Cast in Secrets and Shadow

by Andrea Robertson

  15

  The waif scurried down the street. A frightened mouse fleeing a cat.

  She threw herself on Captain Brekk, who lurched backward and cursed.

  “Please, sir,” she gasped. “Help me.”

  It was close to midnight. Brekk and his men reeked of ale, but they straightened and made the best attempt at officiousness they could. Though the spindly girl was nothing to worry about, Brekk’s men flanked him and kept their hands on their sword hilts. He’d trained them well. His patrolmen had lost teeth until they got it right.

  “What’s the matter, girl?” Brekk pushed the girl off him. He’d thought her a child, but when she looked up he saw she was nigh a woman, her wide eyes and rosebud mouth set in a heart-shaped face, and his attitude changed.

  She sobbed. “A cutpurse stole my coins, and my mother has a fever. She sent me to fetch medicine, but now . . .”

  “There, there.” He took her hand. “I’ll take you to the apothecary, and we’ll get your mother’s medicine.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.” The girl kissed his hand. “Thank you.”

  One of his men chortled. It sounded like Pole; the captain would remember that.

  “What’s your name?” Brekk took her chin in his hand. She had a pretty face and wide blue eyes. A strand of pale blond hair had slipped free of her cloak’s hood.

  “Violet.” She smiled shyly.

  The captain turned to his men. “Keep on the patrol route. I’ll rejoin after I help Violet with her errand.”

  “Yes, sir.” His sergeant saluted.

  Brekk caught a few of the guards smirking. That he could let go, but the laugh—Pole would regret it.

  Taking the girl’s upper arm, the captain pulled her along the street until he could no longer hear his soldiers’ voices. After a quick check to ensure the street was empty, Brekk steered her into the shadows behind a warehouse.

  “Sir, the apothecary—”

  “We’ll get there soon enough.” He pushed her hood back. Her hair tumbled out, fine as spun gold. “But first we need to discuss payment.”

  “I told you my coins are lost to a sneak thief.”

  “I have plenty of coin.” Brekk stroked her hair, and she backed away until she bumped into the warehouse wall.

  “What I’m looking for is gratitude, Violet,” he continued, following her. “A show of appreciation for keeping you safe.”

  He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “As you already know, these streets are dangerous.”

  The girl attempted to evade him again, but Brekk caught her wrist and tore her cloak away with his other hand. It was a shame she was so spindly.

  “Please, sir,” she cried. “I am grateful, but please don’t hurt me.”

  Brekk grabbed her throat. “Be quiet.”

  Violet fainted.

  With a snort of disgust, he let her body slump against his shoulder while he attempted to unbuckle his sword belt with one hand. He felt a prick on the back of his neck and scratched it absentmindedly. His sword belt clattered to the ground, and he reached beneath his tunic to unbutton his trousers.

  Brekk’s stomach began to gurgle.

  Damn the kitchen at the Pig’s Tail.

  The gurgle grew louder, and he began to feel queasy. He dropped Violet, clutching his stomach. Cramps seized his guts, and Brekk felt as if his bowels would loose any moment. They did.

  He groaned, struggling to get his trousers down before the next surge.

  A wave of nausea sent Brekk to his knees as stabbing pain wracked his bowels. His stomach heaved, and whatever hadn’t exited his ass surged up his throat.

  Everything went dark. He hadn’t passed out. Something was covering his face, tightening. He tried to vomit, but fabric pulled taut over his mouth. He choked on partially digested food and acid. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—

  * * *

  The girl let Captain Brekk drop. Though it was rare anyone would be given the chance, with closer examination a person would know the captain had been mistaken: this was no girl on the cusp of womanhood, but a woman grown. She pulled his cloak off his face and threw it over half his body. Not the bottom, excrement-covered half.

  “It’s a good look for you, Captain.”

  She donned her discarded cloak and walked away.

  When she reached the house, she slipped around the back. It didn’t matter that she had a key to the front door. Habit drove her to find a way in that was unlikely to be noticed.

  The woman dropped into the cellar. She didn’t need a lantern to make her way between the shelves to the stairs. She’d taken this route many times before.

  When she reached the top of the stairs and opened the door, bright light surprised her. Blinking against it, she stepped into the kitchen where her mother fussed over dishes.

  “Welcome home, love.” Her mother came over to kiss her cheek. “Everything go well?”

  “Very,” she answered, removing her cloak. She laid it over the back of a chair.

  At twenty-five years old, the woman didn’t need to live in her mother’s house, but she preferred to. Not only was it convenient, but it also ensured that she would be at hand to keep her mother safe. She was all too aware what evils existed in the world.

  “I’m delighted to hear that.” Her mother pattered back to the hearth where a kettle hung. “Tea?”

  “Please.” A little frown appeared on the woman’s face. Her mother wasn’t in the habit of making tea in the middle of the night. The reason became clear when her mother carried a porcelain tea service into the parlor. There were three cups on the tray.

  Senn’s teeth.

  Light from the kitchen spilled into the parlor, but the room itself was dark. With good reason.

  I should have sensed he was here.

  Her mother set the tray on a low table flanked by two velvet armchairs. One was occupied.

