When the Starling Screams

By L.A. MacDonald

Kingdoms are built upon something. Strength of arms, political alliance, grand magics. Something binds a kingdom together.
The Kingdom of Calere was bound together by magic and control of those called Pequenyo who could practice it. It is a cruel land with harsh masters that keep the people under their sway and enslave any who show signs of magic.
That is why the Three Brothers became infamous bandits. Their specialty is snatching young Pequenyo from under the boot of their rulers. Taking one Pequenyo after another to safety was what they did, their noble sponsor offering them options for whom to rescue next.
Yet this rescue was unlike any other. They had rescued hundreds of young women, but none as beautiful and fierce as this one. Named Miata, the King had recently claimed her as his ward, making her part of his household, and vastly increasing the risk of taking her. That and she was both fierce and scared, something the Three Brothers had found a dangerous combination in the past. They had a reputation for horrifying acts, stories spread about them by nobles who feared them. And she had just watched the last of her family die.
Though each brother used a different approach, all try to lay her fears to rest. But things are never as simple as they seem, and the brothers find deeper and deeper layers of intrigue and treason as they endeavor to spirit her away from the kingdom to their safe-haven far from the nobles. All but one noble, their patron, who provided the land and supplies for the safe haven.
Running from nearly everyone in power - from the King's Knife to the King's Guard, from nobles and the Cazadore' mercenaries they hired to find her, even at times from their own friends, their quest to get her to safety may just save the Kingdom from itself. If they can convince her that they are not the threat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.A. MacDonald
• Release date: Apr 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736645659

L.A. MacDonald

L.A. MacDonald lives in the Northwoods of the USA with two shelties, armor, and weapons of all sorts. When not writing, MacDonald is dreaming up new stories and worlds.Classically trained, MacDonald believes that heroes should be heroes, in spite of their flaws, and villains should be villains in spite of – or even because of – any virtues. It is the choices each of us make as individuals that decides our heroic status. The pikeman that stands and saves the King’s life is the same species as the ones that run, the difference is in the choice each makes.MacDonald has a shelf full of books that have not yet seen the light of day, many set in the same world as Oathbreaker. Others set in more exotic locales. Watch for them from Hellebarde Publishing.

Book preview

Chapter 1. La Pina

Bors! Be careful, you big oaf! You’ll snap her neck!

Miata’s eyes widened with terror at the hissed warning. She redoubled her efforts to free herself from the strong grip that held her in the darkness. A sweaty palm muffled her screams and an iron arm across her chest kept her arms immobile. Her attempts to scratch at the leather-clad arm failed to free her, and instead seemed to amuse her captor.

Be still, little sister, a deep voice rumbled in her ear. We are not your enemy. Watch the house, you will see the truth.

Something in his voice demanded she trust him. Despite her fear, Miata’s eyes darted toward the house in the distance. Her house. No, Carolina’s house, she corrected automatically. The plantation belonged to her uncle and aunt, and Carolina took great pains to remind Miata that her presence was at their pleasure, not hers. The sprawling, stucco-clad manse stretched itself out like welcoming arms. The long, low portico was wood, its planks painted white to match the crisscross beams above of the pergola. Ivy twined through it, along with the creeping violets Carolina had carefully encouraged to follow in its path. In the summer, during the height of its blooms, the scent on the portico was overwhelming. Candles flickered in the row of arched windows along its face. Miata saw nothing out of place.

The thundering sound of hooves pounding on the long drive that led up to the sprawling estate drew Miata’s attention. The sight of seven dark riders astride the blackest stallions she had ever seen made her momentarily forget her struggles. The glint of metal reflected off the beacons each held high in one hand to light the way ahead. Her golden-brown eyes were drawn to those lights and her breath quickened as she recognized them as glass lights. Magic lights.

Glass lights, she mumbled, her voice low and indistinct in the depths of her captor’s hand. She felt his grip lessen slightly.

What was that, little sister?

Glass lights, she repeated breathlessly. In her surprise and curiosity at the sight, she did not realize she was practically free. She took a step forward and bumped into another figure. She jumped back as a dark face glanced down over a shoulder at her.

Come see, little sister, he entreated in an encouraging whisper. The King’s Knife is rarely seen before it is felt.

Less afraid now of those who had abruptly stolen her from her room and dragged her half way across the plantation than of those who skidded to a halt and began shouting at the house, Miata stepped closer. One man – draped in black and trailing a knee-length dark cloak – began calling out loudly in a voice that demanded obedience.

"We have come for Lectora Ciego, senyor!"

Who is that? Miata did not recognize the appellation.

The much taller young man at her side chuckled quietly at her ignorance. You, little sister.

Miata wanted to ask more questions, but her uncle’s angry form was suddenly silhouetted in the arched doors. She could not hear what he said, but she clearly saw the dark form of Carolina passing across windows as she hurried down the hall that led to Miata’s room. The prodigious skirts she adored made it easy to see her shadow through the windows lining the front of the house.

We should go, Cris, before they discover she is missing…

Hush, Sico, Cristobal silenced his brother’s nervous whining. She needs to see this first.

Miata wanted to ask what she needed to see but was distracted by Carolina’s shrill voice. Her aunt cried out and Miata tensed at the response. Her uncle stiffened as a tall, lanky man in black stepped forward. It took her a moment to realize her uncle’s mouth gaped open not in shock that she was missing, but because of the long, slender rapier protruding from his chest.

Cristobal eyed Miata and then threw a knowing look at his brother. Bors...

Before Miata’s lips had fully parted with the scream in her throat, Borredan’s hand clamped over them again. The smell of sweat and the heat of her own breath stifled the cry of outrage that rose when her uncle stumbled and then collapsed on the portico.

