by Jayne Castel
“I did, and she said no.”
“You only asked once … you should have insisted.”
Asher gave a bitter laugh. “You wanted me to get down on my knees and beg?”
“Maybe you should have.”
Asher’s fingers clenched around the tankard. Both Ninia and Mira would have enjoyed that—only he still had some pride left.
He wished the princess would leave him alone. All he wanted was to order a jug of ale and drown himself in it. Ninia’s expression as she stared back at him made him want to hurl his tankard across the room.
“I know this is my fault,” he growled, biting out the words.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t need to.”
Ninia sighed then, sagging in her seat. She suddenly appeared much younger than fourteen. Her face was pale, her hazel eyes hollowed. It was easy to forget that she bore a gift that was both great and terrible, one that had made the creatures of darkness bow before her.
Asher reached up and dragged a hand over his face. Tonight he felt every one of his thirty-three winters.
Dusk was settling over the land, when Mira stopped at a roadside inn. A low-slung building constructed of wood and stone, The Traveler’s Rest sat on its own looking over the sea. It was an exposed section of coast; only a few stunted trees grew here, and the wind gusted fiercely.
After seeing to Whinny, Mira left the cob in a warm stable with a net of hay and went indoors. An elderly couple ran the inn. They both had snow-white hair, their skins leathery and wrinkled from the harsh climate. Mira was one of the few patrons this eve, and so the inn-keeper’s wife fussed over her, serving up a mutton pie and steamed greens before arranging for a hot bath to be prepared in Mira’s room afterward.
The meal was delicious, but Mira didn’t linger in the common room. Her body ached from being in the saddle all afternoon. She was unused to riding and knew she’d be stiff in the morning. She was also weary. Now that the tension of the past few months had lifted, she felt as if she could have slept for days.
In her room Mira stripped off her clothes and sank gratefully into the steaming water. Outside, the wind had increased in its ferocity, rattling the shutters and groaning against the walls. Inside though it was warm, and a lump of peat smoldered in the hearth in one corner of the room.
Mira sighed and leaned back against the iron rim of the tub, letting the water’s heat soak into her tired body.
Exhaustion pulled down at her. She’d slept little the night before—as had Asher.
Her body tingled as memories of that long night returned to her. For just a few hours, she’d left this world behind. For that one night, she’d been someone else, someone she barely recognized. That woman had been fearless.
Mira opened her eyes to see her nipples had hardened; an ache now throbbed between her thighs. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to banish the thoughts.
Damn him.
Why were the best experiences in life always the most fleeting?
She wanted to hate Asher, to dredge up the anger that had burned within her until she’d thrown that knife at him. Anger was easy, so was hate.
It will get easier, she consoled herself. With each passing day, the memory of him would fade. Soon she’d find it hard to recall the timbre of his voice, the scent of his skin, and the feel of his body against hers. Soon he’d be a ghost in her past, just like her parents.
It was better that way.
Mira stayed in the tub until the water cooled, until her skin wrinkled. Only reluctantly did she climb out and dry herself off. It was raining outside now; she could hear it pattering against the shutters.
Shrugging on a clean tunic, she padded over to the bed and emptied out the purse she’d carried from Veldoras.
It was considerably lighter than when Rena had handed it to her; their prolonged stay in Thornmere had bled her dry.
She had ten gold talents, eight silver ones, and a handful of bronze left—enough to rent a simple room and live frugally for a year without working.
I’ll have to find work once I reach Errad, she thought. The realization didn’t depress her. She’d get bored living in the city without anything to do anyway. However, she hadn’t any idea what she’d actually do to earn a living.
The skills she had weren’t easy ones to peddle; they leant themselves to dangerous lines of work. She could work as a guard, a debt-collector, or a mercenary, but none of those jobs appealed much tonight.
Mira refilled her purse and put it away.
Tonight she stood upon the bridge between two lives. From this moment forward, she could be anyone of her choosing—she just had to decide who that was.
