by Frost Kay
She hoped. The Jester wouldn’t be an easy adversary.
Tempest rinsed her hair and hands in the closest barrel of frosty water, the excess color clouding the water. She stood and faced her uncles who stood silently watching her. A lump lodged in her throat. It was time to leave them, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready.
It was now or never.
She sidled up to Maxim and hugged him once more, then Dima, then Aleks, bidding them all farewell in the process. She did not look at Madrid, who watched on silently if the scratchy feeling between her shoulder blades meant anything. Tempest left them all to pick up the rest of her things from her room and leave the barracks, her wet hair seeping through her thin linen shirt. Their concern warmed her heart. To have them all looking out for her—even the impassive, intimidating Madrid—meant more to Tempest than she’d ever admit.
Tempest wove her long hair into a thick, black braid and double checked to make sure all of her weapons were secure. She scanned the barracks one last time before sneaking past the sparring ring and into the flow of morning workers heading to their assignments. She peeked over her shoulder, barely able to see the roof of her home.
“I’ll be back soon,” she promised.
Twilight warmed the sky by the time Tempest reached the edge of the forest that surrounded the mountain range dividing Heimserya and Talaga.
She patted her horse on its sweaty shoulder. “Such a good boy,” she murmured as they picked their way through the forest.
She’d ridden at a hard, unforgiving pace in order to reach the first of the trees before night truly fell. At each village, she’d hired a new mount, and the black beauty she currently sat astride was her favorite so far. He responded to each command she gave flawlessly and the way he galloped it was almost like flying.
“Some apples for you when we get to the next village.” His ears twitched at the word apple, and she smiled while keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings.
Tempest was the first to admit that she wasn’t perfect with a weapon—her swordplay was sloppy and lazy at times—but she was a good tracker. Excellent, even. After long range combat, it was her best skill; with a year or two of on-the-job experience she had a feeling her tracking would surpass combat, too.
She tugged on the reins, and her eyes narrowed on a freshly trampled leafy plant and a single bare footprint in the mud. The hair along her arms rose and the warnings of her uncles rang in her ears: be on guard at all times. The forest was rogue shifter territory, and they tended to attack anybody who trespassed into the woods. Her lip curled at the thought. The bloody woods didn’t belong to them. They were criminal interlopers who refused to work and hid in cowardice.
With utmost care, she swung from her mount and landed on the spongy ground without a sound. She brushed her fingers along the footprint, wet earth clinging to her fingertips. The track was fresh. Tempest inhaled softly and strained to pick out any sounds as she scanned the lush forest for other footprints.
Where did you go?
She examined the area around them for any more signs of shifters. Nothing.
Tempest soundlessly crept around the base of the tree, the horse trailing behind her, and smiled at the trampled plants that led to the stream. What a clever little shifter, trying to avoid the mud. She studied the growth around the banks of the creek and grinned when she found a snapped reed. Maybe not so clever after all.
Her mount huffed, pulling her attention from the broken reed. Tempest looped the reins over a branch and gave the beast one last loving pat before she started tracking.
“Stay here,” she murmured softly. “I’ll be back soon.” His ears twitched again, and he began nibbling at the low plants covering the ground. That was as good of an answer as anything she supposed.
A chill seeped through her boots and numbed her toes when she waded into the clear water. Tempest gritted her teeth and picked her way upstream, careful not to make too much noise or slip on the moss-covered rocks beneath the water’s surface. The ash trees on either side of the creek leaned toward one another as if embracing.
It would be a magical sort of place if it weren’t occupied by scum. Disgust filled her as she fingered another broken reed. It was reasonable to believe her mum’s killer hid somewhere in the immense forest. Now, that she was older and understood the dynamics of their kingdom, she hazarded that the shifter her mum had helped had run away from his assignment. While she and her mother had plied him with kindness, he’d given Tempest nothing but heartache and betrayal.
