by Devri Walls
“I told you to stay away from her.”
“And I told you I didn’t care.” He grinned and leaned back on the slats of the stall door. “I asked Auriella if she was up for a hunt—she said yes. It’s not my fault that she finds my company preferable to yours.”
Terric’s face turned three shades of red while he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side.
“Now, Terric.” Tybolt tsked. “Festival.”
“Festival doesn’t last forever.”
“No, it doesn’t. And I will be sure to watch my back when it’s over. But if I could offer you a bit of advice—you should try showering before you talk to her again. You smell terrible.” Tybolt kicked off the wood and patted Terric on the shoulder as he walked past. “See you at lunch.”
Terric roared behind him, and the sound of something breaking implied that Tybolt may have pushed a little too far. But the situation was too humorous not to enjoy, and he whistled as he made his way up to the palace.
He would be stupid not to be afraid of Terric. But it was Festival, and Tybolt had learned long ago never to show fear. It always made enemies question if they had underestimated you. He wasn’t short or small, but he was the shortest and the slightest of frame amongst the Hunters, and thus usually underestimated.
Auriella leaned against the stone window in her room and looked out into the courtyard, unable to tear her eyes off Tybolt as he strode across the yard. A simple joy nudged aside her ever-present anger whenever she was with him. Just watching him sent butterflies clamoring around her stomach. Other girls spoke of these feelings, giggled and reveled in them—but they scared the hell out of her.
There was a knock at the door. “M’lady?”
“Come in, Sarah.”
Her servant slipped in, an enormous dress over her arm. “How was the play, Lady Auriella?”
“The same as it is every year.”
Sarah had red hair with bright blue eyes and freckles. She was a simple beauty, but she looked sick at the moment.
“Sarah, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing! I…I have your dress.” She swallowed. “The…the king ordered some alterations.”
Auriella’s stomach dropped out. The butterflies splattered into oblivion. “What kind of alterations?”
“The queen continues to deteriorate,” Sarah said softly. “They don’t expect her to last more than a week or two.”
It was the news she’d been dreading since she’d avoided being chosen as queen the last time. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes. The healers say it will be any day now.” Her voice wavered as she slipped the dress over the empty form in the corner, hands shaking.
As the details of the dress came into view, Auriella reached behind her for a chair and fell into it. The dresses for Festival were approved by the king, and the designs were not negotiable. Her dress was a stunning green, pulled in tightly around the waist and bust. The front and back were cut in excessively deep ‘V’s
“Thank you, Sarah,” Auriella managed to get out. “You may go.”
“I am sorry, m’lady.”
Auriella swallowed hard but couldn’t manage any more words as Sarah left the room. She made her way to the dress and touched the silk for a moment before she jerked back. This dress was for one thing only—to put her on display. Women would be paraded and exposed to the king’s eye so he could choose his next wife.
Asher dismounted and tied his horse to the pole at the docks. He walked down the weather-worn planks, his Hunter’s cloak billowing behind him. The door to the statehouse of the boat slammed shut as the captain, a portly man with red cheeks and a nasty disposition, came out to greet him.
“We have a hefty load for you, Hunter,” he called over the rail. “I don’t know if your cart will be sufficient.”
“It’ll have to be.”
The captain grunted.
Asher took a few more steps, then leapt off the planks and onto the deck. The captain scowled, pulled out a yellowed piece of paper from his breast pocket, and handed it to him. Asher unfolded the sweat-creased paper and scanned the list of fruits, vegetables, oils, silks, and leather.
“Quite a list,” Asher said. “The king informs me there is nothing due to His Majesty of Deasroc.”
The captain snorted—a sound that mimicked a swine, and shook his head. “There never is. Yet you ask every time.”
He did ask each time, because the answer nagged him. How could nothing be due, ever? Tons of supplies entered this port and not once was payment ever asked of Eriroc. “Your people have been quite blessed of late,” Asher observed. “I do believe that is another new sail. Impressive.”
The captain’s face darkened. “I’ll have the lads unload.”
“Of course.”
Asher tapped the paper on his hand as young men marched up and down the plank, arms full of boxes and canisters and bolts. All were dressed nicely, except for one. Asher focused on him immediately. The boy’s coloring was off. His skin was different than the others, a very dark drown, and he was not as plump as the rest of the crew. Definitely not from Deasroc.
Asher waited until the misfit was close and then stuck the tip of his boot out. The boy toppled headlong, his basket of apples spilling across the ground.
“You fool boy!’ the captain bellowed. “I’ll skin you alive for that.”
“It was my fault, Captain,” Asher called back. He knelt to help the boy, who was frantically picking up produce. “You’re new.”
The boy looked at him with black eyes and nodded.
“You’re not from Deasroc, are you?”
The boy shook his head no.
“Been there long?”
“About six months, sir.”
Asher fell quiet and continued to help as a few boys marched past them and hoisted their loads to the men in the cart. “Lots of storms in Deasroc I hear.”
The apple in the boy’s hand dropped and rolled across the ground. “We’re not supposed to talk about the weather. Captain forbade it.”
