He pushed the door to the study open and threw the letter into the fire.
A woman stood as he entered, sparing only a glance for the letter burning in the grate. Her deep-blue gown and green sash accented her red hair and perfect complexion. A blood-red cloak hung around her shoulders.
“Who are you?” the king growled. “How did you get in here?”
“You sent for me, Your Majesty, and now I am here.” Her voice cascaded like a stream flowing over smooth pebbles, low and sibilant. She bowed her head and curtsied low.
He looked her up and down. “You are the mage Blaire summoned from the Ice Deserts?”
“I am Redalia, his messenger.”
The king gestured for her to sit in a circle of chairs by the window. She chose the red velvet.
“Miss Redalia, this is my most trusted advisor, Lord Blaire.” She inclined her head to him. “We have had confirmation that Hálendi declared war on Turia. We still have what you seek.” Redalia’s long, sharp fingernails scratched the velvet arm of her chair. “However, I need assurance your master won’t interfere on the Plateau.” The king crossed one knee over the other and stroked the ring on his smallest finger.
A spot of light reflecting from the high window trembled on the wall next to Redalia’s chair. “I assure you, Your Majesty, his designs are not for the Plateau.”
The king steepled his thin fingers beneath his pointed chin. “There are many rulers on the Continent, many lands that bicker among themselves. They are hardly capable of standing against a mage. The Plateau is a much better prize. So why does he settle for less?”
Redalia brushed her hands over the satin folds of her dress. “Let’s just say there is a certain draw to the Continent.”
She looked between him and Blaire. Blaire broke first. “Surely you understand our dilemma, Miss Redalia. We are bound by our allegiances and our geography with no opportunity to expand, and as a result our people are suffocated. Fighting and sickness run rampant. We need more of a foothold on the Plateau. And until we have that, unfortunately, we must hold on to our bargaining chip.” His gaze stayed fixed somewhere around her chin.
Redalia tilted her head back, and a wave of red hair brushed her shoulders. “What assurance would you have?”
The king smiled. “I want him to send me something from the Continent. I want proof he’s left the Plateau.”
Redalia’s left eye ticked ever so slightly. “I cannot offer you that at this time, Your Majesty.”
“Then we cannot deliver your manuscript at this time.” The king stood and gestured to the door. “Tell your master I would like to meet with him in person—not with a messenger, delightful though you are.”
She stood and brushed her cloak behind her, a gold dagger winking from her side. “I will give him the message.”
The king waited until the door had closed to speak again. “I do not trust her. Make sure the information is secure, Blaire. If she gets what she wants before we claim our land—”
“Of course, Your Majesty. I will make sure it is safe.” He tugged on his robe and hurried out of the room.
Blaire didn’t stop until he stood at the fireplace in his bedroom. A brick near the edge came loose as he tugged. But before he could get the block out, something—someone—laughed behind him. It was a soft sound, but chills crawled down his spine.
He turned. Redalia sat in a chair by his bed. She smiled as if they shared a secret.
Her hand caressed the gold dagger in her lap. “Show me what you’ve been hiding.”
Blaire stared at the dagger, then pulled the loose brick from the wall completely and placed a tattered scroll on the table between them.
She stood and slammed her dagger into the table, pinning the top of the parchment in place, then gently unrolled the scroll. Her eyes scanned the page, a furrow marring her brow. Before Blaire could blink, she was behind him with her knife at his throat.
“This is the manuscript?” she snarled. “Where is the location of the Black Library?”
“I— Yes. It says right here, ‘The Black Library is in a castle of rock inside a cave in the Wastelands.’ ”
“Which cave?” She dug the knife into his neck until blood dotted the blade. “What is this key it speaks of?”
“I don’t know what it is,” Blaire sputtered, “only that you must have the key to access the library.” Redalia hissed, pressing into his throat harder, and he rushed on. “Wait, there’s more!” Redalia eased the dagger away. “The location is stated more explicitly in Scribe Jershi’s manuscript about the Gray Mage.” He twisted so he could look up at her.
“And where, dear Blaire”—she bit out his name—“is this manuscript about Graymere?”
“I have tracked Jershi’s travels.” Redalia tightened her hold on him. “Only recently have I found he traveled to Turia to write and study. There is no other place the manuscript could be!”
“How certain are you, love?” Her voice quieted like the breath before a scream.
“I am positive! And the key is in Turia as well.” Blaire was panting now, and sweat ran freely from his greasy hair. A trickle of blood trailed down his neck and stained his purple robe.
“And did you ever stop to think, Blaire dear, what the consequences would be when I showed up and you didn’t have the location? Did you forget that, at your request, we just started a war in Turia, and that the entire palace will now be more heavily guarded than ever? I could have found the manuscript within a day if not for that!”
Blaire’s face drained of color.
“It’s you, isn’t it! You’re the Red Mage—”
She slid her dagger across his neck and then shoved it into his side. Blood gushed onto her hand, but she held the blade there until his life drained out of his eyes.
“Yes, it’s me,” she snarled. Blood soaked the front of her dress as she stalked away, but she preferred it that way.