36
Stynix
MIRA SPIED THE bristling skyline of Errad on the horizon three and a half days later.
It was a bright afternoon, and the sun was warm on her back as she slowed Whinny to a trot. The cob had carried her swiftly north and proved to be a delightful traveling companion. Mira hadn’t spent much time around horses; she’d learned to ride as part of her Swallow training but had never had a horse assigned to her at the keep. Whinny’s sweet nature, so different from her rider’s prickly one, soothed Mira. The horse’s company made her feel less alone.
She leaned forward, stroking the mare’s neck. “You did well, girl.”
The horse snorted, her furry ears pricked forward in the direction of travel.
They entered Errad through outskirts of sturdy houses made of tarred timber with slate roofs. The streets were unpaved but in good condition. Children ran barefoot, their laughter rising high above the street, lean dogs chasing them; and women swathed in voluminous woolen tunics were bringing in washing they’d hung out to dry in the morning.
Mira inhaled the smells of warm tar, wood smoke, and overcooked pottage, and smiled. Wide open spaces and desolation unnerved her; she preferred to be in cities surrounded by noise and life. She’d heard Errad was a prosperous place due to its mines; it was a good place for someone like her to start over.
Whinny clip-clopped over a hump-backed bridge and into the center of Errad. A wide river curled lazily through the city. It was not a tidal estuary—not like the Brinewater of Veldoras—so there were no children mudlarking on the mudflats. Instead, dark water slid by under the bridge, and men fished off the banks.
The buildings—now stone rather than tarred wood—rose to two or three stories high in the heart of the city, and the streets turned from dirt to wide cobbles. Here, Mira saw signs of wealth: grand buildings faced with stone pillars, walled gardens, and ornate wrought-iron street lamps.
She was curious to know just which minerals were mined here, and if she could find a niche for herself amongst the miners and merchants.
“It’s Argite, Coltrin, and Sabinium, dear,” the crone she rented a room from informed her. “This town’s life blood, they are.”
The woman held out her hand for the bronze talent Mira had agreed she would pay her for the next three nights. The landlady was tiny: a sparrow of a woman with a web of deep wrinkles upon a heart-shaped face and knowing, dark eyes.
“My husband spent thirty years mining Coltrin,” she added. “Although it was the death of him in the end—the dust rotted his lungs.”
Mira passed over the coin, her interest piqued. She’d heard of all those minerals. Argite was a semi-precious stone favored for jewelry, Coltrin had medicinal uses, whereas weaponsmiths favored Sabinium for fashioning the strongest blades. Foebane’s blade had been forged with it. The minerals were all costly; perhaps there was work to be had in guarding the stores.
“Who manages the mining in Errad?” she asked casually.
The crone handed her a heavy key, her face creasing as she smiled. “Why do you want to know … looking for a job?”
“Aye,” Mira replied cautiously. “I might be …”
“The King of Rithmar owns all minerals that are mined in the Black Mountains,” her landlady replied, “although Errad’s over
lord manages them on his behalf.”
Mira nodded, taking this in.
“Thinking of paying him a visit?” The crone’s expression turned shrewd.
“Maybe …”
Her landlady gave a dry wheeze of a laugh. “Good luck with that.”
Upstairs in her tiny room, Mira dumped her pack on the bed and looked around. One bronze talent went further in Errad than it did in Veldoras; even so she’d soon run out of coin without work.
Mira crossed to the window and looked out. She was on the second floor of the boarding house that Furla, the old woman, owned. A busy street bustled beneath her, the smell of frying eel wafting up from where a man bent over a brazier.
Errad pleased her so far. Despite the dull northern light, the town appeared gilded this eve. She was eager to go out and explore, although her tired body ached at the thought. After days on the road, she needed to rest.
She turned from the window and crossed to the bed before sitting down. Despite that she was glad to be here, Mira felt oddly flat—deflated. It was easier to feel energized about the future when you were traveling toward it; now that she’d arrived, she wasn’t sure what to do next.
