Chapter One
Deep beneath the surface, beyond the winding staircase, and through to the end of the narrow passageway swathed in shadows, lay the meeting place. The figure descending the staircase knew its every turn and crevice. Its gaze swept unflinchingly over the grotesque, leering visages of stone ghouls that leapt from sudden curves and clefts in the walls— images rumoured to have been endowed with dark magic in ages past. Phantoms crafted to reflect the heart’s deepest fears rose from the statues and swirled around the figure as black shadows. The figure glided through them like a blade through mist and the shadows fled before it.
The hour was late. No doubt the meeting was already in progress. Though the Master was terrifying, the figure did not dread his wrath. A face of iron and a nerve of steel left no room for fear, even of their creator.
Two oaken doors barred the entrance to the inner room where the meeting was taking place. Though time had left its mark upon the splintering wood, the ancient inscriptions remained as legible as the day they were embossed. The figure did not pause to admire the unique craftsmanship as it once might have, but threw open the doors, its cloak billowing out behind it as it strode into the circular room.
The light of the torches guarding either side of the doorway was first to greet the figure. Flickering, the glow gathered in the dome of the ceiling, playing with the shadows nestled in the wall’s archaic mouldings. A stone pentagram was raised on the floor directly beneath the dome, an ancient monument that once served as an altar for rituals of the original council of Gaiztoak. Dark stains marred the cracked surface of the pentagram, remnants of even darker days.
Thankfully, the present purpose for it was much less brutal.
At each tip of the star sat a figure in a high-backed chair and draped in a heavy mantle. Every head was bowed, each face hidden in the folds of a large hood. Four of the five were mortals, useful pawns to the fifth figure, who presided over the meeting.
He was their Master, and they feared him.
“Bellator.” His voice was light, but the newcomer could sense the rage beneath his calm.
The figure fell to one knee. “Master.”
“You are late.”
“I apologize, Master. It won’t happen again.”
The Master did not acknowledge the apology, nor did he accept it. “Begin your patrol.”
Bellator rose and commenced pacing the perimeter of the room. The task was pointless. There had never been a whisper of trouble during any of these meetings, and Bellator doubted there would be any today. The fools around the altar wouldn’t dare raise a hand against the Master. Bellator was merely a tool he used to further intimidate his players.
“Continue, Avia,” the Master said.
Of course, this was not the man’s name. The Master addressed each mortal as the country they represented. Two rulers, an ambassador, and a governor were present this evening, each of which – however insignificant their rank – held major sway over assets the Master had use of.
The man called Avia cleared his throat as a guise for composing himself. “P-production from the mines has been c-cancelled, my lord— for the time being. It was the queen’s order. The holidays are upon us, c-celebrating the festival of Dragoi Magni, and—”
The Master raised a hand and Avia was silenced.
“See to it personally that the supply is tripled next month in recompense,” he ordered. “Valamette?”
Bellator frowned. It was unusual for the Master to pass over a chance to make an example of Avia for such a failure. Clearly, there was something else pressing on his mind.
“My Master, our holidays are not until wintertime,” Valamette boasted. “We’ll be certain to supply you with twice the gold and lumber that you require.”
Bellator’s fists clenched. Across the table, Avia’s shoulders sank, and to the Master’s right, Zandelba let out a low growl. Valamette’s smug attitude gained him nothing but disdain from his peers.
“Lavylli?” The Master’s voice was impatient.
The figure to his left, who had no doubt remained silent and attentive since the meeting began, spoke abruptly in a strong, plummy accent. “The tunnels are underway, my lord, but we are making swift progress. Regarding the payment of precious gems, it has been sent. You will have what you need to stamp out all resistance when the time arises.”
“That time is already upon us,” the Master stated, rising to his feet. “Many nights now, my gaze has been turned to the stars. The constellations Heroi and Retsu are aligning for the first time in two and a half millennia. Prophecies connote these coming years as the last of mankind. This is the opportunity I have been waiting for. I must not fail!”
His eyes glowed with the passion his words expressed, and murmurs of agreement echoed through the room.
“Our toils have been rewarding and our preparation has been long,” the Master went on. “Yet we must not deceive ourselves into thinking that our position is secure.”
