Chapter Five
Stuck in the carriage again, I tried focusing on the well-read pages of a book.
The words blurred together, and my stomach gurgled like it wanted to digest what my brain couldn’t.
Giving up, I sighed and leaned my head back, closing my eyes.
Did I need another nap? No. Would I get anything done while everyone else snoozed?
Also no. At least a nap would pass the time faster.
With a few deep breaths, I drifted closer to sleep …
Craaaaaaack.
Wham!
Thump.
Pain split through the back of my head. The outriders called to each other, their words a muffled mess in my ringing ears.
“Trey? Are you alright?”
I tried to open my eyes, but only one of them cooperated. Something was wrong with my body. My limbs were all out of order, my head half-a-mile away.
Hands grasped my shoulders and helped me upright, and I realized part of the problem was that I’d ended up on the carriage floor. I finally got the other eye open, but the world remained blurry and confusing, wood and shapes in all the wrong places.
“You’ve hit your head. Drink this,” Dad ordered, holding a bottle to my lips.
I swallowed obediently and, after a few seconds, my vision cleared and the pain in my head eased away. The cinnamon taste of a health potion lingered on my tongue. “What happened?”
The carriage was at a sharp angle, and I was half-sitting, half-leaning against the closed door. The other door was open, revealing the tops of trees, blue sky, and one lazily spinning wheel. Somewhere outside, Father was talking with the outriders.
“A tree fell and blocked the road. The coachman swerved to avoid it and ended up crashing into a different tree,” Dad explained, his expression grim as he hoisted me out of the carriage. I crawled over the edge and landed roughly on the ground.
Dad followed quickly and helped me stand up. Even after I was upright, he held on, his grip firm and his hand faintly trembling.
“I’m fine,” I whispered.
“Only thanks to your father’s foresight.”
“Foresight I have because you’re always injuring yourself,” Father replied, coming back into view. He took my face between his hands and peered into both of my eyes, then tilted my head down to check the back. When he let go, blood stained his fingertips.
I reached up to investigate the same area but couldn’t even feel a bump.
Dad handed me a handkerchief to clean up the mess.
On the side of the road, Delilah crouched on all fours.
At some point, she’d put the collar back on, so her ears and tail were both on display.
The ears pressed low against her head and the tail puffed up to three times its size.
Her lips curled back, exposing sharper incisors—apparently, Dad couldn’t resist fiddling with the enchantment—and she hissed a low, guttural warning.
“Use your words,” Dad scolded.
Delilah hissed again before pointing into the woods. “Someone’s over there!”
I froze, eyes widening. Did someone cut that tree down on purpose? Is this my old man’s doing? Was he trying to hurt us or delay us?
“How far away is the next town?” Father asked the coachman.
Blood spotted the man’s clothes and face. He must have been injured in the accident as well, but only a few stains remained. “Two hours by horse. If we’re walking … six or seven?”
“A few of us could ride ahead,” Father suggested. “See if we can hire another carriage in town, then return for everyone else and the luggage.”
“Traveling there and back could take as long as walking,” Dad pointed out.
“Either way, it’ll be nightfall before we all reach the town.
” He surveyed the outriders’ mounts and the horses that had been pulling the carriage.
“I say we double up on the horses and find an inn for the night. We can worry about the luggage tomorrow.”
“No!” Delilah cried. “That’s what they want us to do!”
“What who wants?”
“The bandits who cut down the tree!”
I frowned and looked in the direction she’d been hissing at earlier. “What did you see?”
“Well,” she hedged, plopping her fists on her hips. “I didn’t technically see anyone, but I know someone was there. This is a classic bandit ploy to distract us and take our jewels!”
Dad sighed. “Did you steal your mother’s books again?”
“I’m eighteen,” she replied primly, “I don’t have to steal them, I can buy my own.”
“Those books are all fiction. The Desolated Lands aren’t overrun with evil bandits.”
“They don’t have to be evil,” I said.
Dad’s brow furrowed as he looked at me. “What?”
