Chapter 3
Chapter three
Marked
The moment we were behind the tavern and out of sight of prying eyes, he dropped to his knees, smiling widely. He hastily unbuttoned my trousers and pulled them down, and the rest was a flurry of heat and haze. It was just what I needed to quell my racing mind.
After, we both took ragged breaths, letting our hearts slow. He sat back against the alley wall, smiling. “You seemed to enjoy that.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I’ve had a bit of practice,” he said, laughing, then yawned.
He leaned his head back and let his eyes shut. Before I could even pull my trousers up, his breathing was rhythmic and deep, his sleep aided by endorphins and a bit too much ale.
“Fuck,” I said to no one in particular, at least no one who could hear me.
In a way, I envied him, lying there in quiet contentment, whereas I could already feel the dark clouds in my head returning.
Suddenly the night felt cold. The tavern looked even shabbier than before.
The reek of the alley assaulted my nose, and this sorry bloke was lost to the world.
I couldn’t just leave him passed out here.
I leaned over and gave him a shake, to which he responded with unintelligible mumbling.
Gods, I didn’t know he was this far gone.
“Hey…um.” Dust, I didn’t even know this guy’s name. But maybe that was the point. “Hey, friend. Let me take you home.”
“Mmm…”
It took him a bit to stand. He leaned on me as we lurched down the road. Luckily, not a single soul was out to witness this sorry sight.
“Where’s home?” I asked.
He gestured in a nondescript direction without even looking. I cursed under my breath. I had only myself to blame for this.
We hobbled up to a building with a sign reading lark inn in white lettering.
Below, in flaking paint, was a picture of the bird in question.
The front door wouldn’t budge, so I knocked three times.
After a few moments of silence, I knocked again, hard enough to make the door shake. Soon a ruckus came from the other side.
The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of a wrinkled face, a hooked nose, and a sour expression. “We’re closed!” a man snapped.
I held up three silver. “Are you still closed?”
The door opened wide. “This isn’t a brothel,” said an ancient man wearing a disheveled robe and a frown so deep, the corners of his mouth nearly touched his jaw.
“I just need a bed for my friend here, who partook of a bit too much ale.”
“Five silver,” the man said.
“I’m sure the place across the street has some rooms.” I started to turn away.
“Very well,” the man grumbled as he snatched the coins from my hand.
Within moments, my friend was in a bed, sleeping soundly with thunderous snores, and I was on my way home. But I had one stop to make along the way.
After a short walk, I approached a small cottage with darkened windows. I pressed my ear to the door, but no sound came from within, save for the slight crackle of a dying fire. I placed several coins in a small pouch, then flattened it and shoved it under the door.
Few had cared about the fortunes of the homeless and starving eleven-year-old boy and four-year-old girl, but Mrs. Yarrow had taken us in when no one else would. A bag of gold from time to time was the least I could do.
My knuckles hovered inches from the door, but I pulled them back, like I did every time. Dust knew Elena would love to see her again. But that had been another time. My life now was hard and dangerous, not suited for such a gentle soul like Mrs. Yarrow. Maybe someday, but not tonight.
With my errand done, I headed home. Our dwelling was humble—half of a stable and a small loft belonging to a friendly couple who lived next door and took pity on us.
The pungent smell of horses permeated everything.
Embers flickered in our hearth, casting the room in a golden glow.
I walked like a mouse through our main room so as not to disturb my sleeping sister.
Her soft breaths came from the doorway to a small nook where she slept.
I paused at her door and peered inside. Her chest moved in a steady rhythm, gently illuminated by the firelight that spilled across the room.
She looked so much like our father, with her strong build and hair as bright as the sun.
Every time I saw her, I couldn’t help but think of him—a bittersweet memory.
I absently fiddled with the locket around my neck.
Dust, how I loved her. I would do anything to protect her.
This was why I did what I did—why I closed myself off and did what needed to be done, even when it was killing me piece by piece.
Tiptoeing to the fire, I threw a log onto the coals. I’d need the light and the heat to solve the riddle of the hidden message. That parchment had occupied much of my thoughts since the moment the thief with the golden eyes had left it, then disappeared into thin air.
Parked in the corner of our home was our herb cart, stuffed with all the herbs and reagents I’d need.
I pulled out several glass bottles. Herb merchant was my daytime profession, giving me access to supplies to make enough smoke bombs, fireballs, and noisemakers for a small army.
I was also teaching Elena the skills of our family; the skills our father would have taught her.
The skills he should have been able to teach her.
I filled a small iron pot with water, then set it over the fire.
As wisps of steam formed on the water’s surface, I sprinkled in a few key ingredients and stirred.
When an earthy herbaceous smell filled the room, I dipped the parchment into the pot and quickly removed it.
Before my eyes, lines formed on its surface.
Slowly at first, then suddenly, crisp black markings appeared.
For the briefest moment, I nearly threw the parchment into the fire. I felt as if I were on the precipice of something. Maybe it was better to burn it up and be done with it. Maybe it was better not to know what lay over the next hill. But in the end, I climbed over it.
On the parchment was a drawing of a fence surrounding a great oak tree—a familiar image. The Amara Tree—known by its more infamous name, the Bleeding Oak—grew deep in the Citadel Gardens, protected by guards. All could view the tree, but none could approach it under penalty of death.
Within the top boughs of the tree, a few marks were drawn with a different pigment—slightly lighter, with the faintest hint of red.
It shimmered in the flickering firelight until the lines solidified into two marks crossing each other.
What in the dust was this? A treasure map?
Did X mark the spot? I laughed under my breath at the audacity.
When I turned the parchment over, my eyes grew wide and my heart sped up. Printed on the back were two twisting letters and a flame—the same mark that had been on the door of the Charred Snake.
Everyone in the Underworld knew of the Emberlight Trials—a gauntlet to join the Order of Emberlight. But not just anyone could join.
You had to be invited.
This hidden message was just such an invitation.