The Wizard's Heir (5 page)

Tybolt awoke to the buzz of children screaming with excitement instead of wailing from hunger. That alone should’ve put him in a fine mood. But today was festival…he
hated
festival. Groaning, he pushed the covers back and sat up.

He forced his heavy eyelids open and looked down at his hands. They were covered in dirt and grime, and his fingernails were caked with black. He hadn’t bothered to bathe last night. The idea of his feather bed was too fine a prospect to delay.

He looked over to the large tub in his room. It was clear a fire had not been lit beneath it since he’d left for the hunt. Had he procured any one of the other servants in the castle, no doubt his bath would’ve been heated and filled. He also would’ve been woken to bathe before it cooled. But he didn’t have the other servants—he’d chosen Malachi. Not because Malachi was good, but because no one else had wanted him.

Tybolt poured some cold water into the small basin on his dresser and splashed it on his face. Using damp hands he smoothed his black, shoulder-length hair and secured it at the base of his neck with a leather tie.

He leaned forward and placed his palms on the dresser, peering into the mirror. His mother had been gone for so long, and all he had left of her was his own reflection. The same oval face, strong nose, and high cheek bones. Marring the mental picture of his mother was his unnatural blue eyes—a constant reminder of a man he’d never met.

When he’d first arrived at the castle to be trained as a Hunter, Hess had warned him that the Hunters would be suspicious of his eyes, so he would need to prove himself. He’d been right. That was the last day Tybolt ever saw Hess.

The night of the Fracture, Hess had inexplicably shown up moments after Tybolt had lost his mother and sister. He so clearly remembered leaning over the edge of the crumbling cliff and screaming down to the ocean as it swallowed everything he loved. Then feeling Hess’s arms pick him up and rush him to a horse. The land continued to crack and crumble behind them, dropping into the sea as they galloped to safety.

Tybolt remembered very little of the rest of that night. They had ridden for what felt like eternity. He still didn’t know if the ride to the small cabin in the woods was really that long or if his grief had dragged the seconds into hours. Hess cared for Tybolt in that cabin for over a year. Then he’d vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving Tybolt once again with no one.

Shaking his head, Tybolt turned away from the mirror. He pulled on a pair of brown pants and a white shirt to attend the first in a long list of activities. Festival began with a play that reenacted the Fracture. Everyone was required to attend, with the exception of the servants. After eight years he could’ve performed it himself. He stuck the gold he’d collected yesterday in one pocket. He then folded up a blank piece of parchment, scrawled
Malachi
on it, and shoved it in the other pocket.

He walked down the deserted hallway, passing the doors to the other male Hunters’ rooms. The hall opened into a large common room with soaring ceilings and a fireplace on each side large enough to stand in. Rugs of different patterns and colors lay on the floor, anchored by a mismatched variety of chairs and couches. The room was empty, which meant he was late for breakfast.

A large clang sounded and Tybolt jumped, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. But he’d not strapped it on.

“Sorry, my lord.” Malachi bent to pick up the empty basin of water. His curly brown hair stood nearly three inches off his head and bobbed as he moved. “I was just on my way to your room.”

Tybolt eyed the river of water that ran across the stone, soaking the edge of the wool rug. “I assume that was for my bath?”

“Well, yes.” He perked up. “But I can get more.”

Tybolt rubbed the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Yes, you can. Although, the double buckets would probably get the job done faster.”

Malachi smiled sheepishly. He grabbed the basin and backed out of the room. “I’ll just…go do that.”

“I’ll be gone most of the morning,” Tybolt shouted after him. “You needn’t hurry.” Hurrying was not in Malachi’s nature. There was a time when Tybolt had always told him to hurry in hopes that something might be done on time. He quickly learned that telling Malachi to hurry was merely a guarantee that the boy would trip on his feet and break something.

Malachi poked his head back around the corner. “I’ll make sure your bath is ready when you return.”