Find her! She cannot have gotten far! The man boomed angrily as he turned to make his way back to his horse.

Now, Cris? For the love of God, now?! Consico pleaded desperately.

Yes, Sico. Now, Cristobal replied with a long-suffering sigh. He turned, a weariness etched on his face Miata did not understand. Bring her along, Bors. And try not to fall behind.

Miata saw flames roar to life through eyes blurred with her own tears. She realized they were firing the house. The screams of those trapped inside rose over the roar of the fire as it caught on the wood pergola. Miata choked on the sobs that knotted in her throat knowing how many would be inside at this time of night. Then the big man easily hefted her over his broad shoulder like a sack of grain, and she was forced to pay attention to holding on as they raced through the underbrush to find their horses.

By the time they came to a halt, Miata was numb – inside and out. She was a competent rider. Few who lived in the hills of the Salcedo Valley were not. But she was unaccustomed to being stuffed into a rough saddle in front of a man to ride as though the devil himself was behind them. Her body ached, and the air was cool enough to chill her when the big one – Bors, she remembered – lifted her and nearly dropped her to the ground. She hugged herself, trying to rub warmth into her arms through the thin silk of her night chemise.

It was still dark; she had no idea where they were or why these men had taken her from her bed. She saw the tall one watching her carefully. He seemed to be the one in charge; at least the others deferred to him. Raising her chin angrily, she demanded answers. What is going on?!

Cristobal tried to suppress a smile at the fierce expression on Miata’s face. "I would think thanks were in order, senyera, before your other questions. He folded his arms across his chest. Or did your aunt not teach you manners?"

The big one’s rumbled chuckle made her head spin around. Borredan choked off his amusement at the sharp look. He shrugged helplessly, and Miata turned her attention back to Cristobal to see the third one approaching. He was smaller than the other two, and had a nervous look to his face. His long, thin nose seemed to twitch like a rat testing the air, and he appeared ready to bolt at any moment. She gaped with recognition. "You are the Three Brothers of the Acero, aren’t you! she began to back away, her eyes darting fearfully from one to the next. You’re the ones who steal young women in the dark of night! You are the Scourge of Calere!" Her expression was panicked as she tried to cover herself before she turned to flee.

Bors… Cristobal drawled in a bored voice.

Miata had not made it more than a few steps in the darkness before Borredan’s firm grip on her shoulders stopped her. She stepped back and slammed her foot into his boot and her elbow straight back, eliciting a yelp from the big man. Twisting, she managed to escape his grip and dove toward the trees in the darkness. She slammed into something hard and stumbled back at the sudden contact, straight into Borredan.

"Senyera, the rat-faced one whined. Listen to Cris. You have no place to go anyway. The Knife is most thorough, trust me."

Borredan very deliberately turned her toward Cristobal and forced her to return. He was not ungentle, she noticed, and she tried to calm her racing heart. She had heard stories, of course. Everyone had. But none spoke of what happened to the women once the Three Brothers had managed to make off with them. The little one was right; she had no place to go now, and none of them had threatened her. Yet. She straightened her shoulders and glared at Cristobal. "Well, I am listening, senyor." She declared as though it had been her idea.

He eyed her thoughtfully, a slight smile growing on his face. "Consico, find her a capa, if you would. Her chemise leaves very little to my imagination. And I have a very good imagination."

At his words, Miata’s shoulders twitched, but she refused to act cowed in front of them. They might have been in league with the King’s Knife for all she knew; and they had stolen her from the only home she had ever known. She returned his appraisal boldly with one of her own.

Cristobal was the tallest of the three. They were all dressed similarly; clad almost completely in dark brown and black leathers. Even the buckles were dulled. The leather hugged his lean form, down to the knee-high black boots. His dark hair was neither too long nor too short – it fell to his shoulders - and the evenings exertions had left it slightly wind-blown. He had an intense look to his face, as though he were always serious. The closely cropped goatee that covered his strong chin made his face seem even darker, almost dangerous. Miata felt a strange fluttering in her stomach as he stared back with an amused look in his eyes, as if he knew the effect he had on young women.

Miata felt the heavy cloth of a capa fall on her shoulders and reached up automatically to help settle it there. She murmured a thank you automatically while she pulled the heavy cloth to cover her. Her eyes fell on the mantle. Distracted, she fingered the wide trim and held up the corner, peering curiously at it. She raised her eyes accusingly to Cristobal. This belongs to El Rene!

Cristobal bowed with a flourish. "Senyera, it does indeed. As do we. He pointed at Bors. Borredan, Consico, and Cristobal. At your service."

She stomped one tiny foot angrily and ground her teeth together. He was teasing her. Explain, she ordered imperiously.

Cristobal’s eyes slid to the distance, where the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. His smile was tight when it fell again on Miata. "Senyera, I will explain if you will ride. We need to be in Brionnes within the week."

But that’s on the other side of Calere! You can’t seriously expect me to traipse across the kingdom with you after what just happened.

"Senyera, if you do not, the King’s Knife will find you. And if the King’s Knife finds you, I cannot guarantee you will live long enough to understand why it is you are hunted."

Miata eyed him carefully, weighing the sincerity of his words with the earnest expression on his face. She shifted from one bare foot to another, trying to decide what to do.

You would let me go? she probed.

His eyes hardened. I would not. But I would rather you came because you wanted to and not because you were forced.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump. Borredan’s rumbling voice sent his warm breath soughing across her cheek. We are not your enemy, little sister. But those who are would rather see you dead.

And some of them are likely to find us if we don’t go soon. The whiny voice of Consico added. We are wasting time, Cris. We need to go.

Cristobal rolled his eyes. "Well, senyera? What is it to be?"

With a reluctant sigh, Miata agreed to go with them. Her curiosity was piqued and, if they were to be believed, she had to know what was going on and why what was left of her family had just been heinously murdered because of her.

