by Shae Ford
Except for Aerilyn and Garron, the rest of the caravan was full of dark-haired, dark-eyed forest men. Kael had a difficult time telling one man apart from the rest, but Aerilyn knew them all by name.
The men would smile when she approached, as if they knew she was about to brighten their day. At first, Kael thought she was a silly girl. But the more she talked, the more he realized that she was surprisingly clever. Nothing any of the men said could catch her off guard. If they teased her about her dress, she would toss her golden brown hair and pipe back with something about their trousers. Kael thought some of her banter bordered on insulting, but the smiles couldn’t have been any wider.
The men shook Kael’s hand when she introduced them, but their eyes stayed on Kyleigh. Even the most talkative man could only sputter when she smiled. In fact, there were so many open mouths in the caravan that Kael actually began to worry for the fly population.
Perhaps if they’d known how thoroughly annoying she could be, they wouldn’t have gaped at her so.
Aerilyn’s tour lasted longer than was probably necessary. Even after Garron bellowed the order to move out and the carts began to roll, they pressed on. She’d just shown them around the tannery cart when a roguish-looking fellow came out of nowhere and wedged himself in between them. He seemed older than Kael by a few years, but his lopsided grin made him look more childish.
Aerilyn groaned when she saw him, an involuntary smile bent her lips. “This is Jonathan,” she said, waving to the rogue. “He’s our resident fiddler and mischief-maker. He’ll be in trouble at every stop from here to Midlan, I guarantee it.”
Jonathan’s laugh carried like a thunderclap. Several people ahead of them turned to look in annoyance. “I’d stay at home if they didn’t toss me out every year to go merchanting with the likes of you,” he said.
“I don’t think the village could survive without these six months to clean up your mess,” Aerilyn retorted.
Jonathan shrugged at Kael, as if the two of them shared a common problem. “I get bored trying to keep myself out of trouble. A man without a hobby is just a crow without a scarf — that’s what I always say. Anyways,” his gaze turned to Kyleigh, “aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Aerilyn rolled her eyes at him. “This is Kael.” Jonathan grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously, grinning like a madman. “And this is Kyleigh.”
When Jonathan brought her hand to his lips, Kael thought he was as good as dead. But even after he winked, she did nothing but laugh. “I’d act offended, but I don’t think that would put you off any.”
Jonathan shook his head gravely. “No Miss, ‘twould only encourage me. Now then,” he narrowed his eyes at her, “you have a gift for music, don’t you? I know a fellow musician when I see one.”
Her face was about as telling as a mute. But that didn’t curb his enthusiasm.
“Aha! I knew it. Are you going to tell me what instrument you play, or do I have to guess?”
Kael almost laughed at the thought of her playing anything, but she seemed surprisingly ruffled. “Can’t we just leave it?”
“Not an option. If you won’t tell me outright, then you leave me no choice — and I shall need her other hand, if you please,” he said to Aerilyn, who still had her arm firmly wrapped around Kyleigh’s.
She reluctantly let go.
“Thank you,” he said, taking both of her hands in his. He studied her palms for a moment. “Hmmm, oh you’re a tricky one. Look here.” He pointed to a row of calluses under her fingers. “These are from years of swinging swords around. Usually you just see them on one hand or the other. But I once knew a fellow who could wield swords in both hands. He was a one-eyed thief with a taste for the theatrical! Blighter still owes me money —”
“None of your tales, Jonathan,” Aerilyn said before his story could take off. “We don’t want their ears to start burning before they’ve even had a chance to settle in.”
He waved her off. “All right, keep your bloomers on. You must have quite a bit of practice at swordplay, Miss Kyleigh.” He wagged his eyebrows at her. “You’re a dangerous one, aren’t you?”
She smiled sweetly. “Keep dragging this out, and you’ll see for yourself.”
