Rogue's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  “Then go to a tavern. I’ll meet you later,” Charis said.

  His two companions exchanged a glance.

  “I’m on to something.”

  Bracken snorted. “Doesn’ look like it.”

  Charis scowled and marched forward. “I need to concentrate.” Repetition was lost on his foolish lads. He wanted to strike them both, but that’d surely attract the attention of one—or more—of the many Greenwald marshals on patrol in the busy market.

  Word on the street was that the provost was good at his job and rarely had empty cells in the large jail. The Duke of Greenwald required order in his Province, and even Charis wanted to avoid Dread Valley at all costs.

  “Good. Shall we book a room for tha night?” Bracken crossed his arms over his broad chest.

  “Want ta waste coin on tha’?” Nason asked.

  “Coin is the last thing I’m worried about.” Charis scowled.

  Nason’s face lit up. “Lasses. I can ‘ave a lass. Maybe two. I don’ have ta sleep alone.”

  Rare amusement darted across Bracken’s face. “You always have ta pay fer it.”

  Charis didn’t have time for a chuckle, although the indignation on Nason’s countenance was laughable. “Pick an inn, but make sure it’s worth the coin. I’ll meet you at the stables before sundown.” They’d boarded their mounts in the public stables near the city center. Unfortunately, it’d been unavoidable. They would’ve been obviously out of place on horseback at the market. “Stick to Greenwald Main. I’d not want to venture to Lower Greenwald.”

  Although the less reputable part of the city would help their anonymity, Charis wasn’t in the mood to slum it. He could benefit from time between a lass’ legs, too. He’d rather she be employed by a higher quality tavern than not. One got what one paid for, after all, even where whores were concerned.

  Bracken nodded, and soon his lads disappeared from sight, heading toward the public stables. There were a few taverns near there that’d fit the bill. Being close to their mounts would provide accessibility for a fast getaway if need be.

  Charis tugged his hat down when his gaze brushed one of the marshals. The man was tall and broad, with fair hair that danced in the slight breeze. His silver shoulder epaulette denoted he was a captain, but his pale green doublet matched all the rest of the Greenwald marshals. His helm was under his arm, but the other hand was poised on his sword’s hilt. His posture suggested relaxation, but Charis knew better. The marshal could strike when necessary.

  The man offered a nod, so Charis returned it and went about his way.

  Bracken had been right; they’d spent too much time in the square, walking past the big fountains too many times. Even in the places where people tended to loiter, they could be noticed as someone who didn’t quite belong. They weren’t shopping, or sharing a meal on the fine fall day.

  There was a bite to the breeze, hinting at the winter that was right around the corner, but it didn’t deter families from stopping to eat. There was even a covered pavilion to encourage such behavior, and many merchants who sold hot, ready-to-eat foods.

  Marshals were everywhere, with keen eyes scanning for disorder in the busy chaos of shoppers.

  Charis forced himself to relax and turned down a street with permanent shops instead of the stalls on the square that merchants set up and broke down daily. He stopped between two buildings and leaned on the wall. A quick scan to the alleyway told him he was alone. There wasn’t much traffic on the street, either.

  Perfect spot.

  Taking a deep breath, he ordered his heart to calm so he could send out his magic again.

  Young voices caught his attention, and he glanced to the paved road. Three wee lads kicked a leather ball back and forth, laughing as they played. An older woman with white hair in a bun on top of her head swept the wide porch of a dress shop. She hollered at them to get away from the street, but the lads ignored her and moved on, chasing the ball as one of them kicked it long and high. They shrieked and yelled to one another as they pursued.

  The dressmaker tsked and kept up her sweeping, shaking her head. He wasn’t so far away that he couldn’t see the smile on her wrinkled face.

  Charis closed his eyes and flattened his shoulders to the wall behind him. Something told him he was close. Greenwald Main was where he needed to be.

  The clop-clop of hooves as well as the creak of a cart’s wheels echoed in and out of his hearing range. Voices and footsteps were the same; coming and going as people went about their tasks. Everything sounded close-but-far, giving him a sense of security.

