by Aldrea Alien
“I don’t believe you ever told me that part.”
His lips kept their curve, just enough that those from afar to mistake the action for a smile, but the good-natured humour that’d been behind it had vanished. “It’s not a part of my family’s history I like to linger on.” His gaze drifted across the square, his focus distant. “There are extremely good reasons why he deserved the title he claimed. No doubt the people he conquered have a different outlook on him, but I consider that time as just another warning of what could happen if I’m not vigilant.”
“What did he do?”
Lucias blinked, drawn back from whatever thoughts he’d wandered into. “This is hardly the place for such a discussion and I wouldn’t dare mar the memory of this day with sinister tales of my ancestors.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer. “Ask me another time, my dear. I will endeavour to answer all your questions then.”
Clara laid her head on his shoulder, breathing deeply of the subtle musk of linen and warm skin. She had missed this simple intimacy, the sureness of his grasp. How it was tight enough to hold her firm but with a hint of hesitance, as if he still expected her to shy from him at any second. It wouldn’t do to have this moment wrecked because of questions that could wait. The past wasn’t about to change on her. “Agreed.”
On this side of the statue, they were remarkably sheltered from the breeze. She closed her eyes and snuggled herself against Lucias. The sun’s warmth leaked through the clouds at just the right temperature to lull the unsuspecting.
She’d begun to doze when a thundering cough jolted her awake.
Gasping, Clara jerked herself upright, her face aflame. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Sweet Goddess, she hadn’t fallen asleep in public since her age could be counted with single digits.
Lucias peered at her and her cheeks grew hotter. “How has riding Sable been for you so far? Not as terrifying as you thought it would be?”
Clara swung her feet. They’d been in the saddle for a few hours and, although they’d not sat here for long, her backside was nowhere near as tender as it had been. However would she cope with a longer journey atop the pony? “He’s lovely. But—”
He arched a brow at her. “But?”
“I do wonder why you got him.” Even if she wasn’t going to be ushered off to the Citadel via carriage soon after their wedding ceremony, she couldn’t picture herself spending a great deal of time travelling. Not like what was required of the Great Lord. And, whilst Everdark might not be that far from the Citadel gates, any visits she made wouldn’t be frequent enough to warrant her own mount. “He would spend most of his time in the stables once we return home.”
Lucias scoffed. “Nonsense. I don’t plan to keep you cooped up. It could take us a year to travel the kingdom’s borders if we so chose. I intend to remain in Port Dank for at least a month. That should give you plenty of opportunities to sample some of the more exotic wares as they’re unloaded.”
Clara gently stroked Sable’s soft nose, flipping the tufts of her reins out of the pony’s inquisitive mouth. “You must be more than familiar with the exotic wares the docks must hold, yes?”
He frowned, clearly puzzled, then his shoulders shook in a soundless laugh as he seemed to come to the understanding that she spoke of the certain houses he admitted to visiting in the past. “We would steer clear of those particular wares. They’re not exactly situated where a noble should be seen anyway.”
That didn’t stop you. Her gaze slid to the front of sable’s saddle and her thoughts turned to how large Brenna had gotten after only a few months into her pregnancy, as well as how she’d been greeted with Thalia’s massive girth upon her arrival yesterday. “I wouldn’t be able to ride for very long.”
“Hmm?” Lucias tore his gaze from the nearby buildings. “Maybe not immediately, but once you’ve gotten used to riding… Well, you’ll easily be able to keep up with the guard.”
“I meant when I’m pregnant,” she muttered between clenched teeth, grinding each word before they could leave her lips. “After all, isn’t getting me with child your goal?”
His eyes widened and he clutched at his chest. “Miss Weaver, you wound me. Do you think I intend to lock you away from the world the very minute you conceive? If that’d been my sole aim, I wouldn’t have let you leave the Citadel until I’d sired a son.”
She winced. It had almost come to that only a few months ago.
Instead, he would celebrate his twenty-sixth year once winter was done with the world and well before his child was born. Neither being a milestone he’d believed he would reach. Nor would he have if she hadn’t stayed to help him reach the Citadel’s training grounds where he could heal.
Yet, she knew of men who already claimed several children before even reaching their twentieth year. Maybe nobles wait longer. She didn’t think that was true, but still… “Why haven’t you?”
Lucias eyed her, his brows raised. “Firstly, I thought I had more time. My father was not particularly old or ill. If he hadn’t been so idiotic in thinking he could personally escort my mother to the border without endangering himself, then there’s a good chance he would still be alive.” He caressed her cheek, softly coaxing her head back. “But then, I never would’ve met you.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Your men wouldn’t have kidnapped me, you mean.”
He grimaced. “Yes, that.”
“If that was the Goddess’ plan,” she mumbled. “Then I’m sure we—”
Lucias snorted and stared at the buildings on the opposite side of the square. Now they had her attention, one of them looked very much like a temple entrance, only lacking the usual statues of the Goddess flanking the entrance. “Don’t tell me you believe that whole ‘every soul has a mate’ nonsense.”
The chill air caught in her throat. How could he dare to call it nonsense? “Don’t you?”
