He laughed. “I wouldn’t call your tales dull. Fanciful, perhaps, but your own enjoyment compels one to listen…for a time.” He leaned against a tree, arms crossed, surveying her.
Never comfortable with close scrutiny, she looked away.
“As to the rest,” he said, “I’d be mad to want Reina as an enemy, and the boy has increased much in skill since first I met you.”
“Yes, Jarad has a sharp mind. He has always learned quickly, whatever the task.”
“We are nearing the fringes of the forest,” Sir Brennus said, his usual gravity returning. “It continues its southward march alongside the trading village I mentioned.”
“How far do you suppose that village is?” she asked. Might she at last find a home?
“You should reach the forest’s edge before nightfall on the morrow, but the village is a few miles beyond. I would advise camping under cover of the trees and starting for the town the following day. It would be safer.”
She tensed. “Have you seen signs of trouble? Perhaps we should change direction.”
“I’ve surveyed the area thoroughly,” he said, straightening. “If there were outlaws in these parts, they’ve long since gone.”
He moved past her, toward their camp. Lyssanne followed close at his heels.
“It shouldn’t take you more than another half-day to reach the town,” he said as they emerged near the campfire. “I shall go on ahead in the morning. My business can’t wait.”
“You’re leaving us?” Jarad asked, looking up from his work.
“You’ll be safe enough,” said Sir Brennus, “even if you camp one more night.”
After dispensing with supper, they all settled around the fire. Lyssanne folded her legs beneath her skirts and propped her elbows on her knees. Even days after the amphisbaena’s attack, she remained wary of reclining beneath trees. Quite inconvenient, that, since weariness made sitting unsupported a trial. She rested her chin in cupped hands and closed her eyes.
Reina settled at Lyssanne’s back, laying her head upon outstretched forelegs. “Lean against me, child,” she said. “The company will do us both good.”
Serena landed in Lyssanne’s lap, as Jarad asked Sir Brennus what noble quest he pursued.
“There are no noble quests,” said the knight. “The time for such ended long ago.”
Jarad poked at the fire with a long stick. “We’re on a noble quest.”
“Seeking what?”
“A new home for Lady Lyssanne.”
Why must he mention that to this relative stranger? Lyssanne sensed eyes boring into her. She kept her own averted, pretending to pluck nonexistent debris from Serena’s feathers.
“Once this…quest is at an end,” said Sir Brennus, “where will you make your home?”
Jarad hesitated. “With her, I guess.”
“That is no noble quest.”
Jarad jumped to his feet. Lyssanne tensed, but Sir Brennus merely lifted a hand.
“Do not mistake me,” he said. “Your search may be necessary, but to truly be noble, a quest must hold no benefit for the one embarking upon it.”
“Then, what do you get out of yours?” Jarad snapped. “You are on a quest?”
“I am,” Sir Brennus said, his tone darkening. “The lady for whom I journey has promised a boon. As I said, there are no noble quests.” He fixed his gaze upon the fire. “I should know.”
“Have you even tried to find one? Isn't that a knight’s job?”
“Jarad!” Lyssanne said. “Let him be.”
“You have much to learn, boy,” Sir Brennus said. “There is far more to being a knight than what you've heard in tales.” He crossed to the other side of the fire and bent over his belongings. “Yes, I once searched for such a quest. As did my father and his father before him, for as many generations as years you have lived.” His blanket snapped as he whipped it open. “I'll take second watch.” He stretched out upon his bedding and turned his back to them.
8
Westerfield
“Looks like a market,” Jarad said, as he and Lyssanne approached the center of the town, “but it can't be Marketday already. We just celebrated Kingsday.”
“Perhaps we were mistaken,” Lyssanne said. “We've lost track.”
“Nah, I've been countin'. It's been six weeks since we left Cloist–, uh, the valley.”
That was the closest either of them had come to speaking the name of their erstwhile home in a month.
“Six weeks,” Lyssanne said, expelling a breath. She turned, shielding her eyes in an attempt to glimpse the outline of the trees against the afternoon sky. “'Tis little wonder no one ventures to the valley through the forest.”
