Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(43)
While monitoring the area for any movement in or around the home, I gesture at a billowing linen seaman’s frock, wide enough to fit Cohen. He frowns at the suggestion but snags it quickly, along with a pair of breeches and a jerkin. He grabs similar clothes for me while I keep watch until we’re back in the safety of the woods.
The short navy breeches and linen shirt, combined with a blue bandanna to cover my hair, turn me into the perfect shipmate to Cohen’s sailor attire. When he steps into full view, jerkin fastened to his taut body and sleeves puffing around his arms, I cannot hold my laughter—?it bursts from me like water slipping past a dam, swift and free and explosive. Cohen’s eyes lighten, and one side of his mouth tips up as he’s carried along in the wave. It only lasts a moment until he straightens his face and makes an incensed sound.
“Stop yer laughing,” he says, sounding gruff and serious in perfect Shaerdanian. “I’m warning you, mate, I’ll send ye between the devil and the deep.”
His ship talk surprises another roll of laughter from me. I salute him as though he were my captain, saying, “Aye, aye, sir,” and a full smile cracks his lips.
Together we snort and carry on like we’re kids once again, escaping Papa’s chores instead of running from the king’s guard.
It’s a release we both need before heading into Celize.
Great white birds with bright orange beaks swoop on the salty wind, where, beyond them, white-painted clay buildings climb the cliff that faces the ocean. Their orange rooftops and brightly painted shutters remind me of the strange birds. After we leave Siron, we make our way down a narrow road that winds between buildings. Garments hung from clotheslines flap above us like seagulls, snapping in the wind that beats against the cliffs.
Delmar, another of Cohen’s informants, owns a blacksmith shop sandwiched between a stable and other merchant buildings. Stepping out of the quiet street, we enter Delmar’s shop. Heat from the forge licks at our faces, bringing with it the smell of steel and sweat. Near the source of the blaze, Delmar, a giant of a man, dripping from the heat, pounds a mallet against something I cannot see. His arms, thick chunks of muscle darkened with a crop of black hair, work to bring the mallet down in consistent timing.
“He doesn’t like newcomers,” Cohen cautions over the clang, clang. His hand briefly touches my arm, a staying gesture, before he moves deeper into the shop. I find a place to rest by the door when Cohen and Delmar step out of view. Though surely they cannot have been gone long, it feels like hours. After a while, the heat plays tricks on me, turning my mouth dry. My tongue swells and I need a drink, but my waterskin is with Siron.
I don’t see the harm in escaping for a moment. A little cool air would do me some good. I crack open the door and glance along the road. It’s clear, so I slip outside into the ocean breeze. And oh, it’s so refreshing. It’s tempting to stay there, but the alley next to the stable is a safer choice.
On my way there, I nearly overlook the smithy’s neighbor—?a small shop with a sign that looks a day away from falling apart. Something about the dappled peeling green and blue paint hooks my attention. The twisting curved symbols are familiar. My sight narrows. I’ve seen those overlapping circles before.
Yes, on my dagger.
I pull the blade from my boot and hold the ivory handle up to examine it against the sign. The intricate carvings on my blade match the faded shop sign. What does this mean? Did Papa purchase the blades here in Celize?
I push through the unlocked door.
An older woman with parchment skin and watery eyes glances up from where she’s sitting at a table covered in bottles of liquids and tied bunches of herbs. The space around her, crowded with shelves of books and jars of dead things, is infused with the cloying scent of sandalwood and roses.
The old woman squints at me and then at the dagger clenched in my hand. “Something you need?”
“I, uh . . .” My grip, which had closed to cover the carvings, loosens around the handle. “The marks on your sign,” I say while keeping my chin down. “What do they mean?”
She doesn’t seem ruffled by my sudden appearance in her shop with a dagger in hand. Chagrined at my odd entrance, I quickly slip the blade into my boot and mutter an apology. She points at a chair.
“Oh, no. I cannot stay. I only wanted to know about the sign.” I consider telling her that it matches the etched shapes on my blade, but push the information away.
“Most people who walk through my door are drawn here,” she says, and I almost expect her to glance at my ankle where the blade presses against my skin. “Sit. I won’t take much of your time.”
I take in the skin sagging under her chin and her rounded dress. She seems harmless, so I relax, allowing myself a moment longer. “What sort of shop is this?” My question is light and carries a lilt to hide my Malam accent.
“It’s not a shop. It’s an Elementiary.” The herbs in her hands drop to the table. She dusts her fingers off and then makes a sweeping gesture. “An Elementiary is like a school. Girls come here when they show signs of having the Channeler gift. I offer them guidance and tools. Most feel drawn to others like themselves. That’s why you’ve come, yes?”
Her words pluck specific thoughts from my mind like meadow flowers pulled into a bouquet. The well, the festival fire women, the moonflowers. All of them come together at once, begging questions in an unsettling way.