by A. Wrighton
“Clear,” Lanthar whispered.
“Grand.”
Callon cracked his neck and knocked on the door. He stepped back alongside Lanthar and leaned against one of the walls in his usual stance, his back exposed to no one. Callon’s deep blue eyes remained locked on the people traveling the cobblestone street.
Lanthar sighed at his predictable routine. “Caldenians,” he muttered.
Callon half-bowed. “With pride.”
With the jiggle of the cold handle, both their eyes jerked to the door. Lanthar stepped forward, knowing he had the gentler of the appearances and softer of the tongues. He peered into the softening darkness of the cracked door until he could make out the person who had opened it. A young raven-haired girl of thirteen stood barefoot in soiled clothes, barely covering her budding figure. Her skin was red from its exposure to the harshness of approaching winter.
Callon returned to scanning the street with a dismissive sigh.
“Child, is your Keeper in?” Lanthar asked.
The girl stared for a moment. Lanthar considered the possibility of her not knowing how to speak until she gently nodded.
“Yes," she murmured. “I’ll fetch her.” The girl shut the door almost completely before disappearing into the darkness beyond it.
Lanthar turned and cast an annoyed glance at Callon who nodded. They had been here too long, wandering the Outer Ring too long. Neither liked being in public, let alone exposed in the open for an extended period. The Council had made sure of that with their laws against socializing with any remotely sympathetic to their cause – to the "Resistance."
Lanthar realized that he was not alone in seeing people staring strangely at them. Callon, the infamous tracker and reader of perceptions, had taken to shifting his gaze about manically. It did not matter that they stared after people who probably did not notice their existence as anything more than a happenchance or passing by. With every fleeting moment they remained exposed, they were more and more like free pickings for any Council Guard that happened to pass them twice. Half of Lanthar wanted to damn the duty to Udlast and go — and he was pretty certain Callon would follow, just this once.
But they could not. The Cause. Orders.
Lanthar stretched his shoulders with a loud sigh.
Slowly, the door opened again, revealing a middle-aged woman with a figure comprised of curves and dirt. Her fiendish pink lips accentuated her plain face and braided hair. She smiled after surveying the two men.
“Milady, I am Lord Finlay and this is Sir Gavin. We've come regarding a girl," Lanthar said.
Callon bowed at his introduction and quickly turned away.
“I am Keeper Marnee and I have plenty of those, sirs. I beg you be more specific.”
“She turned eighteen five cycles ago…” Callon said, eyes on the street.
“That is quite some time, Gentlemen…”
“And, she would have been paid for anonymously,” Lanthar added.
The Keeper exhaled and brought her arms together just under her chest. Lanthar ignored the searing pink in his cheeks as she sighed and squeezed.
“Ah… right. Her. Naturally, my Lord, you understand that once of age, I have no right or reason to keep children here unless they choose to work for me. And she, well she outright refused. Stubborn girl. I haven’t seen her since the day she walked out that door muttering in one of her made-up tongues. She is nothing but trouble and you should avoid any chance of meeting her. If you are looking for something close to that age... body type, even… I can provide—”
Lanthar intercepted the retort he knew Callon would provide. “No. No, thank you. We must find her. Just her.”
“Yes, well when you see her, tell her she owes me still for her final pair of shoes,” Keeper Marnee said. She made to shut the door, but Lanthar propped it open with his hand.
He smiled, admittedly fakely, and pried the door back open. “Milady, may I ask for the name with which you called her?”
“I called her Nali. She came with no real name and in Creipan that means girl. Fitting enough for a child of her… wild… nature.”
“Wild?” Callon asked.
“Well, she didn’t look like any Creitalli I’d ever seen. Her hair was the color of the waxing twilight and she had the most unnaturally void eyes.”
“Thank you, Keeper.”
