Alys
In spite of the ice, the fish smelled, and their stiff, pointy fins poked Alys in annoying places, even as her flesh was being chilled to the bone. She wondered what had become of her fingers and toes, and if prison could be any worse. Maybe they would only torture her a little bit...
“She can’t be far.” A man’s hoarse voice. “Damned guttersnipe didn’t just vanish.”
“What about here?” A different person, closer.
She heard a wet mushy sound. The fish near her feet moved.
“I said search everywhere!”
“Yes, sir!” Her hiding place shifted again.
Distantly, horns caterwauled.
“Let’s go! Move it!” Running boots supplied percussion for the schink-schink of jogging chain mail.
Alys waited for silence, then swam-slid through the chilly, slimy mess, tumbling out of the wagon onto the stone pavement. Several fish flopped to the ground, mocking her with staring, dead eyes.
The full moon cast a stark gray light over the silent waterfront. Sleeping pelicans stood on pilings; a few gulls strutted about, picking at the ground. No guards, no shop keepers; no one to notice a shivering young woman scamper away, into the night.
At dusk, Arnigus had sent her to the apothecary for jinwart and fogweed. Such rare and expensive ingredients enhanced his tavern’s ale with addictive and relaxing properties. When his patrons drank more and fought less, Arnigus was happy, and if he could obtain the necessary additives for free — well, that just made the profit sweeter. So he’d sent Alys on her way without any money, just as he had a dozen times before.
The apothecary’s shop was in the Old District, next to the castle, on a wide street. Without fail, Fejjit closed shop promptly at sunset and was asleep upstairs within an hour. The routine was as familiar to Alys as the broken latch on a back window and the patrol patterns of the guards. Watching the lights go dim, she pushed aside the usual nagging doubts and slipped inside. Walking softly and slowly, she felt her way through the dark interior, and opened the store room door. Lighting a small candle-lantern, she shuttered it to cast a thin beam, playing the light across the shelves, until she spied the desired bins. She quickly filled two small cloth bags, tying them to her belt. Blowing out her lantern, she left the room and started to close the door.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming down the stairway.
She ducked back into the room, and hid behind three large barrels. Alys cursed herself; she’d forgotten to close the door. Looking between the barrels, she saw the outer room brighten. Another door opened and closed. Two men began talking. One was Fejjit; the other’s voice was unfamiliar. The apothecary’s wizened form appeared in the entrance to the storeroom. He held a lamp in one hand, and a key in the other.
“I thought I closed this,” Fejjit muttered, looking at the door, wheezing a laugh. “Old age is making me forgetful, I fear.”
“I hope you haven’t forgotten anything else.” The other man’s voice emerged from the inky depths of his cowl, laden with scorn and impatience.
“Don’t worry, my lord, don’t worry.”
“Just get on with it.”
Fejjit fumbling with the lock on a strongbox; he dropped the key.
“Time is wasting.”
“So sorry,” Fejjit stammered. He retrieved the key and unlocked the box. From within he removed a small black bag.
“Are you certain this is undetectable?”
“Of course!” Fejjit insisted. “A few pinches is all it takes. Quick, too. Don’t know if it’s painless.” He chuckled. “Not that it matters, does it? It’ll do the trick. No worries.”
The cloaked figure snatched the package from Fejjit, and put it in his pocket. “I don’t have worries.”
A quick glint. Alys stifled a gasp. Fejjit stiffened, gurgled, and fell to the floor, dropping his lamp. Glass shattered, oil spilled, blood and fire flowed across one side of the room. For a split second, in the flickering light, she saw the man’s face. Narrow nose, dark eyes under black brows. Smiling.
Jenod. Prince Jenod.
For a moment, he looked toward her hiding place; his smile vanished. “You might think about running away,” he said, before walking out of view.
Alys dodged the growing flames, escaping through the back window. Hugging the building’s wall, holding her breath, she stayed in the shadows, looking. The street was deserted, save for a hooded figure; it stood momentarily by the castle gates before going inside. Three men emerged, running toward the apothecary’s shop.
