“You didn’t want to stay for tea?” He kicked the horse’s sides to spur it faster, then bent into the horse’s mane and held on tight.
Sora dug her nails into his ribs.
“They should be calling you knife-fingers!” he yelped. “Yig!”
They narrowly avoided several more arrows. Whitney steered the horse down a hill and for a moment the constable’s men disappeared.
“The woods are just up there,” Whitney said. “If we can get there, I think I can lose them.”
The men crested the hill. The voice of the one-eyed bigot from the constable’s mansion’s carried. “I want that liar and his knife-ear pet on a stake!”
“That wasn’t very nice!” Whitney shouted back to them.
The naked trees drew nearer as they galloped on. Just another minute or two and they’d be safe within cover. Whitney had ridden plenty of horses in his day, but he wished he were more of an expert. The woods were dense, and in there, at full gallop, steering would be down to the horse.
He closed his eyes as they whipped into the forest. Low branches snapped all around them, their sharp tendrils slapping against his face and neck.
When he could no longer take the pain, he pulled the reins. Once they were at a manageable speed, he glanced back at Sora, whose face, which had been hidden behind his back, remained clean of cuts.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Is this really the time to worry about my health?” she replied.
“Just answer the question! Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Good.” Whitney turned and angled his arm awkwardly around Sora. “Ready?”
“Wait! What?”
He pushed off the horse. Together, they slammed against the forest floor and rolled, the landing softened by a layer of fallen leaves.
“Why did you do that!” Sora flipped over and punched his arm. “We had a horse!”
“Just be quiet and stay low,” he said. “Hurry before they see us.”
Whitney took her hand, led her to a fallen tree, and they laid behind it. She started to scold him again, but he placed his hand over her mouth. The ragtag mob of the constable’s men entered the forest, their boots crunching atop fallen leaves. When they reached the spot where Whitney had abandoned their horse, he thought he saw a faint hesitation by their leader, but they continued following the horse, cursing under their breath.
“I can’t believe that worked,” Sora said once the men were at a safe distance.
“You doubted me?” Whitney said.
“You haven’t given me a lot of reason not to.”
“Well, maybe now you’ll trust me. C’mon, this way.”
“That’s the wrong way,” she said. “That’ll take us right back to town.”
“I know. I’ve still got clothes to steal.”
“You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke,” Whitney said.
“Whit, you’re going to get us killed over a shirt.”
Whitney stopped and leveled his gaze. “You really don’t believe me, do you? I stole the Glass Crown from Liam the Conqueror’s own head. In the middle of a crowded party. At the Glass Castle. And you think we’re going to get killed stealing a shirt from some wish-he-were-king, backwoods constable?”
“You really don’t need to prove anything to me.”
“To you? This was your test, remember? To see how we work together.”
“It wasn’t my idea to play priest.”
“No, but things went sideways. That’s how this works, Sora. Remember lesson two? You make a plan, abandon it, improvise.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yet it’s the only way. Now, let’s go before they realize that horse is riderless. Unless you’d rather fail?”
“I never fail.”
“Good.” Whitney helped her up, and they started back toward Bridleton. Some birds flapped through the brush, but that was the only sound save for the distancing cries of the constable’s brainless men.
They emerged from the forest onto a relatively flat plain. “This is about the place the kid brought us to his dad, right?” Whitney asked.
Sora stopped and surveyed the area. Mostly grass with a few lonely looking trees looming, branches rattling like dancing skeletons. “Over there,” she said.
The rancher’s blood still stained the ground and the bark of the tree.
“What exactly happened here?” Whitney asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You,” he said. “You ended up in bed for the better half of the day, and now you’re fine. Nothing wrong in the least.”
“It’s just how it works,” she said. “Blood requires blood, and only through that sacrifice can I draw on the power of Elsewhere.”
“Every time?” Whitney stuck out his tongue in disgust.
“Yes, every time. Wetzel said I had an affinity with fire and had me focus on that, but I taught myself a few other tricks with his books. I’ve only ever tried to heal rodents or cuts before, so that’s probably why it drained me so much. I was able to save them… most of the time.”
“You mean to tell me that while we were undercover, you decided to put a man’s guts back in without knowing what might happen?” he asked. “What if you didn’t wake up!”
“I had to try something. He was dying.”
“Well, next time you’re going to magic yourself unconscious, we should at least discuss it first.”
“You don’t get to ask me to do that.”
“I just mean.” Whitney sighed. “If we stop to heal all the wounded folk in Pantego we’ll never get anywhere. I can’t carry you everywhere and pretend your wicked magic is the work of Iam.”
“Look, I know my limits.”
“Do you?”
She swallowed, then pursed her lips. “I don’t think we have time to go into the fundamentals of blood magic. Had you stayed in Troborough maybe you could have learned from Wetzel too. But now he’s gone.”
Her stare grew unfocused, longing. Whitney did his best to try and hold his tongue and move on.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said after a long silence. She pointed across the field. “The constable’s place is just beyond the farm. Do you have a plan?”
