Chapter 1 #2
“We should take him,” George blurted.
“Mira—” Dunstan started, pulling out her alias.
“Think about it.” Her mind was already racing through possibilities.
“That man?” She pointed toward the stranger’s retreating form.
“He heard whatever they talked about inside. Maybe he’s a guard, maybe a co-conspirator, who knows.
But he has something we don’t—information.
Let’s go get it.” George set her empty tankard on the barrel and started toward the street, Dunstan by her side.
“Shouldn’t we plan first? Hildy’s going to kill us.”
“We can plan while we move,” Dunstan replied.
George couldn’t help but smile. “That’s the spirit.”
Isahn scratched his neck, lamenting his beard and hoping a shave day was on the horizon. He couldn’t get out of this disguise soon enough. The pub door closed at his back and he nearly plowed into a barmaid as she passed with a pitcher and three mugs.
Stinking of stale beer and woodsmoke, the tavern was dimly lit but not dark, and Isahn preferred to remain unseen. He was grateful for his cloak, his facial hair, and his walnut-dyed tresses as he placed Peros in the back corner, his purple jacket hard to miss, even in the low lighting.
Refusing to wear anything not ostentatious, Sir Peros Sarma, knight, stood out like a sore thumb amidst the fur- and wool-clad residents of Sorhaven.
To be fair, the men his uncle sat with looked out of place, too.
Bold hues must’ve been in this season, with the curly, black-haired man wearing a tunic of reds and oranges, and his straight-haired friend dressed in blues and silver.
They’re not from around here.
Slinking closer, Isahn paused near an empty table and let a few patrons partially block the men from view.
The whole purpose of his journey was to avoid death.
Being spotted wouldn’t be much help. It wasn’t even a quest he particularly wanted to be on.
He loved a fun adventure, but journeying to a neighboring country to spy on his uncle didn’t qualify.
He’d much prefer to be back home, or better yet, on holiday, with a beautiful woman by his side.
Someone looking for a lark, not to break the law.
Like her.
A gorgeous barmaid approached, her tunic cut low and belted just below her voluptuous breasts. Isahn grinned and winked as he took the proffered mug, let her fill it up, and handed off a coin.
Returning his flirtations with a wink of her own, she slipped away into the crowd. If it was meant to be, he’d catch up with her during the night. Sliding into a seat, he returned his attention to Peros and the pompous-looking men.
What was Peros grasping for now? Isahn had a multitude of reasons to distrust his uncle, who’d always wanted what wasn’t for him.
His mother’s younger brother was knighted, a consolation for not inheriting the earldom.
But being a “Sir” never satisfied Peros.
He’d also earned an ungodly amount of money in the role, which never sat right with Isahn, his sister, Solaelia, or with his parents when they’d been alive. Point one against his uncle.
Point two: Mum and Dad’s deaths from bad oysters never really made sense to his sister, and Isahn had to agree. Mum never ate oysters out of season.
Point three: When Isahn was handed the earldom a few years back, Peros didn’t offer to help his nephew take the reins, even though he was familiar with Staridge.
It was like he wanted Isahn to fail. A new earl, Isahn had to rely on Solaelia for support, and his best friend, Lord Kas Kahoth, a double-titled duke and earl.
The closest Peros ever got to helping was inviting himself to dinner and begging to look at the estate’s records. Isahn said no—every time. Point four.
Hoping to shed some light on his primary concern: Was Peros trying to oust him?
Isahn urged a narrow channel of water magic from his fingertip to the floor.
He crept the glistening stream beneath tables, sending it skittering over sticky, unwashed planks, weaving up the leg of his uncle’s stool to press against the underside of the table top, amplifying their conversation.
Happy with the placement, Isahn lifted his watercoursing hand to his ear and listened in.
“You’re not in his good graces,” the man in the tunic growled.
“We tried to kill them. I found them at least. I am trying,” Sir Peros whined, his voice on the verge of pleading.
Isahn gulped. Were they talking about him and his sister? Why would these boldly dressed men care about Midlake in Selwas?
Solaelia was positive Peros was seeking an assassin to take them out and secure his own claim to the earldom of Midlake.
She’d drawn Isahn into the cause, though he hadn’t been completely convinced assassination was on the table.
.. until now. Their uncle had always wanted the damn title, though Isahn had expected Peros to lighten up on the grasping two years back after his son was hanged for unrelated treason against the Crown of Selwas.
He hadn’t. If Isahn’s hypothetical son tried to overthrow the king, he’d probably go into hiding out of embarrassment, not try to steal a title no one wanted him to have.
Alas, Peros’s chubby fingers loved clutching too much.
“Trying is not succeeding.” Blue took a sip of his liquor and grimaced, glowering at his glass. “How the fuck is this so bad? We’re so close to Domos.”
Red shrugged.
“I agree it’s quite—”
“Shut up,” Red barked.
Peros shut his mouth so quickly Isahn could hear his uncle’s lips smack together.
“You wish to make this right?” Blue inquired.
“Yes, yes, very much.”
Ew. Uncle Peros was such a sniveling piece of shit that, even though Isahn had no idea what was going on, he thought he might be on the side of the men in colorful tunics.
“He will see you.”
Who?
“When?”
