I’ll take these. Your horse is already carrying twice what mine is carrying.”
Sorin narrowed his eyes and gave her a hard stare before pulling the set of bags back out of her grasp. “Put the meat in one of your bags,” he ordered, watching her with obvious suspicion for a moment before turning to secure the new bags onto his saddle. To Krea’s immense relief, he dropped them across Drindoc’s whither in front of the saddle and secured them there rather than to the back.
He kept glancing over at her, then up and down the street as he arranged the new gear before finally stepping up onto his horse. Krea followed his lead, pulling Dane up behind her. Unhindered by the bags that were now secured in front of her, the boy fit neatly behind the saddle. He grabbed hold of her tunic on both sides and held on like it meant his life. Krea started to complain, but Sorin watched her with a knowing glare and she thought better of it.
Hand and Talon (World of Kyrni Book 1) Page 22