Roen stumbled into Haered’s stable at the tail end of a tear-blinded sprint.
Her blurred vision made the stable’s interior a darkened mess, but she knew her way well enough to navigate the shadows. There was still no sign of Stablemaster Haered, or even Talcey, but somehow she had not expected any; everything else was disappearing in her life, she had no reason to be surprised that so few remained who knew her at all.
And they could not help her anyway. No one could. She just had to go. She was leaving Dorn Keep, as Doryan the Elder had said she must—that much was true. But she was not going to do it his way.
He was not her father anymore. She knew he never was. Now he was less than that.
She grabbed the nearest saddle, a weather-beaten one hung over one of the stall walls. She found the nearest horse—Verity, another of the Knightlord’s mares—and saddled her as quickly as she could, tugging leather straps, cinching steel buckles. She had to be out quickly, lest her father’s guards catch her. Roen had run straight from the Knightlord’s drawing room, through the Great Hall and back hallways, pausing only in the kitchen to grab a burlap sack and stuff it full of the food she would need to survive. Marne had stared at her, shocked, clearly unsure as to what was transpiring exactly, but knowing the best response to Roen’s obvious distress was silence. Marne’s cat Rib was asleep on a pickle barrel and stayed that way.
Roen had mumbled an apology to the old cook before bolting for the kitchen door, though she paused once more, briefly, taking a long, sharp knife from a stock on the pantry wall. One more apology and she was sprinting through Dorn Keep’s front gate for Haered’s outer stable.
It was stupid to feel guilt for taking the food and the knife, but she felt it, nonetheless. Thieving was the worst sort of thing. But then what am I doing with Verity? She finished tightening the mare’s saddle. Roen pushed the thoughts away. She could not afford to ride the moral high ground now; too much had happened to prove the values she had been raised with were lies. The man who had been her father had just sold her, as though she were a horse herself. Duty, Faith, Honor, and Justice. She could not even pretend those words meant anything anymore—even though the echo of them would not leave her heart.
She was on her own now. If they caught her, they would send her away with Malacai—probably bound in rope and tossed onto the back of a horse, now that she showed no inclination to go willingly. And she could not go, not with him. The man frightened her more than reason could define.
“Roen?” a small voice called from the shadows.
Roen whirled, a riding crop in hand ready to wield, even though she knew it was a weapon none would fear, cursing herself for not keeping the knife closer to hand.
It was Talcey, his face poking up out of the ground not ten paces from where she stood. The young stable boy was dirtier than she had ever seen him, which was saying a lot; dust, straw, and grime were in his hair, and on his face and tunic. He was standing in a hole she had never known existed, dug just beyond the back-side watering trough. A wooden pallet covered with straw had been shoved aside; it appeared as though he had been hiding beneath it, there in the hole, for days.
“Is that where you have been?” she asked incredulously. She went to him to help him climb out. Talcey moved slowly, painfully, as though he hadn’t moved from that spot for a long time.
“I’ve been hiding,” Talcey stated, his gift for the obvious intact.
“Where is Haered?” Roen whispered harshly, glancing nervously back toward the stable door.
Talcey began to cry, fresh tears streaking the dirt on his round cheeks. “I—I don’t kn-know,” he sobbed, his voice catching. “They just t-took him away.”
“Who did?” Roen’s haste was momentarily forgotten. “When?”
“Th-the day Northwind d-died. It was Gambel. Rogi, I think, too.” He sniffled. “But I didn’t see. My fa told me to hide, so—so that’s what I did.”
Gambel and Rogi were two of her brother Doryan’s men. What would he want with Haered?
All the obvious answers made her queasy. He could be in the dungeons. He could be dead. “Your father made an oath as to my care, years ago,” Haered had told her only two days past. Yet not even a knightlord’s oath had kept him safe. Every betrayal that came was another bitter dash of cold water on her face.
She might need that cold water. Roen had not slept since the night prior and was not going to be sleeping any time in the near future, whilst on the run. Already her eyes, weighed by the tears she had cried, fought for rest. Her mind was numbed with weariness.
But Haered’s uncertain fate settled one thing in her mind: Talcey was coming with her. She was surprised at how relieved she felt; she should feel guilt, taking him away from everything he knew. But she only really felt relief that she would not be completely alone, as selfish as that seemed.
What else was there? Neither of them had family at Dorn Keep anymore.
We are on our own now.
The ride west was a blur of cold wind and pounding hooves. Talcey clung to Roen’s back, and Verity surged along the Old Dorn as well as could be expected with two riders. There was still no pursuit as far as Roen knew, though she had only her eyes to tell. At least no one is behind us yet. They probably think I cannot get very far.
They were probably right. Roen did not have a lot of resources at her disposal, and Talcey was more likely to slow her down than help in any real way. Her original thought was that he could stand watch while she slept; she would have to sleep eventually, after all. No one went without sleep forever, though Ralton once bragged he went a week without it at Bastion. But, stupidly, she had forgotten she would have to make time for him to sleep, and Talcey was not inclined to miss a chance at sleep. She felt him doze, once during the ride, slipping slightly in the saddle. She had to smack his leg in order to wake him, lest he pull them both from the horse’s back.
I should have put us on two horses, she thought with regret. At the time, it seemed more important to be gone from Dorn Keep as quickly as possible. The guards could have burst into the stable at any point, and her lofty title as Knightlord’s former daughter would not have bought even a moment’s allowance. Nor would brandishing a riding crop—or a kitchen knife.
So, they rode together, two to a horse. Talcey held tight to Roen, his arms around her waist—and even tighter once the Haverwood was reached. She could feel him shivering, in his shoulders and in his cheek, pressed against her back. Every so often she felt him hiccup or sob, though it was not a constant thing.
Back at the stable, when she had told Talcey he was coming with her, he reacted as expected, stammering and fretting and generally making a worry over it. But it only took her vaulting onto Verity’s back and holding a hand out to convince him. He clambered on, and from that point on he was quiet. Talcey never even asked if she had ever been to Mooring; he simply trusted her to get them there.
