Drake

Drake could have heard Rosaliy’s scream if she was in an underwater castle, locked in a trunk and gagged. For the first time, he could feel the spell at work. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to fight these ruffians who dared touch Rosaliy and toss out threats. It took all his tenuous common sense to hang back. They could not hurt her, but that jaguar could rip him to bits, making for a poor rescue.

When Rosaliy told him to leave, he felt unraveled. Was it the spell telling him to leave while he was desperate to stay, or was he desperate to stay while the spell was ordering him to follow Rosaliy’s wishes? What would he have done without this muddling magical influence, and even if he could answer his own question, would that choice have been good or bad?

So he left. Temporarily, he told himself. He retreated from the cryptic argument and hauled himself up the ravine, back to camp.

Drake may not have known magic, but he did know kidnappings, and Rosaliy’s only shot at staying alive was if her captors did not get what they wanted. He dug through Rosaliy’s bag. Since three enemies were about to do the same, he did not bother feeling guilt over the violation of privacy. His fingers closed in around Lillya’s book. That was it. He could not explain why, but he was certain. He pulled the book for communicating with Cade while he was plundering and left the rest. They would be here soon.

As an afterthought, he grabbed a wrapped paper bundle from Rosaliy’s pile of things and unfurled its foul contents onto the stones of the half-constructed fire pit. Two large catfish—if these monstrosities deserved to be in the same category as fish—tumbled out. Rosaliy was operating under the theory that noxious smells would dampen the effects of a love potion, so she had these in case of emergency. Hopefully they would mediate a different emergency. He might be able to handle himself against a person or three, but the big cat would sniff him out and rip out his throat.

He scooped up his own bag and dropped over the side of the ravine with his other paper plunder, heading upstream to find a rock outcropping to conceal himself while they searched. The thought of them touching Rosaliy filled him with blind rage, but his experience held him back. He would follow them and take them by surprise. It would be safer for her.

Eventually, all was quiet. He crept out and took stock of the damage, on high alert for any lingering sentries. There was no trace of Rosaliy or her attackers. Everything was strewn and broken. The horses were nervous, but unharmed. His weapons were on him. He could salvage enough food for the night. What next?

He searched for tracks before the light was gone, but there were none leaving this place. His search brought him to the glint of metal. His fingers closed around Rosaliy’s dagger. He had one job to do, and she had disappeared under his nose. His heart felt empty. How had letting her be taken seemed like a good idea? Of course they had used magic to spirit her well out of his reach.

Magic. If he was going to get Rosaliy back, he would need some magic of his own.

His only advantage in this situation was a big one. He knew where he was going, and they did not. Dawn tomorrow, he would be on his way to a trading post in Taragon.

~~~~~

Shrilynda

Shrilynda hated Sorceresses. Everything about them offended the core of her being. The Naxturae thought them worthy of magic when they were no more than fuel—valuable blood wrapped in flesh. A Sorceress had more magical value than, say, a toad, but she was in the same category—an object meant to be used by those whose lives were of real worth.

This Sorceress, however, was bringing Shrilynda twisted joy. For the fifty-third time—Shrilynda had been counting—Issabeth threw herself at the cloudy boundary of their Nether Realm prison. Each time yielded a slightly different result. Either the clouds turned into a surface that threw Issabeth back, or she sent white flurries swirling with a blast of her pearl, or the pillowy surface sucked her up like a thirsty dog. The last was the most entertaining to watch, as the Sorceress would then struggle to free herself, yelling insults at the unfeeling white atmosphere as she thrashed angrily. Each new attempt flooded Shrilynda with sadistic joy.

Issabeth tumbled to the ground finally, and she was forced to pick herself up as she slowly started sinking into that surface as well. Learning how to operate in the nebulous surroundings took time and patience, neither of which the feisty Sorceress possessed.

“What are you staring at?” Issabeth snapped.

“Your futile struggles bring me joy,” Shrilynda answered.

Issabeth tossed sweaty blond hair out of her eyes and glared back.

Shrilynda’s mouth stretched into a smile all by itself. “Your unbridled hatred also brings me joy.”

“Trust me, Shril,” Issabeth replied. “Unbridled would look different.”

She was enjoying this so much, but, sadly, timing was important. “Are you ready to leave?” she asked.

“I won’t help you,” Issabeth muttered.

“Very well.” Shrilynda nodded, moving to leave. The Sorceress would rest now, which was much less entertaining to watch, although fantasizing about the different ways to kill a person in her sleep had its charms.

“That’s it?” Issabeth said suspiciously. “You’re just going to walk away? What’s your plan, Shril?”

Shrilynda thought this through. “Assuming you don’t assist now, eventually you’ll die in here, leaving behind the pearl, which I could subvert a bit at a time until I could use it myself.”

“That’s a disturbingly thorough plan,” Issabeth admitted. “How long will this take you?”

“A century or two,” Shrilynda answered dreamily.

“A hundred years?” Issabeth scoffed.

“Or two,” Shrilynda corrected. “The process is faster if you contribute, but what is time to me?”

She moved away, her movements less like walking and more like drifting.

“Wait,” sighed Issabeth.

Shrilynda paused. Already?

“What would I need to do?”