  After pouring three cups, her mother announced, “I’ll take my tea in the kitchen.”

  The woman settled into the second armchair and picked up her cup.

  “Dagger,” the man in the other chair greeted her.

  She could hear the smile in his voice, and she ground her teeth. Stealth was the only subject he’d bested her in while they were at the academy. He took every opportunity to remind her of that.

  Dagger took a dainty sip of tea. “Garet.”

  “We were busy this evening,” he remarked.

  “Knock it off,” she said. “You were here. I was working. ‘We’ weren’t doing anything.”

  She knew Garet only called them we to irk her, but she always took the bait.

  “Of course,” he said.

  Dagger’s eyes had adjusted to the light, and she could see him clearly. The same face she’d known from childhood, changing slightly as each year passed. Mousy brown hair he tied back with a strip of leather. Half Keldenese, half Daefritian, he had light brown skin. His eyes were dark, his cheekbones prominent, and his nose pointed.

  “And who were w—you this evening?” Garet asked.

  Dagger folded her legs beneath her and snuggled into the chair. “Violet.”

  “Violet?” he laughed. “I didn’t know you had a penchant for flowers.”

  “I don’t,” she replied. “I like Violet because it’s so close to violent. It’s like a teensy-weensy warning that no one heeds.”

  Shaking his head, Garet laughed again. “Only you could come up with that.”

  “Thank you.” Dagger finished her tea and set the cup down.

  Garet sobered. “You know Lucket doesn’t like it when you go off book.”

  “Just tidying the neighborhood.”

  “You know the rules,” he said. “Never draw attention.”

  She tsk’d. “I never do. All that happened tonight was a captain known to be a drunkard dra
nk too much and drowned in his own vomit.”

  Garet nodded slowly.

  Dagger shifted to a cross-legged position. “I assume you’re here about a mark.”

  She’d been tired when she entered the house, but a new job always made her antsy.

  “I think you’ll like this one.” Garet drew a letter from his coat. “It’s unusual and has ramifications beyond our usual assignments.”

  Ignoring his use of our, Dagger took the letter and began to read. She let out a hissing breath.

  Dagger was rarely surprised, but this job was startling. It set her veins on fire.

  Garet regarded her, wearing a half smile. “You should take it as a compliment.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not a compliment. They need me because I’m the best.”

  The smile spread across his lips. “I know you are.”

  16

  While Teth built the litters, Ara and Joar set up camp. As they worked, she explained the events following Nimhea and Eamon’s arrival at Rill’s Pass, and her quest to become the new Loresmith. Joar asked few questions, accepting what she had to say mostly with solemn focus but sometimes awe.

  When she’d finished, Joar turned to Huntress. “What say you, friend?”

  Huntress gave a sharp bark.

  To Ara, Joar said, “We are honored to join your quest, Loresmith.”

  Then quietly, as if only to himself, “It is more than I could have dreamed.”

  At nightfall, rather than attempt to hoist Nimhea and Lahvja into a cocoon, they tented oiled canvas over the litters. Huntress curled up between them to keep watch.

  With the third cocoon free, Ara opted to sleep alone rather than continue to share with Teth. He tried to hide his hurt expression, but Ara could see how much her choice confused him. She knew he’d wanted to comfort her and take comfort in her after the awful events of the day.

  As the evening wore on, she’d become more and more uncomfortable with his nearness. What should have been reassuring instead nagged her about her mistake. Whenever she checked on Nimhea and Lahvja, she was reminded that she’d abandoned them for Teth’s sake. At times she found it difficult to even look at him.

  Sleep itself was fitful. In her dreams, Teth danced above her on vines, laughing, while half of Nimhea’s face slowly peeled away. When the princess opened her mouth to scream at Ara, the creature’s tentacles spilled out, grasping for her.

  She woke covered in cold sweat and was unable to return to sleep.

  * * *

  The next day, Lahvja woke first.

  Just after midday, the summoner moaned and her eyelids fluttered open.

  Ara called for their group to stop. She’d been walking behind Lahvja’s litter, which Huntress pulled along the trail. Joar and Teth carried Nimhea’s litter, given her more serious injury, in the hopes that she’d be jostled less.

  “Where am I?” Lahvja blinked into the jungle canopy.

  Hearing her stir, Huntress lay down on the path to let the litter settle.

  Lahvja tried to sit up, but cried out and fell back.

  “Keep still, Lahvja.” Ara crouched beside the litter. “You were injured. The wound is still fresh.”

  “The creature.” Lahvja’s whisper was full of terror, then panic. “Nimhea!”

  Ara placed her hand on Lahvja’s shoulder to keep her from trying to sit up again.

  “You’re safe now,” Ara told her. “We’re all safe. We killed the creature, and now we’re on our way back to the village.”

  Joar joined them and offered Lahvja a waterskin.

  Ara cupped her head to help her drink.

  Her face crinkled at the taste.

  “Something I brewed up last night,” Joar explained. “For pain and to help you sleep. It smelled terrible when I made it, and I’m sure that’s how it tastes.”

  With a weak smile, Lahvja said, “I appreciate the effort.” She paused, pursing her lips, then said, “I taste breathroot and Bythum’s Sorrow.”

