Keepers of Fire: Fire City, #1

By M. K. Casperson

The Demon is recruiting his servants.

An unthinkable twist of fate lands Dethar in the secret home of his archenemy, Arthen Brightscar, and a dribble of gossip informs him that the elusive but dangerous hero is long since dead. Chagrined at the loss of his chance for vengeance, Dethar turns his sights on Arthen's two young children and undefended widow. Killing them will simply have to satisfy.

Farming and adventuring have little in common, but Atia Morren longs for the day when she can follow the example of her cousin's husband, Arthen, and explore the world. But when the arrival of a cruel stranger smashes the tranquility of her home, Atia's daydreaming swells into mad desire. Escaping with a group of wanderers, she begins a quest to the dreaded Scadkai forest. Yet though Dethar took much from Atia, it begins to appear he left behind something of his own. Only Dethar could have given her the magic she suddenly possesses, and it is up to Atia to find out why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Casperson
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201103521

Book preview

Prologue

How could you?

Arthen’s voice hung in the silence of the chamber. He stood there, eyes fixed on the high lord. Answer me, Yansor!

Yes, Arthen, you are dying. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. You should have been more careful, held more respect for the Order. The high lord spoke quietly, eyes steady on the outraged young man. You forced my hand.

More respect for the Order? Arthen’s lip curled back in disgust. Who has done more for the Order than I? Who protected us all, when Dethar emerged from the shadows? Who fought against him, all these years, while the rest of you ran and hid?

Your service only worsens your treason! Yansor’s voice hardened. You’ve betrayed us all. You lied to your brethren; insulted the very core of our traditions. You care for nothing but the praise of that high elven witch!

You are a fool, Yansor! Arthen spat. What have you against the queen? Our purpose is the same as hers: to fight the Demon, and to stop the Keepers’ return. Are you affronted that she didn’t seek you out herself? You’re not even worthy to speak her name!

Eliaquel is a traitor, no different from yourself! Yansor barked.

Without her, we cannot hope to win!

She’s a wretch! She abandoned us, shunned us, ignored us for all these years! Our ancestors debased themselves in their attempts to recover her, but she would neither forgive nor forget. She cannot help; she will not help! I won’t allow it. You and she are two of the same, tied down by the foolishness that the same leader who failed to win the last war will be our savior in the next. The Order of Watchers is the only hope now, and as high lord, it is my duty to ensure that we have full control.

Do you really think that killing me will stop her? Arthen’s tone was ominous. You can’t even open your mouth without stupidity tumbling out of it. How little you even know. The Keepers of Fire cannot be matched by your power. They’ll fall upon you and the Order like they’ll fall upon everyone else, killing and burning in the fury of revenge. You’ll never be fit to stand up to them, and they’ll laugh at your attempts.

How dare you speak such words! Yansor shouted, eyes flaming with hatred. It’s a pity I didn’t poison you sooner!

Arthen smiled. That won’t be your last regret. Without the aid of the queen, you will never defeat the Demon.

I have no need of her, and no need of you! Impudent lout!

Arthen opened his mouth to reply, but gasped as a searing pain wracked his chest, burning like acid through his body. Falling to his knees, he struggled for breath, eyes watering in agony.

Yansor, please! he cried. You don’t know what you’re doing!

I have no care for you now, Arthen, the high lord growled. Your death is a blessing to the Order and to the world.

You don’t know what the Keepers can do, Yansor! Arthen choked. You doom yourself by killing me! Eliaquel will never help you if you destroy me now! Dethar will run wild! You sentence all Mel’tar to death!

For a moment, Yansor felt his resolve soften as he watched the young man, fighting for his life. How proud the high lord had been to bring him to the Order. Arthen had shown true promise, but everything had changed now.

If only you’d followed me, Arthen Brightscar, Yansor said. You could have been of immense help. Die in peace. Our work will carry on.

The pain was intensifying, but Arthen bit back his cries, glare trained on the high lord.

Your end is not far off, Arthen warned. Beware the wrath of the High Born Queen!

Farewell, Brightscar. Yansor turned away.

The poison had done its work.

Arthen slumped lifelessly to the ground.

