Now that the aura had faded, leaving the evening’s storm-darkened sky as the only light, Adrian had to squint to examine the stone in her palm. Smooth and even, it looked like it had been polished by running water, perhaps a stream. He glanced at the parchment. Something had been scrawled on one side, but the light was now too dim to allow for reading. Could it be a note from the dragon?
“I think I understand now,” he said. “You’re the dragon’s representative.”
She sucked in a quick breath, her eyes wide as she pointed at him. “Are you the gas merchant?”
Adrian bowed again. “I am here to facilitate the transaction.”
“But …” She turned her head from side to side. “But you’re not supposed to be here yet.”
“I’m not?”
She lifted her bag. “The plan was for me to lay down these stones in a line so you can follow them from the gas line to this place, and … and for me to leave a message explaining what you must do. Arxad didn’t tell me you would already be here.”
Adrian formed the strange name on his lips before repeating it out loud. “Arxad? Is that the dragon?”
Backing away a step, Cassabrie swallowed. “I … I’m not allowed to tell you. I shouldn’t have said that name at all.”
“No one will report your mistake to him.” Adrian held out his hand and lowered his voice. “Come. We need to leave. Some people will be here soon who won’t be friendly to our cause.”
She stared at his hand, her own hands quivering. The gusting breeze tossed her hair, making it fly behind her, and she blinked at the droplets of rain spitting from the sky. Her eyes reflected fear, uncertainty, perhaps concern that her well-planned mission had been scuttled.
Finally, she reached out and slid her fingers over Adrian’s palm. They felt cold, almost like icicles, and the ring finger was missing on each hand; not even a stub remained. “We have to come back here,” she said. “The portal is my only way to get home.”
“Don’t worry. After we get the gas tank, we will bring it to this spot, as planned.” He led her to the path he had cut through the woods. With the storm brewing, maybe his pursuers wouldn’t be back soon, or at all. Still, if Prescott learned that his former bodyguard had stolen into the woods to carry out this treasonous mission, he would send two dozen spearmen to hunt him down, even in the midst of a rollicking tempest.
“There is a storage shed near the tank,” he said as heavier rain began to fall from the dark sky. “When we get there, we can talk.”
Marcelle crouched between two stone columns that lined the interior wall, waiting for Prescott and Jason to enter the palace’s vestibule. Shadows covered her body. With black stockings, black trousers and tunic, and a black hood over her head, she felt like a squatting strip of licorice. Although the failing light of evening filtered into the center of the room, the darkness in her hiding place was so complete, even the tiny pebble in her open palm was invisible. This pebble would come in handy later.
To her left, about three columns away, Randall stood, also veiled by darkness. Even from this distance, his breathing carried across the still air. Although certainly imperceptible to any casual passerby, Jason would hear Randall’s rattling breaths and be alerted to an attack.
Marcelle nodded. All for the better. When Jason passed this test, he would be the new bodyguard, and she would be released to join the soldiers assigned to track Adrian. But she had to put on a good show. Randall, still stinging from his earlier defeat in the tournament, would likely try to hurt Jason if he had the chance, so his attack would require no acting skills. Yet, with Randall wearing protective armor, he would be too slow, too cumbersome to get past Jason’s sword.
She, on the other hand, would have to fly at Jason like a rabid bat while making sure to do him no harm. That wouldn’t be too hard, but keeping herself safe at the same time might pose a problem. Jason was good, very good.
A door at the rear of the vestibule creaked open. Footsteps clicked on the marble floor. Marcelle listened. Yes, two people approached, one closer than the other, likely Prescott leading Jason. Soon, they appeared in the dimness. Jason glanced all around, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Being the brother of Adrian Masters, his suspicions were already aroused. He knew the governor shouldn’t enter a darkened room without a source of light.
Still, even with Jason’s skills, it wouldn’t hurt to give the boy fair warning. With a flick of her thumb, Marcelle flung the pebble toward Randall. It clicked once before settling to the floor.