When Borredan made as if to help her back into the saddle with him, Cristobal shook his head. She rides with me.

One brow arched on Miata’s face at his assertion, until he explained the decision away. She wants information, that is for me to share. He bit back a smile at the disappointment that flashed in her eyes. Come along, he beckoned with a hand. We have a long ride ahead.

Chapter 2. Lectora Ciego

Despite her need to know what was going on, Miata held her tongue as they made their way out of the brush and over hills in the general direction of Brionnes, to the west. She rode stiffly, all too aware of Cristobal pressed up against her back. She was not so old that she had experience with young men, but not so young as to not be affected by his closeness. He rode confidently, as though he’d spent most of his life in the saddle. His sword hand rested on his knee and the other held the reins loosely. His body moved with the slight sway of the horse, and she felt strange jolts of excitement every time he chanced to press against her.

It was distracting, she decided, and firmly pushed her strange feelings to the side. You offered to explain, she reminded him, clearing her throat.

And so I did, he replied. She started at finding his face so close to hers. Where should I begin?

Why did they kill my uncle? And fire the house? And why-.

His chuckle was warm in her ear. "Slow down, senyera. One at a time, he implored. If I had to guess – and I do - the King’s Knife killed your uncle and fired the house so they could not tell the king his Knife had come looking for you."

But why would the king care?

You truly have no clue, do you? His voice was genuinely surprised.

"No, I don’t, senyor," she returned indignantly. Her ignorance was not her fault.

The king ordered you to court. Someone does not want you there.

She twisted to see his face to judge the sincerity of his assertion. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she saw no sign of deception. "Why would the king order me to court."

He watched her reaction carefully. He has claimed you as his ward, as is his right. He saw she did not understand and explained. You are the daughter of his favorite Islonier, who died in his service. The king may choose to make a ward of any such child, though he has not exercised that right before.

Why now? Why not when he died? Or soon thereafter?

"How old are you now, senyera?"

She squirmed. Sixteen, I think.

Then perhaps that is why.

She blew out an exasperated breath. That does not explain anything! she protested.

"A Dithyari does not come into her power until she becomes a woman."

Miata was stunned into silence by the explanation. Very slowly she shook her head. "I am not Dithyari," she denied.

And the sky is not blue, Cristobal scoffed, gesturing grandly at the smoky blue sky overhead with his sword hand.

"I am not Dithyari!" she bit back, appalled by the suggestion. The Dithyari were different. They were the source of magic. They were foreign creatures who performed perverse rituals in the dark places of Calere and marked by its power by ugly stains upon their flesh.

You are, Cristobal insisted. As much as Bors and Sico and I.

Carefully she twisted to peer over her shoulder at him. You are not. You are too handsome to be Dithyari.

She saw pleasure flicker in his face at her declaration but it was quickly erased by the serious set of his brow once again. He sighed. "Who told you such lies about the Dithyari?"

My aunt, Carolina, Miata replied with an edge of distaste. Carolina had not hidden that she did not like Miata, but Miata had always assumed it stemmed from Carolina’s lack of children.

Cristobal made a noise in his throat, but Miata could not detect whether it was distaste or disgust. What else did she tell you?

Miata shifted uncomfortably. Talk of the Dithyari was forbidden at La Pina, by Carolina’s command. Well, she said that Dithyari were cursed by God to carry the blood of the demons that witches consorted with to bear the first of their race. And that was what gave them their magic. And because it was evil it showed on their flesh as it warped their souls, until they became what they were made from.

Cristobal choked and sputtered behind her. She thought she detected several words she’d heard her uncle used when a scythe shattered or one of the fields flooded and destroyed a crop of wheat. Finally, she heard him forcing himself to breathe slowly. When he spoke again, he sounded calm. None of that is true, in any way.

Then where did the Dithyari come from? she challenged, unashamed of her ignorance. It was not her fault that she knew next to nothing. Carolina had refused her any kind of education, claiming young ladies did not need to confuse their minds with book learning.

The Dithyari were always here, in the Yarrowood far to the west. I assume God created them as He created all things.

Then where did their magic come from?

She felt Cristobal shrug. Not from demons. That is rubbish. We are no more pagans than anyone else.

We, Miata repeated, sneaking a look up at Cristobal. He was darker skinned than Carolina, who was nearly as pale as the lilies she grew in her garden, but there was nothing else obviously different about him. You are really Dithyari?

Yes, he answered carefully. Partly, he clarified. Like you. The true Dithyari are still in the Yarrowood.

Miata let out an exasperated sigh. You are not answering my questions, Cristobal de Brionnes.

"My name is Cristobal, and nothing more, senyera."

You said you belong to El Rene, she returned, perplexed by the hardness in his tone.

Like cattle belong to El Rene, yes. I do not need to be reminded of that by a name I did not ask to be given, Miata de la Calere.

She drew in a sharp hiss of breath. That is treason to name me of the king’s house!

Why? he threw back impudently. He claims you as his ward, you are of his house as much as his own children. Which brings us back to your question. The king claims you now because you have, I should guess, become a woman and come into your power. He is dying, as all Calere knows, and surely worries for his son’s rule. There are those who do not approve of the prince’s attitudes.

Miata fell silent at the explanation, mulling it over in her mind. Carolina had often told her she was dull and dimwitted, but her uncle had told her privately more than once that was not true. Still, Miata did not have the education Cristobal obviously had, and thus it was wise to consider his words carefully. She began with the premise that the king had claimed her as his ward. Cristobal had no reason to lie about that, so she decided to accept it at face value. But if that were true, then why would the King’s Knife, the enforcers of his will, not want the king to know she had been found? If they had killed her uncle and aunt to keep the king from discovering her, that meant the King’s Knife was not as loyal as it was believed they were.