The murmurs fell to silence. The Master had never spoken so freely of such things before. The most this council had ever discussed were the brief updates concerning the progress of each respective country and its assets. There was the occasional new order from The Master, but such a thing was rare, and was always followed by a long, tedious discussion concerning the politics of the task, and thus was never interesting.
“It has been predicted that there is one who has the potential to stand in my way; one who may have the power to end my supreme rule before it has begun.”
“My lord, who could possess the power to rival you?” Valamette asked, bewildered.
The Master lifted his gaze to glare at Valamette from beneath the shadow of his hood. “You of all people should know.”
Understanding dawned on Valamette. He nodded slowly. Bellator glimpsed the other figures, looking to find a shred of understanding among them. But they too turned to look at Valamette, hoping to glean what they could from his bearing.
“The boy, my lord?” he asked.
“Yes,” the Master replied. “The boy.”
Bellator was intrigued. When had a boy ever entered their conversation?
“But my lord, how could he be a problem? Didn’t we do away with him as an infant? How is it possible that he still draws breath?”
“Does it matter how?” the Master snapped. “What matters is that he lives and that he will pose a threat if we aren’t careful to hone his abilities to our favour.”
“I can do it.” Valamette took a breath. “I can kill him, if you wish it. I will not fail you.”
“No!” The Master’s fist slammed on the altar. “If I wanted him dead, I would have let him die! I wouldn’t have kept him safe all this time.”
Valamette recoiled. When he dared to speak again, his voice came as a whisper. “You kept him safe?”
The Master raised his chin. “I will have his allegiance.”
“Forgive me, Master,” Zandelba interjected eagerly, “but won’t you allow me to capture this boy? I’m the best man for such a task.”
“Fool,” Bellator scoffed so suddenly that all around the altar started. “If His Majesty refused Valamette, do you really think he would accept you?”
“I suppose you assume he’ll elect you for the task?” Zandelba retorted.
Bellator’s voice turned to steel. “Your head would be at the end of my sword if my master elected to give the order.”
The Master’s eyes blazed crimson from beneath his hood. “Be still, Bellator!”
“My lord,” Bellator said, stepping forward, “just give the word, and this boy will be at your feet by morning.”
“As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, your request is denied. This boy is unknowingly under the protection of the Council of Buentoak. Their skill in the art of magic is unparalleled by all present but myself.” The Master slowly lowered back into his chair. “No, I must be the one to retrieve him.”
Exclamations of alarm were stifled around the room, and Bellator stepped back, confused.
“You, my Master?”
“Yes, me.”
Zandelba cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “Do you think it wise, my lord, to venture so far from your sanctuary? If you were to encounter any difficulties—”
“Ha!” the Master scoffed. “Do you think me so weak that I cannot hold my own in the world of mortals? Or perhaps you believe I have only survived this long because of your cautionary tales?”
“My only concern is for your well-being, my master,” Zandelba muttered, ducking his head.
Valamette fidgeted uncomfortably. “My lord, once you have the boy… what will be done to him?”
The Master considered the man before him. When he spoke, his voice was determinedly cold. “Whatever it takes to persuade him of where his loyalties should lie.”
“And if he isn’t persuaded?”
Bellator sensed the smile that almost imperceptibly altered the Master’s features. “One way or another, he will be.”
Chapter Two
Long ago, I promised myself I would never give anyone the satisfaction of seeing they’ve hurt me. That’s why, when the hot iron is pressed to the back of my hand, I don’t make a sound. Teeth clenched, breath held, I gulp back bolts of pain that echo the beating of my heart. I can stand the pain. Just a few moments longer…
The poker is removed, leaving behind a sooty line of blisters. I clench my fist and lower it deliberately, my face a mask of indifference.
The master chef’s mouth is a line of cruel mockery. “Think on that, and mayhap your worthless mind’ll keep to the task at hand!”
“Yes, Master Lye,” I mumble, my ‘worthless mind’ suppressing a good number of things I’d like to say.
He tosses the poker into the bin beside the hearth. “The spices for the poultry, now! Dinner’s in an hour. We don’t got time for any more of your mishaps!”
