by Devri Walls
Gamel nodded.
Tybolt leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “You’re trying to tell me that the only wizard capable of controlling weather wasn’t responsible for bringing in the storm that tore this land apart?”
The sound of horses clopping down the cobblestones filled the house. Gamel tilted his head to the side, listening. Tybolt opened his mouth to talk, but Gamel held a wrinkled finger up. They waited until the hoof beats faded into the city.
“The royal carriage,” Gamel said. “Bringing supplies in for the feast, no doubt. Do you ever wonder where it all comes from?”
“Probably from the same place where Pete gets his produce—Deasroc.”
“Pete has money to purchase with. The royal coffers are surely empty by now. The amount of food and fabric King Rowan brings in would have bankrupt Eriroc a long time ago.”
“And what do you know of such things?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just an old drunk who bumbles mindlessly about…but even the drunk aren’t blind.”
“Seems like everyone else is,” Tybolt muttered.
“Blind? I think not.”
Tybolt looked over his shoulder out of habit, despite knowing they were alone. “They support him,” he seethed, “even when they starve. They sit there and say nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Not enough,” Tybolt said. “Occasional whispers when people are so deep in their cups they can’t hold their tongues. That will solve nothing.
“They fear him, and fear is not support. Others who are brave have spoken—I’ve heard them. They would choose a different king.”
Tybolt stood straighter and looked down at Gamel. “Who?”
“Who?” Gamel grinned, exposing rows of brown chipped teeth. “You.”
Tybolt snorted. “You’ve lost your mind. No one wants a wizard or a Hunter on the throne. You must be more drunk than usual.”
Gamel pulled his robe tighter around his shoulders. “Perhaps. Drunk or not, I happen to know where Alistair is.”
“So you said, but how could you know that? And why now? We’ve been looking for Alistair for eight years without so much as a sniff, and now you just happen to know where he is.”
“Information reached me and I listened. I didn’t interrupt to complain about how long it took.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you’ve known me from the day you arrived at those cursed castle gates, and my information has always been reliable.”
“You’ll have to forgive my questioning, Gamel, but when you show up at the Festival play spouting off accusations of treason, I get nervous.” Gamel’s eyes were unwavering and focused on him—clear, intelligent…different. “All right,” Tybolt relented. “Let’s say you do know where he is. How much do you want?”
“I’ll be paid in time. Meet me in the forest and we’ll talk.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why can’t you tell me here?”
“Day after tomorrow, meet me in the forest…where you camped with the last wizard you brought in.”
“Wait, what? How would you know where we camped?”
“All sorts of news reaches me, boy, how do you think I know what I know? You shouldn’t be surprised that I know something about you.”
Tybolt bit down his questions, knowing he’d only waltz in circles if he continued to push. He turned for the door.
“One other thing—who do you think they’ll hang tomorrow?”
Tybolt turned with his hand still on the door. “Why do you ask?”
“I simply find it interesting that out of all the wizards in the Hold, wizards he despises so thoroughly, King Rowan always decides to hang the one accused who is not.”
His words shot through Tybolt like ice.
“Sam.”
“Interesting, don’t you think?”
Tybolt waited until the changing of the guard. Once the two had turned their backs, he slipped around the side of the castle gates and waited in the shadows until the new guards took their positions. He crept silently around the perimeter, passing underneath the branches of an especially large oak tree that had cracked into three sections during the Fracture—the middle had died, but the two sides grew out as tall and strong as ever.
A whisper came from above. “Where do you go at nights?”
Tybolt froze, then peered up into the branches. He saw a familiar figure sitting there—Auriella. His heart beat faster. “Depends on the night.”
When she didn’t respond, he climbed the tree and sat next to her. “How do you know I go out at night?”
“Malachi asked Sarah if you spent the nights with me, which means you must go out a lot. The real question is—why would he think you were with me?”
Tybolt grinned and looked out through the branches at the small section of sky he could see. “Malachi trips on his own feet. It’s difficult to say what he’s thinking. Although…it is possible that he found me mooning over a drawing of you.”
“What?”
Tybolt feigned a jerk of surprise. “What?”
“Do you have a drawing of me?” she demanded.
He tapped his chin. “You know…I don’t recall.”
“Tybolt—”
He laughed. “Relax, I’m a terrible artist.”
“Liar,” she grumbled.
“What are you doing up here?” he said, steering the conversation in a new direction. ”Waiting for me?” He winked. Auriella rolled her eyes.
“I happen to like sitting in trees.”
“Ha!” Tybolt said. “Now who’s the liar? You climb to hunt, scope, and maybe if something was trying to eat you. Other than that you avoid it, because you hate how the bark cuts into your palms.”
“I climb anytime I find it advantageous, and I happen to like sitting in trees when I need to think.”
He kept his face neutral, though he wanted to grin like a fool and dance a jig to go with it. She was opening up, bit by bit. He nudged her gently with his shoulder. “Thinking about what?”
Auriella’s face darkened, and she looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He waited a moment, but he knew he would get no further in that line of questioning. He pushed himself up and stepped over Auriella’s legs, heading down the branch. When she didn’t move, he looked back. “Well, come on.”
