Page 7 of The Arrow and the Alder

T he rain ceased by the time Seph and her mama and sister reached the town square. Seph hadn’t wanted to go; she hadn’t wanted to see those bone-faced kith again. Furthermore, she didn’t trust any report the high lord might deliver, but curiosity got the best of her. A person could learn a lot of things another never meant to reveal if one knew how to listen properly, and Seph had become a master at hearing the things people didn’t say.

Truth was often found in the spaces between words.

The square was packed with bodies by the time they arrived, everyone crammed together, trying to get as close as possible to the baron’s broad portico. Unlike Seph’s home, the baron’s possessed multiple rooms and multiple chimneys, with thick clouds of smoke rising from each of them.

Greedy bastard.

“Do you see Lord Bracey?” Mama was asking Linnea as they strained to see through the murmuring crowd.

“No…” Linnea frowned. She said more, but Seph didn’t hear; she was busy searching the crowd for all the familiar faces. Like Henrik and Bailey, who’d worked the mill. Their oldest son had been a good friend of Levi’s, but like Levi, he’d left two years ago to fight on the front lines. Soon after, his parents had gone near the Rift to bargain with a kith for his safety; in exchange, and by some slight oversight of verbiage, the son had deserted the front lines—safe, but nowhere to be found—Bailey had lost her ability to speak, and Henrik his mind. They’d made it back to Harran, miraculously, but the mill was all shadows and cobwebs now.

Never trust a kith.

Behind them, she spotted the Sandenfords, who’d sacrificed all three of their sons to the war, including Elias, their middle son––the one Seph might’ve married someday. All the Sandenfords had received for their loss was his severed finger. Mrs. Sandenford had aged a lifetime since that day. Her weary eyes caught Seph’s, and she graced her with a small nod. It used to be a smile, but there was nothing to smile about. Not anymore.

Seph continued looking through the ragamuffin crowd, counting those she knew, when her gaze snagged on one she didn’t. A man. Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a long, heavy woolen coat. He stood near the fringe, a part of the crowd yet separate, as if he didn’t want to draw special attention to himself. Yet Seph’s attention was drawn all the more. She strained to make out his features and determine his age, but his hood was low, and a dark, bushy beard concealed half of his face, spilling over his chest.

As if sensing her stare, he turned a fraction, his eyes finding hers.

Seph froze. Those eyes. Gray eyes, almost like the stag in the woods.

Seph’s heart beat faster, and a strange humming reverberated just behind her brow, as if a bumblebee had been set loose inside of her skull. Mama nudged her ribs, breaking Seph’s momentary stupor. She blinked, glancing ahead as the baron stepped through the doors and onto the portico, followed by his son and three of Harran’s most prominent elders.

The crowd’s murmuring rolled to a close.

Seph’s gaze flickered back to where she’d seen the stranger, but he was gone now, and the odd buzzing silenced.

“Citizens of Harran.” The baron’s high tenor grated painfully through the quiet square, drawing Seph’s attention forward once more.

Oh, sacred saints in heaven, she despised the sound of that voice, almost as much as she despised the sight of his face. The smugness. The greasy, combed-back hair and plastered smile. He wore a simple black surcoat and plain black pants in a pathetic attempt at parity, but there was no hiding the gold and jewels encircling his wily fingers. Payment from the kith for a job well done.

The weasel.

His son was no different. Lord Bracey stood a little behind his father, similarly dressed and decorated and fighting desperately to stifle a yawn.

“As many of you are well aware,” the baron continued, “Ava herself has honored Harran this day with a distinguished visitor.” He paused for emphasis and scanned the crowd. His gaze slid over Linnea, Mama, then Seph, where it caught for the briefest moment.

Or Seph was being paranoid.

