by Jayne Castel
Life without it had been much harder.
Mira would never forget the morning the sun had returned. On the journey north, a day out from Witchmere—a walled burgh on the shores of a vast, blue lake—she and Ninia had been caught outdoors after dark. They’d climbed a tree just before dusk before waiting for the shadow creatures to hunt them.
Yet they hadn’t come.
The night had stretched on, and they’d heard the howls and shrieks of the servants of darkness in the distance, but none ventured close. Stranger still, when the sun rose that morning, the heavy bank of cloud that had covered the world for weeks lifted. Mira and Ninia had stood, faces tilted upward, as the warmth of the late summer sun bathed their faces.
The sun made Mira sweat now although she didn’t dare push back her hood. She had to remain a shadow here.
Halfway down Broad Walk, she cut left onto Pike Walk. Apart from the main thoroughfare, the rest of the walks bore the names of the fish that lived in the cold waters of this great lake. Pike Walk was a narrow, dank way that jutted out into the lake in a dark finger. Shabby timbered buildings rose overhead; the sky was just a thin blue strip above her. The air smelled of urine and rotting fish. The boarding house where she and the princess were staying was near the end of the walk.
Not far from home, a small food market partially blocked Pike Walk. Mira stopped here and bought some fresh bread, cheese, and apples. She handed over a bronze talent reluctantly. Since leaving Veldoras, her money purse had lightened considerably. At this rate she’d be penniless by the time they reached Rithmar.
Slinging the cloth bag over her shoulder, Mira strode the last few yards to the boarding house. She and Ninia had moved half a dozen times since arriving in Thornmere. For the moment, this battered-looking establishment was home. The façade was missing half its shingles and the guttering was sagging. But at least it was cheap and discreet.
Inside, Mira stepped into a narrow entrance hall. A stairwell to the left led to the rooms above, and a doorway to the right led into the common room. The silver talent Mira paid weekly covered a room for the two of them and supper every night.
Mira was about to climb the stairs when she heard the tinkle of girlish laughter coming from the common room.
“Yes, that’s right … and in Farras they call donkeys ‘Aswani’.”
Male laughter echoed through the doorway. “You’re a clever one, girl. Where did you learn to speak so many tongues?”
Mira gritted her teeth and plowed into the common room. It was a low, windowless room crammed full of tables with a hearth at one end. The air smelled of smoke and sawdust.
At one of the tables, cups of ale before them, sat Princess Ninia and a handsome, sharp-featured man with long dark hair. Dressed head to foot in black leather, the fellow had a watchful gaze that Mira immediately distrusted.
Shadows, why is she talking to him?
“Nelly,” Mira greeted her with a bright smile, using the name the princess had gone by ever since they’d left Deeping. “There you are. I’ve bought food for our noon meal. Come, we’d best get upstairs.”
Ninia smiled back. “But I’ve just started my ale, Aunt Melinda.”
Mira stopped before the table, her gaze dropping to the huge tankard before the princess. “You’re too young to be drinking,” she said sweetly, her attention shifting to the man opposite. “Or talking to strangers.”
The man grinned at this before holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Your pretty niece approached me. I thought it only gentlemanly to offer her a drink.”
Mira inhaled deeply, anger simmering within her. She then turned back to Ninia, forcing herself to continue smiling. “Upstairs, Nelly.”
Ninia pouted. “But I—”
“Upstairs.” Mira leaned down, grasped Ninia by the arm and hoisted her out of the chair. “You know your mother wouldn’t approve.”
Ninia glared up at her. “I don’t care what—”
Mira pushed her toward the doorway. “Come on,” she said brightly. “Enough back-chat.” She then cast a look over her shoulder at where the man was leaning back in his chair watching her, a smirk on his face. Mira glared at him. “Good day.”
He grinned back. “And good day to you.”
Upstairs, Ninia flounced into the room behind Mira, slamming the door so hard behind her the whole wall shook. “You embarrassed me.”
Mira whipped round and struck out, slapping the princess hard across the face.
