by Jordan Rivet
“Let her go.” Archer stepped forward. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“And I’m the king’s twin brother,” scoffed Pratford. He pointed the wicked crescent blade of his halberd at Archer, forcing him to stop. “Lord Barden will want to speak with both of you.”
Archer caught Briar’s eye, hoping she had another trick up her sleeve, but her eyes were fearful, rimmed with silver tears, and her hands were empty. Out of nowhere, he remembered sweeping her onto the back of his horse, her arms wrapping tight around his waist.
Pratford noticed where Archer was looking and swung his halberd to point at Briar instead. He grinned triumphantly, as if he’d discovered a weakness to exploit. Before Pratford could even voice the threat, Archer heaved the bundle of paints at his face, knocking him flat.
Then he tackled Mage Radner.
The mage was too surprised to utter more than a gasp as Archer crashed into him. They hit the ground hard, Briar crying out as she was pulled down by her hair. Archer punched her captor in his ugly, pinched face, forcing him to release his hold on the girl. Then he kept punching, blind rage scorching through him, lending his fists strength.
“Come on!” Briar shouted, grabbing his arm. “Archer, more are coming.”
Archer realized the mage was unconscious beneath him and his knuckles were covered in blood. He scrambled back, reeling from the sudden flare of rage.
He reached for the sack of paints he’d thrown, but Pratford grabbed it at the same moment with a wordless snarl. Archer tried to wrench the bundle out of his hands to no avail. They tugged the burlap between them, locking eyes like wolves fighting over carrion. Then came a ripping sound, the crunch of jars striking the ground.
Briar appeared at Archer’s side and hurled a large rock at Pratford’s face. He toppled backward, his grip on the bag of paints loosening, and he hit the ground, out cold.
“We have to go!” Briar shouted.
“The bag ripped.” Archer struggled with the bundle, trying to keep more paints from tumbling out.
“Here, use this.” Briar undid the clasp on Mage Radner’s well-worn cloak and yanked it out from under his unconscious body. Archer avoided looking at Radner’s pulverized face as he and Briar tied the cloak around the ripped bag of paints and brushes. It had been a long time since he’d lost control like that.
Boots pounded and halberds clattered at the mouth of the alley. A wave of mustard brown and steel surged toward them.
“Good enough.” Archer hoisted the new bundle on his shoulder, and he and Briar bolted for the other end of the alley.
Their two attackers remained lying in the dirt behind them.
“What kind of curse did you use on that rock?” Archer asked as he and Briar cleared the alley and raced toward the town boundary.
“I didn’t have time for a curse,” Briar said. “I just threw it really hard.”
The Mud Market churned like a kicked anthill, the sounds of scattered fighting echoing across the town. Archer and Briar managed to evade Barden’s men as they hurtled through the darkening streets, passed the stone plinth at the town’s border, and slipped into the countryside unseen. Archer would no doubt be implicated in the chaos anyway. It might do his reputation as a dreaded outlaw some good.
They didn’t slow to catch their breaths until they reached the woods, and even when the trees enveloped them, they didn’t dare stop. They walked with hands outstretched, feeling their way into the welcoming arms of the night-dark forest.
Archer couldn’t believe the day had gone so poorly. He should never have left Briar at the Dandelion to go see Kurt. The churl had called the town watchman before Archer had even finished his pint, using Archer’s personal history to buy himself a shot at the reward. So much for honor among thieves.
Archer had concocted elaborate epithets to describe his lousy excuse for a friend while he’d been locked in the stocks. The arrival of Lord Barden’s cronies had been just another blow in the beating. Kurt had said something unexpected, though, and Archer hadn’t been able to get it out of his head, even with all the excitement.
