by Jaime Castle
“I knew I didn’t like him, Whit,” Sora said. “We should leave right now, before he turns on us, too.”
“Look,” Torsten said. “The Queen Regent sent me off in anger. When she sees what we return with, all will be forgiven. I will ensure you get what was promised, Thief.”
Whitney took a long hard look at the road from whence they came and scratched his chin. “Fine. But I swear: if you go back on it, I’ll burn that doll. Or maybe I’ll sneak back into your Royal Crypt and turn your beloved King’s old crown back into sand.”
“My word is my bond. If I’m unable to anoint you, I have friends in the castle who will honor my final request.”
“What about her?” he asked, nodding to Sora.
“I agreed upon nothing with her.”
“We’d be dead without her and you know it.”
“Perhaps there is redemption for you, Thief. Whether you fled and left me to die in those ruins or not, you returned and stood by to the end. But no Shieldsman, I, nor any other, can, in good conscience, bestow a name upon a known practitioner of the dark arts.”
“But you said it yourself, you’re not one.”
Torsten bit back his anger. “All I can offer is that she may walk free. I will say nothing of her malfeasance and see to it she is rewarded appropriately in autlas. Perhaps enough that she may pursue a decent art.” He eyed her disapprovingly with the last words.
“She saved us all! You said it yourself, Iam worked—”
“It’s okay, Whit,” Sora interrupted Whitney. “I don’t need a name or gold. The Crown’s never offered a poor, outsider like me anything anyway.”
“Well, then what do you want?”
Chimes from Yarrington Cathedral rang out before she could answer. Then the gate creaked as old gears inside the wall slowly turned, grinding against one another. The doors opened to reveal Wardric atop a strong, regal-looking horse. It had only been a few weeks and the already-elder statesmen of the King’s Shield looked as if he’d aged a decade. His graying hair and beard were haggard, his face creased like a stone quarry.
“Wardric, you have no idea how good it is to see a familiar face,” Torsten exclaimed cheerily. He chose not to dwell on how the two of them left things, almost killing each other. As Torsten stretched out his arms in greeting, Wardric’s expression was as solemn as it had been then.
“I figured you weren’t coming back,” he said.
“I have captured the Queen Regent’s traitorous brother and returned what was stolen. Please, I must speak to her.”
Wardric bit his lip. “You should come with me, Torsten.”
“What happened?”
“I dare not speak it here. Come.”
Torsten urged his horse forward, looking down upon it with shame in the light of Wardric’s tall steed. Whitney and Sora followed.
“Who are they?” Wardric asked.
“They helped me bring Redstar to justice and are to be rewarded justly.” Torsten glanced back at them. Whitney wore that same wry grin he’d been found wearing in the Yarrington dungeon on the day they’d met. Sora’s scowl, on the other hand, made him reach for his holy pendant he no longer wore. “They can be trusted.”
“So be it.”
Wardric spun his horse and Torsten caught up. It was only once he passed the guard’s tower he realized the state of Yarrington. He’d seen many cities, and—outside of the docks—the capital had always been the cleanest. No longer. It was as if the citizens had stopped working. Horse shog stained the streets. Beggars and paupers donned the porches of every shopfront, crowding the usually bustling entry plaza. Commotion broke out down one of the avenues, armed soldiers holding back a mob of rag-clad citizens hollering that they were starving.
“The Black Sands hit many granaries when they raided those towns,” Wardric explained as they rode as if reading Torsten’s mind. “As if the poor harvest this season from the drought wasn’t enough. Stores are low, and we had to send as much as we could to fortify our fortresses throughout the kingdom against possible uprising.”
“We should fortify the South first,” Torsten said. “I sent riders with news about the afhem gathering an army in the Fellwater Swamp. Did they reach you?”
“Yes.” Wardric reached into a satchel and removed Torsten’s necklace. It was covered in grime, barely recognizable as the holy eye. He handed it over.