Glass clattered to the ground; flames shot from a window, chasing concealing darkness away. One of the figures shouted. Alys darted into a dark alley, and heard them follow.
Free of the fish, stinking, shaking, Alys worked her way cautiously back to the tavern. The back door was open, yellow light streaming out, silhouetting a tall, burly man.
“You’re not welcome here anymore,” Arnigus stated.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“The law turned my place upside-down looking for you,” he growled. “Half of everything is ruined. If they hadn’t been called away, they’d’ve wrecked everything else.” He pointed a meaty finger at her. “I want you gone. Now.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she said.
“They said you killed Fejjit.”
“No! I didn’t —”
“I don’t care.” Arnigus reach into the tavern for something. “Here’s your stuff.” He shoved a knapsack toward her.
She set the pack on the ground and opened it. A few articles of clothing, a cheap bracelet that had belonged to her mother, her father’s journals. Not much, but everything she expected.
“Money,” she said calmly and firmly. “I need money.”
“You little — why do I owe you anything?”
“If I’m caught, they’ll learn what I’ve been doing for you.” She glared at him, even though he was three times her size. “Money will help me get away. And food.”
Scowling, Arnigus stomped away. He returned quickly with a burlap bag, tossing it at her feet.
“Food,” he said. He pulled a fist-full of silver coins from his pocket and dropped them in her pack. “That’s all you’re getting.”
Alys closed the knapsack, tying it tight. Then she walked away. The door slammed shut behind her, and sounds told her that Arnigus was locking it.
She did not look back.
Dawn was hours away, and the few people who saw Alys paid her no mind. She stole to the edge of town and darted across the river bridge. Leaving the road, she paralleled it through fields of green wheat, headed south. The walk felt good, and the late night sky was ablaze with stars. Tornaval had never been home; her life there had been a happenstance, not a choice. She thought about why she hadn’t done this before, and didn’t like the answer. Fear, for the most part, and a bit of laziness; too much time pining for what had been, instead of looking for what could be.
It was time to find something new, something better.
But what?
Alys went south because no other direction made sense. To the north and west were small towns loyal to Tornaval; eastward lay wasteland, populated by the bug-like kehklik. So south it was. The lay of the land was familiar from travels with her father. The smell of his spice-wagon came back...
She pushed memories away, and kept walking.
The sky slowly brightened and hours passed. Tired and hungry, she spied a likely camping site. At the junction of several fields, a farmhouse stood forsaken in a grove of gnarled, untended apple trees. Part of the thatched roof had collapsed; the doors and windows were missing, leaving bare holes in stone walls. Alys sat on the leaf-strewn floor, opening the bag Arnigus had given her. Pulling out a chunk of bread, she bit into it hungrily...
...and spit it out, grimacing. Mold. Cursing the tavern owner, Alys looked in the bag, then threw it aside. Too tired to look for anything edible, she laid out her bedroll — “hers” by virtue of having taken it from the back of a horse tied up outside the tavern. Another crime of necessity. She didn’t like to think about what her father would have said.
She drifted into unsettled sleep.
Alys’s appetite aroused her just after dawn. The old trees held small, green, tart apples. She gathered a few dozen, and returned to the farmhouse, sitting cross-legged on the floor, munching.
“Hello, sweetie.”
A man’s weasel-like face poked into the room, grinning at her through one of the empty windows. Alys scrambled and ran toward the door. A large, dark man blocked her way; he pinned her arms, foul breath in her face. She brought her knee up, hard, between his legs. Howling, the man released her, bending over. Snatching a knife from his belt, she slashed him across the face, then backed away. Foul Breath spewed profanity as blood flowed down his face; the Weasel was no longer at the window, but Alys could hear him laughing.
“Stay away,” she said, shaking, brandishing the bloody knife in front of her. “Or I’ll cut you again!”
Both men now stood in the door, blocking her exit. She thought about the window, and realized it was too high for a quick escape.
