The Wizard's Prophecy
Part One
by JB Starre
Copyright © 2012 JB Starre
Smashwords Edition
All Rights Reserved

Contents of this ebook were serialized online at The Wizard's Prophecy (http://www.thewizardsprophecy.com) starting in ________. There may be slight variations in the text from the serialized version and the ebook version.

No reproduction without permission.

This electronic version was prepared by the author using ____ and coding the HTML by hand before conversion to Smashwords format.

License Notes
Please do not support online piracy of copyrighted works. This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the purchaser only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, even if you received it as part of a free ebook promotion. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with or direct that person to a legitimate download site. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to one of the many other online retailers and purchase your own copy.


1

The candlelight glinted sharply off the blade of her knife as she set it on the table before her. "So," she said.
"So," he returned. His chair creaked as he shifted positions, resting his massive arms on the table before him.
"We have an agreement then?"
He nodded. "Two weeks. I'll have it for you then."
She traced the edge of the knife handle with her finger gently, languidly. "Two weeks?"
"If I said two weeks, I meant two weeks. Not a day longer. I'm a man of my word. And," he said, a hard glint coming into his eye, "I don't need weapons to prove it, either."
A corner of her mouth curled up. This one had spunk. Attitude. She liked him. But she said nothing. She was not allowed to like him.
He held her eyes for just a moment longer than he should have before looking away. Ordinarily, she would have been offended, but something about his look made her breath catch in her throat. Was he—? She scrutinized him. Dark hair. Dark eyes. But the prophecy had said the man would have bright eyes, didn't it? She would swear an oath that it did. She drummed her fingers on the table, uncertain.
He looked up at her, then glanced down at her knife. He looked up again. "Well? Was there something else you wanted?"
The candlelight flickered and, for a moment, reflected off of his eyes. She gasped. Could he know? Only three others knew about her part of the prophecy, and two of those were dead. Of course he couldn't know. But she did. Suddenly everything about him interested her: his hands, large and calloused; his broad chest; his stubbled chin. Could it be?
"Yes," she breathed. 


2

He looked back up, surprised. "Yes?" 
She hesitated a moment. "What is your name?"
"Greyson," he answered promptly. "Retnik Greyson." He looked at her with a degree of wonder. Under no circumstances could a commoner refuse to assist or answer a warrior of the Crown, but for a warrior to ask the full name of the commoner in anything but the most dire of circumstances—well, it was unheard of. Such a breach of conduct, she knew, would not go unnoticed. She would have to face the consequences later.
"And to whom do I speak?" he asked.
She didn't answer. It was his right, of course, to know her name in return, as per the rules of the Crown. But something about this Retnik Greyson made her pause for thought. He had spoken like a noble, and he was a bit too willing to meet her gaze. Yet the calluses on his hands, the muscles in his arms: these spoke of the true art of the smithy.
Her eyes flicked to the window of the small cottage. Already the darkness outside was beginning to lift. Details of the smithy's home began to come into focus: the fire pit in the corner, the skillet hanging on the wall. She must be gone before sunrise, riding hard back to the city. She knew what she had to do.
She stood, sheathing her knife. The candle's flame guttered out for a split second before surging back to life. "Ayalah Tarall. Two weeks," she reminded him.
She stepped to the door and was gone.


3

She rode hard through the woods, stopping to rest only when she noticed the flecks of foam flying from her horse's mouth. She sat under a tree near a stream, picking at the grass irritably as her horse wearily lapped up the water. She hadn't anticipated the need for a speedy return; this was supposed to be a routine visit, a mere errand to keep her busy and out of the king's way. She made him nervous, she knew. Too dangerous, too free spirited. A troublemaker. These things and more had been said about her. But nobody ever doubted her ability to bully the commoners into giving her what she wanted. Or, more precisely, what the king wanted.
She stood and paced across the tiny clearing. What was so urgent about this new staff the king wanted? He had been particular in the details, wary of giving her any more information than she absolutely needed: solid gold, with space for a ruby in the center of the handle. What, she wondered, could that signify?
But more interesting to her was this man, this smithy. Where was he from, and why did the king choose him for this commission? What did he know? Would he tell anyone about her breach of conduct? It wasn't the punishment that worried her, of course—twenty lashes was nothing to a warrior of the Crown—but rather the curiosity it would arouse. She kicked at a tuft of grass. Foolish. There was no excuse for it. She must be more careful in the future.
Her horse seemed to be breathing easy now. They must push onward. She must get to Gavin before the week's end.


4

Just before sundown on the second day, the iron gates of Miltinoth rose before her at last. Her horse whinnied at the familiar smells, and she patted its neck somberly. "Yes," she said, "we're home."
The gates opened for her with a screech as they approached. "Hail, Warrior Tarall," one of the guards called.
"Hail, Olikai," she returned with a smile. She and Olikai had trained together, and he had earned her respect—and then her friendship—by besting her at swordfighting. To this day, he was the only warrior she'd met who could accomplish such a feat.
She led her horse through the twists and turns of the city streets, ignoring the familiar sights and smells of beggars and manure, stepping over animal droppings and around tight corners. Commoners dropped their eyes to the ground, stepping aside quickly to let her by. Her horse obediently followed her through the narrow passageways until she stopped before an unmarked wooden door. She raised her fist and pounded, once, twice, then waited a beat, then pounded three more times quickly. There was a long pause, and then the door opened a crack. "Ayalah," a voice hissed. "What are you doing here?"
"Gavin, I need to speak with you," she whispered. "It's urgent."
He grumbled something, and a child slipped past the door and grabbed hold of her horse's lead. "One hour," she said, placing a copper coin into the child's outstretched hand. The door opened, and she stepped in. 
It took her a moment, as always, to adjust to the dim lighting in Gavin's home. She blinked a few times. "I'm sorry to surprise you like this," she said.
"I was with a customer," he said curtly. "You know I need the money."
This stung. Of course she knew. "I said I was sorry."
A woman in a rumpled dress came out of the adjoining room. "Well," she said, eyebrows raised. She held her head high, like nobility, and her hair was black and shiny, healthy. Could this be one of the queens, or was Gavin dallying with a lesser noblewoman? 
Gavin spread his hands wide in apology. "Please—"
"Not a word of it," the woman said. She looked Ayalah up and down, then brushed past her without another word, slamming the door behind herself.
Gavin sighed. "Come in, Ayalah." He led her through an arched doorway into a small eating area. Light from the waning sun flooded the room through one large window on the far side, highlighting the harsh lines on his face. "Now, what is so urgent?"
She took a deep breath. "I think I've found him. The one the prophecy spoke of." 


5

Gavin stared. "How? Where? Who is he?"
She explained about the smithy, about the candlelight, about his eyes. "But I'm not sure—I'm not sure how to be sure," she admitted.
He sat down heavily at the small wooden table in the corner, bare as always. "Ayalah..." He pursed his lips. "I think that only you can know. And if you think it may be this smithy—if you think you saw the eyes—then we must act immediately. Before someone else finds him."
She nodded. "I've already thought of a way." She bit at her thumb nail. "It's sloppy, but I can't think of a better plan. This, at least, won't rouse suspicion."
"You plan to arrest him." There was no question in Gavin's voice; he'd known Ayalah so long, he knew exactly how she thought.
She nodded. "You think it's a bad idea?"
He watched her biting her nails for a few moments before responding. "I think it's unfair to him."
She dropped her hand to her side in surprise. "What?"
"You might be better off being honest with him. Tell him the truth."
"Are you mad?"
"Not entirely." He grinned. "But you're hiding something from me."
She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. She said nothing.
"Ayalah."
"I asked for his name," she blurted out. "And I told him mine in return." She waited, but Gavin didn't speak. "I was just so curious. Something about him—I don't know."
Gavin was nodding. "Even more reason to be honest with him. He's the one."
"How could you possibly—?"
"You just told me. You're biting your nails, Ayalah. You haven't done that since you were a child. And you asked his name! What were you thinking?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. What will I tell him?"
He scratched at his beard. "I think I've got an idea."


6

She pounded on the door of the smithy's cottage and then waited, tapping her foot. Gavin's plan seemed like a sound one, but if she made a wrong move here, the whole thing would fall apart.
The door opened. "Hello," said Retnik Greyson. His eyebrows were raised, and his face was covered with patches of a black residue. Soot, maybe. "You're early."
She knew it. But she didn't plan to admit it. "Is it ready?"
He stared. "I—no, I've been working on it all week. It won't be ready for another couple of days. You said two weeks."
She nodded. "I did. And it has now been two weeks."
"What—?"
She pulled him out onto his doorstep. It was twilight; a few curious neighbors watched from their windows. The red stripes decorating her leathers marked her clearly as a warrior of the Crown. "Do you call me a liar, Smithy Greyson?"
He shook his head. "Of course not."
"If you don't have the king's order ready, I'll have to take you in for questioning."
He gaped at her, but there was nothing he could say. No one had seen her the last time she was here, in the middle of the night, so he could not appeal to his neighbors. It was her word against his, and unfortunately for him, her word carried much more weight.
"Perhaps," he said in a level voice, although she could see a muscle in his jaw twitching, "you would like to come around back and see how it looks so far?"
"I'm afraid we're in a rush," she said, shaking her head. "If you can finish it on the road as we go, I'll try to ensure that you get off with just a warning."
In fact, she intended to do quite the opposite.
"How kind of you," he said. There was an edge to his voice that made Ayalah remember his massive arms, their brute strength. He beckoned toward his door. "Would you care to come in while I get my things ready to go?"
She entered warily. He wouldn't dare hurt her here, before witnesses, but what would he do once the trees sheltered them? She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword and watched him gather his supplies.


7

They traveled in tense silence through the trees for a few hours, Ayalah on her horse and Greyson on foot. Finally, he spoke up. "Are prisoners allowed to sleep?"
A pang of guilt registered, but Ayalah knew they were still too close to his town for her to speak openly. "Yes, of course," she said. "Let's stop here for the night."
The spot was nothing special, but it seemed safe enough. She tied her horse to a tree and began to gather branches.
"Let me," said the smithy, taking the branches from her. She hadn't tied his hands together, against her better judgment: he'd needed them to carry his supplies, so she'd kept him on a rope, close enough so he couldn't run away, far enough so he couldn't cause any mischief without giving her enough time to draw her sword. Now he squatted down and began to build up a fire. She had brought two blankets in expectation, and he took the one proffered to him without a word. It was still spring, and the nights were warm, so he kept the blanket balled up, stretched onto his back, and tucked the bundle of fabric behind his head. "Don't you sleep?"
"No." She shrugged and sat by the fire. "I'll keep watch."
He raised an eyebrow but did not comment. Soon his mouth hung slack, faint snores blending with the chirps of the crickets around her.
Ayalah didn't take her hand from her sword pommel for many hours.

She woke him early and they continued onward, deeper into the trees as quickly as the smithy could go. He was plainly a tough man, accustomed to hard labor and lifting heavy objects, but not, it seemed, to wandering through the woods for over a day on foot. He began to wince when he walked, and then to limp, and finally Ayalah stopped altogether. It was dinnertime; the sun was beginning to set.
"What's the problem?"
"Nothing."
"Are you injured?"
He shook his head. "I'm fine. We can keep going."
She nodded. They were near the stream she had stopped at the week before. She led the way to it and dismounted. "Let me see your injury." 
"I'm not injured."
With one smooth movement, she drew her sword and leveled it at his throat. "Your injury," she repeated.
"Ah," he said, "so you've resorted to your weapons again." He didn't smile, but Ayalah couldn't help but think he was somehow mocking her. He set down his tools, sat on a fluffy patch of grass, and removed his shoes obediently. His feet were covered in blisters and blood.
She nodded, sheathing her sword. She'd experienced something similar during warrior training. "Cool your feet in the water," she instructed. She turned to root through her saddlebags. She must have some bandages and med—
She felt the cold of steel at her throat and froze.


8

"Step away from the horse," the smithy said. She obeyed, careful not to move too quickly and nick her throat on the blade he held to her neck.
"I was trying to help you," she said through gritted teeth.
"I want to know what's going on, and I want to know now," he said. He was speaking into her ear in a soft, deadly voice, and she shivered.
"I'll tell you," she said, "but you don't need to threaten me to hear it." Something about the way her words echoed his bothered her, but she pushed it from her mind.
He spun her around, his face inches from hers, blade still leveled against her throat. He searched her eyes for a moment.
"I was going to tell you anyway," she said. It was the truth. All at once, he nodded and stepped back, the tension broken. She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her instinct at seeing his guard lowered was to immediately counterattack; her fingers twitched in the direction of her sword, but she controlled herself.
He sat down next to the stream and eased his feet into the water, grimacing as the water lapped over his cuts. She forced her muscles to relax. He wasn't attacking her, merely defending himself: she knew this. She took a deep breath. "If I try to find some bandages for you now, are you going to assault me again?"
He grinned. "No."
She found the bandages and medicated cream and handed them over. "You should get better boots," she observed.
They looked at each other in silence for a few minutes. "Ayalah," he began.
"Warrior Tarall," she corrected him sternly. Just because he knew her name didn't mean he could use it freely. And besides, she was a warrior; he was only a commoner.
He nodded. "Warrior Tarall, then. You know as well as I that it hasn't yet been two weeks."
She was sure nobody was following them. There was no point delaying the inevitable any longer, she decided; may as well be as blunt as possible. "I plan to bring you to the king under false charges of refusing to serve him," she said. "And, what's more, to allege that you attacked me along the road and deserve to be sentenced to the dungeons."
"The—!"
She held up a hand for silence. "But I intend to secure an alternate punishment. That you travel with me and learn to carry out the king's punishments."
At this he made no sound. His mouth hung open; his hand hovered somewhere between an appeal and an accusation, palm up to the sky but finger pointing at her. "Why?" he finally asked.
"I believe you're in danger."
"You believe..."
"That you're in danger, yes." She squatted before him and whispered. "What is your part of the prophecy?"
"My what?"
"The prophecy," she hissed. This smithy certainly didn't seem to catch on quickly. "I think you're in danger because you have a piece of the prophecy."
"Me?" He stared at her. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fine." She stood up again. "Keep your secrets—for now. But if that part dies with you—well, I'll just have to make sure it doesn't."
"And what makes you qualified to protect me?"
She shrugged. "I have secrets of my own."


