Chapter 4 #2
A man with a grizzled beard and no shoes stands bowlegged near a woman selling jewelry.
He holds a bamboo lute in his four-fingered hand and strums the out-of-tune strings to the anthem of Arioch.
Voices of bubbling peasants ebb in and out of his melody, some singing the song, others shouting about their wares.
The chaotic atmosphere of the village is refreshing.
I know I’ll miss this perfect lack of order when I return to the castle.
Still, no sign of any magical beings here, cloaked or non.
I stand next to the bard, who has now changed the chords to an upbeat, choppy shanty.
I’m unfamiliar with the tune, but my toe taps respectfully as people begin converging into dance.
My gaze wanders to the other merchants, searching for anyone I could potentially invoke to be my teacher.
I’m thankful for my height as it makes peering over the crowd easier.
“Who might this one be?” a woman’s voice twangs from behind me.
She is a hatter with short rust-colored hair and a curious scar that runs along her chin.
I know she wasn’t speaking to me, though it’s clear I’m the subject of her question when she snipes, “One of His Majesty’s cronies, you reckon?
Think he’s got any valuables on him?” When she catches my stare, a rosy-cheeked smile brightens her features.
“Oh, but he’s clearly no mage. And that head of yours looks like it could use a hat! ”
I offer a nod in her direction, aware of merchant traps and even more skeptical after her verbal plan to steal from me. Before she gets the chance, I leap into the crowd. Dirt and sweat and metal fill the air. I wrinkle my nose as I shove to a quieter section of road.
A stout woman stands nearby, supervising a pot of strange liquid over a shimmering fire. Her red-rimmed eyes focus intently on the vat of orange and purple.
Despite my lack of experience in dealing with fairies or trolls or any other magical creature, I’ve had a number of encounters with mages and witches, so I know how to best approach them without scaring them off.
“Where do you travel from?” I ask, dropping my refined tone halfway through my question. I’m a bit unfamiliar with the ways of peasantry, though I’m at least aware that witches never stay in one place for too long. It’s unlikely she’ll notice my lapse in diction.
The little witch cackles. “Arcanvale, son.” She drops a heavy wooden spoon into the tall pot and stirs.
Arcanvale is a town within Arioch rumored to house many dangerous witches, rogue mages, and other humans who do not serve the throne.
It exists more as a gathering of people than a village, if my history lessons serve me right.
No settlement is allowed to be as close to the boundary of Aldorin as Arcanvale is.
If the king knows of its existence, he hasn’t made any decree to cease the gatherings there.
“Arcanvale is…where other witches and mages gather, is it not?” I ask carefully, flexing my vowels in a way similar to hers.
She stops stirring, then raises a thin, gray eyebrow at me. “That’s correct. And you, son. From whence do you hail?”
My fingers curl in on themselves as I search for an appropriate answer, and I choke on my breath.
The cold silver ring remains snug on my littlest finger, but instead of the comfort it usually supplies, fear chokes the circulation to my fingertip.
An unsuspecting passerby may not bat an eye at the ring, even if they were to glimpse the twin dragons swirling toward the center. But a witch?
As casually as possible, I snake my arm into the sleeve of the heavy cloak and clear my throat.
“Bellmane, miss. As you can see”—I gesture at my purplish-brown cloak, invoking my disguise—“I’m training as a mage for King Azriel’s high court.”
The witch ogles me over her hooked nose before she continues stirring the liquid. If the mention of my father frightens her at all, she doesn’t show it. “What does a mage-to-be want with a member of the occult? Have you discovered something you shouldn’t have?”
I puzzle at this, but shake my head.
“Information.” I smile, though I know it’s blurred by the cloth around my lips.
“That sort of thing isn’t cheap.” Her gaze quickens over me, then she laughs—a hideous sound. “But you don’t seem in need of gold.” She raises her thin gray brows. “Or status. Shall I name my price?”
Thinking about it now, velvet is too luxurious a material, especially in the summer heat. I’d overlooked such a simple detail in my disguise.
It’s a wonder she hasn’t already refused me for my obvious privilege.
Xavelor wouldn’t have made such a mistake .