I nod and obediently turn toward the spice counter, flexing my fist in and out to ease the throbbing of the burn. Afternoon is the most hellish time of day for the scullery, even without Lye in such a bad mood. The endless clattering of pans, the heat of the crackling fires, and the chatter of the maids as they exchange the daily gossip- it’s enough to make my head pound. Even so, it’s better than field work, where I’d be in the hot sun from morning to dusk tilling the land; or worse, cleaning and gutting fish at one of the foul-smelling fisheries by the docks.
The air is thick with steam from boiling vegetables. There is one thing I could never tire of, and that’s the tantalizing aromas that sing like music to my senses and cause my mouth to water in longing. Normally, I would weigh the dangers of swiping a roll or meat pastry from the counter before Lye makes his final count. Right now, however, I won’t dare risk it. I’m usually a little clumsy, but today is worse than ever. I keep getting dizzy with no warning. Most likely I’m coming down with something.
I reach the spice counter and begin to portion the correct ingredients into a wooden bowl, anger boiling in my chest.
Yes, I’m angry. Angry that I’ve been punished, true, but angrier still about what the punishment represents. I’ve never understood. They don’t have a problem with themselves, or with full under-dwelling Lavyllians, so why am I so abhorrent being half of both? I’m not that different from them. Am I?
“Half-breed!” Lye’s voice smashes through my thoughts as forcefully as when he swings a rolling pin at my head.
Instinctively, I duck, and the sack of ground peppercorn falls into the bowl, mixing with the thyme and sage already measured out. I sweep up the bag with an inward groan. If he sees what I’ve done, it’ll be the whip.
Again.
Fortune favours me for the first time in a good while. His back is to me as he hangs his apron on a peg by the door. “Stop dawdling and get to the fire with the seasoning! That bird will be cooked by the time I get back.”
“Yes, Master Lye.”
He leaves the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.
I breathe a sigh of relief and quickly scoop the excess peppercorn back into the bag. An added fistful of salt, and I’m done. I make my way back toward the fireplace, where a large pheasant is skewered over a simmering fire.
A frazzled, pasty-faced maid spins in front of me, a steaming pan in one hand and a spoon in the other. I try to dodge out of the way, but she charges forward, slamming into me. The bowl flies from my hands and clatters to the floor, the fine powder scattering in all directions. The maid jumps back, her lip curled in disgust.
“Watch where you’re going!” she cries shrilly, cuffing me upside the head.
Mumbling a quick apology, I drop to my knees to salvage the seasoning from the wooden floorboards. The scullery is small as it is, but it seems to shrink to half its size. My hand gets trodden on twice. The bowl is kicked halfway across the room. A maid with carrot orange hair drops a ladle on my head, and when I get it for her, she snatches it from me as if I’d stolen it. I even get a frustrated kick in the side when I find myself in the path of the young assistant cook. All the while, they’re chattering on and on about the master of the house’s son, who’s apparently something to look at.
When most of the spices are retrieved, I give up the rest as lost. Sheltering the bowl in my arms to keep it from spilling again, I cover the distance to the fireplace and crouch down before it.
Finding a jug of oil on the hearth, I drench the golden skin of the roasting pheasant, and then sprinkle the spices over it. The warm firelight licks my face, but serves only to increase the burning of my hand.
Regardless, I determine to stay focused. The punishment for burning the borscht was bad enough. Of course, it wasn’t my fault. I was too busy to check on it, what with Lye shouting at me to stoke the fires, carry water, scrub the floors, and tidy every little mess made during that time.
It’s my lot in life, it seems, to take the fall for everyone else’s mistakes. If only—
A log in the fire coughs, sending sparks into my eyes and I blink. When I blink, the world changes suddenly before my eyes.
I no longer see the sizzling skin of the pheasant and the blackened stones of the oven behind it. Instead, I stand between the brick walls of a narrow, dead-end alley. The ground beneath my bare feet is dirt instead of rough wood and putrid city air replaces the savoury smells of the scullery. A cool, midsummer breeze finds its way to me over the high walls around the alley, caressing my clammy skin, bringing with it the buzz of late afternoon hustle and bustle on the street outside. Yet somehow, I can still feel the heat of the fire on my skin and hear the familiar sounds of the scullery behind me.
