The Heartstone Thief (Dragon Eye Chronicles Book 1)

by Pippa Dacosta

  She regarded me as though waiting for me to continue, but what else was there to say?

  Her gaze softened and genuine confusion muddied her expression. “Why does the notion that magic is real anger you so?”

  I worked my lips around a sneer and pinched them together. My anger was none of her business, and I didn’t need her picking at old scabs because she wanted me to believe her madness. I stood, knocking the table and spilling our drinks. A few patrons glanced our way.

  “We’ll set out for this jewel in the morning,” I said without looking at her. I already knew what her disapproving frown looked like. Scooping up my empty tankard, I left the table and headed for the bar. I didn’t need to know the details. The less I knew about her, the better. We’d find this jewel and go our separate ways. I just hoped the trail of destruction following the sorceress had ended.

  Chapter Four

  The sounds of slamming doors and rattling locks echoed inside my thoughts and dreams. A quick glance about the unfamiliar room confirmed I wasn’t sprawled on the wooden pallet in the workhouse, but on a wool-stuffed mattress in the Eastside District inn. Heaving my body upright, I planted my feet over the side of the bed and buried my face in my hands. My heart still raced, as it always did when I woke from the nightmares. It could have been worse; I could have woken and still been locked inside that place where nightmares roamed the halls.

  “Are you unwell?”

  By the gods, the self-proclaimed sorceress was still here. I’d missed her when I’d glanced about the room, but that was no surprise. She had a talent for dissolving into shadows. Maybe it was magic? I chuckled.

  “You haven’t asked my name,” she said.

  “That’s because I don’t care to know it.”

  I dragged my hands down my face and looked up. Sure enough, she leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed over her chest. She’d let her silken black hair down and gathered it all over one shoulder, revealing the elegant curve of her neck. How was it possible for her to appear so flawless after everything we had been through, while I no doubt resembled a vagrant, and stank like one too?

  “Did you sleep?” I growled, voice as rough as stone. I rubbed a hand across my stubbled chin. I was long overdue for a shave and a bath.

  “Yes, Curtis.”

  I flinched at her use of my first name. “Just Vance. Nobody calls me Curtis. Not no more.”

  I couldn’t imagine where she’d slept. I had passed out on the bed before she returned to the room.

  I stood, stretched, and made my way to the washroom, with her eyes on me the entire time. I might have found her crawling gaze unsettling, but after spending a few hours in her company, I let her glare slide right off. She could watch all she liked.

  I filled the basin with water and splashed my face, washing off the vestiges of a restless night’s sleep. The gems I’d spent on the room had ensured the inn was equipped with the basics, so I set about lathering my face with soap and attempted to shave while the sorceress’s reflection watched. Occasionally, I flicked my gaze to her, but she didn’t move, just looked in that penetrating way she did. She had to blink, but if she did, she did so rarely.

  “Where did you learn to kill?” I asked, scraping the straight razor down my cheek.

  “It’s how I was raised.”

  “To kill?”

  “Yes.”

  Not a flinch or a flicker undermined her reply. I believed her. “You’re not from Brea, are you?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re not highborn, despite the accent?”

  “I acquired the accent by listening to those around me.”

  “So you were raised among the highborn?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She didn’t want to tell me, and I was fine with that. The less I knew about her past, the better. Now that we had struck a deal to find the jewel, this was strictly business.

  “What of you, thief? There are traces of Brea Inner Circle in your accent.”

  I ignored her question and concentrated on pulling the blade over my chin to hide the surge of alarm fluttering in my heart. I’d thought life on the streets had worn away my old accent. Not a single person had called me out on it in the three years I’d survived on the streets or the five in the workhouse before that. Had they known, had they heard it, they’d have shoved me back through the inner wall’s pearly gates, and not even to escape the workhouse would I go back there.

  “What kind of sorceress is raised a killer?” I asked.

  She pushed off the wall and strode forward to stand behind my right shoulder. Her lips curled in the smallest tease of a smile. “The dangerous kind.”

  My breath hitched. I lowered the straight blade, keeping my grip firmly on its handle. This close, I could smell her sweetness, like ginger lily with a leathery undertone that no doubt came from the warm leather of her assassin garb. She tilted her head and roamed her gaze over my neck and face. My heart quickened as my instincts heightened. She had cut the Brean gentleman’s throat without hesitating, but she needed me—if what she said about the bond was true—so she wouldn’t harm me. When we severed this bond and she was done with me, she could easily plant her remaining jewel-speckled dagger in my back or slit my throat like she had my unfortunate client. Unlike him, I would be waiting for it.

  “Do I frighten you?”

  I swallowed. “I don’t like surprises.” Not an answer, but I didn’t need to speak the words for her to know the truth. “Thieves plan to avoid surprises. You are somewhat unpredictable.”

  “When you are done, thief, we shall leave for Arach.”

  “Arach?”

