The big one drew a hatchet and raised it to Rand’s throat. The sharp edge scraped across the short hairs on his neck.
“Or what?” the man asked. “Look at you, shaking like a true southern flower.”
Rand caught a glimpse of his hands, still involuntarily shaking. “I’m warning you,” he said.
“Haven’t you heard, Glassman? We share this city now. It’s only right for you to share her with my friend here. It’s… what do they call it? The law.”
The hawkish one grabbed Sigrid and yanked her forward, wrapping his arms around her. She squirmed and tried to push him away, calling for Rand to help, but his whole body seized. All he could see was Tessa and the others, necks forced into nooses on the command of the Crown.
Sigrid elbowed the man in the groin and broke free. He grabbed the back of her shirt as she tried to escape. It tore in half before she slipped on the icy dock and hit the wood hard. The savage grabbed her leg and dragged her back screaming.
“Rand!”
The leader chortled. “That this puny little man’s name? More like runt.”
The screams of all the voices of those who'd suffered filled Rand’s mind, mixing until, through the chaos, he heard his sister scream his name. His vision focused. His eyelids peeled open. Suddenly, he was back with Sigrid, the freezing air biting at his nose. His years of training for the King’s Shield kicked in, and he didn’t think—he just acted.
He punched upward, catching the big one in the elbow. It didn’t break the bone but extended his tendons so he couldn’t get any strength behind his swipe at Rand’s neck. The blade sliced off a few hairs from Rand’s unshaved chin as he twisted out of the way. The big man lost his balance, and a kick to the jaw finished the job. He tumbled off the docks and into freezing water.
Rand heard the unmistakable hum of steel through the air. He ducked beneath the swinging hatchet of one of the others, then barreled into him shoulder first. They hit the floor and rolled over. Rand held the man’s weapon-arm back with both hands and earned blow after blow to the ribs. Rand head-butted the Drav Cra heathen just above the ridge of his nose. They both came away dazed, but Rand had existed in a fog for months now. He recovered quicker and pried the hatchet out of the man’s loosened grip.
He drew it across the man’s throat, shoved him aside, and faced the belligerent savage who’d first grabbed his sister. The man had a knife to Sigrid’s throat. Tears filled her eyes, already starting to freeze upon her cheeks as she cried Rand’s name.
“You’re gonna regret that, Glassman,” the savage said.
Rand squeezed the grip of the hatchet so tight the wood creaked. Creak, creak, creak.
“Let her go!” he roared, focusing his anger.
“Or what?” The savage slid the blade closer to her jugular, drawing a bit of blood. “I swear, I’ll gut the pretty whore like a fish and make you watch as I take her—”
Without so much as a warning, Rand threw the hatchet as hard as he could. The blade sunk into man’s forehead, the front of his skull crunching. He collapsed, and Sigrid twisted her body with him so that his knife only drew a shallow scrape along her neck. She gasped for air as she crawled out from under his arm.
Rand ran to help Sigrid to her feet. Only once she was upright did he take a moment to breathe. One of their assailants gurgled, blood pouring out of his split throat. The big one splashed around in the water, his movements slowing as the cold set it. He was dead already but didn’t know it, and the one who started it all was still, eyes stuck wide open in shock. A flake of snow fell upon one, landing like a speck of dust on glass.
Rand scanned his surroundings. A homeless woman cowered in an alley, burying the face of her child against her bosom to shield him from the horrors. A dockhand gripped his broom, unable to move. A few more down the way helped the incoming Drav Cra longboat into a slip.
“Rand… they… they were going to…” Sigrid was shivering uncontrollably, both from terror and from all the snow filling her torn and tattered dress. Rand could feel the goosebumps all along her exposed skin.
“I know,” he said. “They can’t hurt you now.”
“Are you sure they’re…”
“They’re dead.”
He yanked the hatchet free of the man’s cranium with a satisfying thunk, hung it from his belt, then swept up Sigrid and helped her toward the Maiden's Mugs. Not a soul approached them or the bodies. No one said a word. In the deep winter, if you died in an alley, your rotting corpse might not be found until Spring. That was the way of things in Dockside, the strip of Yarrington by the water’s edge in South Corner.