Ninia reeled back, clutching her cheek, eyes huge. “You hit me.”
“Aye, and I’ll repeat the gesture if you ever compromise us like that again.”
Stunned, Ninia blinked, tears welling now. It was the first time Mira had ever lifted a hand to her. There had been numerous times over the past six months when Mira had been tempted, times when Ninia had tested her patience to the limits. However, the girl’s behavior today had pushed her over the edge.
She pushed her face close to Ninia’s. “Do you want to bring the Anthor army down upon us?”
Ninia held her hard stare with one of her own. She had her mother’s fire and pride, and hated to be proven wrong about anything. “I was doing no such thing.”
“Really? How many young women in The Four Kingdoms speak more than one tongue? Do you not think Reoul of Anthor has sent men after us? How do you know that man wasn’t looking for you?”
Ninia paled. “He was just friendly,” she replied in a small voice.
Mira uttered a curse. “For a clever girl, you sometimes have the wits of a goose.”
Ninia backed away, removing her hand from her red cheek. “I just get so bored with you gone,” she murmured, the fight going out of her. “I thought I’d go downstairs and see if there was anyone to chat to.”
Mira shrugged off her heavy mantle and hung it up. “I’m doing my best to get us out of here, Ninia. The least you can do is be patient.”
The princess sat down upon one of the small beds lining the rectangular room. “Did you have any luck today?” she asked.
Mira shook her head, digging into the cloth bag and extracting the food. “None. We’re going to have to steal a boat.”
Ninia’s sharply indrawn breath drew Mira’s gaze. The girl was watching her, incredulous. “But we already tried that … and we nearly got caught.”
Mira frowned. A month ago, frustrated that none of the boatmen would ferry them across the lake, she had brought Ninia down to the docks after dark and attempted to steal one of the rowboats moored to the pier. A guard had spotted them, and the women had fled—only just evading capture.
“I didn’t plan that well enough,” she admitted, placing the bread, cheese, and apples onto a platter. “I’ve been thinking this idea through though. Every four days, a man brings barrels of mead across on a boat from Snape. I watched him yesterday. He moors his boat at the end of the docks and only ever stays a few hours in town. He always goes for a drink in the Grey Goose tavern before returning to his boat. If we could find a way to delay him till after dark, we could steal his boat.”
She didn’t mention that she had been seriously considering ditching Ninia. If this plan failed, she would. Irritation flooded over her then. Why don’t I just leave? Who cares about the girl? Yet here she was, still trying to help the most ungrateful wench ever born.
Ninia’s mouth compressed, making it clear she didn’t think much of this idea. “And how are we going to delay him?”
“I can approach him in the tavern, charm him, and then slip something into his drink.”
Ninia smirked.
Mira glowered at her. “What’s so funny?”
“Just the thought of you, charming a man. Most of them are terrified of you.”
“I’m capable of being nice … if I want to. Most men aren’t worth the effort.”
Ninia gave her a sly look. “Have you ever been in love, Mira?”
Mira gave a rude snort and ripped a piece off the loaf of bread she’d bought. “And when do you think
I’ve had time for that?”
Apart from the odd fling with guards at the keep, she’d had little to do with men. Love was the last thing on her mind—survival was all that mattered.
Mira met Ninia’s eye once more. “We need to find a way across that damn lake,” she said firmly. “That boatman is due to dock again in three days. We’ll be ready when he does.”
9
Under the Cover of Darkness
the screech of a hawk jolted Asher awake.
Grasping at the oars that had nearly slipped out of his hands, he glanced up at an indigo sky—dusk had settled without him even noticing. A white hawk circled above.
Grim had awoken him just in time. Asher had cursed that bird for following him from The Royal City, yet he was grateful to it now. The journey across the great lake had felt endless, and fatigue had nearly bested him. Asher had begun rowing just after midday and traveled his way south under a bright winter sky. But eventually, his lack of sleep over the past few days caught up with him; sleep had finally pulled him down into its embrace.