Asher fished in his pocket and took out a coin. He held it out. “Lots of storms I hear?”
The boy hesitated for a second, and then looked over his shoulder at the captain before snatching the money. “Yes.”
“These storms, do they look strange?”
The boy’s lips tightened in a thin line, and he gathered up an armful of apples without a word.
Asher huffed and pulled two more coins from his pocket. “Are they tinted purple, these clouds?”
The boy snatched his payment. “Yes, strangest thing I ever seen.” He picked up the loaded box and stood.
Asher stood with him. “I thought you didn’t have wizards on Deasroc.”
The boy’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Wizards are demons,” he whispered. “And there are no demons on Deasroc.” He hurried off.
If there are no demons, then how are the purple-rimmed clouds finding their way there? Asher wondered.
A rain of arrows erupted from the trees—the men abandoned the cart, running for cover. The arrows thudded into wood and sand. Asher swore and dashed for the ship. He needed high ground and he needed it now.
He leapt from the planks to the deck and ran towards the mast, climbing it faster than any sailor ever could. He straddled the crossbeam and pulled his bow. The thieves were streaming from the forest, covered in cloaks and still firing arrows. Some of the men headed straight for the wagon. They grabbed boxes and ran back towards the trees.
Asher fired. His first arrow caught one of the thieves in the shoulder. His stolen goods crashed to the ground, and apples rolled through the mud. The warning cry of “Hunter” went up from the thieves. Several took protective stances, firing towards the ship. An arrow thudded into the mast inches from his face.
“You’re getting better,” Asher murmured. “Much better.”
Several thieves disappeared into the trees with boxes. Asher fired again and again. His arrows hit several in arms and legs
and another in the chest. He would’ve hit more, but they’d become most adept at using the boxes as shields.
“Retreat!”
The thieves backed away, still firing as they melted into the trees.
Asher slid to the deck and ran towards the cart. The thief he’d hit in the chest lay dead and any other injured men had already been helped back to the forest. Only blood-stained sand remained. He studied the cart and swore profusely. They’d managed quite a haul. Who knew what all they took? He hoped it was the silks—let them try to eat those.
Auriella hadn’t been at lunch or dinner, which was odd. Tybolt leaned against the wall of the stable, looking up at the tower. He knew which window was hers. Although a light flickered inside, he’d yet to catch a glimpse of her.
He reluctantly abandoned his watch and picked up the sack he’d snatched from the kitchens. After some innocent flirting with the kitchen staff, he left the confines of the castle walls. He made his way through the streets of the village, stopping by several houses on the way to the tavern to hand out dinner—leftover fruit and bread, chicken bones for broth, and other odds and ends.
He reserved a large portion for a certain house he knew well. He knocked on its door. It opened a crack, and huge brown eyes peeked up at him.
“Hi,” he whispered. “Is your mother home?”
The head nodded and vanished from sight. A moment later a woman opened the door. She wasn’t much older than Tybolt, but the stress of trying to feed her two children and the lack of food for herself had aged her. Mary’s hair, hastily pulled back, was thin and stringy. Her eyes set atop circles so dark they looked like bruises, and her cheekbones jutted out with an unnatural sharpness.
Mary’s eyes glistened with tears. “Tybolt, I can’t, I…” She swallowed. “If you get caught stealing food for me, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I just borrowed a little after lunch.” He held out the sack. “They don’t even miss it.”
She took the food with one hand and wiped her eyes with the other. “I don’t know what we’d do without you. I should be able to support my own children—”
“Hey,” Tybolt put his hand on her arm. “You were never meant to support this family by yourself. Your husband isn’t here to help, so I will. Go, feed your family, and make sure you eat too—you can’t support them if you die of starvation.” He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and stepped back. “Good night.”
He started to turn but stopped at Mary’s whisper. “I don’t know what this village would do without you, Tybolt.”
“Someone would take care of you if I didn’t.”
Mary looked at him quizzically and slowly shook her head. “No. They wouldn’t.”
His heart clenched. “Good night.”
Her words rolled through his head on the way to the tavern. He wanted to say she was wrong, that someone would step up and take his place, but he worried she was right.
The tavern was small and dimly lit by a handful of twisted, dripping candles. The tables were mismatched and constructed from old pieces of wood the owner, Griffon, had collected after the Fracture. The shapes were odd and the wood was a hodgepodge of colors and finishes, but they stood well enough and the chairs were sturdy.
The bar was a simple, lopsided ‘L’ shape and was lined with chipped mugs and glasses. Behind the bar was a door that led to Griffon’s sleeping quarters. The building was meant to be a home, but with no wife or children, he’d converted the space into a tavern. It could’ve been a place for those who mourned to come together and lift each other up. Instead it had slowly morphed into a refuge for the scabs of society.
Today it was filled with the usual patrons—the ones who never had food but somehow managed to find enough money to pay Griffon. His liquor was crap, but it was all that was available. Despite the sour taste, it still managed to fulfill its purpose—lulling the patrons into a blissful state of oblivion. To his right sat the man Tybolt had come for.