After days of travel, her aloneness finally dawned upon her. Here she was in a strange city, a place where she knew no one. Errad was the end of the road, literally. Beyond the spine of the Black Mountains stretched league after league of uncharted cold wilds known only as the Badlands.
This room didn’t help her mood. It was tiny—with barely enough room for a narrow sleeping pallet and a wash-stand. The walls were grimy, the bed linen was yellowed, and the room had an unpleasant, musty smell.
If she wanted to move to better lodgings, she’d definitely have to find a job.
Tomorrow. Mira got to her feet and retrieved her key. Right now, the only thing she cared about was finding a tankard of ale and something hot to fill her belly. After that, she’d sleep and make a fresh start with the dawn.
The overlord’s tower sat high on a hill north of Errad’s center. Made of dove-grey stone, with high crenelated walls surrounding its bulk, the tower was an imposing sight. The effect was made even more marked by the monochrome sky arching overhead and the carven charcoal peaks of the Black Mountains behind it.
Mira was on foot this afternoon. She’d spent the morning riding around the city upon Whinny, enquiring about work in various locations. She’d discovered she was too old to be taken on as an apprentice, and her gender went against her when she asked about positions that required muscle. By the end of the morning, Mira was sick of being leered at and patronized; her patience for the men who’d sent her away was wearing thin.
Perhaps the overlord of Errad was a man who’d appreciate her talents. However, remembering Furla’s reaction at his mention the day before, she was wary.
That wasn’t an issue. Mira was suspicious of most people.
The two sentries at the guardhouse gave her a wintry greeting.
“Why do you want to speak to Lord Elof?” one asked, looking her up and down dismissively.
Mira waited for the man to finish his appraisal, before she met his gaze. “I’m a trained guard,” she replied. “I hear the overlord is looking for someone to watch his back.” It was a lie; she’d heard no such thing.
The second guard smirked at that. “Guard, eh? To whom?”
“Royalty.”
His smirk faded. “Bollocks.”
Beside him, his companion gave her a contemptuous look. “Which ones?”
Mira raised an eyebrow, ignoring his rudeness. “The Thûn royal family.”
Earlier in the day she’d shied away from revealing her background, but she could see she wasn’t going to get into the tower without it. She needed to make these two idiots pay attention to her—preferably without giving them a demonstration of her combat skills.
The first guard eyed her once more, this time with a fresh appreciation. “You’re a Swallow?”
“Aye … before Anthor invaded and murdered my employers.”
Both men stared at her.
“And why didn’t they kill you too?” The leer had returned to the second guard’s face.
Mira smirked back. “Because I’m a survivor. I fought my way out … and killed many a man of Anthor to gain my freedom.” She paused here, letting the implicit threat in her words sink in. “Now … are you going to let me through?”
With scowls and muttered oaths they did. Mira didn’t care if she’d offended them; the only person she wanted to impress here was the overlord.
She crossed a wide, paved courtyard, where a wagon drawn by two grey horses sat waiting. A bored-faced stable-hand sat upon it. He looked up with interest as Mira strode past. Ignoring him, she climbed a vast set of marble steps toward the tower entrance. She wasn’t sure what she’d say once she got indoors. It didn’t matter if the overlord himself wouldn’t see her. Even if the captain of his guard could give her a few minutes, it would be enough. She needed a job, a purpose.
Halfway up the steps, the doors opened, and a woman in snowy-white robes exited the tower.
In her late forties, with a mane of greying red hair and a haughty angular face, the woman had an air of importance about her. She carried a great staff, the top of which was carved into the likeness of a stag’s head, and walked with her chin held high.
Mira stopped and stared.
Six robed figures followed the woman. Three wore charcoal robes belted at the waist, leather leggings, and high boots underneath; while the others were dressed identically, but in smoke-grey robes. They were all young: none of them older than twenty.