His examination of the stalls seemed to deepen. Then, he sighed. “I stopped believing in a lot of things at a very young age.” He eyed her with an oddly fervent glint permeating his gaze. “That whole talk the priests do about how the Goddess ensures every soul has a twin? Do you honestly think that’s true?”
She nodded. She’d believed for as far back as she could remember. Everyone she’d ever spoken to in Everdark believed and the village priests practically guaranteed it as truth. Why would they lie?
His face screwed up briefly. “Whilst thinking that you ending up at my side because we were meant to be together is an attractive thought, if I believed it then I—”
A young man fell between them. He collided into Lucias. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.
Swallowing a scream, Clara scrabbled for her dagger and had barely unsheathed the blade when the young man rocked back atop the wall to bump into her arm. The dagger slipped from her fingers to clatter against the cobblestones.
“My apologies, my lady.” With a touch to his forehead as if tipping a hat, the young man raced into the crowd.
Lucias righted himself and set about adjusting his clothes. “That was…” His free hand fell to his belt where two thin cords hung. A long line of hushed expletives passed his lips. “Stay here.”
Before she could speak, he’d leapt aboard his destrier and was racing across the square after the young man. People screamed and dove out of the way. Those who didn’t were swept aside by some invisible force long before the warhorse’s hooves could reach them. A few were plucked into the air, followed by their swift descent.
Clara clutched at Sable’s reins, keeping the pony from following. Sable tugged back. He whinnied but, mercifully didn’t try too hard to follow. She peered around the pony’s head to spy the destrier vanishing down some side street. Even if she could find her way back into the saddle unassisted, the chances of getting lost following them grew with every second.
Best to wait. As soon as Lucias had a clear line of sight to the young man, the chase would be over.
She dropped to the cobblestones to scoop up h
er dagger. Holding the blade before her might not have been much of a threat to those passing by, but it steadied her nerves.
No one else sought to come near her. Not even the children sitting still and quiet atop the statue. They watched her and cast meaningful looks between themselves, yet remained out of reach and relatively unthreatening.
Clara tilted her head to stare around the statue. The castle towers peeked over the rooftops. She would be able to find her way back, even if she wasn’t entirely sure of the streets she’d need to take, but travelling on her own would take some time and surely Lucias wouldn’t take long to deal with what seemed to be a common pickpocket. If the remaining half of her pasty hadn’t also fallen to the ground alongside her dagger, she might’ve attempted a few more bites.
As things stood, she would just have to resign herself to waiting for his return.
Chapter Seven
The crowd had only begun to resume their normal day-to-day business after Lucias’ departure when one of the children sitting on the Goddess’ statue dropped from their high perch. They crept towards Clara, clearly unaware they’d been spotted.
Clara fingered her dagger hilt. She wasn’t certain what the child was up to, but she wasn’t about to be caught unawares again. “Stop right there!” She whirled on them with her dagger raised to a chorus of frightened shrieks.
Five sets of eyes watched her. Wary and a little bit fearful, like scolded dogs. None of them looked to be any older than nine. Nor did they appear to have been acquainted with a bath for some time.
Clara lowered the dagger, keeping the blade hidden within her skirts rather than sheathing it. “Before any of you as much as think of trying anything, don’t bother. I’ve nothing worth stealing.” She glanced over her shoulder at Sable and frowned. How much did a horse go for in Endlight? Especially one as compliant as the dappled grey pony. Enough. Even if the buyer only paid a fraction of Sable’s worth, it was still likely to be more than this lot had seen in their lifetimes. “And if you try to take my horse, I’ll see that your parents have you thoroughly disciplined.”
“We don’t have any parents, Miss,” said the smallest boy of the group, a grubby kid likely no more than five years of age. He’d been the one creeping up on her. The sun had left its harsh mark on his pasty face, turning it ruddy and flaky.
One of the older children, a pale-faced girl of perhaps nine years, snorted and rolled her eyes. “You don’t call her Miss, Trubs,” she said. “The proper term is ‘my lady’.” The girl swung one arm wide and attempted a bow whilst she dangled from the crook of the statue’s elbow.
Trubs lowered his head. Redness flooded his face, further darkening his sunburnt cheeks. He hunched his shoulders, knobbly things that could only be mostly bone beneath his thin, tattered shirt. The boy almost seemed to be expecting some sort of physical reprimand.
Clara’s stomach twisted. Even during her unruliest babysitting task, she’d never struck a child. “It’s all right,” she said, sheathing her dagger. “I’m not a noble.” Not until she was married. “You just gave me quite the fright sneaking up like you did.” She tucked a lock of greasy hair behind the boy’s ear, grimacing as the act revealed more sun-ravaged skin.
No parents. Did that mean there was an orphanage nearby? She’d heard the priests back in Everdark would take in fit young men to bring them up. Surely, Endlight couldn’t be that different. Or were they truly on their own? “What are you doing out here?”
Trubs shuffled his feet. At least he wore shoes. If the battered strips of leather wrapped around his feet could really be called such. “We were waiting for Derek,” he mumbled. “That man’s not going to hurt him, is he?”
“Him?” she echoed, her thoughts still mired in deciphering their predicament. “You mean the young man who took off? He’s a friend of yours, this Derek?”