“Want me to gut her?” Weasel asked, unsheathing a short sword.
“No, you idiot!” Foul Breath bellowed. He ripped a strip from his shirt, and wadded it against his wounded cheek. “There’s no reward for her corpse.” Then he chuckled darkly. “But once she’s trussed, I can think of a few things to do that won’t kill her.”
“Go away!” she screamed, brandishing the knife. Weasel jumped back.
“She’s a might skinny for my taste,” he said. “Feisty, too.”
“We can beat that out of her --”
The point of an arrow appeared above Foul Breath’s nose; his eyes grew large before he collapsed without a sound. Weasel turned around and toppled over, landing across his partner. A feathered shaft protruded from his left eye.
Hunger, fright, and bewilderment swirling in her head, Alys took a step, and fainted.
Something smelled very good.
Alys opened her eyes to leafy branches swaying against a blue, cloudless sky. Sitting up, she saw a fire; the wonderful aroma emanated from a pot sitting in it. To one side, three horses were tethered to a tree.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” a male voice said.
He approached from the direction of the farmhouse, carrying her things. Alys skittered backward like a crab. He dropped her pack and bedding where she’d been lying, then went to the fire, turning his back toward her.
“My name is Davon Jon,” he said. “Friends just call me Jon.” He walked to a large gray horse and unhooked a waterskin, tossing it to Alys. She grabbed it automatically, watching him go back to stirring the contents of the pot. He was an exceptionally average-looking fellow, more than twice her age, fortyish, with a round face framed by brown hair and a scraggly beard; he was dressed in gray and brown.
“It’s just water,” Jon said. “I apologize for the stew in advance. I’m not much of a cook.”
She put the skin to her mouth and drank greedily.
“You killed those men,” she said.
He removed the pot from the fire, and set it on a nearby rock. “It’ll cool down in a minute. I haven’t proper dishes, but I do own a pair of spoons.” Alys simply sat there, watching, balanced between the desire to run and gnawing hunger.
“You’re safe,” he said. “For the moment. We should move along soon, before anyone else comes looking for you.”
“Move along?” she asked. “Where? Back to Tornaval?”
Jon shook his head. “I doubt you want to go there. King Jenod placed a rather high price on your head.”
“Jenod isn’t king,” she said. “He’s just the prince.”
“Princes become kings,” Jon replied. “King Vordan passed away in the middle of the night. If Jenod hasn’t crowned himself already, he will soon.”
“So that’s why,” she said quietly.
“Why what?”
“Why the guards stopped looking for me last night.”
“They’re looking for you again today.” Jon seated himself in the grass, next to the pot. “As are people like those bounty hunters.” He scooped some stew with the stirring spoon, blew on it, and nibbled at a potato. “Not as bad as I thought.”
Hunger defeated fear; Alys moved closer to Jon and took the metal spoon he offered. She tried the stew, tentatively. It was hot, and a bit salty. Slowly at first, and then with growing momentum, she ate. Jon sat beside her silently, eating slowly.
“Thank you,” she said later, wiping a sleeve across her mouth.
“You’re welcome.” Looking in the pot, he added, “I should have made more.”
“I have…” Alys began. A terrible thought occurred to her; she jumped up, ran to her pack, and opened it. Everything was still there. She dug under the clothes, finding the coins Arnigus had given her.
“I have money,” she said with relief.
“No need.” Jon put dirt in the now-empty pot, rubbed it around with his hands, and dumped the result on the fire, putting it out. “Not that I’m an entirely disinterest bystander. I wondered why Jenod wants you alive.” He began loading gear on the gray horse, smiling grimly. “It makes a rather odd coincidence with his father’s unexpected death.” Alys suddenly felt very cold, colder than when she’d been buried in icy fish.
“I’ll escort you to Cartwell,” Jon continued. “That’s outside Jenod’s domain, and you can go your own way from there. In return, I hope you’ll tell me why Fejjit is dead.”