Tempest hated all of them.
She sucked in a sharp breath and held it. Well, not all of them. Juniper was her friend and a good person.
The tall grasses around the stream opened. Tempest slipped toward the bank and studied the mossy ground. There weren’t any footprints, but a smirk curled her lips. The shifter had avoided the mud and had tried to use the grassy patches to hide his steps. The footsteps were too large to be female, so she assumed the shifter was male.
Her feet whispered across the undergrowth as she followed the tracks to a clearing. Tempest hesitated to investigate the clearing. In an open space, her back would always be turned toward potential danger. And not for the first time, she wished the king had given her a partner.
As he should have. He wants you to fail.
She rubbed at her forehead and found she was squinting. Tempest looked at the sky, noting that the last of the day’s sunlight was bleeding out across the horizon, behind the trees. Damn. In a few scant minutes, the forest would be too dark to traverse without a lantern. Only idiots traveled at night alone. Tempest gazed mournfully at the meadow. The trail wouldn’t be as fresh tomorrow, but at least the nearest village was only fifteen minutes to the north, situated beside a mill that made use of the strong river current running past the outskirts of the forest. She would rest there for the evening and start her search anew at first light.
She backtracked toward the creek and stiffened when a faint sound reached her ears.
Footsteps.
Tempest rotated slowly, desperately trying to work out where the hushed noise had originated from, only for a second set of footsteps to join the first, and a third, and a fourth.
Wicked Hell.
Tempest silently swung up into the boughs of the closest tree as the footsteps drew nearer. She climbed higher and higher until she spied the group; two of the clan had long, pointed ears held high on alert. The other two were shuffling close to the forest floor, noses twitching as they tried to catch her scent.
Winter’s bite. Of course, they’d be shifters. The only people dumb enough to be in the forest at this time of day were shifters and criminals. And not only that, but they were ones of power. Only the most powerful could partially shift.
And you. Time to disappear.
Without another glance at the shifters, Tempest jumped over to the next tree nimbly, then the next, thankful for her balance and flexibility. She gritted her teeth when a branch beneath her boots groaned. Tempest pressed herself against the tree trunk, praying that the babble of the nearby creek drowned out any sound she made, and continued on. Staying in one place guaranteed that they’d discover her.
Sweat sprang to her brow as she traversed the forest in this way for the next ten minutes, following the rush of the river until it was so deafening that nobody—not even a shifter—would be able to hear Tempest above it. She climbed back down to the forest floor with slow, careful movements. She hissed as her foot slipped and the underside of her bicep scraped against the rough bark.
Her arms quivered as she lowered herself to the ground beside her mount who blended into the descending night. Tempest quietly pulled the reins from the branch, placed her foot in the stirrup and hauled herself onto the tall mount.
She pressed her heels gently into the horse’s sides and nudged him forward. Goosebumps erupted along her arms as they moved through the darkened forest. Every deepened shadow and moan from the trees set Tempest further on edge. The tension in h
er shoulders drained when the trees thinned, and she reached the outskirts of the village.
That was too close. Even now, it felt like someone was watching her.
Tempest glanced over her shoulder and shot a furtive look at the forest. She jerked as she saw a pair of eyes reflected in the light.
“It’s just your imagination. Calm down,” she muttered as she swung back around and spied an inn.
But the uneasy feeling didn’t dissipate. She was damn lucky they hadn’t caught her. If they had found her ring… it wouldn’t have gone well for her. The fact that she hadn’t noticed them before they were so close was troubling. Clearly, she needed to work on self-awareness more than any other skill.
Her gaze darted to the woods and then back to the inn. Even if the clan had caught her scent, being surrounded by others would mask her scent if the shifters decided to come into town. She handed her horse to a wide-eyed stablehand and smiled shyly at him.
“Please make sure he receives some oats and apples.”