Cristobal, she began slowly.

Hmm?

The king did not send his knife to find me, did he?

No, little sister, he did not.

He sounded pleased. But he did send others, didn’t he?

Yes, he did.

And they will not arrive, will they?

No, they will not.

The King’s Knife is working against the king, she concluded. And El Rene knows that.

He is, and he does. But before you jump to conclusions, El Rene is no more likely to help the king than I am.

She threw up her hands and blew out an exhausted breath. I don’t understand.

Borredan rumbled a chuckle of amusement as he pulled up next to them. Cris must be talking. No one understands him when he talks.

Cristobal threw his brother a long-suffering look. Bors, you haven’t understood a thing I said since you discovered steel and wine.

Bors rubbed his solid stomach happily, ignoring Cristobal’s intended slight. It makes it easier to swallow your lectures, brother. And if you get too long-winded, I can always fall on my sword. He squinted as he glanced at the sun, high overhead. It’s about time to stop. We need to eat. And my horse needs a rest.

Your horse always needs a rest, you big oaf. Mine could go until sundown and we’re riding double, Cristobal pointed out. Still, Miata noticed he began to look around for a place to break. The grove there ought to be safe enough. Looks like there might a stream nearby, good for watering the horses.

They veered off in the direction of the grove. The long, slender branches of the supplicant trees were heavy with the soft moss that clung to its branches. It forced them to bow under the weight and their branches were often so long they brushed the earth, giving them the appearance of offering profound deference to its creator. The draped branches provided ample cover and served as a refuge from the winds and rains. There were several here, along a stream as Cristobal surmised.

Coming to a halt, he slid gracefully from the saddle and offered his hands to help Miata down. Sico, the horses, he called tersely before leading Miata through the thick branches to find a place to sit.

Soon enough they were gnawing on day-old bread and strong cheese, washed down by wine made warm from the skins in which it was carried. Cristobal’s insistence they were Dithyari firmly in her mind, Miata surreptitiously eyed the other brothers. Neither of them looked any different than most young men she had known at La Pina. They were darker skinned, swarthy even, but there were many who were. The land of Calere was full of such variations. She had never considered it odd before.

She was distracted from her observation by the need to keep the capa firmly around her shoulders, keenly aware she was still in nothing but her night chemise. She wriggled her bare feet, and Cristobal grunted unhappily at the sight. "Sico, bring something of yours for senyera to wear. She cannot go about undressed like that, it will draw more attention than we need."

Miata watched the wiry, youngest brother jump before he scurried off to his horse. She could hear him muttering before he hurried back, holding out a messy bundle. "For you, senyera," he offered shyly.

Miata took the bundle and gathered it to her chest as she stood. She furtively glanced around, looking for privacy.

Cristobal’s lips twitched with amusement at her search. Leaning back against the broad trunk of the supplicant tree, he held his arms out wide. "It is safe enough here, senyera."

He laughed, delighted, when she blushed furiously at the suggestion. Annoyance with him, his brothers, and the situation made her suddenly stubborn. She dropped the bundle and very deliberately untied the capa, letting it fall from her shoulders. Her hands were on her chemise, preparing to slip it over her head, when Cristobal choked on his own suggestion. He hopped up and frantically looked around before pointing to a nearby supplicant tree whose branches draped down nearly as much as the one under which they sat.

"Over there, senyera," he suggested with an odd timbre to his voice.

She smiled knowingly as she retrieved the bundle of clothing and made her way to the privacy of the other tree.

For pity’s sake, Cris, you should have let her, she heard Borredan complain as she ducked through the branches.

Cristobal’s response was lost to her, muffled by the thick branches of the tree. Miata could not help but smile smugly at having one-upped the over-confident young man. Her smile dissolved while she changed, wriggling into Consico’s breeches. He was smaller than the others, with narrow hips, and she struggled to tie the laces over her obviously more feminine curves. She still did not understand why these three brothers – who did not seem to wish her harm, quite the opposite – had stolen her out from under the nose of the King’s Knife. Cristobal’s tale did not explain why the King’s Knife had come for her, nor why he was working against the king, nor a hundred other questions she had. By the time she finished changing, Miata had resolved to demand answers that made sense before she went one more step with these men.

Her chemise over one arm, she marched back to where they waited. She stopped when both of Bors brows rose approvingly at the sight of her, and raised her chin in Cristobal’s direction. For some reason she wanted to hear his opinion more than the others.

"It will do, senyera."

Her nostrils flared slightly with disappointment. She missed Cristobal suppress a smile as she carried her night chemise over to Consico and politely handed it to him.

The young man stared at it as though it were a snake. What should I do with this?

Bors chuckled at his younger brother’s response. That you have to ask tells me we have failed somehow.

Cristobal silenced Bors with a sharp look. Get rid of it. We don’t need anything to tie us to her, and certainly not here in the Valley.

When Consico slunk off to obey, Miata flung herself back on the ground and folded her arms across her chest. Now, you have failed to explain to me why I should continue on with you. That the King’s Knife is looking for me is not enough to convince me I should trust you more than anyone else. So explain. Why did you steal me from my home in the middle of the night?

Because of who we think you are, Cristobal said unhelpfully.

And who do you think I am, aside from twice an orphan? she bit her lip, trying to keep the tears from falling that rose at the image of her uncle being skewered on his own portico.

"You are magia."

She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. And that means what?

"One mixed child – the medio - in a hundred has Dithyari magic. We call them pequenyo. One in a thousand of those turns up with very specific and powerful magic. We call them magia. You have heard of the Liar’s Pen?"

Miata shook her head.

"The Liar’s Pen is a glass pen, imbued with the magic of a very special magia whose magic was the ability to lie so well that all believed anything she said."

