Unlikely (Kingdoms Gone), page 2
“Sure it is.” His voice rose and fell more than was ordinary. Not unpleasant, but enough to mark his difference. He ducked under the stones and dropped into a pose that mirrored her own. Cocky, not at all concerned with hiding what he was. “May I see it?”
“Why?”
“I have an interest in trinkets.”
“And why is that?” The dust felt smooth and warm against her fingertips. It surged with potential, gave her the strength she needed to feign confidence. She stared back at him, waited, and the moment warbled. It could go in either direction, magic in its own right, a crossing place.
He shrugged and laughed higher and shriller than any human should. Satina let out a long breath and nodded. She allowed a smile of her own. He meant her no direct harm. Not tonight at least.
“I own a shop,” he said. “Not far from here. You might say trinkets like the one you’re hiding in that lovely cloak are my specialty.”
“Then there’s a village nearby?”
“Not much of a walk, even.”
“Starlight?” She pointed to the sigil with the hand not buried in her dust. His face shifted, followed the gesture, and he cracked a wider grin.
“Not much use for either here.”
“And yet, the tag.”
“Maybe it’s old.”
“Maybe.”
They stared again. She found him charming, in a fashion. He was quick to smile and unabashed to the point of brazenness in his refusal to be ordinary. Yet his dramatics hid a sharper edge. He had an aura of danger. It flared every time his eyes shifted.
In the distance, the soft rhythm of feet squelched against the muddy road. Someone trod that ribbon path, and at this hour, she guessed they had a good reason to be out. The stranger in her shelter didn’t look, but his cheek twitched, and his smile curved at a sharper angle.
“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?”
“A little business to attend to.”
“For the shop?”
“Perhaps.” He jumped backwards, straightening and landing on his feet in a patch of moonlight. “Come to town, my dear. The place is impossible to miss.”
“I just might do that.”
“You can show me that trinket.”
He knew more than she would have liked. His voice pegged her lie. It said he knew exactly what she was. Satina smiled and shrugged. The squishy steps grew louder. The stranger bowed, swirled his cape and tilted his head, eyes flashing one last time before he scampered toward the road. If her presence gave him any pause, he didn’t show it.
He reached the roadside and hesitated. His head turned left and right and then he leapt into the air, landing on a boulder that stood a few feet higher than the rest. He perched there, posing, if she’d judged him correctly. The moonlight outlined his figure, the cape swirled, and his eyes flashed once in her direction before his business came shuffling around the bend.
A young boy. Satina frowned and leaned a little forward. Not her matter, whatever he was up to. Not at all. She sniffed and pulled her fingers from her powder, brushing them together to dislodge as much as possible back into the pouch. No good to waste it here. Now with a whole moon cycle ahead.
The boy stopped in the middle of the road. He wore coarse clothing, a hood but no cloak, and shoes that hadn’t been built to weather mud like that. She judged him to be somewhere near his eleventh or twelfth year and very nervous. He turned and took a step toward the stairway. The stranger stood abruptly. Satina heard the soft cadence of his speech, but the words drowned in the boy’s squeal of alarm. The child staggered back into the road and wobbled, nearly sat in the mud when the man jumped down from his rock and swirled into another bow.
Showmanship. She had to give him that much, though the situation made her fingers twitch toward her dust again. The conversation happened in whispers, but she knew the score. She knew, when the boy handed over a sack of something, what her stranger was. A Skinner, and one with Gentry blood. He offered the boy his prize, a small object, possibly a book, and then he sprang back to his rock, bowing low before leaping into the trees and out of sight.
Damn. Satina cursed her luck and Skinners everywhere. She watched the boy and told herself to stay out of it. She didn’t need trouble, didn’t need a reputation so quickly. The pocket had only just landed her here. Maybe just for this reason. She frowned and scanned the tree line. He wouldn’t have gone far unless that sack held something particularly valuable or dangerous. No. She knew a thing or two about Skinners. He’d want to watch and see his handiwork unfold.
As if on cue, the boy howled. Satina closed her eyes and counted. Not her business. Not so soon. She hadn’t even found a place to settle. But the bawling from the road wormed under her skin. The child was in distress. She peeked out from under her arch and let out a very long exhale. Her dust would never last the whole moon, not at this rate. Not with a Skinner handy.
She didn’t really even need to use it. She could just march out there and fix things. Still, her hand slid to the pouch again. A smile found her lips, and her eyes flashed. Her fingers slid back into the powder. The Skinner wasn’t the only one who could put on a show.
Satina dug into the silky contents, her fingers pulsing with the dust’s power. She drew them out, took a breath to watch them shimmer even in the deep shadows under the ruin. Then she ran them through her hair, wiped a smear along the collar of her cloak and patted a touch at each invisible symbol stitched into the hem. Silence. Safety. Grace. The cloak had more of magic to it in embroidery than a trace of dust, but the powder made it glow, let ordinary eyes see what ordinarily was hidden.
If the Skinner still hid inside the trees, he gave no hint. No eyes flashed in her direction when she slid into the open. She believed he was there, just the same. Satina imagined him slunk low in the shadows, very interested in what she might do next. She tiptoed closer to the ribbon road, running both hands down the sides of her gown, over her waist and hips. The gesture left a glowing accent under the cover of her cloak.
