Page 2

Chapter 2

Elliot

E lliot leaned against the wall, appreciating the extra support after so many hours on his feet keeping watch on the smithy. His strength had mostly returned, but he could still feel the effects of his recent weakness. He needed to get closer to the smith’s stash before he could regain his full strength.

And if the smith didn’t leave his forge soon, it was possible it would never happen. Elliot shuddered at the thought. The last two weeks had been sufficiently bad that he refused to even consider the possibility of his current state continuing indefinitely. He would recover his candelabra—and consequently his health—no matter what it took.

Villagers came and went down the main street, but Elliot’s eyes remained on the smith. The man was enormous—too enormous for Elliot to consider raiding his smithy while he was still there. And the man didn’t even leave his forge at night, sleeping laid out at the front of the smithy.

Elliot had attempted approaching him as a customer, of course. But the only thing the man would grunt at him was that there was a waiting list. Apparently, you couldn’t just walk in off the street and purchase from this particular smith. And if you were from out of town, he was taking bookings for six months away. Six months!

Elliot couldn’t possibly wait six months, which was why he was reduced to considering petty theft. Not that it would be true theft. The candelabra was his and had been stolen from him in the first place. It wasn’t as if he was stealing one of the smith’s own works. And he would even leave a fair price behind. The candelabra might have been his by right, but the smith hadn’t been the one to steal it.

Not for the first time, he cursed the original, unknown thieves. By the time he had woken up and realized it was gone from his makeshift camp, he had been too weak to have any hope of catching them. As it was, it had taken him two weeks of trial and error to track the candelabra to Henton. And by then he was too weak to care about justice for the original theft. He just wanted to retrieve his property.

It wasn’t as if the thieves had known what they were doing. Who would ever have suspected that Elliot needed an ordinary brass candlestick in order to put one foot in front of the other? Some days he still couldn’t believe it himself, and he’d been carting the thing everywhere he went for twenty-one years.

Elliot’s focus on the smith had grown so intense that he barely noticed the periodic movement of others around him. Even when a cart approached the smithy, he didn’t break his stare. But when the owner of the cart started across the main road toward him, he blinked and finally took in her appearance.

She was young—a little younger than him, he would guess—but she carried herself with confidence beyond her years. And she definitely didn’t come from Henton. That much would have been obvious even if he hadn’t grown to recognize all the town’s inhabitants. She was the kind of woman it was hard to look away from—the kind who must command the attention of kings as easily as smiths.

But what was she doing approaching him? Elliot shook himself. In a normal situation, he would have welcomed the opportunity to talk to her. But what if she was connected with the smith in some way and was coming to ask the purpose of his suspicious lurking? He didn’t have a reasonable answer, so it was better to avoid the conversation altogether.

He slunk back between the buildings, disappearing from view as quickly as possible. When he paused to check behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief. She had abandoned the pursuit.

Circling the building, he approached the main street from the other side, moving more cautiously this time. Her cart and horse were still tethered outside the smithy, but it took him a moment to find the girl herself.

She was just inside, talking animatedly with the smith. But the smith was giving her little in return, just as Elliot remembered in his own attempts at conversation with the man.

The girl seemed disappointed by whatever he did say, but she accepted his words much more quickly than Elliot had. Consequently, she walked out on her own feet, avoiding being forcibly ejected and forbidden to ever return.

From the look of their interaction, his earlier fears had been misplaced. She definitely appeared to be a customer rather than an associate. But in that case, why had she attempted to approach Elliot? The question was of far more interest to him than it should have been. He couldn’t afford to indulge curiosity when he was in such dire circumstances.

He watched her untie her horse and cast a final, longing look at the forge before moving off toward Henton’s one small inn. Elliot wished he could follow. And not just because he wanted to talk to the girl. He envied the fact that she would get a meal in the inn’s dining room and a night sleeping in one of its two guest chambers. His own night would be much less comfortable.

His meal consisted of simple rations from his pack, and he slept as usual in the shadow between the general store and the bakery, directly across from the smithy. And as before, he slept only fitfully, waking periodically through the night to check if the smith had left. He never had.

