by Kevin Sands
Bronwyn tossed her curls—an even twenty, ha—and stood in a huff. She’d had a lot of practice huffing, and she did it very well indeed.
“Oliver was right,” she said. “You don’t care about me.”
I certainly didn’t. But as she pretended to be upset, so did I. I sprang to my feet and cursed.
“Shuna’s snout! Oliver lies like the dog he is. I’ll make him pay for such slander,” I vowed, intending no such thing.
She swept out to the veranda. She cut a pretty picture, I’ll give her that. Her morning gown was tailored magnificently, lace-trimmed shoulders and a knotted bodice with gold eyelets. And the color. The dye in the silk was such a flawless match to her eyes, it made me wonder if her dress was enchanted.
There was no doubt about her brooch. Shaped like a wolf, the crystal glowed with a light that swelled from somewhere deep inside. As Bronwyn walked, the color changed, making it seem as if the wolf was swishing its tail. Such trickery could only have been imbued by a Weaver—a Spellweaver, to give them their full title, though no one called them that.
I still didn’t know much more about enchantments than I had that day I’d hidden in the snakesroost. The Old Man had told me only that Weavers created them by stealing the life force from animals and binding it inside inanimate things, and that all enchantments faded over time. When I’d pestered him to say more, he’d plonked his feet up on a chair, lit his pipe, and said, Who cares how it works, boy? Bindings are dangerous, that’s all you need to know. Fiddling with nature is for fools.
Fool or not, magic was the reason I was here. Because something else the Old Man had taught me was that desire was the heart of every good gaff. Everyone, he said, rich or poor, young or old, wants something. Give them the chance to grasp it, and you can lead them wherever you like.
And Bronwyn loved sparkly things.
Since I’d arrived in Coulgen, every time I’d spied her, she’d worn something—a brooch, a pin, a bracelet—that shone with its own magical light. Here, in the princess’s greeting chambers, all kinds of enchanted crystals glittered: a tray of goblets, a jeweled mirror. Even the sconces on the oil lamps sparkled, refracting colors that shifted in the glass.
And yet, there was one item she’d never get to sparkle: the Ocean’s Tears, the hereditary necklace of Coulgen, currently clasped around her neck. A string of sapphires, each the size of a marble; any princess would have been proud to wear it.
But, as the Old Man had said: desire above all. I was betting that Bronwyn’s love of sparkly things would make her reckless. And that wager had better pay off—or I’d be dead.
I joined her on the veranda. Her bodyguard trailed after me. The man wore the tan jacket and trousers of an attendant, but his watchful eye—and the barker tucked in his belt—made it clear he wasn’t here to serve the drinks.
Bronwyn leaned against the railing. “If you care,” she said, “why are you leaving Coulgen? I’ve barely had the chance to get to know you.”
I faked as much sincerity as I could. “I have no choice. My father’s called me home.”
She turned toward me, curious. “Surely the reports are exaggerated.”
“On the contrary,” I said. “It’s worse than the newspapers say.”
We stared into the morning sky. Though well past dawn, the eastern horizon was a bright, vivid orange. It almost looked as if the air was on fire.
And, in a way, I suppose it was. Six days ago, in the province of Garman, on the eastern border of the world, a volcano had exploded. Bolcanoig, one of the Seven Sisters—the seven sup-posedly dormant volcanoes that spanned our world, Ayreth—blew its cap without warning, burying a good chunk of Garman under molten rock.
All of Ayreth had rumbled in its wake. Then came the strange color in the sky. Naturalists said the orange was caused by sunlight shining through the ash flung into the atmosphere. I had no idea if that was true—I knew as little of nature as I did of magic—but news bred rumors. And—something else the Old Man always said—rumors, boy, are opportunities.
This was mine. “I have to go,” I said. “My carriage leaves at noon.”
Bronwyn stepped forward, lower lip trembling. “That’s it? You came into my life, and now you’re just going to leave? With nothing at all to remember you by?”