And she did. Roen did not really know what to expect of the town, even though she had been to Mooring before. All the Knightlord’s children had visited Dorn Keep’s nearest hamlet, but she had come only once, years ago, in a carriage along with Andric—and neither of them had been allowed to leave the coach. But even then, the sights were amazing to her: all the huts and hovels and houses, packed and jumbled; the hundred horses and all the wagons; the moss-veiled boats on the mossy shore of Mooring Lake. And the people! So many people dressed in so many different ways.
This time it felt different. A light rain had begun to fall, just before their arrival, and the muddy streets were all but empty, save for a stalwart few men working the small, rickety dock. Oar boats and small, flat-bottomed scows endeavored to pry a few stubborn fish from the lake, out near the mouth, where the Wurdulac River spat its silt. Other people were glimpsed once the town’s square was reached, heavily draped in cloaks and cowls, moving with haste from one building to the next in order to avoid the rain.
At Dorn Keep, rain did not keep the guards from their appointed duties. But Mooring seemed without an organized guard force—or at least one willing to combat the elements. For that, Roen felt relief; fewer guards meant fewer questions, and she and Talcey could do with as few of those as possible.
She sought out the Haver House because, apart from the Fine Point, it was the only inn in Mooring she knew of by name. And, like as not, the Fine Point was probably steeped with thugs of Kula Toron’s ilk—or, worse, Kula Toron himself. It helped that Haver House was Mooring’s most prominent inn and tavern; there were signs aplenty on the road through town, touting its ales and food and warm beds. Roen wished she had time for a warm bed.
But the inn, once found, was not as fancy looking as the signs made it out to be. Haver House was a squat, single-storied affair, its roof bowed and missing thatch in more than one place. The door was once painted yellow, but time and wear had stripped its veneer, leaving it gouged and greenish, with thin lines of moss running through its cracks. A skinny boy sitting in the mud by a series of horse stands in front of the inn watched them as they looked around for something to do with Verity. “Nubs ta watch ya horse,” he called over. Roen looked at him questioningly.
“Coppers,” Talcey whispered to her.
“I know that,” she hissed at him. “You know I do not have any coin.”
“I have some,” Talcey admitted. “Fa gave me coins to collect on occasion. I never thought I’d get to spend them.” He shrugged awkwardly and handed the dirty boy two copper nubs. Roen gave the boy her sternest look as she tied Verity to the rail, but he only winked insolently at her.
They went to the door and Talcey went back to fretting. “Roen, you…you said we need a map. I only have three coppers and a tin bit left. How are we gonna get one with no money?”
“I will handle that,” Roen replied, voice low. The burlap bag she had kept wrapped around Verity’s saddle pommel was now slung over her shoulder, her grip tight on it. She doggedly shoved the door open.
Within, the inn was a sprawling, ugly place—not at all the sort of establishment she envisioned Dam Dirch frequenting. Smoke filled its interior, trailing up from pipes and cigars and tobacco fags, nearly concealing the low, sagging roof in a thick gray haze. The smell was just as pressing; through the acrid smoke came the sour scent of unwashed men, burnt meats, and alcohol so strong it stung the back of her throat just smelling it.
But it was the noise that stopped her in her tracks. Stepping into Haver House’s common room was like walking through a wall of sound. Impatient howls and braying, raucous laughter fought for supremacy with clinking mugs, creaking tables, sliding chairs, and the sizzle of cooking meat over hissing fires. Somewhere, distantly, the trill of a solitary flute wended its way through the cacophony, but little of its melody could be heard.
“Roen…” Talcey stood next to her, staring at all of it, as shocked as she was—if not more.
Roen wanted to say something brave, but nothing came to mind. It is only a tavern, she reminded herself. All sorts of people came to taverns. She had expected people. She just had not expected so much chaos. Her goal was to find the most capable-looking people here, and to get as many answers to her many questions in as short a time as possible. But she did not even know where to start looking. There were no obvious—
“Move,” a low voice growled behind her, a half breath before something heavy shoved against her shoulder. Roen stumbled forward and scrambled sideways to avoid four tall, strong-looking men who had entered behind her and Talcey.
Talcey was not so quick; a similar shove sent the chubby boy sprawling to the room’s uneven floorboards. He lay still, eyes wide, while the men stepped over him.
At least they did not step on him. The men were all large and dangerous looking. Each bore more than one weapon; longswords hung low on belts, as well as axes, a mace, crossbows, and more daggers than she could count. Two of the men wore chain-mail hauberks, a third a leather cuirass. The fourth, the oldest and last of them, bearded and grim, wore a steel breastplate, dented and rusted at the edges. A blue shield bearing a black starburst was painted on the bearded man’s breastplate, and one of the chain-wearing men wore the same symbol on a buckler he kept strapped to his arm. The man that pushed her had the same shield tattooed on his forearm.
They shoved their way through the rest of the milling crowd. Not many of the patrons complained outwardly, save for a few muttering under their breath. Soon the men were lost from sight, swallowed by the smoke.
Talcey was only just getting to his feet. He dusted his breeches off. “Should we…um, find a table…?” he asked hesitantly.
Roen frowned. The common room had tables, but from her vantage point every one of them seemed taken. More people were packed at the far end of the room, so she assumed that was where the drinks and food were being served. Food tables at Maslentza and other festivals always drew the crowds; Roen reasoned an inn would be the same.
But more and more people were entering—most of them shoving Talcey aside, as he had not quite gotten beyond the doors yet—and none seemed eager to leave. The common room was only getting thicker.
“You there, oi!” a woman called out. Roen glanced over but saw nothing. The woman yowled again. “No, you! I’m talkin’ at ye, silly bint!” Roen finally noticed a short but busty woman in an apron waving her down. She was balancing four clay mugs on a tray, holding it above the milling crowd.
“Me?” Roen was not used to being addressed so crassly, Horvath and Dreck notwithstanding.
“Yes, you! Stupid ginnie!” The woman spat on the floor and stepped closer. “Who ye lookin’ for, ah? You ‘ere for yer fa? Might be that yer ol’ man, if ‘e’s ‘ere, dun’ wanna be found.” The drinks on her tray seemed a threat to spill at any moment.
“I am not looking for anybody.” Roen scowled.