He laughed. “Pressing right along, then. And what have we here?” He traced a long, thin scar on her other palm. It was white and slightly raised. “You weren’t trying to stop a blade with naught but your hand, were you?”
“You tell me.”
He scratched at the generous amount of scruff on his cheek. “Well my dear dangerous lady, I’m not sure I can tell you much of anything. You don’t have any marks on your string fingers, so that rules out a fair few instruments. I don’t think you play the drums …”
She smirked. “I suppose that means you’ve lost. I’ll just take my hand back —”
“Not yet.” Jonathan’s dark eyes twinkled mischievously. “I hear it now, the way you carry your words — it’s like the old ear was made to hear them.” He dropped her hands. “You can sing.”
Aerilyn’s squeal of delight cut over the top of anything Kyleigh might have said. “Oh, you simply must sing for us! Jonathan is all we’ve had to listen to for weeks. And he only sings very rude songs.” She shot him a look.
“I’m afraid the right mood has to take me,” Kyleigh said hastily.
Jonathan puffed up his chest. “Spoken like a true artist! I shall make it my personal duty to play a song you can’t help but sing to. No, no,” he said when she started to protest, “it would be my honor. But first, I’ve got to find my fiddle.”
Then with a very exaggerated bow, he sprinted away — and nearly collided with the back of a rolling cart.
“He’s a bit strange, but completely harmless,” Aerilyn said as she looped her arm through Kyleigh’s once again.
Kael was still taken aback by the strangeness of it all. “Can you really sing?”
Kyleigh looked up from where she’d been tracing the scar on her palm. “Only when there’s nothing better to do.”
He wouldn’t have guessed that, not for all the copper in the Kingdom. “What else don’t I know about you?”
She smiled. “Loads of things.”
Before he could press her, Garron found them. “Have you gotten our escorts acquainted with the caravan?” he said to Aerilyn.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Thank you, my dear. And judging by the red in your hair,” his eyes flicked to the top of Kael’s head, “would I be right to assume you’re from the mountains?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you’re a hunter.”
It wasn’t a question. He wanted to say he was, but he felt guilty about lying again. “Actually, sir, I never earned my spot as a hunter, sir.”
“One sir per sentence is quite enough,” Garron quipped. “And you should hold your chin up when you speak. It gives you a look of confidence.” He waited until Kael tilted his chin before he continued. “I don’t know what you mean, but as far as I’m concerned anyone who comes off of those mountains is an accomplished woodsman.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“None of that.” Garron swatted his thanks away like bothersome flies. “I said that only to say this: in addition to keeping a lookout for bandits, I’d like you to join the men who hunt for our food. I’ll pay you extra to teach them your skills.”
This time, Kael’s chin lifted without a problem. “Sure, I’d be honored to help.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d call it an honor, but it’s certainly a help,” Garron said, a hint of amusement in his otherwise serious voice. Then he turned his attention to Kyleigh. “I’d originally planned for you to be our scout, but under the circumstances,” he glanced at the way Aerilyn’s arm was latched to hers, “I think it might be best if you stayed with my daughter — as her personal guard.”
Aerilyn clapped excitedly. “Oh thank you, Papa!” Then she turned to Kyleigh. “You have no idea how absolutely dreary it’s been without another wo
man around. Men are very limited conversationalists, and I’ve found they know nothing of fashion or face paint — or anything else worth chatting about, for that matter!”
Kyleigh killed things with more poise than most people ate supper, but at the prospect of chatting about anything, a look of such horror crossed her face that Kael nearly laughed. Aerilyn led her away, talking animatedly about one thing or another, and Kyleigh followed with the stiff legs of someone about to be severely punished.
Chapter 11
A Mistake
Crevan did not take the news of Titus’s failure well.
He kicked the hapless servant who brought him the letter and stormed out of his chambers. Corridors flew by as he thumped across the castle. Not a single curious servant peeked out from door or hallway — they knew by the thunder of his steps that heads were going to roll.
So they kept theirs bent firmly on their business.