Chapter 1

Atia

Atia Morren knew it was hopeless.

Sides aching, she worked desperately to quicken her speed, pushing herself to the maximum as she raced to get home. She should have known it would have turned out this way. Of all people, she should have remembered how long short walks could become.

Safira is going to be furious! Atia thought despairingly, recalling how emphatic her eldest sister had been the night before. Early morning escapades were not uncommon for the seventeen-year-old Atia, but with so much to do before the party, Safira had requested, or rather insisted, that Atia forgo the walk.

But of course, I didn’t listen. They’re probably all awake, by now. I should never have gone!

She took a shortcut, crashing through the brambles, ignoring the tugging briars that added snags to her already fraying hem.

In all fairness, it wasn’t entirely her fault. Most certainly, she hadn’t planned on disappearing. If the chicken coop weren’t right beneath her window, the rooster’s crowing would not have woken her. Stretching her legs before a day like today had seemed like a good idea. She could be gone and back before breakfast.

And you would have been, if you’d kept to the woods.

By the time the farmhouse came into view, Atia’s blond hair was a tangled mess. She dashed for the house, praying that her sisters had somehow slept in late. As she drew closer, her eyes picked out movement behind a window.

Atia smoothed down her hair and dusted her skirt. Arthen’s wind chime tinkled from where it hung on the porch roof, its wistful jingling earning it a reproachful look. Three years, and still the ornament brought thoughts of adventure. Arthen couldn’t have left a better memento if he’d tried.

Except maybe his children. Holding her breath, Atia opened the door, stepping carefully into the small entry. Perhaps she could slip in quietly.

Well, look who’s here! a loud voice exclaimed.

Atia started, then hissed, "Mavaya, shh!"

Unimpressed, her younger sister folded her arms, dark, curly hair hanging loose about her shoulders. Where have you been?

Is Atia back? Footsteps shuffled and then Elise appeared, arms white with flour.

Atia glanced only briefly at her cousin, knowing that her silent disappointment was much harder to bear than Mavaya’s naive censures. It didn’t matter that Elise was only three years older than her. The worldly-wise, even-tempered widow could abash a king without saying a word.

Safira isn’t pleased with you, Mavaya warned.

Where is she? Atia demanded.

She left already, Elise replied. She and Acinath went to the Green to help set up. They wanted you to come with them, but… Arthen’s widow shrugged.

Atia groaned and ran a hand over her face. "I knew I shouldn’t have gone!"

Why did you? Mavaya put her hands on her hips. Safira told you not to.

Did they want me to follow them? When did they leave?

About half an hour ago,—Elise beckoned as she moved back toward the kitchen—and no, they didn’t want you to follow them. They want you to help us, instead.

Inside the small, neat kitchen, Atia was greeted by the smell of Safira’s hasty biscuits. A few dishes still cluttered the wooden countertop at the back of the room. The top half of the back door was open, letting in a breeze.

We saved you some breakfast. Elise gestured to the modestly filled plate on the table. The two fried eggs looked cold. But there isn’t much time. We have so many flowers to cut. Mavaya’s only filled one basket! We need at least five.

"I’m trying to go quickly!" Mavaya protested.

I’ll lend a hand. Atia dropped into her chair and began shoveling food into her mouth.

Casting her delinquent older sister a final, condemning glance, Mavaya reached for the shears resting on the table. I’ll meet you outside.

Atia nodded, mouth full.

Elise had returned to her bread dough on the opposite side of the table. Her wedding ring, set aside as always for messy work, winked up at them both amidst the flutter of flour. The tinkling of the wind chime reached them faintly through the open top half of the kitchen door, causing Atia to study the preoccupied woman before her.

Probably the only good thing Atia’s uncle had ever done was dump his infant daughter with his brother’s family. Elise had grown up on the Morren farm. Atia’s parents—dead now for several years—had argued viciously but unsuccessfully when Reddle Morren returned to take Elise back, and Elise spent two years traveling all over the map before meeting Arthen and eloping with him when she was just fifteen. Far from being a disaster, however, the marriage proved the young woman’s prudence. Arthen whisked her back to Chesstel, where she happily remained and for which Arthen earned the Morren family’s love. Too wild to settle down himself, however, Arthen did not linger for long, promising to return regularly every few months, which he did almost without fail. By the time he died three years later—killed by bandits on the road home—Elise was barely pregnant, and by and by delivered twin boys. Atia still admired Arthen’s memory, for she, too, dreamed of wandering. Knowing that his murderers likely still roamed the world made his loss worse. Justice had not been done, and, likely, never would be.