~~~~~

Drake

When Drake had a goal—a real one—he was single-minded. This trait was one of his biggest strengths and greatest character flaws. Right now, his goal was finding the Gemstone Trade and Tavern, and despite an unfamiliarity with Taragon, he was standing under the sign by nightfall.

His horses were exhausted, and half of Taragon knew he was here after pointing him in the right direction, but subtlety was not as important as speed in this case. Now he just needed to chat with the shopkeepers to find out when they had last seen Daniella and where she had gone, and he would be well on his way to accomplishing his next goal.

That was the plan he had walking in.

He pushed open the door, and it jingled faintly. He stepped into a multi-purpose store with two areas, as advertised on the sign. One side was a store full of general supplies, and one side was a tavern—stone tables and chairs with an area for making and serving drinks in the corner. The entire space was cleaner than the taverns he was accustomed to, and the wares for the trading post were meticulously organized. He had a hard time believing miners and travelers appreciated the level of care being shown to everyday supplies. Nothing on display really deserved to be on display.

All this he noticed in a glance, because his attention was immediately drawn to the woman standing in the middle of the large space, staring at him.

“Do you think a window right there would help with lighting?” asked the woman who looked alarmingly like the Daniella he was here to find, if Daniella had been replaced by a copy of herself with plain, rough clothing and a tight, immaculate bun.

He blinked and did the only thing he could—examine the wall behind him. The store side had a window offering meager lighting, but the tavern side was dim and…well…like a tavern. It was lit mainly by the glowing hearth.

“It would,” he said, “but generally people who come to taverns aren’t all that eager to be seen.”

“Excellent point,” she murmured. “Thank you for your input. What do you require?”

While she waited for his response, she returned to the store area where she was meticulously lettering a board with a bit of chalk.

“I…stopped in for…” This was not going well. What game was she playing?

She cocked her head and looked at him with her piercing stare. “You’re not from around here,” she said.

“No,” he said, managing to get himself back on track. “I’ve come from Crystal Palace.”

He watched closely for a reaction, but not too closely. People who knew they were being watched for reactions rarely gave the right ones. In this case, suspected Daniella gave none. She was so convincing, he began to wonder if he might have the wrong person.

“I’ve never heard of it,” she said, returning to her lettering. “Is that the Taragon castle?”

How was he to respond to that? She gave no indication of lying, but she must be lying. Why would she bother with such an outlandish falsehood?

“Opal,” called a voice from what was likely a storeroom. “I need to make a run to the still for ale.”

The voice grew closer until he was speaking from inside the large store space. The man who belonged to the voice was broad shouldered and square jawed and vaguely intimidating and jovial all at once—all the traits required to be successful in the tavern business. He looked over Daniella’s shoulder, or possibly Opal’s shoulder, at the chalkboard on the table in front of her.

“I’m still not sure how lowering prices will make me more money, Opal,” he said dubiously.

“Just during the pre-sunset hours,” Daniella/Opal explained. “Customers will make a point of coming by earlier. And they’ll buy more while they’re here. And store customers will stop in for a drink if it’s just a few coins more. Basically, it’s a waste of space to have an entire tavern sitting unused all day. Would you like to see the numbers again?”

The man shook his head, mystified, and threw up his hands in surrender. “You are the best shopkeep I’ve ever had, Opal. Jess will be in soon to set up for the night crowd, but it doesn’t look like you need the help.” He scanned the store. “Did you reorganize? Again?”

“Jess can clean out the cupboards in the back,” said Daniella/Opal, who had gone back to lettering. “Those cupboards are just asking for rats to move in. Did you find your past ledgers for me?”

