A Sea of Broken Glass Page 4

  “Hmm,” Michel murmured when I rejoined him. “We’ll pick up a cap for you. Keep your jacket buttoned and put a cap on and you could almost pass as a boy.”

  “I’m not sure I should thank you for that comment.” I touched the over-corset that helped support my figure.

  He blinked. “I apologize, Mistress. I meant no offense. You are, uh, quite lovely, but if we can—”

  “Disguise me as a boy?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  I pulled a small pair of scissors out of the satchel and started cutting the prison linens up. They would make decent bandages. “I forgive you, Sir Michel. Whoever is watching will be looking for a woman and a man traveling together.” I ran the ragged, short edges of my hair through my hand. “At least, I can put this to good use.”

  “We could visit a barber. They could clean it up for you.”

  “It was the least of what the Inquisitor did to me.”

  “I imagine that his … ministrations were less than kind.”

  An uncontrolled shudder rocked me. I stared out the window, scissors and linens forgotten as memory overtook me. My breath caught in my throat. I remembered the caress of a cold finger against my cheek. The coppery tang of blood on my lips and in the air. My heart knocked a frenzied rhythm against my ribs. Whispered words, begging me to confess. Urging me to give up all my secrets. Cold metal pressed against my skin. Hot pain and icy fear. Shadows edged my vision. Horror crawled along my veins and into my throat waiting to climb out of my mouth as a scream.

  Warmth blossomed from somewhere deep inside. It spread along my veins and entwined itself with my magic. A sweet song made up of cellos and violins that displaced the shadows and eased the pain of my memories. My senses slowly returned to normal.

  Sound first. The clatter of the train against the rails.

  Touch second. The sun through the window as it brushed my skin. A hand pressed gently to my cheek.

  Michel knelt in front of me. “Breathe with me,” he murmured.

  I was trapped in the amber of his eyes. But, I did as he asked and inhaled and exhaled until the panic and flashbacks passed. He pushed aside the edge of my shirt and touched a finger to the silver collar fastened around my throat. His magic surged in a squeal of violins, and the collar snapped open. I breathed deeply as my magic flooded into the empty parts of my soul. I used it to finish healing my hands, flexing my fingers in relief as the lingering pain and stiffness disappeared.

  “Nasty thing. I didn’t know any of these still existed.” The blue flames that surrounded Michel’s hands reduced the silver collar to ash. “I apologize for not removing it earlier. I didn’t realize you were wearing it.”

  “Isn’t that what they use on anyone accused of witchery?” I asked.

  “No,” he spat. The strength of his refusal stunned me. He sat on the bench next to me. “I thought we’d destroyed all of them after the Lady’s fall.”

  “Light, how old are you?”

  “Five-hundred-and-thirty-two. Give or take a few years.”

  He didn’t look a day over thirty. I knew there were people who could live that long. Still, the knowledge that there were more beyond the few that I knew was shocking.

  “Then you were there?” I asked. “When the curse was unleashed?”

  Michel looked away. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Light, that’s….” It boggled my mind. I’d known Bran had been there. He was a Lord of Light after all. Only three Lords of Light survived the fall. Aeron had been there, too, but, Michel looked younger than both of them. “How is that possible? Are all paladins so…?” I fumbled for a non-insulting word.

  “Long-lived?” he finished for me. “No. Only those of us who survived the Lady’s fall. We can die from wounds or demon poison, but we don’t age. There are only a handful of us left.”

  “Bran never talked about it. Aeron, either.” On instinct, I leaned forward and took his hand. “It must be hard. Seeing those you care about age and die.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “Indeed. But, I swore my life to serve the Light. I took my oaths long before the Lady fell to the Darkness.”

  “And now, you’re protecting me.”

  He squeezed my hand. “I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

  I looked away. I appreciated his offer, but it was hard to accept, especially after the men who had spent their lives protecting me had failed. “I’ve always known what I am, what I could be. Bran told me, taught me how to protect myself. But, he didn’t prepare me for….” My mouth went dry.