  She leaned in close enough to startle me. If I turned my head, we’d be close enough to kiss. Considering what I’d seen of her so far, her kisses were likely poisonous. Although if she kissed with the same focus as she killed, it might be worth it. At the thought, a measure of icy fear turned into raw heat and stirred low, stoking lust at entirely the wrong moment. She’d probably tear my throat out if I tried anything. I gripped the basin and watched her reflection as she breathed in deep through her nose. Her eyes half closed. She blinked, met my wide-eyed gaze in the mirror, veered out of the washroom, her long hair rippling down her back.

  “Arach …” I mumbled, tapping out the straight razor in the water. “There’s nothing in Arach but ghosts.”

  When I lifted the blade to finish shaving, my hand trembled.

  Arach was a five-day trek from Brea, on horseback through the Draynes valley. And I was about to attempt it with a crazy woman who’d just looked at me as though I might be her next meal.

  If I truly didn’t believe her, then what was stopping me from walking away?

  I finished shaving, dried off, collected my coat, and headed for the door. The sorceress had suggested I leave. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain in testing this bond of hers. All I had to do was walk away.

  I made it as far as the plaza.

  Sunlight glinted off the carved marble dragon statues set at the four corners of the city plaza and sliced through the fountain waters, straight into my skull. Every step grew heavier and every breath harder, until I had to sit on a bench and focus on breathing like an old man running out of time. I refused to believe this was her doing. Maybe it was anxiety or a heart condition—anything but some ridiculous magical bond.

  I bowed forward, braced my elbows on my knees, and threaded my fingers through my hair. It’s not real. She’s not a sorceress. I didn’t wake her from the cup. And those things, those horrid creatures, they aren’t mages.

  “You’ll die a coward, Curtis. But I won’t be there to see it. Don’t make the wrong choices, brother.” My sister’s dying words drove the final nail home. It would be braver to admit I was wrong and the sorceress was right. To believe her. And to face the consequences.

  I lifted my gaze to where the great spire cut into the sky and squinted into sun.

  “She will challenge all that you know. It is far bette
r to live in ignorance, do you not think?”

  I had paid no mind to the old man seated beside me. Plenty of people milled about the plaza, but now that he’d spoken, I shielded my eyes and looked closer. I would have thought him a beggar, dressed as he was in layers of rags that must have been baking him in this heat, but the decorative walking cane he clutched in his gnarled right hand spoke of wealth. The stick reminded me of the dead Brean gentleman’s.

  “Who are you?” I rasped around aching lungs.

  He slapped his lips together and rolled his wide, red-rimmed eyes back to me. “Do you feel better?”

  I touched my chest and breathed in, lifting some of the lightheadedness away. “Some.”

  “Then she is coming, and I must go.” But he didn’t move. Instead, he planted both hands on the top of his cane and lifted his face to the sun.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Who are you?”

  “She is not for the likes of you, thief.”

  I might have laughed if I’d had the strength. Did I have thief branded on my forehead? “Have we met?”

  “She is dangerous, young thief. You think you know her, but you can no more know her than a man can know the stars, or the wind, or the ocean’s depths. Do you think to steal her heart, thief?” He cackled and a nearby flock of pigeons took to the air. “No,” he drawled. “She is not for you.”

  Steal her heart? Gods, no. Besides, she didn’t have a heart to steal. Sweat trickled down my back. My heart thudded hard, from the heat pulling on me and the old man’s words. “I don’t—”

  “Do not deny it,” he snapped, spittle flying.

  I swept a gaze about the plaza, but in the dizzying heat, the bright colors blurred. Was this man alone, or were there more like him? An itching sensation crawled up my neck. I was being watched.

  “When you are ready, we will be waiting.” He rose from the bench, his movements awkward and jagged as though he didn’t quite fit together or might break apart. Leaning heavily on his cane, he hobbled away, and the meandering crowd swallowed him whole.

  I bowed my head and concentrated on breathing. It was getting easier. In a few more minutes, I could head back to the inn and the sorceress would never know I’d tested her theory—

  “Thief, are you now convinced of the bond?”

  I looked up, startled to find her so close. She lifted her chin and glared down her regal nose at me.

  I looked again for the old man, but there was no sign of him and nothing to suggest he’d ever been here. Dangerous, he’d called her. She had said the same about herself. I could believe that.

  “Yes, I am convinced,” I replied quietly.

  She held out a hand. “Then let us begin our journey.”

  Chapter Five

  “What’s so special about this jewel?” I asked, meeting the sorceress’s gaze. She looked back at me, head cocked, half frowning. “Besides it being valuable,” I added.

  The high sun poured through the rustling leaves as we rode our horses side by side along the forest path. We’d hardly spoken since hiring the horses and leaving the city some miles back, and only then to confirm we were packed with supplies and ready to start the trek to Arach.

  “When magic was abundant, those with the talent could harvest it from precious gems, like rubies and emeralds. Various gems hold reservoirs of power. Rubies contain blood magic, emeralds earth magic, topaz water, and diamond air. The mage I killed had been about to draw blood magic from the rubies. You would have bled from your eyes, mouth, and genitals, as well as from your very pores. It is a horrid death and not one I would wish on any creature, even a thief.”

  “Well, then, I suppose I should thank you for saving me.”

  “I didn’t save you. Without our bond, I am nothing.”

  I rolled my eyes. She couldn’t accept my gratitude. No. She had to turn it into an insult. “So, this jewel, it has power to magic users?”

