“They said we can go if you promise not to cause any trouble,” Drynn said.
“That’s nice of them.” Tayvin hadn’t been planning on causing trouble, but these humans probably couldn’t stop him if they tried. Fighting them had been almost disappointing after all the stories he had heard.
The grounded man caught his horse and they trotted off into the distance.
“What does ‘mercenary’ mean?” Tayvin asked as soon as Cindle turned.
She scowled, but those beady dark eyes always seemed to be scowling. “They wanted to know if you’re willing to fight any human you happen to come into contact with. I’m starting to wonder the same thing. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“I hardly started it, and it wasn’t all that dangerous—”
“Of course it was! All humans can be dangerous. If you want to get back to your forest alive, you need to start listening and keep your head down.”
Tayvin sighed, bowing his head. “All right, Cindle, I won’t do it again. See?” He sheathed his sword in an exaggerated arc. “Swords are away. Happy?”
Cindle rolled her eyes, walking away without another word. Nothing made that woman happy and Tayvin wondered again why she had insisted on coming in the first place.
* * *
By the time they reached the shepherd’s hill, the moon had risen and the herd had moved on. The three of them set up camp nearby. As they prepared and ate supper, Drynn listened silently to Tayvin and Cindle bait each other. Cindle said that Tayvin should eat more than just one root, and Tayvin said Cindle ate enough to feed all three of them along with a full pack of wild dogs.
Then it was nothing but shouting.
Just listening to them made Drynn’s stomach churn, so he put his plate down and pulled the opal out. He stared through the endless green—the same green that had filled the edges of his last dream. Would he have another dream tonight? He couldn’t decide whether he wanted it to occur or not, still unsure if the dream even merited a mention.
Tayvin turned from Cindle, glaring at Drynn over the fire. “Put it away.”
“What?”
“You’re staring at it again. You’re always staring at it. Can’t you put it away for a while?”
Drynn frowned at the opal in his hands. What was—?
Cindle put her plate down. “What is your problem? He isn’t bothering anyone.” Everything in Cindle’s tone said someone was bothering her, even if Drynn was not.
“Yes, but . . .” Tayvin smiled, but not his usual one. Something forced and strangled. “We should fence. That’s all I meant. Put it away and come fence with me.”
Cindle scowled as if the order had confirmed every insult she had hurled at Tayvin over the last few days, calling him bossy, loud, and arrogant. But this really wasn’t like Tayvin.
When they had first left the holt for the dorrans, the opal hadn’t been where Drynn remembered leaving it, and Tayvin hadn’t tried to help him find it. He even seemed disappointed when Drynn had found it himself.
As if he wished Drynn would have left it behind.
Maybe their father passing Tayvin over to give Drynn the opal had bothered his brother more than he initially let on. Maybe Drynn shouldn’t have it out so much, a forest bird or kritta crowing over a stolen bauble. He quickly put it away in his pack, but that just made Cindle turn her glare on Drynn—probably for giving in to Tayvin so quickly.
How was he supposed to please them both?
The damage already done, Drynn found a stick and darted to Tayvin’s side. There was no one else for Tayvin to spar with now that Cindle had clearly marked the humans as off-limits, and after encountering the panther and the human soldiers, ranger skills seemed much more useful than they had at home. He watched Tayvin get into his fighting stance. Drynn would really focus this time, readying himself to spring to life with a dozen different counter-moves.
Cindle stood as if offended by the whole spectacle. “I’m going to bed. Don’t keep Drynn up too late tonight. We’ll be in Sheargreen tomorrow.”
Drynn’s gaze shifted. Tomorrow? What would a real human city look like?
Tayvin clubbed him over the shoulder.
CHAPTER 8
HUMANS WERE EVERYWHERE.
They swarmed around the village like bees in a hive and made more noise than all the forest birds in mating season. The cacophony made Drynn’s heart go wild. He wanted to curl into himself one minute, then run about to see everything the next. His eyes darted from humans in muted clothing and caps to the oxen pulling large carts to the wares shoved under his nose by energetic vendors. A boy in rags held out his hand to them, but Drynn couldn’t guess what the human wanted and pressed closer to Cindle.
