A Sea of Broken Glass

by Sonya M Black

  “No,” I whispered. “I didn’t tell him.”

  My secret was one that only a few in the world knew, but it was so vast that death would be a luxury if the wrong people found out. I was the last of the Lady’s vessels. If the Lady or the Darkness found me, it meant the end of the world. They would try to fill me with their power and I would turn into something dark and terrible. I shivered at the thought.

  “Good,” Bran replied. “I’ve got a plan to get you out—”

  Keys rattled outside the cell.

  Bran’s eyes widened. “Help is on its way. Be ready.”

  Shadows wrapped around him, condensed and shrank until the man disappeared and a raven remained in his place. With a flap of his wings, Bran flew between the bars of the window and vanished into the night.

  I turned my back to the door, laid down, and pretended to be asleep. The door opened with a squeak.

  “Mistress LaRoche?”

  I rolled over. “Yes?”

  “I thought I heard voices.” Guardsman Winston swung his oil lamp around the cell.

  “I must’ve been talking in my sleep,” I replied.

  “I heard a man’s voice, Mistress.”

  “No one is here but me.”

  Guardsman Winston looked around the cell, his face pinched as if he’d swallowed something sour. “Good night, Mistress.”

  “Good night, Guardsman.”

  He closed the door and locked it.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Hope bloomed in the desert of my heart. Bran would save me. He always did.

  ***

  Morning brought fear to life. The Inquisitor stood in my cell, his black eyes holding me in place. I was a butterfly, my wings pinned to a velvet cushion, prone so he could gloat over his success. I kept my hands tucked under my legs, afraid of what he would do if he saw them.

  “Well, my dear, that went as expected.” He stroked his thin blond goatee.

  I longed to pay him back for every hurt he’d given me. One day, I would.

  “It is unfortunate that your father planted rumors of sedition within the townspeople.” He tapped his silver-tipped cane on the floor.

  Bile rose in my throat. I refused to look him in the eye. He would take it as a challenge and that would lead to more pain.

  “Your father has disappeared, but I will find him. I caught the messenger he sent to the Bastion. Father Delancy will be missing one of his acolytes. There will be no appeal.” His words shivered over my skin.

  I closed my eyes. Relief that my father hadn’t been caught loosened the clenched muscles of my stomach.

  “As for the townspeople, it never hurts to remind them of their place.”

  “No!” I covered my mouth with my hands to hold back any more words.

  How many would suffer? How many would bleed before this man was appeased?

  The Inquisitor inhaled sharply, and I froze. His eyes locked onto my newly healed hands before rising slowly to meet mine. “Give me your hands, my dear.”

  Horror crawled up my spine and threatened to discharge my stomach at his feet. I tucked my hands under my legs.

  “No,” I choked out.

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Now, Marissa.”

  I shook my head. Defiance warred with fear.

  He knelt in front of me and pulled one of my hands out from beneath my leg. I resisted but to no avail. My vision blurred. I tensed, ready for the pain, for the sickening crunch I knew would come.

  Light, please, not again.

  “Ah,” he said, tracing my healed fingers. “You had a visitor.”

  He kissed each finger, and my skin crawled. “You are mine, Marissa. I will not tolerate another man touching you.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I pressed my lips together in a poor attempt to hold back more words.

  He cupped my cheek, rubbing his thumb back and forth. I held perfectly still, ruthlessly crushing the urge to pull away.

  His dark eyes sparked with the knowledge that his touch made me squirm. “Very good, my dear. But, you’ll have to do better if you want to hide your hatred from me.”

  Sour fear filled my mouth. Death would be preferable to this.

  “You are mine, and I intend to make you more than you ever dreamed you could be.”

  Never. I grabbed my knees to keep from striking him. That would lead to more pain, and I couldn’t afford to be broken if I planned on escaping. Bran said he would get me out. I clung to that promise and tried desperately to keep my hope afloat.

  The Inquisitor stood and straightened his waistcoat and jacket. “The Lord of Ravens is getting too bold, sneaking through my wards.”

