16. I Will Never Stop
16
I WILL NEVER STOP
GAbrIEL
A FEW HOURS AGO
“Y ou need to stay here.” Crouching, I meet Mist’s silver eyes.
My panther returned to me three days ago, covered in blood. I searched her for a sign of injury, but she didn’t seem hurt. I pitied whatever creature she’d come across, though. No person or animal could lose that much blood and live.
I took her to a stream to wash the parts of herself she couldn’t reach on her own, which went over as well as could be expected when introducing a giant cat to water. We both made it through alive and relatively unscathed. She’s been by my side ever since.
Together, we picked up Birdie’s trail. I tracked the gods-blessed to a cottage where a woman and her chatty daughter lived. I interrogated them, but they claimed not to know who I was talking about.
They were lying. Birdie’s jasmine and vanilla scent was all over that cottage. Even if my olfactory senses had been obliterated, I noticed a jar of blessed salve on the woman’s windowsill. She could lie all she wanted, but that was all the proof I needed. The little bird had been there, I was certain.
I didn’t arrest the woman, instead leaving her with a warning. I would’ve been well within my rights to take her into custody for lying to a Hunter, but it would’ve meant losing the Given’s trail, and I couldn’t afford any more delays. Not when my bond with Mist was on the line.
It isn’t that I no longer want my promotion, but losing my familiar would be a fate worse than death. Before her, I was alone. My family situation has been difficult for my entire life. Mist saved me, and she knows me in a way that no one else does.
My panther stares up at me, blinking owlishly. She understands me, even though she’s pretending otherwise.
I point to the city in the valley, nestled between the Black Mountains on the left and the Celestial Mountains on the right.
“I’m going in there, but I don’t want any extra eyes on me.” I don’t want to risk alerting my prey to my presence too early.
Mist cants her head and lifts a paw, studying her sharp nails as if they’re the most fascinating thing in the entire world.
“The little bird is in the city,” I tell her.
She places her paw on the ground and looks up at me. Our bond hums and I feel her question. Are you sure?
“Yes,” I reply.
My gut tells me that the Given has chosen to go through the city. Over the years, I’ve learned to always trust it. My instincts are strong, and they’ve never led me astray. Besides, she was wearing a long dress. There’s no way she climbed the mountains in that outfit.
Mist studies me, her silver eyes gleaming. I reach out and scratch her behind the ears. “I won’t be long.”
Of all my hunts, this one is proving to be the most difficult. Usually, they last for a day or two.
I’m not sure whether I’m annoyed or impressed by the Given’s ability to stay out of reach, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll find the gods-blessed, tie her up, and return her to her home temple. Then she’ll be the gods’ problem. She’ll be Given, probably sent to work in a temple bordering the northern coast for all the trouble she’s caused.
My hunt will be over, and I’ll return to Rosebridge victorious. I’ll achieve the position of Master Hunter, and I’ll be able to breathe more easily, firm in the knowledge that the king won’t strip me of my position or my bond.
Sighing, I press my forehead against Mist’s. She chuffs and rubs against me, warmth flooding my chest. It’s comforting in a way that not much else has been in my life, and for a moment, I sit in the peace of our humming connection.
When I was younger, Grandmother used to tell me about a time when magic was found everywhere in Myreth. There were other types of bonds, she once told me. Fated ones, blessed by the gods themselves, that connected people in soul-deep ways. The magic was ancient and untouchable. Fated bonds were stronger than anything else, surpassing forged bonds in every circumstance.
My bond with Mist isn’t like that. Crafted by the king’s magic, it doesn’t allow us to speak with one another beyond feelings and warmth. But it’s still mine.
Calm floods through me, shaking some of the unease that has clung to me for days.
It’s the nightmares. Every time I fall asleep, I’m haunted by the same one, albeit with slight variations. Sometimes, the king breaks the bond in the throne room. Other times, he drags us outside and puts on a show for the entire capital to watch.
The audience doesn’t matter, though, because every time, my bond is severed. Without fail, I wake up covered in sweat and screaming, my voice hoarse.
I’m becoming increasingly convinced that these nightmares are warnings from the king.