Her brows creased at Cristobal’s explanation. How did the magic get into the pen if it belonged to a Dithyari?

Cristobal’s smile was bitter. He tucked his legs under him and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "The alchemists have long known how to force magic into glass. A drop of the right blood and the right glass and there it is. Magic glass. That is why we have glass lights, and the hilt of some swords might be decorated with glass, and hundreds of other glass magics that many take for granted. One of those alchemists – the Black Mage – learned how to take the very special magic of the magia and force it into that glass."

Miata swallowed at the lump that rose in her throat. The tone of Cristobal’s voice told her she would not like the answer to her question, but she asked it anyway. How did he do that?

Cristobal’s eyes hardened, but the bitter smile remained pasted on his face. "She did not have a tongue when they were finished, senyera."

Her eyes darted nervously to each of the brothers. And what is it you think I can do?

The smile on Cristobal’s face faltered. "We think you are Lectora Ciego. The Blind Scribe."

What does that mean, blind scribe? Miata’s voice rose with panic. That’s nonsense!

Sico, Cristobal called without taking his eyes from Miata. She appeared nearly ready to bolt like a fawn. Find us a letter.

Grumbling, Sico removed a squarish, leather bag from where it was secured around his waist and strapped to his thigh. He laid it flat on the ground in front of him. He dug through it briefly, and then drew from it a wrinkled letter. He handed it to Bors, who passed it to Cristobal, who held it out toward Miata. Read this. Tell me what it says.

Miata took the paper in her hands, confused by the request. Still, she let her eyes fall to its crinkled surface and then roam over the letters. They squirmed in her sight, as they always did, and she forced herself to focus on them until they settled into words. Her lips moved soundlessly as they passed over each word. Her expression grew more and more confused, until finally she let the letter fall to her lap. It’s a contract to sell a bull for breeding stock, even though the bull has managed to sire but two stillborn calves in its lifetime. The writer seeks to foist it off on a neighbor whose dog killed two of his sheep in the past. she summarized, then waved the letter in a show of annoyance. This is ridiculous. I am not blind, I can read just fine!

Cristobal exchanged a furtive glance with Consico, then cleared his throat and reached for the letter. He scanned it briefly, then smirked in Miata’s direction. This letter says nothing about the history of the bull or of sheep and dogs, Miata. It is a dry contract stipulating the sale of one breed bull for the going price of seven crowns.

Miata snatched the letter from Cristobal’s hand and read it again. She frowned and pointed imperiously to the writing on the page. Right here, she insisted. See? The dog killed two of his sheep. Are you blind? she demanded.

Cristobal’s reply was a slow, sardonic smile. No, but you are. At least when it comes to written words. He regarded her with a curious eye, then gestured impatiently at Consico. Sico, give her something else to read.

Consico again dug through his pouch and came up with a large document, rolled and bound with a red ribbon. He handed it to his brother and then settled back to watch Miata expectantly.

Cristobal deftly pulled at the tie and then carefully unrolled the creamy parchment. Miata peered at it, intrigued by the elaborate writing and illuminations on its face. He scanned it, refreshing his memory as to its contents, then let it reroll itself before handing it to Miata. Tell us what this says.

Miata took it and struggled to unroll it. Cristobal helpfully held down the top two corners and Miata straightened it and held the others. Her eyes roamed over it, watching while the letters wriggled and squirmed and then settled onto the page. Her brow furrowed as she read, a deep frown creasing her face. She read it twice to be certain she had read it correctly before she drew her hands away and let the thing roll up on itself. Both hands went to her hips as she fell back to sit on her heels. That is horrible! Who wrote such a thing?!

Cristobal’s voice was flat. Your king.

Her expression showed shock. But it says, she paused, her face taking on a pained expression. "It is a letter to El Velasco of Aragon. The king is angry because Velasco sent a pequenyo to work magic on the prince. The king had his tongue removed and then slowly bled him to death. He warns Velasco that if he tries such a thing again, he will do the same to El Velasco. Publicly."

Miata saw the faces of all three brothers pale considerably at her words. You are certain that is what it says? Cristobal pressed even as Consico moaned and then muttered fearfully under his breath.

Yes, I am.

Cristobal made a face as he rolled and tied the parchment. He held it up, waving it in the air. "This is a letter from the king offering his condolences on the strange sickness that took the life of El Velasco’s servant and that he hopes El Velasco does not contract the same terrible disease. It says nothing of pequenyo or his punishment or a threat to El Velasco."

Miata felt her stomach turn at his words. It does not.

Yes, it does, Cristobal insisted. "I can ask a hundred others to read it and they will tell you what I told you. Only you can see the truth behind the words. You are Lectora Ciego. The Blind Scribe."

Chapter 3. Salcedo Valley

Miata fell silent. Her chest felt tight and her mind raced to find some other answer than the one Cristobal offered. Try as she might, his incredible explanation was as reasonable as any she could find. Her uncle and aunt did not spend time at court. They were noble, but not noble enough to attend unless invited. They were wealthy, and certainly her uncle’s fortunes had increased in her memory, but that was surely due to Verone’s tireless efforts to squeeze more grain out of the vast fields he managed.

Even if it were not, those were not her concern. She was not involved in her uncle’s business nor could she name any of those to whom he sold his wheat or bought his cattle. There was no reasonable explanation for the King’s Knife to kill her uncle or fire their home. More importantly, there was nothing she could think of short of Cristobal’s answer as to why they would be looking for her. The thought terrified her, and her breath quickened with fear that Cristobal was telling the truth.

Cristobal saw the panic in her eyes and sought some way to calm her. Miata, tell me, who taught you to read?

Her head swung to meet his gaze. My uncle, she forced out.

