A light bobbed up the path. It cast across the leaves and limbs in a yellow-orange glow. The orb at the center of the light wove unsteadily as it made its way towards her. A shadow of a man swerved beneath it, gurgling a mess of a tavern song.
Olivia didn’t move as the light drew closer. She didn’t have to. For when the man’s bloodshot eyes finally fell upon her, he dropped straight to his knees.
“All right, I’m sorry — I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
“It’s too late for sorry, Foster. I’m afraid the chancellor is greatly offended.”
“But I wasn’t in my right mind when I called him daft! I swear it! I’d — I’d been drinking! Please,” Foster whimpered, dropping the lantern upon the ground so he could clutch his hands before him. “Please, you wouldn’t hold the words of an old drunkard against him, would you?”
“What I would or wouldn’t do is of no consequence. I’ve been sent here to punish you.”
“No,” he moaned. “You have to understand I didn’t know — I didn’t believe him when he said he’d send a ghost after me. How could I have possibly been expected to —? No, wait!”
But Olivia didn’t stop. She took three paces into the light, grinning beneath her mask as Foster whimpered.
“Thirty! I’ll give him thirty blasted percent!”
She drew the dagger from her belt, let the flat of the blade scrape against the mouth of the scabbard —
“Forty, by Fate! Forty, and he’ll practically own me!”
Olivia put the dagger away and instead, drew a roll of parchment from the folds of her coat. “You’ll sign this agreement and deliver it to Harborville by weeks’ end. They’ll carry it on to the chancellor.”
“But it’s at least a week’s ride to Harborville —”
“Then you’d better ride fast. If it’s not there on time, I’ll come back for a visit … and I won’t be happy.” Olivia threw the parchment at his feet and watched as Foster scrambled to stuff it into his pocket. Then she stepped out of the light and into the dark mouth of the woods.
Foster called after her. He wanted to know her name, wanted to know how she knew he’d be at the tavern. But she didn’t reply. She never replied. She wanted people to know as little as possible about the council’s newest agent.
Olivia would much rather be a wraith than be given a name — and so her victims’ fear would keep them silent.
Tristan had been right: war was brewing in the Kingdom. She’d heard nothing but talk all season about how Banagher had been at odds with his whisperers. He’d cast many of them from Midlan. A few wanted to rebel — and that number seemed to be growing steadily each day. But though the men of the seas were loath to rise and fight, Olivia would make certain they were prepared.
Foster’s village was responsible for supplying a large portion of the council’s army with its bows and arrows. Now that they would be able to purchase them so cheaply, they could amass a stock for the coming war. She’d spent much of her time away from Greenblood, traveling from hold to hold across the forest and the seas, tightening the council’s grip on everything from armorers to fishmongers.
If the Kingdom did indeed fall to war with the whisperers, they would need every blade and every crumb they could possibly gather.
And even then, it still wouldn’t be enough.
Now that her business with Foster was settled, there was just one other merchant Olivia wished to see. A ship waited in Oakloft to carry her back to Greenblood — but instead, she turned north.
Her mare trotted for miles down a familiar path, weaving her way beneath the enormous trees as the bleak of night gave way to a pale dawn. Pinewatch had only just begun to stir: the first sputtering tendrils of smoke rose from its chimneys, the first line of sleepy villagers stumbled from their homes to go about their chores. A few of them nodded to her as she passed — smiling in familiarity at the masked rider who often stayed with Garron.
She stabled her mare; the lads filled her trough with water and oats. Then she made her way to the house.
Olivia was still several yards from the door when it suddenly swung open. After all she’d learned about him, she wasn’t surprised that Garron had answered it himself. He must’ve seen her coming from the study window.
“I’ve heard rumors that D’Mere’s ghost is haunting the forest, terrorizing lord and merchant alike. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Please, Garron — you know I have no patience for rumors,” Olivia said with a smirk.
His shirt was un-tucked, rumpled at its tail. His feet were bare and he’d let several notches out of his belt. She knew this likely meant he’d been up all night at his ledger — though as he wasn’t wearing his spectacles, she knew it wasn’t numbers that’d been troubling him.
“I assume you’ve just returned from one of the chancellor’s errands?” he called as she approached.
“Yes. It was Foster, this time,” Olivia replied.
She’d decided not to tell Garron about her freedom. The whole seas believed that Tristan was still in charge, and it would be best if it stayed that way. Besides, had Garron known the truth, he only would’ve scolded her for continuing on with her … negotiations.
His sharp eyes snapped up her length. “And I assume you’ve come here today because you mean to hide while your wounds are healed?”
“No. I haven’t got any wounds.” She pulled her hood away, dropped her mask below her chin. “See?”
Garron’s mouth parted slightly — and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked considerably surprised. “Then you must be in some manner of trouble? Danger? Are you being followed?”
“No … everything’s quite all right.”
“Then why exactly have you come here, madam?”