“Go and find some food,” I order the panther. “I’ll tug on the bond when I’m leaving. Once for this gate and twice for the northern one.”
There are passages through the Celestial Mountains that she can take if I need her to meet me on the other side. The crossings are treacherous for people, but even though we’re bonded, Mist is still a wild animal. She will have no problem with them.
My familiar blinks again, and our bond thrums with something akin to agreement. I give her one last scratch behind her ears and stand. With a feline meow, Mist stretches, arches her back, and bounds off into the forest. She’s a black blur as enthusiasm fills our bond.
My lips tug up into a smile as I turn, approaching Mora’s gated entrance. Today’s the day. I can feel it in my bones.
I’m going to catch the little bird.
* * *
Tarna, the goddess of humor and frivolity, must be amusing herself by playing with my life.
Booming drums welcome me to Eskana’s capital city. They accompany countless peals of laughter and streams of boisterous music as Mora loses itself in the Giving Festival. The provincial holiday is celebrated yearly, and it looks like the entire population has descended upon the cobblestone streets to join the festivities.
Marked Ones surround me, laughing and enjoying the seemingly infinite flow of alcohol. Dozens of vendors and merchants line the streets. The presence of so many people will make my task more difficult, but not impossible.
First things first, I require provisions. I’ve made it this far without my sword, but now that I’m in a city, there are options at my disposal. I navigate Mora’s streets with ease, even with the added crowds, and quickly arrive at my first destination.
A wooden sign hangs above the door, setting the building apart from the otherwise identical ones on either side. The three-story, white-washed buildings with wooden shingles make up the majority of Mora’s commercial districts. The sign features the image of an open book next to a quill and an ink pot on its side. The paint is flaking, but the text reading Mikal’s Print Shop is unmistakable.
For the first time since I let the Given go, my lips twitch up into a smile. I push open the door. A jingling bell above my head announces my arrival. The door falls shut behind me, muting the noise from the city’s celebrations.
Sunlight streams in through the front windows, and my eyes adjust to the space. Printed flyers cover every available inch of the wooden walls, overlapping each other in places. Books are stacked in piles on counters and shelves. The distinct aroma of ink and parchment fills the air.
I cross the space, my footsteps echoing on the wooden floors. The planks creak as I move, a testament to the age of this historical building. The city of Mora is over a thousand years old, and this building has been standing for over half that time.
Footsteps pound on a staircase, and a door opens to my right as I reach the wooden counter that stretches across the length of the room.
“Sorry about that,” a booming voice calls out. “I thought the festival would buy me some time—Oh, Gabe. It’s you.”
My smile widens. A muscular man a few years older than me kicks the door shut, coming to join me. Messy black curls reach below his ears, and a splash of ink decorates his sepia skin. A leather apron covers his tunic and trousers. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and he’s carrying a stack of flyers. He drops them on the counter and turns to me, grinning.
“Good to see you, Mikal.” I step forward and clasp him on the back, my chest warming at the sight of my old friend.
“It’s been what, two years?” He chuckles, slapping me on the back.
Stepping back, I rake a hand through my hair. “Three, I think.”
The last time I came through Mora, I’d just finished a hunt. That one hadn’t been nearly as troublesome as this one is turning out to be.
“Too long.” He leans his hip on the counter.
I agree, adding, “How are you?”
Mikal beams brightly, as if the suns have infused his cheeks. “Good. The gods have blessed us. Alara is heavy with child, and she’s glowing.”
My chest warms, and I shake his hand. “Congratulations, old friend.”
I know how hard they’ve been trying. Throughout their decade-long marriage, they’ve made hundreds of offerings to Dehena, the goddess of fertility, to bless Alara’s womb.
“Thank you. We are walking in the gods’ light and couldn’t be happier.” Mikal makes a religious gesture over his chest before looking me over. “Now, I’m sure you didn’t come to Mora just to check up on me and my wife, especially not on the day of the Giving Festival.” A black brow lifts. “Unless you’ve given up hunting, and you’re searching for a wife of your own?”
I scoff. “Never.”
At least, not if I can help it. The king will have to pry this position out of my cold, dead hands.