No sign of the players yet, I imagine? Elise asked, strands of blond hair flying loose from her braid.

Atia paused for a moment, perplexed, and then grinned sheepishly. Elise knew her too well. I didn’t follow the road. I climbed the hill just east of it. The tallest.

You chose to climb the tallest today?

Atia winced ruefully. Not the brightest idea, I suppose.

Snorting a laugh, Elise shrugged. Perhaps not. I suppose it’s good we live so close to the Basin wall.

Atia nodded, smiling. It was a good thing. Of all her escapes, the Basin hills were her favorite. Surrounding the community of Chesstel like an earthen crown, they made the location a valley. Atia loved climbing to the very top of the highest and gazing to the south, for beyond the hills was the world—the real world, the world she wanted to see. Atia loved her life in Chesstel; she loved her sisters, and she loved her home, but she had always felt there was something more, something calling to her, something that Chesstel could not bring.

An irate shriek came from the floor, followed by a fiendish giggle.

Oh, Nius. Sighing, Elise wiped her dusty hands on her apron and went to intervene as her twin boys, barely two years old, fought over a wooden toy.

Shall I take them out with me? Atia offered, finished with her food and rising to her feet.

Do you mind? Elise asked with relief, taking the toy firmly from them both. Poor Jairo has had nothing but abuse from his brother all morning.

Atia chuckled, looking down at her small nephews. Jairo, the elder twin, was still scowling at the injustice of losing his plaything, while Nius, the younger, beamed up at Atia with the ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes. They really didn’t look alike. Nius had always looked like his father, while Jairo had only Arthen’s eyes.

I’ll come out and join you when I can, Elise promised as Atia dressed the twins for the outdoors. I need to finish the bread and the chickens need feeding, but that’s all. I won’t be long.

Nodding, Atia herded the boys into the yard.

Chapter 2

Stirring in the Shadows

Dethar pulled his hood farther over his face to keep the sun away. He loathed the day, so open and bright. Night was much better for business such as his. If only he could find a way to prolong the darker hours…though, of course, there was no such way.

Dethar was a stranger to these parts. Indeed, even in the far south, where his cool complexion, blue eyes, and sandy hair would be unremarkable, Dethar was an outsider. In his mid-twenties, he had seen more than any older man. He was tall, agile, and dressed from head to toe in black, a small reminder to himself of who he was and a hint to others that he didn’t like to be bothered. Across his back was slung a longbow and a quiver, and at his side was a powerful two-handed sword.

Dethar stood on the peak of the southernmost hill, his dusty boots rooted to the South Road, the only civilized route out of the valley in which these reclusive peasants had chosen to live. Dethar hated these small settlements, so secluded from the rest of the world that they had no one to see but their neighbors, nothing to talk about but their friends. It was almost impossible for someone to visit and not be noticed by every person in the community.

This visit will be short, Dethar told himself as he hiked down the hill into the valley. He’d never been to this town, and if circumstances hadn’t required his coming, he would have passed it by.

Despite the glowing sun, the afternoon air was chilly, reminding Dethar why he despised the area. The springs in this region were no different from the early winter days: always cold, typically rainy, sometimes a break of sun. The summers were not much different, the warm days lasting only a few weeks before rain bombarded the land again.

Dethar followed the road to Chesstel, passing through, as he went, many fields and thin forests, observing numerous side trails, undoubtedly leading to some farm or other. It seemed a peaceful place, undisturbed by the turmoil created by war and politics that plagued the larger cities.