  He sent his magic out, breathing deeply and concentrating on anything elemental.

  Charis waited. And waited, covering most of Greenwald Main as he probed.

  A burst of heat pinged off his probing spell and he startled, pushing off the wall behind him. He swallowed and concentrated on the spot of warmth.

  A fire mage?

  The more he concentrated, the more the magical trail became clearer—and it was moving toward him. His heart skipped and he peeked his head around the side of the building he was nearest.

  The dressmaker was still on her covered porch, but she was waving wildly to the cart moving down the street—right to the shop.

  The wagon was well-made and appeared either new or of the highest quality. The dark wood had sheen to it. The two horses that pulled it weren’t the average cart nags, either. They were chestnut mares—a matched pair, with healthy, shiny coats.

  A man—barely so, though—with shaggy brown curls drove the cart. He pulled the horses stop with a deep, “Whoa,” that didn’t seem to fit his youthful appearance.

  “Thank you, my lad.” A portly woman with her silvering dark hair in a thick plait down her back patted his shoulder, then jumped down from the cart without assistance.

  Two lasses from the bed of the wagon did the same. They wore matching outfits, a brown skirt with a white apron and matching hair kerchief on top of their heads.

  Uniforms?

  The dressmaker bowed deeply, like one would to honor nobility, and Charis blinked.

  He scooted closer to the edge of the building, so he could hear the conversation.

  “The Headwoman and Steward of Castle Aldern themselves? To what do I owe this honor?” The older woman bowed again, posture and expression a mix of awe and sincerity.

  “Oh hush, Melenia.” The woman who’d been riding up front in the cart spoke first. She stepped forward and embraced the dressmaker while the only male dismounted from the cart and landed beside the two lasses.

  “I wanted to thank you personally for my wife’s new dress,” the lad spoke, bowing to the merchant woman.

  “It was an honor to make a fine gown for the Steward’s wife. I’m delighted she liked it.” The dressmaker nodded, touching her cheek as if she was nervous.

  He’s the Steward of Greenwald? He’s naught but a child.

  The lad beamed and patted her hand.

  “I want to put in an order for twenty more maid uniforms myself. Were you able to mend the ones I sent back last time, or were they too far gone?” the woman who was the logical choice for headwoman spoke.

  “I mended what I could. Twenty more? When do you need them by? I have ten ready today.”

  “A fortnight, if possible. I’ll have all my lasses presentable, with spare outfits.” She spared a glance to the two maids with their party.

  Both young, one was blonde and one a redhead. They inclined their heads simultaneously to the dressmaker.

  All five of them stepped into the shop, but the double doors of the building were open for the business day, so Charis could still hear them without straining. The two maids did the headwoman’s bidding, and came out of the shop with two large bundles they flopped in to the back of the cart.

  He scanned the wagon and the horses. If they were from Castle Aldern, the quality of what was before him made sense.

  But where had the magic come from?

  He sent out his senses as
the four women and the steward-lad came out of the dress shop. Power bounced back at him.

  The fire mage was the headwoman.

  Charis concentrated so he could see her aura. She was the only one of the party who had magic. The light surrounding her glowed pale red, but its heat suggested she wasn’t a powerful fire mage. As he probed further, he didn’t sense any other elements. His stomach jumped.

  She definitely wasn’t Drayton’s lass, but something made him watch her. She moved with grace as she climbed back up into the bench seat of the front of the cart.

  Follow them, his gut said.

  He didn’t question his gut—ever. So when the steward turned the horses back toward the market center, Charis followed.

  Although they were in a cart and he was on foot, it wasn’t hard to weave in and out of market-goers and keep up with them. Charis tried to stay away from the patrolling marshals, and he avoided tracking and masking spells alike—as there was a good chance a marshal or two had talents similar to his own.

  The party from Castle Aldern made a few more stops—purchasing twenty prize hens from a vendor in the square, as well as three whole pigs from the most expensive butcher, and four huge sacks of flour. The vendors scrambled to fill the orders, and he was close enough to hear the headwoman’s specifics for the delivery of her purchases that didn’t fit on the wagon.