The first light of morning had barely begun to rouse Elliot when the sound of hooves brought him to full alertness. He scrambled to his feet and identified the cart and its owner, shaking his head when he did so. He knew from experience that the smith’s mind wouldn’t be changed by a good night’s sleep. The girl would have no more luck in the light of morning than she’d had at the end of the previous day.

But to his astonishment, the smith greeted her with acceptance, if not actual warmth. He handed her a small package, already wrapped, and gestured for her to examine the haphazard stash of items he kept piled right at the back of the smithy. It was the stash Elliot had spent far too many hours staring at from afar.

Frustration boiled up inside him. The smith had told him six months’ wait! And yet this traveler had been welcomed back in only a day. She had been permitted to waltz in and browse the smith’s wares only hours after her arrival. But the smith couldn’t sell Elliot a single measly candelabra? It wasn’t even an attractive candelabra.

He let the emotions wash over him and roll away again as he watched the girl. Just like in the street, it was hard to look away from the elegance of her movements. Who was she? If the smith hadn’t forbidden him entry, he would have been tempted to follow her inside just to ask her name.

She retrieved an empty wooden box from her cart before picking through the smith’s wares, selecting some to pack inside the crate. Elliot leaned to the side, trying to get a better look at what she was purchasing. Her body blocked his line of sight, and he stepped further and further into the street in an attempt to get a clear view.

The girl swung around—calling something inaudible to the smith—and Elliot pulled quickly back. But as he moved, he caught a passing glimpse of what she held in her hand. His heart contracted.

A candelabra. She was holding a candelabra with three familiar branches.

He surged forward, forgetting about concealment in his need to confirm what he’d seen. But she was already bending over, packing something into the crate. Was it the candelabra? She had just been holding it in her hand, so it seemed a reasonable assumption. But what if it hadn’t been?

His fists clenched with the desire for immediate action. But what could he do? Barge in there and try to grab the candelabra from her crate? He didn’t need another look at the smith’s muscled arms to know that wasn’t going to succeed.

Suddenly his curiosity about the mystery girl’s identity didn’t seem so foolish. He was sure he’d never seen her before her arrival in Henton, but her cart and even the crate she was packing suggested she was a roving merchant. He’d met far more roving merchants than most people. He was one of the few people in the kingdoms to travel as much as they did—him and his unfortunate candelabra.

But even among the roving merchants, it was unusual to see someone traveling alone. How had she ended up on her own? And where was she going?

It didn’t really matter where she was going, though. It only mattered that she was leaving Henton.

Excitement built up inside him, making it even harder to keep still. He didn’t know why she wanted his battered old candelabra, but it would surely be easier to retrieve from her cart than it had been from inside the smithy.

His momentary dismay at seeing it in her hand had turned to elation, and he couldn’t wait for her to finish her transaction and leave with the candelabra. She took several more minutes, however, selecting more items from the pile to fill her crate.

Elliot used the extra time to strategize. He could always approach her and ask to buy the candelabra, but the debacle with the smith had left him wary. If she refused, she would then be on her guard against him. And while she might not look like much of a threat, anyone who traveled alone through the kingdoms with a cart of valuables shouldn’t be underestimated.

It would be better to take the candelabra while she was camped for the night. He would leave enough coin behind to cover its value three times over, of course, as he had intended to do with the smith. He didn’t like that he’d been reduced to thievery, but with his life on the line, he couldn’t afford to make another misstep.

But first he needed to check that she really had selected the candelabra. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—he had an easy way to confirm the location of his stolen possession. He just had to wait until she took to the road with her new wares.

She finally finished selecting her items and handed over a pouch of coin. The smith bounced it twice on his palm and grunted, nodding that their business was complete. Elliot had been surprised the first time the smith had done something similar, but he had seen it several times since. Along with being taciturn, surly, and lacking in basic human compassion, the man added the talent of measuring the value of coins from their weight alone.

At least the smith’s charming nature meant Elliot didn’t have to wait while the girl made any polite small talk with him. With their business completed, she left immediately. He was a little concerned she might have further business in the immediate vicinity, but she mounted onto the simple wooden bench at the front of the cart and clucked at her horse. The chestnut mare responded instantly, pulling the cart down the street.