The town was much deeper into the valley than Dethar had counted on, and it wasn’t until he had walked a good five miles that he finally caught sight of it. It wasn’t as pitiful as he had expected. Most of the streets were paved, and the buildings were well-constructed. There weren’t many people about, and the few who saw him paused for but a moment to stare curiously at him before hurrying on. Looking for an inn, Dethar made his way to the center of town, where such places were usually built in smaller towns like this, and indeed, he was not disappointed. The Old Wood was built on the southern side of the square, unnaturally large for a town of Chesstel’s size, and oddly shaped as well, more like an oversized farmhouse than an inn. It had a large, wraparound porch lined with rocking chairs, stools, and benches, glass windows that looked in need of washing, and a thick door with heavy, iron hinges. The yard was well-kept, with cut grass and a painted fence.

Dethar regarded the entire thing with a skeptic’s eye, and then passed through the gate and into the inn.

The front door brought him directly into the main dining room, presently devoid of people. Rows of tables filled the room, each furnished with a candle for nighttime use. A counter stood on the east side of the room, behind which were shelves laden with mugs, bottles, plates, and bowls. A door, presumably leading to the kitchen, was to the counter’s left. Voices emanated from within.

Ho! Dethar cried, stepping near the counter. Who runs this place?

There was a pause in the chatter, and then an older woman appeared, her graying hair pinned up in a bun, her apron damp with dishwater. Can I help you?

I wish to rent a room.

Oh, of course! The woman smiled, stepping up behind the counter and producing a large book from underneath. A girl had joined her from the kitchen—her daughter, Dethar guessed. She could be no more than sixteen and was blushing terribly, a trait Dethar found all too common in unmarried girls.

How long will you be staying? the woman asked.

Only one night, Dethar replied.

The girl’s disappointment was evident at this declaration, for she immediately turned away to fiddle with something on the shelves behind her.

It will cost you five aries, the woman informed him.

Dethar handed her the money.

Taking the currency and marking something off in her book, the woman smiled and announced, Room five is all yours. What brings you to Chesstel, sir?

Confidential reasons; nothing I find reason to share, came the curt reply. I would like a key.

Startled, the woman took a moment to react. Oh—oh, of course! she stammered. Leanne, girl, fetch this gentleman the key to room five.

As the girl scurried off, Dethar looked at her mother incredulously. You mean you don’t keep them nearby? What sort of inconvenience is that?

Most folk don’t request them, the woman replied stiffly. They recognize how utterly harmless Chesstel is.

Dethar didn’t try to argue. When the girl returned, she kept her eyes mostly on the floor, lifting them only for a fleeting moment to look at him as she handed her mother the key.

Here is your key, sir. Enjoy your stay. The woman’s tone was crisp.

Dethar took the key without comment and headed for the stairs.

It’ll be to your right, three doors down! The cry came from a young voice, obviously the girl.

Once Dethar had deposited his pack in his room, he locked the door and returned downstairs. The women were still at the counter, whispering.

Where can I find a blacksmith? he asked.

Amlion’s shop is right across the square, the woman replied. You can’t miss it. But you might not—

Dethar went out, ignoring her further cries.

His reason for coming here was simple enough. He had been traveling north for nigh on a month and his supplies were dwindling. He needed arrows and cornmeal. Markshire was still a long distance off.

To his irritation, however, the blacksmith’s yard was empty, and when he pounded on the door, no one answered. He pressed down the handle. Locked.

Harmless town, is it?

A few shops down was a sign reading, Miller Dorkin’s Grain Depot.

Dethar was halfway up the porch steps when he saw a notice nailed to the door: Closed.

He frowned. It wasn’t harvest time…

Ho, there! Dethar stuck his head into the inn again. Where’s everyone gone in this town?

He could hear some bustling in the kitchen, but no one answered him.

Dethar spun, glowering at the empty streets. Heat rushed obediently to his hands. Blinking, he realized the world was spinning.

The fire in his hands cooled. He had not realized how weary he was. Fatigue often surprised him.

Shutting the door, he climbed the stairs and collapsed onto his bed—the first bed he had lain on in weeks.

So the villagers were enjoying a holiday of some kind. No matter. Dethar would rest and try the stores tomorrow.

Chapter 3

Old Wounds

I swear there’s a hundred more!