My attention is quickly drawn to movement at the dead-end of the alley as a beggar emerges from the shadows. He has the looks of a man in his thirties, yet his dirty face is cut with more scars than a warrior twice his age could’ve acquired. A tattered cloak is wrapped around his shoulders, mostly concealing his ratty green tunic and patchwork trousers. An eye-patch covers his right eye. He steps softly, his shoes simple cloth bound around his feet, and surveys the walls cautiously with his good eye. His gaze passes through me as though I wasn’t there.
Knotted, dirty-blond hair whips his face as he jerks his head to look up the alley and his lip curls in a fierce snarl.
I recognize the beggar at once. Though I haven’t met him in person, I’ve seen him often enough to imagine him a figment of my own imagination. In every city, in every town I’ve ever worked, the beggar has always been there – lurking behind corners, in dark alleyways, in every crowd – and always, always watching me. But he’s never there long enough for me to see him on second glance.
This is a dream. It has to be. I survey my surroundings once more and the cool breeze greets me once again. A very vivid dream. Maybe I’ve fainted.
Whatever is happening, I seem to have little control, so I decide there isn’t much else to do but accept it.
I begin to start forward, my goal to get directly in the beggar’s way, but something binds me in place.
A rough, throaty voice rings out from the mouth of the alley, and a shiver shoots down my spine.
“Banner!”
The beggar whips aside his cloak, putting a hand to the spiked club attached to his belt.
An old man limps into view, leaning on a stout, gnarled walking stick. He picks his way along the downward slope, lifting the hem of his drab grey robes clear of his feet. A pointed beard and sleek white hair peek out from the baggy hood draped over his head. His face sags with deeply set wrinkles, and his eyes are narrow, squinty, but there is an authority gathered in the indent of his brow. A beaded braid of leather is tied around his forehead, the tails of which dangle down the side of his face, and I contemplate how annoying that could get over time. There’s nothing threatening about his appearance at all, and I wonder why I shivered at his voice.
A sudden chill, obviously. He’s just a friendly old man. Not everyone is out to get me.
Recognition dawns on the beggar’s face, and he relaxes his grip on the club. “Ulmer? This is… unexpected, to say the least! Why have you come here?”
The old man – Ulmer, I infer – begins to speak slowly. “Listen to me. The boy is in danger. I think it prudent that we get him to safety. Tonight.”
The beggar sighs, nodding. “I knew I felt something amiss.”
“Your intuition serves you well.” Ulmer glances around, lowering his voice. “Zeldek is coming for him.”
As he says these words, a raven screeches from the rooftop and soars into the air, disappearing beyond the thatched peak of the building next to us. Dread washes over me, and I look up enviously at the raven that can fly away so freely. Zeldek. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but it is meaningless to me.
“Why now?” Banner’s voice is tremulous, yet resigned. “He could have come for him at any time. What is he planning?”
“My source was unclear. Simply that he plans to capture the boy himself.” The old man shakes his head. “I must inform the council of this development. We may not have the numbers to wage war against him, but we can distract him while you get the boy to safety. We will reconvene at this location at midnight. Be sure he is with you then. If Zeldek gets to him first, I fear he will be beyond our help.”
Banner nods. “I will protect him with my life.”
“I know you will, little brother,” Ulmer says, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I must be off.”
“All speed to you,” Banner returns, lines of worry sinking into his brow.
Ulmer pulls the hood down over his eyes and slips into the crowded street outside.
No sooner has he gone than I feel a tugging on my shoulders, and I am jerked back into the wall. Next thing I know, I am once again breathing in the heavy air of the scullery, the flames of the fire dangerously close to my face. I stumble backward, my eyes stinging from smoke. My foot catches on a loose brick in the hearth, and I hit the floor before I even realize I’m falling. All air flees my lungs.
When everything comes back into focus, the alley is gone.
The scullery, on the other hand, is too real. All five of the maids have stopped their work and are staring at me, agape, as if expecting me to sprout wings or turn into a worm.
“What’s it doing?”
