The Wizard's Heir (8 page)

Today it was filled with the usual patrons—the ones who never had food but somehow managed to find enough money to pay Griffon. His liquor was crap, but it was all that was available. Despite the sour taste, it still managed to fulfill its purpose—lulling the patrons into a blissful state of oblivion. To his right sat the man Tybolt had come for.

“Dain!” he shouted.

The man jerked, spilling his drink all over his arm and table. Dain cursed a string of profanities. Tybolt marched over, pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and straddled it.

Griffon looked up, scowled, and went back to scrubbing the bar top.

“What do you want?” Dain growled, still shaking the liquor from his hands.

“I ran into your boy this morning.”

“So?”

“So? Would you like to know
where
I found him?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I found him digging through Pete’s trash.”

Even in his drunken stupor, that got Dain’s attention. “That fool boy!” he sputtered. “He knows better. What was he thinking?”

“What was he thinking?” Tybolt lurched to his feet, grabbed Dain by the front of the shirt, and dragged him across the table. “He was thinking he was starving. He was thinking his mother is gone and his father is drunk in some tavern. He was thinking if he didn’t get some food he would die! That’s what he was
thinking
!” He pulled Dain’s face within inches of his own. “Now, go home and take care of your son before you find him hanging from the gallows. I gave him enough food to last you both a while, though why I bother to concern myself with your hunger pains is beyond me. And so help me, if I find out that you sold one solitary morsel of that food for any reason, I will slip into your house in the middle of the night and slit you from nose to navel. Am I clear?”

Dain’s face had gone sheet-white. He nodded.

“Good, now get out of here. I don’t want to see you near this tavern again until that boy can support himself.” He shoved Dain backwards.

Dain landed halfway on his chair and tipped to the floor. He scrambled up and stumbled out the door.

“Chasing off my customers again, I see,” Griffon said from behind him.

Tybolt pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it to him. “Just trying to keep little boys alive.”

“At least someone is.” Griffon pocketed the coin. “You do more for this village than anyone, Tybolt.”

“I wish people would stop saying that before they get themselves killed.”

“Hanging is better than the Hold…and better than starving to death.” Griffon wiped down the table and grabbed the upended glass.

“Better to stay alive,” Tybolt said.

“You can’t save them all.” Griffon walked back to the bar.

“I can try,” he muttered.

Griffon looked at him.

“What?”

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

Dread shot through him. “What?”

“A few weeks ago you bought off an angry wife. At least that’s what I overheard.”

“Jocelyn?”

“That’s her. Accusing her husband of wizardry.”

“Wizardry,” Tybolt scoffed. “Sam is no more a wizard than I am. She was angry because he’d had a fling with another woman.”

“Pay her much?”

“Enough. Why?”

Griffon shrugged. “Sam’s scheduled to hang for Festival. She accused him the minute you rode out of the gates on your hunt.”

Tybolt swore and grabbed one of the glasses from the counter, taking a swig. It burned all the way down, adding to his own fire. Tybolt spat. “Where do you get this swill?”

“I take offense to your tone, Tybolt. I brew this myself.”

“That’s right, I remember. In the forest in some secret distillery that neither I nor any other Hunter has ever seen before.”

Griffon leaned an elbow on the counter. “Is this really what you want to talk about right now?”

Tybolt sobered and slammed down the glass. “There’s nothing I can do to help him. Once he’s been arrested, it’s all over.”

“And Jocelyn?”

“I don’t want to talk about Jocelyn.” Tybolt scanned the tavern. “Where’s Gamel?”

“Haven’t seen him tonight.”

“He was drunk this morning and spouting off something about knowing where Alistair is.”

“Alistair.” Griffon chuckled. “Gamel is crazy on his sober days.”

“True.” And yet, his information had never been wrong. Tybolt slapped the bar top. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“I’m sure you will, but I’m running out of patrons for you to chase away.”

Tybolt grinned and tossed Griffon another coin.

“Apology accepted.”

Tybolt strolled out of the tavern and towards the western wall. If Gamel wasn’t at the tavern, he had to be at his house. Only a few homes had survived the Fracture, and Gamel’s was one of them. They would’ve torn it down, but Gamel sat inside it and refused to move. The story was that when they’d gone in and tried to remove him by force, he’d spit on one man and pissed on the other. The foreman was so angry he decided to teach him a lesson by building the wall so close to the house that it looked like the two were leaning on each other for support. The foreman was in for a disappointment—Gamel couldn’t have cared less.

Tybolt didn’t have time to knock before the door swung open. Gamel scowled at him, his dirty cloak still around his shoulders. “I wondered when you would come. Took a bit longer than I expected.”

“I thought I’d find you at the tavern.”

Gamel shook his head and shuffled towards the living area. “That doesn’t seem like a proper place to discuss this sort of thing. Did you at least bring me a drink?”

“No, I prefer you sober when we talk business.”

“Ahhh, so you believe me.”

“No.” Tybolt eyed the filthy couch and decided to stand. It was a wise choice—Gamel plopped down and a cloud of dust puffed up, illuminated by the candle’s faint light.

“Then why bother coming?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to figure out what possessed you to go spouting off such nonsense in the middle of the play? That was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do, and that, my old friend, is saying something.”

Gamel shrugged. “I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.”

“With your ridiculous announcement that Aja didn’t cause the Fracture?”

Gamel nodded.

Tybolt leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “You’re trying to tell me that the only wizard capable of controlling weather wasn’t responsible for bringing in the storm that tore this land apart?”

The sound of horses clopping down the cobblestones filled the house. Gamel tilted his head to the side, listening. Tybolt opened his mouth to talk, but Gamel held a wrinkled finger up. They waited until the hoof beats faded into the city.