The serving woman grunted. “Well, Haver House don’t serve drink ta wee gits, so be on, if that’s what yer thinkin’.” Roen noticed her teeth were an appalling brown.
Talcey just stared at his boots. Roen licked her lips. “We…are looking for a table. That is all.” She paused. “And food. And water.” Roen had discovered halfway through their ride that she had forgotten to bring any water at all. Stupid, she had thought at the time. We would die of thirst before ever dying of hunger. Though she later amended that it would probably not be very hard finding water to drink in the rain.
The serving woman seemed to have the same thought. “Go outside for yer water. We don’t serve that swill ‘ere.” She half-turned to go.
“I can pay for food,” Roen asserted. It was not quite a lie, though she still felt guilty saying it.
“Can ye?” The serving woman eyed her dubiously. “Well, fine, a table, aye. Come on, girlies. The fare is fair.” She turned and plunged back into the crowd.
Roen and Talcey glanced at one another before swiftly following. Talcey was so cowed he did not even protest being called a girl.
The table she led them to was not theirs alone. The serving woman set her tray down and divvied out drinks to the two men already there: an aged soul with a long graying beard sat hunched at one end, and another man sat near him, brown-haired and balding, his face buried drunkenly in his arms. Four empty tankards already sat between them on the table; it looked as though half of the ale had been spilled onto the table-top rather than imbibed. Two more chairs stood with no backsides in them, and it was to those the serving woman gestured. Roen and Talcey sat, each wary of the spill.
“There we go, ah?” the woman said. “Now fer food. We’ve got a ‘ock on the spit. Good ham. Or skillets, if you’ve a mind fer somethin’ nice an’ ‘ot. The peas are fresh an’ sweet.” She looked Roen up and down. “Or maybe just bread, ah? ‘Ow much coin ye got t’ spend?” She squinted at them both.
“No coin,” Roen said. The serving woman rolled her eyes and seemed about to leave. “But this….” Roen said quickly, digging into the sack. She pulled out Ralton’s cloak. It was muddy but obviously well made, weaved of thick wool dyed a dark maroon and trimmed in black satin. The clasp was a silver-forged fox’s head. She held it up to show.
“Oi, now, where’d ye filch tha’?” The serving woman folded her arms and frowned, judging her with a critical eye.
“Not filched. Gifted. From my brother.” Roen met her stare evenly and did not blink.
The woman chewed her cheek, considering. Finally she nodded, clucking her tongue. “Highborn t’ be sure. Fair and fine.” She grinned and snatched up the cloak. “This will buy y’ the finest o’ meals, well done.”
“No.” Roen grabbed her sleeve. The woman blinked and tried to tug free, looking for a moment intent on striking her, but Roen held the sleeve firmly and leaned forward. “I am paying for information, all you can give me. That cloak is special.”
The serving woman was not going to argue the cloak’s worth, and no doubt; it was probably the finest garment in the common room. “Fine again,” she muttered. “Food and gallows gossip? That’s all I ‘ave, ginnie. Lest yer boy there wants a look at what’s between me legs.” She swirled her skirt and grinned that brown grin.
Talcey just gaped. Roen muttered, “No. Bring food, and be quick. I will have questions.” She released the woman’s sleeve. That earned Roen a sidelong glare, but the woman rushed off fast enough. Talcey stared at Roen as though she were some form of creature he did not even recognize anymore.
The bearded man at their table was watching them both oddly. When Talcey looked at him he waggled his tongue and made a face. Roen noticed he had no teeth at all. Talcey looked away, clearly not knowing what else to do. The drunken man with his head in his arms was not moving at all, save for breathing on occasion. No one spoke, which was fine by her.
The respite allowed Roen to scan the room once more. No one she knew or recognized was here, as far as she could see. She had not realized how many people walked around with weapons bared. Swords, axes, spears, knives…. Seemingly every person had something on them to defend or kill with. Naked blades are against Father’s decree, she remembered, before she thought to remember he was no longer her father.
The flutist Roen had heard earlier was a woman, she noticed, and was sitting on a stool on a nearby rickety-looking platform. Another woman had joined her with a lute, as well as two other men: a second lute, and the other bearing a trio of skin-topped drums. They sat and broke into song immediately, the tune a slow lilting jaunt, cheerful in melody yet mournful in word. The lutes trilled together yet apart; the women’s voices, raised in odd, halting harmony, sang of a man on the run, and of the bitter realities he faced. Only Roen’s proximity to the makeshift stage allowed her to hear the words. She sat enthralled, her weariness driving all other thoughts away, pressing though they were. The Haver House crowd seemed oblivious to the music; most were intent on whatever else their business was here—to drink until drunk, it seemed. Roen thought of dead Joysinger Carando, and of the melodious songs he sang to glorify his southern god, Baccus. The Knightlord would not appreciate this music either, Roen knew, which made her appreciate it all the more.
Roen scanned the crowd again. Shouting matches seemed the norm, though a brief fistfight had broken out in a distant corner of the room. It ended almost as quickly as it began, with nary a fuss made. Still, the minstrels played, still the women sang; still the song wove its woe.
But dark yet comes for me…
I know not the right road,
No path I can see…”
“Here, deaf girl,” the serving woman said, loudly clanking an iron skillet down in front of her. She dropped one in front of Talcey too. Grease sizzled and popped; the platters smoked. “Don’t weep for the fare. Best meats, potatoes, peas,” she said, then grunted. “Or best as allows. Close enough, ah? Now ‘ave at with those questions. I’ve a busy route, and it’s not like to let up for the rain.”
Roen knew exactly what she wanted to ask. “Who are those men?” she asked, pointing to the group of large fighting men that had nearly run them down in the doorway. They had taken a distant corner table, forcibly divesting it of its previous patrons.
“Guildhouse DeMaris,” the serving woman said, a little distastefully. “Mercs. Well, organized mercs, bein’ a guild.”
“Like the stabler’s guild?” Talcey asked, his mouth full. He was eating without a care as to how hot the food was.
“A guildhouse is a guildhouse,” the woman answered, shrugging. “But DeMaris wouldn’t take much stock in stablers telling ‘em what to do. A sharp blade solves most of their quarrels. Never seen a stable boy fight a DeMaris man.” She grinned. “Wouldn’t think it’d be quite fair.”
