Chapter 17 In Plain Sight
IN PLAIN SIGHT
Dawn arrived in bloody hues as Lark climbed to her perch atop the wagon bench, her fingers absently tracing the worn wood of her seat. The morning was bitter cold, a stark reminder of the night’s events that still haunted her.
“Nix?” she whispered, her voice barely carrying above the creaking of wagon wheels and the stirring of the camp around her.
The necklace warmed against her skin, its heat a comfort. Within moments, Nix materialized beside her, her red dress seeming to trap the early morning light in its flame.
“There you are,” Nix said, the flame embroiling her wavering like a candle in a gentle breeze.
Lark glanced furtively at the other wagons where people were beginning to emerge, their shadows long in the growing daylight. “What happened to you last night? I could’ve used your help,” she whispered, tension evident in every line of her body.
“I found it,” Nix replied. “I found the dragon.”
“What? You did?”
“Yes. It hid from me.” Nix balled her fists in frustration. “I followed it as best I could, but it wouldn’t let me get as close as we were before. By the time I returned to town, I couldn’t find you.”
“Because I had to hide here, I needed the protection of the wagons.” The words tasted hostile to Lark, memories of fight still fresh in her mind.
“Why did you do that? You know I can’t come into the wagon because of that dwarf’s magic.”
“A Morsythian attacked me,” Lark responded, her actions fully sinking in.
Voices drifted up from the wagon ahead, carrying news that made Lark’s blood run cold.
“A Morsythian? Are you sure? They’re in the deep North.
The only Northern people to have successfully separated from the four kingdoms in Nordraven.
They have their independence, so why would a Morsythian be all the way down here? ”
“I don’t know. I heard from Ezra this morning that they haven’t seen one in Lamar for decades.”
“What business does a Morsythian have coming into Lamar unannounced?”
“I don’t know, but he was murdered. Stabbed right here in Fletcher’s Passage.”
“Really? Killed by who?”
“I heard Ezra say it was likely that half-elf who was at the tavern last night. He tried to swindle Hardin, you know. Ezra thinks it happened shortly after he left…”
Lark closed her eyes thinking she could shut out the memory that way.
The look on the Morsythian’s face, the way his thick blue fingers had fumbled for the amulet in those final moments.
The vision played behind her eyes in merciless detail.
The glint of steel catching moonlight, the terrible dance of muscle memory of an assassin that moved through her with ease.
Her fingers tingled with phantom sensation, remembering the precise pressure needed to handle the blade just so.
What were they even doing here? She questioned, seeking to displace the blame. I thought they’d left, shortly after we arrived. As if triggered by the raw emotion of the moment, a memory from her past burst forth.
She was no longer perched atop the wagon in the cool morning air, but standing in a home built among the trees, fabricated into the canopy as if grown rather than built. The massive branches cradled the structure, their snow-laden boughs creating a cocoon of pristine white.
A fire crackled in the stone hearth. Lark stood at a table.
An assembly gathered around the heartwood slab, a group that would’ve given even the most seasoned diplomat pause.
A silver-haired elf woman commanded the space with natural authority.
Her presence bent the room’s energy around her like light through a prism.
A white hawk sat perched on her shoulder, a creature that was more sentinel than pet.
The elf held a wooden staff, its Yogo Sapphire head writhing with rhythmic blue light.
Beside the elf stood a human woman. Strikingly beautiful, she had ice-blue eyes and thick blonde hair like spun gold, that had been woven into two braids and hung past either shoulder.
She was leaning forward, her hands planted firmly on a map that covered the table.
Across from them, three Morsythians stood proud.
Their ceremonial armor reflected snow-filtered sunlight with subtle blue undertones that matched their skin.
Their lack of weapons spoke louder than any blade could have.
This was a meeting that transcended the usual boundaries of trust and suspicion.
Lark felt a weight of importance pressing against her.
She was holding a golden medallion that seemed more crucial than the strange assembly gathered around the table.
The artifact was a masterwork of smithing.
It was round as the full moon, three saucer-shaped wheels fit inside one another.
A collection of scripts were carved into it, written on silver bands that trimmed each nested ring.
Lark leaned forward and placed the medallion on the map of the Everburning Forest.
“The Magi Order won’t help us and we can’t count on the riders alone to stop the rimeshade,” one of the Morsythians said.
“The riders are bound to their contracts. Most will not break them and risk losing the bonds with their dragons,” Lark confirmed.
