The King's Scrolls

by Jaye L. Knight

  “We appreciate it. I’ll show you where you can leave your dragons out of sight and get down to the village.”

  With a command, they all took to the air again and continued to the west. A couple of minutes later, they landed in a deep ravine and dismounted. Darq motioned to them as he climbed the sharp rise at one side, and they followed him up to the edge. When Jace discovered the sheer, two-hundred-foot drop on the other side, he sucked in his breath and shrank back involuntarily. Heat flushed his neck. He glanced at the others, but no one seemed to notice.

  Once he’d come to grips with the height, he set his focus out past the drop. Down in the rocky valley rested a small mining village, comprised of around one hundred fifty rough buildings and tiny shacks scattered across the outskirts. It looked almost dead. If not for a couple of people moving off in the distance, he would have thought the village abandoned.

  After taking a moment to assess it, Trask said, “Since the soldiers have moved on, it’s probably safe to split into pairs. We’ll cover the area faster that way.” He shifted to look at them. “Kaden, Trev, you two take the northwest corner. Kyrin and Jace can take the northeast. Rayad and I will cover the southwest, and Mick and Holden the southeast. We’ll meet in the middle.”

  Each of them nodded and descended the rise to return to the dragons, where they collected their weapons.

  “Ask around for Josan Silvar,” Darq told them, “but don’t mention he’s a crete. We don’t want that name getting back to the emperor in association with the cretes and have him piece things together.”

  With these instructions, Trask took the lead along the narrow, washed-out ditch that led out of the ravine and worked its way down to the valley floor. At least it didn’t involve any sheer cliffs. At a steep section near the bottom, Jace half-stepped, half-slid down the loose gravel and then turned back to offer Kyrin a hand. She smiled her appreciation, and he helped her down. The ground evened out a bit after this, and they came to the edge of the village. Here, the group split in half, heading to either end. When Jace, Kyrin, Kaden, and Trev reached the northern end, they paused before splitting again.

  “Be careful,” Kyrin told her brother.

  “You too.” Kaden sent a purposeful glance at Jace.

  Gripping his sword, Jace gave a slight nod to assure him that he’d take on the whole village and die before letting any harm befall Kyrin. Satisfied, Kaden and Trev went on. Kyrin watched them for a moment, and then looked up at Jace.

  “Ready?”

  Jace peered at the streets ahead of them, but didn’t find anything of immediate concern. He nodded, and they walked into the village. They passed the first buildings, on the lookout for any people or shops where they could gather information, but quietness surrounded them. The place seemed nearly as dead as it had from above. It sent a cool prickle along Jace’s skin, and he scanned every corner and alley carefully.

  “I sure wouldn’t want to live here,” Kyrin said in a low murmur. “It’s so . . . gloomy.”

  Jace agreed. There wasn’t a tree in sight. That alone bothered him. The only place to seek cover would be up, into the mountains.

  They went a little farther, and he self-consciously tugged his sleeves down past his wrists to conceal the dark hair along his arms that was a little too telling of his ryrik blood, and made sure his hair covered his pointed ears. If they ever did come across anyone to question, the last thing they needed was for someone to suspect him of being a ryrik. The only things he couldn’t hide were his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t been a good choice for this mission. The cretes had come to Trask for help so they wouldn’t raise suspicion, and here he risked just that. He cleared his throat, loathing himself as he said to Kyrin, “I think you should do the talking. Someone might notice I’m different and get suspicious.”

  She said nothing, but nodded and pulled her shoulders back with a determined expression.

  Jace sighed. He hated putting the burden on her. She would have been better off with Kaden instead. But he could at least protect her. He set his focus back on the roads ahead. They could hardly be called such—only hard-packed, crooked paths between the buildings. It appeared that the founders had built the town in a hurry—however long ago that was. He and Kyrin stuck to the largest, most well-traveled paths. Jace was just beginning to wonder if they would find anyone when, at last, they came upon a wrinkled, hunched-over old man. Thick dirt and grime coated him as if it had been there for years.