Torsten exhaled as he took it and threw it back over his neck. He hadn’t realized how exposed he felt without it until it was back.
“I worried they wouldn’t make it,” he said.
“They’re safely locked up for spreading lies and fear-mongering.”
“Lies? Fear-mongering? I saw the force with my own eyes, Wardric. It’s the largest army we’ve faced in a decade, I swear to you.”
“It’s not me you must convince.”
“Oleander,” Torsten muttered to himself, hanging his head. “Surely Rand—”
“Is a spineless whelp,” he said, finishing Torsten’s sentence. “He stands guard outside her locked door while she sits with her son. Half the men whisper of a coup, the others have faith in Iam and the White.”
“How is the boy?”
Wardric brought his horse close and leaned over to whisper. “He still has not woken. The physicians say nothing more can be done, and now the Queen Regent won’t allow anybody in. He could already be dead for all we know.”
“Don’t speak like that!” Torsten snapped, less because he was angry, and more because if Pi was dead than his entire quest was in vain.
“Hey, what’re you two whispering about?” Whitney hollered from behind.
Torsten’s hands squeezed his reins so tight his knuckles went white as Brotlebir snow.
“Well, you know her better than anyone left,” Wardric said. “If that really is her brother, sate her with revenge, and then, maybe, she’ll open her damned eyes. Otherwise, we’re doomed to wind up like the others.”
“Others?” No sooner had the word left Torsten’s mouth than they reached the gates of the Glass Castle itself. Bodies hung by their necks from the parapets, some in robes, some stripped bare. At first, he thought they were all cultists but then recognized one.
“Deturo? What in the name of Iam?” Torsten traced his eyes.
“He couldn’t heal Pi. Nor could the others,” Wardric said.
Torsten didn’t know the royal physician well, but the old man had always been kind and as knowledgeable as his white beard was long.
Others were more doctors, healers, or clerics of Iam. There were also soldiers. Not King’s Shieldsmen, but many of them wore the armor of castle-guards. All dead.
“I must speak with her,” Torsten said.
“You’re the only one who can.”
Wardric knocked on the iron gate and it groaned. Torsten turned back to Whitney and Sora, who stared at the swinging bodies.
“You two might want to stay out here,” Torsten said.
“We should wait here,” Whitney said at the same time. “Smart. I’m beginning to think we should have stayed in the Woods.”
“I’ll call for you when this business is concluded.” Torsten whipped back around and gave his horse a kick. He zoomed beneath the limp legs of the royal physician, through the malodorous stink of death.
“I’ll be right out here!” Whitney called after him. “Waiting for what was promised!”
XXXIX
The Thief
“HOW LONG ARE YOU planning to wait?” Sora asked.
It had been only a few minutes but felt eons longer. The wind picked up after Torsten went inside, causing the many strung up bodies to batter the citadel walls like the drummers of a traveling troupe. If that wasn’t bad enough, there was the stench, and then still, the pair of King’s Shieldsmen who’d arrived to guard the gate.
For what could have been any number of reasons—from his fanciful yet tattered outfit to her ears—their gazes never left Whitney and Sora. Or it could have been because they were the only two people foolish
enough to be loitering on the street. Everyone else rushed by, going out of their way to pretend the public display of punishment wasn’t there.
“Just a few minutes more,” Whitney said, rubbing his hands together. The cold of winter was settling in and his thin, silk outfit didn’t help.
“You really think he’ll give you what you wanted?” she said. “A noble like him will never give a shog about two unlawful commoners.”
“You help steal one outfit and you’re a criminal now?”
“After meeting him, I’m starting to understand why Wetzel taught me underground.”
“You’re learning. Thieves, mystics, and bastards—there ain’t nothing in the Glass Kingdom hated more.”
“What about knife-ears?” She smirked.
“I have a feeling the Shesaitju are in the lead these days.”
They laughed, then Sora shivered. “C’mon, Whit. He used you. Both of us. You’re really going to stand out here waiting for a name because of some decade-old feud with your father?”