“Yeah,” Jarad said. “Can you imagine having to climb that hill west of the cliff?”
“You did.”
“Sure, but I wasn’t carryin’ nut'n—”
“Anything.”
“Anything, when I went back up for our stuff. And I’d been drinking Reina’s water.” He sighed. “Wish we had more of that.”
“As do I.” She turned, and they resumed their pace.
“Think Reina really can disguise herself as an ordinary mare like she said?” he asked. “I mean, she didn’t seem happy about us leaving her and Serena behind.”
“I suspect we’ve seen but few of her gifts,” Lyssanne said as they neared the throng cramming the streets ahead. “Perhaps this town holds a midweek market.”
“Why would they do that?” Jarad asked, then he called to the man nearest. “Pardon, sir, but is today Marketday?”
“Every day is market day in Westerfield!”
Lyssanne and Jarad waded into the sea of people. Lyssanne squeezed past a woman, who turned at the same instant, her elbow shoving Lyssanne into the back of the man ahead of her.
She freed her nose and mouth from his rough tunic, muttering, “I beg your pardon, sir.”
Soon, the abundance of elbows, shoulders, and upper arms vying for a perch atop Lyssanne’s nose forced her to walk with her chin tilted toward the sky.
At last, she broke through the press of bodies and inhaled as if emerging from deep water. Never had she imagined her slight stature could render the simple act of breathing difficult.
The square opened up before her, and she stared, wide-eyed. A plethora of stalls lined both sides of the street, their vendors crying out to passersby.
“Fresh bread! Just baked this morn!”
“Get your saddle oil here. Best in the West Country!”
“Cloth for sale! Cheap or fine, we got it all here.”
The street was awash in color. A mixture of brightly- and plainly-dressed patrons swirled by on all sides. Goods hung from lines above stalls, overflowed from baskets, and covered tabletops. The multitude of colors and the chaos of rapid movement made her head swim. Cloistervale could be a busy place on Marketday, but there, she’d known what she was seeing. Besides, this place had to be four times the size of Cloistervale’s Market Square.
“Look,” Jarad shouted into her ear. “A man just gave that woman three copper coins for a peach!”
She leaned closer, struggling to make out his words above the shouts of peddlers, chatter of townsfolk, and various animal noises.
“So odd,” he said, “givin’ somebody bits of metal for food. Is that a lot to pay?”
“’Tis more than we can spare,” she said. The little bag of coins Mr. DeLivre had slipped into her cart might have to last them days, or even weeks, if she didn’t find employment soon.
As if to mock her thoughts, her stomach rumbled at the mouthwatering aromas of spiced meats, herbed sauces, yeast, and tangy fruits surrounding her. Then, the breeze shifted, and the vinegary scent of dye stung her nose and eyes. The odors of sweating men and horses, oiled leather, and some bitter stench mingled with the dye, stirring her stomach’s rumble into an unpleasant churning. She couldn’t have eaten at that moment even if she’d had the coin to spare.
Her overwrought sense
s needed a point of focus. She squeezed Jarad’s arm. “This way,” she said, pulling him toward the first open space she spotted.
A rainbow of shawls hung from poles at one end of the stall. Lyssanne ran a finger down the nearest. It was finely woven, but not as intricate as her mother’s.
“Two silvers for that one, dear,” the vendor said, “but I don’t think yellow suits you.” Her head bobbed as if she were examining Lyssanne for flaws. “Oh my, you are in need of a better fastener for that cloak. A stickpin!” She shook her bright red curls and placed an intricate, ivory broach before Lyssanne. “You’ll not find one finer, or for a better price, in all of Westerfield.”
“I’m certain you are right, madam,” Lyssanne said, “but what I am really looking for is employment. Might you know of anyone in need of an extra pair of hands?”
The woman replaced the broach among other trinkets whose use, aside from pleasing the eye, Lyssanne couldn’t fathom. “Farmer Crowder was looking for someone to man his vegetable stand, just up the street there, with the sign of the open hand hanging in front.”