9

They took turns riding the horse each day, and each night Greyson built up the fire and worked on the king's staff while Ayalah hunted and cooked their dinner. On the third such night, she interrupted the smithy's work.
"We're only another day or two away from the city," she said. "You're going to have to hit me."
Greyson looked up sharply. "What?"
"It has to look realistic," she explained. "If they can't tell we got in a fight, it won't work."
He shook his head. "I'm not going to hit you."
"You have to."
"No, I don't."
"Then cut me with something."
"Don't be absurd."
She stood up, exasperated. "How do you not understand the necessity of this?"
He shook his head again. "I'm a peaceful man. I don't like to fight."
She shoved him but got no reaction. She shoved a bit harder, knocking him slightly off balance.
"You're going to ruin my work," he said.
She shoved him again.
"Would you—" he said, pushing back against her.
It worked a little better than she had intended. As she'd suspected, he didn't know his own strength, and he'd pushed back much too hard, catching her off balance and sending her stumbling. But she tripped over a tree root, fell against the tree itself, and landed ungracefully in a thorny bush. Ungraceful landings were never part of the plan.
"Ayalah," he said, rushing over to her. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
She ignored his proffered hand and got to her feet without help, albeit a little clumsily. "It's Warrior Tarall. And yes, I'm fine."
He pursed his lips.
"One more thing, though," she said, and slammed her right fist into his cheek.
He reeled back, one hand covering the left side of his face. "What was that for?" Now he was actually angry.
She hobbled to the fire, inspecting the scratches all over her hands and wincing at the stings of the cuts on her face. Luckily, her leathers had protected the rest of her body. "I told you," she said, "it has to look realistic."
He clamped his mouth shut and didn't speak to her the rest of the night.


10

The smithy put his anger to good use, and by the time they spotted the gates of Miltinoth the king's staff had been completed. Ayalah held it before her as they approached the gates.
"Hail, Warrior Tarall," came the intonation. She couldn't see the face of the warrior who greeted her.
"Hail, Warrior," she responded. "I come bearing the king's commission, as well as a prisoner."
"The prisoner's name?"
"Retnik Greyson." It was protocol to find out a prisoner's full name when bringing him in for questioning; her misstep was no longer a concern.
"Proceed." The gates opened before her.
The city of Miltinoth was laid out in such a way that the palace sat at the center of the city, with four cobblestone roads leading straight away from it in different compass directions to the four city gates. The rest of the city, made up of predominantly dirt roads and narrow homes, connected to these main roads arbitrarily, and it was along this main road, leading directly to the palace, that Ayalah led Greyson.
The usual band of raggedy beggars lined the street, some of them still sleeping, others hurling insults at Ayalah as she passed. When she was still a new recruit, she had argued back with them, insisting that it wasn't the king she supported by becoming a warrior, but rather the people of the city: she was there to protect them. But, they would counter, if she was there to protect them, why didn't she stop the king from tearing down their homes to put up these new roads? She'd tried a variety of answers—she didn't have the authority, the roads were a necessary inconvenience, they'd been completed before she finished training—but none of them satisfied the beggars, whose protestations, though frequently nothing more than slurs and ignorance, sometimes pierced a place in her thoughts and stuck there permanently. Eventually she'd learned to tune them out; it was with a degree of stoicism, therefore, that she moved past them now, ignoring their pleas and shouts.
Greyson was taken from her at the palace gates by the pair of towering warriors with clean-shaven heads the king kept around to frighten away commoners, and she was instructed to return for the trial the following day. She was used to such proceedings; she nodded, thanked the guards, and went off in search of a bath and a bed for the night.
She was received at the palace gates early the next day, ushered in to the trial chamber, and instructed to wait for the king. Greyson was already in the room. She stood calmly, staff in hand, waiting for the king to appear; Greyson, however, was still sulking over his puffy cheek. He paced the small room, back and forth, forth and back, until Ayalah felt almost dizzy from watching him. Finally, after close to two hours, a murmur of voices from beyond the door alerted them that the king was coming. Greyson stopped his pacing and prostrated himself on the floor, as required of a commoner. Ayalah stood behind him.
"All hail the mighty King Mathais," announced a servant in a booming voice. 
The king entered, looking bored. Two scribes scampered in after him, and the door closed with a click.
"Hum," the king said as he took his seat. "And what's all this about?"
"Your Majesty," said Ayalah, "I present to you the prisoner, Smithy Retnik Greyson, for your judgment and deliberation. As you know, Smithy Greyson was commissioned to make for you this staff that I hold here. However, the smithy refused to complete the staff in the time allotted for it, in direct violation of your policy—decree number fifty-two, I believe."
"Yes, yes," the king rolled his eyes. "I know my own laws. Continue, Warrior Tarall, but get to the point."
"Well, Majesty, as I said, the smithy refused to comply with the allotted deadline, and so I have brought him to you for judgment. He did, however, complete the staff along the road, for fear of harsher punishment."
The king beckoned her forward, and she placed the golden staff in his outstretched hands and bowed. "Hum hum," the king mused. "The smithy does good work, I see. The staff is exactly what I asked for." He admired it for a moment longer before looking up. "And what happened to your face, Warrior Tarall?"
"The smithy attacked me on the road," she said. She raised her face but kept her eyes on the ground, letting the king see the extent of the damage.
"Thank you, Warrior Tarall," the king said. It was a dismissal, and she retreated to the back of the small room. Was that a smirk she caught on his face?
"Rise, smithy," he said. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
Greyson rose and bowed. "I do not agree with the charges, Your Majesty. I was given two weeks to make the staff, and Warrior Tarall returned before the two weeks had passed. Had I been given the correct amount of—"
"Do you call one of my warriors a liar, smithy?" the king interrupted.
"I—well, that is—no, of course not, Majesty."
The king laced his fingers together. "I see."
"But, Majesty, I believe Warrior Tarall was mistaken—it must have been an accident. If I—"
The king held up a hand for silence. "I've heard all I need to. You disobeyed a direct order to finish a royal commission in time. Is that correct, Warrior Tarall?"
The king may not have liked her, but Ayalah knew he had to take the side of one of his warriors, especially in front of witnesses. If his other warriors found out that their king didn't completely protect their interests, they would never pledge their allegiance to him. Her word here, therefore, was truth. "Yes, Majesty."
"But, Majesty—" Greyson began.
"And you attacked a warrior of the Crown. Is that correct, Warrior Tarall?"
"Yes, Majesty."
"Now, just a moment, Your Majesty—"
"Silence, smithy!" the king snapped. "Speak only when spoken to."
Greyson was silent.
"Better. These are serious accusations, Warrior Tarall."
"Yes, Your Majesty. This prisoner should be spared no punishment—he has purposely and willfully disobeyed you."
The king nodded thoughtfully. "And yet, he did complete the staff along the way."
"Yes, Majesty," Ayalah conceded, with an edge—she hoped—of reluctance in her voice.
"Hum," mused the king aloud. "Well, we must pardon him the death sentence for finishing the staff—and it seems there would be no point in sentencing the smithy to the labor yards, for such a pair of strong arms would not be sorely taxed in such places."
"Majesty," Ayalah said, "surely the brute will be punished for attacking me?"
"Of course, Warrior Tarall. What would you suggest?"
"The dungeons, Majesty. A few months in the dark should sort out the smithy's priorities. Perhaps," she sniffed, "it will also turn him into a more tolerable traveling companion. I, in the meantime, will continue to serve the Crown."
The king looked at Greyson for a long moment. "Does your face hurt, smithy?" he inquired. It was obvious he was aiming for a sympathetic note to his voice, but all Ayalah could detect was scorn and boredom.
"It is bearable, Your Majesty."
"I have an idea," said the king. He twisted his moustache with a forefinger. "The smithy shall indeed be punished to the utmost of our ability. And it seems to me that far worse than the dungeons would be the wrath of your own hand, Warrior Tarall."
"Majesty?"
"It's settled, then." He cleared his throat and turned to his scribes. "Let it be known that the smithy Retnik Greyson will be punished by being placed in the service of Warrior Tarall for the next month. He will help her carry out my wishes and learn to respect and worship his king, the mighty King Mathais."
Ayalah gaped at him. "Your Majesty, you cannot really think—but he has already attacked me once—what if he should do so again? And suffering his presence was intolerable, truly, Majesty." The more she argued, she knew, the more the king would like this plan, especially the thought of the smithy attacking her again.
The king shrugged. "If the smithy does not obey your every wish, you are free to punish him however you see fit, so long as his arms and eyes are intact so he may continue his work as a smithy when the month is up. I intend to commission another item from him in the future." He paused. "In the meantime, your next assignment is to retrieve, by force if necessary, a large, valuable stone from a so-called wizard living in the woods to the north. I trust this assignment won't be too difficult for you?"
"Well, no, but Majesty, I really must insist that you rethink this punishment. The smithy will be a burden on me, and his—"
The king held up his hand for silence again. "I think the punishment a perfect one," he said softly, smirking. "You leave immediately."
With that, he rose from his chair and swept from the room, the scribes hurrying after him at his heels.
They were alone in the room for a moment. Greyson turned and regarded Ayalah in silence.


11

"Well, that was artfully done," Greyson commented as they made their way up the cobblestone road to the northern gate of the city.
Ayalah said nothing.
"And how do you plan to punish me if I disobey? Apparently my legs are fair game," Greyson continued bitterly. "Or my mouth, I suppose. Perhaps my back appeals to you. Really, any part of—"
"Keep quiet until we're out of the city," she snapped. His part of the prophecy had better be worth this hassle, she thought. He was turning out to be a bit of a whiner.
They reached the gate, saluted the guards, and continued along the road from the city until the cobblestones gave way to dirt and the path veered to the left, toward Bolladoth. Ayalah had never been to the woods north of the city before—she knew there was no road leading to them, but she didn't know how far off the road it would be or how long it would take to get there. The few warriors she knew who had ventured in had never come back; she gritted her teeth. "We continue this way," she said, pointing away from the path to the left and into the field of tall grass beside it, to the right. At least the sky was clear, a blank blue uninterrupted by clouds in pleasant contrast to the yellow grass stretching out before them.
Greyson sighed. The grass reached as high as his chest. "And I suppose I'm walking the whole way?"
She nodded. She wasn't thrilled with this assignment, either. "Oh, that reminds me." She pulled a new pair of hardy boots from one of her saddlebags. "These should be more comfortable."
He accepted them with a raised eyebrow. "Thank you."
"Don't look so surprised, smithy," she said. "Even a warrior is capable of kindness." Anyway, she didn't add, blisters and sore feet would only slow them down.
He didn't reply, but sat on the road and pulled on his new boots.
"Do they fit?" She'd purchased them the day before, guessing that his feet were as large as his arm muscles.
He nodded.
Perfect. "Then on we go."

It took eight days to reach the edge of the tall grass, where the trees began, and by then Greyson was surly and Ayalah was losing patience with him. He insisted he didn't know any part of the prophecy, and by the end of over a week's arguing she was beginning to believe him. If she was wrong about him... but she couldn't be. Not if she was interpreting her part of the prophecy correctly.

To you, the first, I give this verse; the clues will be within
The couplets that I have dispersed—and you'll know when to begin.

When the cov'nant fails and the mood turns sour, when the frost begins to tire,
Seek thee out a man of worth with eyes as bright as fire.

A seed you'll find within his mind that I have planted deep,
For plant I do, within you, too, a knowledge you must keep.

Do not forget, do not neglect, the task that lies before you,
Trust yourself, do not regret; guard the proph'cy in all you do.

Such were the words Ayalah had known her entire life, passed down to her from her parents, and passed down to one of them, she supposed, from their parents. It was said that a great wizard of ancient times, thousands of years ago, split the prophecy into five parts, and those parts, somehow, had been passed down through the ages. When her parents had died and Gavin took her in, Ayalah had chanted the lines to her guardian as something of a bedtime song, not quite understanding the gravity of the rhyming lines, although her parents had impressed upon her the importance of remembering them. It was the only real legacy of her parents she could remember. Gavin had helped her learn to keep her secrets close, to keep friends at a distance, and to never, ever discuss the prophecy with another living soul. Until now.
When the cov'nant fails and the mood turns sour—these lines, Gavin had guessed, referred to the pact between Miltinoth and Olekoth, in which the king of Olekoth would send one of his sisters to be wed to the king of Miltinoth at each new crowning. Until the current king, King Mathais, this tradition had been honored and upheld by all who ruled before him. But Mathais and Tazarah, the current High Princess of Olekoth, had been unable to conceive, and Mathais had taken a second wife in effort to produce an heir. And then a third. Relations between Miltinoth and Olekoth had grown steadily worse once King Tazer had learned of the disgrace his sister was living in; and it was at this time, around Ayalah's fifteenth year, that she had begun her search for the man with the bright eyes.
After all these years, Retnik Greyson was the first she'd found with eyes that matched the description. But could she have been mistaken? Should she keep looking?