  Kyrin took a breath and walked up to him. “Excuse me, sir?”

  The old man squinted up at them, his weather-beaten face full of deep lines. “Aye?”

  “Do you know a man named Josan Silvar?”

  The man’s eyes closed further as he mumbled the name back to himself and tugged at his long, scraggly beard. Finally, he shook his head. “Never heard of ‘im.”

  Kyrin gave him a kind smile. “Thank you for your time.”

  The man grunted and hobbled on.

  “He looks like he’s lived here for a quite a while.” Kyrin turned to Jace. “Surely he’d know Josan if he were here.”

  Jace agreed. Though they continued the search, everyone they met had the same answer. No one knew Josan Silvar. However, Jace did get the sense that the villagers were nervous. Many hesitated and darted shadowed glances at him before answering Kyrin’s questions. It could have been him, but he suspected something else had them spooked.

  Not quite an hour later, they arrived at what appeared to be the center of the village. All the major paths converged here, so they stopped. They didn’t have long to wait for the others. Kaden and Trev approached a few minutes later, quickly followed by the rest of the group. Everyone had had the same experience.

  “All the villagers we talked to said they didn’t know him, and no one appeared to be lying,” Kyrin told Trask. “I don’t think Josan has ever been here.”

  “Well, you had better luck than we did,” he replied. “Most people we met only shook their heads and walked away.”

  “Maybe I seemed like less of a threat,” Kyrin suggested. “I think they’re all on edge from the soldiers. We probably weren’t the first ones to question them.”

  “All the more reason to get ahead of the emperor’s men.” Trask looked up at the mountains. “Let’s get back to Darq and move on to Dunlow.”

  Dusk had overtaken the land when Jace first noticed the thick gray smudge on the horizon ahead. He frowned. At first, he thought it only a cloud but, after drawing closer, he concluded that it was smoke. Before he had a chance to discover its source, Darq veered off deeper into the mountains. Jace scanned the peaks and spotted a small pinprick of light. It quickly took the shape of a campfire, and they all landed on a plateau, thankfully wider than the last.

  He dismounted and sighed when his feet touched the ground. He’d forgotten how taxing travel and new situations could be. He joined the group gathering in front of the dragons, where the two cretes from the campfire met them. One was Darq’s lieutenant, who Jace had heard Talas call Glynn. The second crete was a stranger. Captain Darq took over introductions. It was a quick formality, with no great show of friendliness, particularly not from the new crete. He didn’t say a word beyond giving his name—Falcor Tarn. Jace wasn’t sure how it was possible for someone so much shorter to look down on him, but that’s exactly what the crete did. Arms folded, he peered at them through hard blue eyes and never once came close to breaking a smile. Jace sensed no welcome from him at all, when at least the others, like Darq and Talas, displayed gratitude for their help.

  Dismissing the crete’s cold reception, Jace turned his focus to unsaddling Gem, who nuzzled his shoulder as he worked. Despite his weariness, he smiled and patted her neck. After a full day of flying with her, he did trust that she wouldn’t let him fall.

  Leetra crossed his field of vision on her way to her dragon. Jace couldn’t help but notice how Falcor followed her and helped her with the saddle. It was the first time either of them smiled, though it did nothing to soft
en Falcor’s rock-hard features. Jace dropped his eyes back to his work so he wouldn’t be caught watching. He had a feeling neither one would take kindly to it.

  Once the dragons were settled for the night, the group moved to the fire, where Glynn prepared supper. Jace joined Kyrin and Kaden in a small group off to the side, away from their disagreeable crete companions. For a long moment, they said nothing, but when Jace looked at Kyrin, he found a frown on her face as she stared ahead. He followed her gaze to Falcor and Leetra. The two sat at the opposite side of the fire, so close that their shoulders touched.

  He turned to Kyrin again. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was just watching Falcor.” She shrugged.

  Kaden gave a small snort. “And I thought Leetra was unfriendly.”

  Kyrin glanced at her brother, but remained focused on the crete couple. “Falcor certainly is that.” She shook her head, her brows still wrinkled as if she were trying to solve a puzzle. “The other cretes have only been wary of us, but with him, it’s more. He doesn’t like us.”