She cocked an eyebrow at his presumption. “Come where?”
He gripped the limb above his head and moved out to the thinner part of the branch.
“I believe you asked me where I go at night. I’ll show you. Coming?”
Auriella looked to Tybolt and back to the ground, not moving. He waited. Finally, she got to her feet and followed. He put out his hand for her to stop before their combined weight cracked the branch in half. He inched further and further forward until he was hanging over the castle wall. He grasped the branch he was standing on and swung down, then dropped to the ground. It was a long fall, even for him, and he used a roll to absorb the impact. Auriella followed his lead and hit the ground a few moments later.
Now that they were out of the shadows drawn by the tree branches, Tybolt could see that Auriella’s eyes were red and puffy. She’d been crying. He dare not ask what the matter was, not yet. He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the square. She hesitated.
“What?” he teased. “Are you afraid of the villagers?”
Something passed over her face. Rage? Fear? He wasn’t sure, but he immediately apologized. “I’m sorry.” He put his other hand over hers and squeezed it tightly. “Can you trust me?”
Tybolt was so tired of the hesitation, the wariness. He would give anything to see trust in her eyes. Eventually, Auriella nodded and they headed towards the other tavern in town. It was actually a house with an open door policy and a constant flood of friends and neighbors. Whatever water they could find flowed freely, and they drank and laughed as if they were throwing back the strongest of ales, just because they needed to.
Tybolt s
topped. “One second, I need to check on something.” He darted across the street and peaked in the window of Dain’s home. A candle flickered on the table, illuminating the little boy from the market. Dain’s son was still looking over the spread Tybolt had sent home. He ran a finger over the rough, dark skin of a beet, and he took a bite out of the raw potato he held in the other hand.
Auriella came up beside him and gasped softly. “Who did he steal all that food from?”
“Me,” Tybolt said mildly. “Although I don’t think it’s called stealing when someone hands you the bag and tells you to take it home.” He peered to the side, looking for Dain. And there he was. Sitting in a chair, his head back and his mouth hanging open in a drunken stupor. “I just needed to make sure the boy’s father made it home.”
“Why?” she asked as they crossed the street.
“Because.” He swallowed, trying to keep the emotion from his voice. “Little boys need their fathers.”
“And food.”
He paused and looked back at her. “And food,” he agreed.
“Do you spend all your money on them?”
“Have you ever noticed how thin they are?” he asked as they walked.
“I try not to.”
“Why?”
“Because.” She looked away. When she spoke again her voice was small, so unlike the Auriella he knew. “I don’t want to care.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? That’s it?” She jogged to catch up then turned around, walking backwards so she could look into his eyes. “No judgmental comments? No snide remarks?”
“No. That explains a lot.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s hard to love anything when you refuse to feel.” Tybolt stopped and pointed at the house to the side of them. “We’re here, but you can’t go in there looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“A Hunter.”
Tybolt saw Mace down the street, leaning against the outside of his house and smoking who knows what. “I have just the thing. Wait here.” He jogged away, coming up next to Mace. “What’s in that one?” he asked, pointing to the crudely wrapped paper cigar.
Mace shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Interesting choice. Look, I need your hat.”
Mace sneered at him over a cloud of smoke. “I’m not givin' you my hat. Just because you’re a Hunter, with your big muscles and your super speed.” Mace flung his arm in the air dramatically. “You think you can just have everything you want.” Tybolt had to bite his lip to keep from laughing “I don’t bow down to Hunters, Tybolt, not even you. I like you, but you can’t just—”
Tybolt finally cracked up “Those big muscles,” he mocked. “What are you smoking?”
Mace tucked the cigar between his lips and sucked in deeply, blowing it into Tybolt’s face. Tybolt tried not to cough at the sickly sweet smell that burned his nostrils. It smelled like Mace had rolled it with straight Leandry flowers. Not even the pigs would eat those things.
Tybolt pulled a coin from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers.
Mace’s theatrics mellowed and his eyes fixed on the coin. “Now that’s a different story,” he said. “Sold.”
“I thought so.” Tybolt flicked the coin up, and Mace snatched it from the air.
He passed over the hat. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Pleasure is mine,” Tybolt said. “But do me a favor—make sure you don’t roll any Libane leaves into those cigars of yours.”
Mace snorted and took another long drag. “Libane. I’m not stupid. Those things will kill you.”
Tybolt just chuckled and shook his head. “That they will. Have a good night.” When he got back to where he’d left Auriella, he handed her the hat. “Turn your cloak inside out and tuck your hair up.”
Auriella took the hat like it may bite, holding it at arm’s length. “This is disgusting.”
“Just put it on.”
She grumbled but pulled it over her head and tucked her long dark hair inside. “I better not get lice,” she said as she flipped her cloak around.
“Now that I cannot guarantee.” He threw the door open and pulled her in behind him before she could yank the hat from her head. Music spilled out into the night. Tybolt put his arm over her shoulder and whispered in her ear. “They’re not used to Hunters in here besides me. Act natural.”
