SIXTEEN #2
Just another reminder of how small my family is in the scheme of things.
Vessica traces a few of the postern’s etched lines, her finger dancing around in a chaotic pattern until sigils begin to glow. The air under the arch shimmers, and I suck in a deep breath, bracing myself. Before I exhale, Vessica is already through.
“Don’t wait for me,” I grumble. Closing my eyes, I dart forward. My boots skid on flagstone, and I nearly crash into Vessica, who’s standing at the edge of a public street with her arms folded, looking like she’s been waiting for me her entire life.
“You okay?” she asks, not sounding particularly concerned.
“I’m not dead,” I manage, but my teeth buzz from the double blow of the postern’s cold and the weather.
“Good enough.” She scans our surroundings. “Stay close to me.”
Squat buildings line the street, nearly lost in a haze of smoke.
The sound of clanging metal rings out all around us.
Every other business is a forge, and every structure appears built for defense, as if the lives of each soul in Wolf’s Keep revolve entirely around the needs of Order Marius.
Houses and shops are packed tightly together, their roofs sloped to shed rain and their windows barred like the village’s inhabitants always expect intruders and never guests.
The wood used to build is old and battered, but nothing is broken or in disrepair.
The streets are wide and paved. Every pothole is filled.
The town is rough but ready for whatever the Stars throw at them.
Vessica moves through it like she owns the place, a privilege she’s earned as a knight. Although I suspect she had that confidence long before the rank. People nod as she passes, their eyes sliding right over me. But it’s better than being stared at.
We head for what might be considered the main street in an average village. Still, normal trades—a baker, apothecary, and grocer—feel like an afterthought here. A sign swinging over the entrance of The Last Drop tavern reads: No Fights. No Questions. No Credit.
The dress shop is tucked beside it, colorful gowns displayed in the windows. Vessica deposits me there, promising to return after a quick trip to the post.
I survive the entire fitting before she returns and taps on the glass like she refuses to even step foot inside.
Sliding the receipt into my pocket, I mutter a quick thanks to the seamstress and hurry out to find Vessica studying one of the dresses through the window.
It’s made from deep blue velvet, cut close to the body, the sleeves slashed with silver and lined in white silk. Severe but elegant.
I clear my throat as I close the door behind me. “You should try it on.”
“I have no use for dresses.” But her eyes linger.
“Lenora says even soldiers dress up for Twelvetide.”
She snorts. “Only the ones trying to catch someone’s eye.”
I can tell what she thinks about doing that.
“You could wear it for yourself,” I say quietly. “Who cares what anyone else thinks?”
Her gaze narrows. “If you believed that, you wouldn’t keep covering up that mark on your chest.”
I want to tell her that she’s wrong, but I can’t.
“Here.” She thrusts a single envelope into my hand along with a small box wrapped in brown paper. “These were at the post for you.”
My heart thunders at the sight of Kieren’s sloppy handwriting. The envelope is thin. There can’t be more than a single piece of folded parchment inside. But a package? After weeks with no word, I resist the urge to tear it open.
“I can’t dance anyway,” Vessica confesses as we turn to leave, her tone so conversational that I nearly trip on the threshold.
Before I can point out how easily we can remedy that, the doors of the neighboring tavern burst open.
People spill into the street toward the Civicus in the center of the square.
There’s already a group clustered around, arguing over something posted there.
I can’t see what, but the energy has shifted since I entered the shop an hour ago.
Voices rise and fall like a storm. People are tense, glancing between the Civicus and the street like they’re looking for something.
A couple of them spot me and stare.
“They know you’re the raven-marked one,” she warns me in a low voice. “They all do.”
Raven-marked.
I reach to adjust the collar of my coat, eyes darting around like I might catch people gawking in every nearby window. “How? Did Bishop send out announcements?”
“Of course not.” She looks offended on his behalf. “The whole kingdom knows. The Quincentennial was a matter of public interest.”
For so many reasons, it’s hard to believe that I’m one of them. But the thought that people know what’s hidden under my shirt …
Vessica grabs my elbow. “We should go.”
I follow, ducking my head as we weave our way through the clogged street. Vessica doesn’t break stride, but she keeps her hand on her sword like she expects trouble.