Mira’s gaze narrowed.
Enchanters.
Her attention flicked back to the white-robed figure who now approached her. Cool, green eyes slid over her, dismissing her. A heartbeat later the woman breezed past, gliding down the steps toward the courtyard.
Irana … the High Enchanter of the Order of Light and Darkness.
Mira swiveled, tracking her progress. The other enchanters followed in the woman’s wake, and for the first time, Mira saw that two of them carried heavy sacks over their shoulders.
She remained there, frozen in place, watching the procession travel down the steps and across the courtyard to the waiting wagon.
“Be careful with that.” The High Enchanter’s voice—sharp with annoyance—echoed across the courtyard, as one of her companions heaved the sack he’d been carrying into the wagon. “It’s worth more than your life.”
The young man blanched and mumbled an apology, while next to him, his companion lifted his sack into the wagon gingerly.
Mira continued to stare, her visit to the overlord forgotten. Her mind whirled, full of unanswered questions, as the High Enchanter climbed up onto the front of the wagon and arranged her robes. A young female enchanter climbed up next to her and took hold of the reins, flicking them.
The wagon rumbled off toward the gates, the remaining five enchanters following on foot.
“What else do they mine in the Black Mountains?”
Furla glanced up from the pot of stew she was tending, squinting through the steam at where Mira had appeared in the doorway. “Good eve to you too.”
Ignoring the crone’s sarcasm, Mira stepped inside the kitchen. The aroma of mutton stew was delicious, but she ignored her empty belly, focusing on the landlady instead. Furla lived in an annex to the building she let.
“You seem to know a lot about the minerals they mine here.”
Furla frowned. “I told you … my husband was a miner.”
“So what others are there, besides Argite, Coltrin, and Sabinium?”
“There are probably plenty of less valuable minerals mined within the mountains,” Furla replied with a shrug, “but I wouldn’t know their names.”
“What about precious ones?”
The crone gave her a narrow look. “Thorin, my husband, told me they occasionally find stones—a ruby or an emerald—but those go straight to the king.”
The crone went still. Silence stretched between them for a heartbeat, before she answered. “I don’t … think so.”
Mira sighed. Digging into her purse, she withdrew a precious gold talent and placed it on the table between them. “I’ll ask again … what else do they mine in the Black Mountains that enchanters might want?”
Furla’s gaze seized upon the gold talent, greed lighting in those dark eyes. “They mine Stynix.”
Mira’s brow furrowed. “Stynix … I’ve never heard of it.”
“You’re too young,” Furla scoffed. She edged around the hearth and reached for the talent, pocketing it. She relaxed then, as if she’d feared Mira would snatch the coin back. “Enchanters used to favor the mineral—even though it was harmful to them—before the kings of this land forbade its use. They say the heart of The King Breaker was made from Stynix.”
Mira tensed.
The tale of The King Breaker was legend across The Four Kingdoms. The talisman had locked away The Shadow King for eternity beyond a wall of ice, bringing peace to The Four Kingdoms once more.
Mira had been surprised to hear of its rediscovery. During the journey across the West Wolds, Asher had explained to her and Ninia how the talisman had been split in-two after the forging of the Ice Wall, and then lost for hundreds of years. Then centuries later, one half had fallen into the hands of the Shade Brotherhood—a group of men loyal to Valgarth—while the other had ended up in the possession of a girl from the Isle of Orin.
“That young woman—a shape-shifter named Lilia—stopped the Shade Brotherhood from freeing The Shadow King,” Asher had explained. “She shifted into a fox and ran through the battlefield to find me. The King Breaker was forged from the Dark, and it took all forms of the Light to destroy it: firelight, moonlight, starlight, and sunlight … but she got it to me just in time. The King Breaker, both the lock and the key to Valgarth’s prison, no longer exists.” Mira had been impressed by Asher’s story, especially about Lilia being a shifter. She’d thought all of her kind had been hunted to extinction.