“I heard Drake and his team made it into the castle a week ago, and she wasn’t there. Dunno where else Larke would keep her. Oh, look, it’s the watchman. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
Archer had been too busy getting arrested and shoved into the stocks to ask more, but the news troubled him. If anyone could retrieve Lady Mae before he could, it was Horatio Drake’s band of mercenaries. Archer had hoped to reach the castle first, but if Drake had already been into the tower and emerged empty-handed, was it possible they had all gotten something important wrong, namely the location of Lady Mae’s prison? She wasn’t there, Kurt had said. Dunno where else Larke would keep her.
Archer felt a horrible sinking sensation, like a castle-sized hole opening in the pit of his stomach. Kurt and Drake may not know any other place apart from Larke Castle where Mae could be, but Archer did. That location would be far more difficult to crack, maybe impossible.
He contemplated the new destination as he and Briar traveled deeper into the woods, becoming more and more certain Larke would consider it a better hiding place for the kidnapped girl than his primary castle. Archer had nearly made a terrible mistake.
The moon rose overhead, dappling the forest floor with light and making it easier to find their way. Pine needles crunched beneath their feet, and a pair of squirrels chattered in the trees.
“I think we lost them,” Briar said after a while. Her steps were spritely, and she showed no sign of fatigue, perhaps still riding the adrenaline rush of escape, of being alive after such a close call.
“They lost us, you mean,” Archer said. “You’re fast.”
“You were carrying all the heavy stuff.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I’d known a few paint jars would be heavier than a sack of bricks.”
“Liar.”
Briar grinned up at him, and Archer blinked at the happy, almost relaxed expression. She was usually so cautious, a bird poised for flight. She seemed to realize she had let her guard down at the same moment he did, for her face snapped closed like a treasure chest.
Archer nudged her arm. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“We’re even now.”
“I guess we are.”
Briar fell silent, and Archer found himself thinking of how he’d felt when that cretin had grabbed Briar by the hair. His scorching rage at her being hurt had surprised him. He’d thought he’d overcome that particular weakness. He had been an angry youth, more vim and ire than sense, but the precarious life of an outlaw had forced him to rein in his temper. That had changed when Briar was in trouble.
“Archer, those men said you … never mind.”
He glanced down at her. The last vestige of joy had slipped from her face and with it the sense of comradeship they’d enjoyed during their flight from Mud Market. The silence between them thickened like porridge.
He sighed. “Go ahead and ask.” They might as well get it over with before they reached the others.
Briar kept her gaze lowered. “Those men mentioned your father.”
“They did.”
“He’s a rich man.”
“He is.”
“And you’ve cut ties with him.”
“I have.”
“Why?”
Archer brushed a hand through his hair. He’d lost Lew’s hat somewhere. “The short version of the story is I don’t like the way he conducts his business.”
“He’s not Lord Barden, is he?”
Archer paused. “What makes you say that?”
“I was just wondering if this quest to save Lady Mae was more personal than you’ve been letting on. She’s not secretly your sister, is she?”
Archer chose his words carefully. “She’s not my sister.”
“But you have history.”
“We do.”
Briar nodded, as if it were something she had suspected all along. “So Lord Barde
n isn’t your father?”
“No, he is not.”
Briar looked up at him, shadows falling from her long lashes. “You’re not some secret prince, are you? I figured you came from money because you’re clearly well educated, but—”
“I am neither prince nor duke nor long-lost king. I swear it on Sheriff’s life.” Archer adjusted the cloak-wrapped bundle weighing down his shoulder. “My father makes his money through trade. Not all fine, upstanding citizens are good men, though.”
“That’s something I understand,” Briar said. She didn’t ask for any more details, and he wondered how long it would take her to figure out the rest.
They continued on in silence. Archer thought it was relatively companionable. The escapade had shown him he could trust Briar not to abandon their mission, but the thought of Mae tempered his enthusiasm for that development. He couldn’t waste any more time or take any more risks. His own life aside, Archer didn’t know if Briar and the team could—or would—finish the job without him. At the end of the day, most of them were in it for the money, and they could get that other ways with the right initiative.