12

She tied her horse to a tree at the edge of the woods. "It'll probably be faster to go on foot," she said when she caught Greyson's disapproving look. "The trees look dense here—the horse would just slow us down."
Greyson nodded. "Agreed. But you're just going to tie her up here?"
Ayalah frowned. The smithy had a point, though she hated to admit it. It had been so long since she'd needed to travel on foot, she hadn't thought twice about the horse's wellbeing. He didn't need to explain what he meant: they could be gone days or weeks, and her horse would need to be able to move freely to escape if any predators came along. She knew he was right. "But then when we're on our way back, we won't have a horse to ride," she lamented.
Greyson stared at her, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, in silence.
"Oh, fine, untie the beast, then!" She rolled her eyes. This smithy was unlike anyone she had ever known: refusing to fight, looking his superiors in the eye, being excessively concerned about animals. He was going to get himself beaten or killed one day.
Greyson obeyed, muttering something under his breath—she caught the words beast and inconsiderate and felt her cheeks redden. She said nothing, however, and pretended not to have heard.
"Okay," he announced. "Ready." He gave the horse a friendly pat and hoisted the saddlebags onto his massive shoulders.
Ayalah was impressed; she would have offered to carry some of the baggage, but the smithy didn't seem to need any help. She turned and led the way into the trees, sword out just in case.
Summer was in full bloom this far north, and the forest was buzzing with the activity of the bees, the birds, and the smaller creatures, unused as they were to human predators in their forest. The animals grew less and less cautious as Ayalah and Greyson moved farther into the darkness of the deep forest, and a few squirrels and hares came right up to them to investigate before moving on. Ayalah grew irritated with their furry companions, but Greyson seemed charmed and amused. 
The leaves on the trees were dark and thick, blotting out much of the sunlight and keeping the heat in. As they moved north, Ayalah found herself being forced to shed layers, even going so far, at the end of the fourth day in the forest, as to strip off her leather warrior's jacket and continue in only her undershirt. It was immodest, but the leather trapped too much heat otherwise—and besides, she'd never been one to care for social niceties. Indeed, by the end of the second week in the forest, Greyson, too, had stripped down to his undershirt.
They moved through the forest without any idea of where they were going or which way they needed to go. Ayalah tracked their progress with marks on the trees and cleverly placed bright fabric ties, and they moved without speaking much, listening to the creaks of the trees and the calls of the birds high above them. Every so often they came to a stream and were able to refill their canteens and bathe. The water was warm and didn't provide much relief from the heat, but at least it washed off some layers of old sweat. A handful of times it rained, but the warm droplets had a hard enough time getting through the leaves, and frequently didn't make it to Ayalah's outstretched arms or Greyson's upturned face. The going was hard; Ayalah was glad for all the water rations she'd taken before they left Miltinoth. Where in all this overgrown forest were they supposed to find this man with a stone, anyway? So far they'd seen no evidence of any human life in this wood. Her patience began to grow thin.
During their third week wandering through the trees, Greyson called a halt: he was too hot, and the saddlebags had begun to chafe. Ayalah was grateful for the excuse to rest; she, too, had sweat dripping down her face, and she felt as if she might collapse at any moment. She helped him remove all the packs from his back, and the two of them sat in weary silence under a tree that looked strangely familiar, though she couldn't see any of her marks or ribbons nearby.
"Greyson," Ayalah said slowly, half asleep, "are we missing a bag?"
He looked at her and shook his head. "What makes you say that?"
She yawned. "I don't know. Something seems wrong..." She leaned her head back against the tree and allowed herself to drift off for a moment. Suddenly, she snapped up, wide awake. "The water bag! Where's the water?"
Greyson pointed to one of the bags lazily, without reacting to her panic. "Right there."
She hefted the bag and gasped as the understanding dawned on her. "Greyson—Greyson, we're out of water. Why didn't you tell me we were running low?" Suddenly she realized how thirsty she was, and the heat seemed to crowd in on her.
"We're out of water?" He gaped at her. "But you were the last one to refill our canteens."
"No I wasn't. If I had been, I would have noticed."
"So would I. You were the last one to fill them, I'm telling you."
"I was not! And even if I was, you've been carrying the blasted thing—you should have said something about it being so light."
"Ayalah, do you really think I would notice such a small thing when my shoulders are hurting and it's all I can do to keep moving?"
"It's Warrior Tarall, for the last time," she said through gritted teeth. "And yes, you should have."
"Well, maybe you should have kept a closer eye on things, too."
"You useless, annoying, disrespectful smithy! If I hadn't been forced to drag you along with me—"
"You what? Would've had to carry your own bags?"
They were sneering at each other now, and although Ayalah knew it was ridiculous and childish, she couldn't stop herself. It felt so good to unleash her frustration on someone. "You're supposed to be here to help me, aren't you? Well, go make yourself useful. Find us some water. I'll wait here with the rest of the bags."
He glared at her. "Are you joking?"
"No." She raised her eyebrows. "Hop to it, smithy. Before the sun goes down and we lose the little light we have."
With his typical infuriating disregard for proper manners, he maintained eye contact with her as he rose. "Fine, Warrior." He said the title as if it were a curse. "I'll fetch you some water."
He snatched the bag from her hands and stomped off into the trees.


13

Her initial exultation at having won the admittedly petty argument waned quickly, and she was left feeling sheepish, alone with the bags. She dozed against the tree on and off, waking periodically to check that the bags were still there, until the sun began to set, taking away the little light that peeked through the leaves. Then, finally, she tried to shake off the languor caused by the heat and rouse herself. How long had Greyson been gone? An hour? A few hours? Longer? She'd lost track of time. And she was so, so thirsty.
He wouldn't have tried to run off—she knew that much. He was too honest, too honorable. But could he have run into trouble? Curse that peaceful smithy and his unwillingness to use weapons!
She decided she'd better go look for him. She heaved the remaining saddlebags onto her shoulders—the weight wasn't unbearable, now that their water supply was depleted—and headed off in the direction he'd gone. He had left a path that was easy to follow, what with the trampled grass and the broken branches, but once the sun had fully set she knew she'd be in trouble.
Her embarrassment at how she'd acted now turned into regret. In forcing him to go out on his own, had she led him into trouble? She should have been there to protect him, regardless of how much he irritated her or whether or not he knew a piece of the prophecy. That was her duty as warrior, after all, wasn't it?
Once she'd determined that he was too honorable to stab her in the back, she had offered him a knife, an axe, at least a heavy walking stick as a weapon to protect himself in the forest. He'd staunchly refused, no matter the weapon. At the time, she hadn't pushed him—so long as she was with him, he was safe. But why must he insist on not carrying a weapon, even when wandering off on his own? He was a fool. And a liability.
She sighed as she made her way through the trees in the dim light. Why was this forest so cursed hot? Where was this man with the stone? What was so valuable about the stone, anyway? And where had all the animals gone?
She stopped abruptly. Where had all the animals gone? The trees were eerily quiet; she could hear nothing but her own breathing.
She slid her sword from its sheath as quietly as she could and grabbed her knife with her other hand. Then she lowered the bags to the ground.
The split second of warning she got from a twig snapping to her left was all she needed. She tucked and rolled, narrowly evading the gigantic, roaring form that hurtled toward her. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before: the entire body was covered in dark fur, like an animal, but something about it reminded her of a man's body. She slashed at its side, and it roared mightily as its blood began to flow. Was that a bear snout? There was no time to figure out what she was fighting—it was too quick; she'd have to kill it first and analyze later.
The creature lunged toward her, and she ducked out of the way once more, aiming her knife at its chest. She threw it as hard as she could, and it lodged in the creature's chest with a satisfying thunk—but the creature continued on, apparently not bothered by the blade digging into the place where its heart should be. She hesitated for just a moment. How could she kill this thing?
A heavy paw caught the side of her head and sent her reeling. Then the creature was on top of her, and her sword was knocked out of her hand. The creature appeared to have fingers, which it was clumsily attempting to use to strangle her. She struggled for a moment against its big, furry arms, but her strength was no match for it. 
She searched desperately for a way out: the knife in its chest! She reached up, grabbed hold of the knife—she was struggling to breathe now, gasping for air—and ripped the knife up as hard as she could, through layers of skin, fur, and nerves.
She couldn't see. Blood filled her vision and her open mouth, and she jerked back instinctively, repulsed. The creature had fallen off of her—she could hear its gurgling breath nearby. She wiped the blood from her eyes, gasped for breath—and vomited. The stink of the blood was all over her, and she could feel it dripping down her torso, her face, her arms. The blood smelled unnatural: acidic and sour. Her throat, already dry and swollen from the heat and too little water, was in agony as she hunched over, vomiting up her insides. The more she thought about the smell, the more she gagged.
She had to regain control of herself. The creature was injured, but it wasn't dead. She had to finish this.
She wiped her mouth and stood up, ignoring the black spots that clouded the edges of her vision. The creature—whatever it was—was lying on the ground, its insides hanging out. It was still alive, though; never before had Ayalah seen a creature so determined to live. The thing couldn't roar anymore, but a kind of hiss escaped from its mouth. Now that she could see it fully, a chill ran down her back. This thing was a monstrosity—some kind of unnatural hybrid not even heard of in the tales parents told their children to scare them into obedience. For the most part it looked like a giant brown bear, but its arms and legs were shaped like a human's, and it clearly had fingers underneath all the fur. What made Ayalah flinch back, though, were its eyes, so humanlike in the way they glared at her with unholy hatred.
She staggered to her sword, picked it up, and sliced off the creature's head.


14

After another round of vomiting had concluded, Ayalah calmed her breathing and reassessed her situation. She still needed to find Greyson, she was drenched in sweat (her own) and blood (mostly the creature's, she believed), and her throat felt like someone had dragged a branch of brambles up and down the inside of it. She let her shoulders slump forward, but only for a moment. She could do this. She would not—could not—let this forest defeat her.
She took a deep breath, used some leaves to wipe off as much of the blood as possible, and lifted the bags once more. It was now fully dark out, so dark she couldn't even see the trees directly before her; she grabbed a torch from one of the bags, fished her tinder out of her pocket, and headed into the trees with nothing but the torch's feeble light to guide her.
As it turned out, it was still relatively easy to follow Greyson's path through the forest. By the looks of it, he'd gone crashing through the trees, not caring who or what might be able to follow him later. Anger was a very dangerous weakness, she knew. Worse, she might not be the only one following his trail. After an hour or so, he'd begun to tread more carefully, but his version of careful was still no match for Ayalah's tracking skills.
After another hour of following his trail, she began to truly struggle. The bags weighed down on her shoulders, feeling heavier with each passing step; her breath came in ragged gasps through her parched and scratched throat; and the black spots had returned, threatening to overtake her vision. She paused for a moment to rest. Maybe if she just let her eyes close for a mo—
Her head snapped up. Something—it sounded like another of the man-bear creatures—roared in the distance. Had one of them found Greyson? She broke into a run, headed in the direction of the roar.
The trees blurred as she ran through them, dodging and jumping over and around branches and tree roots that got in her way. There was a light ahead. She slowed down a few hundred yards away. It was probably a fire Greyson had made, but there was still a chance she might discover the man they had set out to find. She dropped the bags, let her breathing slow, and continued on to the fire unencumbered, silent as a ghost.
She didn't hear any more roaring, but she heard a good deal of growling and grunting as she approached the fire. She peered through the branches, not knowing what to expect. A den of the creatures, perhaps, judging by the noise?
Her eyes easily found the fire, blazing merrily in the night. Beside it were two hunched figures. One was the man-bear she had heard; it appeared to be struggling to get free of a trap. The other was—she blinked. Greyson! He was sitting in front of the creature, apparently deep in thought. He did not appear to be injured, although it was hard to tell in the flickering light of the fire. Had he made the trap himself, she wondered idly, or had he gotten lucky?
She approached quietly, from upwind, not wanting to alert the man-bear of her presence. She stepped out in four great strides, drew her sword, chopped off the creature's head, and jumped back to avoid the spurts of blood. It was a clean kill; she nodded in satisfaction.
Greyson had jumped back with an oath at the sight of her. "What—?" He took in her blood-stained clothes, searching her face for a long moment. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
She still hadn't put down her sword. The adrenaline that had been pumping through her since she heard the roar was wearing off, and her vision had become spotty again. She tried to nod, to tell Greyson she was fine. But instead she felt her sword slide from her grip, and dimly, from afar, she realized she was falling.