A look of panic flitted across his face. “I’ll find them first thing when I get back,” he promised, now in a rush to get out of his store. She shot him a cold, disapproving stare. This was definitely Daniella. Maybe. The door jingled and banged shut as the store owner hurried away from Daniella’s tasks.

“How is it possible you’ve never heard of Crystal Palace?” Drake was unsure whether he was calling her bluff or playing her game at this point, but it hardly mattered.

Her ice blue eyes evaluated him, and now she was inventing a careful story. “My memory hasn’t been the best lately.” She shrugged a little, like the fact was nearly inconsequential. He suspected she might be telling the truth, which made her innocent statement very consequential.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” he said, deciding to accept her at her word, “but there is a group of unsavory characters headed here to search for you. If you’ll come with me, I can expl—”

“No,” she interrupted.

“No?” he echoed. “I don’t think you underst—”

“I understand,” she said, drawing the last swirl on her board with a flourish of chalk. “Isn’t it just as logical for me to suspect you are one of those people or that the ones coming—if they exist—are the ones with my interests at heart?”

That did have twisted logic to it.

“I know you,” he tried.

“That doesn’t mean much,” she countered. “Do you have any proof?”

“Proof of…”

She crossed her hands over each other on the counter in front of her and stared him down. “Your choice. Whatever you’d like to prove.”

He had Lillya’s book, but pulling that out seemed like a risk with no possible reward. He had nothing.

“Well, no,” he admitted. “I don’t have any proof of anything.”

“That does seem to vouch for your story, in a way,” she mused. “Certainly an enemy would have manufactured at least flimsy proof of such claims. Unless you’re incompetent. Hmm…” She scanned him up and down. “No, I know no more than before.”

His mouth opened, but no sound came out of it. Once the Flifary got their hands on this woman, Rosaliy’s life was in danger. The situation was that straight forward. He had tried being reasonable and responding to the situation like an honorable, law-abiding citizen would. That approach had gotten him nowhere.

“I know what would prove things to you,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. “Could I have some of that thin rope before I go?”

She narrowed her eyes. He smiled a non-threatening smile. “I’m sorry to have come in here spouting all that,” he said. “And for wasting your time. You’re clearly very busy. You know, I’m not even sure you’re the right person. Seeing as how you’re not expecting me.”

Neither of them believed a word he was saying, but she moved for the rope, which was draped on a tall hook on the wall. He snatched a cloth off a barrel that was soon to be a display near the door and twisted it in his hands. He swooped behind the counter of the shop, feeling a lot more like the villain in this scenario than the hero. Story of his life.

Daniella spun to confront him, opening her mouth to cry out. He shoved the wrapped cloth inside her conveniently open mouth to muffle her cries while he pinned her arms behind her back with his other arm. She nearly sliced his arm off with the knife she had stealthily grabbed along with the rope, but he knocked it out of her hands, clamped it with his foot, and kicked it away.

Apparently he had decided kidnapping would be the right move in this scenario, so his choices were limited at this point. Jess and the shop owner would be back any moment, so he needed to move to an unoccupied area, far enough to make a search fruitless and a location suitable for a Flifary ambush. With or without Rosaliy’s help, they would be tracking Daniella eventually, which meant he could use her as bait.

While he tied the gag in Daniella’s mouth and scooped up the nearby rope to tie her hands behind her back—actions that took almost no conscious thought—Drake realized he was in a store filled with mining supplies. He saw a stack of small crates in the corner, nailed tight, hay peeking from the slats.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

Daniella’s eyes grew round. He would take that as confirmation. He pulled her over to the stack. She was not very compliant, which was going to be a problem. She landed a solid kick on his shin.

“No kicking, please,” he complained. “I can tie your legs and carry you and the crate, but I’d rather not.”

She glared back, trying to melt him with her eyes. Hopefully, if she was able to do so, that was one of her lost memories.

“Believe it or not, I mean you no harm.”

Her sharp eyebrows rose. She said something that was completely muffled by the wrapped cloth in her mouth.

“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” he admitted. “I know a few things about you. The most important one is that you’re smart, so you will scream if I take off that gag. I was hoping you could help me find my kidnapped friend with your magic, but since you won’t be doing that, I’m going to have to wait for the unsavory characters to come for you.”

She answered with a muffled exclamation.

“Yes, I can see how that looks bad for me,” he agreed, carefully cradling the top crate under his arm and nudging her forward with the other.