Tell me how he did that.

His questions helped her focus on something other than her predicament. She considered the question briefly. He gave me a letter.

And … he pressed.

And I read it, she answered. And he praised me and promised me sweets, and told me not to tell anyone how clever I was to have read it so easily. That it was unseemly for a girl to do so and that Carolina would be angry if she knew.

Cristobal nodded soberly. And did he continue to have you read for him?

Miata nodded hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty. Yes, more and more over time.

Did you ever read anything else?

She shook her head. No, Carolina said book learning was a waste of time. That I should learn to dance and needlepoint and serve tea. Only my uncle Verone had me read for him, and only his correspondence. I picked up a book once, she admitted, rubbing her arm. Carolina switched me for doing so and I did not try again.

Cristobal ran a hand through his dark hair. Then El Rene was right. Verone was using her to his advantage, to make deals no one else might have. It is no wonder he rose so quickly.

I am surprised none of the Six decided to put a stop to it before now. At the rate he was rising, he might have challenged Ella Ysabet, Bors commented, drawing a surprised look from Miata. The biggest of the brothers smiled sheepishly. I pay attention, I just prefer to focus on what makes life worth living, he said, his smile growing into a sly grin.

Who are the Six? Miata asked, unfamiliar with the term. So many words and references flew over her head and she realized now just how ignorant she was of Calere and the world outside La Pina. As it seemed she was about to be thrust into the middle of it, she desperately wanted to know as much as she could.

The Six are the noblest of nobles of Calere, far above the hedge-born who toil in their fields or herd their cattle. All can claim royal blood within the past three generations. El Rene of Brionnes, El Bartola of Camora, Ella Maria of Heras, Cristobal stopped when Bors grunted appreciatively at her name. She is a fine-looking widow, and young, he explained for Miata’s benefit. El Velasco of Aragon. El Bernardo of Valanya, and Ella Ysabet of Alvares. She is also a widow, but neither young nor fine-looking. Hence Bors’ lack of interest.

She glanced automatically at Borredan at the mention of his name. He made an outrageous face, as though he had just eaten a hot pepper. Miata giggled at the incongruity of such a robust man making such a childish face.

Pay attention! Cristobal snapped.

Bors deliberately threw a pout, his big brown eyes sad, at his older brother. Cristobal muttered words that made Miata’s ears burn, then shook his head and sighed heavily. What you need to know now is that the only badge that is safe to trust is that of El Rene. He grabbed at his capa and thrust the mantle toward her.

Miata glanced again at the badge. She had recognized it immediately from correspondence her uncle had with others who wrote on behalf of El Rene. It was a circle with a yellow rose and a pair of crossed swords through its center. El Rene. Yes, I will remember, she told him earnestly.

You’d better, Cristobal warned. Your life now depends on it. He leaned back and eyed her critically. Did Verone teach you other things?

Cris! Consico whined as he peered nervously out of the thick curtain of branches. The Knife will find our trail.

And that is why we are waiting here. He will expect us to ride hard for our destination. We will take our time, and it will throw him off, Cristobal explained patiently with a dismissive wave. He smiled indulgently at Miata. He is the youngest, and the most neurotic. I think he fears dying without having known the charms of a beautiful woman.

Consico’s head spun around to glare at his brother. That’s not true!

Bors deep rumbling chuckle followed. That was not a woman, Sico. That was a whore. There’s a difference.

Consico shot a venomous look at Borredan, then returned to his vigilant watch for the King’s Knife, muttering under his breath.

Cristobal remained unruffled. He returned his attention to Miata. Did Verone teach you other things? he asked again.

She nodded. To defend myself. He said one day I would travel with him and need to know how. So he taught me to fence, with a rapier.

Consico appraised her with a glance, then dismissed her claim. "I doubt you would last long, senyera. You are smaller even than I."

Cristobal’s eyes narrowed at his brother’s rudeness before he jumped to his feet. He held out a hand to help Miata stand. Let us find out, he suggested, with a smirk at his youngest brother. Carefully, he drew his own rapier and offered it, bowing politely, to Miata. "Senyera, if you would?"

Miata eyed Cristobal warily, trying to decide if he were testing her or teasing her. When he continued to hold out the rapier, she took it and then stepped back. She tested its weight and listened to the way it cut the wind, as Verone had taught her. Satisfied with the quality of the weapon, she set her feet and pointed the blade at the ground. With a slight tilt to her chin, she threw a challenging look at Consico. Well? Do you fear being bested by a woman?

Consico frowned, but crossed to stand near her and mimicked her actions. I don’t think this is a good idea, Cris.

We need to know. We would be daft to believe we will make it home without encountering trouble, Cristobal dismissed his concern. He waved a hand imperiously, a prince to be entertained in his curtained court.

Miata tensed when Consico reset his feet, then forced herself to relax. She remained in her ready position and waited for Consico to make the first move. Verone had cautioned her to do so. Consico was right that she was smaller than most men and did not have their stamina. The less time she spent working her rapier, the longer she might last.

Consico muttered about it being a bad idea yet again, then shook his head and lunged forward, expecting Miata to jump or squeal in surprise. He did not expect her to parry and then riposte so quickly. He stumbled with his surprise, but managed to counter her quick strikes while retreating from her shorter reach.

Miata pulled back and watched Consico carefully as he reconsidered his opponent. She was more than ready when he aggressively attacked, obviously hoping to overwhelm her with ferocity. She almost smiled, remembering how many times Verone had told her an opponent would react in such a way. Men were unused to a woman who could defend herself, and if rebuffed immediately would turn to more aggressive tactics. She was pleased to note Consico did exactly that. He tried to use his strength to drive her rapier aside, beating at it angrily.