“Stop that! Stop that, you hear?”
“Loretta, do something!”
Beads of sweat form on my forehead – whether from mortification or exhaustion is hard to say. A wave of nausea overtakes me and I feel suddenly very weak. I run my sleeve over my face, widening my eyes in a futile attempt to clear my vision.
“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to scramble to my feet.
My knees wobble and buckle underneath me. An awkward pause hangs in the air while the maids hang back, motionless.
Come on! Get up! It’s a dizzy spell. It’ll pass.
If anything, more of my strength is draining away.
“Are you alright?”
Stunned, I crane my neck in search of the owner of the kind voice. Faces swim before my eyes, only adding to my confusion.
And now I’m hearing things. Maybe there is something wrong with me.
The voice comes again, louder this time. “Are you alright?”
The face of a girl appears above me, genuine concern in her clear grey eyes. Even through the fog in my mind, I know her. She’s the maid that was hired yesterday. The strange, quiet girl with the pure white hair, like that of the aged – though she’s still quite young.
“May I help you?” she asks.
I stare at her, bewildered. “M-me?”
She laughs, a soft sound, like the strings of a harp. “Who else, silly? The pheasant?” She nods her head in the direction of the roasting bird, a wide smile on her face. “I don’t think I’d be much used to him now.”
I begin to answer, but stop myself. I know the rules better than anyone. People who fraternize with half-breeds tend to get hurt, as do the half-breeds they associate with. I won’t see her get in trouble on my account.
“Sorry, miss,” I mumble, bowing my head, “but I can help myself.”
“Are you sure? You look a little pale.” Her voice isn’t so light now.
Pretending not to hear her, I grab the edge of a nearby table and pull myself to my feet. I fall into it, knocking a bowl of leeks onto the floor. No one moves to retrieve it.
“Did you pass out?” the girl persists. “Maybe you should lie down.”
“Please, miss,” I hiss, my gaze darting to the other maids in the room. The lot are eyeing the girl with collective suspicion and disgust. “Let me alone. I can take care of myself.”
She steps back, her brows furrowing. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was only trying to help.”
“Annalyn!” barks an unusually deep, raspy female voice from across the room.
The girl jumps at the sound of her name and backs away as a thin, sour-faced hag with a long, skinny neck and a terrible under bite charges toward us.
Watchdog.
That’s what I call her, anyways. Her real name is Loretta, but she takes it upon herself to be Lye’s eyes and ears while he’s out of the room. If the two of them aren’t already married, there is certainly something going on between them, and since she knows Lye has a vendetta against me, she’s taken it upon herself to treat me with just as much contempt.
“Back to your work, half-breed lover,” Watchdog growls to Annayln, “before I give you more trouble than you’re worth!”
Annalyn flushes a deep red, and biting her lip, she turns back to peeling potatoes.
Watchdog turns on me. “What do you think you’re doing, filth?”
I open my mouth to make an excuse, but she backhands me across the face. The force of her blow sends me spinning to the floor again.
I’ve only been down a moment before she jabs a foot into my ribs. “Up, now!”
I try, but I’m too slow for her.
“I said up!”
She snatches a wooden spoon from the table and raises it to strike me. As she brings it down, a strange wave of energy shoots through me. My vision snaps clear. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve caught the spoon in my hand and twisted it from her fist.
Gasps and shrieks ring out. Watchdog’s mouth drops in alarm and she stumbles back. The orange-haired maid turns and flees the room.
I stare down at the spoon in my hand, frozen.
How did I do that? Why did I do it?
Watchdog grabs a knife from the counter. “Drop the spoon,” she orders shakily.
I throw it aside, putting up my hands. “I’m so sorry!” I blurt. “I didn’t mean—”
The scullery door bursts open, and Lye enters, the orange-haired maid close behind. I gulp and shrink back.
Things just got a whole lot worse.
Chapter Three
I’ve never seen Lye so furious. Puffing and spitting, he takes in the scene, his face turning so red it could easily be mistaken for a beet. Even his moustache, two tongues on either side of his upper lip, frays at the ends as he prepares to blow.
“Half-breed!” he bellows so loudly that my ears begin to ring. “What are you doing? The bird is burning, you idiot!”
