Lorinth, Taria
May 3, 1190 PT

Jon

“Still out cold,” Jon said.

Shane pressed his boot into the comatose man’s waist, shoving him to the side of the smuggling compartment. “Essence of Alunen. Burning good stuff. This fool won’t wake up ’til I want him to.”

Jon fitted a plank along a groove in the middle of the compartment, snug against the man’s back. “And when is that, exactly?”

“When he’s in a Freeland gallows.” Shane sported his fanged grin.

“Won’t he die of starvation before then?”

Shane laid a burlap cloth over the body. “There’s a reason it’s known as the Deathless Sleep. Expensive stuff.”

“Speaking of expenses.” Jon held out his hand. “I think I’ve earned my payment.”

Shane pulled a vial of glowing blue liquid from his pocket and handed it to Jon. “I won’t lie. Somulet Elixir doesn’t live up to its reputation, or its price, in my opinion.”

Grabbing the vial, Jon dropped it into his vest pocket. “It’s a last resort.”

The side door of the barn opened, prompting Jon to shut the compartment of the cart. Ella entered, laden with blankets and a clay bowl of steaming stew. Her hair had been retied, her face scrubbed pink. “Cameron says Mom wants to see you right away. She’s at the sick house.”

Jon nodded. “See that Shane gets whatever else he needs.” He gave her a kiss on the forehead and headed toward the door.

“How about a foot rub?” Shane leaned against the ladder and lifted his leg.

“Sure, right after I poison your dinner.” Ella shoved the bowl of stew into his hand, spilling some on the ground.

—

Jon strode to the sick house, which stood opposite Cameron Donfree’s Trading Post. Atop the limestone building sat a crumbling steeple, the husk of a Creedan church—a remnant from before the Drawls’ invasion two hundred years earlier.

The corroded hinges on the sick house door creaked when Jon heaved it open. Patients crowded the long room, lying in beds or scattered along the dusty floor. Jon stepped around a Drawlen priestess from the Order of Eruna as she chanted over three dying patients. Clay urns lined a high ledge along the walls. They sat empty, waiting patiently for the nearly dead that populated the cots. After hollow-eyed priests filled the jars with ashes, children too young to comprehend their contents would paint colorful interpretations of a desolate world on them.

When Jon spotted his wife measuring medicine, he shook that macabre picture from his mind. Ruth lifted a patient’s chin with her right hand, branded with the Drawlen seal, much like Jon’s own.

After the priestess left, Jon slipped behind Ruth. He smiled when she flinched. Even a retired thief was hard to surprise. He kissed her on the neck and dropped the flask of blue liquid into her apron pocket. “Fifty drams of Somulet,” he whispered. “Made strictly by the Yvean recipe.”

She spun, kissed him firmly, and cupped his face. “Thank you, love. It’s so good to see you.” Then her smile faltered. “What’s wrong, Jon? What happened?”

Jon glanced around the room. A tension hung here, the same tension hovering over the whole of Lorinth. “Vultures are in town.”

Ruth stroked Jon’s beard and sighed. “They’ve been here all week.”

“Have you seen your brother?” Jon asked.

Her gaze darkening, Ruth looked away. “Only from a distance. I figured it wouldn’t look good for Joran, associating with me while he’s on duty.” Her voice cracked, but she cleared her throat, pointing to the door. “Never mind now. Abad is waiting for you at the tavern.” She kissed him again, her soft lips lingering. Jon’s hands wandered down her hips before she pulled away. “Later, my love. I’ll be leaving soon with the boys. I want to start David on this as soon as I can.” She patted her apron pocket concealing the vial.

“You should stop in at Cameron’s before getting the boys,” Jon said. “Someone would like to see you.”

—

Adjacent to the sick house, the vast iron doors of the Drawlen temple swung open. A procession of soldiers and priests of Refsul, chief of the Drawlen immortals, emerged from the doorway onto the platform.

Jon stepped farther into the square, void of pedestrians.

Superficially, the temple was the most beautiful building in town. A masterpiece of marble walls, hard lines, and bronze molding, it stood three stories tall, each tier smaller than the last. Stained-glass windows lined the building, and silver and bronze inlaid the eight-pointed Star of Sovereign, a repeating border along the door and window frames. Ten-foot bronze statues of Refsul and Eruna faced the square on opposite ends of the platform.