She let him, and the sudden lack of resistance forced Consico off balance. He wound up leaning forward, into his strike, and close enough for Miata to easily reach him. She dropped her blade under Consico’s and immediately lunged toward him.

Stop! Cristobal barked, hurrying toward them in case Miata failed to pull the strike that would have skewered his youngest brother.

Miata jerked her weapon away from Consico and stepped back, a smug smile on her face. She cut a neat king’s cross in the air, declaring herself the victor.

Consico righted himself, glaring at the young woman. I stand corrected, he muttered while he straightened and slid his rapier into the frog at his hip.

Cristobal tried not to laugh at his brother. We have warned you about being overconfident, Sico. You will get yourself killed if you aren’t more careful, he observed, holding out a hand in Miata’s direction.

Miata’s fingers curled tighter on the hilt of Cristobal’s sword. She was not entirely certain she should disarm herself now that she had a way to defend herself. Cristobal’s brows slowly rose while he waited for her to return the rapier. She had nowhere to go. No money. No clothing of her own. Nothing. She was not even certain where they were at the moment. The Salcedo Valley was expansive; it lay between the two long arms of the Corcoles River. Another obstacle to cross she knew little about. Reluctantly, she reversed her grip on the rapier and handed it to Cristobal, who showed none of the relief he felt at her surrender of the weapon.

"And now what, senyor? Does El Rene wish me to read for him as my uncle did?"

Cristobal shrugged. It is for El Rene to explain his desires, not me. We are merely the Scourge of Calere, I think it was? He peered up, trying to judge the time of day. We should go now. We need to be in Pereda by nightfall. He looked to Bors. Track west a bit, then back north. Let’s not lay a path straight to El Rene’s door.

Diego de Cuello, the King’s Knife, crouched at the edge of La Pina’s fields. He stripped the glove from his hand and swept a finger over the track hidden beneath the bent grasses. It was already drying in the face of the early morning sun, but was still soft enough to tell him it had been left earlier in the day. He stood and slowly replaced his glove while he scanned the horizon.

The smell of charred wood lingered in his nose and he rubbed at it as though he might erase its memory. He did not turn at the question raised by his captain. Which way?

Running his tongue over his bottom lip, Diego pointed vaguely to the west. That way, he declared. Three horses. Three criminals. One helpless girl.

The Three Brothers? You think so, El Cuchillo?

Diego raised a brow that his conclusion might be questioned. He had not risen to the position of the King’s Knife by being wrong. If you question me again, Adiano, I will cut out your tongue.

His captain fell silent, and Diego smiled tightly. Minyaro. We go to Minyaro.

He waited expectantly for his captain to question him again, pleased when he did not. They will no doubt make for Pereda first. We will let them think they have managed to evade us.

Where do you suspect they are headed? Adiano offered it as a question rather than suggesting one of the possibilities.

Diego considered whether or not to answer him. It seemed obvious, but then again, he was expected to puzzle out such things. I am confident now they seek the safety of Brionnes. El Rene has been tight-lipped of late, and has avoided court more than he has attended. He seems to have an aversion to the king and his responsibilities to Calere.

Of course, El Cuchillo. I should have seen that myself.

"When we take them, remember to take the tall one alive. I want that one to sing to my tune and tell us where they have been hiding all the pequenyo they steal."

What about the girl?

Diego’s voice hardened. Her eyes do us no good if she is dead, Adiano. The lie slid off his tongue easily. Remember that, or I will take yours instead, as useless as they may be.

Chapter 4. Pereda

By the time night began to fall, Miata was slumped in the saddle. She leaned against Cristobal wearily, unused to riding all day. Her legs were chaffed raw from rubbing against the leather saddle and her hips ached from constant swaying of the horse’s gait. The only redeeming value of the ride was the warm press of Cristobal’s hand against her middle where he held her close to keep her from sliding to the ground. It made her stomach flutter and her head delightfully dizzy.

A soft, rich voice near her ear singing a familiar melody encouraged her to close her eyes. She tried to pick out the words, but the harder she tried the heavier her lids seemed to feel. Her shoulders relaxed and she found herself drifting in and out of sleep.

She was startled out of her dreamy state by the clopping of horse’s hooves against stone. She shot straight up, and heard Cristobal yelp as her head clipped his chin. She was disappointed when his hand left her to rub furiously at the injury. "I am sorry, senyor, the sound of the hooves startled me."

The name is Cristobal, and you are forgiven. I should not have been so inattentive, he assured her, cursing himself for resting his chin in the warm nest of her thick hair in the first place. He had not meant to put her to sleep, merely relax her, but he had little control over her reaction. She was no doubt exhausted by the day’s events. No wonder she had started at the sudden sharp sounds.

With a flick of the reins he turned the horse off the stones and led the small group down a worn, dirt road that bypassed the center of Pereda. They did not need the attention of travelers tonight. The sound of Bors coming abreast made his brows furrow with annoyance. When Miata leaned forward to get a look at him, his annoyance deepened.

You’re headed for Sola Mosca, aren’t you? Bors asked hopefully.

Cristobal raised a brow at his brother. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

Bors nodded, a dreamy grin engulfing his face.

Then Sola Mosca it is, Cristobal acquiesced. He knew Bors was more interested in one of the barmaids, Susana, than he was in their safety, but the Sola Mosca was a local taproom likely to be free of travelers who stuck to establishments on the main road. Besides, if Bors spent the evening watching Susana, he would not spend the evening watching Miata.

He blinked at the realization that he’d not known the girl more than a full day and he was already jealous of Borredan’s attention to her. He straightened in the saddle and pushed it aside. She was no more or less his than any of the other hundred girls they had snatched from under the king’s nose.

Miata recognized the look on Borredan’s face. What is her name, Bors?

Cristobal stifled the urge to strangle his brother at Miata’s eagerness for conversation with him.