15

Her head was pounding so hard, she thought it might explode. In fact, she thought groggily, that might even be preferable to the sharp pain resonating through it at the moment.
She opened her eyes. Some light filtered through the leaves, but not much. It was probably daytime, maybe heading toward evening. Greyson sat nearby, dozing against a tree.
Good, Ayalah thought wearily. Maybe she could convince him to carry out a pity killing. A blade through her temple couldn't hurt much more than it already did.
She tried to sit up, but the attempt left her gasping for breath. Pain shot down her head and neck, and she felt as if she'd been spun around and around: the trees whirled before her.
"Ayalah? Are you awake?"
She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, ignoring his typical breach of conduct for the moment. For some reason, she felt even dizzier with her eyes closed. She opened them again. Greyson was at her side, watching her. She opened her mouth to talk, but he held up a hand.
"I found the bags where you left them. Are you thirsty? Do you think you can sit up?"
She nodded: she was thirsty. She doubted whether sitting up was a good idea, though.
He lifted her torso—gently, so gently—and leaned her against something soft. It must have been the bag with their clothes in it; she was grateful for the cushioning. She waited for the worst of the dizziness to subside before opening her mouth and accepting a drink of murky-tasting water from a canteen.
"So you found water?" Her voice, when it came out, sounded scratchy and hoarse.
"Just a trickle of it. We'll have to keep looking." He paused. "Ayalah, what was that beast? I've never even heard of such a creature."
"Neither have I," she said. Her throat was still so dry, so painfully scratched; each word she managed to get out was an effort. "Maybe it only exists in this forest."
"Maybe," said a deep voice from the trees, "you just need to travel some more."
Greyson was on his feet instantly, brandishing Ayalah's sword. "Who's there?" he bellowed.
Ayalah had jerked upright at the voice, which proved to be a mistake. Her head reeled, and she slumped back down. She was in no state fit for fighting; this stranger had caught them completely off guard and unprotected. The one ray of hope was Greyson. She hadn't thought he even knew how to wield a sword, but he seemed to be handling it well as he turned about in the clearing, trying to spot the newcomer.
"Put the blade down, young man," said the deep voice. "I am here to offer help."
Out from the trees stepped an old man. He was short and thin, with knobby elbows and a sharp, pointed chin underneath a short gray beard. He stooped slightly, shoulders bent, and there was a slight tremor in his hands that bespoke a great old age.
"Forgive me, aged one," Greyson said, lowering the sword. But he sounded unsure.
"You have questions," the old man said, nodding. "Answers will come in time. First, let us tend to our injured warrior." He smiled kindly at Ayalah. "How about some water, dear? Young man, fetch that water bag over there."
Greyson nodded. "Of course, aged one. But I'm sorry to say that there is no wa—" He stopped as he began to lift the bag. "Why—it's full!"
The old man cracked a tiny smile. "Is it?"
Greyson stared at him in wonder as he dribbled some of the water into Ayalah's mouth. The water was cold and refreshing; Ayalah could feel the cool spread across her chest and over her limbs as she gulped it down.
She swallowed a final mouthful gratefully and regarded the old man for a moment. The water didn't seem to be poisoned, and it appeared to be given freely, with no payment expected, judging by the old man's serene smile. But how could he afford such a gift? His clothes were plain and nondescript; he did not appear to be wealthy. "Thank you," she said finally, and then gasped. Her voice sounded normal again; her throat no longer hurt her in the least. "Who are you?" she asked incredulously.
The old man bowed. "I am the wizard Swynn." He turned to Greyson. "Drink, lad, drink."
She ignored Greyson's great gulps as he greedily drank from the bulging water bag. "The wizard—!"
He nodded. "Yes, I know you have been looking for me."
She gaped at him. A real wizard? But they had all died out centuries ago.
The corners of his mouth twitched up just a tiny bit. "I see you are skeptical."
"Forgive me," she said. "It's just that wizards are the stuff of children's tales and fireside stories."
Swynn nodded. "Well, it is true that I have become a bit of a recluse in my old age. I have had no real desire to see the rest of the world lately." He chuckled to himself. "Hmm, yes, well. Come come, sit up now. Let us have a bit of a chat, shall we?" He sat on a chair by the fire and beckoned to Ayalah and Greyson to join him.
Ayalah started in surprise. Those chairs hadn't been there a moment before! She tried to push herself up a bit more to a proper sitting position, a little at a time—but she soon realized that she didn't need to be so cautious. Her head felt fine now. She wasn't dizzy at all.
She got to her feet and sat at the fire with the two men. It had grown dark quickly, and their party seemed a pleasant and inviting one. Somehow, the heat of the day seemed to have dissipated, and the air was cool and crisp.
"Care for something to eat?" Swynn asked. He handed them each a platter of hot, steaming meat and potatoes. "Whipped that up myself a few minutes ago. Well, stop staring at me, eat up! It is quite good, I assure you."
Ayalah and Greyson exchanged a look and hesitated, but the smell was so enticing—and, after all, if he'd wanted to poison them, Ayalah reasoned, he would have done so already with the water.
Swynn waited until they were chewing happily before speaking. "Well, go on, now. Ask away."
"Where have you been hiding?" Ayalah burst out. "Why couldn't we find you? How did you find us? Have you been following us?"
The old wizard seemed to be perpetually amused, and now was no exception. "Well, I could not very well let you find me before I had determined whether or not Akanra had gotten to you first, now could I?"
"Who?"
"And yes, I have been following you. In a manner of speaking. As soon as you set foot in this wood, I was tracking your every movement. Keeping note, you see, in case you did, in fact, work for Akanra."
"But who is Akanra?"
"My turn, dear," he chided, reminding Ayalah of a parent scolding a small child. "Best not to be rude. What do you seek in this forest?"
She swallowed. "I am a warrior of—"
He nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes, I know who you are. But what do you seek, I asked? Do not answer a different question from the one I asked."
She stared at him for a moment. "We seek a stone."
At this, Swynn giggled. "A stone? Well, go on! There are three hundred and seventy-three stones in this very clearing. You may take whichever you deem most worthy." He broke into peals of loud laughter, slapping his thigh and throwing his head back.
"Aged one," Greyson chimed in, "I believe we seek a specific stone. A large one, worth a considerable amount."
Swynn's laughter subsided. "Yes, yes, I know. I was only teasing." He wiped tears of merriment from his eyes and grew serious. "Listen to me, children. In the first place, you are meddling in things that ought not be meddled with by anyone who does not know the meaning behind them. This is serious, now. Do you understand what I am telling you?"
Ayalah and Greyson exchanged a look and then shook their heads. Ayalah's patience was running thin; she had never been particularly gifted at solving riddles, and the old man had a strange way of speaking—something she couldn't put her finger on—that rubbed her the wrong way.
"This stone," Swynn continued on, unperturbed, "contains power beyond what you have ever conceived existed. You were sent here by your king, and that is well and good—but whose order is he taking?"
Ayalah stared at him, uncertain. "I don't believe you've met our king. He would never take orders from anyone. He has too much pride to do that."
Swynn eyed her shrewdly. "Indeed. And in the second place, just how presumptuous is this king of yours to think he can send a lackey in his place to come to my home and demand I hand over one of my own possessions?"
A lackey! She opened her mouth to protest.
"Hypothetical, dear," Swynn said. "And in the third place, it was not I who set those abominations on you last night. Think about that for a moment, if you will." He raised his eyebrows as if to punctuate his remark.
"Abominations? You mean those creatures?" Greyson asked eagerly.
The wizard nodded.
"But what are they?" Greyson asked.
Swynn shook his head. "My turn, young man. What are you?"
Greyson looked at Ayalah; she shrugged. "I am a smithy," Greyson answered.
"Ah," Swynn said, nodding but looking disappointed. "Indeed. Well, to answer your question, smithy, those revolting examples of what wizardkind can create are a recent invention, I believe. You see, the dark wizard Akanra has taken his servants and fused them with various animals to create hybrid beings—it is his idea of improving the human race, you see." He spat into the fire. "Disgusting."
Ayalah waited, unsure if it was her turn or the wizard's turn to ask a question. She and Greyson had finished eating now, and she felt pleasantly warm and satisfied.
Swynn looked up at the treetops. "Is it tomorrow already? Today always ends too soon." He stood up. "Well, I had best be going. You will find your way out of the trees if you head that way in a straight line." He pointed to a path in the trees that hadn't been there a moment before. "Ah, you may need this." He handed Ayalah a cloth bag that was knotted at the opening. "Give it to your king. Tell him you got lost in the enchanted forest, and you were never able to find me. He will believe you.
"Well, goodbye, goodbye. A pleasure chatting with you." He inclined his head to them and was off, moving through the trees slowly before disappearing from sight.


16

Ayalah stared after the old wizard in disbelief for some time after he'd left. The sun was indeed beginning to rise, and their fireside chat already felt like a strange dream.
"What's in the bag?" Greyson asked, snapping her back to the present.
She untied the knot and peered in the cloth bag the wizard had given her—but then immediately pulled back and resealed the bag, clamping her mouth shut and breathing slowly through her nose to keep from vomiting. "It's... a head."
"A head?"
"The head of a warrior of the Crown who went missing some months ago." She swallowed. Ordinarily a sight like this wouldn't bother her, but... "It—it's a bit mangled."
Greyson raised his eyebrows. "Why don't we leave that bag closed until we get to the palace?"
She nodded and rose. "Good idea."

It took them only a few days to reach the edge of the forest where they'd entered—Ayalah wondered if, in fact, the trees really had been moving that whole time—and, as she had expected, her horse was nowhere to be seen. She sighed. She was now properly attired once more in her warrior leathers (cleaned of all bloodstains), and the thought of wading through the tall grass in the heat of the sun, with no trees for shade, was not an appealing one. The only alternative would be to walk to the main road and then hitch a ride on a wagon, but the northern road was used so infrequently these days—merchants from Bolladoth came only once per week, typically—there was no guarantee they'd see even a single rider. 
She sighed again and set out into the field of tall grass. It would be the shortest route, and hopefully a quick one. She contented herself with the thought that, if nothing else, she would soon be rid of the smithy. He had proven himself to be an unnecessary burden, constantly arguing with her and not even holding a piece of the prophecy. She was more than ready to move on to try to find the real man her piece of the prophecy had spoken about.
Greyson, for his part, followed behind her merrily enough, not seeming to mind the tall grass now that they were both on equal footing. He began to whistle.
Ayalah tried to be patient—she really did. But already she was feeling irritable: the sun, the grass, the need to walk because her horse had run off. She wheeled on him.
"Stop it."
"The whistling?"
"Yes. The whistling."
He rolled his eyes but obeyed. She nodded and began walking again.
"You know," he said, "you are the most negative, angry—" 
She spun around again to face him. "Enough. I don't care if you like me. I was trying to help you because I thought you had a part of the prophecy, but apparently you don't. My mistake: I uprooted you for nothing, and I wasted my own time and effort. Let's just deal with each other—in silence—for another few days, and then we'll get back to Miltinoth and never have to see each other again. Okay?"
She turned without waiting for a response and walked quickly, not slowing down until his silhouette was barely visible through the tall grass.

It took almost a week of complete silence and passive-aggressive body language for Ayalah to begin to soften again toward the smithy. For one thing, there was no point in staying angry with him: after all, she would soon be rid of him for good and could continue with her quest to find the next prophecy holder. But for another thing, he never seemed to return her sidelong looks, and he really was helping her by carrying all of their bags. Somehow the heat out in the grass didn't seem as oppressive as the heat in the forest, though the sun still blazed and burned her cheeks; and since she wasn't as irritable and short-tempered, she felt a little more forgiving.
Still, it took another couple of days before she was willing to have a conversation again, and even then it took her the entire day of walking to come up with something to say that sounded friendly and yet wasn't an apology.
They settled for the night on the edge of the grass, just another day's walk from the city. A few lights twinkled in the distance, though no other sign of life could be seen. She had captured a field hare earlier in the day, and it was with real enthusiasm that Greyson built up a small fire for them to have a hot meal for the first time since their run-in with Swynn the wizard in the forest.
They were out in the open now, with no trees for protection, but somehow she felt safer than ever. After all, she reasoned, if they were totally exposed, that would mean anyone else in the area would be exposed as well, so they couldn't sneak up on her. She sat beside the smithy and let go of her sword pommel—she hadn't even realized she'd been gripping it pensively as she had surveyed the scene. "Thanks for building the fire," she said. It had taken her all day to think of the nicety; it was a phrase, in fact, she had never uttered in her life.
Greyson barely glanced at her. "Sure." He speared the rabbit on a stick he'd picked up somewhere and began to rotate it over the flames.
A long moment of silence elapsed. Ayalah didn't know what else to say.
"You know," Greyson said finally, "when I was a child, my parents used to get into fights a lot. I would get upset, and my mother would sit me in front of the fire and sing to me."
"I barely remember my parents," Ayalah said. "What kinds of songs did your mother sing?"
At this, Greyson looked up. He searched her face for a long time, as if suspicious of something. Finally, he shook his head. "I don't know. Lullabies. There was this one..." He trailed off and shook his head again.
"Yes?" she prompted.
"For some reason, it stands out in my mind." He began to sing softly, rotating the hare over the fire as he sang:
Go along, my child, sail the lonely blue
The land of friends and myst'ries has long awaited you.
He smiled shyly when he finished. "I never was much able to hold a tune."
Ayalah shook her head. "Don't be silly. Was that a popular song where you grew up?"
"No. At least, I never heard anyone else singing it. Maybe that's why it stands out."
"Maybe." Ayalah smiled and accepted her portion of the hare from Greyson's outstretched hand, but her mind was whirling. Could this be the second part of the prophecy? Something embedded so deep in Greyson's mind, he didn't even recognize it for anything more than a nursery rhyme? Yes, it must be: her own part of prophecy told her that A seed you'll find within his mind that I have planted deep—surely, she hadn't been mistaken, then, and Greyson was, in fact, the one she was meant to find.
Sail the lonely blue: Well, she thought, that narrowed it down, at least. That meant the next piece of the prophecy would be in one of three places: the Naral Isles, Olekoth, or Hodaroth. Myst'ries could refer to either the unexplored islands of the Naral Isles or to the unexplored top half of the continent of Olekoth, so that eliminated Hodaroth. But friends: that could only refer to Olekoth, to the ancient alliance between Miltinoth and Olekoth.
"What are you thinking about?" Greyson asked.
"Nothing," Ayalah said, shaking her head. She took a bite of the roasted rabbit and chewed until Greyson shrugged and looked away.
Perfect. Now all she needed to do was report to the king, get rid of the smithy, and find an excuse to visit Olekoth and search for the next piece of the prophecy.


