Chapter 27
Arla barrelled through the side of the tent, her blade pressed tightly against the stranger’s throat.
‘Now, let’s start talking, shall we?’ She was met with an empty silence, and it only worked to enrage her.
Pressing the tip of her blade so hard now against the stranger’s neck that a bead of crimson bloomed in the darkness, she took a step closer, silently hoping that Hark would have her back if the figure pulled their own weapon against her.
‘I mean you no harm, Miss Reinhart. I only wish to speak.’ The voice was that of a woman, though it was raspy and hoarse. Sick or old, then. Or both.
‘Then I suggest that you start speaking.’ The worst part was that Arla enjoyed this side of her job. She found pleasure in the utter power she had over her victims, and how thoroughly helpless they became at her hand.
‘You’ve done your job well tonight, whether you meant to be known or not,’ the woman rasped, and Arla felt her patience fraying at the cryptic strangeness of it all.
‘For the gods’ sake,’ she growled, pulling the hood of the woman’s cloak down to reveal her face, which was aged with deep lines.
Grey strands of hair were threaded through the black that hung below the woman’s shoulders and she had deathly pale skin.
It was the woman’s eyes, though, that caused Arla to step back and remove the blade from her throat.
Eyes that watched her with an intent that pricked the hairs on Arla’s neck.
The woman narrowed them, and it was as though Arla’s soul was being laid bare, as if this person could see inside her and unravel her with nothing more than a thought.
She couldn’t describe it, the feeling that came over her, the feeling that her life was held in the palm of this stranger’s hands.
The irony was not lost on Arla that perhaps this was how her victims felt when she descended upon them.
Arla’s skin felt hot, and her heart raced as she stared at the woman; she felt as if something was now controlling her.
‘Start speaking,’ a voice cut in. Thank the gods for Hark Stappen.
He stepped between them, his frame blocking Arla’s eye contact with the woman and allowing her to take a deep breath. She’d never felt that way before, and she’d looked into the eyes of hundreds of people before she killed them. What had made her hesitate?
‘Your presence tonight, Miss Reinhart, has saved more than you would think.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Arla snapped, surging past Hark to stand before the stranger again. She kept her eyes averted though, not ready to risk the feeling of mortality that had gripped her so suddenly.
You’re tired. It was nothing.
The stranger smiled, pulling her lips back over blackened teeth. ‘Don’t be so na?ve, Miss Reinhart. Your reputation reaches even the furthest corners of the kingdoms. The merest glimpse of your face has held off those who wish to harvest the magic-wielders.’
Magic-wielders.
Arla’s blood stopped pumping. A rushing noise filled her ears as she repeated the words in her head. Magic … was … an impossibility. It didn’t exist. It had never existed.
And yet there was no doubt in the eyes of the stranger as she looked back at Arla. There was only a sincerity that had Arla’s knees threatening to buckle beneath her.
Hark was impossibly still – barely breathing, Arla thought.
Magic…
Her fingers trembled as she met the eyes of the stranger again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Ah, you don’t believe the resurgence of slavery is for just the sake of slavery, do you?’ The words came coated in sour breath and confusion, and Arla hated the way her feet moved even closer to the woman.
Hark’s frustration boiled over, his arm flailing as he ground out. ‘This is—’
‘The king thinks they have blood magic?’ Arla whispered, the pieces beginning to fit together in something that was … absurd. Could it truly be real? Could all of this, this strange new alliance between Cyrus and Elrod, be because of magic?
‘He doesn’t think, Miss Reinhart. He knows they do.’
She didn’t even know if she believed the words that burst from her lips. ‘That’s ridiculous! There is no magic—!’
‘Like there are no dragons beneath Grey Hill, Miss Reinhart?’
A low, guttural noise escaped Hark’s throat, and Arla’s own temper flared at the mention of the dragons and what that false belief had meant for Hadalyn.
But … but if magic was real, what did that mean for the dragons? Was there truth to that myth, too?
Her heart fluttered uneasily. There was something in her chest that reared at the thought of the dragons.
She shut it down in a heartbeat.
‘Save them, Miss Reinhart. Not even the gods can reach them now.’
‘We’ve heard enough,’ Hark snapped, turning quickly and striding away from the two women. Arla watched him go, her heart thundering against her ribcage. The trembling in her fingers spread throughout her body because one by one she could feel the threads of everything she believed in coming undone.
‘The soldiers won’t come tonight, Miss Reinhart. I wasn’t lying when I spoke of your reputation.’
Arla didn’t know why she believed the words the woman spoke, but she knew them to be true.
Had there been any intention of trouble tonight, it would have presented itself by now.
She turned to look towards where Hark had stormed off to, and only saw the flick of canvas as he slipped back inside the tent.
