Читать книгу Wandfasted - Laurie Forest - Страница 9
Оглавление“We’re not doing business with Crows,” Mistress Darrow states. “Not anymore.”
She stands with one fist propped on a broad hip, her apple-cheeked face twisted up into a triumphant sneer, strands of her blond hair escaping her crimson kerchief. The flag of Keltania is pinned above her ample bosom—an iron-black X on a rectangle of bloodred linen.
Her husband, Merchant Darrow, seems embarrassed, his own Keltanian flag haphazardly pinned up near his shoulder. He looks down at the wooden counter in front of him, toying with the smooth abacus and deliberately avoiding my gaze.
Panic rears inside me. My grip tightens on the apothecary crate I’ve set down before them, tidy medicine bottles lined up in the segmented box. I think of the money we need for our journey east to Verpacia. Of the red tinge to the leaves, winter close on our heels. My elderly grandfather, my young brother.
Doveshire has become too dangerous for Gardnerians. It took ages for my brother, Wren, and me to convince our stubborn grandfather that we needed to leave, but now, everything is ready for our departure—the wagon is packed, the horses already hitched, the house closed up.
All we need is the money for these medicines I’ve spent weeks brewing. The money we’ve been counting on to buy supplies—supplies we’ll need to survive.
I straighten my shoulders, trying not to shrink under Mistress Darrow’s glare. “I don’t understand. The last time I came in, you were happy to buy my medicines.”
She blows out a disgusted breath. “Dark witches with dark magic, that’s what your lot is. First you twist the faith that belongs to us. Then you use your dark magic to steal a nice big chunk of our land.” She gives her chin a defiant lift, her smile full of venom. “Well, the tide is turning. Your magic’s faded.”
Some of what she’s saying is true, to the sadness of many Gardnerians. Most of my people have no magic or weak magic at best. And we haven’t had a Great Mage in generations. But our magic isn’t dark, and I’ve never done a thing to harm her or anyone else—though I’m sorely tempted to in this moment.
I can feel her angry gaze on me as I turn to her husband. “Please, Merchant Darrow,” I plead, the forced politeness of my tone ringing false in my own ears. “I’ve spent weeks preparing these healing brews for your shop. My family is counting on me to sell them.”
Conscience seems to get the better of Merchant Darrow, his lined face tensing in discomfort. “Just this last time, Tessla,” he forces out gruffly, still not looking at me as he pulls the vials of medicines closer to inspect them.
Mistress Darrow throws him a tight look of fury before grabbing the crate and jerking it away from the both of us.
“We’ll take them, then.” She smiles malevolently. “Just like you Crows took our land.” She sets a hard gaze on her husband. “No payment.”
I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “What?”
She skewers me with her glare. “Oh, we’re onto the lot of you. Figuring you’ll wave your wands around and take everything we’ve got right from under us. Well, not this time. We’re going to fight, and we’ll stamp you all out before you have a chance to raise up another Dark Mage. And we’re taking our land back.”
My heart pounds like a hammer. I lunge for the crate, but she’s anticipated me, pulling it quickly out of reach just as Brandon and two other burly blacksmith apprentices lumber into the Guildmarket.
“You can’t,” I protest, full of righteous fury and mounting desperation as she sets the crate on a high shelf behind her. “That’s a whole month’s work. We’ve nothing else to trade. You’re stealing.”
“Got a Roach in here? Causing trouble?” Brandon saunters toward me, smelling of sweat and smoke. His blond hair is greasy, and the flag of Keltania is securely pinned over his heart.
I glare up at him with undisguised loathing. Undaunted, Brandon reaches out with a broad, dirty hand to paw at my hair. I flinch away, and he laughs, a cruel gleam in his eyes. “At least she’s a pretty Roach.”
“Is she?” Gerrig sidles up and gives me a slow once-over, Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny, chicken-like neck. He flicks up the edge of my tunic with his finger.
“You’d never know it, with all this black fabric they wear. Could have three titties, for all we know.”
I recoil and slap my tunic hem down flat, flushing with embarrassment and horror as the young men and Mistress Darrow break into laughter. I’m stunned by their brazen cruelty and find myself blinking back tears.