Alys found herself with too many questions and not enough answers. Had Arnigus set her up, to be in the wrong place at the right time? No, the answer to that didn’t matter. And what could she do about Jenod’s royal patricide? The question was pointless; no one would take the word of a homeless girl-thief over that of a prince-king. Which left Davon Jon and his dubious motives for saving her life. She couldn’t see how her tale would be of value to him, unless he wanted to confirm the identity of his prize before delivering her. Perhaps she could hold back, not tell him anything until she was safely beyond Jenod’s reach... no. Davon Jon had saved her life, and even if she didn’t understand why, she owed him something.
Slowly, reluctantly, Alys told her story of breaking and entering, of meetings in the dark, small black bags, and cryptic conversations that ended with dead men and fire. Jon paid close attention, without interrupting.
“Thank you,” was all Jon said when she finished. He walked over to one of the brown horses. “This one looks like the strongest of the two, and it seems gentle enough. Something tells me the former owner isn’t going to be riding anywhere soon.” He lead the animal to her. “You know how to ride, I hope?”
“Yes.”
“Make friends while I finish cleaning up camp.”
As Jon busied himself, Alys approached the horse, which reminded her of her father’s cart horses. She tried rubbing its nose gently; the horse snuffled against her hand. She giggled.
“That’s a sound I like to hear,” Jon said, mounting the gray and starting to ride away. Alys hesitated, then climbed into the saddle and followed him.
Just before dawn, they forded a river and made camp. Alys washed away the smell of fish; the water was cool, and felt good in the warm muggy air. Afterward, she lay on the river bank, naked, letting her clothes dry in the morning sun. Davon Jon politely kept his distance. She returned from the river to a meal of dried beef and minty green cakes. Again, she offered to pay Jon for his hospitality, and again he refused. She decided to stop asking.
For three days they worked their way south across farmland, the road barely in view to their west, scrubby hills on the east. Alys said very little at first. Davon Jon didn’t seem to mind; he told tales of exotic places he’d seen, from the orderly cities of dwarves to cliff-towns and jungles peopled by soft-spoken reptiles. He never mentioned, or even hinted to his profession; she wondered why he had traveled so far and seen so much, and suspected that he wouldn’t answer if she asked. The mystery didn’t stop her from growing to like him; slowly, she gained more confidence in his presence. When Jon began talking about human places, she added her own experiences, and he listened.
It had been a long time since someone had listened to her.
On the morning of the fourth day, they reached Cartwell, a lonely cluster of wooden buildings. The busy main road turned east in the town, while a faint track continued south, toward a dark line of trees. Alys had been through Cartwell many times with her father, and felt some tension slip away—she was outside Jenod’s lands.
Her feelings about Jon were uncertain, though Alys knew she would miss him when he was gone. Since her father’s death, the people she’d met... well, the women had been busy with their own affairs, and the men usually wanted something she wasn’t willing to give. Jon treated her with respect — not as a child, not as plaything or tool, but as a person. It was something she did not want to give up, at least not yet.
“I’ll be meeting someone at the inn,” Jon said. “Then I’ve got to head elsewhere.” He smiled at her. “You should be safe here. Any idea where you might go?”
“Yes,” she said, giving him a cryptic smile. “I’ll buy you breakfast. It’s the least I can do.”
The inn was the largest building, and busy. Several round tables sat amid mismatched chairs; a bar stretched across one side of the room. A dozen or so people were eating. One man lay face-down on the table next to his plate, snoring. Two more men sat at opposite ends of the bar.
The keeper was a plump older woman with long waves of gray-black hair and ruddy cheeks. She bustled across the room as Alys and Jon came in.
“Jon!” the woman burbled, wrapping him in a bear hug. “What a sight you make! Who’s your friend here?”
“Alys, meet Marni, the best innkeeper in these parts,” Jon said.
“Oh, he’s just trying to turn my head.” She gave Alys a hug of her own. “I’m the only innkeeper here’bouts. Any friend of Jon’s is a friend of mine, darling. Now sit, sit, and I’ll get you both some tea.” She whisked away.