Tempest scratched the horse above his nose and massaged his ears. “You did good, my friend.” He nickered and bumped his head into her chest. She smiled and gave him a few more scratches before collecting her pack. She yanked out the skirt and tied it around her waist, ignoring the blushing boy.
She adjusted the skirt and placed a coin into the boy’s palm. “It’s our little secret. Riding in a skirt is never fun.”
He gave her a toothy smile. “I wouldn’t wanna ride in skirts.”
Tempest ruffled his hair and sauntered to the inn.
Time to see how good her acting skills were.
Tempest
Tempest’s ears rang from the sheer volume of chaos inside the inn, and she glanced at the door over her shoulder. Her heart still thundered in her chest after the close call in the forest and the safest place to hide was the inn, but all she wanted to do was curl up and nap in the barn with the horses where it was nice and comforting. But that wouldn’t get the information she needed. Surreptitiously, she studied the room from beneath the hood of the cloak. Maybe she could get the knowledge she required this way. Especially if she hovered by the door like a gargoyle.
Get started.
She wound her way across the busy room and pushed back her hood, a secret smile curling her lips at the bawdy shouts assaulting her ears. Any woman of good breeding would be shocked at the lyrics, but Tempest found herself humming under her breath. Being raised with men didn’t give one delicate sensibilities.
“What can I get you?” a pretty, large-chested barmaid asked Tempest when she pushed her way to the front of the bar. She admired the wench’s observational skills as she did not tear her eyes away from the drink she was carefully pouring.
“A pint of ale, please and thanks,” Tempest replied after a moment, inclining her head politely toward the barmaid despite the fact she still hadn’t once looked at Tempest.
Tempest planted her feet as the many men standing by the bar jostled her and brazenly ogled the young serving woman in her pale blue, low-cut dress without an ounce of shame. Tempest had seen many of the Hounds react in such a way to women before, but it didn’t make it any easier to witness the twitch in the barmaid’s brow as she swatted a customer’s hand away when he tried to grope her breasts. Her fingers inched toward the blade hidden underneath her cuff. It would be so easy to show that man a little respect.
Tempest leaned an elbow against the bar and ignored some of the attention that had been turned her way.
“What’s a young and pretty thing like you coming in here alone, hen?” a middle-aged man with graying hair and a scar across his jaw asked. He smiled easily at Tempest, clearly intending it to be disarming. She smiled genuinely at his antics and the desire in his eyes as if he had announced out loud that he would like to bed her.
Cheeky bastard.
“I’m just passing through,” she said, reciting the answer she had invented that morning. “Visiting my grandmother. She’s sick.”
“Nearly everyone is sick round these parts, these days,” another man piped in. His voice was gruff and hoarse and barely coherent. When Tempest took in his appearance, she noticed a scarf hanging around his neck that he immediately coughed into. It was stained with speckles of a dark, poisonous-looking red.
Blood. So much blood.
Looking around, Tempest realized the man wasn’t the only one with a scarf covering his mouth or neck. At least half of the customers were wearing one in some form or another, all of them pale-skinned and fearful. Clearly, they knew what awaited them at the end of their sickness if they did not get better soon.
Winter’s bite. Too many on death’s door.
It wasn’t too difficult to bring tears to her eyes as she played her part. She gulped slightly, and the men by the bar all looked at her with expressions of sympathy.
“Might be better for you to turn back, lass,” the first man said. “If your grandmamma is sick chances are, she might not be around by the time you reach her. I’m sorry.”
Tempest didn’t say anything. She paid for her ale when the barmaid handed the tankard over the scratched dark bar to her. She sipped the bitter brew in order to appease the men who were watching her, to keep up her nondescript, devoted granddaughter act in order to keep their suspicions at bay, for a lone traveler—a woman, no less—was rare to see close to the forest.
Not that she expected too much trouble.
The men at the bar might have been friendly with the serving wench, but they’d backed off when she’d given them a firm swat. They understood no meant no.
