Unlikely (Kingdoms Gone), page 6
The climber had nearly reached the middle of the long staircase. His cloak billowed behind him, and with each leaping step, Satina caught a flash of yellow from under the hood. Gentry. The sight of one of the fully blooded outside of a pocket, out in the open, gave her chills, but not nearly as much as the pace he set as he leapt upwards. Five, four, three steps from the scrap of landing and he didn’t slow. His feet pounded over the last stair, hit the landing twice, and he leapt into thin air.
Satina screamed. She clapped her hand over her mouth and Marten’s followed, resting over hers for a second while his chest shook with a chuckle right up against her shoulder.
“Watch, Satina.” Even as he said it, the Gentry climber fell toward the stones below. The cloak tore upwards, revealing a pair of shaggy, kick-backed legs. She only saw a flash before the whole creature vanished. Twenty feet above the ground, the air shimmered and stretched exactly as it did around the strange pillar. A pocket hung in mid-air.
“We think it was a workroom. Some place where they did magic on a regular basis.”
“We?” She caught his slip, felt his body tense as he realized it.
“Hadja and I.” He shrugged and stepped away from her, leaving something akin to a draft in his stead. “We used to come here together to search. It made keeping watch easier.”
“Sure. Do many people know about the castle?”
“Most of the town. The children, a few of the men who hunt any farther than the innkeeper’s pantry.” He smiled and nodded to the courtyard again. The aura around the pillar rippled and spit out another runner. Their cloak was different, and their feet booted, but the hood was up. None of the Gentry liked to be in normal space for long, and they feared being seen even more. “They were taking turns at it this morning too.”
“What are they doing it for?” The newest appearance darted to the stairs and started up even faster than his predecessor. The way he moved, and the shape of the cloak’s fluttering led her to suspect wings.
“Who knows with the Gentry, maybe for sport?” He gave her a sharp look. His eyes flared and he squinted and scanned her from head to toe. “Speaking of which, I think it would be best for us to tread lightly. They aren’t known for their hospitality. Visiting will require some fast talking.”
“Oh?” Satina blinked at him, exaggerating the motion. She knew what he meant. He considered her a liability. “And it should be you doing this fast talking, I assume?”
“Yes.” He glanced to the top of the stairs, where the cloaked figure made ready to spring into the ether. “Last time I checked, sweet and cute didn’t get very far with that sort.”
He stepped out into the open before she could answer. It hardly mattered—something was wrong with her tongue. She should have been offended, but her skin warmed pleasantly instead, and she shuffled out after him without a word.
The climber dove from the top step as they crossed to the standing stone. Satina watched him fall this time, waited and caught the glimmer of the suspended pocket a moment before it swallowed him. She frowned. He was still falling, still only twenty feet from stones no matter which side of the pocket he was on.
“Quick” Marten’s hand found hers. He tugged her forward, and her arm tingled from the fingertips straight to her chest. “Before another one pops through.”
They ran across the flat stones hand in hand. Long tufts of grass whispered between the pavers, but for the most part the courtyard lay clear around the standing stone. When it stood before them, within a few paces, only then could she make out the faint bluish lines inside the carved symbols. The Old Magic shone soft and muted compared to their sigils, and somehow it made her power seem like a garish and ugly thing. These lines had stood for centuries, and they hummed and writhed with what once was.
She didn’t have time to feel bad about it. Marten pulled and she stumbled forward into the pocket. The shimmer flashed once, and they stood on the same stones, in the same courtyard beside the same tall stone.
But everything had changed.
Inside the pocket, the world retained the touch of magic it had before the Final War. The whole courtyard, the stones, the forest encircling the ruin, all glowed with brilliant light and color. Here the world did not hover in muted shades. Nothing faded or frayed. Even in the dead of night, the world was sharp and colorful. Satina inhaled and caught night jasmine on the wind. She sighed, almost lost herself in the flood of power and calm that came with entering a pocket.