  Michel covered my hands with his. “No one can prepare you for what you went through with the Inquisitor. You held up better than anyone could hope.” He stared at me for a long minute, and I shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “I’ll do my best to keep you from ever experiencing that again. Your enemies are my enemies. I swear to fight them with my last breath. I am yours to command.”

  Magic whispered between us, first his water and then my fire as it responded to his invitation. A silent thread of a song made up of brass and strings bound his vow into blood and bone. A braided cord of blue and orange light stretched between us before snapping into place over both of our hearts.

  Tears pricked my eyes. Bran was my Shield, sworn to protect me from the Lady since birth. Aeron, my Cloak, sworn to keep my secrets. But, Michel’s vow was stronger, deeper. He didn’t know me. Didn’t know what kind of person I was. He’d bound his life to mine between one breath and the next. He had become my Sword without hesitation or a second thought. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why did you…?”

  “A Sword doesn’t get to choose the hand that wields it. Our magic chooses for us.” Michel handed me a small pillow from the drawer beneath the bench. “You should get some rest, Mistress LaRoche. We have a long train ride.”

  His answer did little to ease my worries, but I did understand. Magic was a fickle beast. It was hard to tame and at times it had a will of its own.

  I set the pillow on the seat, plumped it, and laid down. “Call me Ris.” I closed my eyes. The sway of the train and the clatter of the iron wheels sent me to sleep.

  04

  A metallic tang in the air tickled Aeron’s nose and coated his throat as he climbed off the train in the Copper Hills Mining Outpost. It reminded him of things he’d long ago pushed into the abyss of his memories. The clang of the station bell warred with the raucous shouts of the overall-clad men and women exiting the train.

  Aeron’s first stop was food, then lodging. The seven-hour train ride from the Bastion had been torture. He hated being confined, but more than that, he hated being a pawn in someone else’s game.

  The Mining Outpost was an ugly place filled with squat wooden-sided buildings and loud equipment. The thump and whir of steam-powered machinery meant progress, or so the Bastion and the Provincial Governors claimed.

  Aeron didn’t believe them. It was all about money and power. He who controlled the resources controlled the world. Even a street rat from Odenfeld knew that much. Didn’t matter if it was food stolen from a baker’s cart or ore dug from the earth. Three hundred and fifty years since the Lady’s fall and that fact hadn’t changed.

  The conductor stood at the edge of the platform, the overly bright sunshine glittering off the brass buttons on his uniform. “All aboard for Borderton, Raven’s Keep, and Langden’s Landing.”

  Aeron ignored the press of the crowd and used his slight build to slip through unnoticed. The Poor Man’s Pub was the best place to get grub and close enough to the station so he could keep an eye out for Ris and Michel. The thought of Ris being in the Inquisitor’s hands left a bitter taste in his mouth. He should have never left her side.

  “Demon’s balls,” he muttered, “quit worrying and get to it.” It wouldn’t do him any good to think about how things could go wrong.

  A triple-chime sounded from the see
rstone that hung around Aeron’s neck. He quickly glanced around before darting into a nearby alley. He didn’t need random passersby overhearing his conversation.

  Once he was out of sight, he slipped the glowing orb out from under his shirt and focused his magic on it, a quick rat-a-tat-tat of drumbeats that filled the air and the seerstone was lit from within.

  The pallid face of the Voice appeared in the orb, his gaunt cheeks and overly large eyes gave him the appearance of a skull covered in uncomfortably stretched skin. “Have you arrived?”

  Aeron suppressed a sigh. The Voice of the Lady was a thorn in his side. Aeron wished for the return of the days before the Council had been formed. Before they appointed the Voice as head of the Bastion. For the days when paladins had been trusted by the people to protect them from demons and not seen as a necessary evil. The average person found ways to live without magic, using technology as a replacement, but that only went so far when magic was the only thing that could kill a demon.

  “Just now,” Aeron replied.

  “Good.” The Voice hooked some pale blond hair behind his ear. “As soon as you make contact with the girl, bring her to the Bastion. The Lord of Ravens may think he can protect her, but he’s proven to be a failure.”