I back away, glancing at the remains of the pheasant. He’s right. Curls of smoke rise from its blackened surface. As I watch, it bursts into flames.
Lye throws back his head with a cry of distress. “Ruined! What will the master have now?”
Watchdog is at his elbow in an instant. “The half-breed’s gone savage! I’ve heard of it happening before, but I never thought I’d see the day. In my own scullery! The look in its eyes, like a wild animal it was. And glinting—”
“What are you babbling about, woman?” Lye sputters. “Can’t you see? Dinner is ruined!”
She points a finger at me. “The half-breed attacked me! I warned you, didn’t I? When they put it to work down ‘ere, I told you it was no good!”
Lye’s face, once red with fury, has turned white. “Attacked you? How?”
“There!” She points at the offending spoon lying near my feet. “Snatched it right outta my hands. Scared the devils outta me. I grabbed this ‘ere knife to defend myself. It had blue death in its eyes, I saw it! And the maids, they can attest!”
“That’s a lie!”
Annalyn’s face is red with indignation and she wipes her hands on her apron. Lye turns to her, shocked speechless. It’s not every day that he’s confronted, least of all by one of his own staff.
She takes a deep breath, straightening herself up. “Sir, it isn’t his fault. He only took it to stop her from hurting him. If anything, it was self-defence.”
“It’s a half-breed! It don’t got the brains to be deliberate.” He jabs his finger at her. “And you don’t got no right to speak to me that way, missy!”
Her eyes blaze and she opens her mouth to protest.
“I did it on purpose.” The voice is shaky, but clear, and I realize it’s my own.
If anyone’s going to get in trouble for this, it’s me. No need for her to join my punishment.
I jut out my chin. “There, I said it. Pleased?”
Lye lunges at me, grabbing the collar of my shirt. “You dare mock me, whelp? I’ll put you in your place once and for all!”
He yanks me around the table, shoving me toward the exit. I stumble along without protest, pretending I don’t care what happens to me, that I’m not afraid of getting whipped for the second time today. I’d rather Lye take out his rage on me than have him find out.
Lye kicks open the door and pushes me out into the courtyard. Rainwater drenches my face from a deluge that must’ve only just started. The door slams behind us, and he shoves me forward. My feet slip on the wet cobblestones and I fall on all fours. I scurry to my feet, but he throws me down again with a blow between my shoulder blades. My ankle twists beneath me and I gasp as pain vibrates up my leg.
Lightning flashes in the sky.
“Really?” a familiar voice calls over the pattering of the rain. “Him again?”
Fear rises in my throat like bile as I search for the owner of the voice. I soon find him leaning against the trunk of the large oak tree in the centre of the courtyard.
Ralcher.
A relatively young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, Ralcher is the son of the master of the household, Lord Thane. Whatever the maids say about him, he’s a devil who takes cruel pleasure devising unusual and painful ways to hurt things so he can break their spirit. He was the one that bought me. Said he saw a lot of spirit in me.
Lye picks me up by the collar of my shirt and holds me at arm’s length. “Master, this half-breed of yours is nothing but trouble! He ruined dinner, set the pheasant afire, and attacked Loretta!”
Thunder cracks. I glare defiantly at Ralcher through the long straggles of hair that have freed themselves from the tie at the nape of my neck. I feigned some remorse for Lye. Ralcher gets no such privilege.
Ralcher lets out a deep chuckle, a wide grin showing his crooked teeth. “Does my little half-breed have anything to say for himself?”
I bare my teeth.
Lye cuffs me upside the head. “Answer him!”
Ralcher holds up a hand. “That will do, Lye,” he says with an easygoing smile. “You may return to your post. Dinner still needs to be served, after all.”
Lye releases me with a shove. “I suppose I’ve got to make new arrangements for the main course,” he grumbles.
Turning, he retreats indoors, his anger appeased.
When the door to the scullery has closed once more, Ralcher straightens up and starts toward me with his usual off-balanced swagger. I don’t dare move as he grips my face in his hand and peers into my eyes with his wild, chestnut ones.
“The rebellious spirit lingers still.” He shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle. “I’ve never had one as young as you last for so long.”