I nod against the pain in my head, and the witch stops her stirring once more. With a crooked finger, she beckons me closer. I lean down, angling my ear to her aged lips. Her whisper is like the scattering of raindrops on a soft, dusty road. As she speaks, a shudder rides down my spine.
“Your horse.”
I step back, unable to disguise my disbelief. She’d seen me enter from all the way over here? Or maybe she’s assuming I have a horse, since I’ve evidently failed to hide my wealth. Still, a horse is an easy payment. I prefer that over a favor to be repaid later.
She frowns when I shake my head. “I’ll send a horse for you. I imagine travel is difficult for a woman such as yourself.” I don’t tell her my horse is the only one I’ve ever ridden, and can’t bear parting with him. It’s unlikely any wealthy noble or merchant would grow so attached.
Her lips purse, but she doesn’t decline my offer. She must be in desperate need, and it’s rare for nobles to exit their mansions or castles to converse with peasants. Why not supplement her with something comfortable? I wonder how long she’s gone traveling on foot…
“Tell me, what is it you seek?” Her voice takes on a sharper edge, ready to make a deal with me.
From my observations, witches often rely upon the unstable power of prophecy and potions.
While she isn’t someone who could train me directly, she might be able to help me find the person who can.
Though I’ve never sought a witch’s help before, in passing, I’ve heard servants whisper of their unbelievable accuracy in predicting the future.
“A master who can instruct one in the natural arts of magic and swordplay, who will leave their post to aid a warrior,” I whisper, keenly aware of listening ears.
“Do you seek such a master for yourself?” She purposefully raises her voice.
I lock my jaw and nod once, ignoring the glances in our direction.
If she has any thoughts, her expression doesn’t betray them. She leans her small head over the pot and stirs once, then leans the spoon against the side. A few seconds pass as she studies the marbled liquid, seeing something I cannot.
“You will be joined by a companion. He will help you find the master you are searching for.”
“Why not take this companion as my master?”
She cackles. “I know not the answers to questions like ‘why?’ or ‘how?’, boy. Only that he will bring you to whom you’re fated to meet.”
“Why not just tell me who my master will be?”
She stares at me, almost in annoyance. I’d asked a “why” question.
“When?” My hand is growing clammy in the warm velvet sleeve.
She quirks a brow. “Soon. That is all. I expect a horse from you for my trouble. Now be on your way.”
I don’t wait for her to toss whatever potion she’s concocting at me. I quickly turn and spill into the crowd of still-bustling bodies.
Before remounting Claude, I take a draught of water from the flask in the saddle pouch. Then, untying him from the cart, I swing my leg over his bowed back, and head away from the buzzing village.
The trot back to Arioch’s castle is a short thirty minutes, but it feels much longer with the sweat slowly taking over my body.
I manage to return to the stables in one piece. Derryl looks vaguely alarmed at the curls of hair matted to my forehead. I tell him to dispatch a horse to Bellmane quickly, toss him a silver coin, and rush past the guards and soldiers stationed throughout the castle’s corridors.
My father has never cared to monitor my movements, especially since I’d never had any desire to leave the castle (books were often better company than people).
But now I take care around the guards. Over the past week, they’ve apprehended me on a number of occasions for the littlest things.
Sneaking into the kitchens for pastries, for example.
This time I wasn’t gone for long, and none of the guards seem to have noticed my disappearance, so I stride confidently past.
Light streams in every window, staining the stone floors and walls in colorful patterns.
The heat visibly dominates the air, distorting objects around it.
Maids and servants focus on their tasks as they brush past. Mages occasionally blur by, no more bothered by my presence than the motes of dust dancing in the light.
When I arrive at my chambers, my thumbs manage the clasp beneath my chin, and I fumble with the cloth around my head before I rush into my room and fall onto the tall feather-filled mattress.
The steady thudding of my heart reminds me I’m alive and my desperate search for a master is nearing its end. A smile stretches over my lips.
My brother’s funeral is tomorrow, and I’m smiling because I’m going to learn how to take his place.
I should be mourning, yet here I am, reveling at the thought.