The shouting spoiled the moment. A ring of yellow eyes closed in on them. The gaze of the full-blooded Gentry didn’t merely flash. It glowed with a steady, golden light. Satina had spent more than a little time inside the old spaces. She’d seen her share of the Gentry despite the Skinner’s judgment. These particular Tinkers only vaguely resembled humans. This band had more hooves than boots, boasted many a pointed ear or furry tufted tail and—she’d been right about the wings. They had at least three fiends among them.
“Who are you?” A voice like thunder demanded from the arc of faces, spoke too fast to see which mouth formed the words.
Marten sidestepped in front of her. It might have been protective or meant to keep her from saying something stupid. Satina couldn’t decide if she should bristle or blush, but as she leaned to see around him, she made out the outline of wagons behind the huddle of angry Tinkers. They had a good sized caravan, six closed carts and one open wagon piled high with straw and if she guessed correctly, positioned exactly under the hovering pocket.
“My name is less important than my wares,” He dipped into one of his bows, sweeping an arm wide and leaving her a clear view of the burly faun who’d stepped forward to address him. Marten held out his other hand, ring finger curled into the palm. “And I assure you the trades will be worth your time.”
“You sing a pretty tune, little bird,” the faun said. He thumped his chest with both hands and split the night with a rumbling laugh. “But names mean something to us. Anyone who won’t give theirs must have something to hide.”
Satina cringed. The faun leaned his head to one side. His hand fell to his waist where, she was sure, some wicked weapon waited under his cloak. “Excuse me,” she sidled around Marten, dodging the hand that plucked at her skirt and ignoring his glare. “We’ve nothing to hide, nor did we wish to offend, Good Neighbor.”
One shaggy brow lifted at the formal address. She had his attention at least. The Gentry appreciated manners even more than she did.
“My name is Satina. My friend’s is Marten, and we only meant—”
“Satina?” The big man took one step closer. He brushed his cloak back and leaned down, rubbing one hand through the dark beard that matched the shaggy hair on both his head and his legs. One shiny, black hoof stamped against the courtyard stones. “Why do I know that name?”
A lantern lifted from the crowd. It drifted forward in the hands of an imp. The grey-skinned Gentry had sharp features, pointed ears and a twinkle to his face and movements that she knew very well indeed. She’d have bet money Marten’s blood was from that ilk. This imp handed the light to his leader, who lifted it and cast a swath of light across their faces. Satina blinked, but held her ground. She prayed Marten knew enough to do the same. Don’t move. Don’t even flinch.
“Goodmother.” Someone else said it. The whispers echoed it in a ring around them, followed closely by the word “Imp.”
“A goodmother named Satina. That’s it.” The faun closed in on her, and Marten stepped to her side. She felt his arm at her waist, but he didn’t do anything overt. “You brought that boy through from the port town.”
“Yes.” She felt Marten stiffen, the heat of his look, but she didn’t turn. Instead, she locked gazes with the big faun and forced her face to remain neutral. “I did.”
“Got a message for you.” He rubbed his beard again and then stepped back, “Messenger!” He shouted behind him, stalked back to his line, but the mood had broken. The Gentry relaxed, and the ring loosened into a huddle that had far less of a threat to it.
Marten whispered to her, leaning in so that his lips brushed against her hair. “That’s how you got him out? You brought a human through the pockets?”
Satina smiled and watched the Gentry. She pressed the nails of her hand into her palm, soothing away the little tremors his proximity stirred into motion. “Not too bad for sweet and cute?”
“I stand corrected.” He stood back up, but she heard more than just humor in the words. They carried an undertone of something she couldn’t label. Was he angry, jealous or something else entirely?
A fiend leapt over the line, fluttering on dainty, bat-like wings before landing beside the faun. Silken black hair trailed down her back, and her figure curved in all the correct places. Satina chewed her bottom lip and waited while the woman whispered to the big faun.
“Right,” he said. “Yes, go ahead.”
