by Shae Ford
Though the sun was setting, the air hadn’t lost a bit of its stickiness. The water clinging to Reginald’s skin cooled him for a few steps, but by the time he reached the wall where he’d tossed his shirt, the heat was back. Sweat beaded up on his face and trickled down his neck. He decided he’d rather not add a layer to his discomfort. So he ducked through the back gate of his castle wearing nothing but a pair of trousers rolled to the knee.
Not surprisingly, he caught the glances of several maids as he strode through the corridors. It was no secret that they hated him. That they loathed how he ruled … and yet, they couldn’t help but steal a look when he passed. To have that sort of power, the sort that forced admiration even in the midst of hate — well, Reginald couldn’t have asked for better.
One maid stared too long, and he caught her with a grin. Red sprouted to her cheeks as she hurried away. “Run, little mouse,” he said, and he could tell by the way her shoulders stiffened that she’d heard him.
He kept his office perched on the third floor. Most rulers had their chambers at the highest level, but for Reginald it wasn’t about power or prestige: it was entirely about the view.
The captain of the guards droned on about how unsafe it was, but Reginald didn’t care. The moment he was made Duke, he ordered that a large window be cut out of his westernmost wall. Now the first thing he saw when he entered was the sea, glittering in her shades of emotion. Tonight she was at peace. She welcomed the falling sun in her embrace and together they ignited the waves with the fiery passion of their love.
It would have been a magnificent scene, had he been able to see it properly. But unfortunately the broad shoulders of the man standing in front of the window all but eclipsed it, leaving him with only a sliver to look out of. When he closed the door, the man turned away, fixing him with solemn eyes.
Reginald sighed inwardly. Everything was always a matter of life or death with Chaucer. He couldn’t even relax enough to let his beard grow out.
“So good of you to come. I trust your journey went well?” Reginald said as he took a seat behind his desk. It was made of dark oak, carved in one piece from a single tree — a gift from Countess D’Mere.
“Quite,” Chaucer replied.
“Capital.” Reginald made a show of rearranging some parchment on his desk while Chaucer waited in silence. When he looked up, he was shocked to find that they weren’t alone.
How had he not seen him before? The man lurking next to the bookshelves was short and unremarkable to be sure, but still — he didn’t see how he could’ve possibly missed a whole other body in the room.
“And who is this?” Reginald waved to the short man, who was staring vacantly at one of the many trinkets lined up along the shelves.
“My servant,” Chaucer replied. “Shall I ask him to leave?”
Reginald normally wouldn’t have allowed another person to sit in on their meeting. But the short fellow wore an expression of such incurable boredom that he doubted if he’d even bother listening in. “He can stay. Just make sure he doesn’t touch anything.”
“Very good,” Chaucer said. He was waiting patiently, standing with his legs stuck together and his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He probably would have sat down, had there been another chair in the room. But Reginald preferred his managers never to get the idea that they were equal.
When he decided he’d kept Chaucer waiting long enough, he leaned back in his chair and propped his hands on his bare stomach. “The figures look good this season. Well done.”
Chaucer inclined his head. “Much appreciated, Sir Duke.”
“Yes … there are, however, a few disturbing reports about pirates.” Reginald held up a particularly angry letter. “Baron Sahar seems to think that you haven’t been doing everything in your power to protect his goods. Just last week, another of his vessels went missing — disappeared shortly after it checked out of Harborville. He claims that he’s losing money by the ton and sailors by the dozen. What have you to say to that?”
A muscle twitched at Chaucer’s jaw line, but his expression didn’t change. “Nothing, Sir Duke.”
Though Reginald wanted very badly to throw a book at his head, he somehow managed to keep his voice even. “I put the desert in your charge because all the others failed so miserably. For years, there were only a few sightings here and there of pirates, but now,” he smoothed the letter carefully on his desk top, “the ocean seems to be crawling with sea thieves. Can you think of any reason that might be?”
Chaucer might as well have been a stone gargoyle, for all he revealed. “There have been reports, Sir Duke, of an unfair advantage,” he said. “The pirates’ timing is too perfect — the conditions of the sea always seem to favor them. Time after time, it’s the same.”
Yes, Reginald knew all the stories. He knew the tales drunken sailors spewed around their fires when the chill of night settled in their bones. He knew the name they spoke with hushed voices and worried eyes. He also knew that men of the seas were born with lies upon their lips.
“You believe the Witch of Wendelgrimm is helping the pirates?” He let a large dose of disdain slide into his voice. “One of my managers — one of my best managers — is being scared off by a bedtime story?”
Chaucer’s mouth bent in a smirk. “Forgive me, but I believe you know the Witch exists.”
“Of course she exists. But do you know why she’s called the Witch of Wendelgrimm? Because she never actually leaves Wendelgrimm. The Witch has claimed her prize, and she isn’t at all interested in treasure ships. Try to use that head of yours. I know it must be difficult to be so irreversibly stupid, but do try.”
Chaucer took his beating without a word. When Reginald was finished, he bent his head. “I yield to your knowledge, Sir Duke.”