“Torsten will come through. Have you met the guy? He’s about the only person in Pantego pious enough to believe a promise is sacred.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean we have to wait outside.” She nodded toward a tavern across the street called The Lofty Mare.
Whitney had never been inside. On this side of town, it was where rich men went to get away at night. Stuffy folk.
“Buy a girl a drink?” she said.
“With what?”
She raised the small pouch filled with coins they’d lifted from Redstar’s unconscious follower in the ruins near Oxgate. It rattled around in her bandaged palm.
“I figured I lost that back in Bridleton!” Whitney exclaimed.
“You did lose it,” she winked and shook the bag again.
“Wait, you made me waste that amulet getting us horses while you had that?”
“That thing was worthless.”
“It saved my life. It was lucky!”
She drew herself in close, rubbing his arm with one hand while she placed the pouch in his palm and slowly closed his fingers over it. “Maybe I’m the good luck charm.”
Whitney leaned forward until their faces were centimeters apart, then whispered, “No, you’re a pest.” He tossed the gold over her head and caught it on his way toward The Lofty Mare. A horse-drawn cart raced by and almost made him drop it, but he kept his balance and strode on as if nothing happened.
“You coming?” he hollered back. “I’m thirsty.”
Her groan was louder than the thump, thump, thumping of the swinging bodies against the castle walls. She caught up just in time to step into the tavern with him. The inside was as barren as the street. A few ragged drunks here and there, but mostly, the tavern was spotless. Never a good sign for a place of imbibing.
Whitney strolled right up to the counter and slammed two autlas down in front of the bartender, a chubby fellow dressed far too extravagantly for the homely décor.
“Two of your finest ales, my good sir!” he declared.
The bartender didn’t acknowledge. He was too busy staring dumbfounded at Sora. Again, Whitney wasn’t sure if it was her ears, or how filthy they were.
“We don’t serve their kind here,” he said.
“What, women?” Whitney replied. He went on before the tender could answer. “Don’t worry, she can handle an ale good as any man. Besides, business seems slow what with the corpses staring at your door.”
Whitney plopped onto a stool and pulled one out for Sora. She glared right back at the man, even as she sat and leaned over the bar.
Whitney said, “Did I mention she also single-handedly defeated the most powerful Drav Cra warlock alive?”
Finally, the bartender gave in and filled a mug for each of them. “It’ll be two autlas for hers.”
“How about one for both?” Whitney took one of the coins away. “Thanks, friend. Money’s tight after all. Just got back from a special assignment from the Wearer of White himself, we did.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Look at my outfit. Storm on the way in mussed things up, but you’re speaking with Constable…” Whitney realized he did know the man’s first name and hoped it hadn’t spread this far north “… Phineas Darkings of Bridleton. Now I suggest you put those down before I lose my cheery disposition.”
The bartender grimaced, then placed them down harder than necessary and went to go clean the other end of the bar.
“City-folk,” Whitney shook his head.
“Phineas?” Sora whispered.
He shrugged, grabbed his mug and guzzled half in a single gulp. He missed the froth and the bitter taste. Ever since he’d left the farm, he had a tradition to enjoy a drink—or six—after a successful job.
Sora wasted no time either. She grabbed her mug and winced. With the dozens of little cuts littering her palms, Whitney wasn’t surprised. She bit past the pain and drank, though she glowered at the bartender over the rim of her mug the entire time.
A large man with a broom bumped Whitney’s stool.
“Excuse me, my Lord,” he said, then the chubby man’s eyes went wide. “Whitney? Sora?”
“Shhhh,” Whitney hissed, raising and lowering his hands. “Constable Darkings. Hamm, what in the world are you doing here?”
“Everything okay over there?” the bartender asked.
Hamm gave the man a thumbs up and turned back to Whitney. “Just trying to earn a bit of coin to rebuild the Manor. It’s little more than ash now. But the people are working hard to restore the town. Maybe you’ll find time to swing in and help, now that you’re back?”