Talcey swallowed, nodding, very much in agreement.
Roen broke in. “But they travel. They have maps. I need to know who to go to for a map. A good map of all the lands around. I need roads, rivers, hills.”
The serving woman eyed her. “Pity I’ve not one. I’d let you have it, poor lost dear. Don’t know who would have maps, neither. Where ye going?”
“Our destination is none of your concern,” Roen said coolly. “I just need the map.”
“And more food,” Talcey piped in.
“Food for the road,” Roen agreed. “And skins for water.”
“Soft wee lump,” the serving woman cooed at Talcey, patting his matted hair. “Yer lover’s got the brains an’ the stones, to be sure. A right driver, that one. And you, such a plump little sweetie. I’ll bet she don’t even let ye fumble beneath them man-breeches of hers, ah?”
Talcey’s eyes bugged out, but to his credit he kept his tongue. Roen rose from her chair. “Fetch the food and the skins,” she said, angrily. “I will find my own map.”
The serving woman made a face at her but went. Roen turned, leaving Talcey blinking where he sat, and shouldered through the crowd. She knew what she had to do.
Roen approached the four DeMaris men. She noted how they were seated; none of them had their backs turned to the door. Two were arguing over which platter was to be claimed by whom, but the other two saw Roen approaching. Both men studied her with discerning eyes.
The two bickering men stopped their quarrel when she arrived. One looked her up and down, boldly. His face was ruddy, and he had at least eight looped earrings in his left ear, some of them gold. “Bit too young,” he said, grinning. “But when do I complain? My knee’s bare.” He slapped it. His earrings jangled.
“Still your tongue and your knee,” said the bearded one in the breastplate. He was their obvious leader—a thick-necked, thick-shouldered man with piercing blue eyes. The other mercenary murmured an apology to him, naming him Tomos. To Roen, Tomos said, “Out with your words, whatever they are.”
“The Knightlord decreed a ban on naked blades within his territories,” Roen said, chin up, shoulders back. “Yet I see them all around. Axes, spears, even swords without sheaths. Why would so many men disobey their lord so openly?”
“He’s not my lord,” the one with the bare knee said with a snigger.
“Who cares to ask?” the second demanded, bristling.
“The Knightlord’s daughter,” Tomos answered quietly. All eyes went to him and then back to Roen, widening.
I am already on this path, she thought. I cannot waver now. She was going to tell them anyway.
“I am Roen ven Dorn,” she said. “And Mooring stands within my father’s auspices. He would not be pleased by this.”
The nearest man grinned. “Does the Black Wolf always whelp such fiery bitches? I’ll need to come here to find my wife.”
“Zhadran girls would eat your cock, Bares,” the quarrelsome one said, scowling. “And not in a good way. They breed with the beast-bloods, this far north.” He bore the shield-symbol tattoo on his forearm and wore two gold rings in his nose; he also had as many earrings as the other man, if not more—though they were all in his right ear—and had a swarthy complexion as well. Roen thought he and Bares might be brothers.
Tomos said to Roen, “You speak to us in your lord father’s name. Yet it is he who drew us here. And not just us, by the look of it.” He waved his hand, indicating all the other armed men within Haver House’s common room.
“She does not know, captain,” the tallest of the DeMaris men said, quietly. His face was solemn, with a long jaw, and clean-shaven. His brown eyes were deep-set, almost mournful, and they studied Roen intently.
“Dalvor?” The leader glanced at him.
“Dorn would have no cause to tell his daughter,” the man named Dalvor said simply. His eyes did not leave Roen. “The question is, what are you doing here, girl, amidst all this, alone and without guard?”
“I am not alone,” Roen said, careful to speak her words evenly. “I have a boy with me. A servant. And I am a Dorn,” she said, a little more fiercely than intended. “I am not afraid of mercenaries.”
The DeMaris man called Bares snickered. His eager knee bounced again as he said, “Sod it, I’m going to marry her.”
Their leader leaned forward, seeming to hold a new regard for Roen. “A bold girl, no doubt. Tell me, child, did you only come to chide us for our weapons, or did you have a different message in mind?” He seemed to have left something unsaid—something she was perhaps supposed to pick up on, but she could not even begin to guess what it might be.
“I came for your maps,” she said after a moment.
Dalvor’s eyebrow lifted. “Maps.”
“What sort, and what do you need them for?” asked the captain.
“My father entrusts his most important messages only to his blood,” she said, her words far bolder than she felt. “My brother Ralton left with a message but never reached Mooring,” she said. “My father’s heir went north to seek him, I came here.” None of it was a lie.
“If what you say is true, and he is not here, it would seem as though your journey is done,” Dalvor said. “What map need you, if you are only going to turn tail for home?”
“I will not turn tail,” Roen said fiercely. Then, more evenly, “I need to find my brother. It could be that he passed through. South, or…or north, to Onby.” She only knew Onby because she’d heard her father speak of it earlier.
In half a moment, Tomos had the food and drinks cleared to the side, and a massive map of his own was spread out across the table. Roen could see the road from Dorn Keep to Mooring—such a short distance, it seemed—to Onby in the north, which was farther than she thought. There were more than a few smaller villages on the road between. Beyond, she could see half of the north, everything within the auspices of Crown’s Reach; she saw Zhadra’s former territories, Ravenna and Baltanya, and the Black Wood to the east, and the rest of Zhadra, including the capital, Zav Zhadra, to the west. She saw Bastion in the north, and more Zhadran towns than she had ever even heard of. Beyond Zhadra sprawled the rest of the Northern Kingdoms: princely Palador, lush Lacéne, wondrous Waldonia, verdant Vertaes, grim Gault, and many more. She saw the Storming Sea—though on Tomos’s grand map it looked to be only the size of a very large lake—and she saw the Thormir Strait that fed it, curling north from the massive Silver Sea, a blue sprawl that seemed to be the end of everything at the furthest bottom of the map. She saw the Stagged Mounts, sentinel in the north, and saw the sprawling Eldeshae Forest, evergreen and ever growing in the far west…
Talcey and I can go anywhere, Roen thought. Anywhere at all. She wondered what lay beyond the map. The thought buzzed, awakened in her weary, numbed mind.