Halfway home, Rand locked eyes with one of the Drav Cra standing on the prow of the arriving ship. There was a wild look in them. Rand quickly turned Sigrid down an alley and away from the man’s gaze. A few beggars who’d taken up residence beneath strung up tents rattled pewter mugs for money, not realizing that Rand and Sigrid were equally poor now thanks to Rand’s weakness.
They reached the Maiden’s Mugs and quietly made their way for the hearth. A few drunkards looked Sigrid over on her way by, unable to help themselves with her dress so torn. All those men in for an early round before her shift had likely dreamed of seeing more of her. Her smooth, milky skin showed now even more than in her barmaid uniform. It didn’t matter that her lip was split and her teeth chattered from the cold.
Rand stopped to pull the neckline of her ripped dress up as high as he could, then noticed a pair of Drav Cra seated in the corner, speaking in their heathen language and laughing over pints. He led her as far away from them as possible on his route to the hearth. A fire crackled, and he carefully set his sister down on one of the tavern’s few cushioned chairs.
“There ye are, Sigrid!” Gideon Trapp called over. He approached from the side, cleaning out a mug. “Almost sundown. Ye’d better get dressed.”
“Get her a blanket,” Rand asked.
“What’d ye say to me, thief?”
“I said to get her a gods damned blanket!” Rand slammed on the nearest table. Every pair of eyes in the room fell upon him, except those of the Drav Cra.
Trapp’s face twisted with rage. Rand could tell he was preparing to curse in response until he got closer and noticed Sigrid'a condition.
“Who did that?” he said. Not in a way that showed concern for her, but as if a precious possession of his had been damaged.
“I’m not going to ask again, Trapp.”
Finally, the portly man hopped to and went to storage, returning a moment later with frayed sackcloth probably used to cover barrels. Rand tore it from his hands and wrapped it around Sigrid’s shoulders.
“There you go, Sig,” he whispered. Now it was she who shook uncontrollably, and it was Rand’s turn to care for her. He tucked the cloth tightly over her chest. She stared up at him, eyes agape in horror, but no other part of her moved. Seeing her in such a state of complete shock made Rand feel ill. He may have been the Shieldsman, but she’d always been the tough one—always wanting to go hunting with Rand and their father when they were younger, never shying away from elbowing a handsy customer in the gut as a barmaiden.
“Either of ye gonna tell me what happened?” Trapp questioned, his hairy arms crossed over his belly.
“What happened is you’re going to keep her right here by the fire for the rest of the night,” Rand said.
“No way. She can clean up, but I need her on the floor tonight. She’s all I got.”
Rand’s fist and jaw clenched. He rose to his full height and glowered down at the man. “If I hear you have her working, I swear to Iam, you’ll pay.”
Gideon Trapp didn’t back down. He rose up on his toes and shoved his face toward Rand’s. “Who the yig do ye think you are? She don’t work, yer both out on the streets.”
“I am a…” His voice trailed off. He wanted to say what he was, to claim he was a knight of the King’s Shield out loud, but his brain wouldn’t let him. Instead, he said, “I swear to you, Trapp, one wo
rd she’s working, and someone will hear about what's in the crates shipping through your basement for Valin Tehr. I may not have any friends left at the castle, but I know how to get word to them.” Rand kept his voice low so nobody, especially the Drav Cra in the corner would hear.
The color fled Trapp’s chubby, red cheeks.
“Drinking doesn’t make me blind,” Rand said. “Now fetch her some warm tea.”
Trapp grumbled something under his breath as he turned. Rand made sure he headed straight for the bar. All the barkeep did was help smuggle in manaroot from the Eastern Panping Region for one of Yarrington’s more vocal leaders of the underworld. That was tame for Dockside, but the root was outlawed after the Panping Wars. Panpingese Soothsayers were said to use it to help magnify their connection with Elsewhere. For everyone else, it was a powerful sensory amplifying drug popular in brothels.