“I’m not ba—”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Sora said, cutting him off. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”
Hamm continued sweeping.
“That’s good to see,” Sora said.
“Yeah, I love when people blow my cover.” Whitney wiped his mouth. “Okay, it’s time to evaluate your first job. See if you’ll be a worthy apprentice.”
“Me?” Sora said, the ale seeming to take the edge off. “I’m not so certain you’re a worthy teacher after all I’ve seen.”
“Then you had your eyes closed. C’mon. Whitney Fierstown worked alone, but Whitney Blisslayer doesn’t have to. I’ll be the greatest thief ever born twice over!”
The bartender glanced over. Whitney smiled and raised his mug to him.
“Blisslayer?” Sora said, incredulous.
“Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”
Sora rolled her eyes. “Is that really what this is all about?”
“Of course. How many people get to compete with themselves. I was getting tired of the same old thing, but then I had this brilliant idea. Now, will you come along for the ride or not?” He wrapped his arm around her and stared into the distance, waving his glass in an arch over an imagined horizon. Some ale spilled over on his sleeve.
“We can be legends,” he said. “Thieves that even the Crown calls upon for help when all hope is lost.”
“Only if you tell me one thing first.”
“Anything.”
“Why did you really leave Troborough? No yig and shog this time.”
Whitney reeled his arm back and lowered his mug. He’d hoped Sora had moved on from that, that over the course of their adventure she’d forgotten how mad she was at him for abandoning their childhood friendship.
Whitney closed his eyes. “‘I don’t want you hanging around with that knife-ear runt,’” he said, adding a rasp to his voice.
“What?”
“My father said that to me once after I was late to supper. My mother silently agreed.”
“You never told me they didn’t like me.”
“They didn’t like anybody,” he muttered. “You were just an easy target.”
“That’s why you left?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He grinned. “That was just one of a million little things. It’s like I said: my father
spent a lifetime grousing about everyone from better places and never once left his farm. Every trader that came through was a crook. Every knight: a noble, born into his armor, when I know now that’s not true. He always did just enough, barely enough to live, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna live the same way.”
“So why didn’t you invite me?”
Whitney peered up at her over the rim of his mug. She didn’t look angry like when they’d first reunited, just confused. Her brow furrowed in that very specific way that made the tip of her nose wrinkle along with it. Her pointed ears twitched and he wondered if she knew they did that.
“Honestly… I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think I just had to give life a go on my own. Prove to my dad that the world doesn’t owe us a yigging thing; we have to go and take it. Didn’t seem right to ask you to come on such a foolhardy quest with me, because I knew you would’ve followed without thinking.”
“I guess that’s fair.”
Whitney released an exaggerated mouthful of air. “Thank Iam. I tend not to think about things until after I do them, but I swear, Sora, I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to be gone without ever looking back. I—”
“It’s okay, Whit,” she said, laying her hand over his. “We found each other again.”
“Even the gods themselves couldn’t keep the team of Whitney and Sora apart!” She laughed. Whitney went to raise his mug, then paused. “While we’re in the honest spirit I have a question too.”
“Here we go...”
“Why didn’t you visit me in Troborough? I’m not shy about my name—”
“Even though you don’t want it,” she muttered.
Whitney ignored her. “I know you must have heard I was there being that Wetzel’s place is right down the road. Ask Hamm, I’m pretty sure I even asked about you the first day... maybe…. It’s a blur.”
Sora’s features went pale. She stared longingly over Whitney’s shoulder as if she were expecting something to be there. “The truth?”
“Unless the lie is better.” Whitney smiled. She laughed nervously.
“Well... I wasn’t there. I didn’t see you until after the Black Sands were driven away, when the King’s Shield carried your limp body back to Yarrington. I got so tired of Wetzel bossing me around, you know? Telling me I couldn’t leave until I had full control of my abilities or I’d risk being caught by the King’s Shield. Telling me anywhere outside Troborough was dangerous for something like me.”