Captain Percy Duval supervised from the doorway as the soldiers hoisted a petrified corpse onto a post in the middle of the stage and secured it with ropes. They granted no courtesy of a pyre. The body would be left to rot instead of burn, condemned to hell, giving it no path to paradise according to the Drawls.

Jon swallowed hard, suppressing his nausea. Across the square from the temple, he quickly ducked through the door of Loren’s Inn and Tavern. He shouldered his way through the noisy crowd, a strange mixture of drunken songs and nervous murmurs ringing in his ears.

Some off-duty temple guards were drowning themselves in ale and lamenting the presence of the Third North Rangers. When Jon reached the bar, he received a hard, enthusiastic slap on the back from Arik Leir, a lieutenant of the temple guard. “Welcome back, ol’ boy. You look like you’ve had vultures—hick—circling you.” Usually a temperate man, Arik wobbled on the stool, red-faced and slurring.

Jon returned the gesture. “Well, their party seemed rather dull compared to this.”

Arik waved to the boy working the bar. “Ha! Willy, get this soggy sod a drink. Something strong. I’m buying. At least this uniform is good for wages.”

William Loren, a tall boy of fifteen with a pale face set off by deep brown hair and a lanky build, nodded to Arik and Jon. An impressive bruise encompassed Will’s right eye. “Evening Mr. Therman. What’ll you have?”

Jon grunted. “Have any brandy?”

“Sure do. Good stuff . . . I mean, so I’m told.” Will fumbled under the bar, glass clinking against metal. He stood, pouring from a brown bottle into a dented mug. When he slid the full drink across the counter, Jon caught the boy’s wrist and raised his brows.

“You should have your old man teach you to wrestle properly, William. And also”—he let go of Will’s arm and leaned back—“if you’re to give my daughter any kind of birthday greeting, make it a handshake.”

Will forced a laugh. “I wasn’t—I haven’t . . . I mean, yes, absolutely, sir. A good old-fashioned handshake.” He exhaled and scurried away when a patron called for him.

Arik lifted his mug, clunking it against Jon’s. “He’s a fine kid, ya know. Keep scaring off the nice ones and Ella will have to marry a scoundrel like you.”

Jon chuckled and took a sip. A few guardsmen approached, clapping Arik on the shoulder and dragging him into the crowd. Arik stumbled forward, still grinning, and performed an off-key and off-color version of a nursery song.

Carl Loren, the pub’s proprietor, appeared across from Jon at the bar. He was a soft-faced fellow, stout with cheery eyes and wiry blonde hair—nothing like his son. “Abad and Cameron are in the back.” Carl’s forehead glistened with sweat, hands running along the bottles at the rail.

Jon nodded and grabbed his mug, ducking through the canvas curtain into the kitchen. He nodded to Margaret, Carl’s wife, who tended to the oven. She smiled and waved, pulling out a loaf of bread. Abad il’Dani waited near the doorway to the back room at the end of the hall.

“How did t’ings go in Estbye?” he said in a rolling Aginomian accent.

Jon approached and shook his hand. “Good enough.” He resisted divulging the troublesome acquisition he and Shane had made in the lower docks, or the bodies of the three hired guards floating in the canal. “Although, if you’re ever inclined to steal from a Freeland bank, don’t.”

Abad nodded, scratching at his tidy charcoal beard. “Al’dough being on dis side of it is certainly good for business. Cameron just gave me de lad’s deposit. Maybe we should set up an operation in Palim?”

Jon raised his brow. “This little job is as far into Freeland dealings as I care to go. It’s all politics, and I don’t want to meddle in that. Not to mention, it’s a country full of mind-reading terrion.”

“Right. Well, might want to keep an open mind on dat first point. Politics is de only business left dese days, smuggling or not.” He ushered Jon into the back room, locking the door behind them.

The space served as Carl’s office, storage for dry goods, and a discreet meeting place for Jon and Abad’s smuggling operation. Four sunrock sconces cast a pale blue light, silhouetting two women seated at the table. The light contrasted with the red glow from the furnace stones in the small hearth adjacent to the door. Abad grabbed the tongs and turned the stones, creating a warm draft.

Across from the hearth, Jon braced himself against the shelves lining the wall and scowled at one of the women. He fidgeted with the silver lettering on a book, one of many occupying the space. Carl’s love of literature had grown into an obsession. He owned most every legal book in this Drawlen territory, and some illegal ones.