“Onby.” Dalvor rubbed his chin, stabbing at the town with his finger. “That’s more than a march. Three days at least, assuming your brother remains a-horse. But even if he bypassed all eyes in Mooring, he is not there yet.” Dalvor’s eyes went to Roen, studying her.
“Then I need to go after him,” she said quickly. “There is…another message. If he cannot deliver it, then I must.” That one skirted close to a lie. She did not look at Dalvor when she said it.
Tomos smiled grimly. “Brave girl. I would have my men escort you,” he said, “but our business is with your lord father. As is the business of all the men here. You and your servant may have to risk the Northway alone.” He removed a very large dagger from its sheath, driving it into the table with a loud thunk.
Roen gave him a questioning look. “For you,” Tomos said. “Sharper than the cutlery you carry now.” His look brought her eyes back down to the kitchen knife she had sticking up out of her belt.
I gave an entire indignant rant about naked blades, she thought with dark chagrin. Yet here I was with one of Marne’s knives, bare as any. Roen resisted the urge to rub at her face.
“You may keep it,” Tomos said, “so long as our dealings with your father go as expected. I will tell him he can repay the blade with one of his own. An even trade.”
The Knightlord would never see a mercenary’s blade as equal to Dorn-forged steel, she knew. But then another thought crossed her mind. They never did say why they came.
Roen looked at Dalvor. “What is this that you say I do not know? Tell me now.” She knew how to be demanding as well as anyone. Some people expected it of a knightlord’s daughter.
Dalvor looked hesitant to say, but his captain did not seem to care. “War, girl,” Tomos said softly. “Your lord father marches anon, and we march with him. South, to join the bulk of the Zhadran forces and engage the opposition in Lacéne. Your duke means to be a king again, and he is paying a king’s ransom to make it so.”
“Glory to the Guildhouse,” he said quietly, grimly, after a pause. The rest answered solemnly, as one:
“Glory for gold. Glory for DeMaris.”
“Your offer seemed to favor us at first glance,” Dalvor said. “Your horse in trade for the captain’s map.” The mercenary was squinting in the afternoon sun. The rain in Mooring had ceased for the moment, allowing a sliver of daylight down through the layered clouds, though the wind, brisk and stubborn from the east, was still cold.
After a moment he glanced at Roen and added, dryly, “Only the horse part of the deal seems to be missing.”
Roen stared at the empty horse rail, panic stabbing through the haze made by lack of sleep. They all stood in the mud, four steps in front of Haver House’s ugly front door—Roen, Talcey, and three of the DeMaris men—right where Roen had tied Verity to the hitching post only an hour before. There was no sign of the mare, nor any sign of the grubby boy Talcey had paid the copper nubs to watch her. She cursed herself. It was not only that she had been too trusting; by not thinking to even check on the horse, Roen had given the thief more than ample time to ride off with their valuable mount. Stupid! And now they had no way to pursue.
Talcey made a confused croaking sound that aptly communicated his own dismay.
“I will kill that boy,” Roen snarled, pacing, her fists balling. People were much more hesitant to steal things at Dorn Keep, as it usually cost them their lives.
“He’s not gone far,” said Hondour, the DeMaris man with the nose rings and the permanent sneer. “If the Knightlord’s daughter wants him dead, the guildhouse will see it so.” He smiled a smile that was not a smile at all.
“No—no killing,” Roen said quickly. She sometimes forgot the power of her words. And she would not put it past a sour mercenary like Hondour to gut a child in the street.
“Guildhouse DeMaris has served your family, steadfastly, many times through the years,” Dalvor said. “Fates willing, we will continue that relationship.” He turned to Bares. “Find Lady Roen’s horse. See that the boy who stole it is brought to face his accuser, if you can, but the horse takes precedence.”
Bares looked a little annoyed at being given the task, but he touched the shield tattooed on his forearm—a gesture of deference—and nodded just the same. Captain Tomos had remained inside to settle their lunch debt, so Dalvor had the command here; his words, though softly spoken, had steel beneath them. Bares double checked Verity’s description with Roen and went off, earrings jangling.
Dalvor turned to Roen once he was gone. “If the thief has any sense, he is already fled from Mooring. If we are lucky, he sold your horse quickly, or passed it off to more capable hands here in town. Young thieves often have only a handful of contacts, and most work for older, smarter thieves. If the horse was taken from this town, there are several hamlets along the way to Onby, or south to Huvalstod, where he could reasonably fetch a quick trade.”
Roen nodded, not knowing what else to do, silently fretting all the while. Dorn Keep’s guards could be on them at any moment. The DeMaris men still did not know she was a runaway, and she needed to keep it that way.
But chances were slim that Captain Tomos would give her that map without a horse to trade! She tried to focus her thoughts. What can we do now?
Dalvor continued, “Either way, this leaves you in a quandary. I am going to suggest to Captain Tomos that we escort you back to your lord father’s keep. The errand to find your brother and deliver your message needs be delayed.”
“My father owns more than one horse,” Roen said quickly, which itself was no lie. “Talcey and I can take another from the stables by the dock.” She had seen a rickety looking set of stables when they passed the river wharf. And though she knew that was not the real answer to their dilemma, Roen could not let Dalvor know her true intents.
Dalvor’s eyebrow lifted. “I was curious how you were going to continue your quest after our trade. That answers that. The Knightlord’s influence is strong as ever, if his daughter can acquire a mount unquestioned.” Dalvor’s heavy-lidded eyes gave the man a perpetually sleepy look, but they missed very little; it seemed to Roen that he was watching her more intently now. She did her best not to squirm under his gaze.
“Guildhouse DeMaris will be thanked for whatever help they can provide,” Roen said, trying to sound as brusque as the Knightlord would. “But Talcey and I must continue on regardless. Every hour that passes is another that takes Ralton farther away from Dorn Keep.” That much was true. Roen fervently hoped Doryan the Younger had not caught him yet. She feared for Ralton’s future if he had.
“As you say,” Dalvor said quietly. He was still watching Roen with those heavy eyes. She dreaded he would be able to read her true intent on her face, so she turned to Talcey.
