Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(13)

“Getting your eyes full, boy?” The voice came from behind and above him. Before he could turn to look, the speaker delivered a vicious kick to the ribs, connecting with a crackling sound. Adrian rolled and came up on his knees, gasping, groping for his amulet until he remembered where he was, and let his hand drop away. Not a good idea to draw attention to himself with magical displays in a place where they burned the gifted.

The speaker was a blackbird, dressed head to toe in black, down to his shiny black boots. He was totally bald, with a slash of a mouth and officer’s braid on his shoulders. He reached down, gripped Adrian by the front of his cloak, and dragged him to his feet. With his other hand, he pawed him all over, looking for weapons, but thankfully missing the amulet. He found nothing else, because Adrian, of course, had nothing.

“What’s your name?” the blackbird demanded in Common.

“Ash Hanson.” The name spilled out before Adrian could edit it.

“Ash Hanson, sir,” the blackbird said. “Waiting for someone?”

“No, sir.”

The blackbird shook him, hard. Adrian’s weight came down on his ankle, and he smothered a cry of pain that evolved into a fit of coughing.

“Don’t lie to me,” the blackbird said, pulling him in close, so close Adrian could have spat in his face. “I’m going to ask you one more time. What are you doing up here?”

Adrian cleared his throat. His fingers twitched, eager to take hold of his magic. “It’s just—the air’s clearer up here. I’ve got this awful cough, and lately it’s all blood.” Adrian coughed into his sleeve, then extended it for the blackbird’s inspection. “See?”

The blackbird recoiled from the offer. “Keep your distance, you consumptive Delphian whelpling. If you lot didn’t live like vermin, you wouldn’t catch the fever. I want you down off this roof and away from here. Now!” he roared, giving Adrian a push. “If I see you again, I won’t be so gracious.”

“Yes, sir,” Adrian said, backing away. “Thank you, sir.”

Back on the ground, Adrian circled around in back of the Voyageur shop. He needed to get out of sight, but he didn’t want to leave and come back and find the wagon gone. The rear courtyard was deserted, the wagon’s owner having gone inside. He boosted himself up and into the bed of the wagon.

It was a typical vagabond wagon, with a pallet in the front corner and cooking pots hanging from hooks. It was lined floor to ceiling with bins and containers of goods.

Adrian knew he was in the right place when he breathed in the familiar scents of ginger and sage and peppermint. It brought back memories of nights in the upland lodges, Willo and Taliesin telling stories, their faces bronzed by firelight and inscribed by time and wisdom.

Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling—black cohosh and blessed thistle and mistletoe. Jars and bottles were jammed into net bags on all sides. It was an apothecary on wheels. Many of the containers were marked, but he didn’t know what the marks meant. He began opening bins and jars, sniffing the contents, kindling light on the tips of his fingers in order to see.

Finally he found it, in the back corner, hidden behind two rows of bins. As soon as he sniffed it, he recognized the potent odor of death. Gedden weed—insurance against an uncertain future. Emptying peppercorns out of a cloth bag, he scooped a few tablespoons of weed into it and slipped it into his breeches pocket.

Adrian knew he should leave and find some less compromising place to wait and watch, but this bit of thievery had exhausted him. He was shaking with chills, and knew that his fever was rising again. He scrounged around until he found a packet of willow bark and a tin cup. Scooping the cleanest snow he could find into the cup, he melted it with flash from his hands until the water was steaming. Dirty or not, it was likely to be safer than water from the wells.

Back in the wagon, he steeped the willow bark into a murky tea and drank it down. Still shivering, he found the pile of blankets and crawled underneath, planning to rest a bit until the willow bark took hold.

The next thing he knew, somebody was shaking him awake and thrusting a lantern in his face. “Come on now, you, climb down out of there before you freeze to death. If you’re looking for syrup of poppy, it’s locked up.”

She spoke in Common, but Adrian recognized the voice.

“Taliesin,” he said, blinking, shading his eyes against the light. He heard a quick intake of breath as the lantern slipped from her hand, then a clunk as it hit the bed of the wagon.

Taliesin usually didn’t startle easily, but now she stared at him like she’d seen a ghost. “Blood and demons,” she whispered. “Mageling?”

“It’s me,” Adrian said.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “They said you were dead.”

“Not quite,” he said.

“Well, you will be, or worse, if the blackbirds find you here.”

“I need to talk to you.”

She reached out and gripped his chin, leaning in to take a good look, then pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. The witch had a way of pinning a person with her narrow black eyes. She could tell more with a look than Adrian could with an hour of hands-on.

“How long have you been sick?” she asked.

“I’m all right,” he mumbled, trying to pull free.