17

They arrived in the city, waited until the king could see them, and then reported to the palace as required. Ayalah had just enough time before the summons came to send a one-word letter to Gavin: Olekoth. Once in the palace, they again waited for more than an hour before the king showed up, and again he entered looking bored.
"Well?" the king asked, once he'd seated himself at the front of the room.
"Warrior Tarall, Sire, reporting the status of my latest assignment," Ayalah said formally.
"Yes, yes, get on with it." 
"Sire, we were unable to retrieve the stone you asked for. The forest was enchanted somehow: it was inhospitable, with no water, and the trees seemed to move so that we were going in circles. Finally, we were forced to return or else perish of thirst."
The king stared at her with undisguised hate. "You dare return empty-handed, Warrior Tarall?"
With any other warrior, she knew, the king would have accepted this logical excuse and contented himself with a slap on the wrist for the warrior in question. When it came to her, however, he did not value her life enough to deem this a fit excuse for failure; she wondered how he would punish her.
"I did not return completely empty-handed, Your Majesty," she said. She held up the cloth bag Swynn had given her.
"Well, bring it forward then," he said.
She stepped forward, handed him the bag, and stepped back again. He glared at her for a moment before untying the knot and looking in the bag; then he recoiled and shoved the bag at one of his scribes, who took it reluctantly.
"Hum," he said, tapping his fingers on his leg. "I see." He turned to Greyson. "Smithy, do you attest to the truth of this story?"
Greyson nodded. "I do, Majesty."
"Hum," the king said again. "Smithy, you will continue assisting Warrior Tarall in her endeavors until the job is done. Warrior Tarall, you will return with that stone or die trying." He smirked as the shock of this pronouncement registered in Ayalah's mind and on her face.
"Your Majesty," Ayalah said, trying to remain calm, "if you would give me a real warrior to go with, one who could actually—"
"The smithy will meet all your needs, I am sure," the king drawled.
This time, Ayalah didn't need to pretend to be annoyed with the assignment. Regardless of the impossibility of actually attaining the stone, the thought of spending another month with Greyson made her want to scream; still, she tried to control the rage that was building within her. "But Majesty, he is a hindrance and a liability. He slows me down. Surely you'll see that if he puts me in more danger than—"
"Enough!" the king said. "This is not open for negotiation, Warrior Tarall."
Ayalah opened her mouth to object once more, but suddenly the doors flew open.
"There you are, my love!" It was the woman Ayalah had seen coming out of Gavin's room weeks ago—or was it months at this point?—only now she wore a dress made of black silk that made her look striking and regal. She strode to the king and kneeled before him. "Pardon my interruption, lord."
The king flicked his hand irritably. "Of course, Tazarah. What could be so urgent?"
So she had been right, and it was one of the queens! Ayalah congratulated herself internally, without betraying so much as a smirk to the room full of people.
"Well," said Queen Tazarah, rising gracefully and speaking so that everyone could hear, "it's not urgent, per se, dearest; it's just that I wanted to ask a favor." She beamed at the king and opened her eyes wide, in what Ayalah supposed was meant to be an innocent look. "I've just received a letter from home—it seems that the last time I visited, I forgot to bring my favorite necklace and earrings back here with me. Do you remember which ones I mean, lord?"
The king nodded. "Yes yes, of course. Tazarah, can't you see I'm the middle of official business?"
The queen looked around the room, as if seeing these witnesses for the first time. "Apologies, my lord. But do you think you could send someone to retrieve them for me? I really don't know what else I could wear with this dress, do you?" She gestured to her chest, which lacked any ornament but the sheer silk she wore, and leaned in toward the king.
"You interrupted me because you want someone to go to Olekoth just to—" the king began heatedly. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. "Yes, of course, my love. I'll see that it's done right away."
"Oh, thank you," the queen purred. She curtseyed to him and sashayed across the room to the door; all eyes—including those of the king and Greyson, Ayalah noted—followed her until the door closed behind her.
"Well, Warrior Tarall," the king said, returning his attention to her. "Perhaps a new assignment would be more to your liking. You will sail to Olekoth and retrieve my queen's jewels for her."
"Retrieve—! But Sire, this is no job for a trained warrior; why, a simple errand boy could retrieve them for you." 
The king smiled icily. "Or errand girl." 
Without waiting for a response, he rose from his chair—"That will be all."—and swept from the room. 


18

Four nonstop hours in the training arena sparring and fencing with the newest recruits did little to soothe Ayalah's anger. She now paced up and down the street before Gavin's house, attempting to calm herself before knocking on the door, lest she take out her anger on some unsuspecting child-servant of his.
Finally, she gave up and pounded on the door. She barged past the child who opened it, stomped into the kitchen, and found Gavin sitting at the little table in the corner, a full mug of ale in one hand, another mug across the table from him.
"You were expecting me?"
He nodded. "I could hear your cursing from inside. With the doors and windows shut." He raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
"That pathetic excuse for a king has crossed the line this time, Gavin. I have half a mind to march right back up to the palace and assassinate him where he stands. The entire city will thank me for it, and you know it."
Gavin took a swig of his drink and said nothing.
She paced the small kitchen as she spoke, taking care to keep her voice low, her rage controlled. "Would you like to know where he's sending me this time? To Olekoth. Do you want to know why? Not as a diplomat visiting an ally, not as a warrior completing a heroic quest. He's sending me there to retrieve some jewels for one of his spoiled, brainless wives. Jewels, Gavin! Of all the insulting, unacceptable—"
"Enough." Gavin held up one hand to stop her. "Ayalah, isn't Olekoth the very place you need to go?"
She stopped pacing. "Well, yes. But that's not the point. He doesn't know that."
"Ayalah." Gavin gave her the same piercing look he'd been giving her her whole life, the one that made her feel silly and childish.
"What?" she said. "The queen?"
"The other queens are spoiled and brainless, I'll give you that," he said. "But Tazarah is clever and vengeful—you should be happy she's on our side."
"Our side?" She slowly felt her rage shrinking. "Then you sent...?"
He nodded. "Tazarah and I have an... an understanding. Did you think she interrupted your meeting with the king by chance?" 
She sat at the table and stared at the mug of ale Gavin had set out for her, not wanting to meet his eyes. "She did seem a bit vapid."
He chuckled. "That was the idea, I'm sure."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their drinks.
"I was surprised you sent me that letter," he finally said. "What if someone else had intercepted it?"
"It was a risk I had to take. I failed the assignment he gave me—on the off chance he decided to..." She trailed off, not wanting to voice her thought aloud.
"Ah." Gavin nodded. "And the smithy?"
"Is coming with me to Olekoth."
"Good."
She looked up. "Good? The man refuses to carry a weapon, and he's insolent: he looks me in the eye, and he calls me by my first name."
"Nonetheless, good," Gavin repeated. "You'll need a friend there, even one who carries no weapon. Be careful what you drink there, Ayalah. The people of Olekoth tend to trade in strange herbs and concoctions: some are for fun, but others are deadly. Keep him with you to watch your back. And watch his, too."
She didn't ask how Gavin knew this, but she believed him; a chill crept across her chest. "You think—?"
He nodded. "Just because we found him first doesn't mean they won't still try to torture the information out of him. Your task won't be any easier with them on your trail."
She hadn't thought of this before, but it made sense. She nodded reluctantly.
"When do you leave?"
"The ship leaves in a week, so I figure we have another two, maybe three days before we need to head to the docks."
"Your horse wandered back, but I think you should take a couple of standard royal horses this time, so you can leave them while you're gone and not need to worry about them." He set his mug down on the table. "Well, I don't have any clients tonight. Why don't you stay for dinner? For old times' sake?"
Ayalah smiled. "I'd love to."


19

It was the smell of the sea that surprised her. It hit her once they entered the port town, before they'd even gotten to the dock; she had looked at Greyson in wonder, unsure what it could be. Even now, after a week on this trading vessel heading toward Olekoth, Ayalah couldn't get used to the smell. It was refreshing, at once salty and tangy, unlike anything she had experienced on land. She breathed it in greedily and let it out reluctantly.
The sailors swarmed around her, tugging on ropes, letting out and reigning in sails, rowing, shouting—she had lost interest in observing their routines days ago. They were gigantic, surly men, the lot of them, with massive muscles and leathery, tanned skin, and she'd caught them ogling her time and again. Luckily, her warrior stripes had kept them at bay; and if she was a bit bored and starved of human contact—Greyson mostly spent his time belowdeck, so they'd exchanged only a few sentences since boarding the ship—she nonetheless was happy to encourage their wariness to gain a bit of privacy.
Somehow the vast blue expanse of the sea never grew dull. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of a porpoise or a large fish below the surface of the water, and once she caught sight of something enormous, far off in the distance, that the sailors had called Big White. One more week, and she'd get her first glimpse of Olekoth.
She supposed it made sense that the fabled wizard who first split the prophecy long ago would have put parts of it on different continents; it certainly made it more complicated and time consuming to solve the riddle. Still, she thought, it was awfully frustrating. Greyson's clue had been so vague; all it told them was where to go, not how to find the next clue holder once they were there. It wasn't as if she and Greyson could walk around asking people to dredge up bits of rhyming lines here and there in their memories. They'd have to explore the city as much as possible, she thought with a sigh, and hope they found something by chance.
A tap on her shoulder startled her. She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, lost in thought, but the sky was already turning a deep pink, with flecks of orange standing out on the horizon as the sun went down.
"Sorry to sneak up on you," Greyson said with a chuckle.
She shrugged, trying not to feel annoyed. In truth, it was a bit of a relief to speak to someone else. "No problem."
He stood next to her, and the two of them stared over the edge of the ship for some time. From here, Ayalah thought, the world seemed so peaceful and beautiful, like nothing could ever go wrong. She breathed deeply, happily.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Greyson said.
She arched an eyebrow at him. "I hadn't thought you appreciated it. You've spent the entire week in that stifling cabin of yours."
He grinned. "I wasn't in my cabin. I was at the forges; I made something for you." He held up a thick metallic band Ayalah hadn't noticed he'd been holding.
"What is it?"
"It goes around your wrist. Here, hold out your arm." She obeyed warily, and he snapped it into place on her forearm. "It's a bracelet of sorts," he said, "with two uses. It can be used as a shield, to block a sword thrust" —he demonstrated the technique— "and also to store medicine in."
Ayalah stared at him. "But what possessed you to make me such a gift?"
He shrugged. "I came up with the idea after you told me about the herbs in Olekoth. There's a tiny amount of medicine hidden in the bracelet—within this section on the inside of your arm, do you see? You unscrew the stopper to get to it."
She nodded, stunned. The bracelet was a bit heavy, and it was certainly clunky—the wide swath of metal covered nearly half her forearm—but the thought behind it was touching, and the final product was surprisingly clever and useful, kind of like portable armor.
"Well?"
She smiled. "It's wonderful. Thank you, Greyson." Maybe having the smithy around wasn't such a bad idea, after all.


20

All too soon, the ship was docking in Olekoth. The harbor was swarmed with people, and Ayalah felt herself growing irrationally angry and short-tempered with everyone around her as the noise and the stink of the harbor grew clearer and sharper. Still, she supposed the opportunity to view Olekoth's fleet was nothing to scoff at. In one direction, their warships stretched out before her in a line that reached the horizon; in the other direction, a mishmash of fishing boats and large trading vessels lined the dock, jostling for space. The sheer size of Olekoth's navy fleet surprised her as they drew closer, and, upon disembarking from the ship, Ayalah discovered that her fists had been clenched involuntarily at the realization of how vastly superior Olekoth's fighting force was to anything she had ever seen. King Mathais, she thought, was a fool to slight this country's royal family.
Here, too, as on the ship, the sailors gaped at her as she walked by. There were a few other women dotting the dock, but these women were stocky and grimy like the other sailors, a sharp contrast to Ayalah's tall, thin frame in her tight leathers. She stood, letting her hair blow in the breeze. Let them stare, she thought with just a twinge of a smile. It seemed harmless, indulging her ego for once.
The sailors here, however, didn't seem to understand that the stripes on her clothing indicated that she was a warrior—that it was forbidden to touch her, and that, moreover, she herself was a deadly weapon. As she and Greyson moved along the pier, heading toward the bustling city, the sailors began to jeer at her and shout. She couldn't hear what they were saying over all the noise, but it certainly didn't seem friendly. Her sword was strapped tightly to her back, inaccessible at the moment; she rested her hand on the pommel of her knife—just in case.
Then she felt it. They passed through a group of men, and as Ayalah stepped carefully over the planks of the dock, there it was: a warmth, a squeeze, a chuckle from behind her.
She whipped around, pulled out her knife, and sliced the man's throat.
A few of the surrounding men jumped back with strangled oaths, watching the man open and close his mouth wordlessly as blood spewed out from the gaping hole in his neck. Bystanders noticed and cut off their conversations to stare; soon the entire dock had gone silent.
Greyson gaped at her.
"Well?" Ayalah shouted. "Does anyone else feel they can't restrain themselves from touching or talking to me?" She glared around her, daring someone, anyone, to take her up on her challenge. Nobody did.
She sheathed her knife with an audible hiss, glared around once more, and continued on her way.