Hunting is more than just my job. It’s become my life. It’s my ticket to freedom from the binds I was born into, a way out of the hell that was my childhood. My bond with Mist thrums steadily in my chest, a reminder of all the benefits of my position.
I’ll never stop, never give it up.
Mikal nods, making his way behind the counter. “That’s what I thought.” He leans forward on his elbows. “What do you need?”
Always quick to cut to the chase. That’s one of the reasons I came here. I knew my friend would be able to help, and I wouldn’t waste all day trying to round up what I needed.
I count on my fingers. “Money, a change of clothes, and a sword if you have one.”
I’ve been able to hide my torn tunic beneath my cloak thus far, but I’d rather not have to worry about it any longer.
Mikal’s brows hit his hairline, and he studies me for a long moment. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting such an extensive list.
“I see,” he says slowly.
“I’ll repay you,” I assure him, laying my palms flat on the counter. “Whatever you give me, I’ll double it once I get my reward.”
Hunters receive an annual stipend from the Crown, but the real opportunity for riches comes from catching escaped prisoners and runaway Marked Ones. The Given don’t run that often—there are usually one or two a year, but they pay the most. Once I retrieve the little bird and return her, I’ll receive a handsome reward from the Ruby Crown.
Mikal’s eyes widen at the mention of money. “Double?”
I nod, and he whistles through his teeth. “Damn. This person you’re hunting must be important.” He tilts his head. “Do I want to know who it is?”
Even though all the Hunters in the land would’ve received messages via enchanted falcons about Wren’s disappearance, the public doesn’t know there’s an escaped Given. After all, it wouldn’t be good for the king’s image if people knew some of the Given were fleeing their fates. It’s the same reason he squashes the resistance with a crimson fist whenever it pops up.
“It’s better if you don’t.”
“Understood.” Mikal raps his knuckles on the counter, looking deep in thought. “How much money do you need?”
I name an amount that should be more than sufficient, and my friend blows out a long breath. He runs a hand through his hair, studying the ceiling.
In the silence, the laughter, shrieks of joy, and music grow louder. The Giving Festival is well underway. Is Wren among them, dancing and drinking the day away, not realizing that I’m here, hunting her?
A thrill races down my spine at the thought of catching my prey. Of the rush that comes from completing a hunt.
After several minutes, Mikal nods.
“All right. Come with me.” He turns toward another staircase that leads to the lower level of the print shop where his office is located. “I’ll get you situated.”
I follow him down the wooden steps, and he catches me up on his life as we head into his workspace. His wife has been experiencing horrible morning sickness, and she’s been visiting Eses and Dehena’s temples daily to pray for strength for her and the baby. Even so, they’re thrilled to begin this new stage of life. They have a name picked out, although they’re not sharing.
Something within me twinges at the thought of a baby. I’ve never considered children—my own upbringing was gods-damned awful, and the life of a Hunter isn’t conducive to families—but I am delighted for Mikal and Alara. He will be an incredible father; I can already tell.
By the time I leave the print shop, I’m ready to complete my hunt. A sword hangs from a leather baldric that crosses my chest, I’ve exchanged my torn tunic for a fresh one, and my pockets jingle with coin. My steps are light as I head back outside. Energy is coursing through my veins.
Hunting has always invigorated me, but chasing Birdie feels different.
It makes me feel alive .
* * *
I’m nearing the White Market, Mora’s main marketplace, when my skin starts tingling. An awareness sweeps over me, and my pace quickens. Wren is there, I’m sure of it. The White Market seems like a foolish place to go when trying to avoid being seen, but who am I to judge my prey’s choice of hiding places?
There are people everywhere .
Dancers fill the streets, commoners are dressed in their temple-best, and children run every which way, fueled by the copious amounts of sweets available on festival days. Parents race after their young ones, darting around merchants trying to sell their wares.
There are artisans and bakers, weavers and artists. The taverns have erected wooden tables outside their establishments. They’re selling mugs of ale, small loaves of bread, and portions of roasted meat to anyone with coin.
And then, there are the Watchers. My brethren in black line the streets and rooftops, their watchful gazes trained on the celebratory crowds.
I’m not wearing anything that would mark me as a Hunter, but several soldiers must recognize me from my last visit to the city because they dip their heads in my direction. Each time, I press my closed fist against my chest and briefly nod in greeting.