In the southernmost corner of the castle, a guard stood watch over a small door. When he didn’t move fast enough, Crevan grabbed the front of his breastplate and threw him aside. He fell on his back, and his limbs flailed out like overturned beetle as he tried to right himself.
Crevan wrenched the door open and took the climb of twisting, narrow stairs two at a time. His angry breathing became more like panting the higher he went. At the top of the stairs was another door. He shoved through it and nearly collided with someone on the other side. “Out of my — oh, it’s you,” was all he could think to say to the hideous man standing before him.
The royal beastkeeper grunted in reply. His skin was a patchwork of white, crisscrossing scars, his hair sprouted from his head in patches. He peered down at Crevan through a swollen lump over his one good eye — the other was milky white and unseeing.
“Where’s Argon?” Crevan said, trying not to stare at a greenish, festering cut that raked down the beastkeeper’s chest.
He grunted again, turned his huge frame and pointed to a room behind him. The tip of his finger was missing.
Crevan edged past him and ducked into the room, nearly tripping over the many trinkets scattered across the floor in the process. Books lay opened on every surface, their pages covered in foreign scribbles. He kicked them out of the way.
In the very center of the room stood a large stone basin, supported by an iron table. The water at its bottom was still as a mirror. It was so clear that when Crevan bent his head over it, he could see himself glaring angrily in the reflection. His flinty gray eyes found the jagged scar that cut across the right side of his face — the one his beard couldn’t hide. It was a scar the beastkeeper might have been proud of.
He dashed the water with the back of his hand.
“You called?”
Argon’s voice was about as startling as crumpled parchment, but Crevan still jumped when he saw the old Seer standing across from him. He hated mages’ tricks. “You know why I’m here,” he growled.
Argon watched him with eyes like deep pools. His blue robe stretched down to the floor and his gray beard stretched down to his stomach. “I can only assume that your prey eludes you still,” he said. He reached out and passed his hand over the basin. The mad ripples caused by Crevan’s tantrum melted back into the water, turning it smooth once again.
“I’m here because you made a mistake. You told us she would be on the south end of the village. You were wrong, and because of your incompetence she escaped!”
Argon shrugged. “The future is a fickle thing —”
“Don’t,” Crevan hurled a book at his head, “lie to me!”
Argon didn’t blink as the book skimmed the top of his silver hair and struck a table behind him, scattering all of its instruments.
The miss only made Crevan more furious. He was an inch from grabbing Argon by his beard and slinging him off the tower. “If you saw the girl’s future change —”
“I couldn’t.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t see it?”
Argon sighed. He reached into his robes and pulled out a ball of smooth black marble. It was about the size of a spearhead. “Look into the water, Your Majesty, and I’ll show you what I mean.”
He dropped the marble into the very center of the basin. As Crevan watched, the ball began to roll around the earthen bottom, spinning faster with each turn until it became a solid ring of motion. The water swirled into a whirlpool that rocked the basin so violently that it threatened to fall off the table.
With both of his hands on the basin, Argon whispered her name. Colors leaked out from the sides of the bowl and the whirlpool spun them until they could see her face: her dark hair, her green eyes … she was smiling about something.
Looking at her was like being stabbed in the stomach by a poisoned knife. “Get on with it,” Crevan growled.
The image scaled back, as if they were watching from the eyes of a bird taking flight. Her whole body came into focus. She was holding her hand out to someone.
Just as they were about to get a look at her companion, the image broke. An entire shield, dented and battle-worn, rose out of the water and startled Crevan backwards. It stood on its bottom for a moment and the water foamed around it. An eye was engraved in its middle, but where the color and the pupil should have been there was a symbol: a series of lines forming three triangles on top, facing each other, three interlocking triangles on the bottom, and one black triangle in the very center.
Slowly, the shield sunk back into the water and disappeared, taking Crevan’s gut with it. “Impossible,” he hissed.
