Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm (4 page)

Loren turned from Annis to stare at the wall. “You had a luckier childhood than I, then.”

“Did I?” said Annis bitterly. “Things changed as I grew. How often did your father bring you to a deep pit beneath your castle, there to show you how he killed men slowly for information? Did he ever ask you to pick up the knife and join him?”

Loren’s ears burned with shame and embarrassment, but she did not turn to let Annis see.

“We are granted little choice in the way we come to this world, nor who we enter it with,” said Jordel from his chair by the door. “Yet we hold great sway in what we do after. You all fled your homes because of something inside you, a special fire, like a torch to light your choice. Not all would take such an opportunity. Though that flame is born from hardship, you should not spurn it.”

“I would rather have had parents who were not cruel, and raised me to be a simple woodsman’s daughter,” said Loren. “Free from excitement I might be now, but also no prisoner of peril.”

“Nor would I object to such a life,” said Gem.

Annis looked at them both with sharp eyes. “I think you miss your guess about yourselves. Together we have walked many miles, and I know something of your hearts. I could not see either of you living a simple life in the woods, nor in a noble’s manor. You would be as out of place there as an oliphaunt in the High King’s court. None of us are the sort who are born for that life. I think we are meant for … this.” She gestured vaguely with her hands.

“And what is this, exactly?” said Gem.

“Our life,” said Annis simply. “Do you not see that it suits us? I cannot imagine any of us on a different road than this.”

“So says the merchant’s daughter,” said Loren, though she did not mean it to sound so scornful.

“These are somber thoughts,” said Jordel quickly. “And it is ill-advised to dwell, for we must keep our wits about us. We need provisions for the road. Loren, will you come with me?”

“What of us?” said Gem and Annis together.

“We have passed before too many eyes already,” said Jordel. “I would rather not reinforce the tale of four travelers, bearing our descriptions. Sleep if you can, or else wait quietly — but do not leave the room, nor answer the door if any but us knock.”

Out of the inn and into the drizzle, Loren still felt plagued by thoughts of home.

four

THE INN STOOD NEAR THE town’s center, so they found themselves surrounded by shops and traders’ carts from beyond the village. Jordel set to work, and had soon filled their packs with meat and bread, as well as new waterskins so they could carry more upon the road. Many of the vendors attempted conversation, but Jordel replied with lone, terse words, and soon they fell silent. Loren had brought the children’s packs as well, and slowly they too began to fill.

As they passed a shop near the town’s center, Loren chanced to look inside. Upon the walls she saw many bows hanging on pegs, with full quivers stacked upon the floor. Above the door hung a yellow sign with a drawn bow and arrow: a bowyer’s mark.

With her thoughts already turned toward home, Loren thought of Chet. Before fleeing the Birchwood, she had taken a bow and arrows from his home — one of the first things she had stolen, though certainly not the last. That bow had been broken on the streets of Cabrus as she fled constables, along with a piece of her heart. She stopped in her tracks.

“Jordel,” she said quickly. “Might I have a bow?”

He looked at her curiously, then turned his eyes to the shop. “That seems an odd request. I did not take you for an archer.”

“Only a little. I used to hunt in the forest, and that is how I kept myself fed on the road to Cabrus. But my bow was lost, and … I wish for a new one. Please.”

Jordel frowned. “I have coin, but it is not endless. We may well need it all before we reach our destination, and I can no longer turn to my order for more.”

“But we cannot think to pay for all our food,” said Loren. “Soon enough we will need to hunt, and meat costs far less when bought with an arrow. We will save coin, not lose it.”

“Are you indeed so skilled a hunter?” he said, surprised. “Then very well. That seems good sense.”

They entered the shop, her ears burning. In truth she was not so good as Jordel made it sound, certainly nowhere near Chet. But it had made him agreeable, so Loren held her tongue.

It was a small shop, the walls pressing close on every side. Bows of all sizes and shapes covered the walls. Though medium-sized hunting bows were by far the most common, she also saw much longer bows meant for war, as well as shorter bows curved in a strange fashion. Loren had never seen their like before. In one corner of the room sat a work bench, with many spars of wood stacked beside it, and a large box holding sinew for string. Its faint smell permeated the room.