Reginald gripped the corner of his desk to keep the anger from his face. Try as he might, Chaucer just didn’t intimidate. Someone could run him through, and he probably wouldn’t even grimace. He’d likely die with the same serious expression he wore now.
“I think I’ve been more than understanding of your sailors’ fears,” Reginald said evenly. “I added a day to the route so the ships could avoid sailing too close to Wendelgrimm, didn’t I?”
“You were very gracious, Sir Duke.”
“Right I was. Now — I want this problem solved. I won’t have anymore notes like this,” he waved the letter in Chaucer’s face, “coming across my desk. Tell the ships to travel in fleets, if you have to. At least if one gets attacked, the others can sail free. It’s better than having them picked off one at a time. Blast it, Chaucer! This is why I hired you — to think for me! Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to be surrounded by incompetence?”
“Very, I would imagine.”
“Insurmountably!” Reginald stormed. “Impossibly! I don’t want to hear another word — not a single one — until you have the pirates under control. Send me their hearts in a crate, if you have to. Just don’t make me kill you. I’ve lopped off the heads of enough bungling fools this season. My executioner has to sharpen his axe twice a week.” He flicked at Chaucer with the back of his hand. “Now go. Leave me.”
And with the smallest of bows, Chaucer strode from the room.
Reginald had completely forgotten about the bored servant, and jumped a little when he suddenly moved to follow Chaucer out. What an odd fellow. But at least he thought to close the door behind him.
When they were gone, Reginald slumped back into his chair. If he wasn’t so blasted good at what he did, he thought he’d like to see Chaucer kicking at the end of a noose. His face might even turn a solemn shade of blue.
Well, his mood was nothing a glass of wine couldn’t fix. He’d just finished filling a goblet to the brim when a soft knock sounded at the door. “Yes?” he growled.
The air crackled and the bright outline of a door appeared in the middle of the far wall. A man stepped through the portal and bowed. He wore long, red robes and had his thin lips pulled in a
haughty pout. He kept the sides and back of his gray hair growing past his shoulders — though his top was bald.
“You couldn’t use the normal door, Bartimus?” Reginald grouched.
Bartimus raised his brows. “And risk someone seeing our visitor? Not a chance.”
The goblet nearly slipped out of Reginald’s hand when he saw the creature that stalked in behind Bartimus. A wolfdevil, one that stood so tall that the tips of its furry ears nearly scraped the ceiling. He knew from its height and the thick black fur that covered its body who this devil belonged to. Though until now, he’d only heard rumors.
“What is that … thing? Where did it come from?” he said, trying to sound surprised. He wasn’t supposed to know about the devils — no one was. But his spies had ears all across the Kingdom, and especially in Midlan. It was amazing the amount of information a bit of gold could buy.
“He comes with a message from the King,” Bartimus said carefully. “It is a most … disturbing message.”
Reginald took the leaf of parchment from his hand and read the scrolling words.
Reginald,
The Dragongirl is finally land-bound. Obviously, I cannot waste this opportunity. I had a spy tracking her movements, but he lost her in a fog on the High Seas.
I have reason to believe that she is traveling south — deep into your territory. She is not alone. I have sent Bloodfang to your castle for protection, so keep him close at all times. If she is nearby, he will be able to sniff her out.
Be on your guard and look for every opportunity to capture her. Alive, if possible. But I will settle for dead. Do not disappoint me.
His Royal Highness,
King Crevan
Reginald crushed the letter. This was bad. It was even worse than Chaucer. “I refuse to have that mutt following me everywhere I go,” he fumed.
Bartimus spread his arms wide. “What would you have me do, Sir Duke? The spell binding the devil is strong, and the King’s command will trump yours. You cannot send him away.”
Reginald thought about it for a moment. He snatched the letter up, un-crumpled it and read it again. “Ah, see here? The King sent him to my castle — not to me. I don’t have to tote him anywhere.”
Bartimus cleared his throat. “The beast must be put somewhere, Sir Duke. Somewhere we can keep an eye on him.”
He thought for a moment. “I’ll leave him in your charge, then.”
It was an easy decision. Most of the mages welcomed their new positions as servants of the Five. For centuries, the whisperers had been the ones who licked the King’s boots — and under their authority, the mages were forced to live as hunted refugees. Now the cards were in the other hand.
Bartimus wore the iron shackle around his arm like a King wore a crown. To him, it was not a symbol of bondage, but a token of power. He stepped forward and rolled back one of his long sleeves. Reginald touched the shackle with the tip of his finger and gave the order.
“As Duke of the High Seas, I grant you command of the devil Bloodfang. Only my word will have power over yours.”
At his touch, the iron grew hot and glowed. Bartimus flexed his fingers as Reginald’s command resonated; Bloodfang uttered a low whine as the collar around his neck grew hot in turn.
It was a clever spell, really: the shackles worked on any being with magic flowing through its veins, tying it indefinitely to its master. Shortly after he disposed of the whisperers, Crevan invited the mages to study in Midlan — where he tricked them into coming up with a spell to control his devils. When he learned it would work on all magical creatures, he turned the mages’ own spell against them. He bound them to his will and divided them up amongst the Five as gifts.
Reginald only wished that he’d thought of it first.