“We are going,” she said. Talcey was smart enough not to ask why she was leaving without waiting for the map.
Talcey was having a hard time of it. He stumbled on stones and stepped in the occasional water-filled divot, which made him mutter irritably to himself. Roen glanced back from time to time, making sure he was still on his feet and following. He looked confused, and as haggard as she’d ever seen him. The lack of sleep was taking a greater toll on the stable boy than it was on her, but to his credit he did not voice it, save for being annoyed with himself.
He was also yawning constantly, which made her yawn in turn. He was slowing her down, she knew. But she could not simply leave him behind. Talcey had been her best friend for years—had always been with her, by her side in spirit if not in step. He was the one stalwart who did not fault her for being a girl, and though he was a common boy with more than a few fears, befriending the Knightlord’s daughter had not been one of them. Talcey was brave in his own way. Roen was glad for his company.
He yawned again and so did she. Roen was not immune to exhaustion, no matter what she pretended. She noticed her thoughts drifting more, the longer she went without rest. They would have to get some sleep somewhere, even if just a little. But they simply could not afford to now. They needed to be away from Mooring—out from under the Knightlord’s long shadow. The fear that his men might appear at any moment kept her pace brisk.
They arrived at the river wharf in good time. Mooring Lake and the Wurdulac River were the town’s primary source of business, and though the dock was small, it was crowded with fishermen’s shacks, trade stalls, and storage sheds, with several decrepit buildings—looming wooden depots and miniature warehouses—pressed up against the quay. Each structure seemed an easy threat to collapse at any moment and take every plank with it into the lake. The walkways between the buildings on the wharf were narrow corridors, barely alleys at all, trash-filled and muddy and stinking of suet. Few people used them to access the river quay, so the alley walls were mud-spattered affairs in terrible disrepair, with whole slabs of wooden siding splintered and cracked, and none of it painted.
Roen and Talcey made their way through what seemed to be the narrowest of the alleys. Roen led the way; there was not enough room for them to walk abreast. They picked their way across bags of refuse and scattered, mud-covered fish bones.
Soon, Talcey’s questions came. “Can we really get another horse?” he asked hopefully. “Without any money, I mean?”
“No,” Roen said, stepping over a discarded burlap sack that smelled like rotten fish. “We are not taking a horse.”
“Oh,” Talcey sighed, disappointed. He lagged behind again. After a moment he seemed to have a new thought, and slogged to catch up. “But…isn’t walking too slow? We don’t want to be too slow, right?”
Roen resisted a wry chuckle. She knew Talcey did not want to walk. A part of her was bemused that he was trying to wheedle her by tugging at her need for pace; anyone who knew Roen well understood she was not the most patient girl in the world. But then how many other people truly knew her?
Only Talcey. And Andric, perhaps, though she had not seen her brother in nearly three years. Andric and Talcey had gotten along quite well too, and Talcey had cried almost as much as Andric had, when her brother left Dorn Keep for Bastion. Roen had yet to even read Andric’s letter; there was just no time for it, and the letter remained folded and wrinkled within her tunic. Before I sleep, she promised herself. I will read his words then. She hoped she could find him. Surely the letter would give some clue as to where he could be found.
But first they had to get away. Far away.
“We are taking a boat,” Roen said at last, determined. “Mooring Lake has the Wurdulac River, and no roads follow it, not until Havsk Bridge, which is at least a day away.” It was not even that far, but Roen knew they would be traveling upriver the entire way. She was secretly amazed that she remembered any lore regarding Mooring and its environs, though the fact that Stablemaster Haered spoke of it surely counted for something; had Dam Dirch nattered on about it, Roen surely would have forgotten, and probably purposefully. Most of Haered’s lessons took root.
They still did not know if Haered was safe himself. The thought worried Roen more than she wanted to admit, though she was not going to mention that to Talcey; they had discussed Talcey’s father on the ride to Mooring, and it had made him cry. Roen told Talcey they would write to him once they knew they were both safe. They both agreed Haered would want Talcey to be safe above all else.
She pushed thoughts of Haered forcibly from her mind. “Have you ever been on a boat?”
Talcey paused a step. “No.” He then hurried after her again, stumbling to keep up. “But I want to. I didn’t know you knew how to work a boat!”
“I do not,” Roen admitted. She had never been on a boat either, in truth. “But a fisherman might take us where we want to go if we offer him something he wants.” Roen had no idea what a fisherman might want. But leaving by river seemed the only option now—especially if the DeMaris men thought they were taking a horse.
Talcey held a moment of puzzled silence, then seemed to brighten. “A boat is better than horseback. We can even sleep, maybe.”
“Might be.” She was not going to make any promises. Roen paused as they came to a narrow alley crossing—the poorest sort of square where four buildings met and where each apparently decided to drop the wolf’s share of its garbage. Roen decided which path seemed quickest to the river quay, and went, picking with careful steps through the garbage whilst holding her nose. Talcey followed doing likewise.
It was a poor choice. The long alley ended in a tall, splintery fence. Roen thought she might be able to scale it with a running climb but knew Talcey would not. She sighed and gestured for him to turn around.
“Have you thought of, um, what we will do?” Talcey asked as he led the way back.
“Do? When?”
“Once we get away and start our new lives,” he said.
It was an innocent enough question, but she was loath to admit she had not thought that far ahead. “We can do anything we want,” she said quietly. “We will be free. What do you want to do?”
Talcey was happy to oblige with his own ideas. “We can raise horses,” he said, somewhat dreamily. “Once we get some coin, we can buy some horses cheap, and maybe build a stable. I could build a small one, and I can breed horses too. We can set up near a crossroads and offer rides from town to town. And from that money we can buy more horses. We could have a farm, only it would be a horse farm.”
Roen smiled at him, impressed. “We could,” she said. “We could even set up way-stables, where people could trade tired horses for fresh ones.” A horse farm seemed a funny notion, yet for some reason it felt akin to paradise if it could be made reality.
“We—we wouldn’t even have to be married,” Talcey added shyly. “Not right away. Maybe someday.” Those words were quieter.