She wasn’t sure. “I suppose there isn’t a reason. I just hoped we might be able to talk.” Olivia stopped an arm’s reach from him and couldn’t help but smile at the uncharacteristic confusion in his sharp blue eyes. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
For a moment, it looked as if he might refuse: his brows snapped low, and he frowned. Then quite unexpectedly, he pulled her into his arms.
It was odd, but the lips that pressed against hers weren’t nearly as stern as she’d expected them to be. They moved gently, patiently. The Poison should’ve risen up, should’ve arced through her veins and forced her to move more roughly — to drive Garron to the very edge of his limits and revel in his anguished moans.
But instead of burning, her blood turned … warm. It numbed her, softened her. She moved patiently with Garron, soothed to the very tips of her fingers.
The world passed in a blur around her. She barely heard the creak of the stairs — she was focused far too intently on the pressure of Garron’s arms as he carried her up. The rough of his tunic gave way to the smooth of his skin … his hands drew warmth from her flesh, carried it straight to her middle …
And at what seemed like the very next moment, Olivia was lying with her head pressed against Garron’s chest — her ears filled with the steady rhythm of his heart, her fingers at last tangled among those little hairs.
Sweat clung to her neck. She closed her eyes against the tickling as a drop rolled down her back. Her breaths were ragged and deep — they kept pace with Garron’s. His arm was wrapped tightly about her shoulders, holding her against him. And had it not been for the insistence of his strength, she felt as if she might very well have melted from the bed and sloshed out onto the floor.
Weakness … that was the feeling that’d made her arms go limp. But it was strange, this brand of weakness. It wasn’t the sort she was used to feeling — the helplessness she’d once felt when Tristan had her pinned beneath his heels. It wasn’t the frustration of Garron being able to knock her to the ground in sparring lessons, or the jolt of being struck by someone stronger.
No, this was different. This feeling that covered her now didn’t remind her of how weak she was, but convin
ced her that she didn’t have to be so strong … that for once in her life, she could lay still and rest in the knowing that she was safe.
“I would ask you to marry me, but I don’t think it would do me any good.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” she agreed. “Even if I didn’t belong to Tristan, I’d still refuse you.”
He laughed; his lips brushed against her forehead. “Very well. Then I suppose I’ll have to be content to be your lover … ah, you aren’t in the habit of killing your lovers, I hope?”
Olivia snorted. “Don’t be silly. What if I wanted one of them again, but couldn’t have him because I’d already slit his throat?”
Garron’s chin jutted out and his eyes roved to the ceiling. “That’s a remarkably good point, madam.”
“Thank you.”
They said nothing for a long while. Olivia lay as still as she could — enjoying the gentle flow of Garron’s blood, the soothing calm of her weakness. “What changed your mind?” she whispered after a moment, closing her eyes once again. She smiled against the rumble in his chest as he replied:
“Time. The knowing that you’d ridden a good many miles out of your way not because you needed anything, but because you simply wished to speak with me. You wished to spend your time with me. And time, my dear, is our most valuable possession.” His thumb trailed softly against her arm. “It was an offering every bit worthy of my attention.”
He was quiet for a breath. Then he sighed heavily. “No, it was more than that — far more than I could’ve ever afforded. In fact, I believe as I lay here I find myself rather severely in your debt.”
For once, Garron was wrong.
Olivia would always belong to The Poison. But for the moment, it was buried deeply. These few breaths she’d had to lay in Garron’s arms had given way to a rather surprising gift.
Love was a poison — but with Garron, it felt more like a salve. In fact, she felt more at home in this moment than she’d felt in a long while … than she thought she would ever feel again.
She raised her head so that she could look into his eyes, braced her thumb against his chin and very firmly said: “You don’t owe me anything, Garron. Continue to heal me … and you’ll never be in my debt.”
The Story Continues In… Book 1: Harbinger
Afterword
SHAE FORD IS A WRITER of YA fantasy who was born and raised in a not-so-small town outside of Fort Worth, Texas. She thinks the real world is pretty decent, but prefers to spend most of her time in the Kingdom: a land filled with warriors, mages, and a new race called whisperers. Her debut series, Fate’s Forsaken, follows the coming-of-age story of a young man gifted with extraordinary powers … but plagued by rotten bad luck. Shae published her first book in 2012, and she’s been on an adventure of her own ever since.
The Fate’s Forsaken quartet:
Book 1: Harbinger
Book 2: Slight and Shadow
Book 3: Dragonsbane
Book 4: Daybreak (Summer 2015)
Sign up for Shae’s newsletter: www.ShaeFord.com/newsletter/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/harbingerthebook
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THE MASKMAKER’S APPRENTICE
Endi Webb
Chapter I
The Wanderer
HE HAD WORN HIS MASK since he could walk.
Babies, being innocent, need no masks, and most small children will not abide one. But Elu, being of the adventurous sort, toddled over to his father’s lectern, grabbed the jeweled adventurer’s mask stored underneath and pressed it to his face. Fate smiles on those who tempt her, so the ancients say, but Elu’s mother, previously distracted with seven other busy children now gasped in horror at her newly masked son. Imagining all manner of curses and maledictions certain to now plague the family for her son’s impropriety she snatched it from the child’s grip and scolded him.