“If you would promise to keep me in your heart,” I said, “I’d leave you both the moons themselves.” Shameful.
I turned away, let her linger for a moment. I could feel her staring daggers into my back. “You promised me a sight nothing in Coulgen could match,” she said, not quite able to keep the ice from her voice.
“Ah. So I did.” I waited until I thought she might explode. Then I went back inside the palace and rummaged through my valise, from which I drew a carved ivory box. Bronwyn stepped closer as I opened it.
Then she gasped.
A necklace rested within, nestled in a lining of velvet. The chain was gold—well, gold-colored, anyway—two thick ribbons intertwined. But it wasn’t the chain that took her breath away.
In the center of the necklace, the golden bands wrapped around three gemstones, each the size of a plum. They swirled, brilliant with points of light, as if the night sky had been trapped inside.
“Artha’s Stars,” I said, lifting the necklace. The light painted the room in an ever-changing kaleidoscope of color. “My family’s legacy. The stones were bound by Alastair XXIII, the four hundred and seventy-eighth High Weaver. He enchanted them three hundred years ago, and they’ll shine for three hundred more.”
“So long?” Her eyes glittered with greed. “How is that possible?”
“My grandfather said the souls of a million fireflies were bound within. It took seven years to enchant.”
“I believe it,” she said breathlessly. “Let me try it on.”
I hesitated. “Well . . . I’m not really supposed to. My father says I should keep it hidden—”
“Who’ll see it?” She flashed me her most winning smile. “It’s just the two of us.”
I didn’t bother pointing out her bodyguard. Bronwyn wasn’t the type to count the little people. “I . . . all right.”
Subtly, I took a step to the side, so she was between me and her guard. “If you’ll permit me?”
She didn’t even wait until her back was turned before she started grinning. I undid the clasp on the Ocean’s Tears, letting the necklace drag over her collar. It slipped from her shoulder and dangled from my hand, behind her back, Bronwyn’s body blocking the guard’s view.
And that’s when I made the switch.
I let her necklace drop inside my sleeve. Then I plucked a stained-glass copy of the Ocean’s Tears from a thin silk thread attached to the lining of my cuff. By the time my hands were back in sight, it looked like I was still holding Bronwyn’s necklace, instead of a cheap glass imitation.
I glanced at the bodyguard. He just looked bored.
Now play it out, boy, the Old Man said in my head. I laid the fake necklace over the arm of the couch and hooked Artha’s Stars around Bronwyn’s neck.
She stared at the jewels sparkling beneath her chin and snapped her fingers. “Mirror.”
I took a silvered mirror from the nearby table and held it up so Bronwyn could see. She preened, gazing at herself the whole time.
I cleared my throat. “I wish I could stay, Highness, but I really must depart.”
She couldn’t take her eyes off the mirror. “Yes, of course.”
“So . . .” I said expectantly. “Artha’s Stars?”
Finally, she looked over at me, surprised. Here it comes. “Surely you’re not taking this with you?” she said.
I pretended to be puzzled. “Uh . . . why wouldn’t I?”
“Aren’t you going back to Garman?”
“Yes.” Actually, no, but whatever.
“Then who knows what di
sasters have befallen your lands?” she said. “What if it gets lost? What if your carriage is held up by bandits, turned desperate by misfortune? You’d lose your family’s finest treasure.”
“I . . . hadn’t really thought of that.” I made a show of thinking now, quite seriously. “I suppose I could leave it with the banks—”
“The banks?” Bronwyn said incredulously. “My father doesn’t trust them with a single sept.”
“But then what am I to do with it?”
What indeed? “Leave it with me,” Bronwyn said, as if she’d just thought of the idea.
I feigned surprise. “You, Highness?”
She spread her hands. “The palace is the safest place in Coulgen. No thief could possibly get in here.”
“I . . . suppose . . .”
She looked at me, almost shocked. “Surely you’re not worried I’m going to steal it?”
