Wanted. #2
“This was once a stable,” Bash said, nodding toward the pens on the far side. “Somewhere for weary travelers to keep their steeds—or wyverns—while they rested.”
Arthur nudged a moldy bundle of straw with his boot. “No animal’s been here for a very long time,” he muttered, glancing up at the leaking roof.
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine what it might feel like to ride a wyvern. But I couldn’t.
“Do you think any wyverns remain in Lyonesse?” I asked, hoping that one day I’d soar above the gray clouds and glimpse blue skies.
“Yes,” Fletcher replied, tapping the carving with his finger. “The first time we saw one—weren’t we all barely twelve or thirteen?” He glanced over at Bash and Arthur, and they both nodded in agreement.
“Ten years ago, now—I stood on the dock when it came flying over the horizon. My father brought it down with a single arrow.” He mimed pulling a bowstring and released it with a theatrical twang.
“It plummeted from a great height, crashing into the water.” He shuddered.
“It must’ve felt like being stabbed with a thousand shards of glass.
When the tide washed it ashore, the seamen examined it—magnificent thing, with fishlike scales, enormous talons, and mesmerizing purple eyes—”
“Knights chopped off its head,” Bash interrupted, his usual grin replaced with a scowl. “They mounted it on a spike outside the Lord’s castle, like some trophy.” He spat on the ground. “It made me sick.”
As Bash sneered at the memory, a rustle emerged from a bale of hay. At first, I thought it was the wind, but the dried grass shifted erratically—as if something was trapped inside.
“Wiccean?” Wizard or witch? a squeaky voice called out from within the bundle before us.
Arthur leaned close, pressing his mouth to my ear. “I think that was Yfelle,” he murmured, his trembling hand tightly clasping my arm.
My heartbeat thrummed in my ears—anxiety slicked my skin. I knew that one wrong reaction might reveal that I understood the forbidden language. And if these men discovered I was a witch—there was no guessing how savagely they’d react.
A small, shadowy figure darted from behind the bale and retreated into the stable’s farthest corner.
“I thought I could smell the stench of magic,” it hissed, sniffing the air like a hound. “But I must be mistaken. Do you speak the language of men?”
Without hesitation, the four of us moved as a pack, shuffling out of the stable and onto the gravel track under the inn’s amber light.
The creature scuttled out from the shadows cast by the canopy, stepping into the dim moonlight.
Its body resembled that of an infant, but its face was wizened, like an elderly man’s.
Draped in what looked like an old potato sack, it crept forward on bare, hairy feet that were as scraggly as its pointed chin.
Worry and wonder warred within me as I beheld something magical.
“In the name of the gods, what is that thing?” Arthur gasped, ducking behind my frame, using me as a shield.
“Could say the same about you,” the critter snapped as it scampered closer. “Fat git,” it muttered under its breath.
“Back off!” Fletcher barked, kicking out with force.
His boot whacked the creature’s swollen belly, sending it tumbling among the sharp gravel.
“Eeek!” it squealed, the sound grating like a rusty hinge, as a plume of stone dust engulfed it.
I instinctively stepped forward, wanting to help the poor thing, but Bash grabbed my arm.
“We should go inside,” he murmured, dragging me away.
I nodded, keeping my gaze fixed on the creature as it stumbled to its oversized, flat feet.
Arthur clung to my cloak while Bash pulled me toward the inn with haste. Fletcher shoved the wooden door open, and we all tumbled inside to safety.
“What was that?” I asked, curious about what magical creatures still lurked around the realm.
Fletcher shrugged. “Ugly, that’s what it was—”
“Shouldn’t we tell the innkeeper?” Arthur asked, fear laced into his hushed tone. “Bring it in here and have it killed?”
Bash shook his head. “Four strangers walk into an inn with a magical creature… We’ll be the ones who end up hanged,” he whispered, though his voice was firm. “Sometimes it’s safer to keep quiet.”
I nodded, siding with Bash. I’d seen the hysteria firsthand—when Dog bounded through Green Vale and the villagers turned frenzied.
“You’re right,” Arthur said, his hand drifting to his throat like he could already feel the rope. “I’ll find the innkeeper—ask about lodgings.”
He thumped across the chamber, the floorboards groaning beneath the sheer weight of him.
The inn was dimly lit by a crackling fireplace and a few candlesticks, their wax dripping onto the decorative mantelpiece.
Around the hearth were some uncomfortable-looking seats and a wonky wooden table.