“Rimeshade?” the blue-eyed girl said. “That’s what we’re doing this for? I thought they were monsters of myth, made up to scare kids to return home before dark.”
The elf shook her head, saying, “Rimeshade are very real. They threaten all Kingdoms of Sataran. Nordraven, Doran, Gambria, Lamar, and Sojax, are all under threat of corruption,” the elf said.
“Which is why we need a rider of our own,” the Morsythian said. “You’re sure this will help?”
“Positive,” the elf replied.
“We didn’t go to all of this trouble just to try and set you up,” the blue-eyed girl said.
The Morsythian in the middle met Lark’s gaze. He reached across the table as she accepted his grip in hers. “We have a deal,” he said as they shook.
The memory faded.
“Lark, did you hear what happened?” someone asked.
Lark blinked, her surroundings coming into focus. Nix was gone.
“Lark, are you okay?” Hardin asked.
She flinched. Hardin’s face appeared unexpectedly nearby as he emerged through the hatch to join her on the perch.
“Ashes, Lark, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m just tired. What were you saying?”
“Did you hear about what happened?”
“About what?” Lark said, feigning ignorance.
“There was a murder. Ezra wants us gone before the Town Watch starts poking around the caravan.”
“A murder?” Lark said, trying to sound surprised.
“Yeah, it wasn’t what you’d expect either. One of those Morsythians from the North, a blue-skinned orc.”
“How was he killed?”
“Apparently with his own dagger. They found his neck,” he ran his finger across his throat and grimaced. “Right outside a different tavern late last night.”
“Do you know who did it?” Lark asked, her hand instinctively shifting to the edge of the wagon, as she mentally prepared to run.
“No. Nobody saw it happen, but those orcs are known for being tough. They’ve kept their independence as a tribal nation separate from the rest of Nordraven’s monarchies.
They haven’t fought for the North, or against Lamar since the four Northern kingdoms made their alliance hundreds of years ago.
Morsythians are known for being mean though.
A true warrior culture. Whoever killed him was well trained.
Could have been another one of their own kind who did it.
That’s what some are saying, but I think I might know who did it. ”
“Who?”
“Venrick,” he said.
“Venrick? Should I know who that is?”
“Oh, that’s right, you left just before he introduced himself,” Hardin said.
“He was the elf?”
“Only half-elf, but yes. Venrick was Tel Roan’s Squire for a decade. If anyone in this town could’ve killed a Morsythian, it’s probably him.”
Lark felt a rush of relief. She was glad to have the suspicion thrown from her, but guilt darkened her heart.
She couldn’t help but wonder, though. The Morsythians’ and Venrick’s arrival in Fletcher’s Passage at the same time could not be coincidental.
Is the half-elf leading these Northern orcs?
And why didn’t he try to kill me himself?
Was he waiting to see how dangerous I am?
“Venrick was the one who tried to talk you into hiring him?” she asked, having just overhead the news.
“Yeah. He bid the job for half what the Knights of the Vermillion Keep would charge. I almost agreed until Ezra intervened.”
Why would he do that unless he was trying to distract us while he came after the Hyalite?
“I’m sorry if I offended you last night. You kind of stormed off,” Hardin said.
“I honestly had already forgotten about it.”
“Really?”
“Trust me, you were the least stressful part of my night,” Lark said.
“Is that why you didn’t you sleep well?”
“Who said I didn’t?”
“You said you were tired a moment ago.”
“It was the chicken. It didn’t sit right with me,” she lied, grabbing her stomach.
“Should’ve had the pork, it was delicious. Though, I don’t know how that spice will feel coming back out today,” Hardin said.
Lark shook her head.
“Is that a smile I see on your face?” Hardin said, nudging her with his elbow.
“Did you have to share that image?” she said, unable to hold back a grin.
“You were the one who started it with that bad chicken talk.”
“Everyone, load up,” Ezra called out along the string of wagons. “We’re moving out before more watchmen come asking questions.”
Lark took one last glance over her shoulder as they left Fletcher’s Passage. A lone rider in a hooded gray travel cloak drove a bulky six-wheeled wagon pulled by two impressive draft horses.
Lark nudged Hardin. “Is he following us?”
“Yeah, I think that’s him.” Hardin said, shifting to get a better look. “It is, that’s Venrick. I guess the Watch let him go?”
“He’s following us,” Lark said, her grip tightening around a dagger handle.