The road wound through patches of trees—boscos, Irena had called them—and wide open fields. New life bubbled from every corner of the land. Row after row of bushy plants—carrots, potatoes, and others I’d never seen—grew next to acres of spring wheat, still green. Low walls and irrigation ditches hedged the different crops. And there was always some source of clean water nearby I could drink from as long as the farmers didn’t see.
I even passed through a few orchards, inhaling the rich scent of their blossoms and brushing my fingers along the soft petals as I walked by. The weather in Hálendi was too unpredictable for those, but when the carts rolled in from Turia it was a day of celebration. I couldn’t imagine having such luxury every day.
I lifted Irena’s blouse from where it stuck to my neck. The heat here sank into your skin, burrowing in as if you’d never be comfortable again. I understood the shorter skirts, now.
Farmers worked in the fields, backs bent like they’d been out for hours. My hat concealed enough that they hardly paid me any mind, but that itching between my shoulder blades returned. I brushed away the sensation and nodded at anyone who acknowledged me until I could breathe free amid the uninhabited boscos.
The houses here were mostly like Lorenz and Irena’s—square, with peaked rooftops and brick chimneys—although some had two stories. They lacked the bright colors of Hálendian homes—no red or purple doors peeking through grass or snow; most here were just brown. But the land made up for that. Shades of green and yellow, splashes of white and blue and pink flowers.
Flies and bees tumbled through the air drunkenly from one patch of flowers to the next, and holes and burrows dotted the side of the road, though their inhabitants stayed out of sight. And the whole time as I walked toward Teano, I kept thinking that Turia wouldn’t have been such a bad place to make my home.
When the stars finally emerged, I climbed a tree and tucked myself into its branches—high enough to be out of reach f
rom anything on the ground, but not so high I’d break anything if I accidentally fell. The tethers didn’t hurt quite as much as they used to, the ache diminishing a little every passing hour. The ache was fading, but the memory was not. I closed my eyes and drifted toward sleep. Regular food, water, and even the walking were slowly restoring my body. But would the scars ever fully disappear?
* * *
I made it to Teano by midafternoon the next day, making good time through the fields.
It wasn’t big enough to get lost in, so I wandered into the wide streets, inhaling the fragrance of purple flowers that climbed all over the buildings. Villagers meandered down the streets toward the center of town, so I followed, hoping I’d come across the market where Lorenz had said I could hire a cart.
The village was a giant oval, with shorter, smaller houses and shops on the outskirts, and taller buildings near the center, though none of them were more than three stories. I’d never been in a village on my own, and so many people watching me kept my nerves buzzing. Lorenz’s directions had been vague; would someone figure out I didn’t belong?
Irena was right—I would not have gone unnoticed in my own clothes. The women wore skirts and blouses, some long and bright, others shorter like mine, though it seemed the older the woman, the longer the skirt. Most wore scarves to hold back their dark hair, with long tails of color trailing behind them. Men of all ages wore trousers, and shirts with three buttons at the neck and no collar. They moved differently than Hálendians, not slower, but smoother, like each step was a dance.
A few gave me odd looks for my hat and boots, but most were busy talking to their friends, absorbed in some sort of village drama, as we all flowed inward. In the center, a plat, Lorenz had called it, opened, revealing a wide expanse of grass and gravel, and carts full of produce and other wares to sell. Here was the market—not along each street, like in Hálenborg.
A massive building made of ancient yellowed bricks loomed over the plat, with weather-beaten stone animals standing guard at the corners. I wandered toward it as I studied the contents of the wagons lined up and the shops lucky enough to occupy the space.
“I didn’t think he’d really come,” said a girl to her friend. They walked arm in arm ahead of me, both with bright skirts with embroidered flowers at the waist and perfectly curled hair.
The friend rose on her tiptoes. “I know! But my mother said that she heard from the innkeeper’s husband that the prince would arrive tomorrow!” Her voice rose in pitch with each word until she was fairly screeching.
I stopped cold. The prince? A man bumped into my back, knocking my hat askew, then stepped around me muttering about distracted females. My stomach did a weird flip, and I fixed my hat. Part of me wanted to stay an extra day and see him. The rest of me sighed in relief that I’d missed him.
“Make way!” a booming voice shouted.
A horse and rider tromped straight through the plat, forcing villagers out of the way. The horse climbed directly up the worn, uneven steps of the large hall, and then the woman riding turned her mount to face the square. She took off her hat and slapped it against her leg, a frown marring her mud-spattered face.
A baby cried at a nearby stall, and the sour scent of something burning slithered through the air. The vibrant market had changed. I made my way toward the edge of the crowd, stepping slowly to avoid drawing anyone’s eye.
“What has happened?” a man called out from the front. “What news?”
The rider closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “War!” she shouted.
Gasps and murmurs rippled around me.
The rider waited until the crowd quieted again. “We are at war with Hálendi.”
War? Someone must have survived, then. And told the council what the mage had said about Marko sending him. I needed to get out of here. Fast.
Shouts erupted across the plat, everyone pushing toward the front, begging for more information. I snuck toward the nearest road, head down, and stepped hard on someone’s foot.