Turning toward the sound, Jason slid out his sword. He then jumped ahead, grabbed Prescott’s arm, and pulled him behind a statue at the far side of the vestibule. They whispered something between them, too far away to hear.
Walking on the balls of his feet, Jason returned to the middle of the dim chamber, his eyes wide, his knees bent, and his sword ready. After flashing a glance at Randall’s position, he turned away, as if searching for an intruder at the adjacent wall.
In spite of her role as a slimy ne’er-do-well, Marcelle allowed herself a smile. This young man was as cool as a frosty morning. He had already identified Randall’s position and now feigned ignorance while waiting for his attacker to show himself. Randall didn’t stand a chance.
Like a cat, Randall leaped from between his columns, shrouded in black, swift and silent. Jason ducked underneath Randall’s swinging sword and tripped him up as he passed by. Randall tumbled, heels over head, and the sword flew from his hand.
Jason hustled over and ripped the black hood off with the tip of his sword. “Randall?”
Gasping for breath, Randall stared at the blade. “Don’t kill me. I was just—” He clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. “Just don’t kill me!”
Marcelle rose and slinked from her hiding place, her sword out in front. It was time to put on a show.
As she drew closer, Jason stared at Randall, apparently deep in thought. Marcelle kept her gaze fixed on him. Yes, he would figure it out, but he had better hurry. If he didn’t soon discern that the governor’s son wouldn’t hatch a plot against his own father, she would have to fake a miss in a convincing fashion.
Marcelle swung her sword. Like lightning, Jason spun and met her blade with his own. The two swords clanked. Using her legs, she pushed forward, bearing down on him with all her might, forcing him to crouch to compensate. Then, springing up, she vaulted over his head, flipped in the air, and landed on her feet. Glad to have her hood on to hide her smile, she charged again.
Jason lunged to the side. She swiped her blade close to his face, close enough to shave his beard if he had been of age to grow one. He thrust his own blade, low and hard. Just before the sharp edge cut into her calf, she leaped over it and hustled out of his reach.
As he straightened, she spun back and pointed her sword at him, trying to calm her breathing and her racing heart. That was too close. Another split second and her severed foot would have been kicking her in the backside. Justice, to be sure. Making this deal was stupid at best.
His fingers flexing around his sword’s hilt, Jason stared at her, as if sizing her up. She stared back at him. By now, he realized how small and agile she was, a tough target. He would have to devise a strategy to combat her strengths. That was good. As soon as he executed his plan, she could counter it to a stalemate and retire with grace, the test complete.
Jason stepped to the right. Marcelle did the same. He stepped again. She matched his moves, step-by-step, and the two slowly orbited the center of their makeshift battle ring.
Eyeing him closely, Marcelle tried to calculate his next move. If he resorted to typical tourney maneuvers, it would be hard for her to fake a nontraditional counter. Prescott knew enough about one-on-one combat not to be fooled by anything phony.
After a few more steps, Jason backed away until he stood only inches from one of the walls. With his sword out in front, he seemed to be daring her to attack.
She stalked toward him. Maybe a bold approach would scare h
im from his defensive perch, but without a passing lane, a direct assault would be perilous. His blade was too fast, too precise. Looking up at her headless body from the cold marble floor wasn’t the best way for her to prove his worthiness.
She halted, staying well out of his reach. Just a few more seconds of acting ought to do it. “Are you a coward?” she called. “Come out and face me in a fair, head-to-head battle.”
“You talk about fair,” Jason barked, jabbing the air with his sword. “You sent a scared puppy ahead of you and attacked me from behind. It seems that you’re the coward.”
“I see.” Marcelle glanced Prescott’s way. He peeked out from behind the statue and gave her a nod. She blew out a long breath. Good. The test was over. Reaching up with her free hand, she stripped off her hood, letting her hair fall to her shoulders.
Jason’s mouth fell open. “Marcelle?”
She couldn’t resist a smirk, but this young man had performed so admirably, she had to find some way to boost his spirit. “You should teach your brother some of that bravado.” As soon as the words spilled out, a surge of warmth blistered her cheeks. That was stupid. Why don’t you cut off your own foot, Marcelle, and stick it in your mouth?