“I remember her,” Alys whispered to Jon. “Father and I sometimes stopped here.”
“I heard that,” Marni called out from behind the bar. “You came through here with a spice wagon, didn’t you? Marni never forgets a face you know. Sometimes takes me a while, but I never forget.” She returned to the table with a teapot and two cups. “Your father... his name was Duncan, wasn’t it? Tall fellow, skinny like you. I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“He died a while back,” Alys said.
Marni squeezed the girl’s hand. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.” The woman hurried away, through a set of double swinging doors. A moment later, she stuck her head out. “We have some pork roast left, and fresh cornbread. Will that do you?” Jon and Alys said yes, and the woman was gone again.
“Business awaits,” Jon said. He got up and went to the bar, sitting next to one of the men, ordering a drink for the fellow from Marni. They talked in low voices for a while; Jon passed the man a rolled piece of paper, then came back to sit with Alys. The other man dropped a few coins on the bar, and walked out of the inn.
“Your story is on its way to Caerelon,” Jon told her.
“Isn’t Jenod’s sister their queen?” she asked anxiously.
“An accident of biology,” Jon said. “They’ll need to keep an eye on Jenod. His ambition doesn’t end at Tornaval’s borders.” Alys nodded and relaxed.
Marni returned with plates filled to overflow with slices of meat and gravy, along with a bowl of yellow corn muffins. They ate hungrily, and when finished, Alys put three silver coins on the table, one more than Marni had requested.
Outside the inn, standing by their horses, Jon said, “I guess it’s good-bye. I wish you luck.”
“You’re going to Roqat, aren’t you?” Alys asked.
Jon squinted. “How do you know that?”
“I read lips,” she replied, grinning, pleased to see that he was surprised.
Jon scratched his chin thoughtfully. “A handy skill. And what else did you hear... or should I say, see?”
“Not much. You’ll be talking to dwarves, and you’re in a hurry. You might want to take some cinnamon sticks; they like it in their beer.”
Jon started laughing. “Already have some. Any more advice?”
She shrugged. “If you’re going the long way, it’ll take you more than a week, riding hard. I know how you can cut the time in half.”
“How?”
“The old road through Dybwood. It starts here in Cartwell…”
“Whoa!” he interrupted, holding his hands up. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I am!” Alys put on her most disarming smile. “Father took us that way twice each year. The road’s a bit bumpy in spots, but passable.”
“I don’t think so,” Jon said. “A fun idea, but —“
“Suit yourself,” she said, turning her horse away. “I’ll see you in Roqat!” And she rode toward the edge of town.
A few minutes later, she heard rapid hoof-beats. Jon pulled up beside her.
“You can go the long way,” she said.
“Why are you going to Roqat?” he asked.
“You told me to make my way once we reached Cartwell. So I’m making my way.”
Jon laughed. “A way that goes through a haunted demon-infested forest.”
“You don’t believe those fairy tales, do you?”
“I’ve heard that people go in, and don’t come out,” he said. “You never saw any fairies or ghosts?”
“Hard to say. Some of the big trees have odd hollows in them, and when the wind blows, they howl like demons. And lots of strange creatures live there, but they don’t bother folk who know what to do.”
“And you know what to do.”
“Of course!” she laughed.
Intruding weeds tilted and skewed the paving stones of the ancient road, but it was still a road, one that lead them into a forest of pine and spruce and shiverleaf. Under the trees they found a pleasant darkness, not oppressive or gloomy, but pleasant and peaceful. Alys rocked gently in her saddle, wearing a faint smile; Davon Jon’s demeanor evolved from suspicion to wariness.
“Look,” Alys whispered, pointing, breaking a silence that had held between them since entering the forest.
Resonating, throbbing, amorphous, a blue light glided slowly among the lower boughs of an ancient fir tree. It sang, not quite a sound, not quite silence.