“Hey! Watch it!” a woman said.
“I’m sorry.” Reflex had me looking directly at her.
The woman blinked at my blue eyes and fair skin, her gaze darting to the stray hairs falling from Irena’s yellow scarf.
I slipped sideways and ducked my head again as I shouldered my way out of the square, waiting for an accusation to rise behind me. But it didn’t come. Not yet. I bumped into others as they hurried along the road going the opposite way, eager to see what the commotion was about, but I didn’t apologize, didn’t stop.
A dull roar came from the plat, the sound nipping at my heels. Curses ran through my head as I dodged down an empty side street. I followed it, almost jogging, my boots scuffing on the stone. I didn’t know how to get to Turiana from here. Lorenz had told me how to hire a cart but nothing more. And even if I did make it there, the chance of anyone letting me into the palace, let alone hiring me as a servant, had dwindled to nothing if our kingdoms were at war now.
Dread trickled into me, an icy drip down my neck and into my lungs. I skidded to a stop, chest heaving from even that short run out of the chaos of the square. I closed my eyes. The shivery dread settled in the center of my chest. My hands shook, and I turned to face the alley I’d just come from.
Bright sunshine illuminated everything. There was no shadowman there. But I knew one was coming.
I took off in the opposite direction. How many of those creatures were there? And how had it tracked me?
Only one more street to the edge of the village. I glanced over my shoulder as I tore around a corner as fast as I could—and plowed into something. Hard.
“Oof,” the thing grunted.
My hat flew backward, and I bounced off whatever I’d hit. Hands grabbed my arms, keeping me from crashing to the cobblestone.
“Whoa, are you all right?” a voice as smooth as a wide river asked. A brown stallion tossed its head nearby, its reins dangling where the young man talking to me must have dropped them.
“I—” My words dried up as I met his gaze. He was about my age, maybe a little older. His emerald-green eyes were startling against his olive skin and dark, curly hair—so brown it was almost black. A hint of stubble shadowed his jaw, and his thick eyebrows pulled low. His features weren’t as sharp as my people’s, yet he was undeniably handsome.
His eyes flicked over my face and widened, then met the gaze of the man standing next to him, older than us, with light-brown hair almost the same shade as his skin. The two stood apart from a larger group, everyone rushing to prepare their horses. The man’s hand was on his sword, his narrowed gaze focused on my hair, which was now spilling from Irena’s scarf.
My time was up. I twisted my arms out of the younger man’s grip and shoved him into his friend. The boy fell back with a yelp of surprise, and I grabbed his horse’s reins, leapt into the saddle, and kicked the horse’s sides, not daring to look behind.
Rushing wind overtook their shouts as I pounded out of the village and into the surrounding fields, bursting onto a road leading I didn’t care where, as long as it was away. I couldn’t believe I’d just stolen a horse, but I’d had to do something.
After the first bend, where a hill hid me from view, I veered off the road onto a small path next to a field, flying toward a bosco, where I hoped I could hide. I finally glanced over my shoulder and groaned.
The two men had followed. They’d seen where I’d gone. How had the boy found another horse so quickly?
The dread again tightened around my ribs, squeezing until goose bumps rose up and down my arms. My knees dug into the horse’s sides, patches of sunlight blinding me as he ran through the trees of the bosco.
My horse skidded into a meadow, front legs straightening so fast I almost flew over his head. My pursuers soon joined me, their horses sliding to a stop next to mine. They’d caught up, but that
worry no longer took priority.
There, in front of us, two shadowmen waited, black blades drawn, rays of light beating down on everything but them. The horse danced under me, and I turned his head, ready to flee the other way. But another shadowman waited for us there.
My horse reared up with a scream, sending me tumbling. Its hooves pounded into the soft ground, churning the wildflowers into pieces.
“No, don’t—” the older man started, but the boy had already dismounted. He hooked his arms under my shoulders and helped me scramble away from the stomping hooves. Both horses took off into the trees. The older man jumped down to stand between us and the enemy, and his horse bolted, too. Leaving us alone with the shadowmen.
“You shouldn’t have followed me,” I snapped under my breath as I shook off the boy’s help.
He positioned himself between me and the shadowmen ahead, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Of course I followed—you stole my horse!”
“We mean no harm!” the older man called, but our opponents’ only response was to raise their swords.
The boy faced the first two shadowmen; the older man faced the one now at our backs. “You should go,” the green-eyed boy said to me, his voice all edges and thorns, ready for battle. “Run.” He didn’t look nearly as scared as he should. The other man didn’t, either.
Run, Hafa and Leland had said. But if I’d stayed and helped Hafa, maybe things would have been different.
I untied the sweater from my waist, tossed it aside with my bag, and pulled my blade from its sheath. The ring of metal echoed around us.
“You should run,” I told the boy and his friend. I raised my sword, both hands gripping the hilt with white knuckles so the tip didn’t shake. The shadowmen each took a step closer, herding us together.
One flicked his hand, and a blast of energy raced toward us on the wind. It was invisible to the eye, yet the boy ducked to avoid it. My left hand shot forward, absorbing the power into my ring.
Shielded Page 15