It wasn’t five seconds later before Tybolt heard the basin hit the floor again.

“Sorry!”

“Malachi! It’s no hurry, just…” he trailed off and sighed. “Walk,” Tybolt muttered to himself. “Just walk.”

Tybolt stepped out of the castle’s main gates and into the square. It was packed with people wearing the finest clothes they owned. For many that meant their rags had been cleaned.

Tybolt stopped at his favorite sweet bread cart. “Two, Darcia.”

Darcia’s collar bones jutted out from beneath her dress, and the hollows of her cheeks were pronounced. Although her children were some of the best fed in the village, raised on unsold sweet rolls, their mother looked like the rest of the villagers.

“Skipping breakfast at the palace again, Lord Tybolt?” Darcia pulled two steaming rolls from a large brown basket.

“The palace?” Tybolt scoffed and handed over his coin, plus a little extra. “If the castle cooks could make a sweet roll half as good as yours, they would never get me out of the kitchen.”

Darcia blushed and suppressed a nervous giggle, tucking the coin away.

Tybolt glanced through the crowd to see a little boy ducking behind Pete’s cart, the only fat man in the entire village, and begin digging through his garbage. Tybolt inwardly cringed. “I’m going to need another one of those rolls,” he told Darcia, fishing another coin from his pocket as he kept an eye on the boy. He took the sweet roll from her and darted through the crowd. He slipped behind the cart and grabbed the little boy’s wrist.

The boy looked up, startled. All eyes in his gaunt face.

Tybolt put his mouth next to the boy’s ear.  “Pete doesn’t take kindly to thieves, even from his trash.”

The little boy panicked and jerked back, knocking over a crate of turnips in his haste.

Pete turned to find them both crouched between bins of vegetables. His portly cheeks and neck grew red at the sight.

Tybolt stood and pulled the boy up by his bone-thin wrist. “Pete!” He grinned and casually took a bite from his sweet roll. “I was just trying to pick a few of your finest vegetables with the help of my young friend here. It appears we’ve made a mess.”

Pete’s face began to return to its normal color, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Lord Tybolt, you know I only keep my most expensive produce behind the stall.”

“I do, I do.” Tybolt handed the second roll over to the boy, who snatched it as if it might disappear at any moment. He ravenously shoved it in his mouth. “Surely you noticed Lady Auriella and I with our catch yesterday.”

Pete broke into a grin and leaned back to tuck in his shirt—and part of his oversized belly—into his pants. “I heard the commotion but didn’t realize who the lucky Hunters were. What can I get for you?”

“Surprise me,” Tybolt said, flipping him a gold coin. “A bag full of your best.”

Pete took a burlap sack and began shoving in fruits and vegetables. “Taking some food out to your family, then?”

“Of course,” Tybolt said, shouldering his sack. “One can’t be too generous with family. Happy festival.”

“Happy festival to you.” Pete pocketed the gold with a satisfied gleam in his eye.

Tybolt steered the boy out of the main square and into one of the tiny alleys between the tightly packed homes. He knelt and looked him over. The child was in worse condition than he’d originally thought—skin and bones. His eyes were too big for his face, and his shirt hung on him like it would on a scarecrow.

“Blue-eyed Hunter,” the boy whispered. His eyes grew even wider.

“Listen, if you’re going to rummage through garbage, you must steer clear of Pete. He’s sent men to prison for less, and he’ll have no mercy on boys. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded.

“Who do you belong to, anyway?”

The boy looked away and shrugged. “Ma died last week. I haven’t seen Pa in two days.”

“What’s your Pa’s name?”

“Dain.”

Anger flared inside Tybolt. “Here.” He held out the sack of food. “Take this straight home. Don’t show it to anyone. Shove it in a cupboard or under the bed, and make it last as long as you can.” He paused. “Your Pa will be home tonight, I promise.”

