Page 2 of The Arrow and the Alder

A lder hated crowds. It was impossible to hide, given his height, and he was drawing more sidelong glances than he cared to collect.

Unacceptable.

He was already risking his life coming here. He could not be seen—not yet. But some matters were worth the risk, and when he’d discovered Massie and his rats en route to Harran, Alder’s objective took a hard right turn. What could possibly compel that snake to come here —to this forgotten mortal village in the middle of nowhere?

Alder didn’t believe in coincidences, especially where Massie was concerned. He was going to get to the bottom of it, even if it meant?—

“Watch it!” spat an old man pushing a cart full of hay that Alder hadn’t noticed.

Alder really hated crowds.

He glared, and the old man paled as he flinched back and dragged his cart out of Alder’s way.

Alder usually had this effect on people. The old man couldn’t possibly know who he was—Alder’s true identity wasn’t obvious, not anymore—but people often sensed what their eyes could not show them.

“Sorry…” said the old man as Alder pressed unapologetically on, weaving through the crowd, keeping to the fringe. He absolutely could not be discovered, or everything would be for naught.

He slipped past beggars and peddlers, snagging an apple from a basket as he walked. His stomach grumbled and he satisfied it with a bite.

Fates have mercy .

Alder groaned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted anything so crisp with flavor. It reminded him of Canna before . Before the mist, before the darkness.

Before that damnable curse.

Alder tossed the apple core before a tethered horse and regretted not absconding with the entire basket. He nearly doubled back to do just that when commotion erupted at Harran’s gate.

Glancing back, he spotted a head of shining black hair trotting arrogantly through Harran’s main entrance, flanked by six bone-faced kith.

Massie.

There weren’t many people in this world who invoked such a visceral hatred within Alder, but Massie was first on the short list. Alder’s blood turned to fire, demanding justice, but now was not the time. He needed to figure out why the wretch was here first.

Vengeance was the prize of the patient.

Alder ducked beneath an awning, blending into the shadows, while the crowd parted in awe and terror, giving way for Massie and his goons as they rode through Harran’s narrow streets.

Alder’s gaze snagged on the rider nearest Massie. The one with ink-black hair spilling out of her massive cowl. Unlike the others, she bore no weapon—at least nothing visible—and where the other masks were bone-white, hers was black and featureless.

As if sensing Alder’s stare, the black mask turned in his direction. A sudden press of cold air breathed over his skin, carrying with it the softest whispers.

Eloit .

But Alder had never felt anything like it before. This carried a rancid tinge, like decaying flesh.

Alarmed, he ducked behind a wooden post, waiting until the black mask faced forward again, until the cold and whispers dissipated, and only then did he relax. Sort of.

Who was that ?

He’d heard rumors of a witch in Massie’s employ. Alder didn’t know if it was true, but the power he’d just felt was not normal. He wouldn’t put it past that unconscionable prick to be dabbling in the forbidden arts. Either way, witch or no, Alder would have to tread very carefully with that woman around.

He followed the procession with his gaze, and then his feet, keeping to the shadows as best he could, eyes fixed on the riders ahead. The one benefit to Massie’s arrival was that no one seemed curious about Alder anymore.

In his former life, he might have been offended.

Massie finally stopped in the village square, right before a prominent structure that could only be the baron’s quarters. Nothing else in this crumbling hamlet was so well maintained. The war had left scars on every piece of Harran, except for the man who governed it.

Alder wanted to believe himself above such hypocrisies, but he knew better. The Fates kept finding ways to remind him.

Guards greeted Massie as if they’d been expecting him, took their horses and led the kith through the main doors. Alder did not approach the baron’s directly, instead skirting the courtyard until he reached a small footpath that led to the rear.

Where there were still too many guards, and three very large pigs tucked conveniently out of public sight.

Yes, this baron profited mightily.

Alder glanced up, following the steep lines of the pitched roof, but every option was too conspicuous. He needed to draw the guards’ attention away first, but he didn’t dare use enchantments. Not with a potential witch nearby.

No, he’d have to do this the mortal way.

Alder didn’t look long before finding what he needed—a small rock, which he threw at a pig. The pig barked, and when Alder’s second rock struck, the pig charged through its shoddy pen and into the street adjacent, squealing all the way to freedom. The guards cursed and shouted, and all but one of them ran in pursuit.

Alder could handle one guard without causing a scene.

He was just starting forward when he heard the softest sound farther behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted a mane of white hair scurrying along the alley.

It was the girl. The one Rys had told him about.

Josephine.

That had to be her. She fit Rys’s description exactly, though she was prettier than he’d expected.

She had not seen him; she was too focused on not being seen herself, navigating these back alleys much as he’d done, hugging the shadows like a fugitive with her bow slung across her back.

War was a funny thing. While prosperity empowered a man to be whoever he wanted to be, war showed them who they were. Most were crushed by the weight of its demands, chained by fear and hollowed out by its interminable hunger, but there were always those war could not tame. Those who saw through the bloody haze, through the machinations of tyrants. Those whose bones were made of steel, whose resolve and determination became an unquenchable fire inside of them.

It was how rebellions were made.

And it was this that burned in the girl’s eyes, that sharpened the set of her features. That kept her shoulders straight and steps sure as she smuggled her bloodied—and illegal—feast back home.

Rys had warned him about her, but Alder couldn’t decide if Rys’s words had been woefully insufficient, or if Alder just hadn’t been listening.

The girl slipped around a corner, and Alder felt a sharp and unexpected pull to follow, but first: Massie.

He turned back to the lone guard only to see the other guards walking back into the courtyard, with the pig. Alder had been watching the girl longer than he’d realized, and he’d missed his window.

Dammit .

He chewed his bottom lip, considering. Perhaps this was a sign from the Fates, a nudge to fulfill his promise first. And what harm could it do? Massie and the baron would have time to conduct their business, and Alder could pay the baron a visit after Massie and his rats were gone.

After the witch was gone, if that’s what she was.

He slid his hand inside of his coat, into the pocket where the enchanted moonstone ring lay, tucked safely within. He turned it between his fingers, finding comfort in its solidity and weight. It was a new habit he’d formed, and he almost regretted the promise he’d made to return this ring to its rightful owner.

But this was the least he could do for Rys.

With a sigh, Alder shoved off the wall and started after the girl, while the ring weighed heavier with every step he took.