Page 18 of This Midsummer Heart
A strange call erupts from the trees, like no bird I’ve ever heard. Every head turns towards the northern side of the road.
“The caravan must be nearing,” the northman mumbles, a foul grin creeping across his lips. “We’ll continue this conversation later—and get that chain mail off him. I suspect he’ll keep.”
I don’t take my attention off the redhead.
“Don’t they teach you anything in the Dark Kingdoms?” I scoff. “This silver doesn’t melt—“
The air leaves my lungs as I meet the ground, hauled backwards by the first man.
“Arrogant fop,” the man growls as he hovers over me, his knife at my throat beating the dagger I haven’t quite managed to draw. I’m not just weaker without magic, I’mslowertoo. “Don’t ever turn your back on Vargus the Pillager.”
“Charming nickname,” I grind out, baring my teeth. “Did your mother give it to you?”
“Shut it, elf man.”
The redhead seizes my frightened gelding by the reins, cooing softly. The traitor horse is already calming. The two other bandits, meanwhile, drop their bows and are now digging through my clothes for hidden bank notes, coins and probably a spare button, if they can find one. I wince as a dagger flashes in the light—mydagger. Hedril, the dagger of the dark elf kings—notDark Kingdoms bandits!
Vargus the Pillager will pay for that.
“Get that out of your filthy hands,” I roar, earning myself a nick from Vargus’s knife. “It doesn’t belong to you.”
No sooner do I say it than the Blade of Hedril begins to glow a dull purple, the magic wound into its scabbard faltering.No.Vargus can’t have it. That dagger is spelled with ancient magic to stay with me no matter what—I am its rightful owner. I am itsking. It should be burning the northman’s hand, and bringing forth a curse if that doesn’t get the message across.
Like every other bit of magic in this world, the purple of the spell softens until it’s barely visible, then winks out.
“Night-night, elf man,” says Vargus.
The last thing I see is his boot heading for my face.
Chapter ten
Bandits on the Road
Titaine
Mircoseisacharmingborder town, full of white plaster and timber homes with clay roof tiles, hinting at the prosperity even this trade road brings. I catch bits of several languages on the streets, and though this isn’t the most popular trade route, it was well-used enough to have visitors and residents from all over. Still, there isn’t much to see in a little resting spot for travelers like this, and the humidity is growing intolerable as the sun bakes the little town.
Now I am stuck here, waiting for Auberon. At this rate, we won’t make it to our next planned stop. Auberon insisted we split our stops evenly between settlements of elves and fae, so we’re meant to be with the dark elves of Trident Wood tonight, home to some of Auberon’s own kin. Not that I’m looking forward to it.
I make a point of never dealing with elves since the day I revoked the bond and treaty between Auberon and I—and especially to stay far from the dark elves who call him king.
I can wait no longer for Auberon, and settle on having a hot meal while I can. I end up with a hearty stew at one of the town’s homey little traveler’s kitchens, the points of my ears glamoured away and hidden beneath my hair, too, just to be safe. I won’t take any chances. Especially here, where travelers converge. The new age of Duskhold and the loss of magic is a common topic.
I return to the sheltered hitching post where I left Giselda, right next to the stables for guests staying longer than a couple hours. It’s a place to water the horses and have them curried and checked for any wear on the road, run by a multi-generational family of humans, and it offers a broad view of Mircose’s wide main street.
Still no Auberon.
Unease settles in properly as the street fills up with new arrivals. There are travelers coming into town from the same direction I did, complete with a cart. Even if Auberon’s horse came up lame, he could’ve ridden with them. He could havewalkedhere by now.
Either Auberon has abandoned me and gone around Mircose completely (the most likely explanation), or something awful has happened. With Auberon’s dusk blue skin and elven build, it isn’t as though he can pretend to be human. What if he’s run afoul of someone angry about losing their magic, or who meant to steal his natural elven magic for themselves? I’ve heard tales that the humans have such mages—tales that leave a fete chilled even on the hottest midsummer day.
I stroke the bristly hair of Giselda’s nose until her head bucks, the gray end of her muzzle almost clipping me. “Sorry, girl,” I murmur, soothing her. Aulden Steeds are perceptive, and extremely sensitive to human emotions; Giselda is particularly attuned to mine.
With a reluctant sigh, I take her reins and lead her away from the trough, offering the girl who curried Giselda a coin from my palm.
“Neat trick!” the girl exclaims, drawing the attention of her brother and younger sister. She gestures at them. “If I give you the coin back, will you do it again for them?”
I freeze. I wasn’t thinking abouthowI produced the coin. With my real coin purse hidden by magic, I used a little more magic to draw one out. It’s a habit—and now I’m in trouble because of it.