Cries of “Tybolt!” rang out.
A woman sauntered up. She’d probably been very attractive at one point in her life, but her rail thinness did not enhance her features. Her cheeks were hollow with deep lines that ran from the side of her nose to her jaw. Her eyes were large and would’ve been beautiful with full cheeks, but now they stood out in an unnatural way.
She smiled and nudged Tybolt. “My daughter will be heartbroken when I tell her you brought a lady friend.”
“We’ll just have to find your daughter another Hunter.”
“None so fine as you, My Lord.”
Tybolt felt Auriella shaking with laughter. He led her through the crowd to one of the few tables in the corner. It was occupied by a man and a woman whose hands were everywhere except on the table. Tybolt cleared his throat. The man looked up, ready to yell at whoever had interrupted his rumble, but upon seeing Tybolt he grinned. “Well, look who it is.”
“Eldon,” Tybolt said. “Farah.”
Farah gave a sly wave with her fingers.
“I was wondering if we might borrow your table for…well, eating.”
“What are you implying, Lord Tybolt?” Eldon said.
“That your activities might best be finished somewhere more comfortable.”
Eldon burst out laughing. “Right you are.” He stood and offered a mocking bow to Tybolt. “My Lord.” He then held out his hand for Farah and bowed deep. “My Lady.” Farah giggled and took his hand.
Tybolt pulled out a chair for Auriella. “Those two can’t keep their hands off each other.”
Auriella sat and looked around the room from underneath her cap. “Do they come here every night?”
“Who? Eldon?”
“All of them.”
“Not every night, but most. They need someplace where they can pretend that everything is all right. This is where they come to laugh and spend time with friends.” He sobered. “They amaze me, truth be told. It doesn’t matter what they’re going through—they can still laugh.”
The fiddler started back up again, and the room erupted into a riot of singing and dancing. Tybolt kept time with his foot and watched Auriella from the corner of his eye.
Auriella struggled within herself. She wanted to look away, to put on the blinders she’d worn for so many years, but Tybolt seemed to have disarmed her.
What she remembered of living amongst these people was cruelty and hate, but this room and these faces…it looked nothing like she remembered. They were laughing and dancing, but above all she saw what Tybolt wanted her to.
She’d heard his comments time and again about how the people were starving. She’d never looked at them closely enough to really see it. She’d always kept her eyes above them. But now, this close, she could see arms that looked like the limbs of a marionette—tendons and joints too defined, large and out of place. Collarbones jutted out, spines were carved piece by piece on the backs of the ladies—like children’s blocks carefully stacked. The men’s clothes hung, hiding what was left of them, but speaking loudly as to the men they used to be.
And despite her best efforts, her heart ached for the people who’d been the cause of all her pain. Then suddenly she marveled at what she was really seeing and wondered how they had mastered something while having nothing—something she’d never been able to accomplish while having everything. “How are they so happy?” she asked.
“I think they’ve learned that grasping happiness wherever they can helps to ease their misery.”
The clock tolled six times. Tybolt rolled over in his bed, pulling his pillow over hi
s head and grumbling.
“Lord Tybolt!” A frantic voice came through the door.
Tybolt rolled back over, grabbed his pillow, and threw it at the door.
“Are you ill? Lord Tybolt?” Malachi waited a moment for an answer. When none came, he said, “Lord Tybolt, dinner is in an hour, sir.”
“Spawn of Aja!” Tybolt had been out all night with Auriella, but he hadn’t expected to sleep all day. “Come in, Malachi.”
The door creaked open and Malachi looked at him, quite perplexed. “Lord Tybolt, you’re still in bed.”
“Yes, I am aware of that.”
“I have your shoes,” he said, stepping in. “Polished to a shine.”
“Thank you.”
Malachi set the shoes down and stood hesitantly in the door.
Tybolt sat up. “Was there something else?”
“It’s just that…I thought you should know. The queen is failing.”
His stomach dropped into his toes, and Tybolt was grateful to be sitting.
This queen had only lasted a few months. The queens were always Hunters, and they never survived long. No one knew why, or at least no one would admit any speculations. The cause of death was never the same—sickness, a fall, an allergic reaction. All that mattered to Tybolt was that if this queen was near death, King Rowan would be on the hunt for a new wife. The last time the king had been in the process of choosing a wife, Auriella had been on the list.
That was what had Auriella thinking in a tree last night. She’d already heard the news.
“Thank you, Malachi.”
“Of course.” He bowed himself out of the room.
He tried to force his fears from his mind. Maybe the king’s eyes had found another beauty since the last wedding. Maybe Auriella wasn’t an option anymore.
He pulled the newly tailored outfit from the wardrobe—a pair of black dress pants with a stripe of black silk running down the side. His white shirt had been so heavily starched it probably would’ve stood up without him in it. The dress jacket was made of the finest material, and the lapels had been trimmed in blue silk.
He dressed and used the wash basin to scrub his face and wet down his hair before sweeping it back into a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck. Tybolt pulled his green cloak over his shoulders and clasped the broach, a red enameled skull.