  Joar nodded.

  “Clever.” She drank more, then signaled she’d finished.

  Ara drew back, and Lahvja rested her head on the litter. A few moments later, her eyes closed and her breath grew slow and shallow.

  “I think it best if they sleep until we reach the village, where they can be treated by a true healer. Their wounds are serious and require more skill than I can offer,” Joar told Ara. “Until then they should be using all their energy to heal, not hike through the jungle.”

  “Agreed,” she said, though she wondered if Nimhea would be as willing to return to slumber as Lahvja had been.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until that evening, when they were making camp, that Nimhea stirred. Like Lahvja, she woke with sounds of pain. Ara rushed to the princess, her heart in her throat.

  “Nimhea.” Ara knelt beside the litter and took her hand.

  Nimhea didn’t try to sit up, but her free hand reached for the bandage wrapping her head.

  “I’m wounded,” she murmured, touching the cloth gingerly. “What happened?”

  “Joar defeated the creature,” Ara told her. “But you were injured. There was poison in its thorns that rendered you unconscious.”

  Groaning, the princess asked, “Lahvja?”

  “She’s healing, like you.”

  “My wound.” Nimhea fingers searched for the boundaries of the cloth. “How bad—”

  Dread bored through Ara’s chest, but then Joar was there, catching Nimhea’s hand, moving it away from the bandages.

  “You must leave it, Princess. Drink this.”

  “You know who I am,” Nimhea said. “Who told you?”

  “I did,” Ara said.

  Joar’s other hand tilted Nimhea’s head up so she could drink from the waterskin.

  She winced as her head moved. “It hurts.”

  “I know,” Joar said. “This will help.”

  “Ugh,” Nimhea blurted after taking a sip. “Tastes like swamp rot.”

  “I give you my word that it isn’t,” he replied. “Drink more. You need it.”

  She obeyed, but grimaced as she drank.

  When he’d determined she’d had enough, Joar gently lowered her head.

  “Try not to move,” he urged. “Don’t fight sleep.”

  “Where are we?” she asked. “Still in the swamp?”

  “On our way back to the village,” Ara said.

  “Good,” Nimhea muttered. “I hated that swamp.” She yawned, grunting at the pain it caused. “My head.”

  She tried to reach for the bandage once more. Tears began to well in Ara’s eyes.

  My fault.

  Joar seized Nimhea’s hand, holding it until Nimhea went still. “Do not touch.”

  The princess made a grumbling sound that soon turned into a light snoring.

  Joar turned to Ara to say something, but stopped when he saw her expression.

  He reached over Nimhea’s body to rest his hand on Ara’s shoulder.

  “She will heal.”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Ara nodded.

  The unbandaged side of Nimhea’s face was serene, but Ara knew her own dreams would again be haunted.

  * * *

  They passed three more nights in the jungle before reaching the village. The progress was slow by necessity, but Ara chafed with impatience, not only wanting to get her injured friends to the healer sooner, but also worried about the next stage of their journey. She understood now that the trials led to the naming of a Loreknight. According to the legends, there were ten Loreknights in all; thus far, the gods had chosen two. While encouraged by the progress she’d made, Ara grappled with dread at the feeling that in no way could she gather all the Loreknights before the Vokkans caught up with her. They had too many resources. They had Eamon.

&nb
sp; She was running out of time.

  The village healer, Danik, took charge of Nimhea’s and Lahvja’s treatment, even insisting that they stay in his home until they recovered. Ara, Teth, and Joar returned to the inn.

  During their return trip, Ara had been so focused on Nimhea that she’d paid little attention to the toll the journey had taken on her mind and body. Now that her injured friends were safely in the healer’s care, every ache and twinge made itself known. She could feel the weight of her exhaustion.

  Ara forced herself to use the basin of water and a cloth to scrub the grime from her body, then collapsed into bed, letting sleep swallow her whole.

  She woke with no sense of how long she’d been absent from the world. Her limbs were heavy, but her mind was rested.

  Fingers of light reached through the shutters of her room’s window, but Ara didn’t think it was sunlight. When she peered out, she saw it came from torches that glowed along the platform railings. She also noticed that light shone in the windows of the tavern on the next platform. Her stomach grumbled that it had been some time since she’d eaten.

  Ara dressed and left her room. She considered knocking on Teth’s and Joar’s doors, but not knowing how late the hour was, decided against it.

  The tavern welcomed Ara with a low din of conversation and savory scents that made her mouth water. Arching one eyebrow at her in greeting, the barkeep said nothing but nodded toward a table where Joar and Teth were digging into plates heaped with food.

  Ara hesitated. She wasn’t feeling particularly companionable. The sight of Teth called to mind memories that filled her with guilt. On the one hand, she didn’t have to worry about Joar or Teth bringing up her mistake—neither knew of it. Joar had been battling the creature; Teth had been unconscious.

  The only person who knew how she’d failed was Nimhea.

  Should I tell them?

  She didn’t know if they’d condemn her or try to console her. Neither put her at ease.

  No. She couldn’t tell them. Too much shame stung her to even try speaking about what had happened.