  She walked her horse on, rocking gently with the animal’s movement. The horses liked her. Hers had quietened the moment she’d laid her hands on its nose, whereas mine was still skittish, its ears flicking back and forth and its head constantly shying.

  “Much power. It is called the Dragon’s Eye, and it commands a great reservoir of earth magic. There was a time, long ago, I suppose, when the Eye was feared, for if any mage should harness it, they would have the power to shift continents, move mountains, create rivers, or destroy cities.” She let her words settle around us like fallen leaves before favoring me with a humorless smile. “But you do not believe in magic, therefore this means nothing to you.”

  “It means something. I might not believe it, but that doesn’t mean the jewel is a fake. I’m a thief. Artifacts often come with elaborate tales to inflate their value. The glove of the phantom, for example. Coveted by actors who believe that, should they wear the glove, they’ll become that city’s most famous artist overnight.”

  “Did you steal it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “It was just an old riding glove. But I was paid well enough to procure it. Then there was the bronze bull sculpture. People say if you cup its scrotum it will bring you more riches than you can possibly spend.”

  Her lips twitched. “You stole that as well?”

  “Yes. And yes, I did”—I briefly dropped my reins and cupped my hands—“cup its scrotum.”

  “Did it make you rich, thief?” she asked, a hint of humor lifting her voice beyond its normal dry tone.

  “You saw where I lived. It didn’t make me rich, but my client paid a handsome price for it and I lived like a king that week. So, I suppose, some might say it worked, briefly.”

  “You squandered your payment?”

  “Squandered? No. Life is short, princess. I spend what I have. Tomorrow I may not be alive to enjoy it.”

  She fell quiet. The forest swallowed the clip-clop of our horses’ hooves while a breeze hissed through the leaves.

  “You’ve lost people,” she said. “It seems those who have loved and lost appreciate what they are given with more fervor than those who do not know loss.”

  I considered her words. There was loss, and then there was also regret and so much more. “Do you know loss?”

  Her hand tightened on the reins. “I have lost much. I have lost … everything.”

  I faced ahead, hiding how her words had struck at the heart of me. Anyone who lived in Brea’s Outer Circle had lost someone. It was the way of life outside the inner wall. But not everyone had lost everything. I had. And so had she. It went some way in explaining her coldness, but it didn’t excuse it.

  I didn’t feel inclined to speak, and she too stayed quiet. But it was an easy, gentle quiet that didn’t ask to be filled.

  After a few more miles beneath us, she said, “My name is Shaianna. You may stop calling me princess.”

  “But it suits you.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “My blood is not royal. I am a warrior, sometimes an advisor, but never a princess.” The way she spoke, with that haughty resonance back in her voice, and kept her gaze ahead told me this distinction, like the cup, was important to her.

  “I thought you were a sorceress. You don’t seem to know what you are, Shaianna.” I copied her pronunciation, Shy-ah-nah. It sounded like an Ellenbridge name, definitely from the far east and through enough treacherous land to make hearing the accent a rare occurrence.

  “I am many things and nothing. I am shadow and dust.”

  The shadow I could believe. But dust? I’d have asked her what she meant, but her somber tone kept me quiet. Besides, I wasn’t supposed to be mining for information. This was a job, like any other. Find the jewel, break the bond, and maybe sell the jewel and live off the payment in a new city, far away from Brea, its many ghosts, and the riddle of Shaianna.

  “Why are we here?”

  “Shh.” I dismounted and loosely tied my skittish ride to a tree branch. The hor
se pawed at the earth, ears pricked. Overhead, scattered among the canopy, hand-carved decorations chimed and clanged in the breeze. Sometimes, even skeptics like me paid their respects for safe passage.

  “What is this place?” Shaianna twisted in her saddle and admired the decorations spinning in the canopy.

  Ignoring her question, I approached the shrine. Over the years, the pile of stones at the roadside had grown to twice the height of a man, and it glittered and gleamed in the dappled sunlight. I added a simple pebble to the stack, just one I’d picked up on the road, and tucked it neatly between a rock inscribed with initials and another painted blue and red.

  “This is nonsense,” she uttered.

  “Oh, this is nonsense? But it’s acceptable to magically bind a stranger without his permission?” I slung a look over my shoulder and paused, watching her tip her face to the sunlight. Some of the wind spinners caught the light and fractured it, spilling small rainbows about the road and across her dark cloak and attire. It wasn’t difficult to believe in magic in a place like this. I kicked at a loose bit of dirt, unearthed a stone, and handed it out to her.

  She frowned at it resting in my palm as if I was presenting her with a dead animal. “What are these stones?”

  “Payment.”

  “For what?”

  “Safe passage through the Draynes.”

  “But they are not gems, just stones. Nothing more. I thought you didn’t believe in magic?”

  When she didn’t take it, I tossed the stone in the air, caught it, and tucked it safely among the pile. She might not believe in tradition, but she also didn’t know the lands we were about to travel through. I did, and I wasn’t taking any chances.

  Returning to my horse, I gathered the reins in one hand, hooked my foot into the stirrup, and heaved myself back into the saddle.