When the command was finished, he nodded to Bartimus. “I leave this situation in your capable hands. Keep him out of sight — I don’t want any of my managers knowing he’s here.”
Bartimus bowed and shuffled out his door. Bloodfang followed, his deadly claws clicking against the stone floor as he went. When the door closed behind them, it evaporated with a pop.
Reginald took a long drag of his wine and steeled himself for the mountain of letters he was about to have to write. All of his managers would need to know about the Dragongirl … though if she decided to attack them, it wouldn’t do much good.
When he was finished with that, he would write to Countess D’Mere. He thought she might be interested to know that her suspicions were confirmed: she wasn’t the only one in the Kingdom who kept dangerous pets.
Which would make things a bit more … complicated.
Chapter 24
A Fancy
Reading turned out to be a large part of Kael’s training. Morris claimed that the more a whisperer knew, the stronger his imagination — and the more powerful he became. He proved his point one day when he dropped a sword at Kael’s feet and said: “I want you to tie this into a sailor’s knot.”
At first, Kael thought it was some sort of joke. But then he saw the firm set of Morris’s bushy eyebrows and knew he was serious. “I can’t do that.”
“You can’t yet,” Morris corrected him. “And why’s that?”
“Because I don’t have arms the size of tree trunks.” He anticipated the smack to the back of his head with gritted teeth.
“Wrong! It’s because you don’t know iron, you don’t know what it’s made of and you don’t know how to treat it.” Morris plopped his arm on the sizable tome next to him. “This here is Blades and Bellows — taught me everything I know about smithing. You’ve got an hour to read it. Then you’ll show me what you’ve learned.”
Kael didn’t see how he was going to read a book in an hour. But he’d always wanted to learn how to smith, so he sat cross-legged on the ground and opened it in his lap.
There was plenty of information in Blades and Bellows: paintings of sweaty-faced men laboring over vats of open flame, diagrams on how to heat iron and how to cool it, drawings of a dozen different types of swords — and a missive on how to avoid a number of unfortunate injuries. It wasn’t long before he was completely engrossed. So much so, that he was actually disappointed when he turned the last page and found it empty.
“So, what did you learn?” Morris asked.
He closed the book with a heavy sigh and looked up to respond. That’s when he noticed that the sun had hardly moved: it was still high over their heads, drifting in and out of the clouds as it climbed towards noon. “How long have I been reading?” he said.
Morris chuckled. “Oh, about half an hour.” He caught the surprised look on Kael’s face and explained. “A Wright never really reads books — he absorbs them. He lives in the words, drifts into the world of the author and there becomes apprentice to his knowledge. And everything a Wright learns, he remembers. So now that you know a bit about smithing, how’re you planning on tying that knot?”
Kael looked at the sword. Thanks to Blades and Bellows, he now knew that this wasn’t just any sword: it was a broadsword with a double blood channel. It was designed for long, sweeping strikes and devastating thrusts. Such a blade was forged to be tested against even the most stalwart armor.
And he knew that bending it would be impossible.
When he told Morris as much, it earned him another smack to the head. “Blast it, you’ve fallen into the trap of doubt! I expected more out of you, I really did.”
Kael rubbed the ever-present knot on his head, wondering vaguely if it would finally callus. “Well instead of beating me, why don’t you tell me how to escape this trap of doubt?” he muttered, imitating Morris’s croaky voice as best he could.
His joke wasn’t lost on the helmsman. “No cheek,” he growled. “Listen here — every time you learn something new, you’ve got a choice to make: you can let it hold you back, or you can feed it to your imagination. But no matter what you choose, your hands are always going to do exactly what you tell them to. Now, how’re you going to tie that sword in
a knot?” When Kael didn’t say anything, he huffed. “Think about it, think about chapter twelve.”
Chapter twelve was all about how to heat iron to prepare it for forging. Too hot, and the metal would melt. Too cool, and it wouldn’t budge. There was an exact right temperature, a description Kael remembered as clearly as if he had it open in front of him. He thought about it, and as he let himself slip back between the pages of his memory, his hands began to tingle.
It was a strange power, like finding a muscle he never knew he had. He flexed it, feeling its strength course down from his mind and into the very tips of his fingers. He thought about the forge and the fires within it. He could see red flames rise up and wrap around his hands. Suddenly, he had an idea.
He grabbed the sword off the ground and held it by its blade. My hands are the center of a blacksmith’s fire, he said to himself. No metal can withstand them: they bend iron as the wind bends the grass.
All at once, his hands turned white-hot. The sword groaned and red heat blossomed from the center of the blade. When it was just hot enough, he bent it easily into a U.
He was so shocked that his concentration nearly slipped, but he latched onto it again and pulled the hilt through, forming a simple knot. He let the sword fall out of his hand and the red retreated from the metal, cooling almost immediately.
“There it is,” Morris said with a grin. “I knew you’d get the hang of it.”
Kael grabbed hold of the railing, still clinging to his vision. The wood started to smoke under his hand.
“Watch what you’re doing!” Morris barked, startling him out of his trance. “We aren’t in the forest, lad. You burn this wood up, and we’ll have to swim back to shore.”