“We could check that,” stocky Colton offers, mischief lighting his eyes.
Their chortling quickly turns to an open leer. I shrink back, my gaze darting toward the door, then desperately back to my medicines.
Merchant Darrow won’t let them hurt me, I reason, trying to calm myself. He’s never been unkind. And surely he’ll pay me.
Out of the corner of my eye, through the store’s large front windows, I see young Keltic men running down the street armed with bows and swords, the flag of Keltania pinned to their arms. My mind is cast into confusion and mounting alarm.
“What’s happening?” I ask nervously. “Where are they going?”
Brandon leans in close and I know what his answer will be before he speaks.
“To get rid of all of you.”
A Purging.
The villagers have murmured about it for months as the border hostilities heated up, hissing their threats as I passed by. Grandfather kept dismissing it all as overinflated bravado, so we stupidly remained here.
My plan for escape is a single day too late.
I back away from Brandon as my stomach gives a sickening lurch, suddenly aware of how much danger we’re in. I have to get home to Grandfather and Wren. I have to get them to safety right now. And I have to get hold of Grandfather’s wand so I can use what magic I have to protect them.
“Come along, Edgard,” Mistress Darrow slyly purrs to her husband, a vengeful gleam in her eye. She takes in the restless crowd on the street, Brandon and his cohorts—and me, conspicuously unarmed, unprotected. “Leave the girl,” she directs as Merchant Darrow hesitates, a worried expression on his face. “Let the young men take care of the Crows.”
My throat goes dry and tight. “Please, Merchant Darrow,” I plead. “You’ve always been fair to us.”
Merchant Darrow glances toward the young men, then back at me, obviously torn, a hard crease between his eyes.
Another mob of men streams by the windows, brandishing knives and swords. Some are on horseback, riding toward my home downriver.
My panic crests as I turn back to see Merchant Darrow and his wife quietly slipping into the back of the shop, a heavy curtain falling shut behind them.
Emboldened, piggish Colton licks at his lip, splotches of red coloring his cheeks as he stares at my body. “Should we find out what’s under all that black?”
“Leave me alone, Colton,” I demand, backing up as far as I can, my skirts pressing against a grain barrel.
“‘Leave me alone, Colton,’” he jeers, his tone a high-pitched mockery of mine that sets Brandon laughing.
Gerrig snorts in derision, his smile excited. “Think they’re holier than us. That they’re the true First Children.”
“You too good for us?” Brandon chides, eyeing me smugly. “That why you go ’round with your nose stuck high in the air?”
“Stop it, Brandon,” I seethe, glaring at him. If I only had a wand.
“Or what?” Brandon taunts, stalking closer. “You’ll wave a magic stick at us? You don’t have any idea what’s coming, do you?”
“That’s enough,” I insist, my heart pounding. “I have to leave.” I step around him, but his muscular arm swings out to catch me.
“Not so fast, little witch.”
Growing desperate, I slip away from his grasp and try to go around his other side.
Laughing along with his friends, Brandon grabs me and jerks me roughly backward.
Infuriated, I wrench myself around and slam the base of my palm hard up against his nose, the pain of impact knifing up my arm.
He stumbles back in surprise, his hand flying up to his nose, blood seeping through his fingers. I glare at him fiercely.
Brandon’s eyes narrow, but before I can bolt for the door, he rushes forward and smacks me hard across the face.
Shocked, I stagger and lose my footing, falling to the floor. Brandon stalks toward me as I scuttle away from him, dizzy from the blow.
The door to the Guildmarket creaks open.
“Hit her again, and I will split your head, Brandon. I swear I will.”
Brandon stops, his fist clenched midair.
Jules Kristian is standing in the doorway, pointing an arrow straight at Brandon’s head.
Tall, skinny Jules. My Kelt neighbor. His glasses are askew, his hair is its usual brown, tousled mess and he’s not wearing a flag. He looks like one of them, dressed in an earth-toned tunic and pants. But he’s nothing like them—he always makes up his own mind rather than following the crowd.
And he’s made the very bad decision to be friends with me.
