Dreadmarrow Thief (The Conjurer Fellstone Book 1) Page 3

  “Mr. Ainsworth, the scribe, said you should come by early tomorrow and he’ll give you a lesson,” his mother said. “If you do well, he might take you on as apprentice.”

  “Told you I didn’t want to do it,” Ash grumbled. All day long, the scribe copied out official documents for the summoners, the bankers, the constable, bailiff, and bloody tax collectors. Documents that were used to rob, to cheat, to arrest, and sometimes, to kill. Why would I ever want to be a part of that?

  Reading his mind, she said, “It’s just writing what they tell you. It isn’t as though you have to come up with the words yourself, is it? If you don’t do it, someone else will.”

  “Your mother’s right,” Father said, his voice strained by the unaccustomed act of agreeing with her. “You’re too smart to spend your life shoveling dirt. You want a job where your livelihood depends on the sorrow of everyone else?”

  “It’s been good enough for you,” Ash said.

  “I had no choice, it’s all I ever knew. No more argument. You go there in the morning like your mother said.”

  Ash lowered his head and continued eating. His mother barely managed to stay silent for a minute before diving into another of her favorite topics. “We might see more girls come ’round if you cut your hair, don’t you think?”

  “Long hair, short hair, they don't care,” Ash’s father said. “They only want to know how much silver lines a man's pocket.”

  His mother turned on his father. “What do you know of a woman's mind?” Then back to Ash in her sweetest tone. “Remember how short you used to keep it? I liked it better than Lance's ponytail. Though I said nothing then, because how else would anyone have told you two apart?”

  Ash couldn’t take any more on this, of all days. He rose, scraping the floor with his chair.

  “Wait, stay a bit.” His mother jumped up, dashed into the kitchen, and returned with a plate holding a square of sugared cake. “Happy birthday, dear Ash,” she said.

  There, she had done it. She just couldn’t let it go. He held back the anger surging inside him because he knew she meant well. She wanted to convey that just because his brother was gone, it didn’t mean his life was over too. Life goes on, birthdays must be celebrated, even if they would always remind him of the brother who entered the world seven minutes before he did, and whose loss thirteen years later felt exactly as if someone had cut away his arm or leg or half of his heart.

  Ash took the piece of cake and rushed out with it, while behind him Father said to Mother, “You had to start with the hair?”

  Beneath a silvery half-moon, Ash sat on Lance’s grave facing the oak cross that marked it. He touched the words engraved on the wood, "LANCE KEMP 13 Years of Age." He took a section of cake, then tore off a piece and dropped it on the grave. A bite for me, a bite for you. He and his brother had always celebrated birthdays together, and they always would.

  Ash leaned his head against the post. Three years ago, they’d found the cursed ring no more than ten yards from here, near the top of old John Penworth’s plot. It was buried half a foot under the dirt and, from the look of it, had been there quite a few years. When they’d brushed it off and the sun had hit it, the precious emerald had sparkled green like nothing he’d ever seen before.

  His life had changed in every way possible since then. It had left him with a single goal from which he would never waver. Nothing else mattered.

  TESSA

  By evening my mood had brightened and I found myself whistling as I assembled our supper. I fetched smoked pork, cheese, and bread from the pantry while Papa set out the plates. He was in excellent spirits, thanks to his good friend Mr. Oliver, who had visited late in the afternoon, and stayed long enough for my father to beat him soundly at backgammon.

  “Did the Kettlemores pay you?” Papa said.

  “They said they would tomorrow,” I said, avoiding his gaze. I didn’t like to lie, but I also didn’t wish to turn Papa’s mood sour. In the morning, I would find another small job to cover the amount they would have paid.

  We took our seats. I was just about to launch into Ryland’s marriage proposal, when Papa grew somber and announced there was something he must tell me. The seriousness in his tone took me by surprise. His shoulders stiffened, and he looked down instead of meeting my gaze. So much for his mood.

  Curiosity overwhelmed me. “Of course,” I said. “What is it?”