Elliot forced himself to remain still, his muscles taut at his lack of motion. His body was screaming at him to run after the cart, but he forced himself to wait. He had to be sure.

His eyes were the only thing to follow the cart’s course, staring after it with an intensity that suggested it would disappear if he so much as blinked. He needed to wait, but he also couldn’t afford to lose track of the cart. He already knew how painful it would be to track the girl down if that happened. He had experienced that joyful experience once, and he didn’t intend to repeat it.

His breathing rasped in and out of his lungs, and his legs trembled. But it hadn’t been long enough. He couldn’t be sure the symptoms weren’t a result of his tension. He had to be sure.

Another minute passed. And another.

A surge of bile rose up in his throat, and it was all he could do to stop the contents of his stomach from being violently expelled. His head spun, something pounding against his skull. He took a step forward, and his knees nearly buckled.

The response was even worse than last time. The effect of separation from the candelabra was getting more extreme. Brilliant. That was all he needed.

But at least it answered his question. His days spent lurking across the street from the smith’s had returned him almost to full strength. There was no way his candelabra was still in the forge.

He tried to run after the cart but could only manage a stumbling walk. He had been worried about the girl noticing him trailing her, but apparently that shouldn’t have been his main concern. He had already lost sight of the cart.

He gritted his teeth and forced his legs to move faster. If he could just close the gap between them, it would get easier. He needed to find the perfect distance to tail her—close enough that he could still move freely but not so close as to catch her attention.

He shuffled faster. At least the horse had been moving at a slow walk—a sustainable pace rather than a sprint.

Gradually his stomach settled, and the pounding in his head dropped to a light pulse. But he didn’t fully breathe easily until he rounded a bend in the road and saw the cart ahead. He immediately pulled back, relief filling him.

He wanted to rush forward and lift the symptoms entirely, but he could endure some discomfort until night fell and the roving merchant made camp. She would have to sleep beside the road. At her current pace, there were no towns or villages close enough to reach in one day.

It might have been different if she had taken the southeast road toward the capital, as he had expected. But instead she had returned the way she’d come, taking the northwest road back toward the river that marked the border between Sovar and Oakden.

There weren’t enough regular travelers to require a vast network of well-maintained roads in the kingdoms, so he knew all the major routes by heart. Her current path would take her to the riverside city of Marleston, a much larger settlement than Henton. It didn’t matter what her final destination was, though. Once he’d retrieved his candelabra, they’d be parting ways. As soon as he had it in his hands, he only needed to know which direction she was traveling so he could go the opposite way.

Since they were moving through grazing lands, there wasn’t a lot of concealment along the road. But thankfully someone had planted a screening row of trees to provide shade and mark the location of the road. Their shelter provided just enough cover for Elliot to stay close to the cart throughout the day.

It wasn’t a comfortable journey, but there was satisfaction in the movement after so many days spent in stillness, watching the smithy. He finally felt like he was moving forward.

The merchant girl stopped earlier than he expected, veering off the road when she spotted a familiar marker. There might not have been many roving merchants, but the skeletal network of main roads were also used by the traditional merchant caravans who did business within the borders of their own kingdom. And all travelers made use of the public rest stops placed strategically along the more frequented routes.

The marker stood at a crossroads where a larger stand of trees provided shelter beneath the cover of the leaves. Elliot lingered beside the road, giving the merchant time to set up her camp. If she was going to be moving around among the trees, he didn’t want her blundering into him by accident. Not that she looked like the type to blunder anywhere.

He shook his head. He had to shake his strange fascination with her. The moment he became a thief, he would need to avoid ever running into her again.

Finally he couldn’t wait anymore and crept into the trees. He moved slowly and soundlessly, having spent years practicing the skill. As expected, she had set up camp beneath the simple, three-sided wooden shed. She had already fed and watered her horse, and from the soft one-sided conversation she was having with the creature, the mare was the reason for her early stop. The girl seemed to feel bad about having started so early that morning after a long day of travel the day before.

“But how could I delay after the smith turned me away yesterday?” she asked the mare, her lilting voice making the complaint sound pleasant. “You would think after waiting six months, it would have been easy to wait another night—but I think last night was the hardest one.”