Elu’s father, apparently not so convinced of the gods’ ire, laughed merrily at his son and teased his wife for her superstition. Had her own homeweaver mask not obscured her flash of annoyance he might have stopped sooner than he did, but now Elu, squirming in his mother’s arms grabbed at her mask as well, in spite of her shouted threats of whippings and punishment.
Still laughing, the father announced, “Then perhaps it is time for his masking. It will not do for him to steal your woman’s mask when you are not looking.”
“A child should not be masked until he understands the mask and the role he is given,” she replied in defiance.
“True, wife. But our child has reached for his own mask, of his own will and accord. It portends great things for him. I foresee that he will make his own destiny and not be given his role by man.”
And though he spoke with his wooden householder’s mask and not the green painted teacher’s mask of his daily wear, the prophetic speech stilled her words, but not her heart, which feared now for her youngest child. For people do not simply choose their own masks.
Your first masks are given to you by the ones who also give you life. Later, with wisdom only a stern and unforgiving world can teach, you accept other masks given you by your masters, be it the king, the presbyter, or the teacher: on rare occasion the mask may be given by fate itself. One may choose his own mask, yes, but the gods frown upon such insolence. Such presumption.
And so the following morning, next to the icy cold waters of the creek that ran through the village of Gheb, Elu was masked by his father. The child’s mask—a basic curved wooden frame with goat leather stretched across, punctuated by large eye holes and a small opening for the mouth, suggesting to the child that they should see much and say little—was every man’s first mask. The father, still young himself, slowly, ceremoniously, dipped the simple wooden frame three times into the swift, black water. Thus cleansed of the wood spirits that previously called it home, he strapped it proudly to his son’s face, who proceeded to rip it off and run for the brisk water’s edge, only to be yanked back by his frantic mother.
Never had a child been given a mask at such a young age in the village of Gheb, and the neighbors, who early in the morning had merely scoffed, now openly derided the teacher for his folly. ’Tis an evil thing, they said, for one so young to be masked, but the father stoically ignored them, firmly holding his son and reattaching the mask to his face. This time the child relented.
Through his youth Elu kept his mask on. But he wandered. The small village could not contain him and he escaped early and often to the edges of the hills from which flowed the creek that fed the village below. Several of his older brothers, and later, his younger ones, often accompanied him but he did not abide more than one or two at a time.
When the gullies and meanderings of the creek had yielded their secrets, he looked further up the hills and spied the beginning of the forest. Vast elmore trees with their bushy, prickly arms fluttered in the wind, or swayed with the whisperings of the wood spirits that called to his mask, seeking to reclaim their lost home.
Elu ventured only short distances into the trees at first, not wishing to dishonor his mother who had commanded him not to wander too far, but the spirits called him, and he followed. Deep into the woods he went one day with his smaller brother, Lo. Higher and higher they followed the creek—a pathway of water encased by a low roof of dense foliage as if the stream had carved a tunnel through the green itself. Lush moss clothed the sharp rocks, and the muted water seemed to linger over its plush softness, but here and there the green had been torn or rubbed away by beast or man, revealing the black angled stones that made up the water’s bed.
Elu and Lo paused at a large rock over which flowed a trickling waterfall into a shallow pool below. Hangra fish scattered to and fro as the boys tossed tiny stones at them. They competed—seeing who could come closest to hitting first the fish, then the furry dandra that scurried on the forest floor beneath the foliage.
Small games escalated to larger ones, when finally Lo said, “I reckon you can’t be climbing that rock.”
“I reckon I can,” said Elu.
“Show it to me,” said Lo.
“Show it yourself.”
“You are the elder. Show it first.”
“I will, but you follow when I succeed.” Elu started to climb up the slick rock before calling back, “If you can.”
Slowly, but steadily, he climbed the rock and within a minute stood triumphantly on the top, kicking water down at his brother below.
“Your turn to show it, brother.”
Lo began unsteadily at first, but gained confidence and skill as he climbed. Not an arm’s length from the top his bare foot slipped off the mossy rock and he fell, hitting his head as he dropped out of sight. Elu yelled and jumped into the shallow pool below, making a wave that washed his brother’s unmoving form up against the rock. He dragged the boy out of the water and examined him. His mask had been thrown off and blood issued from the back of his head, but soon he stirred and opened his now naked eyes.
“I didn’t show it.”
“You’re showing it all over me. Come, we must heal you.”
Lo stumbled to his feet, but soon collapsed. Elu lifted the boy and carried him down the ravine, off the hills and to the village where he entered the healer’s hut. The healer, a young woman with the black oak and bone mask of her trade, hurried Elu inside and snatched the smaller boy out of his arms. She laid him on a table and began chanting as she pressed cloth to the wound. Elu listened to the chant, how it began in the woman’s throat, but flowed through the mask, channeled and shaped by the ancient healers’ spirits that gave life and power and purpose to the mask. Long-dead masters of the healer’s art now caressed Lo’s head, and the bleeding staunched.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 262