Trubs nodded.
“Well…” Clara bit her lip. She wasn’t entirely certain what the lad had taken from Lucias, although she could make a confident guess at it being money. And whilst Lucias was within the law to do so, she didn’t think he’d take the boy’s soul for petty thievery. “Your friend might be punished, but then he shouldn’t have taken something that wasn’t his.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” a small voice piped up. A sixth face appeared from within the folds of the statues flowing hair. The girl struggled to stay in place on the slope. “I was hungry.”
Clara took a step back from the statue to take in all six of the children. They rather reminded her of Tommy, although her page had collected quite a few more years of experience in living on the streets than any of these children had been alive. Still, she recalled the younger years of him rummaging through garbage and stealing from stalls rather than people. “Your friend still made a foolish decision.”
The girl scrunched herself back into the fold of the statue’s hair.
“Here.” Clara picked up the discarded remains of her pasty, dropped in the original scramble along with the bottle of water, and held it out to the girl. The pasty was a little dirty on the outside, but the filling seemed clean. “It’s not much, but—”
Trubs swiped it from her hands and hustled back up the statue. The other children crowded around him, carefully picking pieces off and shovelling it into their mouths before giving the larger chunk to the girl.
The other boy in the group eyed the bottle of water. He licked his lips, which reminded Clara of sacking in both colour and texture. None of them appeared to be in any way protected from the elements.
Clara rummaged in her pockets, pulling out a small wooden pot of cream she’d grown rather attached to during her short journey to Endlight. “Come here.” With a few brisk waves of her hand, she ushered the boy to hop off the low wall surrounding the statue base. “This will help with the cracking.” She crouched before the boy and, after scooping up a generous dollop of cream from the pot, smeared the salve over the boy’s mouth.
The boy rubbed his lips together once she was done. His sandy brows rose and his dark eyes widened.
She took out her handkerchief and, using a small dab of water from the battered bottle, gently wiped a layer of grime from the boy’s sunburnt cheeks. “I’m Clara,” she said, using a clean section of the handkerchief’s fine linen on his forehead before handing the boy the bottle. “What’s your name?”
The boy swallowed the tepid water in long, breathless gulps. He watched her the whole time, peering around the bottle as he tipped it to get the last few drops. His gaze flicked past her, his eyes widening anew.
At her back, the murmur of the crowd grew. It could only mean Lucias had returned and, judging by the draining of colour to the boy’s heavily tanned face, he’d caught their thief.
“Derek!” the oldest girl screamed from her place still atop the statue.
Clara slowly stood and, absently brushing the dirt from her skirts, turned to see what the rest of them had spotted.
Lucias rode through the crowd. The black, gleaming bulk of his destrier high-stepping across the cobblestones would’ve been enough to draw most eyes. That the lad the children called Derek floated before them like a cat held by the scruff didn’t do much to lessen the pull of people’s attention.
Now that the would-be thief was more person than blur, the young man looked very young indeed. Not even old enough to have facial hair. What the boy did have were pale patches on his face and, whilst his arms were mostly brown, his hands were whiter than the olive brown tone of her own skin.
Clara had only seen such a sight in one other person and that had been the old baker down the street from her mother’s house back in Everdark. Some had thought him diseased, but most knew him as owning the cleanest, most honest, bakery in the village.
Lucias halted before the statue, never once relinquishing his hold on his captive. “I’m sorry,” he said, giving no indication he recognised the children crowding the statue. “But it looks like we are going to have to postpone our little venture to the Pillars. I need t
o see that this pickpocket is suitably punished.”
“You can’t!” the oldest girl blurted. She dropped from her perch and had taken a step towards Lucias before common sense seemed to grab hold of her limbs. Instead, she wrapped an arm around the shoulders of the boy she’d called Trubs. “Sir, if you take him, who will look after us?”
Something dragged on the left side of Clara’s skirt. She glanced down to find the sunburnt boy clinging to the fabric with his grubby little fingers. Her chest tightened as she took in their pleading faces. “Lucias,” she managed through a throat that seemed intent on closing up on itself. “Put the boy down.”
“I will not,” he gruffly replied before directing his attention to the children. “Where are your parents?”
The pale girl’s shoulders sagged. “Dead,” she mumbled. “Dad got crushed by a wagon and a fever took mum.”
Clara gently prised the sunburnt boy’s hands from her skirts and stepped around the still-floating form of Derek to stand beside the destrier. The black beast snorted and pinned his ears back at her approach, but made no move to harm her. “Do you think we could…” She laid a hand on the horse’s shoulder and stared up at Lucias. “I don’t know, take them in? Maybe?”
Lucias raised an eyebrow at her. He dismounted and slowly lowered his captive onto the wall. “Stay put.”
Derek scrunched himself into a ball, nodding vehemently. “Yes, sir.”
Still keeping one eye on the boy, Lucias hooked his hand into the crook of Clara’s elbow and drew her a little ways from the children. “You know nothing about them.”
That was true. But, whilst she might not know something as intimate as their names, she did know one very important detail. “They’re orphans. That poor boy only stole from us to feed them. Isn’t that enough?”