Unlikely

He favored his right ankle. Satina followed him between the trees. Even in the dark she could tell he limped on that side.

  “How did your shop fare?”

  Marten stopped walking. He stood with his back to her, but she could still see the change, the softening of his posture, the shoulder hunch. “Nothing to worry about.” Even his voice pressed low under some weight. “But thanks for asking.”

  He cackled and, just like that, sprang back to his usual self. When he stepped forward, the limp nearly vanished in his spring and swagger.

  “Are we going to the same pocket?”

  “You’re very chatty tonight.”

  She didn’t think he meant that as a compliment. For the rest of the trek, Satina held her tongue, and focused on getting her bearings. They’d gone straight out behind Hadja’s cottage and into the woods that ran behind the very fields she’d passed on the way into town. That put them heading back in the direction of their staircase, far deeper in the forest and away from the road.

  The underbrush tugged at her hemline. She’d insisted on throwing on a bodice and overskirt, but wished she hadn’t before they’d gone twenty steps. Her eyes took in Marten’s leather pants, his tight leg wrappings. They made moving through brush easy, didn’t fit loosely like a villager’s would. How much time did he spend traveling like this, through the thick of it?

  He’d stopped short, and she stumbled to avoid him. The look on his face made little sense until she realized she’d been examining his pants. Her cheeks burned instantly and she shook her head in protest. His grin only widened.

  “We’re almost there.”

  “Good.” She stood taller and smoothed her skirts. “I’m not quite as appropriately dressed as you are.” It sounded defensive, even to her ears.

  Marten’s eyes dragged down to her hemline and rose back to her face far too slowly. “A pity,” he said. “Brambles aren’t very forgiving on fabric, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll get by.”

  “On the contrary,” He looked away then, let his gaze fix forward to a spot somewhere ahead. “I doubt you ever just get by.”

  Satina tried to dig up a fitting retort, but he was off again, pulling himself over a fallen trunk and turning to offer her a hand. The underbrush in this part of the woods grew thicker, the berries and ferns choked right up to the base of the trees, and everywhere they had to step over fallen limbs and twigs. Silence would be impossible here, even with their sigils, but Marten didn’t seem concerned.

  She took his hand and swung up onto the fallen giant. Moss coated the bark, making the surface slick and wetting right through both layers of her skirt. She shivered and rolled off the other side, landing on her feet where Marten had stood a moment earlier.

  “You never told me,” He looked back over one shoulder, already marching toward the next obstacle. “How you managed to fall astray of the Shades.”

  “I helped someone get out.”

  “Get out?” He stopped again. “Of the Shades?”

  Satina nodded. She sighed and waited for the next question.

  “How?”

  When she didn’t answer, he shook his head, laughed, and then walked on. The forest floor rose at an incline, and they scrambled the last few steps, not only over the mat of debris, but up the side of a short hill. At the apex, the trees stopped. Satina dragged up beside the Skinner and stared out into a cleared bowl of earth wide enough to hold the whole of Westwood and a few of its fields as well. Grass had grown thickly into the spaces between the walls, but nothing stood higher than the knee. Nothing grew here that could mask the area’s original status.

  They looked upon the ruins of some great, stone building. The moonlight tinged the giant blocks blue-black. She’d seen stones like that in the ports, scavenged from the old castles and hauled away to be used in the roadworks, seawalls and even the huge Shade fortress on the bay. The size of this foundation, and the state of the few remaining walls and rubble said, perhaps, this very building’s stones had headed South on the gang’s heavy sleds.

  “What castle was this?” She saw at least two stairways, much taller but not as neatly preserved as the one where they’d met. The farthest wall retained the most stones. It nearly rose to the third story in places. The rest was a ragged outline of rooms, hallways, and the partial curve of a tower base. Not much stood higher than three or four stones. Only a few of the scattered blocks remained on the ground to grow moss and sink slowly into the earth.

  “Nothing major,” Marten shrugged, but the simple gesture didn’t fit the sight in that bowl. Here would be traces of the Kingdoms, maybe even a relic—maybe Hadja’s mirror. “A simple stronghold.”

  He underplayed it, and they both knew it. She’d traveled more than most, and she’d only ever seen one ruin this well preserved—and none this large.

  “Has it been stripped?”

  “The trees.” He leapt forward, but landed roughly, staggering more than he’d intended on whatever injury he hid. That leg hurt him, though he tried to cover it with a flourish and wave of his arm. “The trees grow closer together around the site, ringing it in.”

  “A defense?” Intriguing. Satina followed more carefully down the short slope. “Then it wasn’t looted?”