The boy struggled to shoulder the sack of food that was almost as big as he was. “I’ve heard about you.”

Tybolt sat back on his heels and evaluated the boy. “And what have you heard?”

“That you take better care of us than the king.”

Tybolt grabbed the boy’s shirt and jerked him forward. “Don’t ever, ever repeat that,” he hissed. “The king will hang you in a second!” Tybolt released him.  “Go on, get home.”

The little boy hesitated for only a moment, then ran out of the alley, disappearing into the crowd. Tybolt emerged a little while later and headed down to the far east side of the village. The crowd was moving this way as well, trying to get early seats at the amphitheater.

The earthquakes from the Fracture had opened up an enormous hole. Instead of filling it in, King Rowan ordered it be fitted with seats for festival.
That they might never forget the past.

Tybolt rolled his eyes just thinking about it.
Forget
. How could anyone forget the cause of their slow starvation?

Fingers ran down his arm, and he found one of the village girls batting her eyes and smiling at him. He acknowledged her as casually as he could and quickly veered out of the crowd and down a side street for a quick stop at Rose’s house. Tybolt knew she’d be home because aside from servants, the only other people not required at festival were those with infants. Rose’s girl was not yet six months old.

The praise of the almighty king simply must not be interrupted by squalling babes.

Tybolt mussed his hair up, put his forearm against the doorframe, and leaned forward as if exhausted. He was about to begin his theatrics when a loud
caw
caught his attention. He glanced up. Sitting on the slope of the roof just above him was a black crow with beady eyes. The crow twisted his head from one side to the other as if evaluating Tybolt’s intentions. The bird cawed again, loudly.

He was about to shoo it away when he noticed that it appeared to have a tiny tube attached to its leg. “What is that?” he whispered to himself. Tybolt stretched his neck to get a better look, but the bird hopped higher, cawed once, then flew away—disappearing behind the house.

“Stupid bird.” Tybolt leaned back against the frame and knocked loudly, breaking into heavy breathing. A woman opened the door, her thin red hair pulled back at the nape of her neck in a severe bun.

“Tybolt.” Rose huffed in aggravation. “By all the cursed wizard spawn there is, I am not in need of charity!”

“I know, you made that quite clear last time. I’m not—” He took gasping breaths as if he’d just run a few miles. “Sorry.” He held up a finger and leaned over his knees. “There’s an emergency. I have to get a message to my servant, Malachi. But I can’t miss the play or King Rowan will never forgive me, please…”

He barely heard her sigh over his own labored breathing. “What do you need me to do?”

“Can you have Jorad run this to the palace?” He grabbed the paper he’d prepared earlier that morning and handed it to Rose.

“I can take it in the morning when I pick up the lady Hunter’s laundry.”

“No, it can’t wait. Please, he needs to go quickly—it’s urgent.”

Rose took the paper and yelled over her shoulder for Jorad. The tow-headed boy of ten appeared so quickly that he’d no doubt been eavesdropping around the corner.

“I can do it, Mama,” he piped up enthusiastically. “I’ll go right now.”

“I need you to be quick,” Tybolt said. “It’s important.”

“I’m very quick. Everyone says so.”

“Good boy.”

Jorad grabbed the paper from his mother and rushed past him. Tybolt pulled a coin from his pocket and placed it in Rose’s palm, wrapping her hand around it.

“What is this?” she asked.

“You don’t take charity, and I don’t ask for favors. I’ll pay the boy for his service.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Tybolt—”

He bowed. “Thank you for your assistance.”

She looked down at the coin in her hand and sputtered. “This is far too much for a simple errand.”

He backed away from the door. “I’m paying in advance for his services next time I need them.” He turned on his heel, smiling.

“I know what you just did, Tybolt!” she shouted.

“You’re a smart woman, Rose. I wouldn’t dream of trying to fool you. Happy Festival.”

“With this you’ve paid for the boy’s service for a year. I expect you to use it.”