Safira Morren gazed at the throng of players pouring in from the road. She had never seen such an attendance to Alemira’s birthday. Since the start of the tradition, her ladyship’s party had been a happy but predictable affair, with feasting, dancing, games, shows, and merchant booths, following the same comfortable pattern each year.

What could have caused this? Safira marveled, pushing the loose wisps of brown hair from her face and tucking them back into the high coil.

There are so many! Acinath murmured beside her, blue eyes wide. I had no idea there would be this many!

Well, there never is, Safira pointed out, returning her attention to the backdrop they were setting up for some visiting performers. Gripping the rope, she hiked the fabric up on one side, securing it in place whilst Acinath hiked up the other side.

I heard that there would be, Acinath said, dusting off her hands. The rope was appallingly dirty. I heard Haughten talking about the inn filling up. Almost all his rooms are taken! Mathias is to thank, I hear.

Frowning, Safira handed her sister the end of a second cloth, walking backward with the other. As one, they shook it out, the painted pattern becoming substantially brighter as the dust flew away. Coughing, Safira grimaced. This group of actors clearly didn’t use their things very often. Mathias?

Sneezing, Acinath laughed, waiting until the dust cleared before bringing her end to meet Safira’s. That’s right.

Perturbed, Safira studied her sister for a moment. Three years her junior, Acinath had always been the beauty of the family. Well-figured, she was genuinely lovely, with calm blue eyes, rich brown hair, and the purest heart to be found. Kind to everyone, she was nevertheless wise; the ideal character, in Safira’s mind. That hadn’t saved her from a bad love story, however.

He’s coming back, you know, Safira commented.

Today! Acinath nodded, unruffled as she smiled knowingly at her elder sister. You need not worry for me, Safira; it was four years ago! Much too long for me to remember such things. Trust me, he’ll be just as eager to ignore me as I am to ignore him.

Safira didn’t argue, turning away to tidy up the stray boxes and bags, hiding them behind the stage.

So, do you think Atia will be sorry? Acinath asked, changing the subject.

Safira shrugged, annoyed again by the thought. Not sorry enough that she’ll change. This isn’t the first time, after all. Why would it be the last? I only hope she’s made up for it at home.

Nodding, Acinath scanned the Green. Aside from the players’ stalls, almost everything had been done. Her eyes paused briefly on the platform where the Grimnors would sit. Four chairs this year instead of three. Mathias was indeed coming home.

Perhaps he’s already arrived, Acinath thought. Maybe earlier this morning.

Atia’s here! Mara cried, running up suddenly. At seven years, she was the youngest sister, with a happy face and brown hair. And Elise. And Mavaya.

Are they indeed? Safira mused, face darkening, arms folding, eyes turning to where Mara pointed.

There, coming along one of the many forest trails and emerging from the trees, was their small wagon and pony, led by Elise and Mavaya and followed by Atia.

Patience, Acinath whispered to her elder sister, fighting back a grin.

The wagon stopped on the edge of the Green, still under the dappled shade of the leafy branches. Unloading the twins and setting them on their feet, Elise and Mavaya approached with a flower basket on either arm. Atia trailed behind with the last, face a bit red.

Glad you could make it, Atia, Safira said, words sarcastic but tone deadly.

Wincing, Atia deliberated. I…can explain.

No need! I can already guess. I’ve heard it a thousand times.

I’m sorry! Atia exclaimed. I am!

Safira gazed at her sternly for a moment, then sighed and shook her head, reaching for one of Elise’s baskets. Ready to start, then?

Ready! Elise smiled. Mavaya, do you have the ribbon?

The fifteen-year-old produced a spool from her apron pocket.

Let’s do it over here. Safira led her family to the shade of a maple tree. Settling down, the sisters worked quietly for a while, sharing the many blooms as they crafted the ordered bouquets, Mara keeping watch over the twins nearby, their bubbly voices echoing across the Green and mingling with the chirps of birds overhead.

Safira chuckled. Nius looks more like Arthen every day.

Acts like him, too, Elise replied, smiling. Beastly.