  “Not entirely. They don’t keep anyone out, my dear. Just make it a bit more difficult to find.”

  “Magically grown?”

  “If I had to guess. Someone powerful lived here, judging by the size of the pocket they left behind.”

  At the bottom of the bowl, he helped her up onto the outer wall at a spot where only one stone remained. Even so, they had to clamber up onto the giant block. Once, this had stood in defense of whatever ruler lived inside the walls. She didn’t care what Marten said, she’d seen the foundations in Westwood. That town, the one they’d built their own upon, would have served the lord of this castle. The fields and crops that fed the town would have belonged to him as well.

  “Have you searched it?” She thought of Hadja’s cellar, of the bundled mirror and other shrouded lumps. The old woman, she felt certain, was no stranger to this ruin.

  “A bit.” The grin said more than that. It fell away too quickly, though, and a crease formed between his eyes. “If the Starlights knew about this, you understand, my dear?”

  “They’d never leave.” She shivered. Had he brought her here to see the Gentry, or as a test? She didn’t need his warning to know the Starlights were a danger to his town. Looking on the sprawl of stone and secrets only embedded that fully into her thoughts. Maybe that had been his intention. Maybe he was asking her for help, just like the girl had.

  “Well then.” He hopped off the wall and held up a hand for her. “Shall we?”

  She landed beside him and he started off between the walls that, even crumbling, towered over their heads. She stepped lightly and tried not to shrink in, to curl her shoulders and hide as she’d seen Marten do in the face of the town blacksmith. Suddenly, she knew how he felt. These walls intimidated. They ruled in the place of their lost master.

  As they moved, she tried to get a sense for what room they might have been in, where the hallway led once, who had walked through this door. She squinted and scanned the castle for any trace of magic. The old mages wouldn’t have needed sigils. They’d have left no marks or overt showing of their arts, but all power made a print of one kind or another. The pockets were proof enough of that.

  “Wait.” Marten froze in place. He held one palm up and peered through a gap in the wall they’d been following. Before she could wonder, he waved her up beside him. “Have a look.”

  She peeked around the corner. A courtyard stretched from where they hid to the base of the largest staircase. Halfway between the stair and their position, the grass parted around a single pillar. This stone was not black, nor had it ever supported a structure. The surface shone like gray glass, and some long-dead hand had carved symbols on every available inch. The air around the menhir shimmered and stretched.

/>   She’d never seen a pocket so clearly marked. Despite the rarity, the pressing urge to rush out and examine the symbols, a noise distracted her. She heard the soft pattering of feet and her gaze swung to the giant stairway. A cloaked figure ran up the steps.

  Satina jumped back. Her heart pounded. Who else knew about the ruins? If the Starlights found it now, after showing up in town right on her heels, could she convince Marten she hadn’t brought it upon the town?

  His hand landed softly on her shoulder. He slid in close to her, whispered near her shoulder. “Watch.” The proximity sent a tickle of heat across her skin. She reached for the wall, rested one hand there for support and looked into the courtyard again.

  The climber had nearly reached the middle of the long staircase. His cloak billowed behind him, and with each leaping step, Satina caught a flash of yellow from under the hood. Gentry. The sight of one of the fully blooded outside of a pocket, out in the open, gave her chills, but not nearly as much as the pace he set as he leapt upwards. Five, four, three steps from the scrap of landing and he didn’t slow. His feet pounded over the last stair, hit the landing twice, and he leapt into thin air.

  Satina screamed. She clapped her hand over her mouth and Marten’s followed, resting over hers for a second while his chest shook with a chuckle right up against her shoulder.

  “Watch, Satina.” Even as he said it, the Gentry climber fell toward the stones below. The cloak tore upwards, revealing a pair of shaggy, kick-backed legs. She only saw a flash before the whole creature vanished. Twenty feet above the ground, the air shimmered and stretched exactly as it did around the strange pillar. A pocket hung in mid-air.

  “We think it was a workroom. Some place where they did magic on a regular basis.”

  “We?” She caught his slip, felt his body tense as he realized it.

  “Hadja and I.” He shrugged and stepped away from her, leaving something akin to a draft in his stead. “We used to come here together to search. It made keeping watch easier.”

  “Sure. Do many people know about the castle?”

  “Most of the town. The children, a few of the men who hunt any farther than the innkeeper’s pantry.” He smiled and nodded to the courtyard again. The aura around the pillar rippled and spit out another runner. Their cloak was different, and their feet booted, but the hood was up. None of the Gentry liked to be in normal space for long, and they feared being seen even more. “They were taking turns at it this morning too.”