“Of course,” Whitney said. “Haven’t you been listening? Steal some clothes.”
XXIV
THE THIEF
Whitney knelt in the cover of the garden bushes just inside the constable’s wall, pulling thorns from the hem of his robes.
“There’s gotta be a thousand of them!” he groused. “Why can’t priests wear pants like the rest of us?”
Sora poked a sharp elbow into his ribs to hush him. “Would you be quiet? You don’t know all the guards are gone.”
“Well, of course not all the guards are gone. There’s bound to be a few dolts still patrolling the grounds. Maybe even one or two inside.”
“Okay, so honestly, what is your plan?”
Whitney poked his head up and pointed. “See that window?”
“That’s your grand plan? Climb through an open window?”
“And out of that one upstairs,” he pointed to another window with a trellis running next to it. “Master thievery doesn’t have to be complicated. I already led all his men on a wild horse chase through perilous woods.”
“By accident!”
“Was it?” He grinned. “Look, just wait here. Let me know if you see anyone coming.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Whitney was already sneaking toward the mansion. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“Whit, wait!”
He heard her but didn’t respond.
Staying low, he trod lightly through the garden and pressed his back up against the wall nearest the window. He leaned forward enough to get a look inside. The room was empty, as he’d hoped. He hiked up his robe—he couldn’t wait to wear clothes that didn’t feel like a dres
s—then carefully threw his leg over the window sill, and pulled himself into the house.
The room was dimly lit, and the moons were already rising outside, so very little light poured in through the open window. Whitney took note of his surroundings and began drawing a map in his mind. The last time he’d entered the mansion was through the front doors. It was clear he was now on the side of the house close to the backyard. To his left, a door was propped open, revealing a kitchen. To his right appeared to be a staircase descending into the servant’s quarters.
Commotion from the stairwell startled Whitney, and he realized dinner time was fast approaching. The house cook would be making his way up soon. Whitney swore and hurried toward the kitchen. He’d only taken one step into the veritable maze of counters and cabinets when an adjoining door to the backyard opened. He ducked behind an island bar.
Plan, abandon, improvise.
He took a deep, steadying breath.
“Your grounds are impressive for so humble a town,” Bridleton’s new priest said as he stepped in, tapping the floor with his cane to guide himself.
“I’m glad you like it,” Darkings replied, right behind him. “And thank you for coming to meet with me so promptly. I do apologize for the confusion, Father.”
"It is no matter. Any man who would falsely claim the cloth of Iam does not deserve his grace.”
Whitney stayed low and peeked around the corner. They stood just outside the kitchen, too close for Whitney to make a move.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Darkings said. “These are hard times, with the kingdom in such turmoil. You never know what sort of miscreant rabble will wander into town.”
“I am so sorry to hear about your daughter, Constable. I do hope those dregs will be brought to justice. In all my years, I’ve never heard of such disrespect.”
“She will recover. And I assure you, justice shall be served in the name of Iam.”
“Praise the Vigilant Eye.” He circled his useless eyes. “I hear of much suffering here in Bridleton, Constable. Together, I hope we can offer ease to some of those who have too many times seen their lands ravaged by war.”
Whitney heard footsteps on the stairs from the servant’s quarters at his back. At the same time, the heeled boots Darkings wore to make himself appear taller clacked onto the kitchen tile.
Shog in a barrel!
Whitney held his breath and listened as closely as he could to figure out which way around they were going through the kitchen. Slowly, he sidled around the cabinets on the opposite side.
“I believe we can do good things here, Father,” Darkings said. “Hopefully this little mess will be sorted out before morning. I wouldn’t—Ah, chef Tagred, there you are.”
The chef emerged from the stairs and now stood on the other side of the kitchen. Whitney was about to be caught between them.
“My Lord,” the chef said. “I was about to seek you out regarding your preference for supper.”
“Father, would you do me the honor of staying for dinner?” Darkings asked. “You must be starving after your journey. We can discuss our plans for the future of Bridleton.”
“It would be an honor, Lord Darkings.”
By then, Whitney had nearly flipped sides of the kitchen with them as he edged along, but now they all stopped to talk.
“Don’t let Chef Tagred’s humble appearance fool you, Father,” Darkings said. “He makes the most delicious rabbit’s foot stew in all Pantego.”
Whitney hoped they would get on with it, but the chef went on to describe all the ingredients in his dish. Whitney’s mouth would have been watering if he weren’t so offended.
I didn’t get offered dinner…
He ignored his starving belly and tried to figure a way out quick. He scanned the room until he homed in on a hatch. He’d seen similar ones in castles and the homes of those who lived in the upper crust of society. The dumbwaiter, a system designed to make it so easy for a noble to receive his meal that he didn’t even have to get out of bed, was open and buried in the corner of the room. Whitney could climb the rope inside straight up to Darkings' chambers, he hoped. All he needed to do was distract the men from their mind-numbing conversation for the second it would take to reach it.
