Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(11)

“What’s the matter?” Evan said. “Did you forget to load your finger?”

Before Evan could draw another breath, the soldier had crossed the distance between them, gripped his throat, and slammed him up against the wall. Evan was vaguely aware of the burn on his neck when the stranger ripped the pendant off, the plink of it hitting the wall. His attention was riveted on the pressure of fingers against his windpipe, the black spots sliding across his vision, his desperate need for air.

The boy released the pressure a little, and Evan dragged in a breath. His vision cleared, and he saw that he was nearly nose to nose with the mage, all but drowning in his turbulent eyes.

The soldier’s fingers slid down to Evan’s collarbone, searching, raising gooseflesh all along the way. “What’s this—no collar? You mean the general turned you loose without one?”

Evan swallowed, acutely aware of the heat of the soldier’s touch. “Who’s the general?”

“I’ll ask, you answer,” the soldier said, now releasing icy tendrils of magic through Evan’s skin. “How did you find us?” He spoke Common with a familiar accent that Evan couldn’t place right away. His skin was paler than that of most of the tribes along the Desert Coast, though burnished from time in the sun.

“I don’t know . . . what you’re talking about,” Evan gasped. “I wasn’t trying to find you. If I’d known you were here, I’d have stayed away.”

“Is that why you were creeping through the barn with a dagger in your hand?” Again, the ice poured in. It seemed to run through Evan like rain through a gutter, leaving nothing behind.

Fire and ice, Evan thought. This boy is fire and ice, welded together with pain. He’s wounded, though the evidence is hidden under his skin.

The soldier was losing patience. “Say something!” he growled, giving Evan a bone-rattling shake, then slamming his head against the wall.

“Why the goats?” Evan blurted.

The boy blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?” he said, startled into revealing his blueblood roots. So he was a highborn soldier mage.

“Why the goats?” Evan repeated. “Why would you bring goats to an ambush?”

The soldier shook his head, as if to dislodge the words that didn’t belong. “I didn’t plan on being ambushed,” he said.

“You ambushed me,” Evan said.

“If you trespass on someone’s property, it’s hardly an ambush.”

“You’re the one that’s trespassing,” Evan said. “I’ve been living here for a year.”

“Really.” The soldier mage raised an eyebrow and took a slow, deliberate look around. “It didn’t look lived-in when we arrived.”

“I’ve been away,” Evan said, defensive in spite of himself. “I don’t spend much time here.”

“Obviously.”

“You didn’t see the books?”

“To hell with your bloody books,” the soldier said. “We own this property. We have a deed. Which means that if you’ve been living here, you owe us rent.” Clearly the mage intended to collect in blood.

“Did you buy it from Kadar?” Evan said. “You should know that he’s a thief and a liar, with a sideline in forgery.”

“Who is Kadar?”

“Who are you?”

“Never mind,” the soldier said, slamming shut like a book.

He’s got secrets, just like me, Evan thought, remembering what he’d said before. How did you find us? The revelation hit him like a runaway cart: He’s being hunted, too.

He didn’t sound like he’d come from the Northern Islands, either. In fact, he sounded like . . . “You’re a wetlander. Aren’t you?”

As soon as he said it, he knew it was a mistake—the last bit of evidence needed to convict. When he looked into the soldier’s eyes, he saw the promise of death, and this soldier looked to be good at killing. As if to confirm it, Evan heard the metallic hiss as the soldier drew his dagger.





5


THE RISK OF MERCY


Evan managed to force a few words past the pressure on his throat. “You’re going to kill me for sneaking into your barn?”

“Oh, now it’s my barn?”

“Whoever’s barn it is, it’s not worth dying for. If it’s that important to you, keep it. You’re the one with the goats, after all.”

“Mercy is a risk I can’t take,” the boy said. “It’s nothing personal.”

“Killing is always personal,” Evan said, looking the handsome soldier in the eye. “It’s the second-most-intimate thing that can happen between two people.”

The mage blinked as he thought that over, which was the distraction Evan needed. He brought his knee up, hard, into the soldier’s groin, folding him over, then followed with a fist to the face.

That combination should have dropped him where he stood, but it didn’t. Though he roared with pain, the soldier kept hold of his knife, flung Evan to the barn floor, and leapt to pin him, but Evan rolled to his feet and sprinted for the door. He was nearly there when the mage blocked his path.

Evan turned and charged to the far end of the barn, the soldier at his heels, though he knew there was no way out that way. He vaulted over the fence into the goats’ pen and crouched between two shaggy backs, trying to get at the knife in his boot. The goats scattered as the soldier landed in the midst of them. Evan stood, his puny knife in his hand, to find himself facing the business end of the soldier’s sword.