The horses were saddled and waiting when they reached the hollow oak tree, and the campfire smoldered, recently doused. Sheriff howled and bounded over to greet them with his sloppiest kisses.
Jemma marched after the dog, looking as if she couldn’t decide whether to slap Archer or hug him. She often looked that way, come to think of it. “It’s about time you got here! I was about to send in the cavalry.”
“Have no fear, Jemma. I’ve been in tighter scrapes than this.” Archer tried to give a bow and a flourish, but his back still ached from spending the afternoon in the stocks. He handed the bundle of paints over to Briar and settled for a stiff nod.
Jemma glanced at Briar, her expression frosty, as if she suspected their tardiness was her fault. “Lew went back to look for you. Did you at least get everything?”
“Nearly,” Archer said. “No luck with Kurt. Turns out I overestimated our friendship.” He rubbed his wrists. There would be time to tell the rest of the story later.
“I didn’t think he’d join us.” Jemma tucked a few strands of silver-and-blond hair behind her ear. “We will make do without him.”
“At least you got the paints,” Nat said. He sat on his heels beside Briar, holding a lantern for her as she opened the stolen mage’s cloak and took inventory of her purchases. “I’ve never seen such bright colors.”
“We’ll have even more colors after I finish mixing the pigments,” Briar said. “It shouldn’t take too long to … oh no.”
She grabbed the burlap sack, which had a large rip from Archer and Pratford’s tug-of-war, and turned the whole thing inside out. Sheriff trotted over to sniff at it, his tail drooping.
Archer moved closer. “Problem?”
“The purple,” Briar said. “It must have fallen out during the fight.”
Nat brightened. “There was a fight?”
“More of a skirmish, really,” Archer said. “Are you sure it’s gone?”
“Yes. The umber is missing as well, but I can forage for materials to make that along the way. That purple, though …”
“We’ll have to go back for it.” Archer was starting to wish he had taken a nap at the inn when he’d had a chance. He kept moving one step forward and two steps back.
“The market is closed,” Briar said. “Unless it’s exactly where we dropped it …”
“Can’t you just mix blue and red paints?” Nat asked.
“Unfortunately, no. The spell-unravelling curse requires the exact substance.”
“No matter.” Archer offered Briar a hand to help her to her feet. “Shall we?”
She blinked in surprise at the gesture, but she accepted his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Nat looked quickly between the two, a hint of suspicion flickering in his eyes.
Before Archer could think of something clever and casual to say, a sharp whistle interrupted him.
“That’s Lew’s warning,” Jemma said.
“We’ve got company,” Archer said, dropping Briar’s hand. “Get ready to ride.”
The others untied the horses while Jemma scattered pine needles to hide how recently the camp had been occupied. Briar packaged up the remaining paints in the voice mage’s cloak and secured them to her saddle. They were all on their mounts by the time Lew galloped through the trees.
“There’s been a tussle between Barden and Larke’s men in the village,” Lew said, the dark-brown wig he’d worn into town hanging askew. “Barden’s men seem to think Archer was behind the flare-up.”
Jemma turned in her saddle. “Archer.”
“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Archer said. “But they’ve been itching to get into it for months. Barden hates that Larke’s men have had the run of Mud Market for so long.”
“Agreed,” Lew said. “I’m not surprised he’s reasserting his hold on the place after Lady Mae.”
“You weren’t supposed to be seen,” Jemma said.
“It can’t be helped now. At least I knocked out Radner.”
Esteban looked up from where he’d been adjusting the ties on his saddlebags. “The voice mage?”
“Is he the one who always looks like he just sat on a porcupine?” Nat asked.
“One and the same,” Archer said.
Jemma definitely looked like she wanted to slap him. “I thought you said it was just a skirmish.”
“Do they know where we are?” Archer asked.
Lew nodded grimly. “Barden’s men got wind that we’re in the woods, and they’re sending a party our way. We’d better leave the pack animals. We need to get across the Sweetwater to Larke territory as quickly as possible.”