Roen almost stumbled on a rock. She felt her face flush. Normally a suggestion like that might earn Talcey a cuff on his ear or a slug to the shoulder. He knew she did not like boys in that way—she had told him that plainly, plenty of times. Especially ones that are my friends, she thought, though she was not quite sure why she felt that way. The very thought of even kissing Talcey was hard to fathom. But…
A part of her felt a strange sort of warmth in her friend’s softly worded revelation. Just the fact that he was willing. He does not see the ugly girl I see in that mirror, she realized. She was not sure how that made her feel, exactly.
They arrived back at the garbage-filled alley crossroad. Roen slipped past Talcey; she chose the southernmost alley this time, and went with no words, head down, not wanting him to see her reddened face. She knew every one of her freckles would be lit up like stars. I have not even said anything in answer, she thought, still slightly flustered. He was probably blushing too. She should say something.
But she had no words for that. She finally just said, “First we have to find a boat. One that will take us.”
“Boats, is it?” chuckled a man in front of her. Roen tripped and nearly fell when she saw Hondour not five paces ahead, leaning against a splintered wall, arms crossed. She went cold, knowing their deception was at an end.
“No horses to be found?” Hondour asked. “And here I thought your lordly father held sway over all he could see. I thought, for some reason, that you commanded this entire town.” He gestured expansively. The rings in his nose made his sneer more pronounced. “But no, not now. Now you’re simply running away. That will be news to the captain. You’re craftier than you should be, little wolf. It’s not nice to lie to your betters.”
Despite the sinking feeling in her stomach, the mercenary’s words raised Roen’s ire. “You are not my better,” she spat back.
“The better man is the one with the longer sword,” Hondour said with a laugh. He pushed himself off the wall and took a step toward her.
Roen stepped back and away, back into the trash-filled crossway, wary to keep her feet under her in case she needed them to be quick. But Talcey was not quite so agile; he ended up on his backside in the garbage as soon as he tried to take one backward step.
Hondour smiled disdainfully. “Come along now. If I must pull you back to Tomos by the ear, I’ll keep it as a souvenir.” He took another step forward, one hand lazily tapping the hilt of his sword.
“We are not going back,” Roen said, stubbornly.
“I say otherwise.” Hondour laughed again, earrings jingling. He drew his sword and waved the tip in front of Roen’s nose. Sunlight glimmered on the blade. Roen froze. “In fact…”
The DeMaris mercenary switched his grip on the sword, turning it in his hand. With one quick flick of his wrist he sent the flat of the blade down hard on Roen’s thigh. Slap! She cried out. The cold, naked steel stung.
“I think you need to learn some manners,” Hondour said, his quiet words holding a more menacing air. “You and I…we’re going to get to know each other before I haul your arse back.” His grin was predatory. “I’m going to yank down those man-breeches and bare that noble backside of yours, just to see if a highborn girl’s arse is any better than mine.”
He slapped her thigh with his blade again. Pap! “And if it isn’t, well, I’m going to put it over my knee.” He whacked her again. Pap! “And I’m going to redden your backside in ways your knightly father never drea—”
Roen lunged forward as soon as the man brought his sword back up. With her left hand she ripped the dagger from her belt—the one Captain Tomos had given her—and swung it out wide. Hondour’s eyes went immediately to the blade, as she had hoped. Roen’s right hand was already cocked back in a fist, and she took one more step into him and brought it straight forward, with all her strength in one swift motion, connecting hard with Hondour’s nose. It broke with an audible pop, blood spattering his mouth and chin. One of his nose rings went flying and pinged off the wall.
Hondour stumbled back, eyes wide, earrings chiming, dropping his sword in a backwards scramble to keep from going prone in the alley.
A dozen options flashed through Roen’s mind before the mercenary could even attempt to regain his balance. Most of them involved fleeing—and most were immediately discarded. Might be I could outrun him, she thought. But Talcey could not. And she was not about to leave her best friend to Hondour’s mercies.
A more savage impulse told her to kill the man while she could. She had a good dagger and the advantage, being well inside his reach in a narrow alleyway. He was still dazed even as he struggled to find his feet, his eyes clouded by tears he could not blink away. One hard cut across the throat…
But she could not. Roen was no killer, and Hondour, though vile, did not threaten her life. Were this encounter ever made public, the Knightlord would bring Hondour to Trail Hill and hang him, just for having the audacity to strike a highborn girl, but…
I am not he.
Hondour should thank every god he knew for that. A large part of Roen was thankful too.
She swung the heavy pommel of the dagger at his temple instead, hoping to knock him senseless—but that smallest fraction of hesitation had cost her dearly. Hondour caught her wrist in his strong hand before the strike could land. He squeezed hard—pain shot up Roen’s arm, and she cried out. Hondour snarled, twisted, and yanked the dagger from her grasp. It clattered and spattered mud when it hit the grimy alley floor.
“You sodded little bitch,” Hondour snarled. Blood dribbled from his upper lip and dripped from his lower, his teeth painted a ghastly red. The mercenary grabbed a handful of Roen’s hair and, in one swift motion, yanked her sideways, dashing her head against the wall. Pain blossomed in her skull for the third time in as many days.
The alley spun in her vision. Hondour shoved his other hand into her hair as well, nearly lifting her from her feet; her boots made a sucking sound as they were pulled from the mud of the alley floor. The mercenary was terrifyingly strong. “See how you like a broken nose,” he snarled. He turned her face to the alley wall. Roen braced for more pain.
“Let go of her!” a high-pitched voice squealed. There was a meaty thunk—and Hondour did let go, releasing Roen and howling in agony. She tumbled from his grasp and fell with a heavy splat to the alley floor.
Talcey had scooped up the dagger Roen had dropped, and he had brought it down, hard and two-fisted, onto Hondour’s foot. The dagger’s blade was stuck through the mercenary’s boot, pinning his foot to the ground. The dagger’s handle quivered but held true; the blade was sunk deep.
“You fat little—” Hondour gurgled. He tried to yank the dagger from his foot with shaking hands but could not. Even touching the blade was agony. Roen rose unsteadily, pushing herself off the alley wall. She tried to reach for Hondour’s dropped sword, but her balance was still suspect, and she could not get to it before vertigo forced her to her knees. She even missed a grab at the wall and fell back onto her hip.
