by Elle Clouse
Aisling frowned.
“I’ll be careful. You have my word.” He took her fingers and kissed the back her hand.
Her shoulders sunk but she gave a half smile. “Well, since I have your word...”
AISLING STOOD IN THE great hall, her cloak removed by Glenn, and whisked away to the kitchen. Miss Cotton was surely in their rooms and Corinna was busy with dinner preparation. Brogan insisted she stay indoors, too dangerous with the bandits about, so she marched down the closest hall.
The bandits were wolfkin, she could smell them as clear as a flower below her nose. They no doubt scented her, their glances were inquisitive and curious. No wonder Corinna had known so quickly, wolfkin indeed scented their own. Aisling’s acceptance of her wolf side must have enhanced her sense of smell.
She strode past closed doors as her mind worked. Corinna had said the bandits made life hard for her family, had they changed their stance on comingling? Had her cousin’s ascension to the throne eased their stance? Or what sort of trap were they setting for Brogan?
Aisling halted at the end of the hall and stared out the large bay window. Brogan had been about to kiss her before the bandits arrived. She touched her lips, curious what it might have felt like. Would it have been gentle and reserved? Or passionate and breath stealing? She resigned to find out, one way or another.
A light tapping drew her attention to the glass. A pendant dangled from a tiny nail in the piping between glass panes. It looked like a decoration in the window. She’s overlooked it. Star shaped gold with a cut stone center the color of amber, Aisling wondered how anyone could leave such a bauble behind. She clasped the chain around her neck, the star resting on her bosom, surely Brogan would notice it.
She turned and spied a spiral stair and took it to the upper level. Her restlessness quelled for the moment, she returned to her rooms. Miss Cotton wasn’t there to her relief. The best way to cope was to write Caitlin a letter, even though she hadn’t gotten a reply from her last note.
The small desk in the corner held no parchment, ink, or quill but she had the supplies in her luggage. Aisling and Caitlin had gotten into the habit of writing in a short hand that only they understood. It started as an innocent secret code between friends but as they reached womanhood, it became apparent their business was not private. One note mentioned Caitlin’s interest in a young man and the next fortnight he’d been killed. A disgruntled customer turned violet, Declan had said. Aisling thought otherwise and Caitlin had mourned for months.
She’d written four pages by the time the sun set. An artful recounting of her days at Armanta hill, and as signed her name at the conclusion, there was a knock at the door.
“Dinner is served, miss,” Miss Cotton called from the other side of the door. If Miss Cotton found out about their attraction they would be packed up and on the road before Aisling could blink. Although it would take more than flirting to tarnish her reputation. Aisling needed to push Brogan farther.
She touched her lips again. Perhaps much further.
“HE CAME IN FOR MESSAGES,” the shop keep said, his face a myriad of bruises and gashes. “I don’t know where he lives. He comes and goes from every direction. I haven’t even seen him in months.”
Declan stepped back and allowed Finton to land another fist in the shop keep’s gut. Tied to a chair as he was, the keep couldn’t deflect the blow and grunted.
“Please, that’s all I know.” His voice was reduced to a whimper. Perhaps he spoke the truth.
“Who would know where Fletcher lives then? An old acquaintance perhaps?”
The keep shook his head. “Don’t know, he always came alone except the last time, he had some read headed woman with him. Haven’t seen them since.”
“Someone has to know where he went.” Declan waived Finton forward again.
“No wait! His creditors might know.” He flinched, peaking up at them through swollen eyes. “He had several in town, borrowed from just about everybody at some point.”
“I need a name.” Declan sighed
Fintan clenched his fist and drew back.
“Wayland & Sons! Try Wayland & Sons, they are the largest and lowest money lender in town. Only the desperate work with them and the last time I saw Fletcher he was in some serious trouble.”