  Aeron clenched one hand until his knuckles cracked. The disrespect that modern paladins showed those left from the Lady’s fall had become uncomfortably commonplace. Too many saw the Lords of Light and the original paladins as artifacts best left in the past. “Bran is a Lord of Light. You—”

  “You are relics of the past.” The Voice smiled coldly. “Do as you’re ordered. You know what happens if you fail.” The threat lingered in the Voice’s icy blue eyes; the hint to not step out of line clear as day. The seerstone darkened, taking the Voice’s unpleasant face with it.

  Aeron clutched the crystal orb in his fist. Light, he hated that man. Somehow, the Voice had dug up secrets that only the Lady knew. It shouldn’t have been possible. Aeron had kept those secrets hidden for more than four hundred years. He would swing on the gallows if they came to light.

  He clamped down on the frustration that threatened to overwhelm him. It wasn’t the time or the place to deal with it. The Voice had effectively tied Aeron’s hands. In the end, it didn’t matter where Ris ended up, as long as she was safe. By his reckoning, Raven’s Keep wasn’t any safer than the Bastion.

  What truly worried Aeron was how the Inquisitor had gotten permission to capture Ris in the first place. The Voice had assured him it was the Council’s doing, but Aeron had his suspicions. The Voice had proven to be a manipulative bastard. Not that Aeron could do anything about it. It was his helplessness that rankled the most.

  Aeron returned to the dusty street. The Poor Man’s Pub deserved its name. The large front window was boarded over, probably a casualty of a late-night brawl. Clanging piano music rattled out from the swinging saloon doors, and shouted conversations competed for space in the noxious cigar smoke that clouded the dining hall in a perpetual haze.

  It wasn’t a pretty place, but the food was tasty, the dice games fruitful, and the women good looking. Aeron sat at an empty table and surveyed the room.

  A waitress in a knee length ruffled skirt sashayed up to the table, her brown curls bouncing as she moved. “What’ll it be, sweetie?”

  “What’s on the menu?” Aeron laid an aran on the table.

  The waitress’s eyebrow rose a little when he pulled his hand back from the silver rod. “For that price, a bottle of our finest and Cook’s special.”

  “How about a room and the special? I don’t need the bottle.”

  “Double it, and the room’s all yours, sweetie.” She gave him a sassy wink.

  Aeron smiled and slid another silver rod onto the table. “Got anything to drink that’s not got a kick?”

  She reached out and tapped the silver pin on Aeron’s collar. “We don’t get much call for it, but I keep a few bottles for the likes of you. Can’t drink the hard stuff while on duty, can ya?” She wandered toward the bar, skillfully avoiding the hands of too-friendly customers.

  Aeron fingered the pin that marked his rank as a paladin. Paladins tended to stick to the outposts in the Copper Hills, but the fact that she kept a special stock of drinks meant they came around enough to make an impression. That was worrisome. His plan hinged on the fact that he wasn’t likely to encounter any other paladins aside from Michel.

  He slipped the pin off his collar and put it in his pocket. No need to draw more attention to the fact that he was a paladin.

  The Voice wanted Ris in the Bastion. Why? The question had plagued Aeron ever since the Voice cornered him. Less than a handful of people knew about Ris, yet somehow the Voice had all the information in a tidy little file. How many others knew her secret? It made Aeron’s stomach twist with anxiety. He was Ris’s Cloak, meant to protect her secrets. Somehow, he’d failed, and he had no idea how.

  Tolbert had a loyal following in the Bastion. If the Voice knew about the plan to break Ris out, did Tolbert know as well, and if that was the case, did that mean this was all a setup to get at the last remaining original paladins and Lords of Light? The thought left Aeron cold.

  The waitress plopped his meal down on the table along with a bottle of cider and a clean mug. She offered a flirtatious smile and wink, then dashed off to another table.

  Cook’s special consisted of a bowl of stew, fresh biscuits, and a generous dollop of butter. Aeron poked at the meat with his spoon, wondering what it was. It didn’t matter. Food was food. Growing up, rat was common fare. He had no right to judge. He dug in, savoring the hearty flavor.