She inhaled and closed her eyes, found her center of power and pulled at the tiny spark that was her blood right. It responded with a flood of warmth. Her fingers tingled. Satina let the power build. She nudged it into the symbols, into the powder and felt her body flare with magic. The sobbing from the roadway stopped. Her cue. She threw her arms wide and spun.
The dust lit her like a candle. She sparkled, a swirl of power and fabric and long, silvery hair. Her arms lifted over head, undulating and enhancing the spin. When she stopped, they drifted down and threw her cloak back over her shoulders. The boy in the road gaped at her.
His face streaked where his tears had cleaned away a layer of grime. His wide eyes were still shot with red, and he sniffled loudly and held up his hands. They were stuck fast to the Skinner’s trap.
“What is that thing?” The trouble he grasped between his palms didn’t look like much, a thin box, not a treasure worth risking a midnight encounter with a Skinner for.
“Don’t hurt me.” His lower lip trembled.
“Why would I do that?”
“You’re magic.” He labeled the obvious. “Like him.”
“Maybe not so like him as you think.”
He didn’t believe her. She’d grown used to that, the taint of suspicion, the nervousness. He’d take a little convincing—most of them did.
“What is that thing?”
“It’s supposed to be a game.” He held it up to the wan light and sniffed again. “I can’t let go of it!”
“And I suppose you paid him for it?” He only nodded and trembled, hands caught fast in the Skinner’s binding spell. “I hope it wasn’t too much.”
“Everyone in town has one.”
“A booby-trapped box?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” She made her sigh heavy enough to carry as far as the woods. “Well, let me see what I can do.”
“Y—you’re going to help me?”
“If you wish it.”
“I don’t have any more money.”
Satina scowled hard enough the boy stepped back. She softened quickly, waved him forward and surveyed the damage. The sigil was a simple thing to undo. The Skinner had dusted the rim with something, not the generic stuff. She leaned close and sniffed it.
“Can you make it stop?”
“Yes.”
“My dad could pay you.” She heard the fear in his words. No doubt his father didn’t know about tonight’s transaction.
“There’s no charge.” She ran her finger over the charm and felt for the release. At least, he hadn’t meant to hurt the boy, not in any real way.
“Why?”
“Why what?” A surge of power and the binding fell apart—the box became a normal thing again. The boy dropped it in the mud, then bent as if to retrieve it. “Best to leave it alone,” she warned. Who knew what secondary spells it hid?
“I know what you are,” the boy whispered.
Satina ignored him. Her plans had not included this, but she’d adapt. She smiled, held one finger to her lips. It still glowed enough to make his eyes stretch again. “Best be heading home, now.”
He snatched at the suggestion and took off running.
She waited till he’d scrambled out of sight before turning toward the woods. No Skinner. No flashing glance. The trap still lay in the rut, harmless if she could trust her sight. The boy who’d wanted it enough to risk a Skinner’s bargain left it behind without a glance back. Satina bent and lifted it. He’d pegged her as easily as the Skinner had.
Granter.
Her story would reach the village long before she did.
Chapter Four
At least she knew which way to go. The morning held a promise of heat that had already dried the road ruts into hard ridges. Her cloak would be a burden long before noon, but now, as the sun whispered through a soft sheen of cloud cover, she kept it on, only folding the wool back to hang behind her shoulders.
The boy had come from this direction, had darted away toward home in this direction. He had her secret, and she didn’t doubt he meant to spread it, had probably spread it already. If she’d a brain in her head, she’d be walking the other way, even if the tag had been a Starlight mark.
Satina squinted at the horizon. The road bent yet again, but the trees already parted to display the fields that would ring the town with crops. Like the Skinner, she had no use for either gang. She preferred no affiliation. She had her own reasons to avoid the Shades, and she was clever enough to know that hiding among Starlights threw her in the path of danger. Where else would the rival gang search for her?
Still, she followed the boy’s path toward a village where the Skinner kept his shop. How that worked, she couldn’t guess. A town full of victims and no one had lynched the man? How had he done it, settled in one place? A Skinner of all people. He had that charm about him, she supposed, the grace of a dancer, though she doubted that would get him far with your ordinary townsperson.
Maybe it wasn’t an ordinary town.
She lifted her chin, shooed away an early midge and tramped through the ruts toward the rustle of wheat. The crops fanned out to either side of the road. Satina marched between them. Wheat, corn, potatoes—beyond these a few lumpy pastures with sheep or goats, even one fat cow. You could read a town by the things it grew. There would be families here, close-knit groups and neighbor’s well-versed in one another’s business.
There’d be a chapel, an inn that was friendly enough to welcome travelers, but not enough to encourage them to stay. There’d be a blacksmith, possibly a weaver. She’d seen her share of farming towns, of goats and even of fat cows to know this one. Any way she looked at it, her Skinner didn’t fit the picture.
The stables backed the last pasture. Beyond them, the village proper clustered. The steeple of a crisp, white chapel peered over the lower roofs, confirming her suspicion at the same time it passed silent judgment on all her kind.