Declan knew of Wayland & Sons, their reputation preceded them. If Fletcher had owed money to them and defaulted, he’d be dead. The Waylands always got their monies worth. But if there was a chance he lived, Declan would find Fletcher and end him. After he found out where he sold the amulet Fletcher stole.
“You know what to do.” Declan clapped Finton on the shoulder and retreated from the backroom. He peered out the window of the small shop to the busy street with all the people and carriages that careened past. So much clatter that the shop keeps screams were drowned out.
No wonder Fletcher hid so well amongst the capital masses. One could wander the streets for days and never see the same face twice. The common person kept to themselves, pursued their own agenda with little compassion for the next man. It was the perfect environment for the type of dealings Declan made, or Fletcher for that matter. If Fletcher hadn’t stolen from him, they might make great business partners.
“Wayland & Sons is just up the way, sir.” Fintan returned from the back room while wiping blood off his hands with a spare cloth. “Shall we pay them a visit now or wait until tomorrow?”
The small clock on the wall indicated that it was supper time.
“We need a plan. You can’t stroll into Wayland & Sons without something they want first.”
Wayland & Sons worked in imports, which was an easy cover for smuggling. Declan knew the practice well and had a network of tradesmen before Fletcher ruined his reputation. Declan wouldn’t be able to stroll into the shop and ask where Fletcher might be.
Declan unlocked the scroll shop doors and waved Finton onto the street. They walked with the flow of pedestrians past Wayland & sons. The shop front window displayed exotic trinkets, oddities not found in the desert lands, a few elfin artifacts, and textiles in strange patterns. Painted on the glass in gold and black lettering by an expert calligrapher was the family name.
They continued past the shop and stopped at a street corner. Declan gazed over the other stores and eateries, his gaze rested on a small pub down the street. Perhaps drunken tongues was the best source of information. They could only interrogate so many shop keeps before the guard got wind. Even in the poorest of neighborhoods, the authority wouldn’t take to people disappearing in large numbers.
The sign over the door swung in the breeze and in faded red letters read Finnigan’s. Would Fletcher have frequented a place so close to his money lender? Was he daft or betting no one would look right under their noses.
Either way the flow of people in and out the front door was a good sign, good food and drink meant more people who needed someone to listen.
Chapter 10
Magic lessons complete, the men repairing more of the outer fences, and hours before dinner, Brogan strolled into the abandoned kitchen. No Carissa, no Aisling. A grunt, a crash, and a curse drew his attention down the servant hall. Light spilled out one of the doors.
When Brogan pushed aside the door, Aisling stood before a pile of fabric rolls with her hands on her hips.
“I’m going to sew Corinna a proper winter cloak.” She waved at the assortment of materials before her. “There is more than enough here and the mice have stayed out of it. Whoever organized this was a ninny.”
Brogan glanced at the remaining fabric stores, bolts of every color imaginable all piled high against one wall. Pick the wrong one and they’d have another avalanche. “Let me help. Which one do you need?”
Aisling pointed to a thick roll of COLOR wool.
“Right.” Brogan tugged the bolt free, leaning into the wall of fabric to keep it upright. “Will Corinna wear such a color? Seems sort of bright for her.”
Aisling smiled. “Something tells me she will.”
; She set aside the wool and picked up the other rolls that had fallen. Brogan grabbed up the few at his feet and set them all back on the top of the pile as they were.
“I’ll have to let Miss Cotton know the state of this room. She’ll be busy for days.” Aisling’s smirk faded. “Do you really intend to go with Valko when he comes in a few days?”
“Do I really have a choice? If I can make peace with them it’ll be for everyone’s benefit.” And that’s what lords did, right? Make peace and keep his people safe?
“But how do you know you can trust them? Carinna said they’ve blighted this land for quite some time.” She chewed her bottom lip, her eye gazing up at him. As if pleading.
He sighed. “I don’t know that we can trust them. But I’ll take Ardhor with me. I’ll not be alone.”