  My mouth went dry as he hefted his cane. I flinched and regretted the movement as his eyes danced.

  He placed the tip of the cane carefully on the floor. “You are my prize. There will be no more midnight visits from your…Shield.” He spat the last word out like a curse.

  I refused to respond. Bran would find a way.

  “The train leaves tomorrow.” The Inquisitor leaned in, his lips and nose brushing across my cheek. His breath feathered my ear and left behind the scent of dark and rotten things. “I look forward to spending more private time with you, my dear. Your fear and hatred are delicious.”

  I couldn’t help the shudder that crept over me. Cold certainty settled on my skin. I had to find a way to escape. Bran said help was coming, but I needed a backup plan. Perhaps, I could use the skills Aeron taught me to disappear into the crowd at the station. Ideas began to form. Dangerous and reckless ideas.

  The Inquisitor leaned back and raised my hand to his lips again. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  Not if I could help it.

  I was a statue carved of winter. The door closed, leaving me alone in the silence of my tiny cell as a tear traced its way down my cheek.

  02

  Sir Michel Durant checked his pocket watch for the fifth time in ten minutes as the train pulled away from the platform in a cloud of steam. Where was Bran? Mid-afternoon sun glared off the white-washed town of Greendale with its neatly trimmed hedges and tidy picket fences. A cool breeze carried the sweet scent of lilacs and cherry blossoms and reminded Michel this stop was not planned. He was supposed to be on his way to the Western Wilds where the air was arid and smelled of horse sweat and sage.

  What was he doing here? Rescuing some chit who’d gotten herself convicted of witchery? Bran owed him for this. Michel put the watch back in his pocket. His job was fighting demons, not rescuing silly girls.

  Greenwood Province was among his favorites, and the village of Greendale a frequent stop on his way home to the Bastion of Light. It was a good place to fish when Michel needed to set aside the burden of being a paladin. However, fishing was the last thing on his mind at the moment.

  He scanned the street for signs of the elusive Lord of Ravens. Bran’s terse message had brought him to this village but hadn’t given him many details.

  A raven on a nearby roof cawed and dropped to the ground in front of him.

  “About time,” Michel muttered.

  The raven lifted into the air with a heavy flap of wings and flew to a nearby alley.

  Michel followed, looking around to see if anyone noticed. No curtains twitched in the windows as he walked by and there were few pedestrians on the street. Strange.

  Shadows in the alley drifted like smoke around the brazen bird until it disappeared and a man stood in its place.

  “Bran.” Michel tugged his cambric waistcoat.

  Bran didn’t bat an eye at the terse greeting. He was usually well kept and tidy, but the Lord of Ravens looked like a mess. Honey blond shoulder-length hair slipped from its tie. His jacket needed a good brushing and his shirt was rumpled and stained. Deep purple circles lined the underside of his grey eyes. When was the last time he’d slept?

  Michel fiddled with his watch chain. “You said something about rescuing a witch.” />
  “Ris is not a witch.” The air around Bran thickened and fury rolled off him in waves. “I’m her Shield.”

  Michel stepped back. “I apologize. I didn’t realize she was one of ours.”

  “She’s not…exactly. The Lords of Light have kept her family a secret from all but a select few.”

  “Why—?”

  Bran held up a hand to stop him. “She’s the last of the Lady’s vessels.”

  “Light!” Michel rubbed at his chin. “No wonder you’re trying to keep her a secret from the Bastion.” All paladins belonged to the Bastion, but the organization had changed drastically from the time of its founding, foregoing its ties to the Lady in favor of political and social power. At times like these, Michel worried that it was turning more to the Darkness. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Get her to Raven’s Keep. I’ll keep Tolbert off your back.”

  Michel touched the scar on his cheek, a reminder of his ongoing feud with the self-righteous Inquisitor. “How do I get to her?”