  Jace narrowed his eyes as his gaze settled on the crete, who talked quietly with Leetra. The hardness in his expression hinted of cruelty, which Jace had experienced too much of in his past.

  Talas joined them a moment later, and the tense mood abated.

  Kaden nodded to Falcor and Leetra. “They seem close.”

  Talas’s brow quirked wryly. “They’re betrothed. No doubt they’ll be married as soon as we get back to Dorland.”

  “They’re good for each other.”

  Jace fought a smile as Kyrin whispered her brother’s name sharply, frowning at him.

  Kaden shrugged, but was a little contrite when he looked at Talas. “Sorry.”

  But Jace had to agree with Kaden. They were a perfect match.

  Talas just looked amused by it. “Don’t be. You’re starting to sound like a crete, just stating the facts.” He chuckled, then lowered his voice a little. “Don’t mind Falcor. He doesn’t like me either. He’s as crete as they come. That’s why Leetra likes him.”

  “Likes?” Kyrin questioned. “Don’t they love each other?”

  Talas tipped his head in consideration. “They’re a good match. They both know it and like it. Cretes are very practical. Love isn’t always what first brings us together. Many times, it follows. I think they love each other . . . in a way.”

  Kyrin just shook her head. “I could never marry someone I didn’t truly love.”

  Jace contemplated this. Though he didn’t know a thing about love, he agreed with Kyrin. If he were ever to marry, it would have to be based on something far more than being a good match. But the thought of marrying was so foreign to him that he’d never given it any consideration before—maybe because he always knew, even without thinking it, that it would never happen. How could it? What kind of husband would he be? And what woman would ever marry him?

  “So, what about Lieutenant Glynn?”

  Kyrin’s question snapped Jace from his wild thoughts. How had his mind worked its way down such a strange, unfamiliar path anyway? He shook off his strange curiosity with the subject and glanced over at the crete in question. Darq’s lieutenant hadn’t spoken more than a quiet greeting when they’d met. Yet, he didn’t exhibit the same coldness as Falcor.

  “Glynn is a man of few words,” Talas responded with a smile, but it faded. “His mother died when he was young, and his father, well, let’s just say alcohol is his constant companion. Glynn’s brothers are quite a bit older than him and not much better. No one really knew what was going on with them until Darq happened to come by during one of Glynn’s father’s drunken rages several years back. He’d beaten Glynn up pretty badly, and not for the first time, apparently. Darq stepped in and invited Glynn to come stay with his family. They’ve been like brothers ever since. Glynn might not say a lot, but he’s a good man, regardless of the situation he came from.”

  Jace looked at Glynn again with a stirring of kinship. While his own abuse hadn’t come from family, he did understand it. He didn’t know much about the cretes, but it seemed every race had their issues and individuals who resorted to violence and cruelty. With a glance at Kyrin, he found the look of sympathy and compassion in her eyes that had helped pull him out of his darkest pit. The rare people like her were the ones who made up for the cruelty he’d always found much more common.

  Timothy dragged a length of chain off a supply wagon parked outside the warehouse. His shoulders burned as it slid down and they took the full one-hundred-pound weight. Gritting his teeth, he carried it into the warehouse and dropped it on the ground with the five others he’d already unloaded. He braced his hand against the wall and wiped his dripping forehead. His drenched shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin.

  Complaints crowded in with his fatigue, but he combatted them by thanking Elôm it wasn’t mid-summer with the sun beating down on top of him. And at least he still had his job, despite the way Harold snapped and grumbled at every opportunity. If he could just hold onto it until spring arrived. Food wouldn’t be quite so scarce then. It would take practice, but at least he could spend the days hunting. He just had to convince Harold of the benefit of keeping him through the winter.