"That wasn't exactly the most diplomatic move," Greyson observed drily once they were in the privacy of the inn Ayalah had chosen at random.
She shrugged, sitting on the tiny bed she had claimed as her own. "Someone had to teach those sailors a lesson." She watched Greyson for a moment, noting his discomfort with a twinge of disappointment. "Don't tell me you're of the mindset that a woman's body is subject to the whims of the men around her?"
"Of course not." Greyson looked surprised, almost offended. "It's just that you could have been a bit more subtle."
She scoffed. "I've noticed over the years that subtlety is generally wasted on men. They think they have the right to own everything and to do whatever they please with the women surrounding them. Words don't work; swords and knives do."
He was silent for a moment, ostensibly concentrating on the curtain he was hanging between the beds to serve as a partition. Finally, he turned to face her. "It's not that what you're saying isn't true. I've observed it myself, even with my own parents. But the way you speak of all men as one united body intent on doing what we want to who we want—it just—it bothers me."
Ayalah found that she was biting her nails and forced herself to stop. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Well, I'm not like that. I would never impose my will on you. For example. Or try to—to do anything inappropriate."
"I know," she said. And she did. There was something about this smithy that was unlike all other men she had known, even Gavin. She watched him moving about the room with a smile on her face. "Come," she said, rising. "Let's go explore this city in the hours we have before dusk."


21

Olekoth was a massive, sprawling city, with its streets laid out in a grid so regular and precise, it was obvious that it had been carefully planned long before the mainlanders colonized this continent centuries before. It was easy for Ayalah to figure out how to get around and to remember where their inn was along the city grid, but something about the orderliness of the city bothered her. Most of the buildings were nearly identical to one another, made of dark wood and stone, save for a few more modern buildings here and there, particularly closer to the palace, that were bigger and had flashier flourishes. The locals wore bright fabrics that looked light and airy, making the city seem almost as if it was filled with tropical birds getting ready to fly away. Ayalah envied their clothing: this far north, even toward the end of summer, the sun was stifling and the breeze did not do much to cool Ayalah beneath her leathers. 
She and Greyson wandered the streets for two days, enjoying themselves and seeing the sights the city had to offer; they'd retrieved the queen's jewelry right away from an unimpressed-looking servant, so they had no real obligations while they waited for their ship to set sail once more. But inwardly Ayalah was tense and frustrated, with no idea how to find the next prophecy holder. Their ship was leaving the next day; trading vessels, the captain had explained, didn't typically stop over for very long in any given city. He wanted to stop only as long as it took to unload one shipment and load the other, and then he'd be off. It maximized his profits, he explained, and Ayalah couldn't fault him the practicality. But the thought of leaving so soon, after such a long voyage and without finding what she'd come here to find, was infuriating. She'd tried looking around the shops, visiting the bars, and listening closely to street performers' lyrics for cryptic hints, but to no avail. 
Curse that wizard and his vague instructions, she thought. She tossed and turned all night, repeating the lines over and over in her head—Go along, my child, sail the lonely blue / The land of friends and myst'ries has long awaited you—but no brilliant realization came to her, and she awoke to a bright orange sunrise, with a long voyage home to look forward to.
She dressed with a sigh and pulled back the curtain to see if Greyson was ready to go. He was; he smiled at her uncertainly, noticing her frown. She hadn't explained to him that she was looking for the next piece of the prophecy, and she didn't intend to.
"What—" he began. A trumpet interrupted him.
They looked at each other in surprise. Shouts and cheers could be heard now through the thin walls of the inn; people were milling about outside, talking animatedly to one another.
Ayalah opened the door to their room and flagged down one of the inn maids. "What's all the commotion about?"
"The queen, of course!" The maid was flushed with excitement and could barely contain her smile. "The entire city is on holiday. Good day!"
Ayalah stared after the maid and turned back to Greyson. "Did you hear—?"
But Greyson, she found, was distracted. He'd stuck his head out of the window and was having a shouted conversation with someone below. She waited patiently until he straightened up and turned back to her.
"Well?"
He smiled. "It appears the queen of Olekoth has been delivered of a baby boy."
"Yes, and?"
"Well, this is the first male heir to the throne. The other royal children are all girls. According to Olekian tradition, there must be a citywide celebration of the event. Until then, most businesses are closed and no one may enter or leave the city."
She gaped at him. "No one?"
"Well," he amended, "no one except the royal family, should they have a need."
She sank down onto the bed. "So we can't leave until the celebration?"
"Correct."
"And when is that?"
"A week from today."
She was having a hard time grasping the concept. Could she really be so lucky? "So we aren't leaving today?"
Greyson shook his head. "We have no choice; our ship won't be able to set sail. We must stay here another week."
Relief flooded her body. Maybe she would be able to find the next piece of the prophecy, after all.

Her first order of business was to go shopping. Being stared at and avoided for two days was fine, but she didn't relish the thought of another week of it. Her Miltinian leathers were too conspicuous—word traveled fast in this city, apparently—and she'd realized that if she wanted information, she'd need to make herself a little more approachable. She opted instead for a soft, long dress in a purplish grey, the most muted color she could find, matching the airy fashion of the Olekian ladies. The bodice fitted her tightly and the skirt flared out in a most becoming fashion—and besides, the merchant had practically thrown the dress at her, so eager was he to be off and celebrating for a week. She had insisted that Greyson, too, blend in with the crowd, wearing the more open-styled tunic of the Olekian men, and the two of them, garbed in local fashion, made their way through the city streets with feigned confidence.
It looked like most of the shops had closed, but the bars remained open—and consequently, they were flooded with people. The bars, now that she thought about it, seemed like the perfect place to start: people who had been drinking were more likely to open up to her, anyway.
"Care to stop in for a drink?" she asked.
"I can't imagine you taking the day off," Greyson said. "Do you even know how to sit in a bar and relax?"
She'd been surveying the street, looking for the best place to go, but now she snapped her eyes back to Greyson and opened her mouth to retort angrily—but Greyson was smirking at her.
Oh.
"Very funny," she said instead. "Of course I know how to relax. I just don't have the opportunity to do so often." In truth, she hadn't frequented any bars back home since her warrior training days, more out of a lack of drinking partners than because she was busy. But still, she could hold her ale as well as most of the men she knew, and there was no reason she couldn't loosen up a bit while she tried to find the next prophecy holder. "Come on," she said, "Let's see how well you hold your liquor."


22

Ayalah was beginning to enjoy herself. She and Greyson had been gallivanting about the city for nearly a week now, and she'd managed to drink him under the table every single night. They were making their way around the city methodically, one city block at a time, led mostly by the shouts and laughter of the patrons inside, and, at meal times, by the enticing smells of food wafting out into the streets.
The entire populace of the city seemed to be enjoying itself; even the barkeeps and barmaids were weaving on their feet and slurring a little. She and Greyson made friends everywhere they went, Greyson because he was naturally friendly and Ayalah out of a conscious effort to blend in and glean information. To keep wandering hands off of her, they made it clear that anyone who touched Greyson's "wife" would get his neck sliced—though they didn't specify who would be doing the slicing.
Greyson, she was amused to notice, loosened up a bit after he'd been drinking—but only a bit. He'd been so drunk one night, she'd had to keep him from falling off his seat, and yet he had suddenly turned to her and, stiffening, pronounced his disgust at the debacle occurring on the other side of the room. She had looked to where he pointed to see one of the barmaids with her skirt hiked up and one of the drunken reveler's hands disappearing under the many folds of fabric. She'd laughed at Greyson at first, but then wonderingly realized that he was serious about his disapproval, even when falling-over drunk. He never ceased to surprise her—he still insisted on making eye contact with everyone they met, for instance, despite the impropriety of doing so—and she had begun to value his moral integrity, uptight as he sometimes seemed. He was a good man, this smithy. Perhaps Gavin was right about him.
Tonight they had moved on to a part of the city that had something called "herb bars," a term Ayalah had never heard before. She discovered right away that they certainly didn't have anything like this back in Miltinoth. The herb bars functioned in basically the same way as a traditional bar, except that instead of ordering drinks, patrons ordered some kind of strange-looking pipe, which they would sometimes share with one another and sometimes puff on by themselves.
Ayalah and Greyson had accompanied a couple of new friends to this herb bar, and they watched with fascination as the men inhaled from the bizarre pipes. Theidan, a dark-haired local, and Erikson, a blue-eyed, blond-haired Bolladian, seemed to love the stuff. The habit, however—while certainly interesting—repulsed both Ayalah and Greyson, who had asked instead for more familiar drinks, which the bartender eventually provided after more than one sidelong look at them.
"Sure you don't want to try?" Erikson asked.
Ayalah shook her head. "That smells like a dead animal."
Theidan guffawed, clapping her on the back. "Aye, it does! Tastes like one, too."
"Then why smoke it?" Greyson asked.
Erikson took a drag and shrugged. "Same reason you drink that piss-tasting slosh," he said, indicating Greyson's ale. "It's fun."
Erikson, they learned, was a bit of a wanderer, having left Bolladoth some years prior to visit new countries and explore uncharted territories. He had settled in Olekoth two years ago, he said, and had taken it upon himself as a challenge to explore the wilderness in the north of the continent. Local legend had it that everyone who had ever dared attempt this feat had never been seen again; Erikson vowed to be the first to return triumphant, with tales to tell.
Theidan was captain of one of Olekoth's warships: not the one that had employed the man whose throat Ayalah had cut—although he was friends with that ship's captain—but a different, bigger ship, one he called "the pride of Olekoth." He had readily accepted Ayalah's reluctant apology and had proclaimed her "welcome aboard the Phoenix anytime."
Now the two men shared a pipe and sucked in contentedly, demonstrating to Ayalah and Greyson the proper way to hold the smoke in the lungs for just a few moments before breathing it out again. "It makes the feeling sharper," Theidan explained. Ayalah didn't understand, but she smiled and nodded anyway. The pipe reminded her of a snake with two heads, sitting coiled on the table and winding its way up through the smoky air to land in both men's mouths. Two more of its necks lay on the table, limp and deflated. "You know," Theidan mused, "it's almost an insult to our culture that you won't at least try it." He waggled his eyebrows first at Ayalah and then at Greyson. "Come now, what's the harm?"
She hesitated.
"You may be able to get a Bolladian with a death wish to try it," Greyson said with a laugh, "but us sensible folk from Miltinoth aren't interested in such adventures." He turned to Ayalah. "Right?"
"Right," she agreed. She felt relieved, somehow, and content to go along with Greyson's decision—but this in itself confused her, and she stared into her drink, trying to puzzle out her feelings. Did she care what the smithy thought? She scratched under the armband he'd made for her. Well, she'd certainly grown to respect him, she thought. So it seemed logical that she would value his opinion now. Or did it? Her mind felt hazy and sluggish.
The men laughed raucously at something, and she looked up at the noise to ask what had been so funny. But before she had a chance to open her mouth, a figure in a long, brown cloak slipping out the back door of the bar caught her eye. Could that have been—? It wasn't possible of course, but—she really could have sworn— 
She pushed her chair back and stood up hastily.
"What—?" Greyson began.
"I'll be right back," she shouted over her shoulder as she shoved her way through the mass of bodies and the haze of smoke toward the back door. She was a little wobbly on her feet, but she made it to the door and out into a back alley, where she caught a flash of the bottom of the brown cloak disappearing around the corner. She chased after the retreating figure, down one street, across another alley, and through a small patch of greenery, but she couldn't catch up. Her breath came in short gasps now as she sped through the streets, past baffled bystanders, desperately trying to catch up, to at least see a glimpse of the face of the man she followed.
She was almost positive that the man she had seen in the bar was the wizard Swynn. But seeing him here in Olekoth made no sense: hadn't he told her that he'd been in that enchanted forest of his for ages? He'd implied that he hadn't left in decades. Hadn't he? But no matter how fast she ran or how many people she pushed out of her way, she could only catch glimpses of the back of his cloak, and, sometimes—or was she imagining it?—the beckoning of an impatient hand.
Finally, she found herself at a dead end, in an alley leading straight to a solid brick wall. She cursed aloud: the wizard was nowhere in sight, and the wall was much too high for an old man to have scaled it. She rested her hands on her knees, panting, trying to regain her breath. Her heart was racing, though her mind still felt sluggish, and her reactions seemed slowed. Had she been running as fast as she'd thought? Was she as lost as she suspected? She forced herself to breathe slower and calm down.
She snapped to attention suddenly. The streetlights didn't quite illuminate the whole of the alleyway, but she'd definitely heard a cough coming from the other end, near the wall. She fumbled in her boot for her emergency knife and then cautiously approached the wall. "Who's there?"
Her foot made contact with something, and she jumped back instinctively before realizing there was a body lying in a pool of blood on the ground at her feet. It was a man, and he seemed to be saying something.
She lowered her knife warily and bent down. Whatever he was saying, it was so faint she couldn't hear it. She put her ear right next to his mouth and caught the dying gasp of one word: prophecy. 
"Do you have the next piece of the prophecy?" she demanded wildly. The man gasped for breath. "Please," she said, "please tell me your piece, I need to know what it is." But it was too late. The light was beginning to fade from his eyes—someone, she thought desperately, had gotten to him first. She sat back on her heels in defeat.
The bracelet! She hadn't taken it off since Greyson gave it to her, and she'd begun to forget its presence. But he had said there was medicine in it, and although she didn't know what the medicine was, she unscrewed the stopper, poured the liquid into the man's mouth, and waited, holding her breath.
His eyes snapped open. He gasped and clutched her arm in a vise-like grip that left bruises for days; he began to whisper.
"Where fish is dead,
and land is red,
don't drink the water."
He repeated it over and over, frantically, again and again.
"What?" Ayalah said. "I don't understand." Had he forgotten the correct words? The pieces of the prophecy were supposed to be in rhyming couplets, weren't they? Perhaps this was in some kind of code she needed to decipher; perhaps he was purposely trying to mislead her. "I, too, am a prophecy holder," she said, trying to be encouraging. "You can trust me."
But the man ignored her. 
"Where fish is dead,
and land is red,
don't drink the water.
Where fish is dead,
and land is red,
don't drink the water."
His voice began to grow faint.
"Where fish is dead,
and land is red,
don't drink the water."
He coughed once more, and then he was still.