Prescott emerged from his hiding place, clapping his hands. “All three of you performed with excellence!” he said. “And Marcelle, you were right, as usual.”
As Randall rose to his feet, Prescott laid a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Merely a test, young man. Adrian recommended you, but, because you are so young and inexperienced, I wanted Marcelle to take his place at my side. Yet, Marcelle assured me that you would be a fine bodyguard.”
Jason glanced at Marcelle. His eyes blazed. Avoiding a wince at his angry glare, she attempted a kind smile and a friendly nod. He certainly would make a superb bodyguard.
“I suggested a test,” Prescott continued. “And you have passed brilliantly. Both Randall and Marcelle knew not to harm you, so there was no danger.”
A growl spiced Jason’s reply. “Not to question your idea, Governor, but I could have hurt your son.”
Prescott pulled Randall’s tunic back at the shoulder, revealing a sheet of metal. “He was well-protected, and the suit made him heavier, which explains your easy victory over him. Marcelle, of course, required no such protection.
“We needed Randall to distract you in order to test your warrior’s sense and your reflexes. My son, of course, is just as qualified to be my bodyguard as you are, but since he is so dear to me, if he were captured by an enemy, he could be used to bend my will.”
This time Marcelle had to wince. Prescott’s arrogance wouldn’t allow him to admit Jason’s superiority, and a verbal stab at his new bodyguard proved his stupidity. It was time to step in and smooth things over.
She touched Jason’s arm, trying for the sweetest tone possible. “Fret not. Your skills have been approved. You will make a fine bodyguard for His Lordship.”
Jason gave her a friendly nod and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Now …” Marcelle turned to Prescott, forcing a sharper edge to her smile and her voice. “You will adhere to your part of the bargain.”
“Of course. Of course.” Prescott reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a ring of keys. After pulling a long, brass key away, he handed it to her. “You will find what you are looking for in the weapons cache. After you secure it, you may keep the key. I have another.” His eyebrows lifted. “Do you know where the cache is?”
“I do.” Resisting the urge to snatch it, Marcelle grasped it daintily and turned toward Jason. Once again hoping to communicate kindness with her tone, she whispered, “I meant no insult to your brother. I made this bargain to save his life.”
After giving Prescott a final glare, she thrust her sword back to its scabbard, picked up the pack she had left in the shadows, and ran toward the exit. Shoving with her free hand, she flung the door open and stalked down the stairs. The arrival of evening dimmed the area, and billowing dark clouds spreading toward the palace hastened the coming darkness.
When she reached the gate, wide open for invocation attendees, she slowed to a stop at Drexel’s sentry station. He was talking to a tall, muscular man, perhaps forty years old. Dressed in loose dark green trousers and an equally dark waterproof jacket, he looked ready for a stealth search in the midst of the brewing storm, especially since a short close-combat sword hung from his hip and a crossbow sat cradled in his arm.
“Ah!” Drexel said, turning. “She’s here.”
Marcelle pushed her hair back and nodded at each man in turn. What would this stranger think of her, dressed all in black and carrying a sword? No other woman in the region would dare look like this.
Drexel extended a hand toward each of them. “Marcelle, this is Darien, the captain of the company charged with intercepting the conspirator who seeks the mythical portal. Darien, this is Marcelle, daughter of Issachar, the banker.”
“And champion sword fighter of the realm,” Darien said, bowing. “Your skills have been proven time and again; your presence will be a boon. Yet, having you on this detail will be like squashing a roach with a ten-ton hammer.” He let out a snort. “Whoever this portal-seeker is, he’s just a Gateway peasant.”
Marcelle gave him a coy smile, searching his face for any sign of a scar. Nothing. But skin could be clawed loose from other parts of the body.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
His eyes moved up and down as if surveying her. A hint of a smile broke his stony face. “Perhaps watching you perform will be, shall we say, a pleasurable lesson in physical contact?”