He’d known. She’d seen it in the way his face had paled slightly as the stranger had spoken.
But it was all nonsense, wasn’t it? Magic didn’t exist and that was the end of it.
Elrod was keeping slaves and trading them illegally because it was clearly filling the royal coffers whilst the rest of his kingdom suffered.
Magic and dragons were a lie. They had to be.
The music was calling her to join Hark back at the festival. So with a nod to the stranger that she could only put down to the fact she hadn’t needed to kill her, Arla turned towards the tent.
‘Power lies beneath Castle Grey, Miss Reinhart. I suggest you wield it wisely…’ The woman grasped Arla’s wrist and pressed something cool and hard into the palm of her hand.
Arla resisted the urge to hit her for the unwarranted touch, but she closed her fist around the object in her hand and pulled away harshly from the woman.
By the time she’d made it back to the tent and looked over her shoulder, the woman had disappeared.
Arla opened her fist to reveal a gold brooch.
Her entire body lurched as she took it in, something in her very soul recognising it and drawing her to the piece of metal. A golden flame caged in a metal heart.
A dragonhart.
* * *
She found Hark just as she had expected to – with a scowl on his face and a drink in his hand.
‘Are all of your people as mind-addled as her?’ Arla said crossly, snatching the cold glass of wine from him and downing the contents.
It burned her throat in a comforting, addictive way that made her ache for more of the rich liquid.
It had been a long day, made longer by the nonsense the woman had spouted at her.
Arla couldn’t deny that Kastonian soldiers did not seem to be occupying the market square, and even though it was dark, and her eyes strained with the labour of too many days travelling, she had taken the time to observe the tops of trees and the narrow strips between stalls for anybody lurking there. Everything had come up empty.
Hark was ignoring her again.
Kastonian prick.
She thought about mentioning the woman’s claim that magic lay within the blood of the slaves, but what was the point?
She’d vehemently denied any existence of magic or associated dragons, and she’d have laughed in Hark’s face had he tried to tell her otherwise, so what did it matter that he’d never mentioned it?
She twisted the brooch the woman had given her between her fingers.
A dragonhart. A symbol of the old religion – for luck, the people said.
Of course, Arla didn’t believe in any of it, but she couldn’t help the intrigue that perked up as she toyed with the object.
It was weighty – solid gold she suspected – and it felt …
sentient, almost, as if it were as drawn to her as she was to it.
It was all nonsense, though. It had to be. Perhaps she’d spent too long surrounded by these gullible fools who believed in magic and its tales.
She couldn’t voice any of that to Hark and so she said nothing.
She sat in silence and watched Vorstrum’s festival until she could stand it no longer.
She needed alcohol, or to go and dance, if only as a way to deal with Hark, with what the woman had insisted was true, with everything that was happening.
There was an urgency in her blood. A call to go now and rescue the slaves.
She had all but fought Hark on the journey here to ditch this ridiculous festival and go and storm the border now.
Damn the soldiers that would be trying to fill their slave quotas tonight, the slave trade would be no more by the morning if Arla had her way.
Hark had denied her pleas, of course.
He’d told her that it was a foolish thing to do.
That they needed to wait and be prepared to go to the border tomorrow.
And tonight wasn’t a waste, he’d said. Tonight was a chance to make sure no other men, women or children were going to be caught in the crossfire of what would surely come when they crept into the slave encampment on the border and got to work freeing them in the morning.
It seemed to Arla that Hark’s crew didn’t have an ounce of urgency in them and it made her want to hit something.
Swiping another glass – this one hot and filled with fruit – from a grey-haired woman carrying wooden trays of the beverage, she dropped a coin into the leather pouch at the woman’s hip and drank deeply from the glass.
If he wouldn’t let her go charging into the camp, she needed something to calm her agitated nerves.
Forget the deadly focus she was supposed to wield like a sword, the stranger had told her tonight would be safe, she could afford to allow her mind to slip into somewhere a little more pleasant than what the world currently had to offer.
Besides, she could deal with the consequences in the morning.
‘Steady, Reinhart. I have no intention of carrying you home,’ Hark said, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Arla scoffed. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. There are plenty of men here better suited to carry me to bed than you.’
‘Meaning?’ he ground out. She bit the inside of her cheek to hide the snigger at his annoyance.
‘Meaning you’re the last person I would allow to take me home,’ she replied, licking her lips free of the sweet wine.
‘Not what you were saying last night.’
Impossible prick!
‘I suggest you stop drinking,’ he added.
She swallowed the remaining liquid and beckoned for the woman who had served her to return. She took a larger glass than she had before, making a point to drop two coins loudly onto the woman’s tray and throw a wicked smile Hark’s way.
‘Nobody tells me what to do.’