And for those who didn’t care to be polite Tempest was sure she could introduce them to a few of her favorite weapons hidden on her person. Her sword, two daggers, a container of poisonous darts, and her bow and arrows hidden from sight by her heavy cloak.
She surveyed the room over the rim of her ale and noted a few dangerous, lecherous looks some of the men were giving her. Once again, she hid her smile as she took a sip from the tankard, and knew that by far she was the most dangerous person currently presiding within the inn.
Raucous laughter rang from a round corner table full of men and women playing cards. That’s where she wanted to be. Tempest said her goodbyes to the men by the bar and struggled through the crowd until she reached a dusty, blue-and-red stained-glass window. She leaned against it, the chill seeping through her cloak, listening carefully to each and every conversation she could make out.
A group of elderly women were complaining about the lack of various herbs used for healing in the forest. Three men a few feet away from Tempest were mumbling about a pair of women who could not have been much older than Tempest herself. The women, in turn, were completely ignoring the men, instead devoting all their attention to gossiping about a handsome man in a narrow-brimmed top hat who was dealing the cards at the loud table.
Tempest almost laughed when the man in the hat glanced in the young women’s direction and they puffed out their chests and preened like peacocks. People were so predictable and peculiar. Everyone was dying around them and yet they kept on with their gossip and flirtations as if nothing was awry.
What were they supposed to do?
Death was a common part of life, and life waited for no man. If she was in their position, she supposed she would pick up and leave and find somewhere that the sickness hadn’t spread yet. But if it were that easy, everyone would have done it already.
Her thoughts screeched to a halt as a juicy bit of information reached her ears. She scanned the room to work out who had spoken, listening hard as she caught another bit of the conversation.
“The fox is up to his old tricks again,” a thin man at the card table muttered.
Taking a deep breath, Tempest took a fake swallow of her ale before plastering a lovely smile to her face and sauntering over to the men, her heavy skirt rustling around her legs.
“What are you playing, gentlemen?” she asked, running a hand through her hair in order to hang it over one s
houlder, her smile widening when the man in the top hat glanced up and grinned.
“A game we created ourselves,” he said. His voice was soft and low and lilting—the kind of voice that inspired thoughts of sin and silk. “Care to watch and learn, luv?”
Oh, he’s good.
Beneath the shadow that the brim of his hat cast across his features was a sharp, handsome face, with a pointed chin and the kind of cheekbones Tempest had only seen illustrated in books of legends and fairy tales. She thought his eyes might be brown, but then he shifted slightly and they caught the light, and Tempest realized they were gold. Not amber or topaz or citrine. Pure, molten, unrelenting gold. They were perhaps the most astonishing eyes Tempest had ever seen.
Wicked Hell, the man was handsome.
“I—I would love to watch you play,” she said, ashamed that she had lost herself to the sight of the man in front of her for even a moment. What was worse was that he knew he’d caught her attention and was pleased.
He whispered in the ear of the man to his left. The man vacated his chair and the man with the hat stood and pulled out the seat. “Here, have a seat.”
She smiled and sat as ladylike as possible, coyly glancing at the other men staring at her from around the table. “Thank you.” Tempest bit her lip and frowned when his hand lingered by her shoulder for longer than was polite.
He sat in his chair with a flourish and glanced at her from the corners of his startling eyes. “Where are you from, lass?”
“Dotae,” Tempest replied, taking but half a second to compose herself as the man began shuffling his cards and dealing out new hands for his companions. She had already decided that a vague retelling of her actual history was the best story she could give strangers. “Though I lived outside of the city when I was very young. In the forest, in fact. But I barely remember life from back then.”
“So, what’s the royal city like these days?”
“Very loud. Very busy.” Tempest tilted her head slightly, raising a curious eyebrow at the man as if he was the most interesting person in the world. He eased against the back of his chair with the confidence of a person who clearly believed the same thing about himself. “Do you visit the city often?”