  He filled his lungs with the welcome cool air and straightened, stretching his back before heading to the wagon for the other four lengths of chain still waiting. When he stepped out of the warehouse, sudden ice encased his body and froze him in place. Harold stood outside the main shop, watching as five soldiers approached the warehouse, straight toward Timothy. He broke himself loose, but his heart beat sluggishly. He had only enough time to send up a desperate prayer and attempt to gather his wits before the first soldier reached him. A quick glance at the man’s uniform told Timothy he was an officer. His stomach caved inward. None of these men had been in the group he and Aaron had witnessed. They were new, and they certainly weren’t in town due to taxes as Aaron had hoped. Such business would have taken them to the mines.

  The officer was quite young for a man of his position—maybe only a couple of years older than Timothy. His brown eyes suggested friendliness, but this offered only a fleeting comfort.

  “I’m Captain Marcus Altair,” the young man said, introducing himself. He did not speak harshly, yet his voice was crisp with professionalism as he scanned the warehouse behind Timothy, before returning his full attention to him. “According to your employer, you’re half crete.”

  He waited expectantly.

  Timothy looked toward the shop where Harold stood with his hands on his hips and his thick brows sunken. Had the man even considered looking out for Timothy’s best interest, or had he blurted out his mixed race the moment the soldiers entered the shop? Dragging his eyes back to the captain, Timothy nodded in confirmation.

  “What’s your name?” Marcus asked.

  “Timothy.” He stood straight and tall to disguise his unease, and looked at the captain straight on. “Timothy Carliss.”

  “Timothy, we’re looking for a crete man named Taan. We have a few questions for him. Do you know him?”

  A phantom fist drove straight into Timothy’s gut. He knew it. They were here about the letters . . . about the faith he had in Elôm. His skin went cold again. If these men gained the information they sought . . . He steadied himself and shook his head. After all, the name didn’t actually belong to anyone. It was only a signature on the letters—a clan name.

  “No.”

  The captain’s gaze probed his for truthfulness, and Timothy held it without wavering. If he let his uncertainty slip now, they’d see right through him.

  Finally, Marcus moved on to his next question. “We also heard you live with a crete man. What’s his name?”

  Timothy’s heart hit his ribs with a solid thump. Instinct urged him to guard Josan’s name at all costs, but if he refused to answer, it would mark him as guilty. They’d arrest him and find Josan anyway. Josan would never want that. Timothy could almost hear his adamant insistence that he answer th
e soldiers.

  “Josan Silvar.” Having to say it left his mouth bitter, as if he were condemning Josan with every word. He added quietly, “He’s a friend.”

  The captain gave a short nod, keeping up his professional manner. “Where do you live?”

  Timothy’s throat squeezed around the words to block them, but he forced the answer. “In a cottage, on the far side of town.” He gestured with a tip of his head, and heaviness pressed down on him. They would surely go there next.

  “And is Mister Silvar there?”

  “Yes.” I’m sorry, Josan.

  “Thank you for your cooperation. We appreciate it.” Marcus turned and motioned to his men to follow.

  Most of the soldiers moved immediately, but Timothy caught one of them watching him. He had the same brown eyes and hair as the captain, though he stood a couple of inches taller. Timothy couldn’t read his expression. It was almost as if he were trying to figure something out but, in a moment, he fell in behind the other soldiers.

  Timothy remained rooted to the spot until the men disappeared down the street. Then his breath gusted out of his lungs as the weight of the situation crashed in. He ran toward the shop. Harold had gone inside, and looked squint-eyed at him when he burst through the door. With their questioning, the soldiers had now branded Timothy with suspicion, which would not be easy to live down in front of his employer. He snatched up his bag. “I need a couple of hours. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I can work late to finish—”

  “No.” Harold’s gruff voice cut in. “You can’t just run off whenever you feel like it.”

  Timothy spun around to face him, and a spark of fight flared inside his chest. The man barely let him rest long enough to gulp down his lunch every day; surely he could spare him for an hour or two just this once. He forced himself to speak calmly. “I just want to be with Josan if the soldiers question him.” If Harold hadn’t tipped them off in the first place, he wouldn’t need to go. “I won’t be long.”

  Harold shook his head stubbornly. “You’ll stay and work or you’ll not come back at all.”