Susana, Bors replied with a reverence that made it clear he was enamored of the woman. She is round in all the right places, and has a voice like honey.

Cris, are you sure it’s safe to stay in Pereda? The Knife can’t be far behind us, Consico whined from his other elbow.

Miata laughed lightly. Are they always like this? she asked Cristobal, twisting her head to see his face.

Yes. Bors spends most of his time thinking about women and wine, and Sico most of his time looking over his shoulder for boogeymen, he replied. It’s exhausting trying to corral these two into focusing on what we’re doing.

"What are you doing?" Miata asked curiously.

Cristobal’s expression went flat. Right now, we’re finding Sola Masco. He deliberately turned his attention to the surrounding buildings, searching for the sign in the growing darkness. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but he didn’t trust her. Not yet. What she did not know she could not reveal, and right now she knew next to nothing.

The dimly lit, rough wooden rickety porch of the Sola Masco appeared off to his right. He veered toward it, eliciting a grumble of protest from Consico as he was forced to fall in behind. The roads at the outer edge of Pereda were much narrower than the broad, stone-lined street that marked the center of the city. It was much too narrow for three horses abreast.

As they neared, Miata saw a single figure reclined on the porch, his fingers laced together and resting on his middle. His feet were propped up on an overturned crate, and the broad brim of a tightly-woven straw hat draped his face in shadows. The three brothers stopped and dismounted nearly in unison. Cristobal turned and held his hands out, beckoning for Miata to join them. She swung one leg over the saddle and slid awkwardly down the horse’s side. Cristobal’s hands stopped her from dropping to the ground, and Miata tried to ignore the butterflies that rose again at his strong grip on her waist. He set her down and released her, then deliberately took her hand and led her up the creaking steps to the porch.

The man in the chair did not move, so it startled Miata when he spoke. Evening, senyor.

Senyor, Cristobal politely returned.

The man tipped his head slightly; it was enough he could clearly see Cristobal, but not enough for the dim light spilling out the window to chase the shadows from his face. What news from Brionnes?

The starling is sleeping.

The man nodded and lowered his head. "Inside, senyor. All is well."

Cristobal nodded once in return and then pulled Miata behind him through the door. She could hear Borredan and Consico’s boots falling on the wooden planks outside. The planks rattled as though they were loose, and she wondered why no one secured them. Her attention was drawn by the silence that enveloped the Sola Masco at their entrance. Her eyes darted nervously from patron to patron, overwhelmed by so many people in one place. She shrank closer to Cristobal, who tried not to flinch as her nails dug into the hand she gripped tighter.

He leaned down. You have never been in a taproom, have you?

She shook her head, her eyes wide as the patrons returned to their conversations, having appraised the new arrivals and determined they were not a threat. She was stunned by the forwardness of the barmaids, and by the way they flaunted their charms in front of men who were rough looking.

Cristobal suppressed an amused smile at her reaction, then craned his neck to find a place to sit. A few tables still sat empty, and he deftly wound his way through those who stood rehashing recent events to one in a darker corner of the room. He pulled out a chair and gently urged Miata to sit.

Reluctantly, she let go of his hand and slid into the chair, her eyes still wide as she surveyed the crowded, noisy room. Are they always this way? she asked uncomfortably as Cristobal settled into a chair next to her.

Some are more so, others less. It depends on the city, the time of day, and what drives a man to drink.

At his words, she idly noted that most of the crowd was in fact men. She saw few women other than the barmaids, and those she did see were dressed much like Cristobal and his brothers. Leathers with buckles. Breeches instead of skirts. Unconsciously she rubbed her hands over the breeches she wore, as if suddenly aware how she must look to others.

"They hug where they should, senyera, trust me," Cristobal offered with a teasing smile.

She flushed at his observation, barely noticing how the admission he had taken the time to look warmed her insides more than her cheeks.

Raising a meaty hand, Bors waved excitedly. Susana!

Miata watched as a shapely barmaid with rounded hips made her way in their direction. Her hips swayed with a confidence Miata had never seen before. She was proud of her figure, and of the attention it garnered her. Carolina had taught her to be demure; to sit primly in a corner and never draw attention to herself. For some reason Susan’s obvious pride in being a woman stirred something inside her.

Susana stopped and very deliberately bent over and kissed Borredan. Miata tried not to choke on her surprise. When the woman plopped down on Borredan’s lap and draped an arm familiarly across his broad shoulders, she blinked to make certain she wasn’t seeing things. Bors, you big oaf, I’ve missed you! Susana exclaimed happily.

"Ah, and I’ve missed you, senyera," Borredan returned as he snuck a look at the ample bosom that seemed on the verge of escaping Susana’s tightly laced bodice.

What can I get for you tonight? Sangria? Orujo? Carajillo?

Borredan leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Miata could not hear what he said, but it caused Susana to laugh and slap playfully at his arm. Sangria all around. And meat pies? It’s all we have left, I’m afraid, but they are bursting with meat today. She slid off Borredan’s lap and gave him a sly look. The rest will have to wait, I’m afraid. I have other plans tonight.

When Borredan pouted at her words, she chucked a finger under his chin and kissed him soundly. Next time, Bors, I promise.

She left him staring sadly at her backside as she swayed and pushed her way through the crowd.

Cristobal laughed and raked a hand through his hair. You’ll be busy tonight anyway, Bors. It’s your turn to stand watch.

Borredan slumped with defeat and shook his head, gesturing angrily at Consico. Why should I stand watch when this one is going to do it anyway? You know he never sleeps when there’s more than two people nearby.

Consico sneered at his brother. And a good thing too. Or have you forgotten Corsican so soon?

None of us have forgotten. Let it be, Cristobal cut them off. Miata was