No one was inside when they entered, but their footsteps must have been louder than Loren thought. In a moment the back door opened, and the bowyer emerged. He was a man of middle age, mayhap younger than Loren’s father. His features were rough, his chin dusted with the stubble of many days, and though his hair was fair in color it bore much dirt and grease. His clothes were well-worn and faded, but looked as though they had once been bright with color — his tunic blue and white, his breeches the lightest grey.

“Well met,” he said. “I hope you have come to buy a bow, for I have run out of underclothes.”

Loren stared at him and blinked, but Jordel smiled faintly. “A shame. From your wares, I felt sure you were a clothier.”

The man smiled back. “I am glad you take a joke well — not all customers do, and it may cost me more coin than I wish. What do you seek on this dreary day?”

Loren swallowed and stepped forward. “I was looking for a bow I might hunt with. I had one, but I … lost it.”

The bowyer looked her up and down. “Lost it? I prize my wares highly, good lady. Why should I sell you a bow you might forget by a rock?”

Her cheeks burned, and a flash of anger hastened her words.

“It was a gift, and I treasured it, for it kept me well-fed upon the road … and for other reasons. But it was broken in a fight, when someone sought to kill me. And if I may not do with my own things as I wish, then mayhap our coin will be more welcome elsewhere.”

Her words did not have the imagined effect. She had thought to make the bowyer flinch with talk of money. But he did not seem to notice the threat, and his eyes flickered when she spoke of the fight. His gaze drifted from her to Jordel, and she could see him inspect the Mystic’s broad frame, before his eyes moved to Jordel’s sword. When he spoke to Loren again, his voice bore more courtesy.

“I meant no disrespect. Another jibe, and this one ill-advised, I fear. You seek a hunting bow, you say? Let us see what we might find.”

He walked to the wall and surveyed the bows hanging from pegs. None were strung, but every so often he would reach up and test one by bending it in his hands. Twice he looked back at Loren, eyes roving from head to foot, judging her height.

Loren glanced at Jordel and saw something curious. His face had grown grim, and he looked back over his shoulder as though wishing to leave. She did not understand what could have made him nervous — she would have to ask him later.

“You say your bow was a gift. Who gave it to you?”

Loren shifted and looked down. “Someone important to me. A dear friend.”

“I did not mean to turn your mind to thoughts of loss. I am sorry.”

“He is not dead. Only we have not seen each other in a long, long time.”

“More than death can take those we love,” muttered the bowyer, his eyes back on the wall. Loren’s cheeks flushed at his talk of
love,
but she said nothing. He lifted a weapon from the wall. “Here we are.”

The bowyer moved to his workstation and selected a string. Its ends were looped and tied already. He wrapped one end of the bow, then placed it on the ground. He pulled the other end down, looping the string through the groove, then inspected the other end to ensure that nothing had come loose. Satisfied, he went to Loren.

“Give that a draw, my lady. Unless I miss my guess, you shall find a perfect match.”

Loren lifted the bow, doubtful. It was a few inches shorter than she was used to, but her fingers found the string and she drew it regardless.

A thrill fluttered through her. The bow drew more easily than any of Chet’s — yet the power was unmistakable. She could
feel
the string’s desire, the tension that yearned to send an arrow racing through the air. She released the draw slowly, relishing the feel.

“This is a masterful work of craftsmanship,” she breathed. “I have never laid hands on a bow so fine.”

“I am glad it is appreciated.” He bent toward Loren. His fingers raised to his lips, then his forehead in a strange gesture. “Especially to a lady such as yourself.”

She blushed again, looking down at her cloak. “I am no noblewoman. Only a simple villager, like yourself.”

“A village girl indeed, for I can hear it in your voice. Yet not simple, I am certain. Like knows like. You are neither ordinary travelers, tis plain to see. Some folk wear adventure like a cloak, and you are two such.”

To Loren’s surprise, Jordel stepped forward and spoke brusquely. “You mistake us, friend. But I thank you for finding my daughter a suitable bow for her hunting. Tell me the price, for we must be on our way.”

