Page 13

In the morning, I rode the horse while Kion held the reins and walked. The knife was in the sheath around my thigh. I hadn’t used it last night, deciding the test was more of a trap. But the weight rubbed against my skin, irritating instead of bolstering my confidence.

Bogo had disappeared. Conversation wasn’t on the agenda, so I relaxed and enjoyed the changing scenery.

We left the forest behind. The landscape grew dryer, with strange red escarpments that ignited fantasies of distant lands.

The color was vibrant and the bowl of the sky held a pure blue with white puffy clouds.

Now and then, a distant hunting bird circled, but none of the hoards sent by the Davinicus priests.

This was the land my father loved, and as the hours passed, I ignored the ache in my spine and how my knees grew tender from the saddle’s chafing.

At noon, we paused beside a stream and ate cheese with hard bread. But Kion had settled into distraction and I dared not disturb him.

The sky changed. Gray clouds crowded the horizon, pushed by a devil’s breeze.

When the air turned cold, Kion pulled two blankets from the saddlebag.

He fashioned one into a cloak for me, with a hood that covered most of my face, then did the same for himself just as the first freakish deluge poured down from the sky.

Rain, normal—not blue—but heavy and with no hint of easing.

In the gloom, the light disappeared, while the horse lowered his head and plodded onward.

For endless miles, the road ran straight without landmarks.

The only warmth came from Kion, mounted behind me with his arms wrapped because I’d insisted that he not walk in the mud and rain.

Soon, a darkened shape emerged from the misty gray—the Black City, Kion said.

Torches guttered along the stakewall and beside the main gate. Rain sheeted down with a hard patter, and after a brief conversation between Kion and the guards, the gates swung open enough to let us pass.

Perhaps the night was too miserable for the guards to argue.

Or perhaps they knew Kion Abaddon.

The main street was mired with gummy mud.

More torches sputtered from posts. The stone-and-wood buildings looked solid and well-kept, but with so much wood, the blue rain would be crippling.

They said it took the rain minutes to eat through boards thicker than a man’s arm.

The sound was like meat thrown on a sizzling hot fire…

A dog barked, jerking me from the useless speculation.

Kion held out his hand, and the dog quieted. Water dripped from the hood over my head while Kion negotiated with the gray-haired man who emerged from a building—the stable master—and coins were handed over. Then everything became surreal.

Kion helped me from the horse and said, “There’s a tavern nearby with rooms for rent.”

Rooms with warmth, food, and soft beds. I was nearly giddy when he wrapped his fingers around my arm, even though the action reversed our roles of prisoner and captor.

But I allowed it because I ached from the day’s riding.

The bandages around my feet had soaked through, and I wanted to sit on something that didn’t move or smell like a wet horse.

Questions still scurried through my mind despite the exhaustion.

When Kion towered over me, I wondered if his looming threatened the way Ildoran’s did?

The answer was no. But was he more concerned with keeping me than escaping from me?

The way I hobbled through the mud, I’d never catch him if he ran. I couldn’t even catch myself.

Then we turned along the main street. A wooden walkway got us out of the mud and me out of the mad questioning, and we entered the tavern soon enough.

The thing about taverns is that they’re all alike. The sounds, the scents. After the dark outside, the glare from dozens of lanterns had me squinting, although I welcomed the warmth, and the scents of ale and spiced food had my mouth watering.

A young woman ambled toward Kion with a swish of her hips, and squinting or not, I didn’t miss the way she placed her palm against his chest. Curly red hair drew attention to her throat, which led to her neckline.

Teasingly, she leaned toward Kion. The low cut of her gown gaped.

Heat rushed into my face until I realized she wanted the gaping and enjoyed the way men stared.

Quickly, I glanced at Kion to see where his attention settled—right where the woman wanted it to settle.

My back straightened. What had he said about me? That I looked like a skinny boy?

I frowned when we sat at a table set too close to the fire.

The heat grew uncomfortable beneath the wet wool, but Kion kept his cloak on and I did the same.

Our faces were shadowed by the hoods. He maneuvered his hands to conceal the mage shackles.

But no one other than the flirty woman cared what we did—two travelers caught by the storm, seeking shelter.

In an anonymous town, dressed in anonymous clothes—in the Black City, where secrets were expected and honored.