The fiend woman spun to face them. She stood straight and held her arms tightly to her sides. Only her wings moved, flapping in slow motion to emphasize her words. Her cat eyes widened until they shone like the lantern. “To goodmother, Satina from the wise and generous Flaut, leader of band, Alliance. Your package has been delivered safely. Be well.”
When the woman finished, she folded her wings tightly and gave a tiny bow.
“Thank you.” Satina nodded to her and then to the faun. “Flaut has been a great help to me. It is good to know our efforts have succeeded. ” She emphasized the “our” to make sure they understood that she was not only known by the other Gentry leader, but had acted in partnership with him.
It worked on the faun. His beard danced under the assault of another huge laugh. He waved his arms and shouted at his band. “Back to it, all of you! The night is young yet.”
They were instantly forgotten. The imp brushed past her and vanished through the pocket wall. She imagined him running up the long staircase on the other side. Here, the stair hung over them like an azure shadow. The menhir blazed with its symbols, and, all around, the Tinkers went about their business, clustering around the painted carts, leaning against the fallen castle walls and tending to a pair of fat horses tied to the first of their wagons.
“Would you believe their grandsire was a unicorn?” The faun leaned in beside her, followed her gaze to the draft horses and smiled under his beard.
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”
“Ha!” He clapped her on the shoulder hard enough that she staggered into Marten. “She’s a sharp one you’ve got here, imp.”
“It’s Marten.” His ordinary animation had vanished, and in its place, ice tipped each word. “And you haven’t given us your name, Tinker.”
The faun sobered instantly. He nodded once and stroked his beard. “You’re right. I’ve been remiss.” He dove into a low bow, grinning at Satina on the way back up. “Your pardon. They call me Hamis.”
“Good to meet you,” Satina curtseyed, but Marten remained stiff as a board.
“Will you be trading while you’re here?” His tone implied the while should be as short as possible. It wasn’t outright hostile, but she needed to diffuse him fast. The faun had accepted them, but that wouldn’t last in the face of rude behavior.
“Maybe.” Hamis’ eyes narrowed. The glint sharpened.
Satina wound her arm through Marten’s and leaned her head against his shoulder. She smiled at Hamis and blinked her eyes. She could feel Marten’s surprise, but he made no outward move at all.
“Ha! Trade later,” Hamis said. “Tomorrow.” He looked up and grinned. The imp burst out of thin air, tumbling head over heels down into the cart full of straw. Around them, the pocket filled with the Tinkers’ cheering.
Marten’s arm wound around her waist. His twisty grin returned, and by the time Hamis noticed them again he was more himself. “Tomorrow then.”
Hamis tilted his head back and howled. A pipe played over by the carts. Someone took up a drum and all around the Tinkers formed into circles. “Tonight, we play!” Hamis bellowed to the sky. The fiend who’d delivered her message burst out of the pocket with a wink, fluttering to take her turn at the stairs.
Marten’s whisper echoed the words. “Tonight, we play.”
Chapter Eight
He kept her dancing until her toes burned. The Tinkers’ music played as wild and unfettered as the individuals themselves, and Satina swirled and leapt amongst them. She joined the circles alongside Marten and, on more than one occasion, danced in his arms while Gentry couples whirled and wound their way between the fallen stones.
The pocket border reached almost to the staircase then curled around behind the line of their caravan and to the outer wall opposite. She’d been in a few that were larger, but mainly to the east, where the mountains had shielded the plains from the backlash of the Final War. When the pipers switched again, she slipped away to the far border and settled on the ground, leaning her back against a fallen stone and rubbing her toes through her soft boots.
The pocket still swirled around her, blurring into the Tinkers’ ale and the burning of her own skin. She felt all afire and tingly, and it didn’t help that Marten had his hands on her for most of the night. Now he found her again, slid into the wall’s shadow and settled on the ground facing her. His left hand reached out and stroked the pocket’s edge. The membrane rippled under his fingertips.
“A little too much, my dear?” His eyes sparkled like crystal in the pocket’s light. They had a lovely almond shape that fit his features perfectly. “Satina?”