Jordel reached into his cloak, two fingers sinking into his purse. Though he tried to keep it hidden, for a moment the purse was revealed, and Loren saw light flash in the bowyer’s eyes.
 

“Tis haste you need, eh? Well, then, I shall not keep you from your travels to — forgive me, I have forgotten where you were bound.”

Loren almost said
Feldemar,
but Jordel spoke first and saved her. “South to Wellmont. For I have cousins within the city and wish to look after their safety.”

The bowyer’s eyes glittered. “Indeed. Well, that is a fine and worthy goal, good sir. A pity, though, for I thought you might be headed north — mayhap through the mountain pass.”
 

“As I said, we are not. We have come from the north, riding the Westerly Road.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said the man, nodding. Still he did not reach for the coins or ask for a price. “A pity, for I do not spend all my days here in my shop. I have been known to hire my services as a guide, you see, for I traveled the mountain pass many times in my youth. If you were heading that way—”

“We are not. Now give me a price.”

The man looked into Jordel’s eyes, then into Loren’s. “Tis rare I meet two travelers as interesting as you. And the girl and I share a bond in loss. Take the bow as my gift. And if you should meet any upon the road who seek to ride north upon the mountain pass, you tell them of me, eh? After all, with war brewing to the south, the Westerly Road will not be safe much longer. Tell them where to find me, and that I am for hire. Albern is my name. Albern of the family Telfer.”

Jordel went to Albern’s work station, drew two gold weights from his coin purse, and laid them carefully upon the table. “For the bow.”
 

Jordel walked past Loren in a rush, forcing her to scramble behind him. She turned one last time at the doorway. Albern stood with folded arms, watching them leave with a faint smile painting his lips. He raised a single finger, like a wave good-bye.
 

Loren turned and ran into the rain after Jordel.

five

THEY SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT in their room. Loren lay for a long time with her new bow beside her — Jordel had given the mattress to her and Annis, while he and Gem slept on the floor.
 

At long last Loren fell asleep, and woke the next morning to a world transformed. The faint blush of sunlight shone through the high window. She could hear the morning’s first birds singing, and the air itself smelled fresh and inviting.

She roused Gem and Annis — Jordel was gone, probably fetching breakfast — and they each readied for the day, Gem with many grumbles about waking so early. Loren had left her boots by the fire downstairs to dry, and ran down in bare feet to fetch them.

There she found the Mystic, fetching breakfast as she had thought. She pulled on her boots, helped him with the plates, and they returned upstairs.

“The day is bright and free from rain,” said Loren. “It is a portent, I think.”

“Mayhap,” he said uneasily. “But I shy from relying too heavily on omens. And my mind has dwelt much during the night on that bowyer.”

“He seemed a friendly enough sort, if a bit sharp.” In truth Loren had quite liked the bowyer, with his disarming smile and quick wit.

“Enemies wear two guises: wrath and a smiling face. He guessed much more about us than I would have admitted.”

“You denied it,” said Loren, though the words sounded frail to her ears. Albern had known they meant to travel north — she had seen that much in his face. But what would he do with that knowledge? Could he have heard of them here in Strapa, so far removed from Wellmont?

Such thoughts lent Loren haste as she cleaned herself with a bowl of water and ate her meal. She urged Gem and Annis to hurry, and soon they left their room with bags upon their back. As they stepped outside into the growing dawn, its warm sunlight seemed less friendly and more like a beacon of warning. Jordel ushered them quickly to the inn’s stables — and there they found someone waiting.

A man paced before the wide wooden doors, slowly, deliberately, a hand on his sword. He wore a thick beard, immaculately trimmed, and a head shaved to glowing. Light brown eyes snapped toward them as they rounded the corner, recognition bright. With horror, Loren saw the red cloak draped about his shoulders.

Jordel froze beside her.
 

The man stood stock still with raised hands. “Wait!” he said quickly, his whisper loud. “Jordel, it is me. We must speak.”

Jordel looked uneasily at the man but did not move. “Derrick. What brings you this far west?”

The man — Derrick, Loren supposed — looked over his shoulder. “No need to bandy words with me, Jordel. I know of your deeds, and yes, some in our order are hunting you. That is why I have come. We must speak, and quickly. I am here to help.”