I retreat from the Merchant’s Guild with hope and dread taking turns dragging at my steps. The morning grows sticky as we follow Garant’s suggestion to walk around the side of the building, the very air itself seeming to exhale. I find shade along the stone siding and lean against it, letting my pack slip from my shoulders before too much sweat can build up between my shoulder blades.

  “That man is insufferable.” Zaeshala bares her teeth as she says it. She paces a short line down the street and back, her shoulders tense beneath her armor.

  “Half-breeds,” Esmira says slowly, her mouth unsure about the word. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what it means.”

  Zaeshala stiffens at one end of her loop.

  My tail lashes and I resist the urge to snarl. “It’s not unique to hellspawn, but it gets thrown at us often enough. At least, if anyone wanted to make me feel unwelcome in my village, that’s what they’d hurl my way.”

  Or they did, until someone arrived who made them think twice about it.

  The thought splices its way into my head without permission. The world tilts with it, a wave that has me grasping at the wall to keep from going down beneath its current.

  Zaeshala whirls, her armor clanking. “I’d like to watch Garant say it again.”

  She doesn’t notice me, too lost in her anger to catch me falling apart not three feet away from her. I’d like more than anything to keep it that way, so I haul myself into the present, shoving the memory so far down my toes curl.

  “Forgive me.” Confusion still rules Esmira’s expression. “I understand how that word could be used against half-elves or shifters, but why you? It was my understanding you’re not…human…at all.”

  Zaeshala levels a glare at her.

  Esmira, trying so hard to be polite and still get the question out, doesn’t deserve the look. But between Garant throwing the slur and the battle my mind wages to keep itself from finally cracking open, I can’t manage a friendly tone, either. “It’s a crude way to remind us our parentage comes from fiends of the worst kind.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Zaeshala growls.

  As if she, too, doesn’t sport a tail and horns straight from a place that sends a primal shiver down the spines of most. A realm of fire and blood, of the kind of magic that feeds on the screams of the innocent. Even if she and I have never seen it, even if we live our entire lives fighting to right the wrongs of the place we come from, we still wear the collar of the damned.

  Esmira glances between Zaeshala and I, waiting for an answer, so I sigh and push off the wall. “It’s not always clear how far back the deals that make us are forged. More than one parent has gotten a surprise with the birth of what they expected to be a perfectly normal child.”

  Understanding dawns and she nods at last, apology in her eyes.

  Tuuliki steps forward before she can give it voice. “A cart is coming.”

  We all follow her eyeline, and sure enough, a two-wheeled pine wagon rumbles into view. It’s sturdy, if plain, about chest-high and big enough that most of us can cluster into the back. A donkey hooked up by a yoke plods steadily along, long ears at attention and a piece of straw hanging from his mouth.

  It may not be pretty, but it’s what anyone would expect, given our contract.

  What I do not expect is the human child at the reins. He cannot be more than ten years old, a mop of curly black hair falling into his eyes and mud caked on one cheek. He wears clothes of roughspun cotton, a worn traveling cloak and a shirt that looks about two summers too small for him. His trousers carry more dust than fabric and his boots are far too big for his feet.

  He stops the cart a few feet away from where Zaeshala stands, still at the end of her pacing track. “Well-met! Are you the folks Garant told me to find?”

  Too much innocence crowds his expression. I can see it in his big, brown eyes—he’s never witnessed so much as a schoolyard brawl, let alone whatever might be taking people on the roads. And Garant decided to send him?

  Tuuliki must make the same connection, because she places her hands on her hips and tilts her head in a way that sends her long hair swinging. “What are you doing?”

  The boy’s smile falters. “Am I in the wrong place? Garant told me to go to the west side of the building….”

  “You’re right,” I assure him. “What I think she means is, are you accompanying us on the road, or are we waiting on the driver?”

  His smile returns. “Best cart-driver in Whirris, you can call me. Or Cecil. That’s my name.”

  “Garant sent you?” Tuuliki’s tone turns accusatory.

  “I won’t fail you, miss. I’ve been employed by the Guild six months now, never even had a complaint.”