I struggle to breathe without shaking.
He pushes back my head, moving my hair out of my face. His eyes glint with a sadistic ire, and his dark hair hangs in wet strings, framing his face and accentuating his appearance of insanity.
“I’ll win, eventually. I always do.”
I want to run, to get as far away from him as I can. But he’ll only catch me. And he’ll make me pay. Instead, I grit my teeth, and brace myself.
He seizes a handful of my hair and drags me across the wet grass to the tree. Throwing me backward into the rough bark of the trunk, he brings his fist into my gut. I double over, but his hand closes on my throat, and he slams me back against the tree again. His fingers dig into my skin, cutting off my windpipe.
I sputter, trying to take a breath. He waits, that casual smile still playing on his features, until my chest feels like it’s tearing itself apart. Then he lets go. I double over, gulping air, but he grabs my hair again and slams my head back into the tree. White light shoots across my vision. When it clears, I’m on the ground at his feet. Pain splits my head. The dizziness is returning.
“You’re pathetic!” he spits, sending a sharp kick to my stomach.
Gasping, I paw at the wet leaves scattered on the grass, searching for something solid to cling to.
He kicks me again. “Quiet, wretch!”
That only sets me to coughing, and when I remove my hand from over my mouth, it is specked with blood.
“What is it that you cling to? Freedom? Hope for a better future?” He stands over me, rolling me onto my back with his foot. “You want the pain to end, don’t you?”
I nod faintly.
“It will. But first, you must understand; you are nothing. You never will be anything. Embrace it. Then the pain will end.”
It’s a lie. I… I can still be something.
I struggle to my knees, and he lets me, a cruel smirk twisting his features. I look up, blinking through rain that pelts my eyes.
“Do what you want,” I breathe. “You will never—”
Down on the grass, fingers in the soft dirt, I am unable to finish my pledge. A shock of cold rushes through my arms, gathering in my palms, and blue lightning flashes from the sky. The ground around me explodes, throwing Ralcher back onto the cobbled path. Rocks and dirt shower down on me, and I fling my arms over my head to shield myself.
Crack!
The sound is followed by muffled screams from indoors. Forgetting about myself, I look up toward the building. Although my vision is blurred, I can see that it is undamaged, which is more than I can say for the rest of the courtyard. The cobblestones have been ploughed up, the grass left in ravaged clumps, and the oak tree has been uprooted and thrown against the now crumbling wall that surrounds the estate.
My gaze falls to the ground close around me. Though scattered with dirt and stones, it is otherwise untouched.
The rain pours down harder than before.
Ralcher picks himself up off the ground, stumbling in a full circle before his mad eyes come to rest on me. “You did this!”
I shake my head, shocked. That feeling of exhaustion is taking me again, and I blink, trying to keep focus.
My voice is weak. “I didn’t.”
An insane glee takes hold of him. “You’re a sorcerer!”
“No, I’m not. I swear!”
“But you are! I saw your eyes glow. You’re a sorcerer!” He pauses, realization dawning. “You just tried to kill me.”
“No, please!” I cry desperately with aching lungs. “I didn’t!”
“This has gone too far, I’m afraid,” he says, and leaps over a mound in front of him, charging toward me.
Terror rips through me, giving me strength to run. I bolt for the wall, scrambling over turned-over boulders, dirt, and roots. Ralcher is close behind, but I manage to scale the wall before he reaches me. I leap down the other side, ignoring the pain prickling in my ankle as I stumble toward the opening of a nearby alleyway.
The world is spinning around me, but I manage to stay on my feet. I bump into the corner of the wall beside the alley before stumbling onto the dark, grimy pathway, clinging to the wall for support.
I’ve got to be invisible before the city guards start looking for me. As soon as they receive word of a sorcerer loose in the city, they’ll be after me. They’ll close the city gates until they catch me. There’s no way I can get out in time.
They will catch me, eventually. No matter what I say, they won’t believe that I’m not a sorcerer. Ralcher’s the son of a powerful lord. I’m a nobody.
Panic begins to creep in. Unless I figure out a way to escape the city, I’m doomed.
Of Swords and Quills 