Oh, but that’s exactly what you’ll do, I thought. Then, when I return for it, you’ll claim I gave it to you as a gift. You’ll expect I’ll be too embarrassed to admit I was duped.
But you have it backward, princess. While you thought you were cheating me, I was cheating you. That’s how the gaff works, see? You think you’re in control, when in reality, you’re the one being strung along.
I should know. It’s my job.
I gave an awkward laugh. “Of course you wouldn’t steal it.”
“That’s settled, then,” she said. “I’ll keep this safe until you return. Though I hope you won’t mind if I wear it just a little longer.”
“No, Highness.” I smiled. “Wear it as long as you like.”
CHAPTER 2
Here’s an important lesson: Never sleep near the back of a wagon.
I learned that one the hard way. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you wanted to look at it—the last four days of travel had been nothing but rain. So when my nodding off resulted in my rolling off, instead of hitting the flagstones of the Emperor’s Highway, I landed in a thick layer of slop. No broken neck, lots of mud up my nose.
I sat on the road, snorting, as the wagoneer drove on. He looked back, half-amused, half-apologetic. “Sorry, lad, can’t stop. Got to make the early gate.”
Of course. Down the hill were the walls of Redfairne. With dawn creeping over the horizon, the gates had just opened. Already, a line of merchants were racing their wares inside. No time to waste.
My bones creaked as I pushed myself to my feet. I didn’t know when my birthday was—when the Old Man had found me on Perith’s streets, he’d guessed my age to be six, which would make me around fourteen now—but whatever the truth, I was too young to have bones that creaked.
But two weeks on an ore wagon will do that to you. When I’d fled Coulgen, Bronwyn’s necklace hidden safely under my clothes, I’d hitched a ride west on a three-hundred-mile, three-million-road-bump journey to Redfairne, my home. Or at least the closest thing I had to one.
I’d have loved to keep playing the role of a noble young layabout and ride off in a cushioned carriage. But the Old Man had taught me never to take risks if I didn’t have to, and since there was a chance Bronwyn might spot I’d switched her family’s heirloom for a fake, I’d dumped my silk shirts, donned the simple wool of a working-class boy, and bribed the first traveling merchant I saw the rest of my pocket money to smuggle me from the city.
So, in a nutshell: everything hurt. I hobbled toward the city gates, trying to rub the feeling back into my legs. To say nothing of my poor backside, which had spent the last fourteen days finding every splinter in that cart. I’d have happily hitched a ride from any of the other passing wagons, but none of them would let me near, looking—or smelling—like I did.
Three hundred miles on wheels, a couple more on my feet. No job’s done till it’s paid.
* * *
The clockmaker’s shop was set in the front room of an aging brownstone in a questionable area of town. His sign hung above the door, squeaking in the breeze.
Grey’s Fine Clocks
Quality Timepieces for Discerning Gentlemen
The sign was impressive, in its way: though only eight words, the man had somehow managed to squeeze in at least three lies. I noticed a new hole in the wood, a circle punched out of the O. Someone had used the thing for target practice. Better that than the clockmaker himself, I guess.
The bell rang as I entered, the heat from the lamps filling the air with the fishy scent of burnt whale oil. As advertised, Grey’s shop offered clocks of the man’s own design, though “fine” was not the word to describe them. Then again, I suppose you can’t have a sign that says grey’s barely functional clocks and expect to be taken seriously.
Grey kept all kinds in his shop: wall hangers, pendulums swinging underneath; mantel clocks, sided with glass so you could watch the gears tick inside; pocket watches, silvered or gilded. The first piece a customer would see actually was fine: a grandfather clock, six feet high, with cogs the size of my head spinning tooth in tooth. Its face was metal; layered sheets of tin that turned with the hour hand, a day scene on one, night on the other. Moving between them was a familiar pair: Artha the Bear and Shuna the Fox. They chased each other around the clock, Artha lumbering under the sun through the day, Shuna slinking under the twin moons by night, the cycle never-ending.