The market’s entrance, a large white arch, is in sight when a hand lands on my sleeve.
“Are you thirsty, sir?” a honeyed voice asks on my right.
I look over to the barmaid wearing a white apron over her cream dress, her garments cut to accentuate her ample cleavage. She smiles up at me, a gap in her teeth. Her brown hair is escaping its bun, and there’s a rosy tint to her cheeks. She’s balancing a tray bearing several mugs of frothing ale on her outstretched fingers.
“Ah, no.” I pull my arm away. She frowns, and I hurriedly add, “Thank you, though.”
I don’t have time for refreshments right now—I need to find the Given. It’s all I can think about, all I can focus on.
Disappointment flashes across the barmaid’s face, but it’s gone moments later as she addresses the people behind me. “Care for a cool beverage to tame the heat on this hot day, ma’am?”
I don’t hear the rest of the exchange as I continue through the crowd. It feels as though every single citizen has descended upon Mora’s streets. Despite my desire to get to the White Market quickly, the number of people has me moving at a slow pace.
“Bread! Get your delicious, fresh bread!” a portly man calls from my left. His apron and balding head are both covered in flour.
Two young boys with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes stand at his feet, equally covered in white dust. The children are holding large woven baskets overflowing with rolls, and my stomach grumbles at the sight. This time, I can’t help myself.
I fish a coin out of my pocket, and I make my way over. When I reach the baker and his family, I crouch in front of the younger boy. He can’t be more than four, and he’s scrawnier than his brother and father.
The boy looks at me with wide eyes that seem too big for his face, and my heart contorts. He reminds me of a younger version of myself. All of a sudden, the Moran streets slip away as a decades-old memory takes hold of my mind.
Boots click on marble tiles, the steady sound of footsteps outside my hiding place matching the beat of my booming heart. I hug my knees to my chest, squeezing tightly as I try to make myself as small as possible.
“I know you’re in here, Gabriel.” The voice sends skitters down my spine, and a sob threatens to rip out of my chest.
No, no, no.
No sounds. Even at four years of age, I know that making noise is the last thing I should be doing right now. I can’t let him find me.
I clamp my mouth shut, nearly biting my tongue as I try to hold still.
Maybe he won’t find me. Maybe he’ll leave. Maybe this day won’t be as bad as yesterday, or the day before, or the day before.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
The sides of the white tablecloth hiding me from sight flutter as the breeze blows in through the open window. The summer heat is warm, but nothing chases away the chill in my bones.
He’s here, and he’s out for blood. I can hear it in the way he walks, feel it in the hatred emanating from him. He sings my name teasingly, tauntingly. I quiver as he circles my hiding space.
“Come out, child.”
I shake my head, muffling my cries against the soft fabric of my pants. I need to be quiet for a little bit longer. Maybe, if I am, he’ll leave and ? —
“Aha!” A hand darts under the tablecloth and grabs my arm, yanking me out. “I found you.”
My vision blurs as I kick and scream, but there’s nothing I can do. Not against him. I’m just a child, and my father’s wrath is never-ending.
What did I do to deserve his hatred?
With a gasping breath, I’m thrown back to the present. My father isn’t here, and I’m not that weak, powerless child any longer. Shoving thoughts of my childhood and the abusive piece of shit who fathered me far, far away, I smile at the boy. “Excuse me, young man, but did I hear you have some bread for sale?”
The child’s eyes widen as he realizes I’m speaking to him. He throws back his shoulders and stands as tall as he can, nodding eagerly.
“Yes, sir!” he says proudly. “Ours is the best bread in the entire city.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment, with someone like yourself at the helm.” He beams at the praise, and I hand him the coin in exchange for an oval sourdough loaf the size of my palm. It smells heavenly, and my mouth waters as I thank him.
The boy is practically vibrating from excitement as he grins. “You’re welcome, sir!”
I stand, thanking the baker and his older son before slipping back into the crowd. As I’m leaving, the boy yells, “Did you see that, Papa?”
“I sure did, Justice,” the baker replies kindly. “You did so well….”