“But what if...” Her shoulders slumped and her gaze shifted about the room. “What if they are those people from your father’s story that are wolves who walk like men? They seemed very keen on meeting you once they knew Lachlan had appointed you.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were wolfkin. Or some other fey. Wylderlands indeed.” Brogan paused, he could feel her apprehension. “I’ll be safe. Ardhor is very capable with a bow. I can handle a sword, very well, I might add.”
“Of course, my lord.” She chuckled, the tension in her stance easing a bit. “
“Is that concern for my wellbeing, my lady?” Brogan watched her blush, the answer obvious.
“Merely concerned for my host, where would we go in the dead of winter if you should die? It would be a great inconvenience.” She laughed but there was an edge to the sound. Worry perhaps? Aisling was worried about something. “Oh, I found this necklace in the hallway. I thought you should know.”
She unclasped the chain from her neck and held it out for him. It looked expensive.
“You found it in the hall you say? On the floor?”
“No, it was hung on the window sill, like some sort of decoration. Odd place for such a trinket.”
“Indeed.” Brogan extended his hand and she dropped the necklace into his palm.
“As you said, this is the Wylderlands.” She gathered up her fabric and strode past him. “A fairy probably hid it from the former owner, or some such nonsense.”
Brogan gazed after her, listening to her steps as she returned to the kitchen and beyond. A fairy may have hidden it, or the former owner. Ardhor was looking for a key to the magicked room but perhaps it wasn’t a key all. But a talisman like the one Aisling found.
He returned the kitchen, still empty, and glanced out the window. Where did the elf spend his free time? Chatter from the great hall wafted in, Miss Cotton asked after her elfin caretaker. Where ever Miss Cotton was, Ardhor was not. Brogan glanced around the room, the cellar door was slightly ajar.
“Ardhor, are you down here?” Brogan called when he reached the bottom of the cellar stairs.
“Yes. Down the reds aisle.” Ardhor sat on the floor crossed legged, his arms resting in his lap. His eyes opened when Brogan approached.
“Are you hiding?”
“Of course not. It’s just easier to meditate without a constant barrage of questions.”
Brogan chuckled then held out the necklace. “What do you make of this?”
“Impressive, it’s magicked to be overlooked,” Ardhor commented. “No wonder I couldn’t locate it. How did you find it?”
“Aisling found it. Said it was hanging in a window.”
“In plain sight.” Ardhor stood and dusted off his pants. “Perhaps she inherited some of her family’s wolf traits? This trinket has been overlooked for decades.”
“Aisling isn’t wolfkin.” Brogan paused, his instant defense of Aisling caught him off guard. He didn’t know if she was wolfkin or not. He assumed but witnessing her cousin’s transformation, he couldn’t rule it out. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Regardless, we have it now. Let’s see if this is what we need to get that door open.”
They approached the door and the wall faded into nothing, leaving an archway to the room beyond. A candelabra dangling from the ceiling flickered to life. Untouched by time, bookcases covered the left wall from floor to ceiling. A workbench topped with glass jars took up most of the far wall. To the right, a set of armchairs with a side table awaited with a woven rug covering the stone floor. There was no dust, no evidence of rodents, and the air smelled fresh.
“Proximity of the pendant effects the door?”
“Normally not,” Ardhor said. “It would allow for just anyone to enter. There should have been some ritual involved to open the door.”
Brogan stepped through the arch. “This was a study.”
“A magician’s study.” Ardhor gasped as he looked over the titles on the book case. “So Taliesin was covering his craft.”
The workbench bore stains and scratches from whatever Taliesin crafted.
“I have never seen so many books about magic outside of the MOUNTAIN NAME. And these are journals.” He pulled a book stuffed full of notecards and place markers and flipped through it. “Experiment notes! Taliesin was using wild magic.”
“Isn’t that bad?” Brogan pulled another journal from the shelf and leaf through it. Drawings with notes covered most pages and others had equations more advanced than Brogan couldn’t follow.