What Rand didn’t mention was that it was his sister who’d told him about Trapp’s dealings soon after he moved in with her. Somehow, in his alcohol filled stupor, Rand held on to that bit of knowledge. All those long months she’d managed to take care of him alone after he abdicated his duty and came stumbling home to hide in forgotten Dockside, he couldn’t even do the same for her without needing a bit of her help.
“Everything is going to be all right, Sig,” he said as he kneeled by her side and took her hand. He could tell she wanted to thank him for dealing with Trapp, but her lips merely parted. “Just stay right here and keep warm.”
“Wh—what are ye gonna—gonna do?” she replied, teeth still chattering.
“Keep you safe this time.” He kissed her on the top of the head, realizing it was the same thing their mother used to do when one of them got hurt, then he headed for the stairs. He paused at the bottom, eying a full mug of ale in the grip of some grimy, off-duty dockhand. He watched the liquid foaming, sloshing against the side. His whole body tingled merely from the sight, but he shook his head out and scaled the stairs.
It was clear now what he had to do, and he couldn’t do it with his head in a fog and his vision blurred. He threw open his door and strode to the opposite side of the tiny room. Then he stopped and stared down into the reflection of his armor.
It was time to wear it again. Time to serve Iam and those closest to Him.
Redstar, the wicked man who’d cursed the Queen Mother’s son and driven her into a spiteful rampage, needed to die. And he wasn’t going to do it for Wren or Torsten or the King’s Shield. He was going to do it for his sister and Dockside who’d suffer under the Drav Cra occupation more than any other part of Yarrington and to find justice for those murdered at his own hand like Tessa.
No matter what it took.
XII
THE MYSTIC
Sora walked slowly, cautiously. Yaolin City was larger than any place she’d ever been and unfamiliar in all regards.
Statues of all shapes and sizes rose on both sides of the street, every ten paces. Upon closer examination, Sora noticed they’d all had their faces rearranged. None of them were exactly alike, but she knew without a doubt, they were intended to be the visage of King Liam the Conqueror.
Her heart sank for her people. These statues must have been idols of Panpingese emperors or gods, but now they were all desecrated—history abolished for the sake of a far-off king who was now dead.
And now, from this vantage, she was even more in awe of Liam managing to conquer such a massive city. It was twice the size of Yarrington at least, not to mention it had been ruled by mystics capable of bending the world to their wills.
It was immediately clear, however, that the Glass presence in Yaolin City remained strong. Blue and white flags hung from many buildings, totally out of place against the earthy tones and terra-cotta roofs, guards posted at every corner. It was more security than Winde Port had by a long shot, despite being twice as far from the Glass Castle. Muskigo’s active rebellion probably didn’t help with that.
Still, through shop windows and on the streets, Sora saw smiling faces and generally happy-looking people, both Panpingese and Glassmen. It was a jarring juxtaposition to the Panping Ghetto in Winde Port where she’d seen children begging for coin or scraps of food.
“Come off the adventure, miss?” a lady said, appearing in front of her. Dresses and fine clothing hung along the porch beside them. “A pretty girl like you could use some proper clothing. Take your measurements?”
“I… no, thank you.” Sora ducked away.
“Finest dumplings at port!” shouted another. The aroma coming from his stand was intoxicating, but she didn’t have time to waste on trying food just yet.
As she traveled down the statue-lined boulevard, she read all the store signs—or she tried to. Half or more were in Panpingese, others had both languages but used strange words she didn’t understand. She stopped when she spotted one that said: Clairvoyant of the Mystic Arts.
“It can’t be that easy,” Sora said to Aquira who wasn’t listening. She was huddled against Sora's neck, probably terrified by the busy streets.
Sora stepped up to the threshold, and a Panpingese woman wearing a dress covered in jangling jewelry emerged from behind a shimmering curtain. She wore a ridiculous amount of makeup that made her look like a street performer.
“Welcome to—” she stopped, her eyes widening. “I am sorry, madam. I am sorry.” She dropped to her knees and kowtowed. “Here. Here.”