It was a quality work indeed—and a fraud, much like Grey himself. He hadn’t built this clock. He’d bought it from a much better shop in Carlow, the empire’s capital city, seventy miles across Lake Galway to the west.
As for the man himself, Grey was in his usual spot behind the counter. Well into middle age, he had a burly sort of softness about him, the kind a man gets once youth fades and he begins to let himself go. Though he’d lost a little weight while I was away, I noticed; his waistcoat no longer strained at the buttons.
Today was apparently miracle day, because Grey actually had a customer. The clockmaker leaned over the counter, gut squeezed against the wood, showing one of his pieces to a man in an overcoat. The clockmaker glanced toward me, then did a double-take. The gentleman turned at his expression and gaped.
I stood there, blinking at them through the mud drying on my eyelids.
Grey spoke in a thick brogue: “Er . . . coal delivery, is it?”
I nodded.
He jerked a thumb. “Pull it around.”
I limped around to the back alley as the clockmaker returned to his customer. There I waited, knees threatening to give out, until the latch clacked and the back door swung open.
Grey looked me up and down. Then he started laughing.
I leaned my head against the wall, too tired to spar with him. When he stopped for a breath, I said, “Are you finished?”
“Aw, listen to the sourpuss,” Grey said. “Come on, boyo. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He chuckled. “If we can.”
* * *
Grey lived in the quarters above his shop. For the last six months, that’s where I’d lived, too, when I wasn’t out on a job.
My room wasn’t much; not even a room, really, just a closet crammed with a canvas cot and a lantern dangling from a hook. But Grey owed me nothing, and he didn’t charge me rent, so as much as he liked to annoy me, I was grateful to him for the space.
The clockmaker stopped me before I could flop on the cot. “Don’t go laying about, ’less you want to scrub your own muck. Tub first.”
Grey had installed pipes in the lavatory so he wouldn’t have to pay the waterboys to cart it up fresh every week. He’d even mustered up some semblance of craftsmanship, working a separate pipe round the back of his forge so he could have hot water as long as the furnace was running. The tap gave a familiar chunk-chunk-chunk when I turned it, before gurgling up a choppy stream.
Grey waited at the door, arms folded.
“Bathing is a solo activity,” I pointed out.
He
raised his eyebrows. “Forgetting something, aren’t ya, boyo?”
Oh. Right. “It’s under . . .” I waved at my crusted clothes, too tired to finish.
“Come on, then.”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to show him my scars. Still, he wouldn’t leave until he got what he was waiting for. My suspenders were under my shirt, so it was an awkward thing to unhook them without lifting the wool high enough to expose any skin.
Eventually, I made it work. My trousers fell to reveal, clasped around my upper thigh, the Ocean’s Tears. If only Bronwyn could see it now.
Grey grinned as I handed him the necklace. “Well done, boyo. Your share’s in the shop.”
I waited until I heard his shoes clomp down the stairs before I pulled off my shirt. There was no mirror here, so I couldn’t see my back, couldn’t see the worst of it. But there were still plenty of scars I could see. They wrapped over my shoulders, around my sides, one ugly tendril winding all the way across my stomach.
I don’t know why I bothered to look at them. They hadn’t changed a bit in eight years. And even if I never saw my reflection again, I’d know they were there. They hurt. Every second of every day, they hurt.
I stepped into the tub. The water was scalding, turning my skin pink—all except my scars. They stung even worse in the bath, burning like brands with the heat. But they never turned anything but white.
* * *
Too tired to hunt down clean clothes, I went downstairs bundled in a giant towel, hair still wet. Grey had locked the front door and drawn the curtain across the window. Now the room was lit only by the oil lamps he always kept burning, no matter the season. I suppose he’d gotten used to the smell.
Bronwyn’s necklace lay on the counter. Grey stood beside it, scratching numbers in a ledger with a quill. And next to the Ocean’s Tears, with its tail curled around its feet, sat my favorite thing in his shop: Lopsided the cat.
