Chapter 29
Flint
After what feels like several decades, Spinner, Sheen and I reach the foot of a small hill near the border between the moorland and the Greenwood.
I’ve heard stories about this particular forest. Many believe it’s haunted, swarming with unfriendly spirits – something I’ve chosen to ignore, given that it’s a shortcut to the Waterlands.
Besides, it’ll take more than a bunch of ghost stories to stop me from finding my sister.
A village sits at the top of the hill. I let out a triumphant whoop, elbowing past Sheen to get a better look. ‘Thank the Gods. I’m starving.’
‘Me too,’ says Spinner.
But Sheen shakes his head. ‘No. We said no detours. No stopping off anywhere you might be recognized.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I say exasperatedly. ‘I may be something of a socialite, I grant you, but I can’t claim to have had many dealings with a bunch of sheep farmers from …’
‘Heathcross,’ Spinner supplies, consulting the map.
‘Precisely. And even if I had,’ I continue, stabbing a finger at my eyepatch, ‘I doubt any of them would recognize me now anyway.’
My words dangle in the air, the tone all wrong.
I’d meant to sound self-deprecating, but my voice comes out tinged with a bitter acidity I usually succeed in swallowing down.
I cringe away as Spinner reaches out to pat my arm, her face flooded with sympathy.
Sheen says nothing, his violet eyes unreadable.
And just for a brief moment, I hate them both.
One for their pity, the other for their lack of it.
‘In any case,’ I hurry on, ‘I’d rather gnaw the leather from my boot than eat another bowl of Spinner’s revolting soup.’
Spinner lets out a theatrical gasp of indignation and launches herself at me. ‘Why, you rude, ungrateful –’
We fall backwards into the heather, her half tickling, half punching me, our laughter shattering the tension. I roll her over, pinning her wrists to the ground while she squeals and struggles and does a poor job of pretending she’s not enjoying every second.
Sheen looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else.
‘Fine,’ he says eventually, as a giggling Spinner leans up to kiss me. ‘Fine. If you two get up and stop acting like idiots, then we’ll go. But if anything happens, it’s on you. Happy?’
‘Delirious,’ I tell him, scrambling to my feet.
I hold out a hand to Spinner, and together the three of us start making our way up the hill towards Heathcross.
I picture a quaint little hamlet filled with all manner of delights – a bakery selling fresh bread, children dancing joyfully around a maypole, thatched cottages covered in honeysuckle with shutters painted cornflower blue.
Yet when we arrive, the reality is … quite different.
There’s no bakery. There’s no maypole either. Instead, a series of treacherous-looking spikes are wedged into the earth around the village perimeter, and all windows are boarded shut, bristling with iron nails.
I glance around, scratching the back of my neck. ‘This is … cosy.’
We refill our waterskins from a nearby well, and I splash some water over my face in an attempt to cool my burns.
Several people eye us suspiciously as we approach.
Some even pull their children away, doors slamming behind them, while others rest their hands on the weapons slung from their belts.
The weapons. I stare in surprise – not just because they seem out of place in a small Fidran village in the middle of the Wildlands but because of how magnificent they are.
Axes, maces, longswords – all expertly crafted.
I think of my bow, snapped to splinters in the Ridge tunnels.
‘What’s with this place?’ Spinner whispers. ‘Why are they looking at us like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Sheen. ‘But I don’t like it.’
‘You don’t like anything,’ I tell him.
My gaze rests on a woman with a kind face. She’s throwing scraps into a pen built high with steel railings, a few pigs milling about aimlessly inside.
I clear my throat, preparing to turn on that famous Harglade charm.
‘Afternoon,’ I call cheerfully. ‘May I ask –’ But I don’t get to finish my sentence, because the woman takes one frightened look at us and bolts in the opposite direction.
‘I’ll take that as a no,’ I say, just as a burly man lumbers towards us, a gleaming crossbow strapped to his back.
‘What’s your business here?’
I bow my head. ‘We are but poor travellers come to seek a hot meal and a bed for the night. Would you be so kind as to point us in the direction of your best alehouse?’
The man snorts. ‘Don’t got one.’
‘Ah.’ My stomach growls. ‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘Leave it,’ says Sheen. ‘Let’s just go.’
I ignore him. ‘What about an inn? D’you have one of those?’
‘I said, let’s go.’
‘Or perhaps a brothel?’ I continue. ‘My friend here could certainly use one. Truly, I’ve never known someone so uptight in all my life.’
Sheen looks as though he’d like to summon every current of air he can muster and blast me into the middle of next week.