  “What are they doing it for?” The newest appearance darted to the stairs and started up even faster than his predecessor. The way he moved, and the shape of the cloak’s fluttering led her to suspect wings.

  “Who knows with the Gentry, maybe for sport?” He gave her a sharp look. His eyes flared and he squinted and scanned her from head to toe. “Speaking of which, I think it would be best for us to tread lightly. They aren’t known for their hospitality. Visiting will require some fast talking.”

  “Oh?” Satina blinked at him, exaggerating the motion. She knew what he meant. He considered her a liability. “And it should be you doing this fast talking, I assume?”

  “Yes.” He glanced to the top of the stairs, where the cloaked figure made ready to spring into the ether. “Last time I checked, sweet and cute didn’t get very far with that sort.”

  He stepped out into the open before she could answer. It hardly mattered—something was wrong with her tongue. She should have been offended, but her skin warmed pleasantly instead, and she shuffled out after him without a word.

  The climber dove from the top step as they crossed to the standing stone. Satina watched him fall this time, waited and caught the glimmer of the suspended pocket a moment before it swallowed him. She frowned. He was still falling, still only twenty feet from stones no matter which side of the pocket he was on.

  “Quick” Marten’s hand found hers. He tugged her forward, and her arm tingled from the fingertips straight to her chest. “Before another one pops through.”

  They ran across the flat stones hand in hand. Long tufts of grass whispered between the pavers, but for the most part the courtyard lay clear around the standing stone. When it stood before them, within a few paces, only then could she make out the faint bluish lines inside the carved symbols. The Old Magic shone soft and muted compared to their sigils, and somehow it made her power seem like a garish and ugly thing. These lines had stood for centuries, and they hummed and writhed with what once was.

  She didn’t have time to feel bad about it. Marten pulled and she stumbled forward into the pocket. The shimmer flashed once, and they stood on the same stones, in the same courtyard beside the same tall stone.

  But everything had changed.

  Inside the pocket, the world retained the touch of magic it had before the Final War. The whole courtyard, the stones, the forest encircling the ruin, all glowed with brilliant light and color. Here the world did not hover in muted shades. Nothing faded or frayed. Even in the dead of night, the world was sharp and colorful. Satina inhaled and caught night jasmine on the wind. She sighed, almost lost herself in the flood of power and calm that came with entering a pocket.

  The shouting spoiled the moment. A ring of yellow eyes closed in on them. The gaze of the full-blooded Gentry didn’t merely flash. It glowed with a steady, golden light. Satina had spent more than a little time inside the old spaces. She’d seen her share of the Gentry despite the Skinner’s judgment. These particular Tinkers only vaguely resembled humans. This band had more hooves than boots, boasted many a pointed ear or furry tufted tail and—she’d been right about the wings. They had at least three fiends among them.

  “Who are you?” A voice like thunder demanded from the arc of faces, spoke too fast to see which mouth formed the words.

  Marten sidestepped in front of her. It might have been protective or meant to keep her from saying something stupid. Satina couldn’t decide if she should bristle or blush, but as she leaned to see around him, she made out the outline of wagons behind the huddle of angry Tinkers. They had a good sized caravan, six closed carts and one open wagon piled high with straw and if she guessed correctly, positioned exactly under the hovering pocket.

  “My name is less important than my wares,” He dipped into one of his bows, sweeping an arm wide and leaving her a clear view of the burly faun who’d stepped forward to address him. Marten held out his other hand, ring finger curled into the palm. “And I assure you the trades will be worth your time.”

  “You sing a pretty tune, little bird,” the faun said. He thumped his chest with both hands and split the night with a rumbling laugh. “But names mean something to us. Anyone who won’t give theirs must have something to hide.”

  Satina cringed. The faun leaned his head to one side. His hand fell to his waist where, she was sure, some wicked weapon waited under his cloak. “Excuse me,” she sidled around Marten, dodging the hand that plucked at her skirt and ignoring his glare. “We’ve nothing to hide, nor did we wish to offend, Good Neighbor.”

  One shaggy brow lifted at the formal address. She had his attention at least. The Gentry appreciated manners even more than she did.

  “My name is Satina. My friend’s is Marten, and we only meant—”

  “Satina?” The big man took one step closer. He brushed his cloak back and leaned down, rubbing one hand through the dark beard that matched the shaggy hair on both his head and his legs. One shiny, black hoof stamped against the courtyard stones. “Why do I know that name?”

  A lantern lifted from the crowd. It drifted forward in the hands of an imp. The grey-skinned Gentry had sharp features, pointed ears and a twinkle to his face and movements that she knew very well indeed. She’d have bet money Marten’s blood was from that ilk. This imp handed the light to his leader, who lifted it and cast a swath of light across their faces. Satina blinked, but held her ground. She prayed Marten knew enough to do the same. Don’t move. Don’t even flinch.