  He was about to speak when his ears pricked up at the sound of a carriage and horses outside. Coaches almost never entered our road, which came to a dead end after three more houses down from ours. Papa strode to the window and peered through the curtains, his face darkening at whatever he saw. I went to the smaller window closest to me and glanced out.

  The royal carriage of Lord Fellstone had paused on the road just outside our house. Two knights flanked the driver, and two more sat outside in the back. I couldn’t see into the dark interior of the carriage, so there was no way to tell for certain whether the lord himself might be seated inside.

  “Put out the light,” Papa hissed in a sharp whisper. He snuffed the lamp beside him.

  I blew out the candles nearest me. Moonlight streaming into the back of the house provided dim illumination.

  “Watch them,” said Papa. “Tell me if anyone approaches.” He hurried to his wall of master keys and selected one. Then he pulled aside the tapestry that hung in the back, revealing a hidden compartment I’d never seen before. He opened it with the key and took out a narrow sword. I stifled a gasp as Papa put his fingers to his lips to shush me. He drew the sword from its sheath, and stepped toward the door.

  One moment I was watching Papa, and the next, my sight went black. Seconds later, I could see again, but I seemed to be transported to another place. Somewhere dark and full of shadows, with a ceiling of jagged stone. A cave. I was lying on a table, my back aching from its hard, flat surface. I tried to look to the sides, but straps held me in place… my head, my torso, my arms and legs, all bound with a tightness that nearly stopped the flow of my blood. Bile rose in the back of my throat from the putrid stench… like some animal’s rotting corpse. Gravel scraped not far from where I lay. A footstep? I strained at my bindings, but they held me fast while panic welled up inside me.

  And then it was over. My sight blurred and when it cleared again, I was back inside my house, standing just as before. I rubbed my eyes, trying to wipe out the memory, feeling intense relief wash over me. It was such a vivid nightmare… though I had no clue how I had dreamed without first falling asleep. I wondered if it had anything to do with Lord Fellstone, or the strange woman I’d seen with him. I looked out the window to find the driver turning the carriage around. Papa joined me as the horses set off, and we watched together until the carriage disappeared from view. I said nothing to him about my brief vision, which would only have worried him for no good reason. His sword concerned me far more.

  “You’ll be arrested for that,” I said, staring down at the weapon in his hand. Only his lordship’s knights and boarmen were allowed to bear swords.

  “In these times… given the tyrant who rules over us… we have to be prepared,” Papa said.

  “Not you. If there must be fighting, let it fall to the young men.”

  “It's ever the fate of the young to die for the old, but it really ought to be the other way around.” Papa sheathed the sword and brought it back to its hiding place, locking it and restoring the tapestry over it. “Light the lamp, Tessa.”

  I did as he told me. “Do you think Lord Fellstone was inside the carriage?” I said.

  “I doubt anyone else is allowed to ride under his crest,” said Papa.

  “What about the woman who wears a mask?” I said. He gave me a curious look, surprised I knew of her. “I heard talk of her in town the other day,” I added.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Why would they stop outside our home?”

  “I have a bad feeling about it.”

  “I can't imagin
e it had anything to do with us,” I said. “Maybe a horse stepped on a nail, or something fell out and they had to fetch it.”

  Papa returned to the table and sat down. His right hand trembled as he reached for his tankard. “I think we should leave Sorrenwood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know they've increased the collections?”

  “I imagine it's the same everywhere.”

  “I've heard conditions are better in Blackgrove, under the Conjurer Lord Queshire's protection,” Papa said.

  “You can't mean we should go there. We would need permission to cross the border in any case.” I could not believe what Papa was proposing. A carriage stopped outside our home, and suddenly we were planning to run away? He was making no sense tonight.

  “There are ways,” he said.

  “This is our home.”

  “We’ll make a new home for ourselves.”

  “You once said we should stay here always, in case Mama might return,” I said.

  “She would want me to protect you, above any other consideration.”