“With the red awning?” Jarad asked.
“That’s the place. He just hired someone, but that’s the sign you’ll want to look for.”
“Thank you,” Lyssanne said.
“Well, if anyone hires you, just you be sure to come back here for that cloak pin.”
Lyssanne and Jarad made their way back into the bustling street, Jarad promising to keep watch for more signs of the open hand advertising a position for hire.
Just then, a man’s voice called something Lyssanne couldn’t make out. The sudden rush of people jostling to get to his stall nearly knocked her over. Only the vendor’s arm remained visible, raised high above the heads of the pressing throng. A frenzy of hands grabbed for whatever he held aloft.
Across the way, two men bellowed at each other over the price of a hunting knife, and farther up the street, a woman screamed.
“Stop him!” a man shouted. “He cut my wife’s purse.”
Several men rushed past Lyssanne in the direction of the shouts.
As the afternoon wore on, Lyssanne and Jarad passed countless stalls, some selling familiar goods, others offering items they’d never seen. A woodcarver’s stand conjured thoughts of Aderyn and brought the sting of unshed tears to her throat. So many people grappled over the wares, she was certain Kevan’s talent would have flourished in this place.
Everywhere, angry voices argued over costs. Lyssanne’s shoulders tensed and threatened to remain thus for eternity. Even in the past year, such hostility had never plagued Cloistervale.
Twice, her cart was overturned. The second time, a man helped her right it. “You should mind your things more closely, mistress,” he said. “A cart like this is easy pickin’s for a thief. A boy could lift yer belongings, and you’d be none the wiser.”
“Thank you. I shall remember that.”
’Twas a strange feeling, this need to guard one's possessions against theft. Lyssanne longed to leave this place, but what would become of them if she failed to find employment?
She glanced around to ask Jarad if he’d seen any more postings for hire, but he had vanished. Turning on the spot, she searched every face, every swirl of color. Her throat seized up. Where was he? She called to him, straining her eyes to their limits.
A man moved aside, revealing the curve of a bow silhouetted against a light-gray tunic. Lyssanne rushed forward. Jarad stood before a stall, head tilted as if in concentration.
“Jarad,” Lyssanne said, “I thought I’d lost you.”
“I was here,” he murmured. “Can you believe there are so many kinds?” He stared at the knives and daggers arrayed atop the black cloth covering the table before them.
Lyssanne glanced at the swords bristling from stands behind it. “We should keep searching,” she said, her strength fading as the hour grew later. She pointed to a nearby intersection. “Have we gone down that end of the square?”
“Don’t think so,” he said. “Oh, there’s a scribe’s shop halfway along that street.”
Lyssanne’s spirits rose as they neared the shop. From all she’d seen, she suspected few in Westerfield could read or write. Even their scarce signs bore pictures to convey their messages.
A bell tinkled as Lyssanne opened the door, and the scribe glanced up from behind a table littered with piles of parchment, inkwells, and candlesticks.
“I’ll get to your needs as soon as I can,” he said. “I’m only one man, after all.”
“There’s no hurry, sir,” she said. Ah, a chance to catch her breath and rest her tired eyes!
“Well, I am in a rush,” said a woman leaning over the scribe’s desk. “I want to send this message with the courier to the royal city. He says he’ll leave for Etoilia tomorrow, early.”
“You’ll just have to wait, madam,” said a man lounging against the wall beside the scribe, his dark cloak and hat blending with the dimness. “I’ve waited a week for Mr. Waxler to have time for me and my letter. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like him to read it to me in private.”
“I beg your pardon, er, Mr. Waxler, is it?” Lyssanne said. “Perhaps I could be of service.”
“How’s that?” the scribe asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“I’m skilled in reading and writing. If you are interested in an apprentice or assistant, I’d be pleased to work with you.”
“An assistant,” the scribe said, “hmm.” He eyed her for a moment. “You can read?”
“Yes, sir, and write as well.”
“I’ve no time to test your word at present,” he said. “Come back first thing on the morrow. If what you say is true, we shall discuss terms. If not, the magistrate can sort you out.”