  He watched from a safe distance, but made sure not to lose sight of the cart. When they concluded their shopping and went toward the road that led to Castle Aldern, he hung back, but didn’t cease trailing them. Getting close to the castle was dangerous, but he needed to risk it.

  He’d figure out the why later.

  Multiple armed guards were posted at the wide gates. More men wearing armor and padded doublets with the Greenwald seal patrolled atop the walls that concealed the castle from the public eye.

  Charis had never been inside, but if it was like most castles, it was heavily fortified, and had several sets of gates inside the main protective wall around the center. The walls before him were perhaps thirty feet high, and so thick a whole army could line the top of the embattlement.

  Definitely just the outer gates.

  Castle soldiers weren’t the only thing that caught his attention.

  His magic surged when he only probed a bit. Blinking to clear his vision, as well as the magical buzz in his head, Charis gasped. His temples throbbed, but he didn’t stop to rub them.

  Castle Aldern was covered in a protection spell so thick it manifested as a visible bubbled around the whole area.

  “What the hell?”

  That kind of power would take multiple mages. Mages who had tons of their own strong power. He’d never seen the like, not even in Aramour.

  He clenched his jaw and straightened his shoulders, studying the gleaming magic before him. The bubble reflected the sunlight, making him squint.

  Movement caught his peripheral vision, and Charis lowered his gaze to the wide entrance of the open outer gates. He watched the guards stop the cart, but they didn’t inspect people or contents after seeing who drove it.

  The protection spell didn’t seem to interfere with anyone coming and going through the castle gates.

  That puzzled Charis even more. Couldn’t they feel the magic? There was no way something that thickly woven wouldn’t trip even the lowliest mage’s senses. Hell, probably even Bracken and Nason could feel it.

  But…if it was this strong, why hadn’t he felt the protection spell when they’d ridden into Greenwald Main?

  He shook his head. Nothing made sense.

  The mages who’d laid the groundwork of that spell were strong. No one to tangle with.

  Charis stared at the castle gates, wishing he could move closer to peer inside. It was too dangerous.

  He was on to something.

  They needed to stay in Greenwald.

  He didn’t know the why or how, but his elemental quarry was close.

  The protection spell around Castle Aldern was the first piece of the puzzle.

  Charis would just have to figure out the rest.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The shout went up, but Elissa didn’t even get the chance to glance over her shoulder to see what all the fuss was about. Her legs were swept out from under her, the fluffy underskirt of her purple gown flying up, blocking her vision as the corridor floor rushed up and grabbed her bottom. She yelped. Her right hip hit hard and smarted. Pain shot into her thigh and she whimpered.

  Elissa couldn’t move.

  Something soft—furry—and heavy had planted itself atop her.

  Sir Alasdair cursed.

  Lord Camden exclaimed concern.

  A wet tongue started to bathe her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to fend off the beast. Air swooshed over her legs.

  Mischief?

  Although she’d seen him several times since the morning she’d spent in the duchess solar, the wolf had never come directly up to her or sought her touch, even when Elissa had tentatively petted him the other day with Lady Cera.

  He was wagging his tail.

  She was glad for the fullness of her gown, complete with petticoats and underskirts. Hopefully even though she was disheveled and her legs were now bare, the wolf was blocking her body from view with his own.

  “Mischief, get off of her this instant.” The feminine command did nothing to move the young wolf.

  Elissa pried one eye open, then the other, only to meet the now-familiar pair of ice-blue eyes.

  The wolfling wagged his tail harder.

  She tried to be cross with him, tried to frown. She really did. The lolling tongue and pretty eyes focused on her destroyed Elissa’s ire. A smile played at her lips. He pawed her bodice and whined.

  Lady Cera commanded the cub again to no avail.

  A pair of boots came into her line of sight.

  Mischief gave a low rumble.

  “My lord, best back up,” Sir Alasdair warned.

  “Aye, ‘tis for the best,” Lord Camden whispered.