  “After Cre and I have distracted the Inquisitor, go to the jail. Guardsman Prachett will help you.” Bran handed him two tickets. “Take the train to Easton. From there, take the Copper Line to the Mining Outpost where Aeron will meet you. He’s Ris’s Cloak. The train leaves in an hour and fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

  “She has a Cloak and Shield?” Not surprising considering what she was, but Void take it, what was Bran dragging him into? Michel took off his wool great coat and folded it over his arm. “This is going to be tricky.”

  Bran’s jaw tightened. “Just get her out.”

  Michel raised an eyebrow. “Why can’t you do it? You’ve never needed, or wanted, my help before.”

  Bran turned away, his mouth twisted into a grimace. “Someone has to stay behind and take care of Tolbert.”

  “What happens if he’s in the jail?” Michel asked.

  “He’s always in the jail. Cre and I will make sure he’s not a problem.” Bran reached into a pocket and pulled something out. He held it for a minute before he handed the object to Michel. “Give Ris this. She won’t go with you unless she knows I sent you. Tell her it’s a present from the raven to his little lark.”

  Michel closed his hand around the small, hard item. Earth magic thrummed softly from it. It was a worry stone carved from onyx. It looked like one of Cre’s, one side worn and smooth and the other carved with the Light’s Blessing. Michel pocketed the stone and looked out of the alley. “Where is everyone?”

  “Cowering in their homes,” Bran growled. “Be ready to go in an hour.”

  “That’s cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”

  Bran frowned. “Tolbert will have a chance to recover if we take her too early. Make sure she’s on that train.”

  Michel checked his watch. “I’ll be in the pub if you need me.”

  Bran hesitated, then nodded once before transforming back into a raven. He flew into the sky with a raucous caw.

  Michel envied Bran’s wings, and his ability to soar above the troubles of the world, to fly free. Michel’s abilities were associated with water, not air. Freedom of the waves wasn’t as impressive as flight. He straightened his jacket and headed for the pub.

  The Bear and Buzzard wasn’t far from the train station, and it was the best place to get the local gossip. The usual bustle of factory workers headed to the textile mills, coupled with the train station meant Greendale streets were never truly quiet. Yet, no one looked Michel’s way or met his gaze as they passed. They studiously ignored him, which was unusual.

  Michel pushed the door open, and a bell jingled overhead. Master Hamford looked up from behind the dark wood counter that took up more than a third of the room. Stools, normally filled with regulars, were empty.

  Master Hamford narrowed his eyes before returning to polishing a glass, his bald head gleaming in the bright oil lamps.

  Michel took a seat at the bar and waited. Hamford was usually a chatty bartender, but the tight lines of his lips and jaw spoke of wariness.

  “A pint of your finest.” Michel wanted to hear what Tolbert had been up to and needed to get a feel for the girl he was about to rescue. It was one thing to trust Bran to have his back, but another entirely to walk into a situation blind.

  Hamford set the glass carefully under the tap and poured a frothy brew, then set the foaming beer in front of Michel.

  “What’s the news?” Michel took a long pull on the mug, enjoying the sharp, earthy tang.

  Hamford fiddled with his rag. “Nothing much, Sir Durant. It’s been a while since your last visit. What brings you here?”

  “Just passing through on my way back to the Bastion. Greendale has fine fishing this time of year.”

  “That it does.” Hamford scrubbed his rag in quick circles. “There are rumors of plague in the south and demons have been spotted near the Ford.”

  “Hm.” Michel took another sip. “Plague is never a good sign. Any demons spotted near here?”

  “No, sir.”

  Michel dug into his pocket and laid five aran on the counter. Half the length of his smallest finger and stamped with the Bastion’s crest, the silver rods gleamed against the dark wood of the bar.

  Hamford licked his lips as he eyed the money.

  Michel took another sip of his drink. “I heard rumors about a woman convicted of witchery.”

  Hamford nodded, eyes glued to the silver Michel had set between them.

  Michel slid an aran closer to Hamford. “Tell me about her.”

  Hamford wiped the rag over the bar, and the aran disappeared. “Mistress LaRoche is the town healer, but takes after her mother.”