“Yes and no,” Ardhor replied. “Classically trained mages built the fundamentals to control their craft early, then create their proficiencies through experiments and further studies. Wild mages wield their magic without structure, their skill born from need rather than study, and their spells risk mutation in not controlled. With such detailed notes, it looks like Taliesin was trained and working on experimental magicks.”
“I didn’t know there was a difference in mages.”
“Most don’t.” Ardhor sighed. “Before the purge, magic was common enough that it wasn’t feared like today. There were mage academies and spell shops in each town. Magic charms and tinctures could be bought and sold like candy.”
“Amazing. Who would ever want it to change?” Brogan thought of all the times his aunt used her secret powers to keep him safe as a child. He’d be dead if not for her silent spells.
“Your emperor, that’s who. The man can’t abide anyone having more power than he. He’s not even a caster.” Ardhor looked up from the journal and met Brogan’s gaze. “The winners write history so you probably have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“The purge is forbidden to talk about in the capital. It’s never had a name even, we just can’t talk about magic. And anyone caught practicing disappeared. Presumed dead.”
“Best way to control a populace, through ignorance and propaganda.” Ardhor returned the journal to the shelf.
“There are so many journals. Talesin must have been quite active before the purge.” There were at least thirty journals. “He must have been very powerful.”
“I look forward to reading these.”
“I can think of better place for you to study and avoid Miss Cotton.”
Ardhor huffed. “It is fortunate that we gained access to this study. There is a wealth of knowledge here unspoiled by time. It may just offer an edge over your enemies.”
Brogan paused. “What enemies?”
“Lord Armanta, the enemies of Cearbhall.”
Chapter 11
Finnigan’s was several stories tall with an open center from bottom to the top. The higher the levels served the more affluent while the main floor remained packed with commoners.
Declan sat beside a regular and ordered him another ale, his third in about an hour. “I wonder if you can help me find an old friend.”
The drunk looked Declan up and down. Dressed as a dock man in stolen knickers, Declan had spent days in the pub, being seen and establishing a rapport.
“You’re that gent whose fortune was confiscated by the crown?”
“Aye, that’s me.” Or as he led people to believe, the more patheti
c the better. “I’m hoping to reconnect old ties, maybe the man can help me with my woes.”
“Owes you a favor, does he?”
“We knew each other as lads, always helped each other when we could. Anyone around here named Fletcher?”
“Fletcher?” The drunk stared down into his mug. “Haven’t seen him in months. Used to come in here all the time. One of his jobs must have really paid off.” He laughed and raised his drink as if in a toast.
“Good for him!” They tapped their drinks together and Declan feigned a drink while his partner chugged the contents.
“Fletcher and his friends used to be in here all the time.” The man waived to a round table in the corner where a lively group of young people drank. “They’d sit at that table there and have a good time. Fletcher would buy a round for everyone when one of his deals went well. No one does that anymore.”
“Sounds like my Fletcher, always generous.” Declan smiled and clanked tankards again.
“Course, I’ve seen a couple of the girls from his group around.” He pointed a finger. “Like Erann there, clearing the table.”
Declan’s gaze followed the line and spied a woman clearing empty mugs as new patrons sat down. They shouted their orders before she had a chance to greet them. “Why she’s working here is beyond me. If Fletcher did come into his own, he’d have taken his friends too.”
A member of Fletcher’s crew was the perfect opportunity. If Declan was patient enough, she’d lead him right to Fletcher. It would be a pity if he had to let Finton rough her up to find the conman.
THE DAYS TICKED BY and the morning of their meeting with the Bandits arrived. Barely light out and Brogan stood in the foyer, riding leathers in hand, with Aric, Ardhor, and Phelan beside him. Glenn stood at a side window with a view of the road.
She’d hastily thrown on a gown and slippers, knotted her hair atop her head, and raced down the stair to see him. Something in her gut told her she had to say goodbye.