“Are you sure I cannot interest the two of you in something similar to her stature? I do have a few tall lean ones should you desire an interlude between searching…”
For once, Lanthar was glad to see Callon completely disinterested in the pursuit of the opposite sex. Callon nodded towards the street and left the doorstep without another word. Lanthar shook his head in reply before joining him. There was a sharp slam of a door before the bustle of the Outer Ring roared back around them.
Lanthar exhaled and adjusted his belt. “Right then. That was wholly productive.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t sit well with you, Lan. We know that she’s a feral and empty girl. That’s at least something now, isn’t it?”
Lanthar smiled. “It’s odd that Kai would describe her one way, while the King and this Keeper describe her another. How can one silly little child muster such a headache? They can’t be two different people.”
“Want to bet?”
“They can’t. Paine would not have left this like this if they were two separate people. Perhaps…”
“No. None of your philosophizing gavasti now, Lan. We have our orders. We report to Alaister at the meeting point as planned.”
“Off we go then.”
“After you, Sire.”
Lanthar jerked back. “What?”
Callon haphazardly jumped into the street. “Lord Finlay was it?”
Lanthar followed Callon’s pompous stride to the street and paused at the curb to look about.
Callon turned and slid a smile that meant trouble across his jagged face. “You know my Lord, if you continue to be horrible at living your own lies, I am going to have to insist on being partnered with someone else.”
“Best of luck with that, Sir Gavin.” Lanthar then paused, waiting for a retort that did not come. Puzzled, Lanthar hopped off the curb and joined the motionless Callon mid-street. He stood staring weirdly at a piece of parchment stuck against his boot. Bold, angry letters flapped harmlessly with the wind. Lanthar knelt down and picked up the wayward paper and flipped it over. The image of a Dragonic stared up at him with beady unnatural eyes. Flame and destruction raged behind him.
Only Rogues Could Design This. The Council Will Find Them.
“Do they really think the people are that mindless?” Callon asked as he snatched and crumpled the stray parchment. He stared after the wad as it caught the wind.
“It seems to be working well enough. You saw Alderon.”
“He’s grieving,” Callon said.
“He’s scared.”
“Can you blame him?”
Lanthar snarled as he spoke, his anger making a rare, short-lived appearance. “He’s a King. He should be above it and lead the people. Help them. Tell them it was not the Rogues. I mean, gavasti – it would be nice to have flames behind me – but such a hassle in the end.”
Callon exhaled sharply with a laugh. Lanthar’s stinted humor, when seldom expressed, was always welcome by his ears. It made the blond giant seem more human. Lanthar fought to control a knowing smile at Callon’s hidden depths’ appearance, happy for his secrets. They all, in the end, had secrets. Everyone did. Especially the Rogues’ Founding Father, Kai Paine.
Lanthar thought of their search, the deciphered logbook, and Princess Carissa. If they were in fact chasing a ghost, then there was no point to it all. But, a living, breathing Runic meant an end to the Council – to their lies and deceptions. A flesh-and-blood Runic would bring closure, so long sought by the Rogues that it had become a mystic entity itself – a story – a dream. But without the girl, without the Runic – it was all for naught. Again.
“Lanth
ar…”
Lanthar jerked from his wandering thoughts. He had been staring at the trail of the wadded parchment too long. The constant hum in his ear that had grown more impatient was not a budding concept, but Callon calling his name. Repeatedly.
It was not in Callon’s usual tone. It was different. Softer. Hushed.
“Lan…”
Lanthar looked up. He still stood in the middle of the street, but now he blocked a horse-drawn cart. The chestnut mare whinnied and stomped at the ground. The merchant warily eyed them both as he tracked Callon’s retreat to Lanthar's position mid-street. Together they stared at the cart driver.
“We should hurry. It’s not like it used to be,” Lanthar whispered.
“If we didn’t stick out then…”
“…We sure as Udlast do now.”
THE MIDDLE RING
KNALL CITY, CREITALL
She had not noticed them at first. They were good at blending in when they were motionless and silent. But with each stride and breath, what they were became apparent and she was glad that she was the only one who noticed – for now.
