Flamecaster

  “No!” Somebody smashed into them, sending the king of Arden sprawling. Jenna sucked in air through her bruised throat. Hands grabbed hold of her, and she kicked and struggled, but it wasn’t the blackbirds, it was the miners, dragging her off the stage and pushing her toward the rear of the crowd. “Stay down!” Brit Fletcher said into her ear.

  But Jenna didn’t stay down, because she knew who had come to her rescue. She worked her way to a place where she could see the stage.

  The king of Arden was back on his feet, behind a wall of blackbirds, trying to plug his nose with a snowy handkerchief. Blackbirds stood all along the edge of the stage, their crossbows aimed into the crowd. Riley stood nearby, his arms pinioned, his face battered almost beyond recognition. The queen sat forgotten, cradling Maggi’s body in her arms.

  When he’d got the bleeding stopped, King Gerard crossed the stage to where Riley stood.

  “Who are you?” Gerard said. “Another hero?”

  Riley shook his head. “No, sir. It was me. I was the one that done it. I threw the scummer at you. I did it, and I’m sorry.”

  “Did you now?” The king stood, hands on hips, gazing at Riley.

  “No!” Jenna tried to fight her way toward the front of the crowd, but Brit Fletcher held her fast. He was rum strong for an old man.

  “Look here,” he growled. “Don’t make that boy throw away his life for nothing. We both know he didn’t do it, but he’s a goner now anyway. Nobody jumps the king and lives to brag about it.”

  “No,” Jenna whispered, tears rolling down her face. But she smelled the truth on Fletcher, so she no longer struggled to get away.

  The king of Arden scanned the crowd, searching the sea of faces. Jenna held very still. Finally, heaving a sigh, he turned back to Riley. “I’m not sure I believe you, but you’ll do, I suppose. Hold him.” He drew his sword, turned, and rammed it into Riley’s stomach, all the way to the hilt, then twisted it. Riley made a sound, a kind of grunt, his eyes going wide.

  The king yanked free his blade with a wet pop, then stuck it in again, in a slightly different spot. Now blood bubbled from Riley’s mouth. Somehow, miraculously, his eyes met Jenna’s and held.

  “Finish him, you murderous bastard,” Fletcher muttered.

  But clearly the king of Arden meant to take his time. He pulled out his blade, chose another spot, and stabbed Riley again.

  By now, black spots were swimming in front of Jenna’s eyes, but Riley’s eyes were still locked with hers, and she refused to faint and leave him on his own. Just then, she heard a sound, a kind of thwack from above and behind her. Riley’s body jerked, and suddenly a feathered shaft stuck out of his throat, just below his chin. It was an arrow, and just like that, Riley was gone.

  After that, it was bedlam. The king and queen disappeared in a hurry, and Shively’s thugs waded into the crowd, swinging their clubs. Jenna turned and tried to run, but something smashed into the back of her head and she went down.

  When she awoke, she could hear people talking in low voices. It was dark, and it was cold, even though she was wrapped up in something that smelled like wet sheep.

  It was Riley’s cloak. She rubbed the fabric against her cheek, sniffling, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Her head hurt like fury, but her heart hurt even more, being broken.

  She sat up, put her feet down. Loose rock shifted under her feet.

  “You’re awake,” somebody said in a gruff voice. “Good. I thought maybe you was out for keeps.”

  It was Brit Fletcher. He set an oil lamp on the floor next to the bench she was lying on and thrust a steaming mug at her. It was barley coffee laced with something that just about lifted her scalp right off her head. Jenna drank it all.

  Fletcher watched her, his eyebrows lifting higher and higher until she clunked the cup down.

  “You’re a tough scrapper, an’t you.” He rubbed his chin. “How old are you? Ten?”

  “Twelve.” She looked around. Stone, as far as she could see in the flickering light from the lamp. “Are we in the mine?”

  “Sort of. We’re in the old Number One. We’ve dug out some of the tunnels so’s we can get in and out.”

  “Why?”

  “Makes a good hiding place, don’t it?”

  “For who?”

  Fletcher snorted. “You, for one.”

  “What day is it? What’s happened?”

  “It’s the day after the king’s visit. He’s already hightailing it back to the city.”

  “And . . . and how many are dead?”

  “That’s the thing. They can’t afford to kill too many of us, ’cause they need us to work the mines. There’s just four dead, counting Riley and little Maggi. Four too many. Five, counting you.”

  “Me?” Jenna’s hand closed on a large rock. “What do you mean?”

  Fletcher snorted. He sure snorted a lot. “Don’t look at me like that. I an’t going to hurt you. What I mean, is, as far as anyone knows, you’re dead. You was killed in the riot.”

  “I’m dead?” She thought of her da, with his care-lined face and haunted eyes. “But—what about my da?”

  “We got word to him that you’re safe. So. You have a choice. Would you rather stay dead and leave town? Or go back and take your chances?” He held up a hand. “Before you decide, you should know that the king an’t forgot about you. The blackbirds is looking for you on the quiet. Asking questions, trying to find out who you are. Nobody knows nothing, of course.”

  Jenna’s middle hardened like iron slag. “Delphi’s my home. I’m not going to leave my da behind.”

  “Wouldn’t he go with you? To save your life?”

  “He’d have to leave the inn behind,” Jenna said. “It’s not that easy to make a living these days. He’s too old to start over. I don’t want to ask him to do that.”

  Fletcher sighed. “I figured you’d say that. What if you come back as somebody else? Somebody brand-new to town, with a different name?”

  Jenna thought about it. Could she really pull it off? She’d always liked pretending to be somebody else.

  “I know it’s a risk, if you’re found out,” Fletcher said. “I just don’t want that boy Riley to have died for nothing.”

  Me neither, Jenna thought, her fingers finding the raised emblem on the back of her neck. It was all her fault. First, she’d drawn the attention of the Breaker by laying claim to a power she didn’t have, a destiny rooted in witchery and fairy tales. Then she’d jumped the king with no thought to what might happen to those around her.

  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 s
aid.

  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.

  “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 l
ocked 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.

  “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  It took a while, but she returned with a heavy sheepswool coat. “Put this on,” she said. “It’s my nephew’s, but I think it’s about the right size.”

  Adrian was still shivering, so he pulled it on.

  “Now, come inside, where it’s warm,” she said. “Nobody will see you. I’ve cleared everyone out of the back.”

  Before he knew it, he was sitting in the back room of the shop, and Taliesin was sitting between him and the door, pouring hot water over crushed leaves in a kettle. She’d made up a makeshift bed on the floor by the hearth.

  While the leaves steeped, she shook some black, wrinkled beans from a cloth bag onto a stone and added some dried brown root and a pinch of yellow powder. “Tell me what happened.”