Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(38)

“We will hope and pray that’s the case, Your Majesty,” Destin said. “How did you learn that the girl is in Delphi?”

“We don’t know for a fact that she is still there,” the king said. “We know she lived there as a child. It’s exceedingly important that no one knows who you are looking for. We don’t know what the girl knows. There are a hundred holes to hide in, in Delphi. We don’t want her to dive into one of them.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Destin said, trying to focus his turbulent mind.

“One more thing—we need her alive and unharmed, understand?”

“So, we’re not being asked to assassinate this girl?”

“Precisely.”

Things were looking bleaker and bleaker. Destin knew from experience that it was much simpler to kill a person than to capture and transport him without damage.

Destin wasn’t sure just how far he could push, but he needed all the information he could get. “Do you know what the symbol signifies? Or what she looks like? That might make it easier to—”

“I have no idea,” Montaigne said and shrugged, as if this omission were inconsequential. “If you find the girl, we’ll get some answers directly from her.”

“Of course, sire,” Destin said, his mind racing. It was either a blessing or a curse that the king had chosen him for this task. He just wasn’t sure which.

“You’ll be working with Marc Clermont, the captain of my guard in Delphi. He’s a man who’s willing to take decisive action when it’s required, and yet, still that town has never been entirely subdued. There are uprisings every month or two, trouble in the mines, sabotage, smuggling across the border with the Fells. Recently, there was a direct attack on a squadron of guards, killing several. I want you to find out what’s going on.”

So you want me to spy on your commander in Delphi, Destin thought. And, he, in turn, will be spying on me. There’s something to look forward to.

“I’m just wondering. This girl. Does she have a name, at least?” That last sarcastic sentence was out before he could clap his mouth shut.

Montaigne fixed his glacial eyes on Destin. “Her birth name was Jenna Bandelow. Perhaps she’s still using it. Her parents were Bill and Erien. They were old when she was born. They would be quite old now, if they’re still alive.” He paused. “The girl may have been born in Ardenscourt. At least her birth was recorded here, but her parents took her to Delphi when she was still a baby.”

The Malthusian friars at Ardenscourt kept meticulous records of births, of people of all stations, complete with birth measurements and identifying marks. That must be how the girl had been discovered.

“Why would anyone move to Delphi?” Destin muttered.

“Perhaps they were looking for a place to hide,” Montaigne said. “And Delphi would do nicely, don’t you think?”





13


THE WAY-FARRIER


It was a nasty trick Ash had pulled on Lila, and he knew it. It was an especially low blow after she’d saved his life at Oden’s Ford. The truth was, he didn’t trust Lila Barrowhill. There was something about the story she’d told that hit his ear wrong, and he’d learned to trust his instincts. She’d seemed overly eager to join up with him and drag him back to the Fells. Maybe she was looking for a reward, maybe not. Ash had other plans.

It seemed that Gerard Montaigne was bent on murdering the entire royal family of the Fells, whether they were in the royal line or not. That meant that his mother and sister were in danger, and he knew of no sure way to protect them, save one.

He was on his way to Ardenscourt, aiming for the heart of the beast. He planned to stay until Gerard Montaigne was dead. Or Ash was dead. Or they were both dead. He tried to shut down the voice in his head that said neither his mother nor his sister Lyss would make that trade.

Well, then. He’d make no promises, but he’d survive if he could.

He rode into Ardenscourt one morning two weeks after he’d left Lila sleeping in the woods. Unlike the mountain towns of the Fells, tucked into valleys, framed by the uplands, Ardenscourt sprawled for miles across the plains of Arden like a Tamric lady’s lurid skirt. Ash always found that featureless flatness disorienting.

He planned to apply to work with the healing service in the palace. Hopefully that would bring him close enough to the king for his purposes. Since most itinerant healers would not arrive astride a military mount, Ash left his horse in a livery stable on the outskirts of town. It took him half a day to walk from the edge of town to Citadel Hill, Gerard Montaigne’s stronghold overlooking the Arden River.

As Ash navigated through the twisted, crowded streets, he assessed conditions in the enemy capital with a practiced eye. Soldiers were everywhere, in uniforms of every color, bulling their way through throngs of people, clustering on street corners, spilling from inns and hostelries. Members of the King’s Guard were thick, too, in their black uniforms, hands on the hilts of their swords, eyeing the crowds for signs of trouble.

And, everywhere, the Church of Malthus, its crowlike priests swishing through the streets, the keys to the kingdom swinging at their waists. The city bristled with temple towers, grim and forbidding.

Pickings were slim in the street markets he passed, and prices high, though it was harvest season and the flatlands of Arden and Tamron had once been the breadbasket of the Seven Realms. Street urchins were everywhere, shaking their begging cups, crying out to passersby. Ash knew better than to give them his coin—they wouldn’t be allowed to keep any of it. Besides, any traveler with coin in his pockets became a target for footpads and slide-hands.