Asher blinked furiously. His eyes burned and felt as if they were filled with grit. His back and arms ached from rowing all afternoon. He was also chilled to the marrow. Yet when he glanced over his shoulder, there in the distance lay his destination. The lights of Thornmere burned orange, glittering off the still waters of the lake.
The last rosy hues of the sunset were draining from the western sky, and the first of the stars twinkled overhead. From this distance he couldn’t make out any details of the lake town; Thornmere was nothing more than a dark bulk silhouetted against the sky.
Heaving in a deep breath, Asher gripped the oars and resumed rowing, beginning his last stretch of the journey.
Around three furlongs directly south, he could now make out a long dock which thrust out from a massive central pier and the outlines of merchant barges and fishing vessels that bobbed along it. Thornmere was the biggest settlement in the area and a meeting point for traders. However, at this hour the dock would be largely deserted. The men who worked there would be likely drinking at a dockside tavern.
Even so, Asher didn’t aim his boat for the jetty. He wanted to slip into town quietly and find a discreet place to tie up his boat—a spot where he could leave as quietly as he’d arrived. Thornmere was now an occupied town; he needed to be a shadow here.
Asher rowed his small rowboat in a wide arc before angling back to the western edge of town. As he approached the far end of one of the many smaller wharves that jutted out from the main pier, he slowed his rowing. It was a windless evening, and the splash of his oars might alert any prowling soldiers to his presence.
Slowly, the boat floated under the edge of the wharf, bumping against one of the huge pillars holding it out of the water. It was dark under here. However, as Asher’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he was able to make out a forest of supports around him, illuminated by the odd ribbon of light filtering through the cracks in the wooden planks above.
Tying his boat up to a rusted iron brace, Asher then stripped off his fur mantle and bundled it into his pack. As soon as he removed his cloak, the cold night air seemed to bite through the layers of clothing he wore underneath. He’d left his enchanter’s robes behind, favoring the leather and wool garments of a merchant or artisan.
Asher shouldered his pack and swung over the side of the boat into the water. Although he’d braced himself for it, the chill took his breath away. The lake was deep here too. He couldn’t touch the bottom so he struck out toward the edge of the wharf.
He swam to the first wooden pillar. It was slippery, covered in lake weed and slime, and impossible to climb. A hacking cough from above made Asher freeze for a moment, treading water as he strained his neck up to see. Male voices followed. Two soldiers grumbling over their long shift. Another cough ensued, before one of the soldiers spat over the side of the wharf.
Asher heard the spittle hit the water just a foot or two from where he treaded water.
He waited until he heard the heavy clump of their boots moving off, before he swam to the next pillar. That one was no good either; he could find nothing to get a grip on. Fortunately, two pillars along he found one with iron bars embedded into the side. A tight smile crept across his face. There would be a few of these about, needed for maintenance on the pier.
He glanced up, wondering if Grim was still circling overhead, looking out for him. Then he began to climb. Even with the bars, it was hard going. His boots kept slipping, and his wet clothes weighed him down. He was also careful, for he had no idea who was lurking in the gloom above.
Breathing hard, Asher reached the top and heaved himself up over the edge. He glanced up to find himself at the end of a narrow alleyway. Lit by a single guttering lantern, and barely wider than two yards, the alley led between two high timber buildings.
Asher climbed to his feet, shrugged off his pack, and removed his cloak from it. His mantle was slightly damp but not soaking like the rest of him. He cast it over his shoulders, grateful for a barrier against the chill. Now that he was out of the water, his teeth were starting to chatter. Clenching his jaw tight, Asher walked down the alley, boots squelching.
He’d made it—reached Thornmere safely. Now his search could begin. Only Asher didn’t feel like celebrating. He was bone-tired, hungry, and needed somewhere warm and dry to rest.
He didn’t want to think about the reason he was here either. His only consolation was that finding Princess Ninia in a kingdom this size would be like looking for a pebble on a shingle beach—near impossible.