  “Mischief, that’s not nice, my lad,” Elissa said, looking the wolfling in the eye. The possessive word should have jolted her, but it didn’t. Calling Mischief hers…felt right.

  He whined again.

  She placed her hand on his silver chest and urged him backwards.

  Soft. He was so soft she wanted to stroke him, bury her fingers in his warm coat. Because Mischief might mistake the touch for praise, Elissa did not. It wasn’t all right that he’d knocked her over in the first place.

  The wolf obeyed, but bumped her hand for further contact when she planted her palms to the stone floor to right herself. Her hip smarted, reminding her of the impact.

  Lord Camden immediately offered his hand.

  Mischief growled.

  For some reason, Elissa’s eyes landed on Sir Alasdair. He squared his shoulders and an unnamed emotion darted across his face. The apple of his throat bobbed. He stared. As if he’d wanted to be the one to help her to her feet.

  Her chest tightened and she tore her gaze away, meeting her suitor’s. Eyes that were also blue—yet so different than the knight’s—were bathed in concern for her.

  Elissa cleared her throat. “My lord, I think I should stand on my own. I don’t think he likes anyone’s hands on me.”

  The duke nodded.

  She couldn’t stop herself from looking at Sir Alasdair again. It seemed as if he didn’t like the idea of Lord Camden’s hands on her, either.

  That’s stupid…considering.

  Heat crept up her neck and kissed her cheeks.

  Her chaperone still hadn’t spoken much—to her anyway—over the past few days. He seemed to converse with the duke just fine, as if Elissa was the intruder on their time together.

  She liked Lord Cam, too. Spending time with him wasn’t a chore. Even if she couldn’t stop watching a certain knight—and prayed every moment the duke wouldn’t notice.

  Lord Cam was pleasant and funny. She enjoyed
talking to him, and looking at him. Tall and broad shouldered, he was built just as well as Sir Alasdair, although he was more streamlined, leaner. She was still waiting for the spark of attraction that only one glance at the knight made her feel.

  Sir Alasdair had called her beautiful the other day in the sitting room. Her suitor had broken in before she’d been able to muster an answer. It wasn’t like it mattered. She had no clue what she would’ve said to the knight, anyway.

  Elissa had to repeatedly shut down all thoughts about why Sir Alasdair would say such a thing, considering their awkward circumstances. If the man thought her beautiful, why had he rejected her?

  “I’m so sorry, Elissa.” Lady Cera bowed in a manner not befitting Elissa’s rank.

  She sputtered. “Please, my lady—”

  Lady Cera looked at the duke. “He’s not bonded yet, so he doesn’t obey me much at all, unless his sire, my Trik, is involved. I was on my own with him this morning, and…well, I’m so very sorry.” The duchess’ cheeks were red when she looked back at Elissa. “I was trying to get him out into the courtyard.”

  To hear the Duchess of Greenwald stumble and rush over her words made Elissa feel about two inches tall. “Lady Cera, really—”

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” The duchess was dressed in brown breeches and a tunic, instead of a gown. Her garments were still fine, though, and she wore a dark brown leather jerkin over her shirt, a sword sheathed at her waist. Her curves, as well as how the breeches hugged rounded hips and thighs, would ensure she wasn’t mistaken for a man, but somehow, the outfit was fitting.

  “It’s fine. I promise you. He’s no trouble.” Elisa looked down at the young wolf. She stroked his head and Mischief’s tail beat the corridor floor. She smiled into his ice blue eyes.

  “He’s nothing but trouble.” Lady Cera sighed. “I think he’s trying to kill me. I introduced him to a Journeywoman Rider this morning, and he rejected her—along with every bondmate presented to him. She would’ve been a good match; her older brother is a Senior Rider, and a friend of mine. But he wouldn’t hear of it. I’m at my wits end.”

  Elissa frowned, and her stomach roiled. Jealousy bit at her. She didn’t want Mischief bonded to someone else. To belong to someone else. Her heart thundered and she looked down at the silver wolfling again.