Elliot shifted slightly. So she hadn’t just waltzed in after all. She’d waited to reach the top of the smith’s list of commissions. And, as promised, when that day came, he had permitted her to browse the discarded items piled at the back of the smithy—the items that had come out faulty in some way or been rejected by the prospective purchaser. According to the smith, he only did business with customers collecting an order.

“And now, finally, we can go back to Bolivere,” the girl continued, making Elliot freeze.

Bolivere? She was not only going north toward the kingdom of Glandore but actually heading all the way to Bolivere?

Ice trickled from his scalp down his spine. But there was no reason for that news to hit him so hard. He was already planning to head in the opposite direction to the girl. That made it a good thing she was heading to the last place he wanted to visit.

Smelling her cooking fire—or more accurately the meal she cooked over it—was torturous, but Elliot reminded himself that the whole ordeal would soon be behind him. He would head toward the Sovaran capital and stop at the first decent inn he found on the way. He was still dreaming of a hot meal and soft bed when dark finally fell, and the girl settled into her bedroll for the night.

He waited even longer, letting her breath become slow and even as she slipped into deeper sleep. Finally, it seemed safe enough to creep into the light of the banked campfire.

Despite the season, she had lashed a waterproof canvas over the cart’s contents, and it took him some time to quietly work several of the knots loose. Thankfully, the crate containing her recent purchases was near the back of the tray and relatively easy to access. He had only uncovered the first section of cart when he caught sight of it.

His heart beat so fast, he worried it might beat out of his chest as he pried open the lid. Any minute now he would have the candelabra in his hand again, and the whole nightmare would be over.

Inside the crate, he found a number of items made with different kinds of metal. He nestled a small pouch of coin among them, the action assuaging the guilt he already felt over his theft—even though he was only taking his own property.

The smith had left his discarded wares piled carelessly on top of each other, but the merchant girl had packed her purchases carefully in straw, and apparently she’d put the object he was seeking at the bottom. Consequently, it took Elliot some time to dig through and find the candelabra. He worked carefully, but as his hand closed around one of its three branches, a shot of excitement made him momentarily careless. He jerked it upward, causing several of the items to knock against each other with the clear ringing sound of metal striking metal.

Elliot fell backward, his fingers still clamped around his quarry. He had originally intended to put everything back in place, hoping the girl wouldn’t notice the robbery until she was many days down the road. But he could already hear movement from beside the fire, and the sharp whinny of the mare. Panicked, he jumped down from the back of the cart and fled into the surrounding trees.

It wasn’t the multi-day head start he’d been hoping for, but the girl was wrapped in her bedroll, which gave him an advantage. And he was significantly taller than her as well. With the candelabra in his hand again, he was back to full strength. He could outrun her.

Except that he wasn’t growing stronger. Each step took more effort than the last. He spotted the edge of the trees and tried to put on a burst of speed. Instead, one of his legs buckled completely, and he stumbled, nearly falling.

He flailed, trying to restore his balance, and halted all forward progress. He had only just managed to prevent a fall when something grabbed at him from behind, tugging and then releasing and sending him stumbling in the process.

This time he couldn’t save himself, and he landed on his back. Partially winded, he stared upward into the snapping teeth of a horse. The merchant might have been slowed by her bedroll, but apparently she didn’t secure her mare overnight.

Gasping for breath, he shook his head, trying to clear it and make sense of what was happening. He had even bigger worries than nearly being bitten by a horse. Why hadn’t his sickness eased now that he had the candelabra back?

He rolled into a sitting position, wheezing and coughing. The horse whinnied a protest, but when he didn’t move further, she refrained from seizing his vest in her teeth again.

Ignoring her, he peered at the candelabra. Had it been damaged? Was that the problem? But as he stared at it—getting a good look at what he held for the first time—horror spread through him. He was holding a candelabra, but it wasn’t his candelabra. He had grabbed the wrong object.

He was still staring at it when the merchant girl burst through the trees behind him and slid to a stop. She patted her mare on the neck, looking down at him with an expression that slowly changed from smug satisfaction to surprise and finally disappointment.

It shouldn’t have mattered to him, given the far more important disaster of the candelabra, but her disappointment still hit him directly in the chest.

“It’s you,” she said slowly, her mouth twisting. “You’re a thief.”