Cameron, a stout woman in her fifties, sat at the red table in the center of the room. Her hands shifted to the brace of pistols at her hips, and she glared at the person across from her, Krishena Dantiego.

Krishena, Rogue Master of Rotira and one of Drawlen’s most wanted criminals, paid her no mind, leaning forward in her chair. The beads woven into her dreadlocks clinked together. They accented her coal-colored coat spotted with steel rings while her pale eyes contrasted against her dark skin.

“Jonathan Riley,” she said in a brassy voice with a subtle tSolanian accent. If she was going for friendly, her choice of words was a bad start.

Jon took a long gulp from his mug. “That’s not my name, Dantiego.”

“No matter where you go, Jon, you can’t change where you come from.” When she smiled, her white teeth and the long scar running from her brow to the base of her jaw caught the lantern light.

Abad placed the tongs on their hook and joined the women at the table. “Rogue Master, you came here to make a proposal, not open old wounds.”

Krishena nodded, the metal cuffs on her neck clanging like a far-away chime. It was a mystery how she managed thieving while wearing all that jewelry.

Draining the last of his mug, Jon slammed it onto the table. “So, what brings you to this exotic destination?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Ruvian Protector, Alistar Soral.”

Cameron sighed, rolling her eyes at Jon. “Knew this was a bad idea.”

“Ruvians.” Jon spat the word like something rotten.

“He’s asking for your help, Master Smuggler,” Krishena said.

Jon shook his head. “You know my answer. And this certainly isn’t a conversation to have in a town crawling with Drawlen rangers, where my family lives.”

“My shades protect us.” Krishena waved a hand in the air, and for a few seconds, the swirling, smoky vapor surrounding them appeared, like a dome of fog within the room. “No one can see or hear, even if they burst through the door.”

Jon glowered at Abad. “Did you know Ruvians were involved in her little proposal?”

Abad huffed. “Jon, hear what she has to say.”

“You know I want nothing to do with my father’s business.”

Krishena rose and stood eye to eye with Jon, every bit a rogue master despite being only thirty. “I care nothing for Lucas Riley’s business. But surely you saw the little show your friend Duval put on today? The Mortal Reform Act has passed in Pelton and Depbas. Clerics need only the suspicion of a contagious illness to sentence anyone to the Life Harvest. They will be lining up political dissenters by the hundreds. Duval could be putting you”—she jabbed a finger at him—“on the caravan if he wanted.”

A tremor rose in Jon’s hands and moved to his shoulders. He gripped the edge of the shelf behind him.

Krishena leaned back, crossing her arms. “And have you forgotten who pulled your daughter from the clutches of Lord Hayden, or who got your family to this quiet little town while collectors sniffed around in Estbye, or who watched over your children while you were locked up in Langry?”

Jon shoved her against the stone wall, grabbing her dusty lapel. “You burning fool! I don’t need Drawlen’s enemies clamoring for my attention while Duval sniffs around like a hungry wolf! Do you think working with you and your Ruvian cronies is going to make me less a target for Drawlen’s death game?” He stepped back, wringing his hands and gritting his teeth. “I knew Soral would come slinking around for something like this. Back then, you told me his aid was an act of good will.” He poked his index finger at her. “So, go tell him to burn in a fire.”

Cameron jumped up, head and shoulders shorter than anyone in the room, and Abad moved behind Jon. Krishena leaned against the wall and flattened her collar with gloved hands. “Feel free to tell him yourself.”

Jon startled when another man appeared in the far corner of the room, shadows drawing away from him like curtains. Krishena was notorious for this kind of dramatics. Abad leapt for the door while Cameron pulled her flintlock pistols, pointing one at Krishena and the other at this tall, bronze-skinned man. For a moment, everyone held their silence.

“Cameron, put them down.” Jon pointed at her holster.

“I knew this was—” Cameron withdrew her guns.

“Dis is why I don’t like bringing rogues to meetings.” Abad took a seat.

“This is sorcery!” Cameron threw up her hands as she sat.

Krishena cleared her throat and jutted her chin. “I am a ralenta, not a sorcerer.”

“Enough.” Jon addressed the man, who had remained quiet and pensive. “What in the fires are you doing here, Soral?”