“But we didn’t get the purple paint,” Briar said. “I have to go back to look for it.”
“It’s too late now,” Archer said. “We’ll get it some other way.”
“But—”
“None of us want to be caught by Lord Barden’s men, least of all you. His cronies won’t be satisfied with just burning down your cottage.”
Briar set her jaw, her eyes burning like torches in the darkness. Archer didn’t envy Mage Radner if he ever met her with a full supply of paints in hand.
“You hired me to do a job,” she said. “I’m telling you it won’t work without that paint.”
Archer hesitated. After the news from Kurt, he was pretty sure she was going to need a whole new set of curses anyway. With luck, maybe they wouldn’t require the purple at all. He appreciated that she was committed to the job, but they wouldn’t make it in and out of Mud Market a second time that night.
“Your concerns have been noted,” Archer said. He flung up a hand to keep her from arguing, and she gave him a murderous scowl.
“I hear them coming,” Lew said.
“Archer,” Jemma hissed.
“Well, what are you all standing around for?” Archer asked. “We need to get across that river!”
Archer vaulted onto his horse and whistled to Sheriff. The dog gave a long howl and set off into the woods. Archer led his people in the opposite direction. As always, he said a prayer to the higher realms for his canine friend. Sheriff had a sharp mind in that wrinkly head of his, and he would lead Barden’s men on a merry chase. Sometimes Archer wished he were as clever as his dog. He couldn’t believe he’d been about to break into the wrong castle.
Chapter 9
Briar and the outlaws rode hard through the night, Lord Barden’s men in hot pursuit. Branches lashed their faces, the darkness seeming to morph into enemies at every turn, but Briar wasn’t as frightened as she’d been the last time she’d fled through the woods. She had paints again, and if she got caught, she would not be helpless.
Still, the loss of the purple pigment troubled her as they got farther from Mud Market. Archer didn’t seem to understand how impossible it would be to just “get it some other way.” Most curses didn’t require that particu
lar paint. Unravelling magic was a mysterious and little-understood practice—one that had especially fascinated Briar’s father. He was always experimenting with marine-snail purple in his studio by the sea, but no supplier between here and Larke Castle was guaranteed to have the pigment on hand.
She’d tried to explain it to Archer, but he was too focused on barreling forward through the darkness. Briar clutched her reins in frustration, making her horse snort and toss its head. She wanted their quest to succeed. She had become fully invested the moment she’d helped Archer out of the stocks instead of accepting Gideon’s charity. Besides, Mage Radner had seen her with Archer. It was too late for a clean break. The least he could do was listen.
Archer rode at the head of their party, the darkness revealing little more than the outline of his bow and quiver, once again strapped to his back, and his blond hair blowing in the wind. There was more to their job than Archer had told her—and more to Archer himself. She’d heard enough from Barden’s men to guess he was a wealthy merchant’s prodigal son who wanted to marry a baron’s daughter. Archer must believe rescuing the fair maiden would win her hand—and return him to the affluent society from whence he’d come. Perhaps he was even in love with Lady Mae. What would he do if Briar’s curses failed to save her?
“Personal crusades are always messy.” A long-ago warning from her father seemed to float out of the forest. “You can’t let your clients’ passions interfere with your work.” Most of her clients came to her for revenge, so avoiding their passions wasn’t possible. She was far more involved in the mission than usual, though. Briar sincerely hoped she was wrong about Archer’s devotion to Lady Mae. Otherwise, they might both come to regret the loss of that purple paint.
Just before midnight, their group left the woods and crossed into a stretch of rolling hills. Starlight flooded the sky, an endless expanse of dancing fireflies. The horses’ hoofbeats echoed across the hills, making it difficult to tell if their pursuers were still behind them. Briar felt at one with her saddle, with the creaking leather and the smell of horse sweat. Her mount’s mane whipped at her face, and the paint jars in her saddlebag rang with each stride.