“What is it?” Jon asked quietly. Alys saw wonder in his eyes.
“A wisp,” she said.
“The fragrance...” Jon mused. “If I could bottle that, I’d be a rich man.”
Alys laughed softly. “My father had the same idea. I don’t think you can bottle a wisp, though.”
“What are they?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I think they’re forest guardians. You’ll see them around older trees.” Alys relished her turn as expert.
They stopped for the night in a small glade, bordered by a swift, clear brook. Blue and red wildflowers sprinkled the thick green grass; Jon cleared a spot, built a fire, and made a meal from things he’d bought from Marni. While eating, they looked over the trees at distant gray mountains, as the sun’s orange and purple light reflected in high, thin clouds.
“We should keep watch,” Jon said as beauty faded into night. “I’ll go first. Anything I should be careful about?”
“Don’t go far from the fire,” she said sleepily, dropping off quickly and dreaming of wonders.
She awoke to darkness and silence. Rolling over, she noticed how fire still burned strongly, though there was no sign of Jon. Something wasn’t right with the world.
She finally spied him at the edge of the clearing, facing away from her. The horses moved nervously. “Jon?” she asked, sitting up. She called again, a bit louder. He didn’t answer. She got up and walked toward him, then stopped. Just inside the forest, she saw a white semi-circle — no, it was a smile, on a face, a very wide, dark, human face, almost cat-like... Alys dropped, flat on her stomach in the grass. Something zipped overhead. Scrambling to her feet, she ran to her pack, dumping the contents, frantically searching, finding a small cloth bag she’d almost forgotten.
A leonine form burst from the trees and stopped, sniffing the air. It stalked slowly toward Alys, fixing her with large blue eyes that flickered in the firelight. She circled, keeping the flames between herself and the creature. Its tail swung; she jumped to one side, small missiles flying past her sleeve. She opened the bag slightly, tossing it to one side of the animal; some of the contents spilled when it landed. The beast looked at the bag for a moment, then returned its gaze to Alys. She wondered if she’d remembered wrong.
The animal sniffed loudly, several times, and walked to the bag, nuzzling it. She held her breath, watching it lie down and roll on the bag, like a dog who’d found an interesting stink. Oblivious to the girl, the creature grinned, showing far too many rows of sharp, pointy teeth. Alys ran to Jon, who still stood where she had left him. Taking his sword, she walked back to the animal, which lay on the ground breathing slowly, eyes half-closed. A part of her held back, but it was only a small part. Lifting the heavy blade, she let gravity bring its edge down on the creature’s neck. The head rolled to one side, face up, and dark blood flowed through the grass.
She did not like how human the face seemed.
Dropping the weapon, Alys searched the bushes, taking several waxy leaves from one shrub. She filled a small pot with water, set it to boil, and stewed the leaves; she then soaked a small cloth with the brew, and went back to Jon. His eyes were open, blank; his face sagged, jaw slack. From his bicep, she removed a small green spine, its point wet with fluids both animal and human. Working the wet cloth into his gaping mouth, she waited.
He blinked.
“Whathe heth?” he said, slurring, spitting out the cloth.
“You’ll be fine in a minute,” Alys said.
Jon stumbled a bit, but made his way over to the corpse. He regarded the dead animal, then picked up his blade and wiped it clean in the grass before sheathing it.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Numb.” He prodded the body with a toe. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was a manticore. But it should be reddish, not brown. And we’re a long way from the desert.”
“It’s an arbicore. Father and I saw only a couple over the years, at a distance.”
“One is enough for my lifetime.” Jon shook his head. “And you managed to kill it by yourself?”
“Do you smell something sweet?” she asked. He sniffed and nodded. “That’s fogweed. I stole some the other night from Fejjit, but never gave it to Arnigus. Arbicores act like it’s catnip, getting all fuddled and falling asleep. Or at least, that’s what my father told me.”
Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “If you’re trying to impress me, it’s working,” he said. “Thank you. I’d hate to add another death to Dybwood’s reputation.”
