Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
With seeming reluctance, the daggers vanish, Zorya’s one-eyed pout especially fervent. They already have only a quarter of their usual weapons on them, an attempt to blend in.
“Once we leave this courtyard, we will part ways. Abarrane and I will make for Rengard’s home. The rest of you will go with Romeria and Gesine.” He looks to the caster expectantly.
“Ianca is seeking shelter in the sanctum.”
“I should have suspected as much,” he mutters, more to himself. “It is on the east side of the main square. Guard your words, spread out, and do not reveal who you are to anyone.”
We edge out from behind the shrubs and step into a park. Thankfully, the benches are empty, the paths meandering through flower gardens free of people. On the far side, past a narrow street, sits a row of small shops with signs advertising everything from confections to leather goods to books. The last of them is closing, a hunched older man closing his door. If he noticed us emerging from behind the bushes, he isn’t paying us any heed.
“The market square is that way. We meet here when the hour passes eight,” Zander commands, pointing to the right.
That gives us nearly two hours to navigate this city unnoticed, find Ianca, and bring her back. My gut says it’s either far too much time or not nearly enough.
He turns to Jarek, Zorya, and Elisaf. “Protect them at all costs. Do I make myself clear?”
A chorus of somber ayes follows. There won’t be any Your Highnesses within these walls.
“What if we’re not back in time?” I ask.
“Be back in time.”
I roll my eyes. “What if you’re not back in time?” What if he’s chained up in a cell, or worse?
A myriad of emotions I can’t read flash across Zander’s face. “Rengard will either allow me to leave by then or not at all. If I’m not back, you go without me.” He and Abarrane take off to the left at a brisk pace.
As if I will leave without you, I want to scream.
A nearby fish-shaped fountain spurts water. On impulse, I focus my attention on the steady stream shooting into the air, willing its angle to shift seventy degrees. A spray of water catches Zander in the side of the face as he passes.
I bite my lip to stop laughing as he spins around, continuing his pace but moving backward. I’m sure there is a hint of a smile hidden behind that stern expression.
“Are you finished playing yet?” Elisaf asks mildly, and I realize the others have ventured out to the street.
“For now.”
“Is it always like this here?” People move in every direction, their arms laden with boxes of produce and meats or bundles of fabric.
“Not always, but today is market day.” Elisaf stays close, herding Gesine and me through the crowd, his hand hidden within his cloak, covertly on the pommel of his dagger.
Jarek and Zorya have spread out on either side, within quick reach but not noticeably associated with us. A good thing, given the latter seems to be garnering interest. I can’t tell if it’s her eye patch or her ferocious scowl that’s stirring wary gazes.
“It wasn’t this busy at the Cirilean market.” And that is supposed to be the biggest fair in all of Islor.
“Traders coming into port often visit Bellcross at this time of year to sell their wares. There are many villages in the surrounding lands, and people would prefer to come here than travel all the way to Cirilea. Also, as we get closer to the mountains, those living in the villages are preparing for the change of seasons so they may be stocked for the cold months. You will see, in the square.”
Elisaf’s claims are proven right a few minutes later when we enter a vast space lined by four-story buildings. In the center is a circular pool with a water fountain, and all around it, men and women stand on platforms affixed to their colorful wagons, hollering to announce their merchandise. The aroma of cured meats and baked bread wafts, and banjo chords play from somewhere unseen.
On this side, onlookers clap and laugh as two lithe men duel with wooden sticks, volleying exaggerated stabs.
“There are mimes here?”
“The painted faces? Yes, they are popular performers. More so in the east. It is said you can’t walk a block along Kettling’s streets without running into someone busking.”
The late-day sun gleams off their ear cuffs. “They’re mortals.”
“And their keeper is right there.” Elisaf looks pointedly at the distinguished man in the suit, strolling around the circle with his top hat to collect money in its crown.
“Will they see any of that?”
“Hopefully in the form of a warm bed and hearty meal.”
“We must keep going.” Gesine clutches her cloak close to her neck to cover the telling gold collar that will earn attention we don’t want. Still, several leering men—immortals, by their dress and confidence—ogle her. Two begin keeping pace behind us. They remind me of Korsakov’s men with their smarmy smiles. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume it was because she is strikingly beautiful.