“The royal carriage,” Gamel said. “Bringing supplies in for the feast, no doubt. Do you ever wonder where it all comes from?”

“Probably from the same place where Pete gets his produce—Deasroc.”

“Pete has money to purchase with. The royal coffers are surely empty by now. The amount of food and fabric King Rowan brings in would have bankrupt Eriroc a long time ago.”

“And what do you know of such things?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just an old drunk who bumbles mindlessly about…but even the drunk aren’t blind.”

“Seems like everyone else is,” Tybolt muttered.

“Blind? I think not.”

Tybolt looked over his shoulder out of habit, despite knowing they were alone. “They support him,” he seethed, “even when they starve. They sit there and say
nothing
.”

“Nothing?”

“Not enough,” Tybolt said. “Occasional whispers when people are so deep in their cups they can’t hold their tongues. That will solve nothing.

“They fear him, and fear is not support. Others who are brave have spoken—I’ve heard them. They would choose a different king.”

Tybolt stood straighter and looked down at Gamel. “Who?”

“Who?” Gamel grinned, exposing rows of brown chipped teeth. “You.”

Tybolt snorted. “You’ve lost your mind. No one wants a wizard or a Hunter on the throne. You must be more drunk than usual.”

Gamel pulled his robe tighter around his shoulders. “Perhaps. Drunk or not, I happen to know where Alistair is.”

“So you said, but how could you know that? And why now? We’ve been looking for Alistair for eight years without so much as a sniff, and now you just
happen
to know where he is.”

“Information reached me and I listened. I didn’t interrupt to complain about how long it took.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you’ve known me from the day you arrived at those cursed castle gates, and my information has always been reliable.”

“You’ll have to forgive my questioning, Gamel, but when you show up at the Festival play spouting off accusations of treason, I get nervous.” Gamel’s eyes were unwavering and focused on him—clear, intelligent…different. “All right,” Tybolt relented. “Let’s say you do know where he is. How much do you want?”

“I’ll be paid in time. Meet me in the forest and we’ll talk.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why can’t you tell me here?”

“Day after tomorrow, meet me in the forest…where you camped with the last wizard you brought in.”

“Wait, what? How would you know where we camped?”

“All sorts of news reaches me, boy, how do you think I know what I know? You shouldn’t be surprised that I know something about you.”

Tybolt bit down his questions, knowing he’d only waltz in circles if he continued to push. He turned for the door.

“One other thing—who do you think they’ll hang tomorrow?”

Tybolt turned with his hand still on the door. “Why do you ask?”

“I simply find it interesting that out of all the wizards in the Hold, wizards he despises so thoroughly, King Rowan always decides to hang the one accused who is not.”

His words shot through Tybolt like ice.

“Sam.”

“Interesting, don’t you think?”

Tybolt waited until the changing of the guard. Once the two had turned their backs, he slipped around the side of the castle gates and waited in the shadows until the new guards took their positions. He crept silently around the perimeter, passing underneath the branches of an especially large oak tree that had cracked into three sections during the Fracture—the middle had died, but the two sides grew out as tall and strong as ever.

A whisper came from above. “Where do you go at nights?”

Tybolt froze, then peered up into the branches. He saw a familiar figure sitting there—Auriella. His heart beat faster. “Depends on the night.”

When she didn’t respond, he climbed the tree and sat next to her. “How do you know I go out at night?”

“Malachi asked Sarah if you spent the nights with me, which means you must go out a lot. The real question is—why would he think you were with me?”

Tybolt grinned and looked out through the branches at the small section of sky he could see. “Malachi trips on his own feet. It’s difficult to say what he’s thinking. Although…it is possible that he found me mooning over a drawing of you.”

“What?”

Tybolt feigned a jerk of surprise. “What?”

“Do you have a drawing of me?” she demanded.

He tapped his chin. “You know…I don’t recall.”

“Tybolt—”

He laughed. “Relax, I’m a terrible artist.”

“Liar,” she grumbled.

“What are you doing up here?” he said, steering the conversation in a new direction. ”Waiting for me?” He winked. Auriella rolled her eyes.

“I happen to like sitting in trees.”

“Ha!” Tybolt said. “Now who’s the liar? You climb to hunt, scope, and
maybe
if something was trying to eat you. Other than that you avoid it, because you hate how the bark cuts into your palms.”

“I climb anytime I find it advantageous, and I happen to like sitting in trees when I need to think.”

He kept his face neutral, though he wanted to grin like a fool and dance a jig to go with it. She was opening up, bit by bit. He nudged her gently with his shoulder. “Thinking about what?”

Auriella’s face darkened, and she looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He waited a moment, but he knew he would get no further in that line of questioning. He pushed himself up and stepped over Auriella’s legs, heading down the branch. When she didn’t move, he looked back. “Well, come on.”

She cocked an eyebrow at his presumption. “Come where?”

He gripped the limb above his head and moved out to the thinner part of the branch.

“I believe you asked me where I go at night. I’ll show you. Coming?”

Auriella looked to Tybolt and back to the ground, not moving. He waited. Finally, she got to her feet and followed. He put out his hand for her to stop before their combined weight cracked the branch in half. He inched further and further forward until he was hanging over the castle wall. He grasped the branch he was standing on and swung down, then dropped to the ground. It was a long fall, even for him, and he used a roll to absorb the impact. Auriella followed his lead and hit the ground a few moments later.

Now that they were out of the shadows drawn by the tree branches, Tybolt could see that Auriella’s eyes were red and puffy. She’d been crying. He dare not ask what the matter was, not yet. He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the square. She hesitated.