The baron kept speaking. “I know you’re all eager for news from the warfront, as I have been. To know when the war will be over so that our loved ones may return. We all suffer the sting of sacrifice”—at this, Seph grunted, earning a jab in the ribs from her sister—“but I assure you there is no greater cause than this. We fight for the future of mankind, for our children and their children, and so without further delay, I present to you, His Imperial Lordship, second only to the queen of the Weald Court: High Lord Massie of Asra Domm.”

The front doors slammed open, and a new figure stepped through.

Seph’s pulse quickened. It was the kith man from the woods. The one with the scar and contrasts, and behind him, standing like a shadow, was the woman with the long hair and black mask. Chatter rumbled throughout the crowd but ceased as this kith high lord crossed the platform with powerful steps, his black cloak rippling behind him from the sheer force of his stride. Lord Massie came to a halt beside—and a little in front of—the baron, like a master before his puppet, one controlled by golden rings, while the woman waited near the doors, watching the crowd. A stiff breeze clawed through the courtyard, cold as ice, and Seph hugged her coat close.

No, she did not trust these kith. Not at all. She felt the stab of that conviction sharper than ever before.

The crowd waited, and snowflakes drifted from the clouds above.

“Thank you for your introduction,” said the kith high lord. He had a soothing voice, silky, rich, like the port her papa used to bring home on special occasions. A voice that promised pleasantries, but ended with bile and a headache come morn.

“I understand you are all eager for news concerning your loved ones,” Lord Massie continued. He did not speak loudly; he didn’t need to, because every person in that courtyard stood transfixed by the kith before them, much as Seph had been in the woods. Most of them had never seen a kith before. “On that account, I fear I shall leave you grossly unsatisfied, for I have not come from the front lines.”

People frowned. Glances were exchanged. Somewhere, a baby cried.

Lord Massie scanned the crowd with those too-blue eyes, much in the same way he’d searched the forest before finding Seph’s arrow. Snow dusted his black hair now, though he did not seem to notice. “Suffice it to say that our efforts, though ruthlessly challenged, continue to hold strong. The depraved have not breached our defenses, which brings me to the reason I have come to you this day.”

The crowd waited despite the snow and cold, necks craned as if they might spy this reason upon Lord Massie’s shrewd and angular face.

“I am in search of an artifact,” Lord Massie proceeded, and Seph’s heart stopped. “One that belongs to my people.” Here he paused, and his gaze cut through the crowd like a scythe. “An enchanted coat.”

The words hung in the silence. Clearly, the audience had not expected something so…mundane; however, Seph’s earlier premonition roared like a tempest in her ears.

He knew about the coat.

It had to be one and the same; the timing was no coincidence. How he knew, Seph couldn’t fathom, but he obviously didn’t realize the coat was in her family’s possession—otherwise, he would’ve skipped this political display. Lord Massie didn’t strike her as the sort to play with his food before tearing it apart and devouring it.

Beside her, Mama and Linnea exchanged a long glance.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and the masked woman watched through those narrow eye-slits as the high lord continued, “The coat contains an enchantment that will help us win the war, but regrettably, there is one who would use it to secure his reign over the depraved, and if this coat falls into his hands, he will bring the world to its knees under his rule.” High Lord Massie paused, while the crowd waited in silence. “I speak of Alder Vetiver, prince and heir to the Court of Weald.”

This incited a tide of chatter. Meanwhile, Linnea cast Mama another sideways glance that said every bit of I told you so .

“So it’s true, then?” someone shouted through the din. “The Weald Prince is working with the depraved?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Lord Massie continued, and there was another soft rippling of chatter. “As the high lord of Weald and long-standing confidant to Her Majesty’s family, there is none more grieved by the prince’s betrayal than I am.”

Seph didn’t believe him, not for a second, but it sounded neat and tidy. She knew the kith couldn’t lie; the nature of their power—language—prohibited it. For them, words were binding, but her grandpa had explained how this restriction had also made kith highly adept and creative at twisting truth.

Lord Massie took a step forward as he studied the crowd. “For months, I’ve been in pursuit of the Weald Prince, and I have followed his tracks into your realm, as far south as Harran.”