“The bandits—they don’t have to be evil. If someone is just stealing to survive, would the Kingdom Defense Spell react to them?”
Dad hesitated and exchanged a look with Father. “We have enough social programs in place that theft shouldn’t be necessary …”
“But there’s no reason to linger here and test that theory,” Father finished. “We’ll pack up what’s important, then send someone back in the morning for the rest. We can replace anything lost.”
He stepped aside to speak with the outriders while the rest of us unearthed the luggage from the broken carriage. I sorted through my clothes, trying to salvage enough to wear for the next few days in case our things were stolen.
Delilah’s head suddenly shot up and her lips pulled back in a harsh hiss. “Someone’s coming.”
As soon as she spoke, I heard it too—the slow clop of horse’s hooves and the faint tumbling of wheels.
“Bandits!” Delilah cried. Instead of ducking for cover, she lunged forward, crawling on top of the fallen tree trunk. She arched her back and hissed, clawing at the air.
The driver of the cart shouted in shock and pulled their horses to a stop. A wide-brimmed hat obscured half of their face, giving them a slightly menacing aura. Then they pushed it up to expose the plain, weathered features of an old farmer. “What’s all this about?”
“We’re sorry to startle you,” Dad said, grabbing Delilah by the collar of her shirt and pulling her down. “This tree fell in the middle of the road, and we’re a bit rattled from the experience.”
“So I see.” The farmer squinted as he surveyed the scene. “Looks like y’all are alright, though, so that’s a relief. Need any help?”
Father stepped forward as our spokesperson. “If it isn’t too much trouble, we would appreciate a ride into town.”
“I was headed the other way,” the farmer said, mulling over the request. He scanned the tree blocking the road and the ruined carriage off to the side. It’d be difficult to guide even a small cart around the mess. “But I suppose I can’t get there now anyway. Grab what you can and load ‘er up.”
As we transferred everything to his cart, I watched the farmer. He never stepped down from the driver’s seat to help, though he was already doing us a huge favor. Expecting him to haul our trunks was probably too much to ask.
In the end, our luggage filled the back of his cart. We didn’t have to leave anything behind, but now there wasn’t room for anyone to ride in it.
“Uncle Rick,” Delilah whispered, tugging on Dad’s sleeve. “What if he’s a bandit, and this is all part of his elaborate plan to steal our things.”
“Why don’t I ride with him on the driver’s seat?” I suggested. “That way he can’t run off the second we’re distracted.”
Dad frowned, eyeing the farmer warily. “I don’t want to put you in harm’s way.”
“He’s an old man,” I replied dismissively. “And if I ride with him, the guards will have their hands free in case we run into other trouble.”
Father put his hand on Dad’s shoulder and said, “He’ll be in sight the whole time.”
Since I had Father’s permission, Dad tacitly agreed.
I walked over to the cart and asked, “Mind if I join you?” I climbed into the driver’s seat before he answered.
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and his wrinkled lips quirked in a quick smile. “Always nice to have some company.” Once he got the signal from the lead guard, he snapped the reins and urged his horse to walk.
The road was wide enough for two carriages to pass each other. Two guards with their riders in front, followed by Father, then the cart with the farmer and me, then Dad and Delilah, and then the last two guards and their riders took up the rear.
If bandits were watching us, we wouldn’t make easy targets.
But I’d known for a while that the real danger sat beside me.
“Who are you?” I demanded, keeping my voice low so the others couldn’t overhear our conversation.
“The master wants a word with you,” the farmer replied.
“So, you staged an accident? You could have killed me.”
Dark eyes flicked over me in a perfunctory assessment. “You don’t look injured.”
I glowered at him. “I took a health potion, which is beside the point. Who the fuck delivers a message by cutting down a tree?”
“You didn’t bring your mirror. I had to get creative.” He offered an explanation but not an apology.
“Do you know how much that stupid thing weighs? I can’t drag it around the five kingdoms in case he wants to chat!”
He shot me a dark look, the farmer persona slipping. “Don’t treat the master’s words so frivolously.”