The man stepped forward. He had the weathered face and posture of a seasoned soldier. Dressed in a simple brown justaucorps and matching waistcoat, he wore his shoulder-length black hair bound at his neck in a southern Corigish style. A sheathed cutlass rested at his side, and an unpainted crossbow hung over his shoulder.

Jon had seen many depictions of this man, the one Drawls had labeled the Arch Traitor. Mostly, they were demonic caricatures on murals or puppets in street shows. The Drawlen clerics hated—and hunted—no one more than Alistar Soral.

“You must be getting desperate if you’re coming to me in person, Arch Traitor,” Jon said.

Alistar laughed. It was a warm, amused sound—nothing like the villainous cackling urban puppeteers assigned to him. “I suppose introductions are unnecessary, Master Smuggler. Shall we get to business?”

Jon shook his head. “I have no interest in your business.”

Alistar let out a long breath. “You have no idea what I’ve had to do these past years to keep your family out of Drawlen claws, Jonathan. All I’m asking is for you to listen.”

“Whatever you want with me, I’ll have none of it, so be on your way—quickly.” Jon pointed to the door. “I want nothing to do with you or any Ruvian.”

Alistar bowed his head, then regarded Jon with piercing eyes.

Jon’s upper lip twitched. And there loomed Drawlen’s villain.

The Arch Traitor spoke in a measured tone. “One day, you may find that sneaking around under Drawlen’s nose to fill your family’s bellies is not enough. However much you dislike us, we are your blood, Jonathan Riley.” He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “I’m asking you to be a part of something greater than smuggling sunrock or helping a Freelander spy nab a bank robber. You rely solely on your own luck and cunning. Both will eventually fail you.”

Rage coursed through Jon’s veins. He ripped off his leather glove and displayed the Drawlen brand on his right hand. “This is the result of your greater cause. My father died in a cave somewhere because he was more interested in chasing old relics than caring for his own burning family.” He smacked the table with his glove. “Then your people tried to use me to start a war when I was but a child! My mother died getting me away from your power-mad cult. I spent six years in the bottom of a Drawlen mine, and now your little recruiting operation has brought the vultures down on us, Forest Demon!”

Alistar’s hard gaze fixed on Jon. “That man on the temple steps outside, he was mad. Nothing to do with us at all. But the Drawls don’t care. They will use any means, any lie to keep power. Yvenea and tSolan have slipped from their grasp, so they are coming down hard on the territories they still have. The west will suffer dearly for eastern freedom.”

“So move your people to Yvenea. Why must you bother me?”

“You’ve a gift for moving things around without anyone noticing,” Krishena said.

“It’s good long-term business, Therman,” said Abad.

Jon closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. “David put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“He said you’d throw a tantrum,” Cameron said. “His words.”

Jon let out a long, slow breath and opened his eyes. Finally, pragmatism won over his grudge. “What do you need moved . . . where and when?” he said. “But”—he held up a finger—“don’t mistake this for an agreement. I just want to know the scope of the job.”

“We have sixty thousand souls to move from various secret locations. After that, we hope to bring the Ruvians from Pelton and tSolan. They number almost two hundred thousand.” Alistar held out both hands. “We are preparing a place suitable for our numbers and with room to grow. But we need supplies brought there—discreetly.” 

“What kind of supplies?”

“The kind you build a city out of.”

“And your timeline?”

Alistar planted his hands on the table, leaning forward. “As long as it takes.”

“And what are you offering us?” Abad asked.

Alistar nodded to Krishena, who pulled a leather pouch from her jacket, laid it on the table, and rolled it open.

Cameron exhaled slowly. “Holy burning fires.”

Jon and Abad leaned closer, golden light warming their faces as they gazed at the most beautiful object they, and probably anyone alive, had ever seen. A glowing necklace lay before them, the likes of which surpassed the worth of all the jewels in the world. It was as if the morning rays of the sun had been strung together. Solisite gems were the subject of many rumors and legends. Supposedly, they adorned the crown of the Emperor of Greq across the Utharen Ocean and made up the wealth of the royal Yvean vaults.

“This is the smallest piece.” Krishena stroked the gems on the necklace. “A good-faith deposit.”

Abad gazed at Jon with bewilderment and delight. “Let’s build a city, eh, Jon?”

