Before Archer could think of something clever and casual to say, a sharp whistle interrupted him.
“That’s Lew’s warning,” Jemma said.
“We’ve got company,” Archer said, dropping Briar’s hand. “Get ready to ride.”
The others untied the horses while Jemma scattered pine needles to hide how recently the camp had been occupied. Briar packaged up the remaining paints in the voice mage’s cloak and secured them to her saddle. They were all on their mounts by the time Lew galloped through the trees.
“There’s been a tussle between Barden and Larke’s men in the village,” Lew said, the dark-brown wig he’d worn into town hanging askew. “Barden’s men seem to think Archer was behind the flare-up.”
Jemma turned in her saddle. “Archer.”
“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Archer said. “But they’ve been itching to get into it for months. Barden hates that Larke’s men have had the run of Mud Market for so long.”
“Agreed,” Lew said. “I’m not surprised he’s reasserting his hold on the place after Lady Mae.”
“You weren’t supposed to be seen,” Jemma said.
“It can’t be helped now. At least I knocked out Radner.”
Esteban looked up from where he’d been adjusting the ties on his saddlebags. “The voice mage?”
“Is he the one who always looks like he just sat on a porcupine?” Nat asked.
“One and the same,” Archer said.
Jemma definitely looked like she wanted to slap him. “I thought you said it was just a skirmish.”
“Do they know where we are?” Archer asked.
Lew nodded grimly. “Barden’s men got wind that we’re in the woods, and they’re sending a party our way. We’d better leave the pack animals. We need to get across the Sweetwater to Larke territory as quickly as possible.”
“But we didn’t get the purple paint,” Briar said. “I have to go back to look for it.”
“It’s too late now,” Archer said. “We’ll get it some other way.”
“But—”
“None of us want to be caught by Lord Barden’s men, least of all you. His cronies won’t be satisfied with just burning down your cottage.”
Briar set her jaw, her eyes burning like torches in the darkness. Archer didn’t envy Mage Radner if he ever met her with a full supply of paints in hand.
“You hired me to do a job,” she said. “I’m telling you it won’t work without that paint.”
Archer hesitated. After the news from Kurt, he was pretty sure she was going to need a whole new set of curses anyway. With luck, maybe they wouldn’t require the purple at all. He appreciated that she was committed to the job, but they wouldn’t make it in and out of Mud Market a second time that night.
“Your concerns have been noted,” Archer said. He flung up a hand to keep her from arguing, and she gave him a murderous scowl.
“I hear them coming,” Lew said.
“Archer,” Jemma hissed.
“Well, what are you all standing around for?” Archer asked. “We need to get across that river!”
Archer vaulted onto his horse and whistled to Sheriff. The dog gave a long howl and set off into the woods. Archer led his people in the opposite direction. As always, he said a prayer to the higher realms for his canine friend. Sheriff had a sharp mind in that wrinkly head of his, and he would lead Barden’s men on a merry chase. Sometimes Archer wished he were as clever as his dog. He couldn’t believe he’d been about to break into the wrong castle.
Chapter 9
Briar and the outlaws rode hard through the night, Lord Barden’s men in hot pursuit. Branches lashed their faces, the darkness seeming to morph into enemies at every turn, but Briar wasn’t as frightened as she’d been the last time she’d fled through the woods. She had paints again, and if she got caught, she would not be helpless.
Still, the loss of the purple pigment troubled her as they got farther from Mud Market. Archer didn’t seem to understand how impossible it would be to just “get it some other way.” Most curses didn’t require that particular paint. Unravelling magic was a mysterious and little-understood practice—one that had especially fascinated Briar’s father. He was always experimenting with marine-snail purple in his studio by the sea, but no supplier between here and Larke Castle was guaranteed to have the pigment on hand.
She’d tried to explain it to Archer, but he was too focused on barreling forward through the darkness. Briar clutched her reins in frustration, making her horse snort and toss its head. She wanted their quest to succeed. She had become fully invested the moment she’d helped Archer out of the stocks instead of accepting Gideon’s charity. Besides, Mage Radner had seen her with Archer. It was too late for a clean break. The least he could do was listen.
Archer rode at the head of their party, the darkness revealing little more than the outline of his bow and quiver, once again strapped to his back, and his blond hair blowing in the wind. There was more to their job than Archer had told her—and more to Archer himself. She’d heard enough from Barden’s men to guess he was a wealthy merchant’s prodigal son who wanted to marry a baron’s daughter. Archer must believe rescuing the fair maiden would win her hand—and return him to the affluent society from whence he’d come. Perhaps he was even in love with Lady Mae. What would he do if Briar’s curses failed to save her?
“Personal crusades are always messy.” A long-ago warning from her father seemed to float out of the forest. “You can’t let your clients’ passions interfere with your work.” Most of her clients came to her for revenge, so avoiding their passions wasn’t possible. She was far more involved in the mission than usual, though. Briar sincerely hoped she was wrong about Archer’s devotion to Lady Mae. Otherwise, they might both come to regret
