Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(12)
She wasn’t a child—she couldn’t afford to be a child anymore. This was real life, not a fairy story, and she wouldn’t forget that again. She’d come back as someone whose feet were planted firmly on the ground.
“All right, we’ll try it,” she said, blotting tears away with her forearm. “Could I ask you something?”
“Ask away,” Fletcher said. “I don’t know that I’ll have the answer.”
“Is it true, what they say? That you’re one of those Patriots?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I want to join up,” Jenna said. “I mean to make Arden pay for what they’ve done.” By “Arden” she really meant the king of Arden, but he was far away already. So she’d start close to home.
Jenna thought he would say no, would tell her she was too young, that it was too dangerous. Instead, he gave her a long, studying look. “You know what happens if you get caught,” he said.
Jenna thought about Riley, about how he died, and tried to ignore the shiver of fear that went through her. “If not for you, I’d be dead already.”
“True enough,” Fletcher said, rubbing his chin. “We’ll see.” It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, either.
“There’s one thing I just don’t get,” Jenna said. “The bad times really started after the explosion last year. What makes the king think we blew up the mine on purpose?”
“What makes you think that we didn’t?” Brit Fletcher said.
Their eyes met, and held. “Good,” Jenna said. “I’m going to help you burn Arden to the ground.”
5
THE VOYAGEUR
Adrian lay on his belly on a rooftop in the city of Delphi, peering down at the shop below. A gnarled walking staff hung next to the door, the sign of the Voyageur. Over the doorframe, a wooden sign had weathered to a whisper. La Ancienne. The Old One. Voyageur children with stick-straight black hair, flat noses, and thick, embroidered sheepswool coats herded goats around the yard.
It was two weeks since his father had died, ten days since he’d slipped across the border onto enemy ground. Since his stays at Marisa Pines lodge in the high country, Adrian knew how to survive in the mountains and navigate off-trail. The border was porous to a single rider in a white winter cloak—even a rider with a bad ankle, a stolen pony, and a broken heart.
Riding into Delphi was like descending into a fuming, sulfurous hell—if hell happened to be bitterly cold. The air was thick enough to chew, but almost impossible to breathe. It stung Adrian’s eyes and set him to coughing. Everything was covered with a layer of soot and coal dust thick enough to kill what little color there was. The people were thin and haggard and hollow-eyed, so worn out and weary that they took little notice of a stable boy with mud-brown hair (the result of a night spent rubbing black walnut paste and strong tea into it).
He’d come here hoping to intercept the healer Taliesin Beaugarde on her way to Oden’s Ford. She’d told Adrian that she planned to visit relatives in Delphi who owned a shop that sold herbs and remedies. This was the only one in town, so it had to be the place. He’d been watching it for a week, and there’d been no sign of Taliesin so far. It was risky to stay here, but he had nowhere else to go.
The ankle was worrisome—swollen twice its size, purple and green. Maybe he deserved whatever pain he was in, but he wouldn’t seek healing from someone he didn’t know. A wizard can’t use his gift to heal himself, and incompetence would only make matters worse. So he kept it wrapped and hoped for the best.
Despite the ankle, he’d found bed and board in a stable in exchange for mucking out stalls. It seemed that help was hard to come by in Delphi, since every able-bodied person had been sent into the mines. To call it “board” was being generous, even by Fellsian standards. Neither he nor his pony was living high.
The herb shop stood in a Delphian neighborhood so desperate that the toughest streetlord from Ragmarket would think twice before moving in. First off, there was nothing worthwhile to steal. He’d already seen a knife fight break out over a warm pair of gloves.
Second, the king of Arden’s blackbird guards were thick as crows on a carcass. Black was a good color choice for Delphi—a mountain town that resembled a Fellsmarch gone horribly wrong.
Adrian shivered. The heat from his body had melted the snow underneath him, and now he was soaked to the skin. Since he’d come to Delphi, he’d developed a cough and a fever that wouldn’t go away. It was either camp fever from the wells or winter fever from exposure. It would be another day wasted, but he needed to get off the roof and out of the cold.
Hearing voices below, he slid forward again, far enough so he could see over the gutter tiles. A wagon had pulled up in front of the shop, and the children who had been playing in the street clustered around it, chattering excitedly.
The wagon was painted in Voyageur style, and the ponies were sturdy, shaggy, mountain-bred. Adrian’s heart beat faster. He slid back, out of sight, as a clutch of mounted blackbirds appeared, shouting at the driver to move the wagon out of the way. The blackbirds seemed bent on emptying the streets, using clubs and short swords to encourage those who didn’t move fast enough. The wagon lurched into motion, turning down the alleyway next to the shop so it could park behind.