He reached up over his head and behind, pawing the counter above until he found a small enough object to throw. A wine cork. He dabbed the wet end on his tongue just to get a sense of the vintage—he’d never met a villain without impeccable taste in wine. Poking his head up, he flung it at a plate propped up on a high shelf on the other side of the kitchen.
The soft cork plunked almost soundlessly off it. The plate wobbled a few times as if taunting Whitney before it finally fell and shattered. The sound drew their attention, and Whitney took off for the dumbwaiter without looking back.
Within it, he found a board and a rope as expected. It was an incredibly tight fit, but Whitney hopped in. As he shut the hatch behind him, he checked to make sure nobody had seen him. Darkings, the priest, and the chef all stood around the broken plate.
“You’d think my servants are trying to kill me the way they arrange things!” Darkings barked.
“It’s no problem, my Lord,” the Father said.
“They don’t seem to understand that things cost autlas. Tagred, I want you to find the last person who so precariously tidied my kitchen.”
Whitney didn’t wait to hear the rest. Judging from what he’d seen from the constable, he’d just gotten whoever that was in a world of trouble.
That’s what happens when you stay in a place where you’ll never be anything.
He grabbed hold of the rope inside the dumbwaiter and began climbing. The tiniest sliver of light pierced the shaft just a few meters above. Whitney’s hands burned, and his robe kept getting caught beneath his feet. He slipped more than a couple times before finally reaching the second-floor hatch.
He pried it open just enough to see through. His view was limited, but he didn’t see anyone. He heard nothing either. The hatch slid open with a screech. Whitney cringed and waited to see if anyone came running. When they didn’t, he opened it fully and pulled himself through.
He was in the constable’s quarters, which were as opulent as he’d hoped. A large bed—which was nearly as big as the whole priest’s cottage—sat in the middle of the room. Iron bars formed a canopy above it, and plush, luxurious silk sheets and pillows adorned its top. A finely crafted armoire made from mahogany stood erect against one wall, with a vanity cut from the same wood across from it.
There was enough wealth in this one room to feed Bridleton for a year, but Whitney knew he didn’t have time to take anything other than what he’d come for. There was no telling how quickly the constable’s men would give up the hunt.
A closet joined the bedroom. Whitney approached it with caution and a smile spread across his face when he saw what was inside. It was brimming with clothing. He could have his pick of the lot.
He didn’t bother being careful, yanking clothing down from the racks and out of drawers. Finally, he settled upon an exquisite silk doublet with gold trim, leggings just the same, and a broad, brown leather belt. It made even his masquerade outfit back in Yarrington seem like rags.
Another voice stirred him. He pulled the closet door shut just in time to see two Panpingese servants enter the room. He left the door open a sliver to peek through.
“Another priest to impress already,” one said. “I can hardly remember their names.”
“‘Make sure everything’s spotless.’ Even though there'll be a new one next week.”
The servants laughed, spreading out, dusting and sweeping. One reordered the papers on top of the vanity, the other set the bed pillows straight. Before moving on, they snuck a sip from a bottle of wine on the constable’s nightstand. Lowering the bottle to the table, a servant headed straight for Whitney and the closet he’d just ransacked.
He’d hoped to be able to get out of this without any more fighting, not that these skinny
servants were much a threat. Judging by the way they talked about Darkings, they probably hated him more than anyone. Yig, they’d probably invite him to steal more.
He sunk back into the racks of clothing and checked his footing.
“Ey, who left this open?” the servant called over from the dumbwaiter. The one in front of Whitney stopped mere seconds from opening the closet, then went over to his mate.
“Weren’t me,” he said.
“Mr. Darkings and his late-night snacks,” the other sniggered.
“You think he’s eating them priests?”
They shared another laugh, then slammed the hatch shut and continued out of the constable’s quarters, luckily forgetting about the closet.
Whitney released a mouthful of air. Once sure they were gone, he exited the closet and peered around the corner. An odd light entered through the window, drawing his attention. He cautiously approached the window to find a tall flame rising from the garden and Sora jumping up and down waving her hands. Even from this distance, he could see blood glinting on her palm.
It was her warning. Someone was coming, and whether she’d intended to use it to tell him about the servants or someone new, he wasn’t sure.
He spun a one-eighty, his head snapping side to side, surveying the room one last time. Something shimmering on the vanity caught his eye. A golden amulet was strung up in a small glass display. It was molded into the shape of an arrowhead, the surface etched with lettering in some unfamiliar language and the point dusted with diamond bits. A flawless gem cut to the same form was encrusted in its center, amber in color and practically glowing with beauty.
Without question, even considering the priceless art adorning the walls, this was the most valuable object in the whole room. Whitney had a knack for knowing such things. He tried to open the case, but it was locked. He examined it further, but there was no time to waste picking locks. Sora’s terrible form of warning was sure to earn the suspicion of the entire town.
He grabbed a pewter goblet from beside the half-full wine bottle, raised it high, and brought it down swift upon the glass. A hairline crack appeared. He did it again. The crack grew.
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 22
