Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
WINDSONG
E irik didn’t make it across his room before the door opened, and his uncle and brother quietly entered.
Teakin handed him a letter, his eyes conveying the only thing Eirik needed to know before opening it–discretion.
Eirik scanned the envelope, with the attention to detail he’d been trained to do, as Bastian closed the door soundlessly behind him. The seal had been broken. Twice. Re-glued carefully to cover up the first breach in the correspondence from Anu.
He pulled the missive from the envelope and read what had been intended for his uncle’s eyes only.
Teakin LaGoryen,
Your presence is required in Anu, post haste.
Stefen Von Emmerich.
Simple. Too simple . Stefen had anticipated the interception. Had counted on it. However, the message was clear .
Something was wrong.
Eirik looked at his uncle. “Should I accompany you?”
“No,” Teakin said. “You are too valuable here, continuing your work with the Warborn. I will leave out within the hour, though.”
Not a lie. But so carefully phrased.
Bastian said, “I’m sure Stefen needs assistance with the newest recruits Alaric has assembled.” A pause. “It’s a shame that Teakin will miss me beating you in this competition tonight.”
The perfect amount of levity should someone be listening.
“You can try.” Eirik folded the paper and placed it back in the envelope. He had never been good at this part of the game; the deceptiveness, the acting. He handed the missive back to Teakin. “How long do you expect to be gone?”
“Hopefully only a day,” his uncle said. “I’m very much looking forward to the final rounds of the tournament.”
Before Eirik could ask about the questioning of the witness, Teakin leaned in and embraced him in a hug. “I need to pack. This is goodbye.” He patted him hard on the back, loud enough to disguise any sound, as he slipped a piece of paper into Eirik’s hand and pulled back. “For now.”
His uncle gave him a smile and turned for the door. Bastian followed him out. “See you tonight, brother,” he called over his shoulder. “I hope that cha-cha impresses.”
Eirik opened his palm when the door shut. He walked to his desk, making enough noise to conceal the unfolding of the paper. He read his uncle’s familiar script:
The witness is unreliable. There are too many gaps in his story. Something does not sit well with me, though I know not what it is yet. I will return as quickly as I can. In the meantime, keep close to your brother. And trust in the power of that ring should you have need of it.
Teakin .
Eirik sparked a flame to life in his open palm and held the note over it until it caught. The fire latched on and consumed the fragile paper until pain needled his fingertips and ash piled up in his hand. With one directed breath, he blew the evidence into the wind.
Hornhall
K atarra led the cloaked child past the blacksmiths hammering away, the sounds of hissing steam and crackling forges following the unlikely pair. No one looked up from their work.
No one batted an eye as they crossed the cobblestone courtyard through the flurry of footmen, scullery maids, and valets coming and going. No one made a comment as they cut between grocers and musicians unloading their goods and their instruments for the evening feast.
Katarra and the girl entered the castle through the servant’s hall. Lesser fae scurried by them, their minds set to whatever task was at hand. Continuing on, they passed the kitchens full of shouting, savory smells, and clouds of flour.
Down another short hall. Up a narrow winding staircase, climbing, climbing, higher and higher. Until the stairwell turned from stone to worn wood, growing so narrow a large male would have to angle his shoulders to pass.
The child had fallen behind by the time they made the last rotation onto a small, creaky landing. Winded, the girl stepped up beside her, eyes bright in the dark. Katarra didn’t bother with explanations as she reached above the door and felt for the makeshift key she’d crafted.
She had found this old, seemingly forgotten, servant’s room on her second day here, when she’d mapped out every exit and entry point in Hornhall castle. She then fashioned keys out of hairpins for each space and hidden them close to each room.
Katarra’s fingers landed on the scrap of bent metal and she quickly pulled it down and unlocked the door. Opening it, she ducked under the low header into the small room. The girl, who had given the name Oakley, followed her inside.
“You can hide out in here,” Katarra said. “There’s underground tunnels, too, if you are brave enough to figure them out.” She looked around the dusty space, barely large enough to fit the moth-eaten cot pushed to one side. “I’d make stealing some blankets my first priority if I were you. It’s not going to get any warmer up here when the sun sets.” She pointed to the exposed rafters. “If a rat falls on you while you’re sleeping, don’t scream.”
Katarra turned for the door.
“And when you get caught. You never met me.” She looked back. “Understand?”
The girl nodded and set her only belonging, a sack, on the cot. “What’s his name? Your horse.”
“Why do you want to know?”
A tiny shrug. “He was kind to me. Letting me sleep in his stall. I want to add his name to my list.”
“What list?”
“I say a prayer for those on my list each night.” She glanced at the threadbare rug beneath her feet. “So the gods will keep them in their favor.”
“And you think the gods listen?”
The girl looked up, not a hint of doubt in her butterscotch eyes. “Someone does.”
Katarra cocked her head and took in the child again from head to toe. “His name is Anarchy.” She turned on her heels.
“What’s yours?” the tiny soprano voice asked.
Katarra paused. “Don’t add me to your list, child.” She turned the door’s rickety handle. “Now’s not the time to start making enemies of your gods.”