“It’s lovely.”
“What is?”
“Pardon?” She blushed and dropped her gaze to her toes again. They really did hurt. “My hem’s a mess.”
“You know what’s in those flasks, right? With your connections, I assumed you would.”
“I don’t like how you said that.” She dropped her boot and glared at him. “What do you mean, connections?”
“Easy.” He put up his hands. “Truce. You’re not the only one who’s been drinking, I’m afraid.”
She glared at him, but he wavered like the pocket and she had to look away. “What’s your story, Marten? How did an—you. Why?” She frowned and tried to remember the question.
“How did an Imp Skinner end up in Westwood selling magical paint?”
“Yes.” That was it. She nodded for emphasis and earned another sideways grin. Unless she was sideways. The rocks looked wrong. When he stood up, he hung in mid air.
“Here you go, dear. Up is this way.” He lifted her back to a seated position and when she listed in the other direction, pulled her back gently to rest against his side. At some point he’d sat beside her, and she felt his arm slip round her shoulders. Her body melted under that heat, and she curled into him and rested her spinning head. “My story,” he said. “You really want it?”
“Yes.”
“Which means, you’ll owe me yours.”
“Yes.”
“When you’re a little more lucid.”
“Not drunk.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath, lifting her head up and down again on the exhale. “My parents were from the north. An area even less tolerant than here, if you can imagine that.”
“I can ‘magine.”
He patted her leg then seemed to forget what to do with his hand. It rested on her thigh while he continued, dividing her attention between his story and the warmth spreading from the contact. “They weren’t fully blooded, but more obvious than me. I was only four when my father died. I don’t remember what they did to him, but my mother saw it. She never left the pocket again.”
“Never left it? You lived in a pocket?”
“Until I was old enough to slip away. I learned fast how to get what we needed and get back to safety.”
She did imagine it then, a young imp learning how to be a Skinner to care for his terrified mother. She imagined it, and it made her want to cry. She laid her hand over his and felt him tense immediately. “Sorry.” She lifted it away again, but again, his hand lingered on her thigh. He relaxed, and his voice continued, this time with careful, stilted words.
“I was sixteen when I came back and found her.” He looked down, frowned at his hand as if he’d just noticed it and then lifted it away to brush his hair back. He laughed, but it was sharp and had a bitter edge. “She succumbed to her human blood in the end.”
“She was sick?”
“Maybe. Maybe she was just old. Life in one small bubble isn’t quite…healthy.”
And yet he’d endured it. The Gentry moved around, they traveled from one pocket to the next. If rumors were to be believed, they knew of larger places too, huge pockets even, where the old world still held sway. To live always in one, small place, even a place that held all the beauty and magic of the Old Kingdoms, would be unbearable.
“I’m so sorry, Marten.”
He shrugged, but she thought maybe he softened a touch.
“How did you get to Westwood? The shop?”
“Hadja found me.” He laughed and this time it sounded real and full of humor again. “Actually, she caught me. Stealing, swindling a farmer out of more than he’d bargained for. After she’d tanned my hide and told me what for, she took pity on me. I lived with her for a solid year while she tried to teach me how to put my skills to better use.”
“Did it work?” She only teased, but his shoulders set again.
“Nope. I’m a lost cause.”
“Marten.”
He sighed and turned a look on her that sent a little shiver to her toes. “The boy you rescued is a thief. He’s stolen more from me than he paid for that box.”
“His parents?”
“If his father knew, he’d beat him.”
“So you meant to teach him a lesson without getting him hurt.”
“Maybe. Maybe I only meant to recoup some of my losses.”
“I’m sorry.”
She touched him on the arm without thinking. The gesture felt right, and he didn’t pull away or even tense up this time. This time, he turned to her with a new fire in his eyes. Satina’s breath caught. They stared for a split second and then Marten moved. She leaned in, and they found one another’s lips. The jolt of power sent her arms searching for him. Her body blazed and trembled as the Skinner’s mouth covered hers, as the kiss pressed onward.