“I told you to stay near the fire,” she chastised. Then with a bit of mischief in her eyes, she added, “Tomorrow, I’ll impress you even more.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow; when she didn’t elucidate, he said, “I don’t want to see more arbicores.”
“We won’t,” said Alys. Crouching, she began repacking her scattered possessions. “Arbicores are solitary, and they don’t like the smell of their own dead. I doubt there’s another one for fifty miles.”
“Why doesn’t that comfort me?”
Jon dug a shallow hole and buried the carcass. Alys helped him calm the horses and bring them back to camp. By the time they were finished, he couldn’t stop yawning and blinking.
“You need sleep,” she said. “I’ll keep watch.”
Jon didn’t argue. “I trust you’ll deal with any more monsters,” he said.
“Of course.”
By noon the next day, they’d ridden a dozen miles. The land was now hillier and drier; scattered clumps of trees decorated boulder-strewn fields of yellow grass. The mountains stood dramatically tall and snow-capped against a bright blue sky.
Atop one of the highest hills was a tall tower, built of shiny black stone. “Let me show you something,” Alys said. She led Jon inside the tower, and up a long flight of stairs. On the roof, a tapered metal tube was mounted on a post, its coppery metal tarnished with black and dark green. Using a corner of her shirt, Alys cleaned the curved pieces of glass embedded in its ends. She put her eye to the small side, and grinned.
“We always stopped here,” she said, backing away from the device. “Go on, look through it!”
“It looks like a dwarven spyglass,” Jon said.
“It was made by the people who built the city.”
“What city?” Jon asked as he scanned the dark forest. “The trees are remarkable! Some of must have trunks a hundred feet across. And the…” He stopped, transfixed.
“The city,” Alys stated. “Interesting, isn’t it?” She’d seen it many times, a sprawling complex of streets, towers, spires, and less fantastic structures, larger than any human city she’d seen or heard about. Vines clung to walls and trees grew in the plazas, and smaller buildings had vanished back into the greenery, as the forest reclaimed its own. The only sign of its builders was a tall statue, white, man-like, a sword in one hand, and book in the other.
Jon was very quiet, moving the spyglass slowly. “I’ve heard of this place,” he finally said. “I never thought it really existed. Twenty years in these lands, and I haven’t seen everything yet.” The thought seemed to please him. “The architecture is fantastic. The domes are covered in tile mosaics. I can’t quite make out the designs.” He stopped moving the spyglass for a moment. “There’s something huge and green in the city square. No, part of it’s blue, maybe even some bright purple... it’s moving!”
“A basilisk,” she said. “Must be the big male. That’s why we never went there. It can’t stone us at this distance.”
Jon stood and stretched. “I could spend a lifetime exploring this place."
“Are you convinced yet?”
“Convinced of what?”
“That I’d make a good partner.”
“I’m not looking for a partner.”
“You should be,” Alys stated. “When I left Tornaval, I knew I had to find something better, but I didn’t know what that something was. Now I do.” She leaned on the parapet. “My father is dead, and I can’t bring him back.”
“I’m not your father,” said Jon.
“No!” she snapped, eyes flashing. “I don’t need a daddy, or a lover.” She smirked. “No offense.”
“None taken.” He scratched his whiskers.
“I don’t understand your work,” she said. “But I know what kind of life it lets you lead, and that’s the ‘something’ I want.” She looked at him pointedly. “You could have left me at Cartwell, gone your own way.”
“Yes, I could have.” He looked thoughtful. “I’m not certain how it will work out.”
“No one ever is,” she said.
They started down the stairs.
Welcome to
Syraqua
Original prose © 2011
Scott Robert Ladd
Original artwork © 2011
Elora Marjorie Ladd
Original artwork © 2011
Maria Alvarado Ladd
All rights reserved.
The grey-and-purple dragon logo, the blue coyote logo, Syraqua, Symrall, and Sytherek are all Trademarks of Scott Robert Ladd.