  “She left us. Who is she to have an opinion?” Cold anger swept through me, recalling the day Mama went away. She had an illness that made her fearful of open spaces. Papa did all the errands while she remained at home. She would not even come out of her room when neighbors came to call. I was told not to talk of her or her sickness to my friends. But I often saw her gazing out the window, and even at the age of four I recognized the longing in her eyes. Then, on one fine morning following weeks of thundershowers, she couldn’t resist. She took my hand and led me to the backyard, where we planted spring flowers. Afterwards, when we came inside, she said she was tired and sent me to my room for a nap, but my excitement over Mama being “cured” kept me from sleeping for some time. At last I did drift off, and when I woke, Mama was gone.

  Papa believed she was abducted, but I heard no noise that afternoon, nor were there any physical signs of ruffians having entered our home. The neighbors thought she must have killed herself, because surely someone who never goes outside must be deeply unhappy. Yet I remembered how full of joy she was in the morning, and how she’d managed to conquer her illness by coming out into the garden with me. After months passed without her body turning up at the river’s edge or at the bottom of a ravine, the rumors changed. They said she must have run away, most likely with a lover, because what woman would take the risk of setting out on a journey by herself? Especially a woman who was frightened by wide open spaces. Besides, only a powerful attachment to a man could’ve tempted a mother to abandon her young child. And the locksmith… people knew he had a kind heart, but his manner was gruff and he was believed to be much older than the young wife who had never been clearly seen by anyone. The few who claimed to have set eyes on her remarked on her great beauty. She was beautiful, but it was the sort of thing anyone would say to embellish a story, whether they’d known her or not. Still, when I was old enough to consider all the possibilities, the one that seemed least unlikely was that a man had fallen in love with her and enticed her to run away with him. I preferred this idea over the thought that she had so little joy in life—so little happiness in the company of her husband and daughter—that she chose one day to wander away and drown herself in a churning river.

  Papa had long ago given up arguing with me about her. “It's not safe here,” he said. “Boarmen lurking around every corner. Fellstone himself peering through our windows. We should go tonight.”

  “What? That's impossible. I have friends… You can't make me!”

  “I vowed to protect you and I will.”

  “What do you mean, vowed? To whom did you vow?”

  He pinned his arms against his stomach. “To myself. The day you were born.”

  “Well you've done your job. Look how healthy I am.” My throat constricted at the prospect of leaving Sorrenwood. Perhaps there were better towns, ruled by less oppressive conjurers, who did not surround themselves with a ghastly array of beasts and wraiths… but none of those towns would have Ryland. How can I make Papa understand my feelings? He would tell me I was being childish, and that there would be plenty of boys wherever we might go, whom I would like at least as much as Ryland, and probably more.

  I knelt beside him. “You're not feeling well. You should eat and get to bed. Let's decide tomorrow. Please, Papa?”

  He gazed down at me, smoothed my hair, and sighed.

  “What was it you wished to tell me earlier?” I said.

  He hesitated before thrusting his hand into his pocket, and drawing out a lovely golden key attached to a plain necklace.

  “It’s beautiful.” I touched the dangling key as he held out the chain for me. Its handle was decorated with a geometric pattern etched in delicate lines. “What does it unlock?”

  Papa smiled. “Always the first question of a locksmith. But the answer is, I don’t know. It belonged to your mother. I was going to give it to you on your eighteenth birthday. But… I think she would want you to have it now.” He pressed it into my palm.

  My eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, dearest Papa. I’ll think of you and Mama both when I wear it.” I kissed the key before putting the chain over my head, and then I kissed Papa’s cheek. “But what was the thing you wished to say to me?”

  “Not now, my child,” he said. “We’ve had too much excitement already tonight. It shall have to wait.”

  CALDER

  Calder sat on a hay bale munching on a carrot, watching Farmer Joshua loading crates filled with vegetables onto a cart.

  “Years ago, when I was at the castle with my pa, I saw her in the kitchen, sorting out the meal plan with Mrs. Bailey, the cook,” Joshua said. “She was a beautiful lady with a smile that could melt iron.”