23

She awoke in an herb bar she didn't recognize. She appeared to have slept on a pile of cushions in a corner of the bar, which was littered with similarly disheveled-looking customers in various states of disarray. She stumbled to her feet. Her head was throbbing, and she felt like she might vomit. A few deep breaths sufficed to calm her gag reflex, and she made her way to the door and into the street.
The sound was momentarily deafening. The street was packed with people who were cheering, clapping, singing, and otherwise making noises that made her head feel like it might explode. She remembered all at once that today was the day of the celebration. Well, no matter; she was in no state fit to celebrate. She managed to get back to the inn, fall in bed, and—despite the noise outside—close her eyes and slip out of consciousness.
Greyson woke her some time later, and she was relieved to find that she had just a hint of a headache left.
"What happened to you last night?" he asked, hovering over her anxiously.
She shook her head and sat up, waving him away. "I have no idea. What happened to you?"
He shrugged. "Nothing. I just stayed at the bar with Theidan and Erikson for a while. When you didn't come back, we went looking for you but couldn't find you."
She looked pointedly at a gash on his right cheek. Upon closer inspection, she realized, he had cuts all down his right arm as well.
"Oh, that," he said. "I had a minor disagreement with someone we ran into. No big deal."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Really," he insisted.
"Well," she said, grinning, "did you at least win the, er, disagreement?"
He grinned back. "Of course I did."
She stood with a wince. "Do we have anything to drink?"
"No, sorry. But there are free drinks outside as part of the celebration..." 
The invitation wasn't voiced, but she smiled anyway. After all, she'd found what she wanted in Olekoth already—now she could truly relax. "Let's go, then!"
Outside, the mead and ale flowed freely. Mugs were handed around liberally at each corner to anyone who held out a hand, and consequently each person seemed to be holding at least two mugs at any given time. Ayalah was happy to find that the drinks soothed her headache, and soon she was joining in the cheering and singing, celebrating with wild abandon the birth of a little boy she cared nothing about. 
She drank one mug, and then another, and still another, and before she knew it she'd lost count of the amount she'd consumed. Greyson, for once, didn't seem as affected by the drink, but he still sang along and followed her through the crowds with an indulgent smile on his face.
On one corner, a street band played for the enjoyment of the crowd, and Ayalah stopped to clap along to the music. Then the revelers began to dance, and she grabbed Greyson's hand.
"Dance with me!" she shouted breathlessly. She hadn't danced since she was a small child, when her father used to twirl her in front of the fire after dinner, but suddenly, right now, the mood struck her. She wanted nothing more than to move her feet to the beat and learn the proper steps, and she wanted Greyson to join her.
He followed her lead, and they danced about the square happily, wildly, laughing as they fumbled the dance moves and laughing again when they performed the moves correctly. Her breathing echoed the thumping of the drumbeat, and she felt so light and happy, she could almost fly. One part of the dance required that each person grab a partner and hold them close; Greyson pulled her into him, and she froze.
He was breathing heavily, smiling gaily, but when their bodies connected, his face seemed to drain of all its emotion and his eyes seemed to blaze into hers. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears as the heat from his body enveloped her.
She forgot all about the beat of the drums.
He leaned in and kissed her. The touch of his lips on hers was exquisite, a sharp stab of desire that raced down her chest and into her fingertips. She kissed him back, hungrily, desperately, savoring each moment their lips were pressed together and gasping for more. He pulled her in even closer, squeezing her against him, and she grabbed at his waist, holding on while the world disappeared.
Distantly, she could hear the crowd cheering.
His hands were in her hair, tugging it free of its braid, and she let him back her up against a building on the outskirts of the crowd. His kisses were like fire—she felt like he was devouring her, and she loved it; she never wanted him to stop. Somehow they'd ended up in a narrow alley between buildings; she could feel the closeness of the walls around them, the intimacy of the location.
She was biting his lip now, and he was smiling and trailing kisses down her neck, and she was moaning something incomprehensible, and he was whispering her name like the most tender of blessings, the prettiest of flowers. He got down to her shoulder and came back up to her lips, and their bodies pressed together urgently through their Olekian outfits.
She wanted him to keep going.
He was lowering his hand to her waist—she was holding her breath for what came next—
"Oi!"
They froze. There was a man staring at them.
"What d'ye think yer doin? There's child'n here!" He indicated the crowd behind him that continued in its revelry, shouting and dancing and laughing and singing. Ayalah, dazed, didn't quite understand what the man was pointing at.
Greyson stepped back and removed his hands from Ayalah's body, holding them up in surrender; the stranger seemed to accept this, and he went on his way.
They were both panting now, staring at each other, looking one another up and down. Greyson, Ayalah thought, had never looked more striking: his lips were swollen and red, his cheeks were flushed, his—she blushed and averted her gaze.
But then a movement caught her eye and she understood what the stranger had been indicating. There were still flocks of people dancing, crowding the street. It was still the middle of the day! She recalled where they were all at once; she couldn't believe they were in public—they'd made a spectacle of themselves! What if people recognized them, what if someone said something? If they had been in the inn, with no interruptions, then maybe—she flushed again.
Greyson closed the space between them and gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. 
Her hair, she realized, was in complete disarray, falling about her shoulders wildly and into her face—and her hair tie was nowhere in sight.
"Ayalah..." he whispered with a breathiness that paralyzed her.
He leaned in, and she let him kiss her once more, such a tender, loving kiss, she almost forgot herself again and gave in to the temptation. But she couldn't. Could she? She wanted to. No—she steeled her will—she mustn't.
She touched his cheek and met the fire in his eyes with fire of her own. But then she backed up, fled the alleyway, and ran blindly through the crowd.


24

She was too flustered to return to the inn, so she wandered around the crowded streets until night fell, her mind racing. What was she afraid of? That Greyson might be at the inn—or that he might not be at the inn? That he might want to talk to her—or that she might want to talk to him?
Could she control herself around him from now on?
She forced herself to calm down, to breathe more slowly, to think rationally. Of course she could control herself. It was a mistake—nothing more. She wouldn't let it happen again, and she wouldn't give Greyson any false ideas. She was a warrior, she reminded herself. And not just any warrior: she was the only female warrior in all of Miltinoth—perhaps in all the world. She would not renounce that title for some smithy she'd gotten stuck with on the road.
The festivities were winding down as the townsfolk remembered they had to get back to work the next day. Ayalah continued to pace the streets until she was the only one left, and finally she returned to the inn just before daybreak. Greyson was sleeping on his side of the curtain: perfect. She gathered her things in the dark, changed back into her warrior leathers, and slipped out of the room without disturbing him. Their ship would be leaving in just a few hours; might as well get there early to ensure a timely departure.

The mood on the ship on their return journey was a somber one. To begin with, Ayalah wasn't the only one who'd had perhaps a little too much fun during the celebration. Many of the sailors turned up looking sick and exhausted, and a few even looked a bit depressed. To make matters worse, things had turned awkward between Ayalah and Greyson. She wasn't embarrassed to admit that she was avoiding him, and, when they did run into each other, he couldn't even meet her eyes. As with their previous trip, Ayalah spent her time leaning over the edge of the ship, watching the sea, and Greyson spent his time belowdeck.
She typically preferred to pace when agitated, but she found that the sea was a welcome substitution to help soothe her nerves and steady her thoughts. The smell of the ocean and the sound of the waves lulled her into a kind of trance she could maintain for hours, and it was with relief that she let her mind take a break and stop thinking about prophecies and kisses and wizards.
She had been enjoying her solitude for almost a week before Greyson approached her. It was nighttime, and though she couldn't see much of the water in the dark, still she stood at the prow of the ship, listening and watching. She heard him approach, though he did it quietly—she could identify him by his gait alone. He stood beside her and waited until she looked at him to speak.
"Can we talk?"
She shrugged warily. "Sure."
"Look, I don't know what to think about—"
"Don't." She held up a hand to silence him. "It was nothing. I don't want to talk about it."
He had been leaning against the railing; now he turned to face her directly. "Ayalah, ignoring this is not a good solution."
She opened her mouth to respond, but a snicker behind her alerted her to an on-duty sailor behind them. She whirled on the man.
"Is something funny, sailor?" she hissed.
He was holding a broom, ostensibly cleaning, but she didn't believe that for a moment. It was obvious he'd been eavesdropping.
"No, no," he said, palms up in apparent surrender. Then he smirked. "Ayalah."
Before he could even think to run, she had drawn her knife and slashed him across the face. He gasped and flinched back, his hands clinging to his bleeding cheek, the broom forgotten on the ground. 
"Call me that ever again," she said through clenched teeth, inching closer to the man, "or tell another living soul my name, and I'll give you another cut to match that one. On your neck. Do you understand me?"
The sailor nodded and backed up another step. He was at least a head taller than her, but lanky and lean: no match for her in a fight. He hesitated a moment, apparently figuring this out for himself, and then scampered across the deck.
She turned back to Greyson. "How dare you?" She'd meant it to come out as an accusation, angry and pointed, but instead it came out as a mortifying whisper, barely audible.
"I—I didn't mean—I'm really sorry, I just—"
Her eyes welled with involuntary tears. How was it possible that, after all these years of hard work to establish herself as a credible, fearsome warrior, one man could go and ruin it so easily? Her knife was still in one hand, but it didn't even occur to her to use it on Greyson. She didn't know what else to do, so she did what she'd seen dozens of outraged women do on the streets of Miltinoth: she slapped him.
Then she ran belowdeck to her tiny cabin to cry in private.


25

She spent the remainder of the trip in silence. The sailors had avoided her in general before, and since her run-in with the eavesdropping sailor in the night, nobody seemed interested in being even remotely polite to her. For better or for worse, the sailor had kept his word and hadn't told anyone why she cut him—but this meant they thought she'd done it for no reason. She took her meals alone and didn't push the point.
Greyson also wasn't speaking to her. Which was just as well, she thought, as she had nothing to say to him and had nothing she wanted to hear him say, either. The whole thing was best left alone; once they reported to the king, he would surely relieve her of Greyson's charge, and she would never see the smithy again.
They docked on the mainland, rode back to the city in silence, and reported to the palace. Along the way, she'd tried a few times to apologize for slapping him: she'd opened her mouth, started to speak—and then panicked. Apologize? She couldn't do it. And what did she have to apologize for, anyway? He was the one who should apologize. He had no respect for proper forms of address, and he was oblivious to the damage it could do to her reputation as a warrior. Curse him and his soft kisses; she didn't need them.
Thus it was that she held her head high as they waited for the king to listen to their report. He made them wait a couple of hours, as always, before entering with fanfare and a yawn. He took his seat, yawned again, and gazed at Ayalah with undisguised hatred.
"Well?"
"Warrior Tarall, Your Majesty, reporting the status of my latest assignment," she intoned.
"Yes, yes, I know already, out with it." 
She approached him and handed over the small package she'd brought back from Olekoth. "The queen's jewels, Sire."
He tossed the package to one of his squires without opening it. "That's it? What took you so long?"
"There was a celebration, Majesty. A male heir to the throne was born. We weren't allowed to leave until the celebration had concluded."
"An Olekian male heir, you say? Well, well. Yes, very good." He appeared to notice Greyson for the first time. "Oh, I see the smithy is still here."
"Yes, Sire," Ayalah said, unsure if she was still being addressed. "He was very useful on this trip."
"Was he?" The king smirked. "Do you have anything to say, smithy?" 
Greyson lifted his eyes. "Only that I hope I have fulfilled my duty to the Crown, Your Majesty, and may return to my home and my business."
King Mathais raised his eyebrows. "Indeed." He turned to his scribes. "Make note that this man is hereby pardoned and released from my service." He turned back to Greyson and then waited a few moments. "That means you are dismissed, smithy."
Ayalah waited until the door had closed behind Greyson and the king turned back to her.
"As for you, Warrior Tarall, I have a special assignment."
She resisted the temptation to respond sarcastically about her most recent "special" assignment. "Yes, Sire?"
"You are to meet with an ambassador of Naraloth at the Ancient Meeting Place in three weeks' time."
She stared. "A Naralian ambassador?"
"That's what I said, yes. He's going to be sending me some... information."
"Information?"
"Yes, Warrior Tarall—are you losing your hearing? Information that is too confidential to trust to a common courier."
"My apologies, Majesty. I would be honored to assist."
"Excellent." He smiled, but there was no warmth behind the expression. "See that you don't return without that information."