How did a Skinner fit in here? How did he stick a boy’s hands fast to a box and not incite an angry mob? Had he watched her from the shadows last night?
“Beg pardon, please.” A soft voice spoke from the stables’ side of the road. “A moment, Granter.”
Satina stilled her feet and peered between the railings. A swish of skirts appeared from inside the shed. A stout woman crossed the paddock, carrying a bundle wrapped in thin cloth. She tried to smile. Her eyes crinkled at the corners for a moment before the fear wiped her face back to neutral. Her hands shook when she held the parcel out, but her voice was clearer, bolstered by a moment of bravado.
“My son told me what you done.” She thrust the fabric over the fence. “Breakfast.”
“Thank you.” Perhaps she should argue. The woman’s gratitude warred with her distaste for magic kind, making her face a battleground of conflicting emotions. The food inside the cloth smelled fresh, however, and Satina’s stomach insisted it was fair payment for helping the boy.
The woman shuffled away as soon as she took the parcel. She wore coarse homespun skirts over a pale chemise. Her dark hair bunched in a knot at the back of her head, held by a long pin. Satina squinted at it, shifted visions, and saw the sigils painted on the wood. Interesting. She examined the stable more closely. A horseshoe over each paddock bore protective marks, painted in magical ink. She could guess whose hand had drawn them.
And yet, he’d tricked the boy.
She passed the stable and the street smoothed. Satina turned her shifted vision on the town. Like all the other towns, she saw the faces peeking, the curtains shifting and the heads ducking back behind a door or corner. Unlike other towns, she saw the traces of her Skinner’s work here. The fountain in the town square misted through a metal grate, twisting with ornate patterns that screamed Old Magic. In addition to whatever properties the relic held, the Skinner’s paint had added health and prosperity for the entire town.
He’d gone and made himself indispensable.
She found the inn, exactly as expected, the blacksmith’s opposite the stables, but no weaver she could see. The town was small and its tidy buildings had survived the years amazingly well. Whether due to the charms or the townsfolk’s diligent attention, she couldn’t guess. Either way the boards had held, the stones still rested tightly together, and the thatch—well, the thatch looked fresh. She’d give the villagers credit there.
The Skinner’s shop waited beyond the fountain. His sign glowed with wards and delicate sigils. One huge window displayed a collection of pots and bags, tools, axes and blades. They all bore his marks, scribbled on every surface in dust-infused paint. Unlike the ones on his boots, these sigils actually held color, had been mixed into a paint that even mortal eyes could see. Satina guessed it made for better business. If his clientele couldn’t see the marks he made, he’d have a harder time convincing them to hand over their money.
Clever? Perhaps. Dangerous? Oh so very much so. One faulty charm could bring the wrath of an entire village. How much more so when the culprit is a Skinner who practices his shady trade right alongside the benevolent one? He was mad as hell to try this.
She circled the water and approached his door. Why put it off? She fancied staying here awhile, and his reaction would make or break that plan. She didn’t need another enemy of any kind. Bells jingled at her entrance. The shop’s interior glowed so brightly with magic marks that any mundane illumination faded from her notice. Shelves lined the walls, ran a straight line down the center and made an aisle directly from the doorway to the long counter at the rear.
The rafters hung with leather pouches, water skins and bits of harness. The shelves overflowed with trinkets, jewelry, even clothing all magicked for some lucky future owner. Did anything in the town not rely upon the man and his painted sigils?
“Good morning, my dear.” The Skinner leaned against the counter, half hidden and smiling as if she were expected. “Or should I say, Goodmother?”
Satina stiffened. His grin stretched at the reaction. He’d hit his mark, and it amused him.
“You’ve come to show me your little trinket?”
“No.”
“What a shame.” His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes flashed. He waved one arm to indicate his products. “Perhaps you’d like to look around?”
“I have something to discuss.” She took the main aisle forward, straight to the back counter and the man who waited with one slender eyebrow lifted. Her hand snagged the edge of her cloak and she pulled the fabric forward and reached into the inside pocket, pulling out the thin box. “Perhaps you recognize it.”
“Oh yes.” He watched her place the booby trap on the counter and nodded. “I’ve seen those. The children in town love them.”
“Do they?” She tried to sound accusing, but he didn’t even flinch. “I can’t imagine why.”
“I’ll show you.” He plucked it up without hesitation and ran a finger over the top in a caress that mimicked the sigil she’d erased. She heard him chuckle softly, and then he flipped the box around and it sprang open. “It’s a game, you see.”
With the lip popped, the device lay exposed. A single divot in the wood bore a small dial, an arrow hovered on a wire at its center. The Skinner gave the box a gentle shake, and the arrow spun, faster and faster as he moved the case forward and back. Each time the dial circled, it advanced a number inset just to the left of the spinner. Fancy. She’d seen similar mechanisms in the port towns to the south, but never so tiny nor used for entertainment.
“They like to see who can keep it going longest,” he said. “Quite the desirable item. How much?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll give you two crowns for it. Not a hair more.”
“You want to buy this?”
“Of course. They’re not easy to come by, quite rare in fact. I made this particular one myself.”