“Two weeks.”
“Where?”
“Come to Nowosmont. Get there early, if you can manage.”
Peros nodded, and while Isahn couldn’t see his uncle’s face, he could see the man’s shoulders drop as his tension drained away.
Why? What the fates is going on? Isahn’s thoughts tumbled as he watched Red and Blue leave the bar. After downing his own drink, Peros helped himself to the two glasses of liquor that the strangers abandoned.
Isahn took a deep pull of his dark beer. It was sweeter than he was used to in the south. He liked it.
When his uncle stood and passed by, making his way to the door, Isahn sank further into his cloak and peered out of the hazy window.
A shadowy flash of movement caught his eye, but he lost the figure.
That wasn’t uncommon here in Gramenia—discombobulating, but not uncommon.
With lightmages and darkmages comprising most of the population in this country, the principalities, skulking about in shadow or zipping past in a flash of light, seemed to be the norm.
It was one of a few light and dark magic abilities he’d been able to deduce from watching.
As he nursed his drink, the barmaid delivered tureens of stew to a table, and he wondered again just how he’d wound up in such a ridiculous situation.
Fucking Peros.
Whatever Isahn’s uncle was up to, it wasn’t good, and Isahn intended to uncover his end goal. It had to be done. Or at least, he was pretty sure it had to be done.
Swirling his ale, he watched it funnel down to the base of his mug. It hadn’t sounded like Peros was trying to hire an assassin in his conversation with the tunicked strangers. If anything, it sounded like his uncle was the one who was doing the assassinating.
With a heavy sigh and frustrated shake of his head, Isahn downed the rest of his drink and stood.
His path to the door was clear and, unfortunately, free of pretty barmaids.
Outside, he reoriented his hood for maximum protection and followed the route his uncle likely took back toward the Djemirian, a fine inn on the finer side of town.
Isahn had decided to stay there too, despite the risk. After a week on the road, he craved a well-made mattress. It was, in fact, calling to him at that moment.
As he wandered the brick streets, he wondered at Peros’s next destination. Nowosmont? It wasn’t in Gramenia—not unless there was a second city with the same name. No. Nowosmont was the bloody capital of the Kingdom of Domos.
Gritting his teeth, Isahn determined he’d get a good night’s rest, pen a note to Solaelia, and continue to track the shady bastard. It was likely to be a few more months; hopefully Lia wouldn’t mind his continued absence from their family seat.
He rolled his eyes.
Of course she wouldn’t mind. While Solaelia wasn’t the “kill your family to take the earldom” type, she was a natural leader, even if she didn’t see it herself.
She was doing fine, he was certain of it.
She’d been delighted to take over and manage things as an acting countess in his absence.
As long as he was home to travel to the Symposium of Prodigious Minds in the late summer, all would be well.
Rounding a corner, Isahn nearly tripped on a brick as he came face to face with a sobbing young girl who couldn’t have been older than ten.
Worries about Peros and the earldom dashed away, replaced with a sinking sensation in his gut.
This child was far too young to be out so late at night.
He squatted before the girl whose brown hair was matted to her head. She wore little more than rags.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t speak, only let out deep, gut-wrenching sobs as she pointed down the alleyway to her right. Isahn peered into the impenetrable gloom where anyone might be lurking. But the child gasped for air between cries, pleading with him through wide eyes. She clearly needed help.
“I’m going to take your hand, all right?”
She nodded.
Isahn grasped her and stood back to his full height.
In his left hand, he crafted a knife of water, a nearly invisible glass-like creation he’d mastered years before.
By calling on the iciest cold and most scorching heat he could imbue into his magic, he formed something solid and smooth but warm to the touch. “Show me what’s wrong?”
She pulled him along, leading them into the alleyway.
A figure emerged from the shadows; small, likely another child. This one was crumpled on the dirt-packed street. A dark puddle pooled around their head. Oh, gods. He felt for the girl who had gotten him—and her poor friend.
Isahn hurried toward the second child, a girl.
Her features were cloaked in darkness, making it impossible to tell if she was awake.
She made no sound. The distinct tang of hot, fresh blood cut through the chill air.
Not wanting to scare her, should she be alive, he released the magic that held his ice-knife in place and leaned down to check if she was breathing.
A small hand came over Isahn’s mouth from behind, something cold and metallic pressed into the thin fabric of his tunic.
Gruffly, a man’s voice demanded, “Don’t fucking move or we’ll kill you.”
Isahn froze as the palm covering his mouth shifted from childlike to adult-sized. The person holding on to him hadn’t moved at all. They’d become enormous.
The broken child on the ground also changed. One second, a possibly-dead blonde waif lay before him. The next, a man with bronze skin and dark curly hair pushed up and swung his adult-sized head in Isahn’s direction.
The impact of the man’s skull reverberated through Isahn, disorienting him.
Colors blurred, and the world spun. Caught in a whirlwind of confusion, he tilted forward.
Darkness crept in from the edges, consuming his consciousness in a sudden descent.
In that fleeting moment before oblivion, his senses surrendered to the mayhem.
He was standing on a beach, the beautiful ocean stretching out before him and sand, warm and gritty, beneath his toes. It was odd, because he was fairly certain he was wearing boots.
Then he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.