Talcey was there. “Roen, we have to go!” He was crying again, tears making streaks down his muddied cheeks, but Roen had never seen him so brave. He pulled her to her feet and pushed her back down the alley, straight away from Hondour, and quickly. She stumbled as she went, half-blind and head ringing, north this time, parallel to the river quay.
The snap of a crossbow twine echoed behind them in the alley.
Roen heard Talcey exhale loudly, as if all the breath had been punched from his lungs. He stumbled and fell heavily.
When she turned to help him rise, she saw, to her horror, the crossbow quarrel sticking out of his back. Still, the stable boy did his best to get back to his feet. He looked equal parts determined, frightened, and confused. He tried to say her name again but all that came was a wheeze of air—and he fell to his knees again. Blood was quickly soaking the back of his muddy tunic and drops of it began dotting the ground beneath him.
Behind him, Hondour was reloading his crossbow, murder in his eyes.
Roen yelled Talcey’s name in his ear, exhorting him to rise. Tears flooded her eyes as she tried to help him—no, drag him—back to his feet. He did what he could, but his legs would not obey. Still, he clutched her. His face was so close to hers, eyes wide. He was terrified.
“Come…on…!” she snarled at him through gritted teeth. With every muscle she had, Roen lifted Talcey out of the mud.
But she saw Hondour bringing the crossbow to bear again, and knew their chance was lost. Roen dropped Talcey, lest she inadvertently use him as a shield, and raised her hands in surrender.
“I will go with you!” she shouted at Hondour. “But Talcey needs help! Please! Don’t hurt him anymore! I will go with you!” She was panicked, desperate.
“You’ll go to hell,” Hondour snarled. He aimed. She was dead, she knew. There was no place to hide.
Hondour never fired.
The mercenary paused, as though some strange thought had suddenly occurred to him. His jaw slackened…and then his hands lowered. The crossbow slipped from his fingers and fell to the mud. Hondour swayed, slowly, back and forth, and then…
Roen saw blood trickling in rivulets down Hondour’s cheeks, like tears, just before his blood-filled eyes rolled to the back of his head. She could not see what had struck him, but when Hondour crumpled to the alley floor, dark red blood was pooling beneath his head. The DeMaris man bore no wounds save for his stabbed foot and broken nose, yet his life ran out in thin red rivers from his eyes and ears.
An unarmed man stood not ten paces behind Hondour in the alley.
“Child,” Malacai said, softly.
“No!” Roen shouted. Malacai frightened her—almost absurdly—more than any mere mercenary ever could. He was like a monster from a dream, one from which she could not escape. She knew he had just killed Hondour, impossible though it seemed, even though she had no reasonable explanation of how. She only knew she had to flee. Roen grabbed Talcey’s shoulder, trying to pull him to his feet, but the stable boy was not responding at all now, and her slick hands could find no purchase on his blood-soaked shoulder and arm.
She slipped. Talcey fell heavily and pitched sideways, half-sitting in a crumpled pose against the alley wall. His young face was a pale mask of confusion. Weak as he was, he tried to lift his head and speak, but only choked. The blood that filled his lungs began spilling out of his nose and mouth, steaming in the cool air.
Roen’s most primal instincts were still telling her to run. But now she could not. This was her fault. She dropped to her knees at Talcey’s side, tears welling in her eyes. I should never have brought him! Never. Never!
Roen had not wanted to be alone. And because of that, her best friend was going to die.
She cradled him, knowing not what else to do. Talcey’s body jerked and twitched in her arms as he struggled for those last breaths. Malacai stood where he was, watching her, patient, as though simply waiting—a small, black-cloaked observer taking very little interest in the dying boy in her arms.
“Please,” Roen choked, peering up at the slight man through tear-blurred eyes. “You can do things, I—I know you can do things. Magic things! Please, can you help him?” She would go with him willingly if he could somehow save Talcey. She swore she would. She should never have run in the first place.
He gave only the slightest tilt of his head. “It is not magic that I possess,” Malacai said. “My talent lies elsewhere. I could aid him, however. At the Blackstone.”
There was no time for any form of relief—only the shortest spark of hope was struck in her heart—before he snuffed it with words spoken directly into her mind:
She stared at him. Talcey had finally stilled in her arms. His blood was cooling where it had stained, all down the front of her tunic. His own pale cheek was sticky with it. One more time she pleaded, “Please.” Tears continued to spill down her face.
“No,” said Malacai. “His epitaph lies here. His flesh, blood, and bones will return to the earth. His shade will walk the Shadowrealm. All else that remains will find a better place. The rest is a lesson for you.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Every loss is a lesson, each with its own instruction. From our losses do we, the fortunate, strive to learn.”
“Why?” she asked, louder, voice cracking. She was shaking now.
“So that we ourselves may persist.”
“Why let him die if you can save him? It is me you want, is it not?” She knew he had an interest in her that defied explanation. It all seemed so preposterous. “I—I will go with you! We both will!” The words chilled her even as she said them. “Just—just let him live!”
“The boy means nothing to me,” Malacai said, as cold as death. “He does not have your gift. He has only a soul, and though a soul speaks to potential, it is not enough. In my care he would be but a specimen for study, a fly with wings pinned to glass. That is no life to envy.”
“He means something to me!” Roen sobbed. She was crumbling. “Please!”
Only the shortest heartbeat of pause between them passed before Malacai answered.
Roen’s hand flew to the small of her back, grabbing Marne’s kitchen knife, still stuck in her belt—the one miniscule weapon she had left—even as she sprung to her feet, lunging forward. I will make him, she thought wildly, I will make him do it, even though Talcey had already breathed his last. His blood had gone sticky and cold.
But one step did not beget two. The alley pitched sideways, somehow, twisting in her vision. Roen was thrown into the splintery wall of the building, landing roughly on her shoulder. The knife fell away from her fingers and skittered out of sight.
Malacai stood as still as a statue, motionless in the alley, sideways in her blurred vision.
His eyes, dark as the blackest night, bore into her.
The next thing she felt was the dark. It descended like a hammer to her head, and that was all.