  Pieces fall into place. The too-big shoes. The new job. The insistence that he can do what should fall to a stronger, more capable adult.

  His family must depend on him being here, working. Which means he won’t listen to anything that falls along the lines of telling him to go home. If Garant has already granted him the job, the best we can do is to keep him close, where we might be able to offer him some sort of protection.

  I want to stalk back inside the Merchant Guild and demand to know what sort of man sends a ten-year-old on a rescue mission. I want to shake Garant until all of his racist teeth fall from his head. I want someone around able to stop these things before they happen, but Grogg still hasn’t shown up and time is quickly fading for me to find her before we leave.

  Instead of saying any of that, I force a smile. “Of course you haven’t, Cecil. Garant would only send us his best, after all.”

  “He told me to take you folks where you need to go, and that’s what I’ll do. Me and old Maurice here can drive with the best of them, can’t we, buddy?”

  The donkey doesn’t so much as move.

  Cecil pays the creature’s lack of enthusiasm no mind. He kicks a lever brake and sets the reins on his seat, then jumps from the cart. A cloud of dust rises, floating towards where Zaeshala watches him, her expression unreadable.

  “You can put your things back here.” Cecil indicates the rear of the cart with a point. “Anyone who doesn’t want to walk can ride.”

  Rations have been placed in the cart, more meat and cheese I can already feel hanging heavy in my stomach. A few rolled packs and blankets crowd against the back, but little else, leaving plenty of room for our own travel bags.

  I hurry to take Cecil up on his offer. Mama’s bag lands in the cart with a muffled thump, then I reach to take the others’ things as well. Tuuliki and I clamber up, but Zaeshala and Esmira shake their heads, preferring to walk.

  Cecil looks at us one by one. “That it, then?”

  I open my mouth to protest, but there’s really nothing left to do. Food and shelter are taken care of, and there’s no use bathing if I’m only going back into the wilds.

  I could ask the others to wait for Grogg, but it wouldn’t be the first time she didn’t show. We could be waiting days, and then what? Abandon the people possibly in need of rescue from whatever is plaguing the town? Leave Esmira’s hope to shrivel and die on the side of the road? No, with any luck, we’ll be back in town within a few days, and I’ll see her then.

  When no one answers Cecil, he climbs into the driver’s seat. He checks the reins and releases the brake, then clicks his tongue. Maurice grumbles, the hay flopping in his mouth, but he plods forward step by sure step. Cecil guides the cart onto the road, aiming north by northeast. Not an hour after I’ve set foot in Whirris, I’m leaving it again.

  I know the thought isn’t exactly fair, since I’m doing what my moms have asked. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m hurtling towards something that will leave me worse off than I was when I left.

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  #

  If I never see another piece of dried meat again, I’ll die happy.

  Dinner sprawls around us, picked-over remnants of what the Guild could muster on short notice. As far as hard rations go, it’s better than most. The meat still retains its texture, the cheese salted and crumbly. Even handfuls of dried fruit have accompanied us into the woods, sweet apricots and shriveled apple chips that stick in the grooves of my back teeth.

  After the cooked rabbits this morning, though, it’s a far cry from what I’d call a good meal.

  We’ve decided to forgo a fire, which as a tactical decision makes sense. If people are disappearing from the roads, there’s no use in calling attention to ourselves with the smoke and the smell. Still, I can’t help a small mourning at the thought of my cold bedroll, the hard ground beneath my back without the comfort of a well-built coal bank.

  Tuuliki, at least, doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, neither does Esmira, both wood elves living up to their kind’s reputation. Tuuliki sprawls in the grass, her hair fanned out long around her as she plays with a ball of leaves held two feet above her head by a wind only she can see. Esmira sits cross-legged with her back against a tree, a block of hard wax in one hand and her bow in the other.

  A whistle-thunk draws my gaze back to Zaeshala, standing thirty feet away with a javelin in hand. Two shafts already stick from the trunk of an oak tree, one trembling with the force of her most recent throw.

  She studies the placement and nods to herself, as if finding it satisfactory. Then she takes the next javelin from the pile beside her and readies it. With the ease of practice, she adjusts her grip, testing the weapon’s balance, before hurling it like a dart.