A few of the other villagers are listening now, forming a circle around us.
‘Flint,’ Spinner mutters under her breath.
I hold up my hands. ‘Fine. If there’s nowhere for us to eat, or sleep, or in some cases not sleep –’ I wink, which really doesn’t go down as well as anticipated – ‘then what I want is one of those weapons you’re all carrying. I’ve never seen such fine craftsmanship.’
A stream of murmurs ripples through the crowd.
‘What’re you doing?’ Sheen hisses.
I shrug. ‘I want a new bow.’
The man considers me for a moment, then turns to a woman holding a mace. ‘What d’you think? He doesn’t strike me as one of them.’
I glance at Spinner and Sheen. Is he talking about Etheri?
I wedge my hands firmly into my pockets, grateful for the thin leather gloves covering my brandmark.
It no longer glows, of course. Not since I lost the third trial.
But if these heavily armed villagers are looking for an Etheri, the triple flame of the Ignitia branded into the back of my right hand is still a pretty big giveaway.
Then again, if they are questioning whether or not we’re Fidra, wouldn’t it be a whole lot simpler to just ask us to prove it?
‘You’re right, Glen,’ the woman replies. ‘Not with that accent.’
My accent? Etheri can be found in almost every province across Ostacre. Apart from carrying the faint lilt of the Firelands, my accent reveals little else.
‘They could be spies,’ muses another, tapping her fingers along the hilt of her sword.
Spies? Spies for whom, exactly? Who on earth would care about the goings-on in this dump?
‘No,’ says the boy next to her, sizing us up. ‘They’re too clean.’
Too clean? I’m positively filthy. I’d sell a kidney for a hot bath. Are they under the impression that Etheri don’t wash?
The man, Glen, sucks his teeth. ‘All right,’ he says eventually, and I allow myself a small exhale of relief. ‘You can have your bow. But I warn you, it won’t come cheap.’
‘I should hope not,’ I tell him genially. ‘I have very expensive taste.’
Glen jerks his head, signalling for us to follow him.
We’re led past a barn, its doors barricaded by a thick piece of wood.
What are they protecting themselves from?
Are they afraid the spirits haunting the Greenwood are going to emerge from the treeline and charge up the hill to attack?
Though even if this were the case, I doubt such defences would do much to deter them.
‘This way,’ says Glen.
Heathcross isn’t particularly big, and we soon come to a stop outside a rundown little workshop. The chimney belches out smoke, and the walls are carved with Fidran runes.
Glen knocks on the door – four sharp raps.
There’s a scuffle from inside followed by a faint clattering.
After a minute or so, the door swings open to reveal a woman wearing a dress made entirely from chainmail.
She has on thick gloves that stretch almost up to her elbows, and there’s a streak of coal dust on the tip of her nose.
‘This is my wife,’ says Glen. ‘Iris, meet your new customers.’
Iris looks me up and down. ‘You got coin?’
I reach my hand into my satchel and pull out a handful of silver. ‘Will this suffice?’
She raises an eyebrow, then moves back to let us enter.
The forge is cramped and cluttered. Weapons litter every available surface – delicately crafted axes scattered across workbenches, gleaming longswords hanging from the walls.
The air is hot and heavy, thick with the tang of metal.
Various tools are laid out on the table in front of us, and in the corner a fire burns brightly.
My stomach tightens. Forcing myself to sit round the campfire Spinner begrudgingly builds every night is bad enough, but at least then it’s out in the open.
Here, it’s too close. I’m hemmed in, just like I was in the throne room at Fire Mountain when Ember lit the pyre, setting Aunt Yvainne’s body alight.
A familiar tremor ripples through my hands and I clasp them behind my back, leaning against the far wall, the handle of a mace digging into my spine.
I begin to count – knives, hammers, marks on the table.
‘So,’ says Iris, tying back her corn-gold hair with a scrap of cloth before picking up a long pair of tongs. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like a bow,’ I tell her. ‘A good one. And some arrows. Please.’
She points to her husband’s crossbow. ‘One like that?’
‘Mm, I was thinking something a little more … classic?’
Iris smiles as she draws a red-hot blade from the flames and plunges it into a vat of water. She sets to work gathering what she needs from her stores, occasionally barking orders at Glen, who does as she asks without comment, his gruff, hardened demeanour dissipating like smoke from the fire.
Sheen stands by the door, stiff and alert, poised to combat any potential threat.
Spinner skips past me and perches on the sill of a boarded-up window, running her hand along the shutters. ‘Can I ask who you mistook us for when we arrived here?’