Mavaya and Acinath laughed. Atia laughed too, but less heartily, mind already wandering as she matched blossoms together. The players and merchants were still busy and would likely remain so until late afternoon, setting up their stages and wares for tomorrow’s affair. Though there seemed to be more than usual, many were still the same, and as Atia watched in bored fascination, she wondered silently if these and the folk from the nearby villages were the only people from beyond the Basin that she’d ever see. It seemed wrong that they would be. After all, the time would come when she’d strike out on her own. They couldn’t all stay on the farm forever, and Atia highly doubted there was anyone in Chesstel who could hold her fancy long enough to persuade her to stay. In three years, she’d be twenty, which was certainly old enough to live on her own.

All done, then? Safira asked, interrupting Atia’s scheming.

With a start, the young woman glanced around, realizing the others had already finished. Hastily, she finished her bunch, adding the remaining flowers and tying the stems with ribbon.

This is the sweetest tradition of them all, Acinath giggled, setting her final bouquet down with the rest. I wish I could ever see Alemira’s face when Sir Grimnor gives her these. We should probably send them right away. Didn’t he want them before noon?

Yes, he did. Safira got to her feet, thrusting a loose hairpin back into her bun. I’ll take them. You brought the water canisters, right, Elise?

In the wagon.

May I come? Mavaya sat up eagerly.

Atia covertly rolled her eyes. Mavaya took whatever chance she could to see Loma. Now that was a friendship Atia would never understand.

Safira shrugged, gathering up two baskets. Why not? Let’s get these bouquets into water.

---

At dusk, people sprang from thin air and strolled the once-deserted streets. The inn became more populated. Sitting at his table, Dethar eyed the bursting room with perplexity.

So, Chesstel was not a ghost town, after all.

The innkeeper had appeared, putting to rest Dethar’s fears of the inn being a female-run establishment, though the woman’s husband didn’t seem altogether bright, anyway. Dethar had learned their names by now. Haughten was the innkeeper and his wife was Temilda. Their daughter, Leanne, was waiting tables. She seemed a bit of a weakling, panting heavily as she rushed back and forth.

Refreshed from his languid afternoon, Dethar stayed at his table long after finishing his meal, enjoying the flickering candlelight while he waited for the bits and pieces of gossip to form a cohesive narrative. Several of the customers were not locals; he picked that out quickly. He found no real explanation for Chesstel’s behavior, however, until almost everyone had either gone home or gone upstairs to their rooms.

A man entered the tavern, sporting two metal pauldrons and a blue tunic appliqued with a brown falcon.

Fabin! Haughten cried. Come in, man! Take a seat!

Evening, Haughten. The soldier smiled. He looked middle-aged, with brittle, brown hair and large arms. He took a seat at the table the innkeeper was scrubbing. How go the preparations?

Fine, just fine. Everything’s ready. Temilda and Leanne have been here all day, working on our addition to our lady’s birthday lunch. Temilda’s fixed those cherry pies of hers. Lady Alemira took the time to compliment her again last year. We wouldn’t dare show our faces tomorrow without them! There was no hiding the pride in Haughten’s voice.

Fabin grinned. I just hope you told her to fix more than usual. Her ladyship isn’t the only one who enjoys them.

You were not at the Green, Haughten observed. Busy at the barracks, I suppose. Shame.

Temilda gravitated from the bar and handed their guest a mug. Tell me, husband, how do the floral arrangements around the platform look? I heard the Morrens would be helping again this year, and they have the prettiest flower garden, not to mention one of the largest!

Dethar waved his finger back and forth through his candle flame and wondered briefly if setting the tavern on fire would be amusing enough to attempt.

Ah, yes, the flowers look better than ever! Haughten exclaimed. I say, those Morren girls have really pulled through it all. How many years has it been since their parents died? Five years? Six? In addition to Arthen Brightscar, of course. How long since his death?

Dethar’s finger froze mid-flame.

Three years, Temilda said sadly. Poor man—and at such a young age, too! He was hardly three and twenty!

Fabin nodded, rubbing his bristly chin. Hard to expect much else of a wanderer, though.

Had he heard right? Dethar took his finger away, unharmed.

Well, his sons will carry on his good name, Haughten said. Brightscar; an interesting name to own. Those boys will be soldiers, just you wait.

Soldiers? Temilda cried.