Wooden boxes blocked them into narrow streets—human houses and shops all stacked on top of each other. Drynn’s mind swirled with questions. Why did the humans cram together so much that they couldn’t get anywhere without shoving? Didn’t they get tired of squatting in the mud? Maybe there weren’t enough trees for them to use. The ripe smell of unwashed bodies and waste hovered in the air, unable to escape. No wonder the humans died early.
Fences surrounded animals as if they couldn’t be trusted to stay in this suffocating space on their own. Drynn could hardly blame the poor creatures. He might not last here much longer either, though he was still determined to see all he could.
They passed a man standing on a wooden platform in front of a small crowd and Drynn stopped walking, staring with wide eyes. “Is that magic?” he asked in Dorran, pointing as the man made a dove appear out of thin air.
“What?” Cindle asked loudly. “Drynn, you’re going to have to stop whispering. You’re with the humans now. Everyone yells, and no one hears as well as you do.”
Drynn nodded and repeated his question.
Cindle followed his gaze with narrowed eyes. “That? No. They’re tricks the humans use to entertain themselves. Only nobles use magic and I would steer clear if you ever see one.”
“How—?” Before Drynn could ask her what a noble magic user would look like and why he should stay away from them, Cindle turned away.
“Where is your brother?” She scanned the crowd. As if on cue, a dog barked and Tayvin appeared at their side, grinning with excitement.
Cindle glared. “What did you do now?”
Tayvin shrugged and straightened the hood of his cloak. “Nothing. Never saw a dog like that, so I just wanted to say hello. Did they train her to act nasty on purpose?”
“They bred their dogs with dire wolves and train them as guards from idiots like you. Can’t you stay with me for a minute? You’re going to get yourself killed, and people are staring!”
Drynn doubted any of the chaotic humans had done more than glance at them, but Tayvin apologized and curbed his enthusiasm long enough for Cindle to herd them into one of the large square buildings where she lectured them for their behavior on the street.
Drynn tried to pay attention but was soon distracted. For one thing, Cindle had asked them to sit on strange wooden “chairs” that he found fascinating, and it was hardly the only thing in the room to look at. Men were everywhere: eating, talking loudly, sleeping on tables, and singing along with a woman entertainer. The woman’s dress fell far lower in the neck than any respectable dorran or elven maid’s, which made it more difficult for him to look around. He would try, but then she would come dancing into view, and he was forced to look away again.
“All right, Cindle, calm down,” Tayvin said while Drynn’s eyes were still far away. “I know humans are deaf, but you’re likely to get people staring too, the way you’re yelling.”
Cindle made a show of breathing in and out. “I suppose for your first day out it could have been worse, but, as I told you, the human kingdoms can be dangerous. The way you’re acting—well, if it weren’t for those performers out there taking everyone’s attention, you’d be in some freak show or hauled into the Wizard Tower by now.”
“Then I guess it is a good
thing we have you to keep us in line.” Tayvin smiled. “Are you still mad?”
“I suppose not.”
“Good. So, are you going to tell us what the function of this structure is, then?” Tayvin gestured broadly to the dining area. Drynn stopped fingering the back of the chair and tuned in long enough to add his own eager nod.
Cindle sighed heavily. “This is an inn, where travelers, like us, can pay some coins and get something to eat and a room to sleep in for the night.” Her eyes rested on the men drinking and the woman who was making Drynn so uncomfortable. “Unfortunately, in small towns like this, they double as taverns for the locals. It’s worse today because of the players. There might not be a room left.”
This, of course, set off more questions from Tayvin and Drynn. Why did humans find metal coins so valuable? Why didn’t the humans eat outside like the elves did? What was a tavern? What was ale? Was it like fairy dust? Why would someone drink something that made them behave in such a fashion?
Cindle threw up her hands. “I don’t know! Do I look like a human to you?”