She gathered a pouch from beneath the folds of her dress with one hand and raised it without looking up. Sora didn’t take it, and the bag fell to the floor, spilling open to reveal dozens of gold autlas, enough to live comfortably for a year.
“I’ve not been able to pay in some time,” she said. “Business has been scarce since the seas became unstable from the war to the west.”
Sora knelt quickly and shoved the bag back toward the woman. “What are you talking about?” she asked. A few minutes in Yaolin and people were trying to give her more autlas than she’d ever need. No wonder Whitney loved this place.
“Lady, please forgive me,” the woman said. “There’s far more there than I owe. Spare me, I beg.”
“Stand up,” Sora said.
The woman was reluctant, but she stood.
“Who are you?” Sora asked.
“I’m no one, my Lady,” she said, still purposefully avoiding eye-contact.
“I’m no lady. Why do you call me that?”
The woman laughed, but then her expression quickly grew dour. “This is a test? You are one of the..." she lowered her voice, "...Secret Council, are you not? Your aura, your power... It is—”
“Me?” Sora said. “What in Iam’s name is the Secret Council? Wait.” Sora leaned in close, a glimmer in her eyes. “Are you talking about the Mystic Council?”
“You charlatan! Thief!” the woman shouted, wiping her tears. “You have wasted my time and brought fear upon me without reason. Please, leave this place.” In an instant, she swept back into her shop, the curtain fluttering behind her.
“Mistress!” Sora shouted. She pulled the veil back and called again, but there was no answer. The room was empty but for a circular table with a small, glass orb set upon it.
“Iam's light,” Sora exhaled. “What was that?” Aquira flew off her shoulder and landed on the table, circling the orb and sniffing it. Sora approached slowly. The walls were all white and unadorned, the ceiling black as night. But there were no other trinkets on shelves like there would be in a shop of curiosities.
She reached for the orb and gently lifted it from a jade stand with prongs like dragon claws on three sides. She felt nothing. It was heavier than it looked, but nothing more than a globe. She returned it and extended an arm for Aquira.
“Come on, girl,” she said. “We need to find your family.”
She headed back outside onto Xiahou Boulevard, bustling with traders, guards, performers, and all manner of other things that go on in capital cities. Most people shared her features, but most men wore the same strang
e silk robes as Mr. Kyoto and most women, flowered dresses with flowing fabric belts tied into bows. It was then that she realized how far from home she truly was, and how little she understood about this new world, even if she had been born there.
Sora shuffled along until she saw a large sign with words written in Panpingese. She recognized the letters but couldn’t read the words. The image of two bones and a book spread open was burned into the wood, which indicated she’d found the place she was searching for.
Sora felt Aquira peep over her shoulder and the wyvern began to purr.
“You recognize this place, huh?” Sora asked.
The wyvern made a series of chirping noises.
As Sora approached, two Glass soldiers stomped toward her from the opposite direction.
“Clear the streets!” they shouted absentmindedly as they talked to one another, laughing. “Clear the streets!” People listened, flooding away from the road without protest or delay. However, those with shop stands took longer. One earned a shove, knocking over the beautiful calligraphy pieces he was selling.
“Speed it up!” the guards ordered.
Sora continued ahead, the distance between them closing and the bookstore resting in between.
“Aye! You!” one shouted. She stopped, and they filled the gap. “If you don't speak the common tongue, you are in violation of the law.”
“I do!” she said.
“Then you’re just insolent?”
“Me? No! What?” Sora stammered.
“We said, ‘off the streets!’ yet, here you are.”
“I’m just trying to get home,” she lied. “I’m sorry. I live right there.” She pointed to the rooms above the bookstore, and the men let their eyes follow.
They regarded her suspiciously for a moment, then one said, “Get going. Now! We have a parade to set up for.”
“Sorry,” she said and rushed by.
She felt a yanking behind her, then heard a squeal.
“What’s this?” one of the guards asked.
She turned around and saw the men prodding Aquira who was being held by the frills and throat, wings batting against the man’s armor. The way he held her kept her from being able to open her mouth and spray fire or claw at the man. This wasn’t the first time they’d dealt with a wyvern.
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 82