  It flies true. The shiny spearhead smacks into the tree just above its companions, burying itself into the wood. The wooden shaft sticks out from the trunk, turning the oak into a thick-quilled porcupine.

  I don’t know what would bring a noble lady this far from her house, especially one as obviously trained as she is. Surely bigger problems await her somewhere else, armies and wars and politics of the like I couldn’t dream. She hasn’t said much during our march, though in her defense, neither has anyone else. Keeping our eyes to the trees for any sign of what might be taking people from the roads, even if nothing has shown itself so far.

  Cecil walks from where he tethered Maurice the donkey, his hands picking at each other. “Can I try one, Lady Zae?”

  Zaeshala’s black eyes find him and linger. I see nothing in the expression, and that lack of emotion sends spiders walking across my neck.

  After a long moment, she nods, offering Cecil the last javelin in her hand. “Have you thrown one of these before?”

  Cecil shakes his head. “Never had use for one.”

  Her lips twitch. I wonder if that’s what passes for a smile where she’s concerned.

  She beckons Cecil closer with a motion of her head, her long horns scraping the sky. As he nears she takes a knee, a motion that could be inviting if her expression weren’t made from cut glass.

  Cecil takes the javelin and tests it in his hand. He holds it too far back, the spearhead dipping towards the dirt. Zaeshala stops it with a gentle hand, helping him to adjust his grip. “Feel for the balance point. You don’t want it to tip one way or the other.”

  She waits while he does just that, sliding his hand until the javelin sits mostly steady.

  “Now you’re going to hold it like this.” She demonstrates the motion on her own body, arm at ninety degrees and hand held flat over her shoulder.

  Cecil copies her.

  “When you throw it, your hand is going to want to drop, like you’re throwing a ball. Don’t let it. You need to keep the javelin level if it’s going to go where you aim it.”

  Cecil nods, though the sheen in his eyes says none of her instructions make a lick of sense to him.

  If she sees the same, she doesn’t pause. “Use your wrist and fingers, like you’re throwing a dart. Go ahead.”

  Cecil does, hucking it with all the strength in his small arm.

  The javelin buries itself into the dirt two feet in front of him.

  Cecil deflates. His arms fall and he peeks from under his lashes at the rest of us, no doubt assessing if we witnessed his failure.

  I drop my head. He’s going to get nowhere if he thinks we’re only here to watch him sputter. I know I don’t like learning with an audience, and I don’t imagine Cecil is so much different.

  “Try again,” Zaeshala says. “See how your hand moved, like I said not to? That’s why it didn’t go far.”

  Even if her tone isn’t encouraging, and she looks at him with the same intensity mantis insects use to consider their prey, I think she means well. She rises without a word, collecting all four of the weapons, and returns to Cecil. She even nods as she offers him one again, as if that tiny motion will undo her utter lack of warmth.

  Cecil takes the javelin. He sets up once more, feeling for the balance point and lifting the weapon over his shoulder.

  “Loosen your fingers,” Zaeshala says. “If you hold it too tight, it will go straight into the ground.”

  Cecil nods and tries again.

  “No, like you’re holding a dart.”

  The turn of Cecil’s mouth says he doesn’t spend much time in tavern houses or gambling halls.

  Zaeshala frowns. I see the wheels roll in her head, wondering how to explain in a way Cecil will understand.

  “Cecil, have you ever milked a goat?”

  Both Cecil and Zaeshala whirl, finding me watching them. Zaeshala’s expression breaks at last, clearly wondering if I’ve lost my mind.

  But Cecil nods slowly.

  I stand and wander a few steps closer. “You know how it’s not in the wrist, but in the fingers?”

  He nods again, faster this time.

  “Kind of like that, except you’re going out instead of down. Keep your wrist flat and push with your fingers instead.”

  Cecil grins. His tongue pokes past his lips as he takes his stance, setting his feet just-so in the grass. He practices the motion once, then cranks his arm back and lets it fly.

  The javelin soars. It doesn’t reach the tree, but it gets more than halfway there before landing point-first into the ground. Cecil whoops, leaping and pumping his fist. He doesn’t even glance back at us before running to claim it.