One or two people jerked at her outburst, as if noticing them for the first time. A broad man in a stained apron approached the table. He faced Tayvin, but Cindle cut in to answer for him. Drynn tried to follow the hurried conversation, but they talked far too fast, and the room was too loud—everyone yelling at the top of their lungs.
Eventually, Cindle handed the man some metal coins, and he walked away.
“What did he say?” Tayvin asked.
She gestured back to the man. “That was the innkeeper. He told me what the menu was and asked if we wanted a room. We’re lucky. Turns out the players have a camp outside, so he only inflated the price a little before I talked him down. When he gets back with the food, I’ll ask him about healers.”
Cindle was still explaining the concept of currency to the elves when the innkeeper came back. Drynn stared at the gravy-drenched plate set in front of him.
How did the humans go about eating such a thing? And how did they eat so much?
Drynn wasn’t even hungry. He had already eaten once today, and all the new sounds in this place was making his head ring. The human city was so strange. He shrank from the noise and he noticed a rat in a darkened corner in much the same position. The poor thing seemed terrified of the humans around it, but it didn’t run, eyeing the crumbs scattered on the floor.
The rat had come here on a mission, just like the elves had.
Drynn took the gravy-covered roll from his plate. They might be a long ways off from completing their quest, but he could help the rat complete his. “Come on, take it.”
But the rat didn’t come. And that dog had barked at Tayvin—what was wrong with these animals? Did they just not understand the dorran tongue? He tried again in Elven. “You can have it. I don’t want it.”
The rat’s eyes brightened. It crawled over and started eating Drynn’s offering.
That was better. “You see? I told you.” Drynn stroked the rat as it rubbed against his hand.
They didn’t have rodents like this in the forest, but it reminded him of a kritta, reminded him of home. He turned to tell Tayvin that he had discovered the animals preferred their language, but everyone was already looking at him—including the human innkeeper Cindle had been talking to.
The rat scurried off with its prize before the innkeeper blinked. Then the man laughed and turned away, saying some nonsense phrase in his own language—something about rats and children.
“I told you to stop that.” Cindle glared at another gawking human before turning. “At least they’re laughing. He said you can take his firstborn if you can get the rats to leave.”
That’s what Drynn thought the man had said, but it didn’t make any sense. “Why would I take his child?”
“It’s an old bard story—a piper took the children when the villagers didn’t pay him for getting rid of the rats.”
Tayvin shook his head. “And Bard doesn’t like rats? Why not?”
“Bard isn’t a name, and everyone hates rats. They’re filthy thieves. They spread disease. They. . . You never worry about losing food or getting sick from pests like rats, do you?” Cindle sighed at their blank expressions. “Whatever healer takes you on is going to have their work cut out for them. There is a journeyman in town, so hurry up so we can see him tonight.”
Tonight? Already? Well, maybe that was a good thing.
One night in a human village might be more than enough of an adventure for Drynn.
* * *
Playing a bandit was easy. All Kol had to do was picture the flames.
A woman’s scream made the image seem more real. The flames in his memory had covered everything, and he had been helpless and howling, but now Kol could smile. Now he was in control—the one who made others cower and shake. Now he was the one with the dagger, and maybe a little bit more.
Kol held up the blade for the villagers at Sheargreen to see, letting it glitter in the waning light. The screaming woman tugged at ropes surrounding her arms and legs. The crowd watched her struggle in open-mouthed fascination as Kol spun his dagger toward her delicate person. The girl’s thrashing intensified as the knife continued its deadly path toward the revolving wooden disk on which she was bound. It was no use.
She was trapped.
She screamed and closed her eyes against the inevitable.
The blade pierced its target with a resounding thwack. The girl’s scream died and she slowly opened her eyes. The dagger protruded from the wooden disk, right below her arm. The girl became momentarily pacified as the disk continued to spin, turning her upside down and back again as it was cranked by an unseen stagehand, much like a gambler’s wheel.