The stone fireplace with its blazing logs was large enough to roast a full-sized pig.

On the tavern’s walls were shields and faded flags, dented weapons, and unexpectedly, images drawn on white paper with black charcoal.

People, buildings, even a few animals. Each drawing had an elaborate signature scrawled across the lower left corner—an artist’s signature.

The red-haired woman brought ale to the table; I sipped and found the taste not as sweet as some that I’d had over the years.

But the drink was delicious. Next, she brought a platter with meat and brown gravy, small round potatoes, white leaks, and red tomatoes.

She presented the dish to Kion like she was offering a king’s feast—which she was, judging by the aroma.

A young boy set out chipped ceramic plates and forks.

He peeked over the table edge and handed me a communal knife.

Since I wore no shackles, I glanced at Kion, offered to cut the meat and serve him.

He nodded with a faint smile.

I might have kicked him beneath the table because of that smile. I might have also smiled smugly, as if kicking him was an accident. And he might have kicked back.

Men and serving girls crowded the room—no others had entered the tavern—and the evening meal was well in progress.

In one corner, boisterous men argued over a game of dice.

The ale flowed freely, loosening the tongues of the patrons at a nearby table.

These were common folk, independent and unafraid.

Dressed in sturdy, simple clothes, pants and long-sleeved shirts in browns, reds, and gray.

Nothing fancy, but comfortable and honest, reflecting a lifestyle I’d often envied for the lack of pretense, the ordinary things my father had valued.

“To the king,” one man said. He’d rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows, revealing browned, muscular arms. He raised the cup in a wavering toast before swigging half the ale. “May he shit in the streets.”

“To the king!” The chorus of male voices thundered as ale cups slammed down on the wooden tables amid laughter and belches.

“To the red priests,” the leader continued, drinking his replenished ale. “May they shit in their dungeons.”

More voices joined the fun. Cups and fists pounded the tables. Feet stomped. Hands wiped across mouths. In the exuberance, ale puddled on the tables before the serving girls could wipe it away .

I glanced at Kion. He shrugged and whispered, “The Black City doesn’t recognize the king’s authority. I wouldn’t mention your connection to him if I were you.”

My lips twisted. “No one would believe it without my gown and veil.”

Kion winked, a gesture I’d never expected from him. As my enemy, I was used to his mocking amusement, and as my prisoner, he would always test the boundaries.

But approval warmed that wink.

The black-haired leader slammed down his cup and shouted from across the room, “Welcoming as we are to strangers and their secrets, we’d still like to learn where you’re from.”

“The frontier,” Kion said while he stabbed at a piece of meat on his plate.

“You’ll be a trader or a hunter?”

“Fugitive.” No fear in Kion’s tone or his expression as he stared at the man.

The leader rocked forward, squinting in the yellow light. Dozens of fat tallow candles burned in the lanterns—no mage lights in the Black City. At least, none that I saw.

“Worth much as a fugitive?” the man asked.

“Only to the king,” Kion answered.

“The king!” Ale-addled cheers went up once again. More shouts about where Tarian should relieve himself next.

The leader laughed and slapped his palm against the table. “Then welcome, friend.”

Kion relaxed. My hand trembled as I held the cup of ale, my gaze darting around, anywhere except toward the men. I skimmed over the drawings on the walls until one image jolted my heart like a forgotten memory.

I stiffened enough for Kion to notice. He turned to study my face.

“That man.” I pointed to the drawing, waiting for the black-haired leader to glance up. “Who is he?”

The man leaned back, smoothing a hand over the bulge of his stomach. “Ah, crazy, that one. Liked to dig up old rocks and say they were important—Cobb!” He shouted at a skinny man nursing his ale. “What name did he give?”

Not Amund Wraithion . Not my father. He loved the area, but wouldn’t have visited a place like this tavern. He wouldn’t have fit with men who mocked the king, or allowed his image to be pinned to the wall.

“Now, Jaco.” The skinny man scratched at his whiskered chin. “That’s a long time ago to be remembering.”

“Called himself Wraithion , ” a third man groused as he lifted his cup and guzzled the drink. “Claimed he was some kind of scientist working for the king.”

“The king!” Resounding drunken shouts rose as if it was a drinking game.