Asher pulled up the hood of his fur cloak, hunching his shoulders against the cold. His breath steamed in front of him as he walked. Emerging from the alley, he entered a wider thoroughfare. A row of lanterns cast a deep, golden glow over the buildings, illuminating a wooden sign with the street’s name painted upon it: Trout Walk.
There weren’t many folk about, something which made Asher nervous. If he came across soldiers they were more likely to question him.
Had Anthor imposed a curfew?
He was halfway down the street, heading toward the center of town, when a small, lean figure lurched out of the shadows. The stink of ale hit Asher. The young man, clad in leathers and a tattered woolen cloak, stumbled across the walk a few paces, before he spotted Asher.
A knife flashed out, surprisingly swift despite the youth’s drunken state. “Your purse,” he rasped. In the lantern light Asher saw his attacker was young, barely out of boyhood, with a badly pock-marked face. His eyes were small and hard.
Asher jumped back, out of reach of the flashing blade, and gathered the Light with his right hand. The lantern nearest flared, a bright tongue of flame erupting from it. With a flick of his wrist, Asher brought a bolus of lamplight into his palm and flung it in the face of the lad, who was lunging at him once more.
His attacker gave a strangled yell and leaped back. However, unlike most folk—who, when faced with the Light backed off immediately—this young man only let it cow him for an instant. A heartbeat later he was back, slashing his knife and cursing.
Asher dodged the blade and gathered the Light again. This time he brought it down hard across the back of the youth’s head. His attacker let out a cry and sprawled. Asher leaped forward and slammed his foot down on the hand grasping the knife, grinding it into the planks.
The young man wailed. “Filthy pig dog bastard.”
Asher reached down and plucked the knife off the walkway, pocketing it. “That’s right,” he muttered, wishing his drunken assailant would keep his voice down. His cursing would bring soldiers running. “Best leave me alone.”
He stepped away and circled around the prone figure, half expecting him to leap to his feet and come after him again. He appeared crazed enough. Instead, the youth rolled onto his side, cradling his crushed hand. “Enchanter turd,” he snarled, before spitting on the planks between them. “Shadows take you and your kind.”
Asher didn’t reply. He was alr
eady moving on, heading toward the end of Trout Walk, although he found himself throwing wary glances over his shoulder at where his attacker had now sat up. He’d heard enchanters weren’t well liked in Thûn, and it seemed the tales were true. Asher glanced down, turning over his right palm as he did so. The eight-pointed star, darkly outlined with a pale center glowed in the lamplight.
I’ll put on some gloves tomorrow.
A short while later Asher reached Broad Walk, the town’s main thoroughfare, where he finally found signs of life. Men in oilskins loitered outside the entrances to taverns, and scantily-clad whores, furs draped around their shoulders to keep the cold at bay, wandered slowly down the walk. As she sauntered by, one of the women made eye contact with Asher and drew back her cloak, revealing a low cut damask gown underneath. Her skin was pale with cold, but she had a smile fixed upon her painted mouth. “In the mood for some company tonight, handsome?”
Asher flashed her an apologetic smile, shook his head, and moved on. He wasn’t in the mood for anything except a hot meal and a warm bed.
A few yards ahead he spied two men clad in black leather with blood-red cloaks rippling down their backs advancing toward him. Asher bowed his head, hoping they wouldn’t look too closely and see that his cloak was damp and the clothing underneath sodden. He was glad he’d drawn his hood up, obscuring his long white-blond hair. It was a feature that always made him stand out in a crowd.
He felt the soldiers’ gazes slide over him, assessing him, but they didn’t call out. He walked on, unmolested.
Farther on, the aroma of spice mixed with fish wafting out from a tavern reminded him of his empty belly. Asher went inside, where he ordered a bowl of fish stew and half a loaf of coarse bread.
The tavern was crowded, packed with men drinking from huge, frothing tankards. The roar of drunken voices and laughter, mixed with the rank odor of sweat and a fug of wood smoke from the two hearths burning either end of the room, gave the tavern an oppressive atmosphere. Asher wasn’t keen to linger. His eyes burned, and his back and shoulders ached from his row across the lake. He just wanted to sleep.