  Zaeshala stands. “You know these weapons?”

  I shake my head. “I just speak back-wood country kid.”

  “Well, your help is appreciated.” Her lips twitch again. Definitely a smile.

  “Yours, too. If that armor says anything, you’re going to be good to have in a fight. We’re glad to have you around.”

  The twitch widens. “Are you from around here?”

  “Further south. I’ve never been to Whirris before today, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Cecil returns. He slides so fast the leaves skitter beneath his feet, then he lifts the javelin. At the last moment, he pauses, craning his head to see Zaeshala. “Can I throw it again, Lady Zae?”

  Zaeshala drops the javelins still in her hand, catching them on an ankle before they hit the ground so the shafts land in a neat pile rather than scatter. It’s an impressive motion, one that speaks to hours and hours spent drilling with them, just like this.

  “Why don’t you practice for a while before we bed down?” she says. “You have until the light leaves the trees.”

  Cecil nods so vigorously his curls bounce.

  I smile as I turn back for the trees and my blankets. Though it will be a cold camp, the summer night means I won’t have to shiver through the small hours. Insects buzz, and I hope I won’t be eaten alive come morning. I wonder if Mama packed sulfur-wood matches, and if I’m willing to feel one scrape down my throat to keep the bugs off.

  The sound of metal sliding from a scabbard has me whirling back. Zaeshala stands with her sword in hand, tip pointed towards Cecil.

  I rush forward on instinct, magic screaming in my ears. The words rise, ready to stop her before she can—.

  “Kneel, Cecil, and I will name you my ward.”

  Oh.

  I stop, my heart beating too hard. Cecil’s grin stretches so wide it might split his face in half and even Zaeshala looks pleased with herself. It’s me who’s wrong.

  I watch as Cecil lowers himself to the ground, as Zaeshala touches her sword to each shoulder. As she names him Ser Cecil, a ward of the Crimson Raven.

  She’s playing with him. Giving him something to smile about even as we head into the unknown.

  My palms are damp and I feel my heartbeat in my teeth. Magic settles beneath my skin, thick as tree sap.

  Zaeshala bids Cecil to rise. She sheathes her sword and reaches to her belt for a coin. “Your job is to practice with these javelins, all right? Throw them thirty times, then get ready for bed.”

  Cecil takes the gold piece, his eyes wide. “I won’t let you down, Lady Zae!” He scampers back to the pile of javelins, picking one up and carefully placing his feet as he readies to throw.

  Zaeshala’s lips almost make a full curve as she watches him. Then she sees me and it falls. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Allergies.”

  The set of her shoulders says she does not believe me, but she keeps quiet. Lets me break down in peace as she returns to her shield and her bag and the small space she carved for herself at the roots of an alder tree.

  I follow, wrestling with the itch of spells begging to be set free. Though I by no means turned my back on the gift of incantation in the two years since I crumbled, I haven’t let it fly the way I once did. Haven’t carved whole animals from the air, shaken the very trees to their roots or spoken without the use of tongue or voice.

  That I yearn to do so now should make me happy. Surely, wanting to dive into my bag and discover if Mama packed any of the instruments I can play should mean I’m getting better.

  Instead, I see glittering motes of sound reflected in blue eyes, feel the steady beat of a heart against my chest. Hear the quiet, honey-sweet hum of a voice lifting to familiar melodies.

  I stumble to my pack. Crash down beside it, slamming my knee into the ground in the process. The others must notice, Tuuliki able to hear a caterpillar tucking itself into bed and Esmira so attuned to the woods she’s practically a part of the forest. Zaeshala has already leveled a strange look at me once, but I don’t care. I find my blankets and roll myself into them without bothering to remove my shoes.

  Though it’s not dark yet and we haven’t decided on watches, I close my eyes and beg sleep to find me. It’s the only place the ache in my chest lessens, and I’m willing to risk the ire of the others to feel like I can breathe again.

  Perhaps tomorrow everything will be better. Even though it’s been two years of tomorrows, and if I’m honest, I don’t have any faith that the next will be different.