26

Legend had it that when the early rulers of Miltinoth, Bolladoth, and Naraloth had first become aware of one another's existence, they had agreed to meet in a neutral location to discuss how best to keep the peace among their lands. A barrier was erected to mark the spot, and all land within the barrier was thenceforth considered to be neutral land. The land to the west of the meeting spot, bordered to the north by mountains and to the south by trees, belonged to Naraloth; the land east of the meeting spot, bordered by trees to the north and mountains to the south, belonged to Miltinoth; and the land north of the meeting spot, bordered by mountains to the west and trees to the east, belonged to Bolladoth. The rest of the land was divvied up somewhat arbitrarily, and the spot at which the rulers agreed to meet from then on was known simply as the Meeting Place, and, after a few generations, the Ancient Meeting Place. 
Ayalah had never been to the Ancient Meeting Place before, and she was surprised to find that it took her over two weeks of hard riding before she came to it. She had never been this far west before, and she noted with interest that the trees gave way to grassy mountains in the distance, though the forest immediately on her left, in front of the mountains, seemed to stretch all the way from coast to coast. She passed landmarks she'd heard of only in old stories, like Turtle Rock and Cutthroat Creek, and she waited out a particularly bad thunderstorm in an abandoned cabin that she and her horse shared with a skittish fox. It was with a degree of relief that she spotted the Ancient Meeting Place toward evening on an overcast day.
By now the spot was nothing more than three stone pillars standing in a triangle in the center of a field. The pillars were weatherworn and craggy, but they stood tall nonetheless, like something truly out of a legend. She stood before them for a long while, awed by their size, as her horse grazed nearby. Surely no mortal hand could have placed such massive stones here strategically, she thought, especially as the nearest mountains were a few weeks' riding from here. Each stone was at least two times her height and wider than her arm span—it would have taken dozens, perhaps hundreds, of hardworking men to move these stones, solid and heavy as they must be. She thought briefly of the mysterious wizard Swynn—if wizard he truly was, and not some common illusionist—but then shrugged and prepared to make camp.
She spent the next three days huddled in her tent as an angry black cloud settled over the plain, pouring massive droplets of water down onto the grass below. The rain pelted her tent so hard, she'd quickly fetched her horse and tied it down inside, ignoring the beast's nervous stamping and eye rolling. For lack of anything better to do, she sat or paced the tent, attempting to figure out what the tight feeling in her chest meant. She felt tense, somehow, but she couldn't figure out why. Articulating her feelings had never been something Ayalah excelled at, and now was no exception. She felt lousy, heavy, disinterested, but she didn't know why.
The fourth day dawned foggy and humid, but soon the sun came out, and she let her horse roam as she idly practiced sword thrusts and feints, tucking, rolling, and sparring against an imaginary enemy. By the fifth day, she was starting to grow impatient. The sun shone brightly, illuminating the Ancient Meeting Place as well as all the surrounding area, but no one could be seen in any direction. She bit at her thumbnail. The king had said three weeks, hadn't he? Well, she'd been here right on schedule. It wasn't like ambassadors to be late, either. The king had told her not to return without the information, so she'd have to wait at least another few days before moving on. Was it possible the Naralian ambassador had run into trouble on the way to her? Should she go looking for him, in case he needed help?
She forced herself to stop biting her nail. No: she should stay put, wait a few extra days, and then reevaluate. She sighed and reluctantly sat in the grass to watch the sun set. What kind of information would an ambassador need to give to a messenger, anyway? Weren't ambassadors supposed to visit the court when on official business? The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed.
Ayalah sat, deep in thought, as rays of pink began to tint the sky. The area around her was all soft, fluffy grass; the trees were a good way away, and it was easy to move without making noise in the field. A nervous whinny from her horse, therefore, was the only warning she had that she was no longer alone.
She was on her feet instantly, sprinting for her tent. She was almost there, it was just feet away—but a bearded man jumped in front of her, swinging a broadsword at her neck with such force, it would have sliced her head clean off had she not ducked just in time. She rolled forward, sprang up, and ducked again as the man aimed a second blow at her. This time, she kicked out, as hard as she could, and felt the man's shin snap as her foot came in contact with it. The man howled and dropped straight to the ground.
She used the moment to free her sword from its scabbard, and just in time—another bearded man was flying at her, spiked mace in hand, and she blocked his first blow with her sword. The whoosh of a knife registered in her mind a split second before it would have lodged itself in her ribs; she side-stepped, aimed a thrust of her sword at the man with the mace, and reached down to grab her dagger from her belt.
She wasn't quick enough. The man with the mace slammed it into her side, and she doubled over, struggling to breathe, as he aimed another blow. She backed away, just barely dodging him, and in one movement pulled her dagger, spun out of the mace's reach, threw the dagger into a third man's forehead—the one who had thrown the knife, she hoped—spun again, and, grabbing her sword with two hands, sliced into the mace-wielder's right shoulder. He was immobilized only for a few moments; she used his distraction to bolt past him, still headed for her tent. 
She hesitated just before entering it. Another man was already inside, rifling through her saddlebags; any moment now, he'd find her extra weapons and use them to his advantage against her. She couldn't take that chance. She barreled into the tent despite her misgivings about the close quarters, slammed into the man, and elbowed him in the face, cleanly breaking his nose while he was still off guard. She caught the blade of a fifth man with her arm—with the wonderful armband Greyson had made for her, in fact—and pushed him off, scrambling to her feet and swinging her sword at him.
Her feet were pulled out from under her, though, by the man she'd elbowed, and she fell hard, cushioning her fall instinctively with her left hand while she held onto her sword with her right. A sharp pain radiated through her left arm, but she tried to ignore it, rolling out from under the fifth man's sword and into the foot of the fourth man, who kicked her square in the stomach. She gasped for breath, and the fifth man's sword sliced into her left arm. She screamed as a wave of pain shot through her.
She would not go like this, ambushed by five men and immobilized, lying down, in her own tent.
This was not how she was willing to die.
She tried to force her way to her feet, half blind with pain, slashing out erratically with her sword. The emergency knife she kept in her boot came in handy, and as she crouched on the floor, she jammed it into the fourth man's foot, through flesh, tendon, and bone. He fell on top of her with a shout, and she used his body as a shield: the fifth man had already swung his sword, and his momentum carried it into the back of his companion, who shouted anew. She sprang out from under the man, unsure at this point whose blood was all over her, and bolted from the tent.
Of the five men who had ambushed her, one was dead, her dagger embedded in his forehead. Two were down, but only injured, not fatally wounded. And two pursued her now into the field with unholy rage, gaining on her as they ran.
She was losing blood quickly. Pain radiated up from her left arm; her breath came in ragged gasps.
There was no one to help her.


27

When she thought about it later—much later, weeks later, when she had time for reflection—Ayalah wasn't sure where she'd found the strength or the adrenaline to fight the last two men who chased her. She'd happened on a stroke of luck: the knife that had been aimed at her ribs—that she'd dodged—was embedded in the ground, and she spotted its handle, gleaming in the waning sunset, as she ran by. She picked it up with her left hand and held onto it, despite the pain, as she headed for the stone pillars.
What surprised her in retrospect wasn't that she'd held onto the knife, but that she'd found the strength to throw it. She wasn't aware of it at the time, but her wrist was broken, and the fifth man's sword had sliced clean through her muscle. Nevertheless, she took the time to pause, turn, aim, and throw—and, injured arm notwithstanding, the knife lodged in the fifth man's abdomen. She'd aimed for his heart and missed, but the wound would still be fatal.
Now the fight was one on one. The man with the mace was nearly upon her, swinging widely with the spike-tipped weapon, and she put on an extra, desperate burst of speed to outrun his deadly blows. This man was in a frenzy, shouting as he chased after her, his face bright red, flecks of spittle dotting his lips. She wanted nothing more than to bury her sword in his heart, but now was not the moment: he had the advantage of strength, as well as a longer weapon, and her strength was flagging.
She reached the first pillar and paused just long enough to encourage the man to strike; then she ducked down low, nearly to the ground, and listened as the man's mace slammed into the stone with a resounding crack. She pivoted around him as he shook off the reverberations from the stone. His distraction was all she'd hoped for. She faked right, went left, and sliced into his other shoulder: now both his arms were weakened.
It wasn't enough. He swung again at her, and though she stepped to the side, she hadn't been expecting such a low blow. The pain she experienced when the mace came into contact with her leg was astonishing, unlike anything she'd felt before. He must have shattered her shinbone. She was down on her knees, involuntary tears springing to her eyes as the pillar swam before her. 
"Now you die, warrior girl." The man's voice was raspy in her right ear, his rage mastered only by his confidence that he'd won.
"I don't think so," she said.
Without turning toward him, she lifted her right arm over her shoulder and slammed it into his face. Greyson's armband met the man's nose with a crunch, and he reeled back. She twisted, using both hands to wield her sword, and let her momentum carry her blade into the man's neck and out the other side.
If she hadn't been so overwhelmed with pain, the sight of his head falling from his body would have made her smile.
As it was, she allowed herself a moment's rest to enjoy the kill before attempting to rise. She must remain vigilant: two men yet lived.
Her left leg was useless, worse than useless. It was a hindrance, and she had to drag it behind her as she half-crawled back toward her tent. The grass blurred before her as she went. Every movement of her left leg sent a new wave of pain coursing through her, and her left wrist could only support the most minimal weight before giving out.
She headed for the first man who had attacked her. He was closest, and also the least injured of the three of them still breathing, herself included. She inched past the man with the knife stuck in his abdomen. His eyes stared blankly at the twilit sky. She yanked the knife out of his chest and left her sword next to his body—it was easier to crawl holding a knife than a sword. She moved another few feet, then paused as her vision went black for a moment. She thought she might throw up, but then the moment passed.
When she looked back up, she found that the first man was limping toward her, sword in hand. He didn't appear to have spotted her yet, dark as it had grown and low as she was to the ground. She took aim and threw. If she missed, she would be both weaponless and injured, as good as dead.
She held her breath as the blade soared through the air.
The man gurgled as the knife lodged in his throat; she breathed a sigh of relief.
How she made it back to her tent she could not recall later. But somehow she was there, and she looked into the eyes of the one attacker still alive, her vision coming in and out of focus. The sword in his back must have gone pretty deep, for his eyes were glazed over and he made no attempt to defend himself—although, then again, she held no weapon.
"Who sent you?" she demanded. There was no way this was a chance encounter; this ambush had clearly been planned.
He blinked and focused on her but said nothing.
"Who sent you?" she repeated, jaw clenched.
Still he said nothing.
She inched closer until she was within arm's reach of the foot she'd speared with her boot knife. She gripped the knife's handle. "I will twist this blade until you beg for death."
He watched her but did not speak.
So she kept her word. She twisted the blade slowly, excruciatingly, watching with grim satisfaction as he howled and begged her to stop.
"The king!" he finally gasped. "It was the king, I will swear an oath, it was the king who sent us!"
She stopped and stared at him. "The king? Which king?"
"Mathais," he groaned. "Paid us. Kill you." Tears were streaming down his face and into his beard now.
She barely processed his words. "And the ambassador?"
He looked at her strangely. "What ambassador?"
Her head reeled. Now his words made sense: this whole thing was a setup. There was no ambassador, there never had been. The king, her king, had sent her here to die. To be murdered.
She'd always known he hated her, but to murder her? This came as a shock.
She didn't bother killing the man. He would bleed to death anyway, and she didn't have the strength to end his suffering. Instead she grabbed her weapons saddlebag, dragged it with her out of the tent, and whistled for her horse.
She pulled herself up onto her right leg and managed to awkwardly mount the horse, sitting sidesaddle for lack of any strength to swing her crippled left leg over. She could not return to Miltinoth now—she could never return home.
She managed to steer her horse west. Her mother, after all, had been Naralian, so perhaps she could seek refuge from sympathetic locals.
Her thoughts were sluggish and disjointed. The king—her king—had tried to murder her! She didn't know what to think. She couldn't think. She held on to her horse and tried to ignore the pain coursing through her left side. But her adrenaline had run out; her body was overwhelmed. She felt her grip on the horse slipping, and then everything went black.

About the Author
JB Starre is a writer and editor filled with wanderlust and a love for puppies. She writes both literary fiction and fantasy, and her most recent publication was a flash fiction piece called "A Faded Photograph," published in the Winter 2011 issue of Broad! magazine, available to read for free online at http://broadzine.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/broad11.pdf.

Thanks for reading!
I hope you enjoyed the first 27 chapters. To continue reading the story, to see the art that accompanies each chapter, and to read some behind-the-scenes information and interviews, please visit http://www.thewizardsprophecy.com.
Please help spread the word about TWP. Link to us, blog about us, review the ebook on Amazon and Goodreads. Every little bit helps attract readers.
The illustrated serial is free to read online at http://www.thewizardsprophecy.com. New chapters are posted each Wednesday at 10 am EST.
You can also check out TWP's Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Wizards-Prophecy/292732334090332
And follow the author on Twitter: @JBStarre