Kol cursed, letting the energy from the crowd feed into his own. Anger at the missed shot rose in his own body along with the underlying pleasure he imagined his character must feel in tormenting the girl. It was easy because it wasn’t far off from Kol’s own feelings.
Kitti, the poor excuse for a damsel in distress, was one of Kol’s least favorite people, and Kol wished her away for the thousandth time. She was supposed to be terrified—Kol still had a dagger up his sleeve—but she glared as if the bandit had merely offended her.
Kol smiled at her mistake, but then he understood this was not just a slipup in acting. He had done something to offend Kitti and she was letting him know it. The thrown dagger had not been quite as perfect as the last, piercing a small portion of Kitti’s ridiculously puffy sleeve.
Kol gritted his teeth, but he had a part to play, and if he waited any longer, the crowd would notice. A dagger slipped to his hand in a single motion.
“One last dagger, one last chance!” Kol growled in his evil bandit voice. He closed his eyes and felt the energy rising. He let the dagger go and eased his eyes slowly open. The blade soared flawlessly. As more energy came, he fed it back to the dagger.
Then, interference! The energy came far too fast, flooding his senses.
Where had it come from? Someone in the crowd? He risked moving his eyes from the dagger. The crowd seemed normal. Men, children, a few women, and a dorran or two . . .
The dagger! It was out of control. The energy imbalance had pushed it too far left. It barreled onward, directly toward Kitti’s heart.
Kol had to turn it back. He fought to suppress all the energy building up inside of him, screaming to get out. He had never dealt with such a large amount before. He sweated, separating the bit of energy he needed from the rest. The crowd watched wide-eyed as the dagger made a pinpoint turn in midair, slightly to the right.
Kitti’s scream pierced the air.
Thwack!
Wood—not flesh—and near enough to his true target. Kol sighed in relief. Well, with as much relief as he could feel with all that energy still swirling inside him, desperate to get out.
Kitti glared. She really was a terrible actress, but Kol couldn’t worry about her anymore. He had to release the energy before it burst out
. He slowed down the flood of power.
The wind kicked up as the energy trickled away. No one reacted, but Kol hoped Kitti could feel it. He hoped it ruined her hair and dress just like she always claimed it did. Not that there was much to ruin. He just wanted something to make up for all the effort he spent saving a girl he despised from the wild dagger.
Where had all the energy come from? He looked to the crowd again, pretending to have a small tantrum over his bad luck. Men, children, and one or two women in the crowd.
Two figures in cloaks and a female dorran.
Kol remembered his part, moving to help Kitti from her bonds. After she was free, he spun the disk over with a flourish so the crowd could see.
Daggers flawlessly outlined where Kitti had been.
The crowd cheered. More coins clinked into his hat.
Kol swooped down to gather the proceeds in his free hand. Kitti held the other with just the tips of her fingers. They bowed as one before leaving the stage.
As soon as they were out of the crowd’s sight, Kitti’s grip tightened. Her painted nails bit into Kol’s skin, dragging him toward their camp. Kol jerked back, but he couldn’t break her hold on his hand without making a scene. He would have to face her eventually.
There wasn’t any other place to go.
When they reached the troop’s tents, a few people were scattered about, but most still worked at various locations throughout the small town. No one paid them any attention, even when Kitti flung him toward the ground. “Wot were you tryin’ to do out there, maim me?”
“That’s the idea, ain’t it?” Kol forced a smile. He never discussed the magical energy with anyone and he wasn’t going to start with Kitti. “I, the evil bandit, throw a few blades at a ‘beautiful’ damsel only to find that by a cruel twist of fate, the knives barely miss her every time.”
Kitti blinked at him with over-greased eyelashes. “You were off today, and you know it. One was headin’ right at me, and another ripped my dress. Boys prone to slipups should be out in the crowd where the guards can keep ’em in line and not handlin’ dangerous weapons.” She snatched the hat from Kol, searching for more coins in the limp material.
The Queen's Opal: A Stone Bearers Novel (Book One) Page 8