The hum of the crowd swallows his voice, and I turn my attention to the loaf. A swirl is cut into the top, a replica of a Mark. I bite into the bread and groan. The bread is as delicious as the baker promised. I reduce it to nothing but crumbs while strolling towards the White Market.
By the time I cross beneath the enormous arch marking the entrance of the marketplace, my tunic is sticking to my back. The heat from the suns, coupled with the swelling crowd, is making for an unusually hot day. Maybe I should’ve grabbed the ale when I had the chance.
I duck under a canopy, finding refuge in the shade. Pulling the collar of my tunic away from my neck, I exhale as a breeze blows through the White Market. Taking advantage of the cooler temperature, I assess the marketplace like the soldier I am.
If the Moran streets were rivers teeming with people, the White Market is a vast ocean.
Countless stalls with colorful cloth roofs line the edges of the square. Vendors selling every ware imaginable occupy the stalls, and even more make their way through the crowd on foot.
The White Market is loud and boisterous. The air is humming with excitement. Musicians play from a stage erected in the middle of the square. Their bows fly over strings, producing an upbeat melody that underlies the laughter and chatter.
“Marks! Get your Marks!” a woman calls from my left as she ambles through the crowd. Despite the sheer number of people, she seems to move unencumbered. “Experience the day as a gods-blessed! Favored by the Mother, fated to serve the land!”
The woman looks up, smiling as her eyes meet mine. Silver hair flows to her waist, and she’s wearing an emerald dress that shimmers in the sunlight. A child runs up to her, holding up a golden coin, and the woman trades him a Mark for his money.
The exchange is over in moments, and then she’s striding towards me, her movements filled with purpose. There’s something about her that I can’t quite put my finger on, a power in her aura that demands attention. Her floral perfume is strong, the scent becoming nearly overwhelming as she steps into my space.
“Care for a Mark, sir?” She tilts her head, her eyes sweeping over me. I can’t help but feel like somehow, even though I’m certain I’ve never seen her before, she knows who I am.
I glance down at her wares. She has an array of Marks for sale. Glistening grass-green ovals sit next to violet swirls and aquamarine squares. Each Mark is subtly different, reflecting the uniqueness of the ones the gods-blessed are born with.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
I take a step around her, intent on leaving this conversation, but she grabs my wrist. Her grip is remarkably firm, and I look at her, raising a brow. “Ma’am?”
“Sir, you need a Mark.” Her voice is sharp, and I angle my head, studying her more closely.
Need? I don’t need anything except to complete this hunt.
Her grip loosens on my arm, and she softens her voice, but she doesn’t step away. “It is the Giving Festival, after all.”
I’m not sure why this is important to her, but she’s wrong. I don’t need a Mark.
“Thank you, but no,” I repeat more forcefully this time, tugging on my arm.
She doesn’t take the hint, instead tightening her hold on me.
“Ma’am,” I bite out, losing my patience, “I’m not interested.”
I was raised to be polite around my elders, but this is a bit much.
The insistent woman purses her lips, and something flashes through her eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it appears, but then she reaches her free hand into the box. Her fingers sift through the Marks, even as her gaze remains locked on mine. Finally, she seems to find whatever she’s looking for because she pulls it out and tucks it between my fingers.
“Take it, sir.” Before I can protest, she wraps my hand around it. “It’s a gift. No one should be unmarked during the festival.”
I stare at her, slack-jawed, as she steps back, slipping into the crowd. Curiosity nibbles at me, and I turn my hand around. My brows hit my temple. A brilliant blue swirl that’s eerily similar to the Mark on Wren’s forehead sits in the palm of my hand.
Goosebumps explode on my arms, and I stand on my tiptoes, searching through the crowd. “Wait! How did you…”
The woman in the emerald dress is gone. Vanished without a trace.
I drop back down, running my fingers over the sticker. How did she know? I raise my gaze once again, determined to find the woman, when my stomach twinges.
Wren Nightingale is here. I’m sure of it. I don’t see her in the massive crowd, but it doesn’t matter.
My gut is always right.
Shoving the Mark into my pocket, I promptly forget all about it. I stride forward, run my fingers over the hilt of my sword, and smile.
“I’m coming, little bird.”