“Dain!” he shouted.
The man jerked, spilling his drink all over his arm and table. Dain cursed a string of profanities. Tybolt marched over, pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and straddled it.
Griffon looked up, scowled, and went back to scrubbing the bar top.
“What do you want?” Dain growled, still shaking the liquor from his hands.
“I ran into your boy this morning.”
“So?”
“So? Would you like to know where I found him?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I found him digging through Pete’s trash.”
Even in his drunken stupor, that got Dain’s attention. “That fool boy!” he sputtered. “He knows better. What was he thinking?”
“What was he thinking?” Tybolt lurched to his feet, grabbed Dain by the front of the shirt, and dragged him across the table. “He was thinking he was starving. He was thinking his mother is gone and his father is drunk in some tavern. He was thinking if he didn’t get some food he would die! That’s what he was thinking!” He pulled Dain’s face within inches of his own. “Now, go home and take care of your son before you find him hanging from the gallows. I gave him enough food to last you both a while, though why I bother to concern myself with your hunger pains is beyond me. And so help me, if I find out that you sold one solitary morsel of that food for any reason, I will slip into your house in the middle of the night and slit you from nose to navel. Am I clear?”
Dain’s face had gone sheet-white. He nodded.
“Good, now get out of here. I don’t want to see you near this tavern again until that boy can support himself.” He shoved Dain backwards.
Dain landed halfway on his chair and tipped to the floor. He scrambled up and stumbled out the door.
“Chasing off my customers again, I see,” Griffon said from behind him.
Tybolt pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it to him. “Just trying to keep little boys alive.”
“At least someone is.” Griffon pocketed the coin. “You do more for this village than anyone, Tybolt.”
“I wish people would stop saying that before they get themselves killed.”
“Hanging is better than the Hold…and better than starving to death.” Griffon wiped down the table and grabbed the upended glass.
“Better to stay alive,” Tybolt said.
“You can’t save them all.” Griffon walked back to the bar.
“I can try,” he muttered.
Griffon looked at him.
“What?”
“You haven’t heard, have you?”
Dread shot through him. “What?”
“A few weeks ago you bought off an angry wife. At least that’s what I overheard.”
“Jocelyn?”
“That’s her. Accusing her husband of wizardry.”
“Wizardry,” Tybolt scoffed. “Sam is no more a wizard than I am. She was angry because he’d had a fling with another woman.”
“Pay her much?”
“Enough. Why?”
Griffon shrugged. “Sam’s scheduled to hang for Festival. She accused him the minute you rode out of the gates on your hunt.”
Tybolt swore and grabbed one of the glasses from the counter, taking a swig. It burned all the way down, adding to his own fire. Tybolt spat. “Where do you get this swill?”
“I take offense to your tone, Tybolt. I brew this myself.”
“That’s right, I remember. In the forest in some secret distillery that neither I nor any other Hunter has ever seen before.”
Griffon leaned an elbow on the counter. “Is this really what you want to talk about right now?”
Tybolt sobered and slammed down the glass. “There’s nothing I can do to help him. Once he’s been arrested, it’s all over.”
“And Jocelyn?”
“I don’t want to talk about Jocelyn.” Tybolt scanned the tavern. “Where’s Gamel?”
“Haven’t seen him tonight.”
“He was drunk this morning and spouting off something about knowing wher
e Alistair is.”
“Alistair.” Griffon chuckled. “Gamel is crazy on his sober days.”
“True.” And yet, his information had never been wrong. Tybolt slapped the bar top. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“I’m sure you will, but I’m running out of patrons for you to chase away.”
Tybolt grinned and tossed Griffon another coin.
“Apology accepted.”
Tybolt strolled out of the tavern and towards the western wall. If Gamel wasn’t at the tavern, he had to be at his house. Only a few homes had survived the Fracture, and Gamel’s was one of them. They would’ve torn it down, but Gamel sat inside it and refused to move. The story was that when they’d gone in and tried to remove him by force, he’d spit on one man and pissed on the other. The foreman was so angry he decided to teach him a lesson by building the wall so close to the house that it looked like the two were leaning on each other for support. The foreman was in for a disappointment—Gamel couldn’t have cared less.
Tybolt didn’t have time to knock before the door swung open. Gamel scowled at him, his dirty cloak still around his shoulders. “I wondered when you would come. Took a bit longer than I expected.”
“I thought I’d find you at the tavern.”
Gamel shook his head and shuffled towards the living area. “That doesn’t seem like a proper place to discuss this sort of thing. Did you at least bring me a drink?”
“No, I prefer you sober when we talk business.”
“Ahhh, so you believe me.”
“No.” Tybolt eyed the filthy couch and decided to stand. It was a wise choice—Gamel plopped down and a cloud of dust puffed up, illuminated by the candle’s faint light.
“Then why bother coming?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to figure out what possessed you to go spouting off such nonsense in the middle of the play? That was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do, and that, my old friend, is saying something.”
Gamel shrugged. “I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.”
“With your ridiculous announcement that Aja didn’t cause the Fracture?”
