fingers, in a movement so fast Eravon did not have time to react.
“I found you by following the stench of cowardice. You leaked piss all the way from Angelport, like a frightened dog.”
Maradun stood, a sword flashing in his hand.
“Let him go,” he said.
The Wraith laughed.
“As you wish.”
He shoved Eravon aside, then spun atop the table. His foot lashed out, the heel smashing Maradun’s face before he could lift his sword to block. Eravon drew his sword and slashed, but the Wraith pulled his own blade. As the sound of steel rang out, the elves leapt away from the table, standing at the far reaches of the tent. Only the Wraith remained in the center, turning so his back faced none of them for long.
“Do you fear me?” he asked. “Good. Then perhaps you will remember the message I bring.”
“What is that?” Eravon asked, stealing a glance at Maradun, who clutched his face with his free hand, blood dripping between his fingers from what Eravon guessed was a broken nose.
“Do not ask as if you don’t intend to listen, Eravon.”
The Wraith leapt, his body changing from relaxed to taut in an imperceptible moment of time. Eravon blocked his brutal chop during the descent, but his skills were in words and schemes, not the blade. He parried the next few swings, then overextended to block what turned out to be a feint. Before the other two could come to his aid, the Wraith’s sword pierced his side. Gasping in pain, Eravon fell to one knee. When the Wraith pulled the blade free, blood poured across the grass.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” the Wraith said, turning on the other two. “I will kill you all if I must.”
“Speak,” said Sildur. “Give your message.”
Eravon tried to stand, but his head felt light, and his muscles refused to cooperate. He collapsed onto his side. Beneath him the grass warmed from his own blood. With fading vision, he watched the Wraith approach, his footfalls frighteningly silent.
“You are not wanted,” the Wraith said, grabbing Eravon by the hair and lifting his head back so they might see eye to eye. “Leave, tonight. The people here do not need your meddling. Stick to your forests. One day, axes and fire will come for your borders. Remember that the next time you think of returning to Angelport.”
Eravon’s vision was nearly dark, but he still saw Maradun launch himself into an attack. The Wraith let him go, then twirled, his sword a blur. Eravon felt something wet splash across him, and then Maradun fell clutching a bloody stump, his arm gone from the elbow down. Trying to stand, Eravon succeeded only in rolling onto his back. The Wraith stood above him, looking down. Still smiling.
His sword sliced into Eravon’s flesh, never deep. The sharp stings were nothing compared to the deep ache in his side, but still his anger grew.
“We’ll kill you for this,” he said, coughing.
“Many will try,” the Wraith said, his sword twirling in his hand, flicking blood all across the tent. “But not you.”
The blade descended straight for his eye.
“There it is,” said Alyssa, hopping down from the wagon. “Angelport.”
Haern followed, and as the rest of the travelers set up camp, he looked out over the city. It was smaller than Veldaren, but not by much. Three walls formed concentric circles enveloping the city, all of them stretching out into the water. A sprawling port lined the far side, and in the light of the setting sun the boats shifted about like ants. Guessing at least a hundred, Haern was stunned by the sight. He’d never seen a single ship before, so to find so many coming into port or sailing out for the far reaches of Dezrel, impressed him greatly.
“Why do we camp here?” Haern asked. “The city is not far.”
“Because I want to make sure you know your part in this charade,” Alyssa said, looking him over, then sighing. “Gods help me, you couldn’t appear more uncomfortable if you tried.”
Haern rolled his eyes and then went to help the others unpack. They’d kept a small supply of kindling and firewood, replenishing it as needed during their journey. Once their bonfire was roaring, and tents set up for those who would not sleep in the wagons, the servants began cooking their meal. One continued on the path, sent to receive word on the state of the city.
All the while, Alyssa drilled Haern on customs.
“Deepen your bow depending on their station relative to you,” Alyssa said, smoothing out his silk shirt. “Since you’ll be a distant relative of mine, that means nearly every member of nobility and the Trifect is significantly higher than you. If in doubt, bow low and avert your eyes for only a brief moment. Just make sure you don’t ever tip your head to a commoner. Kind words in greeting are fine, but don’t overdo it.”
“I’d rather stick to killing people,” Haern said. “Can I do that instead?”
She gave him a look he’d seen many times on their journey. The first had been when she realized he had packed a single set of clothes to wear for months at a time, his dark gray shirt and pants coupled with his cloaks. Wishing he’d heeded Delysia’s advice, he found himself inheriting a wide assortment of outfits from Alyssa. They were poofy, silken, and more expensive than anything he’d ever owned in his life. And they itched.
Alyssa continued grilling him, seemingly determined not to risk the slightest error.
“Tell me your name,” she said.
“Haern Gemcroft, third cousin by marriage.”
“And Zusa is?”
Haern rubbed his eyes.
“My wife. Zusa Gemcroft, originally of the Gandrem family line, having fallen for me at a ball celebrating the appointment of the new head of the Connington family.”
“And why are you here?”
Haern muttered through his answer, wondering for the hundredth time why he’d agreed to go. As nice as it felt to get away from the dark streets of Veldaren, he was completely out of his element amid the wealth and traditions of the Trifect.
“It’s our…honeymoon,” he said. “You agreed to take us so we might see the port and buy presents from afar.”
Alyssa sat down beside the fire, accepting a bowl of soup, and frowned at him as she sipped.
“I hope you can put on a better act when we’re inside the city.”
Haern accepted his own food and ate. Alyssa finished, and while Haern took seconds, she went off to their wagon to see how Zusa fared. She, too, had been unhappy with Alyssa’s scheme to get them into the city unnoticed. Wherever Alyssa went, they would be able to follow, yet at the same time, they had a readymade excuse for when they needed to search the city. Of course, come nightfall, the real work would begin, and he could don his cloaks while Zusa covered herself with her wrappings…
Alyssa stepped back into the light of the fire, Zusa trailing. Haern nearly choked on a piece of potato. The slender woman wore a loose dress with a wide V cut between her breasts that ran all the way to the belt at her navel. Her skirt was long and violet, swaying about her legs. Apparently lacking Haern’s discomfort, Zusa twirled once, then curtseyed as if she’d been raised in court her whole life.
“It’s a bit…revealing,” Haern said, immediately realizing that was far from the compliment he meant to offer.
Alyssa looked ready to murder him.
“It’s the style there, brought over from Ker by their sailors. Be glad I dressed you in Veldaren fashion. You’d have half your body exposed otherwise.”
Haern scratched at his neck.
“Would it be less poofy?”
“More and more I doubt the wisdom of your assistance,” Zusa said. She ran her hands through her short hair. “At least you are handsome. None would believe me marrying you otherwise.”
“No one’s going to believe it anyway,” Haern said. “I’ve still got scars from when you tried to kill me.”
“You tried to kill Alyssa first, remember?”
“Such doe-eyed lovers,” Alyssa said, sounding the tired mother. “I swear, sometimes I wonder why I brought either of you.”