Argon waved his hand and the ball stopped spinning. It popped out of the water of its own accord and dropped neatly into his palm. “Your Majesty knows that emblem?”
It took Crevan a moment to hear him. “What I know isn’t any of your concern. And if you’d like to keep your head on your shoulders, I suggest you find a way to fix this.”
“Your Highness, this is like nothing I’ve ever witnessed,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “No talisman, no spell can prevent me from Seeing. Nothing the others did could save them. But this time, things are different.” He looked back at the basin, studying it. “I don’t understand this magic.”
Crevan clenched his fists to keep from swearing. Argon’s visions were the only thing keeping him safe. Not knowing where she was meant doubling the guard outside his room — and long, sleepless nights of worry.
She was the only one left. When the Whispering War ended, he knew he’d have to kill them all, every last one. To leave any of those troublemakers alive would have destroyed everything he worked for. The pirate was no trouble — he’d gotten what he deserved. Catching the whisperers had been more of a challenge, but outside every wall was a rat waiting to show the way in. Once he’d discovered their secret, disposing of them hadn’t been a problem. And then there was the Seer.
Argon didn’t want to join his side, but he had little choice. Powerful as he was, he was still no match for an army. Once the other palace mages had him cursed and bound, he’d become Crevan’s slave — and he’d proven himself invaluable. When his scouts couldn’t find her, when his armies disappeared in the mist of the mountains, he turned to Argon. Even if his bungling forces failed to bring her in, at least the Seer had been able to keep an eye on her. Crevan knew very well that for every moment she drew breath, his life was still in danger.
“Perhaps if I were allowed to study with the others, we might discover a way around the shield,” Argon said, turning from where he’d been gazing thoughtfully out the window.
Crevan frowned. He preferred to keep the palace mages apart. He knew for a fact that a roomful of thinking men was more dangerous to a King than any army, and a week ago he wouldn’t have even considered it. But now the circumstances had changed. Now Argon was no longer his only weapon.
“Very well,” Crevan said distractedly. He slammed the door on Argon’s thanks and went to look for the beastkeeper. He couldn’t believe the old fool hadn’t noticed her form — it was almost to good to
be true.
He found the beastkeeper exactly where he left him, only now he was busily rooting through his ear with his smallest finger.
“I have a task for you.”
He removed his hand and used it to scratch at a set of angry red claw marks that ribboned across his arm while he listened.
“It’s finally happened — the Dragongirl is wearing her other form,” Crevan hissed, and the swollen lumps above the beastkeeper’s eyes raised in interest. “If we move quickly, we may have a chance to deal the ending blow. Go to the atrium and send the birds — all of them. And when they find her … release the dogs.”
The beastkeeper’s mouth split open like a crack, revealing a tangled mass of yellow teeth. On another man, the gesture might have been recognized as a grin.
But on the beastkeeper, it was just horrifying.
Chapter 12
Luck and Skill
Traveling with the caravan turned out to be like living in a small, moving village. Each one of the covered wagons was its own shop: there was a tanner, a blacksmith, a cook, a tailor, a jeweler and a carpenter. After Garron spelled out the details of his chores, he gave Kael permission to trade with the carts for whatever he needed.
But he refused to use what coin Amos had packed for them. Kael was determined to figure out how to trade on his own — which made things much more difficult.
He learned quickly that if he asked for something and didn’t have anything to trade for it, he got the cart door slammed in his face. He tried to explain to the blacksmith that he needed a hunting dagger, because he couldn’t skin his game without it — and he couldn’t turn them into the cook until they were skinned. But the smith just shrugged.
“And if I give it to you for free, I lose coin. And if I lose coin, Garron comes after me. We all got problems, lad. And they’re all ours to solve.” Then he’d slammed the door.
Kael spent all day long trying to find someone to loan him a dagger, but no one was willing to give one up without some sort of payment. He grumbled to Kyleigh about it all through dinner.