The Resistance. Rogues.
She had not expected to find them, but it came as second nature. She had been trained to find them – trained to look and wait. She let the two men pass by on their way to the open-air diner that was never her favorite place for selling flowers. The owner was a pompous drone and hated peddlers, almost as much as he hated his customers. Especially her; he could not stand the sight of her.
He was intolerant, belligerent, and loud. If it had not been for his obsession for popularity, he would never let peddlers sell there, but since the other diners did, he had to as well. He never let any forget that it was his favor – his gift – to them. It was his donation to charity to let peddlers sell for a few moments of unmolested business, until something would set him off and they would have to leave. And, something would always set him off.
As the men passed the owner en route to a table, she noted that he was in a good mood, despite his gaunt appearance. He was as vile as ever. Drunk. The smile he gave the men was wretched and undoubtedly smelled of rancid ale. But, he did not yell. He was not angry and thankfully, he was not observant either.
The owner did not look twice at the odd pair as they joined a third man at a table. His inability to see the extraordinarily-out-of-place amused her. The three men were desperately wrong for the Middle Ring of Knall and all of Creitall. And, no one noticed. She smiled at everyone’s inability to see what was right in front of them. Their inability, she knew, was more than what kept her safe. It kept her well fed, too. But, the three Rogues were pushing it.
The owner was a Loyalist and devout Council follower. His diner screamed his allegiance. The walls were plastered with Council posters – some nearly ten cycles old, which meant that not only was the owner steadfastly loyal to the Chancellor, but that he was also nestled deep inside the Council’s pockets. Why the three men dared sit in such a place baffled her. They had to know, which meant that they did not care. They sat, surrounded by Loyalists and hateful propaganda, unaffected that at any moment someone could – and given the chance would – oust them and bring about their bloody end.
For a moment, she doubted herself. Doubted her gut.
But, she had seen the Dragon-topped hilts. In the flash of fabric and leather when the men stepped off the cobblestones and through the diner gates, she had seen them. From what she could tell, the shorter of the two was guarding two hilts. From what she remembered, duelists no longer existed outside of the Resistance and, had it not been for Vee’s harping on legends of the Order, she never would have suspected him for one. His moves were meticulous, calculated, and too unpredictable for him not to be a duelist. He never moved either hand too far from his sides, and his eyes never stopped scanning.
She watched them approach the third man, his broad back covered in a long brown leather coat. He greeted them in an archaic clasp of forearms. Then, the trio sat in silence. All she could make out of the third was that his hair was as dark as ink and thick.
Her curiosity burned. She was drawn to them. She had to know what they looked like. She had to see the hilts once more – to know she was right. She had to see why the third man seemed so familiar. She exhaled, turned away, and then quickly back again. She could not, nor would she, fight it. She had to see them – to Udlast with Vee’s rules of distance and anonymity.
Vee had prepared her for this moment her entire tutelage. She had said they would come and that she would need to recognize them. She had spent hundreds of nights beside the fireplace learning how to recognize them – how to feel them out. But, then cycles had passed and there came no promised appearance. She had started to doubt the sanity of her mentor’s teachings. Perhaps, Vee was truly as old as she looked.
Yet here they were. One. Two. Three.
They dressed like the man who had saved her from certain death and they walked and acted as Vee said they would. She knew she should not engage them, at the very least not in public, but she had never been one for patience. She had to know. She had waited so long. Kneeling, she set one palm on the ground of the alley and swiftly glanced around before closing her eyes, inhaling a deep breath, and whispering onto the sudden jolt of waning summer wind.
There are three.
A woman and son passed by with peculiar expressions and a question on their tongues.
She instantly offered them a ware. “Beautiful flower for a beautiful mother, lovely lady?”
The woman waved her off and dismissed her crouched state. The little boy’s stare lingered until his mother’s firm hand jerked him behind her. She exhaled and adjusted the flowers in her basket. Closer. She had to get closer. It would be worth the extra hours of taskings to see if she was right – to see the faces of those in the Order, that she owed what little of an existence she had to, could wait no longer.