Fabin laughed. "Aye, with a name like that, they should, Haughten. I wonder how Arthen came by it. Guess he was a wanderer, though. Probably not a proper family name, at any rate."

Dethar’s mind was racing. Arthen Brightscar. What a strange twist of fate that he should stumble upon the hometown of his most hated enemy. That man had done more to hinder his work than anyone. Dethar wasn’t sure how, but Arthen had seemed to know everything about him, from what he was to where he was to what he meant to do. Dethar had tried to catch him, and Arthen had tried to catch Dethar, but somehow they always missed each other, and never managed to defeat one another in battle. Arthen had disappeared suddenly, however, and until now Dethar hadn’t known what had become of him.

Dead, hmm? So that’s how you managed to escape my grasp. You’ll rue the day when peace came to you, leaving your family open to my whims. A bitter glee filled his heart as he listened eagerly for more.

Will the sisters be there tomorrow? Fabin asked.

After all the work they put in? Of course! Haughten cried. I expect they’ll be there for the whole affair! Dancing, eating, speeches, everything!

This year will prove more exciting than the rest, I expect, Fabin said, what with the extra players from the Radamor. We’ll see what their take on the Song is like. I’ve heard the Hekvets have a unique interpretation.

Such a shame Mathias had to turn out bad. Haughten lowered his voice discreetly. He was the one who arranged it, you know. Wanted to make his mother’s birthday extra special. The general assumption is it’s because he’s been away for so long. A real shame, indeed. He was such a fine lad, to begin with.

Or so we thought, Temilda said boldly. Who knows how many girls the shameless boy enjoyed? Imagine, having a child out of wedlock! He’s a houseman! Young or not, a noble should know better. And where is the mother now? Sent off in humiliation to support their child alone, no doubt! Drops her like the spoiled noble he is, and then turns around and expects Acinath to marry him? Of all the pigheaded—

Temilda, please! Haughten interrupted, cringing apologetically at Fabin.

The soldier shrugged and grimaced. I won’t speak ill of the noble family, but his being there tomorrow was why I wondered if the Morrens would come. We can only hope the young man has learned better. The housemen are beacons of principle—he couldn’t go to school amongst his peers and not reform.

Satisfied that there was nothing of worth left to hear, Dethar dropped a few coins on the table—payment for his dinner—and then headed to his room, already planning his vindictive scheme.

Chapter 4

Darker Revenge

The next morning, Dethar assumed a more pleasant attitude when he came down for breakfast. Temilda appeared skeptical, but Haughten, who had not been there to hear their first exchange, and Leanne, who was apparently still smitten with him, treated him well. When he asked, quite casually, what the news was in the town, Haughten freely explained to him everything concerning Alemira’s party. Dethar listened and then declared that he would attend.

Indeed, you should come! Haughten agreed. I’d be happy to introduce you to some people, if you’d like.

Perhaps, Dethar mused, but then added, though I’d rather not draw too much attention to myself. There is one family I’d be interested in, however.

Haughten raised an eyebrow. Which is that?

The Morrens.

Do you know them?

Dethar laughed deceitfully. Not personally, but I was acquainted with Arthen Brightscar, before he passed away. I couldn’t help but overhear your talk last evening.

Well, isn’t that something? Haughten cried. Here I thought you were a mysterious traveler, just passing through, and yet, you knew Arthen?

Not well. We were never extraordinarily close. Tell me; what is the name of his wife?

Elise. Elegant creature. Strong, too, for one so young. She hadn’t reached eighteen when her husband passed away. She’s a cousin of the rest of the girls.

I see. Dethar nodded thoughtfully. I have something of his, something I believe he’d want his family to have.

May I ask what it is?

I’m afraid not, though you may ask Elise when I’ve given it to her.

Of course, Haughten agreed.

The item that Dethar was speaking of was a ring. It had fallen off Brightscar’s hand during one of their skirmishes, and since it had no magic Dethar could detect, he esteemed it to be of no worth, though he’d kept it all the same. Knowing now that Arthen had been married, Dethar suspected it was a wedding band. If indeed that proved to be what it was, engaging Elise’s trust would be easy.