My eyes stray to the Civicus as we pass, and I stop in my tracks when I see the headline.
ANOTHER MURDER IN DAMALIS
I stare, the shouts around me fading, the people forgotten as the world stops spinning and recenters on that single word.
Damalis? How? Thoughts crowd my brain until my head hurts and my eyes strain from staring at the headline.
Who? A jolt of adrenaline startles me out of my stupor.
I move without thinking, pushing through the crowd to get a closer look, two words practically screaming at me even from a distance: heart removed.
Like the king. When I don’t recognize the victim’s name, I nearly collapse with relief.
But a murder this close to home? Things like that don’t happen in Damalis.
Maybe that’s why Kieren finally wrote to me.
I reach into my pocket for the letter as someone shouts from behind me.
They’re too far away for me to catch what was said, but it sets off a ripple and people turn.
In my direction.
A woman next to me jabs my shoulder with her finger. “It’s her! That’s the one from the palace!”
“The harbinger,” another voice yells, loud enough to carry.
The word bounces from mouth to mouth—harbinger, harbinger, harbinger.
I try to back up, but someone shoves me, and I stumble into another stranger, dropping my package on the ground.
They shove me until I’m being pushed around from person to person like I’m nothing more than that rising chant on their lips.
Hands rip at my coat, my hair—each person trying to take a piece of me.
Someone yanks hard enough that my neck snaps back.
Another fist catches my ribs. I taste copper and realize I’ve bitten my tongue.
The chant swells until it’s the only thing I can hear.
Suddenly, the hands and fists vanish, and I crash, my knees hitting the street with a jarring crunch that rattles me all the way to my teeth. Vessica steps in front of me and draws her sword with a deliberate slowness, allowing each inch of the metal to catch the watery afternoon light.
“Back off,” she says, voice flat as a gravestone.
The mob hesitates. No one wants to be the first to test her.
Finally, a man spits at my feet, a gold tooth flashing when he sneers at me. “Go back to where you came from, witch.”
I flinch, but Vessica simply whips the sword toward him—and taps its point on his nose. “What was that?” she asks. He stammers something, eyes crossed as they focus on the tip of her blade, but she shakes her head. “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“N-Nothing,” he finally manages.
She presses the flat of the sword’s tip to the base of his nose, forcing his head up. “No. I distinctly heard you,” she says. “You said: I’m sorry, my lady. Now, try again. Louder this time so everyone can hear you.”
The man’s throat slides, red creeping up his neck, but he opens his mouth and shouts the words.
Vessica withdraws the sword as a half dozen guards jostle their way toward us. The crowd begins to disperse, most splintering off in the face of more weapons.
“Make sure that no one follows us,” she orders the men. They pull their swords and form a shield around us. I scramble for the package, relieved that only the paper is torn. Vessica grabs my arm, still holding her sword with the other, and drags me down the closest alley.
The crowd gets louder behind us, people shouting and arguing, but we don’t stop to see if they’ve broken past the guards. She doesn’t let me go until we reach the postern, and then it’s only to slam her hand against it, tracing the pattern with lightning speed.
“Get in,” she barks as soon as it begins to glow.
I don’t argue, and this time, the cold of the portal is a relief.
We stumble out into the garden at Miradores, breathless, the world suddenly eerily quiet.
Vessica sheathes her sword and leans against the garden wall, closing her eyes.
I hover. What do I say first? An apology for nearly getting us killed? Do I ask about what I read? In the end, I settle for: “Thanks.”
Even if she was only following Bishop’s orders—and I’m certain she was—she could have left me at the crowd’s mercy.
She frowns. “You can thank me by keeping your head down next time and not wandering off.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, meaning it. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“You better start thinking,” she warns me. “You need to learn to use a sword before you go back to the village.”
I manage a nod, but there’s no way I’m returning to Wolf’s Keep. Even here, hundreds of miles from where the latest murder happened, people think I’m responsible. It won’t be safe to leave the estate until the killer is caught.
When Vessica finally looks at me, her eyes are bright. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admit, then draw a long breath. “But I will be.”
No matter what it costs me.