Keeping her own smile intact, she slid her hand around the hilt of her sword. Darien, with his dark curly hair, strong chin, and charming smile, was as handsome as they came, especially for someone his age. His pretty head would look dashing impaled on a stake.
She pursed her lips into a comely pose. “I am looking forward to teaching you whatever lessons you require.”
“Lessons?” Darien smirked. “Do not be surprised if the lessons you wish to teach are lessons you end up learning yourself. The point of the sword is a sharp tutor for any who fail to keep their guard up. I am well practiced at divining the secrets of the heart.”
Marcelle eyed him. That little speech was practiced, a stealthy word of warning. Did he know more than he was letting on? Had his suspicions been aroused?
As she studied his face and eyes, a new realization dawned. Maybe he was even older than he appeared. Fifty? Sixty? His eyes said so, though his body cut the figure of a man in prime physical condition. In any case, considering his current rank, he was likely a battlefield soldier that fateful day fifteen years ago. And what was he now? Since she hadn’t seen him around the palace, he was probably the lead officer at a field outpost.
Drexel nodded toward the darkening sky. “You should leave immediately. A vicious storm is brewing. From the looks of the clouds, it might be raining within minutes. Darien has sent scouts to follow three men who have ventured toward the Forbidden Zone. Two are likely decoys and will veer away before they reach the boundary. When one returns with news of a violator, you will begin pursuit.”
Marcelle lifted the key Prescott had given her. “First, I need to get a photo gun from the cache.”
“A photo gun!” Darien said. “Now you want to burn the cockroach after you squish it?” He drew out his sword, a wide-bladed black viper. “This will be all I need.”
Marcelle stared at the blade. Wasn’t it a dark blade that lay across her throat that night? She folded her arms over her chest and took on a skeptical pose. Maybe she could learn more. “I haven’t seen a viper since … well, since I was a little girl. An archaic weapon, is it not?”
“It is old, to be sure, and it is too heavy for a weakling, but in the proper hands, it is an excellent sword for night battles.” He waved it from side to side. “Opponents are unable to see the blade until it’s too late.”
“Good,” Marcelle said. “Carry it well. But
I will get the photo gun. You never know what weapons the Gateway thugs might have stolen.”
He bowed again, this time with a condescending smile. “Whatever pleases the lady.”
Tossing her pack over her shoulder and hanging on to its strap, Marcelle strode through the gateway, but Drexel grasped her arm and pulled her close. With a sharp tone, he whispered, “Do what you must to him, but leave no evidence.”
She looked down at his grip, tightening with every second. “If you don’t let go of me …” Shifting her gaze to his face, she drilled a stare into his eyes. She didn’t have to finish her threat. Drexel was a coward among cowards.
He jerked his hand down and glanced at Darien. “Just be wary,” he said, lowering his whisper further. “He has never entered the tournament. He says such juvenile showmanship is beneath the dignity of a true swordsman. He has been in many battles. Perhaps his boasting is more than hot air.”
Marcelle backed away and replied with a loud voice, laughing. “Oh, Drexel, I fear no snakes. Just because my dear mother is dead, you need not take her place on the worry seat.” She hooked her arm around Darien’s. “Come, soldier. Let’s visit the cache, and we will get what we need to make war with the cockroaches.”
FIVE
HEAVY rain poured from the thundering sky. Although Adrian now walked far from Miller’s Spring, its swelling flow had spread throughout this low-lying area, forcing him and Cassabrie to splash through ankle-deep water.
Soon the current grew swifter. Adrian scooped Cassabrie into his arms. Still frigid to the touch, she shivered. Was she frightened? Worried? Somehow he had to transmit confidence and warmth into this slave of dragons.
“Do you get much rain on your world?” he asked as he pulled her closer to his chest.
Cassabrie shook her head. “Only light sprinkles. I have never been in heavy rain. We see it falling in the mountains, and the water flows to us in shallow rivers, but only the woodcutters who travel into the higher lands have actually stood under its blue curtain, and they tell us stories about it.” She covered her mouth and giggled. “One of them said it felt like the Creator was sprinkling the hills with a watering can!”