  “Have you seen her since?” Calder said.

  Joshua shook his head. “I hear things though. Maids twittering amongst themselves. They say the lord talks to her.”

  “Then why has no one seen her?”

  Joshua secured a tarp over the cart. “There's some who say he turned her into a wraith.”

  Calder repressed a shudder. He would not allow his mind to wander there. Hope was the fuel that drove him, and therefore he needed to believe he would find her alive.

  “How often do you deliver?” Calder said.

  “Every evening. They've got an army to feed.” Joshua took away the horses’ feeding buckets and climbed onto his seat on the wagon.

  “I could use your help, my friend,” Calder said.

  Farmer Joshua shook the reigns and the two horses set off at an easy gait. As Calder watched the cart jounce over the uneven ground, he thought he must put the plan into action tomorrow, should Joshua be willing. Laying back on the hay bale, he lifted his arm to stare at the silver cat inlaid on his wristband. He picked out a piece of straw that had caught in its edges.

  Calder was fourteen years old and still had two good eyes when Faline had given it to him. She was thirteen and of high birth, though she was just beginning to transition from a freckled urchin into the regal beauty she was destined to become. She had found him seated on a log at the edge of the woods, attempting to place sage leaves on his back to soothe the red welts. Faline sat beside him and adjusted the leaves on the spots he was unable to reach. He almost smiled to think how horrified her mother would be to see her daughter tending to the wounds of Cook’s son.

  “My brother’s doing?” Faline asked.

  “Why should Mace take the blame for breaking the stack of porcelain plates? Or for anything else, when I’m nearby?” Calder said. It meant a whipping for Calder, something that Joseph, the second footman, was all too happy to administer. Mace had watched, already a monster at the tender age of eleven, his eyes moist with excitement at the pain felt by another.

  Faline lowered his shirt and gave the remaining leaves back to Calder, who stuffed them into a burlap sack. “I wish I could make him be kind to you,” she said.

  “He must have someone to to
rture. At least it isn't you.” It was the only consolation that came of her brother’s relentless persecution.

  Faline reached into her pocket and took out two leather wristbands with a pewter fox on one and a cat on the other. “I want you to have the fox.”

  Calder touched his own long nose. “Because of this?”

  “No, silly. Don't you know the fable of the Fox and the Cat? A fox boasts to a cat that he has a bag of tricks giving him hundreds of ways to escape his enemies, whereas the cat only has one. But then when a hunter chases them with a pack of hounds, the cat runs up a tree, while the fox is slaughtered before he can decide which trick to use.”

  “So the moral is… think faster?”

  “I'm not sure that's what was meant. But the point is you remind me of a fox with your bag of tricks.”

  He pressed the fox wristband back into her hand. “I should prefer you to have it, so you'll think of me when you wear it.”

  She hesitated. “Then you must take the cat to think of me. Though I hope you'll always be near, so we won't require reminders in any case.”

  Even then, he did not need to be a fortuneteller to predict their futures would not follow the same path. Still, it had broken his heart when at sixteen her family sent her far away to be married, and it seemed he would never see her again. In the time since then, he had roamed the world, looking for distractions that would keep him from thinking of her.

  ASH

  Ash woke at first light in a brighter frame of mind, relieved to have a whole year ahead of him before the next birthday. He rose and ate bread covered in his mother’s apricot preserves, before setting out for the scribe’s chambers. During his walk there, he began to convince himself that some good might come of the lessons, despite his determination never to work in that trade. He was all for learning new skills, and was grateful to the young chaplain who had taught him to read when he was a boy. Unfortunately, the chaplain had moved on to another post before schooling him in the formation of his letters, but now Ash would get a second chance. He had a strong sense of the power of words and, in a kinder world, he might have wished to become a poet, or to write a work of epic fiction. But as things were, he expected to use his new skills to inspire mutinous thoughts in the good people of Sorrenwood, through a series of anonymous leaflets.