I sank onto a bench, moaning in delight as I relieved my legs from their duties.
The fire thawed my frozen bones—warmth at long last.
“I miss home already.” Bash sighed as he collapsed into a tattered armchair opposite me.
Fletcher chuckled, perching on a stool. “Get used to it. You’ll never see the Headlands again,” he said, giving Bash a jovial shove.
“What’s it like there?” I asked, curious if all of Lyonesse was as rainy and green as the Wetlands.
“Beauteous,” Fletcher replied. “White sandy banks and blue skies.” He closed his eyes, as if trying to recall it from memory.
Bash leaned back in his chair. “The port bustles day and night with merchants, shipbuilders, and shopkeepers. There’s always trouble in the waterways—pirates from the Bristolia Islands harass us seamen who’re trying to protect the Headlands from drifters and poachers.
But on a peaceful day, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than on a boat, watching the amber sun melt into the waves on the horizon. ”
My stomach rumbled, making me think of food. “What do people eat there?” I asked, thinking of Green Vale’s staples: : potatoes, corn, brambly apples, and strawberries in the summer.
“Lamprey,” Arthur said as he returned from the bar, settling into the space beside me.
“What?” I asked, having no clue what that was.
Arthur sighed. “It’s a long, finless fish, with a mouth as round as a tankard’s rim and lined with rings of tiny teeth.
The sea’s so clear, you can catch buckets of them with a single spear.
” He mimed stabbing the air. “The Lord of the Headlands once feared they were magical and ordered fishermen to use giant foreshore weirs to trap them. Those ruthless nets caught everything—even a few sirens. But the lamprey kept coming back.”
“Resilient little creatures—and rather tasty, too,” Bash added. “If you don’t mind jaw ache, that is. They’re rather chewy.”
I chuckled as Bash beckoned me closer, and I relaxed into his company, copying his posture as he rested his elbows on his thighs.
“Before the Dark Days, the Headlands were thought to be a holy place,” Bash said.
“Everything there was white—even the people’s hair—a sign that all had been blessed by magic.
Now the King claims it’s been leached of life.
He insists the Headlands aren’t white because they’re enchanted, but because they’re soulless.
That the ivory’s as cursed as the coal-colored shores of Cambas. ”
“When the King speaks, it becomes truth,” Fletcher interrupted, saluting the air sarcastically.
“Did you say there were sirens in the Headlands?” I asked.
Arthur nodded. “Most folk will never see one, but if you work out at sea, it’s only a matter of time before you sail past an enchantress.”
Bash cleared his throat, drawing my attention.
I edged closer, eager for his next words, as a mischievous smirk curled his lips.
“When the wild winds blow, the siren starts to sing,” he whispered.
“Her voice travels across the water and upon a wyvern’s wing.
The seaman and his sailors follow her angelic song.
Sailing across the silver seas, their voyage carries on.
Until, ahoy!” Standing, Bash propped one foot on the teetering table and raised a hand to shield his brow.
“They spot a siren laid bare upon a rock. She drowns them all, then curses their souls, that boat shall never dock.”
I tittered while Fletcher clapped half-heartedly.
Arthur nudged me with his elbow. “Don’t laugh, you’ll only encourage him,” he teased.
“Have you ever seen a siren?” I asked as Bash collapsed back into his chair.
They all nodded.
“Imagine the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid eyes upon,” Bash said.
For a moment, I thought of Avice—but I blocked the idea of her out, as though the memory of her was on one side of a window and I’d drawn the curtains closed. She was out of sight, but I knew she was still there.
“Sirens are more beautiful than that,” Bash continued, leaning back into the armchair. Propping his scuffed boots on the table, he closed his eyes, as if recalling an encounter with a sea creature.
“Bash claims his first kiss was with one,” Fletcher remarked in a tone that told me he didn’t believe him.
Bash chuckled, cracking one eye open. “It’s true! My only complaint was she tasted like seaweed—and I wasn’t sure what to do with the tail. Do you stroke it?” He looked across the table and I shrugged. “Beats me. I’m not well versed in etiquette.”
The innkeeper appeared beside us, her yellow kirtle swishing as she placed a candlestick in the middle of our table.
“Or manners,” she said tartly, smacking Bash’s boots off the table.
She adjusted her wimple, tugging at the cloth that dug into her sagging neck. The headpiece framed her wise face; her old skin looked like every wrinkle could tell a fable. But as she spoke, I was reminded that age didn’t always equal wisdom.