We rounded a corner, entering the shade of jaccara trees growing from a planter in the center of the street. As we approached our estate from the north, Bolt reined in and dismounted as if we’d arrived. “Get down,” he said in a conversational tone, “but slowly.” He lifted his head, gesturing over my shoulder. “We have trouble.”
Two men, dressed in nondescript clothing that blended with the sand-colored wall surrounding the estate, stood outside watching a couple of boys play catch. It took me a second to notice that while the heads of the men were pointed toward the boys, their eyes scanned the streets.
“That’s a roll of ones,” I said. Soldiers—the good ones, anyway—have a way holding themselves even when they’re not standing at attention that draws the eye. It’s a readiness for violence they maintain even when they’re not on patrol. “Do you know them?” I asked Bolt.
He shook his head. “No. They have the olive skin tones of Aille, but for all of that, they could be attached to the crown, the church, or anyone.”
“It’s not just the men,” Rory said. “Look at the boys. They’re nearly the same age as me, and they’re, what, ten feet apart? There’s no fun in throwing a ball that far. What do we do?” To emphasize his question, he pulled a dagger, spinning it around one hand before making it disappear again.
Gael touched my arm. “Give me a moment.” Then she walked away. I watched as she left the little square and then reappeared to approach the soldiers from the west, carrying a basket of cut flowers as if she’d just been to the market. We watched the soldiers as my betrothed walked toward them.
“It won’t work, yah?” Rory said. “How many people with her coloring live here?”
She would have known that. “I think that’s what she intends. If they’ve been sent to take us, they’ll have our descriptions and act accordingly, but if they’re only watching, they’ll let her pass.”
Gael went past the guards and through the gate. Half a heartbeat later, the guards followed her. I moved to follow, my hand on my sword while my heart struggled within in my throat. Bolt stopped me, not threatening, but I could hear him growling a stream of invectives under his breath.
“Will you please say something that makes sense?” I asked. Across the distance of the square, another pair of men sauntered up from a side street to take the place of the two that had followed Gael inside.
“They’re cosp,” he spat. “Physically gifted soldiers who serve as guards for the Merum order in Aille.” His lip curled in disgust. “After the crown and church disbanded the Errants, the Archbishop decided it would be a good idea to buy the service of those who were similarly gifted.”
“Are they as good as Vigil guards?” Rory asked.
Bolt shook his head. “No, but they don’t have to be. Archbishop Vyne commands enough of them to fight us to a standstill or worse.”
Rory turned, leaning toward the guards with his right ear. “I don’t hear any sounds of fighting.”
“How did they find us?”
“Custos,” Bolt said, “or more likely Peret Volsk.” He ground the name like a curse. “The librarian blends in, but that popinjay doesn’t.”
Rory shook his head. “Churchmen. None of you have enough sense to learn how to check for a tail. That one thinks too highly of himself.”
Bolt nodded. “He always has.”
I’d inadvertently delved Volsk months before, uncovering his treachery, but behind the door in my mind where his memories lay were other memories that gave the lie to Rory’s assessment. “Not anymore,” I said. Bolt didn’t push me for an explanation and I didn’t bother to provide one. His enmity for the Vigil’s former apprentice and golden boy went too deep for forgiveness.
Without warning, Rory sneezed, bending double while his cloak fluttered with the motion. Only Bolt and I could see his hands when he straightened, a dagger clutched in each. “We’ve got more behind us,” he murmured. “And they’re headed this way.”
Bolt didn’t move but sighed, his hand finding his sword in the midst of an idle scratch. “How many?”
Rory’s hands fluttered beneath his cloak again and came back as empty as his expression.
“Too many for us to fight, I take it?” I asked.
Bolt turned without making an effort to hide his motion or intention and nodded. “Eight. And they’re all gifted. We might as well join Gael. We might win a fight, but we’d have to put any number of them down, most of them for good.”
What he didn’t bother to say was that I would be the most likely to die, since I had no physical gift. For good measure I took a quick glance at the eight behind us, scanning each face to see if my suspicions proved true. Then I caught a glimpse of the setting sun. Where did Ealdor go when he wasn’t pretending to appear to me? “You’d think talking with one of the Fayit would be enough excitement for one day.” I grabbed the reins of Gael’s horse, adding them to those of my own. “We might as well go see what the Archbishop wants with us.”
From the south, bells began to toll. I only heard a few at first, soft with the intervening distance, but more joined in until the sound came toward us like a wave. “Aer help us,” Bolt said. “I think I know.”
My questions slid from him, ignored, as we walked out from beneath jaccara trees, the three of us striding across the square with our horses trailing us as if we weren’t sweating with the need to pull steel. At the gate I turned to one of the two men lounging there and put the reins in his hand. His eyes went wide and then wider still when Bolt and Rory followed suit. “I’m going to want my horse back.