  Michel recalled hearing stories about the Greendale healer. She was rumored to be quite talented, but he’d never met her. “How so?”

  “She’s a lovely thing, but stubborn as the day is long. Feisty, too. Though she didn’t look that way in the courtroom.” Hamford’s last words were tinged with sorrow.

  “Healers aren’t witches.” Michel wiped a bit of foam from his mug and licked it from his thumb. “Why was she accused?”

  “The Inquisitor claimed she used a curse to make Count Allard fall in love with her.”

  Michel snorted. Curses couldn’t make someone fall in love. A charm maybe, but they weren’t illegal. Charms were a healer’s bread and butter. “Was there any proof?”

  “None.”

  Michel slid another aran closer to the man. It too disappeared. “So, she wasn’t guilty?”

  Hamford paled. Michel watched in fascination as a drop of sweat slid from the bald man’s temple and down his cheek.

  Hamford’s hands trembled as he wrung his rag between his stubby fingers. “It don’t matter.”

  Michel passed Master Hamford the last three rods. “Why not?”

  “The townsfolk were angry when they found out the judge had been bribed. Mistress Walker and Master Grimsby organized a group to go to the Bastion and appeal. The Inquisitor had ’em hung ’cause they spoke out against him. For treason, he said.” The last words came out in a strangled whisper.

  Hangings went against everything the Bastion stood for. How had Tolbert gotten permission to go that far?

  Or perhaps he hadn’t.

  Michel tucked the thought away for later.

  “Tell me more about the girl.”

  Hamford shrugged. “Not much more to tell.”

  Michel downed the last of his ale. “Thank you, Master Hamford.” He laid an ara on the counter.

  Hamford looked at the gold rod and then around the empty room before snatching it and the remaining three aran up. “Good fishing, sir paladin.”

  Michel nodded at the barkeep and left.

  Once outside, he checked his pocket watch. Forty-five minutes to go. Time to find a spot to wait. He hated waiting. He found an alley within sight of the jail and checked his watch again. He still had a half hour. Seated on an empty cr
ate, he watched from the shadows.

  Michel still didn’t understand why Bran needed his help. Bran was a Lord of Light. The last of three. Michel was one of the original paladins, one of six left after the Lady’s fall. He was stronger than the modern paladins, but still not nearly as strong as Bran. So why did Bran need Michel’s help? Surely, Bran could rescue the girl on his own.

  The fact that she was the last of the Lady’s vessels astounded Michel. He’d thought the Lady’s line had died out with Elecia. How had Tolbert found out about the girl? And why was he interested? Did he know that she was the last of the Lady’s vessels? Tolbert did nothing unless it benefited him personally. So why bribe a judge and get her convicted of witchery?

  It made no sense.

  Magic tingled in the air, raising gooseflesh on Michel’s arms. He heard a melody of woodwinds matched with the deep boom of a kettle drum. The song rose and fell in notes that weren’t heard, but felt. His magic wanted to respond to the song, to thread mellow violins through it and create a harmony of water, earth, and air. He held back. It wasn’t his fight.

  The song hit the wards surrounding the jail and got tangled up, the notes turning sour. The wards rippled with each strike, just enough to be irritating to the one who’d created them, but not enough to take them down. With the sustained barrage of magic, the wards tightened, shrinking to a small, contained area.

  Minutes passed slowly, and it was all Michel could do not to keep checking his watch. He closed his eyes and opened his mind.

  The wards, made from red flames with black streaks, swirled around the jail and prevented other magic users from getting near. The discordant clang of Tolbert’s magic reverberated in Michel’s head. The pressing jangle of poisonous notes set his teeth on edge, grinding against his brain. He pressed his fingers into his temples to stave off a headache. There was something off about the magic. Something Michel hesitated to put into words.

  At ten minutes to the hour, the ripples of music turned into a cacophony that rained like hail on the shuddering wards. Michel had to give Bran and Cre credit; they knew how to create a diversion. With the thunder of kettle drums, the wards popped like a soap bubble, dissolving into the ether.