  “Goodmother.” Some
one else said it. The whispers echoed it in a ring around them, followed closely by the word “Imp.”

  “A goodmother named Satina. That’s it.” The faun closed in on her, and Marten stepped to her side. She felt his arm at her waist, but he didn’t do anything overt. “You brought that boy through from the port town.”

  “Yes.” She felt Marten stiffen, the heat of his look, but she didn’t turn. Instead, she locked gazes with the big faun and forced her face to remain neutral. “I did.”

  “Got a message for you.” He rubbed his beard again and then stepped back, “Messenger!” He shouted behind him, stalked back to his line, but the mood had broken. The Gentry relaxed, and the ring loosened into a huddle that had far less of a threat to it.

  Marten whispered to her, leaning in so that his lips brushed against her hair. “That’s how you got him out? You brought a human through the pockets?”

  Satina smiled and watched the Gentry. She pressed the nails of her hand into her palm, soothing away the little tremors his proximity stirred into motion. “Not too bad for sweet and cute?”

  “I stand corrected.” He stood back up, but she heard more than just humor in the words. They carried an undertone of something she couldn’t label. Was he angry, jealous or something else entirely?

  A fiend leapt over the line, fluttering on dainty, bat-like wings before landing beside the faun. Silken black hair trailed down her back, and her figure curved in all the correct places. Satina chewed her bottom lip and waited while the woman whispered to the big faun.

  “Right,” he said. “Yes, go ahead.”

  The fiend woman spun to face them. She stood straight and held her arms tightly to her sides. Only her wings moved, flapping in slow motion to emphasize her words. Her cat eyes widened until they shone like the lantern. “To goodmother, Satina from the wise and generous Flaut, leader of band, Alliance. Your package has been delivered safely. Be well.”

  When the woman finished, she folded her wings tightly and gave a tiny bow.

  “Thank you.” Satina nodded to her and then to the faun. “Flaut has been a great help to me. It is good to know our efforts have succeeded. ” She emphasized the “our” to make sure they understood that she was not only known by the other Gentry leader, but had acted in partnership with him.

  It worked on the faun. His beard danced under the assault of another huge laugh. He waved his arms and shouted at his band. “Back to it, all of you! The night is young yet.”

  They were instantly forgotten. The imp brushed past her and vanished through the pocket wall. She imagined him running up the long staircase on the other side. Here, the stair hung over them like an azure shadow. The menhir blazed with its symbols, and, all around, the Tinkers went about their business, clustering around the painted carts, leaning against the fallen castle walls and tending to a pair of fat horses tied to the first of their wagons.

  “Would you believe their grandsire was a unicorn?” The faun leaned in beside her, followed her gaze to the draft horses and smiled under his beard.

  “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”

  “Ha!” He clapped her on the shoulder hard enough that she staggered into Marten. “She’s a sharp one you’ve got here, imp.”

  “It’s Marten.” His ordinary animation had vanished, and in its place, ice tipped each word. “And you haven’t given us your name, Tinker.”

  The faun sobered instantly. He nodded once and stroked his beard. “You’re right. I’ve been remiss.” He dove into a low bow, grinning at Satina on the way back up. “Your pardon. They call me Hamis.”

  “Good to meet you,” Satina curtseyed, but Marten remained stiff as a board.

  “Will you be trading while you’re here?” His tone implied the while should be as short as possible. It wasn’t outright hostile, but she needed to diffuse him fast. The faun had accepted them, but that wouldn’t last in the face of rude behavior.

  “Maybe.” Hamis’ eyes narrowed. The glint sharpened.

  Satina wound her arm through Marten’s and leaned her head against his shoulder. She smiled at Hamis and blinked her eyes. She could feel Marten’s surprise, but he made no outward move at all.

  “Ha! Trade later,” Hamis said. “Tomorrow.” He looked up and grinned. The imp burst out of thin air, tumbling head over heels down into the cart full of straw. Around them, the pocket filled with the Tinkers’ cheering.

  Marten’s arm wound around her waist. His twisty grin returned, and by the time Hamis noticed them again he was more himself. “Tomorrow then.”

  Hamis tilted his head back and howled. A pipe played over by the carts. Someone took up a drum and all around the Tinkers formed into circles. “Tonight, we play!” Hamis bellowed to the sky. The fiend who’d delivered her message burst out of the pocket with a wink, fluttering to take her turn at the stairs.

  Marten’s whisper echoed the words. “Tonight, we play.”

  Chapter Eight