  At the next table over, a dice game was in progress. Aeron watched with interest as a skinny, blond rolled seven dice, spilling them over the table. The man quickly scooped up three of them and got ready for another roll.

  It’d been a while since Aeron had a chance to play. Bran had been a stickler about gambling. Every time he’d caught sight of Aeron playing cards at the Bear and Buzzard they’d ended up in a shouting match. Playing a few rounds of dice would pass the time until Ris’s train arrived.

  “Oy, Gunther, one o’ them’s was a four not a six.” A burly miner in dusty overalls slapped a hand over the dice on the table. “You trying to cheat?”

  Or maybe not.

  Gunther offered a sly smile. “Ain’t got no proof, Les.”

  “I got’s eyes. So does this lot.” Les pointed at the three other men at the table. The men in question shifted in their seats, looking away from Les.

  Aeron polished off his stew quickly. From the look of things, Gunther had the other men in his pocket, and poor Les was going to end up with the short end of the stick. He knew the racket well. It was one he’d pulled many times. It was time to leave.

  He caught the eye of the waitress and met her at the bar. “Which room is mine?”

  “Top of the stairs, third door on the left.” She grabbed a key from a rack on the wall and dropped it in his hand.

  “Thanks.” Aeron shoved the key in the pocket of his vest. “You got a back door?”

  The waitress’s eyebrow rose and her lips quirked into a knowing smile. She cocked her head toward a set of swinging doors behind the bar.

  Aeron slipped her another aran on his way past, smoothly depositing the silver rod in her hand as he ducked through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. He ignored the grey-haired cook and slipped out of the building and into the alleyway. The sounds of a brawl reached him as soon as he hit the street.

  Light, sometimes he missed his old life. Nothing got the blood pumping better than a good-old-fashioned brawl. If he wasn’t on the job, he might have stuck around to throw a few swings.

  Aeron sauntered down the alley, hands in his pockets, blending into the street traffic. He was just another body on his way to work. He whistled an old sea shanty that he’d learned from a washed-up sailor. He’d long since forgotten the words, but the tune had stuck with him
.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Someone was watching him.

  Aeron stopped at a fruit stand and glanced over the bruised produce, watching the glass behind the vendor for signs of his observer. His reflection glared back at him. Messy copper curls. Hard green eyes. A smattering of freckles across his thin nose. He looked too much like his dead sister. He turned away from his reflection. No sign of his stalker.

  Nothing. Whoever it was had some skill.

  “How’s the day treating you?” Aeron asked the portly vendor.

  The man mopped sweat from his forehead. “Could be better. Could be worse.”

  Aeron paid for a couple of apples. “Mind if I sit and eat.” He wasn’t really hungry, but it gave him an excuse to watch the crowd.

  “As long as you aren’t blocking traffic, I don’t mind. What brings you to the Outpost?”

  The first bite of apple made Aeron grimace. Tart and hard. He schooled his expression and swallowed the bite. “I’m meeting some friends.” A shadow across the street caught his eye. “We’ve got a claim to the west.”

  “I hear things are picking up out that way. Good for you. Best to get in early before all the good spots are taken.”

  Light glinted off metal, confirming that Aeron’s observer was on the roof. “Where’s the best place to pick up supplies?”

  The vendor rubbed his chin. “Well, that depends. Officially, the Outfitters is where I’m supposed to tell you to go, but Dango’s General has better options. Look for the red awning. You can’t miss it.”

  Aeron tossed his apple core into a nearby rubbish pile. “Thanks.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed in the direction the vendor pointed. He wouldn’t be able to catch his shadow off guard yet. Better to let them think he hadn’t noticed he was being followed. Where there was one, there might be more.

  Dango’s General proved to be a worthwhile stop. Aeron purchased packs and supplies for three people without a hitch. Bran’s plan was for Michel and Ris to take the train to Raven’s Keep, but the Voice wanted Aeron to take Ris to the Bastion. Either way, Aeron wanted to be prepared in case they had to go part of the way on foot.