“As you wish.” She hastened from the shop, uncertain what to make of the scribe’s abrupt manner and allusion to the magistrate. Still, she grinned. Had she found a place at last?
As Lyssanne exited the scribe’s shop, Noire squeezed into the gap between two buildings. The space was little more than a slash of shadow—but then, so was he.
Slipping along the street behind Lyssanne and Jarad, he took care to keep even a hint of sunlight from touching his nebulous body. This proved difficult, often forcing him to melt partway into the façade of a building, but he wanted no one aware of his presence—yet.
Lyssanne rounded the corner, and a squat, bedraggled peddler called out, “Oy, mistress!”
Jarad nudged her. “That man’s waving at us.”
Her glance was all the encouragement the peddler needed. “Fine trinkets, I have. Talismans to ward off illness, to draw love, to bring luck.”
Lyssanne seemed keen to pass on by, but Jarad stopped to stare at the carved lead charms, graven bronze discs, assorted animal teeth, bones, claws, packets of pungent herbs tied with thongs, and other sundry trinkets littering the peddler’s table.
“Taught by the Shaman o’ the Wood, was I,” the peddler said. “You've heard o’ him, I’d wager.”
“I've not had the pleasure,” Lyssanne said, her tone polite but cautious.
Noire slithered into the shadow of a low-hanging awning behind the peddler.
“Oh, he's powerful wise, is the shaman,” the man said. “Lives t’other side o’ the forest, at the edge of Gian Plain. At the edge o’ this world an’ the next, if y’ask me.”
Something shifted in Lyssanne’s eyes. She tugged at Jarad’s elbow. “We must be going.”
“Can I show the young miss nothing?” the peddler asked. “An amulet, perhaps, to preserve your ethereal beauty?”
Lyssanne shook her head and moved past the stall.
The peddler fumbled among his wares, snatched up a carved bit of wood, and ran to Lyssanne. He thrust the trinket toward her then froze. “What charm is this?” His fingers hovered over the star-shaped pendant she always wore. “’Tis you,” he said on a breath, “the fallen star who shines!” He glanced at Jarad. “And her stalwart protector. I’ve
a message for you.”
“For us? Here?” Lyssanne said. “From whom?”
“The one who causes you to shine.” The peddler fished in a belt pouch then passed Jarad a tiny roll of parchment. He turned to Lyssanne and took her pendant in his grubby hand. “This is a powerful talisman,” he said. “Aye, it carries the love of dear friends. Potent magic, that.”
Lyssanne stepped back, wresting the pendant from his grasp. The instant her fingers brushed his, the peddler jolted. His eyes widened until only their whites showed.
“Darkness stalks you,” he whispered. “A powerful darkness has already touched you. Beware the Shadows that take fog as form. The weapon of your enemy…shadow and spirit, are they. Anger, fear, despair—such are their sustenance and secretion.”
Lyssanne backed away several paces, her face pale.
“You need protection. Aye, powerful protection.” The peddler’s ominous demeanor changed to brisk businesslike excitement. “I have just the thing!” He pulled Lyssanne toward his stall. “It'll only cost you one silver.” He snatched up a rather foul-looking claw on a chord. “The talon of a griffin, sure protection from all manner o' calamity.”
Griffin talon indeed! That was nothing more than a lion's claw painted red with a poisonous-looking green vein running down it. Noire had seen this man's like in dozens of towns throughout the Seven Lands, selling worthless trinkets and fueling obscure superstitions.
“No, no, thank you,” Lyssanne said, backing away from the peddler. “I don't believe in such things. Your concern is kind, all the same.”
The peddler’s face grew livid. “Don't believe, eh?” he shouted. “You'll believe soon enough. Then, you'll wish you'd accepted a poor peddler’s generosity!”
Taking advantage of the distraction the man’s shouts caused, Noire eased from the shadows, allowing the waning sunlight to touch him and embracing the raven within.
Lyssanne hurried farther into the busy marketplace, pulling Jarad along with her.
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 12