“Well, we should probably . . . authenticate this first.”

Shane

On the shallow loft in Cameron’s carriage house, Shane yawned as he sprawled in the hay. He folded and unfolded a penny knife Ella had picked off one of the thugs they’d dispatched in Estbye. He leaned forward, considering how else to vent his nervous energy, then grunted and tossed the knife in the air. Thurse—or more commonly, trolls—were a rare and unwelcome sight in this northern territory.

When the side door creaked, Shane froze. He expected Cameron or her shop manager. But the woman who stepped into the barn was neither. Once he recognized her, Shane pocketed the knife. Her hair was the same deep red mass of curls he remembered, her most distinctive trait. In the last seven years, she hadn’t aged much, but there were more lines on her pale face, more weariness in her eyes.

It took her only a moment to spot him. Her hazel eyes widened. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting you, lamb.”

When she grinned, Shane noted the features she shared with her daughter. He huffed at the nickname. It made him feel like the boy who had once crouched on the ground at the mercy of this cold-eyed ex-rogue with a knife to his ear. “Hey, Ruthie,” he said as he stood.

Ruth climbed the ladder and hugged Shane in her usual motherly way while he awkwardly kept his hands at his side.  “What brings a sharptooth Freelander to our humble and overly superstitious little hamlet?”

“Espionage.”

“Ah,” Ruth patted her cheeks while they both sat. “And you were having so much fun, you decided to share it with my husband and daughter?”

Shane put a hand to his chest. “Coincidence, honest. I needed to move something without turning heads. Jon’s good at that. El’s a lock-picking prodigy, by the way. She’s got a bright future.”

Ruth laughed. “She’s also got no regard for danger. I’d appreciate it if you don’t drag her into a fight next time.”

“Sorry about that.”

They sat quietly for a while.

“How are they—Tessa and Remm?” Ruth asked.

Shane took a deep breath. “Your sister is—she’s in deep. I don’t hear much other than what Liiesh tells me. I wish I could say more. But Remm is his usual self. Restless for a fight. Making things messier than they need to be. I swear he’s made for this work.”

“Hmm. Well, tell him to write when you see him. El and Nate love your letters, but they’re always disappointed they’re not from their brother. Threaten him if you must. You’re good at that.”

Shane snorted. “Will do.”

“I need to head home.” Ruth swung her legs onto the ladder. “I think if the boys saw you, they wouldn’t be able to keep their mouths shut. Maybe next time when vultures aren’t circling all over town.”

“Yeah, I guess. Later, mother bird.”

“Good travels, Red Wolf.”

Shane watched her leave the barn, then picked at the hay. Seeing Ruth Therman brought back memories both painful and wonderful: “Don’t waste your life being that pirate’s lackey. He’ll turn you into a wolf. Choose your own fate.”

He had become a wolf, regardless of escaping a life of piracy. Still, Ruth’s words had changed his life.

Jon

Jon entered the yard behind the tavern. Instead of calming him, the cold night air only energized his seething. Sure, Alistar’s offer was, well, irresistible. But that didn’t mean he wanted to work with Ruvians. He tugged at his beard and kicked at the gravel.

Both moons—the pale blue Vitaeus and its giant red neighbor, Mortemus—shone full and high, bathing the town in eerie threads of silver and crimson.

Jon tracked past the yard, where two silhouettes appeared at the end of the alley near the front of the tavern. The profiles of Will and Ella drew nearer to one another.

Jon’s breath hitched, his body tensing and heart pounding.

Will moved slowly, like a foal taking its first steps, and reached out. Jon bit his lip, torn between pretending he wasn’t there and leaping between them—until Will finally closed the gap and shook Ella’s hand.

They spoke briefly, but Jon was too far to understand. Then Will walked away, leaving Ella alone, her head drooping. Jon beamed but concealed his approval as he approached.

Ella jumped when he put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m bushed, El. Let’s head home.”

“Uh . . . sure.” She avoided looking at her father and pointed to the small, open-topped wagon she had pulled from Cameron’s barn, their wood ox hitched and mewling quietly.

When they hopped onto the bench, Jon took the reins.

As the wagon jostled along the east road, Ella glanced over her shoulder. She glared at Jon, a scowl on her pink face. “You—you got to him, didn’t you!”

Jon shrugged, failing to hide a triumphant smirk.