Chapter 1 Tobias #3
She left in a huff, and Tobias followed before the vendor could offer him her assistance.
He trekked down the road, weaving between passersby dressed in auburn tunics and harem pants the color of mud.
The wealthier patrons wore fine linen drapes and dresses lined in geometric stitching, with golden baubles on their belts and jangling from their wrists.
He wove between them, hoping to make out their whispers.
“Calix aims to sell his property. He and his family are leaving at once.”
“Already?”
“If She’s dead, the rest of us aren’t far behind.”
Tobias frowned beneath his cowl. A woman cried silent tears on the shoulder of her stern-faced husband, servants walked in a line murmuring behind their hands, and two light-skinned men barked in hostile Kovahrian about something clearly of grave importance.
Whether he heard their words or not, the issue was clear.
Leila.
“Heralds will arrive shortly. They have to.” A man flipped a coin between his fingers. “They can’t keep us waiting like this.”
His eyes were trained on the distant dais in the center of the square, a raised platform of the same beige pavement as the road beneath him. People were already collecting, straining their necks as they peered ahead, trying to make out a glint of silver armor.
Any moment now.
“I’ve seen them.”
Tobias’s muscles flexed. Two men—one bald, the other burly and bearded—stood beside a shopfront picking through a basket of dates. Shifting his cowl up the bridge of his nose, Tobias lingered.
“You’ve seen them?”
“Patrolling the streets. Entire units, fully armed.”
Tobias loosened the slightest bit. He kept his eyes on a barrel of olives, his mind turning over their words.
The man scratched his beard. “That confirms it. She’s missing.”
“This reeks of the Outlands. They grind witches to dust there. Imagine what they’d do to The Savior. Her magic must be worth all the coin in the world.”
The bearded man shook his head. “The Artist is a true Thessian in home and blood. You can tell by the bronze of his skin.”
“I’m not concerned about the Artist.”
“No loitering.” A gravelly-voiced shopkeeper crossed his arms, his hooded eyes glaring at Tobias. “Either make a purchase or move along.”
Tobias steered away from the storefront, vanishing into the mix of people.
The mass had become dense, and he wove through the thick of it, a faceless man the same as the next.
A passerby collided against his hip—and the scabbard along with it—and he slid his fingers up the aged leather, wrapping them tight around the hilt of his sword.
The horde came to a stop, all eyes pointed ahead. Tobias craned over heads and shoulders, tracing their gazes to the dais.
Still empty.
The passing slowness was a sharp poker stabbing him from the inside. A man near him let out a sigh and ran a hand across his sweaty forehead. “Everything’s fine,” he said to no one at all. “If something was wrong, they would’ve alerted us at once.”
Metal clanked in the distance, cutting through the din of voices.
The red crest of a helmet came into view and sunlight glimmered against the floral plating of a silver breastplate.
One guard turned into five, then ten, and soon twenty armored soldiers were marching toward the dais, spears in hand and swords at their hip.
The people buzzed with nervous energy while Tobias’s eyes flitted between each weapon.
The crowd parted, murmuring as the guards strode up to the dais far too small for their numbers. Tobias had never seen such an escort for a simple herald, but then again, nothing about the day was simple.
The soldiers took formation, assembling into two long lines alongside the platform, spears crossed into X’s. Before Tobias stood white tunics and flaxen harem pants covered in steel plates, sandled feet laced with leather, but no royal drape, no parchment scroll.
No herald.
A single soldier, his face hidden by his helmet, stepped onto the dais. “Citizens of Thessen, we bear news from the palace as dictated by his highness, our sovereign.”
Whispers ebbed and flowed across the road. An announcement from the royal guard itself. Tobias tightened his grip on his hilt.
“Yesterday, during the Culmination of the esteemed Sovereign’s Tournament, our One True Savior disappeared with favored competitor, the Artist, at Her side,” the soldier said. “It appears some manipulation of dark magic unknown to the palace was used in the escape.”
Dark magic. The words floated around Tobias in hushed, fearful voices. Leila burst into black clouds in Tobias’s mind, and his gut wound into a knot.
“After much investigation, the royal guard can confirm without doubt that the Artist has kidnapped Her Holiness.” Gasps resounded through the crowd, but the soldier continued. “He seeks to end Her life and reign.”
Air evacuated Tobias’s lungs, his being sucked dry.
Kidnapped.
“The guard has reason to believe the Artist’s treason is a retaliation due to his failure in the Sovereign’s Tournament.
He now seeks vengeance against our blessed Ruler.
” The soldier’s voice rose, carrying above the din of the crowd.
“We’ve yet to determine how he came to wield dark magic, but evidence suggests he absconded with The Savior’s power during their brief and infrequent time alone. ”
“Is that possible?” The people glanced between one another. “Absconded? How?” The sword shook against Tobias’s hip, and he realized it was his own trembling hold making the weapon dance, his fingers digging in with a hateful grip.
“This news is troubling for all, and indeed for our righteous sovereign,” the soldier said. “While his royal highness has vowed to exhaust all resources in the search for his beloved daughter, he asks that you remain vigilant during these trying times and that you heed these final words.”
Tobias noticed it then—a blaze crackling amid his insides, crawling up his throat, blackening his tongue. Brontes’s rigid face filled his mind, and when the soldier shared his final words, Tobias heard the low growl of the sovereign’s voice, saw the satisfaction in his one good eye.
“The Artist is a fugitive of the Sovereign’s Tournament and traitor to Thessen. A generous reward will go to anyone who returns him to the palace, dead or alive.”