“First: fuck you.” Startled confusion twisted his face, as if he didn’t expect me to bite back, but I continued before he could rebuke me. “Second: stop calling him ‘the master.’ If anyone overhears you, they’ll grow suspicious.”
“The Lord of Grimnight,” he tried again.
Gods save me from incompetent minions. My hand twitched as I contemplated smacking it over his mouth, but I didn’t want to draw attention to our argument. “That’s obviously worse.”
Huffing in exasperation, he demanded, “What do you call him?”
“Old Man.”
The horse slowed, responding to the fake-farmer’s tightened grip.
“Everything alright?” Dad called, pulling his horse up beside us.
So much for not drawing attention to ourselves. “We’re arguing about carrot cake,” I replied, smiling tightly. “I said the best ones always have raisins.”
“And I think the clash of textures ruins a perfectly good cake,” the fake-farmer added, his expression the perfect imitation of a grumpy old man arguing with a young whippersnapper.
Dad eyed us, then nodded and moved back into position so he wouldn’t block the other side of the road.
As soon as he was out of earshot again, the fake-farmer hissed, “You can’t call the master Old Man.”
I shrugged. “It works for me.”
“Someone needs to teach you proper respect.”
“It certainly won’t be one of his minions,” I replied dryly. “So why don’t you tell me his message and—”
“Apprentice.”
“What?”
“I’m his apprentice, not a minion.”
The old man had never mentioned an apprentice. My reports had grown scarcer over the years, but he should have told me. Taking on an apprentice was a huge responsibility. They would learn from him, live with him, work closely with him for years.
“How long?” I asked.
The apprentice didn’t answer.
It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t ignoring me; the words had gotten stuck in my throat. “How long?” I repeated, louder this time. If he was new, that might explain why the old man hadn’t mentioned him. Maybe this is his first mission—
“Five years.”
Five fucking years? The words echoed in my head. I was lucky I didn’t shout them out loud, or Dad would have come to ride next to us again. If he did that, I couldn’t finish the conversation.
And I needed more information from this apprentice.
“I’m surprised you haven’t earned a title already,” I said carefully.
The apprentice pursed his lips. “I’m working on it.”
“And what has he told you about me?” Because he hasn’t told me a damn thing about you.
“Treasure Banes, twenty-one, you’ve served the master on this mission for twelve years.”
‘Served the master.’ Does he even know I’m his master’s son?
“Your goal is to tear down the defense spell protecting the Desolated Lands, and I’m here to help you.”
“Help me?” I asked, my heart racing. The last thing I needed was an evil sidekick barging his way into my plans. “I thought you were here to deliver a message.”
“That is the message. If you’d had the mirror with you, we could have arranged a meeting somewhere quiet, rather than in the middle of the road.”
“I’m so sorry to inconvenience you.”
“At some point, you’ll need to cut the sarcasm.”
I wrinkled my nose at him, stopping short of sticking my tongue out. “Make me.”
“I intend to.”
The bold response startled me. I stared at him, brow furrowed, trying to understand his meaning.
He gazed ahead placidly, as if he hadn’t thrown down the gauntlet.
Working with him would be fucking greeeat, I could already tell.
“How are you supposed to help me?” I asked. “It’s not like I can bring you to the meeting. ‘Hey, everyone, this is a random farmer I met on the road, thought he might prove useful on a quest.’”
“I’ll be there when I’m needed.”
Translation: he would watch me from the shadows, waiting to pounce when I fucked up.
Did the old man really send his apprentice here to help me, or to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn’t stray from the mission?
As we pulled into town, the farmer-guise settled firmly back into place. The stiff, pompous apprentice polish faded away and the homey, I’m-just-a-helpful-old man accent returned. “Here we are, folks!” he called as his cart pulled up to the inn.
“Thanks for your help,” Father said, holding a hand out to me. I didn’t need it to get down, but I took it anyway, comforted by his familiar strength and warmth.
I never looked at the apprentice as we unloaded the cart, and he never looked at me.
Yet I felt his presence like a heavy collar around my neck that I couldn’t discard until I completed my mission.