Leanne appeared, then, calling her father’s attention away with loud protests. We’re going to be late! We promised we’d be early, and we haven’t even hitched up the wagon!

Maybe you’d like to ride with us, Dethar? Haughten suggested. We have plenty of room in our wagon, and I’m sure Temilda wouldn’t mind.

Thank you, no, Dethar replied. I’d prefer to arrive on my own.

Secretive to the end! Haughten chuckled. Very well, Dethar. I’ll introduce you to the Morrens once we’re there.

He followed his daughter outside after that. The room was silent save for a slow, rhythmic drumming as Dethar tapped his fingers against the table. Things were coming together rather easily. If all went well, Arthen’s sons would be dead before the day was out.

---

Here she comes!

The crier’s announcement sent thrills through the crowd, which hurried to assemble itself along the path connecting Chesstel to the Green. Atia stood with her sisters, watching for the noble family.

Bridles jingling, horses’ hooves clopping, Sir Grimnor and Lady Alemira emerged from the forest trail. Their daughter, Loma, and their son, Mathias, rode behind with a small train of friends.

The crowd cheered as Sir Grimnor raised a hand in greeting. A footman helped Alemira dismount, and then Mathias was there, leading his frail, smiling mother up the platform steps. She waved a white hand. The villagers were still cheering. Settling into the high-backed seat beside her husband’s, she beamed, a willow-wand of lavender linen, blond hair done up in an intricate knot.

Good people of Chesstel, Sir Grimnor began, standing on the dais, such happy faces do the impossible. I complained to our lady just an hour ago that the morning chill was not lifting, yet I feel the heat of summer from your smiles.

The crowd applauded, and then Sir Grimnor signaled for silence and continued, I wish to thank you all for the work you’ve expended making this day as perfect as it is, and for your obedience and loyalty to your superiors, most of all the king.

There was another bout of clapping, and then Sir Grimnor concluded, Let us enjoy ourselves now and put the preparations to use! I extend the invitation for all to come and visit our lady and wish her what joy you can. Indeed, I hereby declare: let the celebration begin!

A final roar of applause accompanied the knighted houseman to his chair. The crowd broke as people fanned out to explore the booths and games. A line immediately formed at the steps of the dais. Hungry diners converged on the banquet laid out on the long, decorated tables heavy with provender from nearly every kitchen in the Basin.

Famished, Atia hastened to the tables, hoping to fill her stomach with some sort of food before she fainted. In morning’s rush, she had forgotten her breakfast.

Before she could eat anything, however, Mavaya was suddenly pulling her away.

Don’t eat yet! her younger sister exclaimed. We have to speak to Alemira, first!

Says who? Atia cried, looking over her shoulder in dismay at the increasingly distant edibles. And let go of me!

Safira says, Mavaya replied, ignoring Atia’s irritation, but releasing her arm all the same. It’s our duty, Atia, you know that.

Atia stopped abruptly. Wait a minute. We can’t go up there! I’m not going within ten feet of Mathias, much less shake his hand!

Safira says we go up, Mavaya replied. ‘As the daughters of Jairo Morren, we have a duty to honor the friendship between Sir Grimnor and our father.’

Atia raised an eyebrow. That’s what she said?

Mavaya nodded. That’s what she said.

Atia stared at her sister blankly. Their father, after whom Elise had named one of the twins, had been a close friend of Sir Grimnor, before he and their mother passed away. In honor of that bond, the sisters were always among the first to greet Lady Alemira on her birthday, which for the past few years they had done without fail. This year was different, however. Mathias had returned from school.

Let’s just get it over with, Mavaya suggested, starting to walk once more.

Sighing, Atia followed her. We’ll see what Acinath has to say about this.

Much to Atia’s surprise, Acinath had no objection. She and the others were near the front of the line by the time Atia and Mavaya reached them, and after a few minutes of waiting, Safira led them up.

Sir Grimnor came first and then Alemira. Everyone smiled and chatted as handshakes were exchanged and birthday wishes given. Atia watched closely as Acinath approached Mathias.

At first, neither showed any signs of discomfort. The former sweethearts were like a pair of bored strangers, nodding and smiling as they shook hands and exchanged short but polite pleasantries.

When Acinath turned to go,