Don’t do it, the wind whispered.
She blinked and pushed out of the alley, pulling down her emerald cloak’s hood, before passing through the gate. The owner sneered and pulled at his overgrown, fuzzy beard but said nothing as she passed. He watched her as he always did and then – on cue – added a gruff warning not to disrupt his guests. She nodded without looking at his hollow eyes, instead focusing on working her way to the three men.
They sat at the very back of the patio in the farthest, darkest corner. She moved as quickly as she could without garnering suspicion, uncaring whether people were interested in her wares or not. There was always tomorrow. She merely offered, and as soon as they waved her off, she moved on. She was as unimportant as ever and with her cloak – she was nearly invisible.
Except to one pair of eyes.
Callon did not alert the others because what harm could really come from a peddler. But the hooded merchant moved with nimble steps that seemed strategically placed, and so he watched, slyly trying to see inside the green hood.
He half listened to Lanthar and Alaister’s soft conversation, though Lanthar was back to his silent insistence, nodding or shrugging at appropriate pauses from Alaister. Whenever Alaister stopped talking, the cloaked peddler seemed to halt. Maybe.
Callon shook his head. He could be imagining things. They had been there too long with discovery looming over their heads, and now they sat in a Loyalist’s establishment. It was not that he was against mocking the Council; rather it was that he preferred to live to tell the tale after.
A sudden jolt of summer wind seized everyone on the patio – even the peddler.
Are you sure?
“Did you…”
Lanthar and Alaister looked blankly at Callon.
“Did you… just… never mind.” Callon sighed and tipped his mug to stare into the cooling tavi. Even it was starting to look peculiar.
Alaister watched Callon’s nervous calm and contained a smile. His friend was out of his element in public. They had to leave, soon – with or without the girl. They could always regroup and start the search fresh
in the morning. He knew she was out there, but where she was eluded them, and it certainly did not warrant possibly injuring his officer corps over. The Rogues would be lost without Callon and Lanthar, despite their oddities.
As he stirred his tavi, Alaister looked to Lanthar. His brow was knit in distant thought. He knew the blond giant was jilted by his visit with the King, but the deepness of its effects baffled. Lanthar had always been more sensitive to matters of the people, but this was extreme – even for him.
Lanthar stared into his tavi as he swirled in more cream. His eyes watched the trail of white dissipate into a pinkish gold color. Alaister started to speak, but a voice as pure as the summer sky broke the silence first.
“Flowers, sirs?”
Alaister had not seen her coming and neither had Lanthar. Both stammered with their reactions. Only Callon did not flinch at her sudden appearance; he looked coolly at the green hooded figure as he sipped his tavi.
Peering into the shadows of the cloak’s hood warily, Alaister shook his head. His voice barely broke a whisper. “No thank you, Miss.”
She swallowed at the intensity of all three pairs of eyes as they bore through her cloak and into her flesh. She flushed in the shadows of her fabric casing and was grateful that they could not discern the warmth of her cheeks or color to them. She had to get them out of the shadows.
“Guaranteed to knock any lady off her feet.”
She looked only at the third man – the one she needed to see. And, when he did lean a small bit forward out of the shadows, knots coiled in her stomach. He could not be real.
Her mind, mission, and manners left her. She thrust an iris far over the table to carve through the shadows to see more of him. He straightened and shook his head, coming into the light. Gray-blue eyes like a summer storm. Her throat tightened. It was the man who had saved her. Vee had said he was dead.
Him, she whispered into a sudden rush of air.
“We said no thank you,” Lanthar said with a loud pound of his fist.
She retreated, wincing. She knew what the aftermath would be and was actually grateful for it. The owner would be a few strides from reaching her, and she had to get away from those eyes. They were an impossibility. All of it was an impossibility. It was not supposed to come true.