13

Pact

WYNN TOOK OFF HER PACK and gave her fur a shake, showering tiny water droplets around her.

“Hey, watch it,” Lance grumbled next to her. He crouched and untied a small parchment-wrapped stack of sticks for kindling. Nearby, he’d laid out supplies to create a small camp: a pot, the parchment, cloth, pyre-paper, and other items.

“Sorry,” Wynn apologized.

They were beneath a rock overhang, from its top drooped long leafy plants that dangled inches from the ground.

From outside the rocky outcrop, Beryl landed from above and entered the overhang, droplets falling from his blue shell. Lance looked up from the fire he was making at his friend. He handed him a small cloth.

“Any sign?” he asked him.

Beryl took the cloth and shook his head. “Nope.” He dried his shell and then his face. “I did see two quilled-squirrels fighting over a speckled-birch nut, and a nest of eggs.”

Wynn looked up eagerly. “Eggs? Where? Also, what type of eggs?”

Beryl pointed over to the right to a thin grove of trees. “In the red pied-willow over there. They were in a small nest around the top branches. Olive green.”

Wynn made a mental note, stomach rumbling at the thought. It had been too long since she’d had eggs. Those webbed hoppers seemed ages ago. She sat a little ways from the two and watched as Lance tended to the pile of brushwood and pyre-paper.

After a few small crackles, the fire roared to life. Lance sighed and sat back, watching the orange flames.

“Finally,” Beryl said, sitting near the growing flame. He let out a small sneeze and rubbed his hands together.

For a moment, they quietly watched as the flames flickered and danced before them, shifting their shadows along the wall.

Eventually, curiosity got the best of Wynn.

“Well,” Wynn said, maybe a bit too loudly.

The duo looked at her.

“I guess since we’re stuck here for a bit, introductions are in order,” she said.

Lance shook his head. “We don’t really have to—”

“I’m Wynn. I mentioned that before,” Wynn said. “I’m a swirl-ear from Tallstalks. Something interesting about me is that I can recite five plays from memory, and I can make a great berry tart.”

She pointed to Beryl.

“Me?” Beryl said.

She nodded.

“Oh, um,” Beryl said, “my name is Beryl and I guess I’m pretty tough. My shell is practically impenetrable.”

“Oh!” Wynn said. “Like a knight’s shield?”

Beryl nodded. “You could fire arrows at it, and I wouldn’t feel a thing, probably” he boasted.

“Well, that’s cool,” Wynn said.

There was a pause as they looked at Lance. He sighed.

“I’m Lance. I do magic,” he said flatly.

“What type of magic?” Wynn asked.

Lance gazed quietly into the fire before he answered. “Ire.”

Wynn cocked her head. “What’s that?”

“A light-based magic,” he said.

“Light-based magic?”

He looked at her incredulously. “You know. Weaving illusions, conjuring light-arrows, sight-spells.”

Wynn cocked her head further.

The thistle-hopper looked at her in disbelief. “Do you know nothing of magic?”

Wynn felt self-conscious. “Oh well, of course! Light-magic—now I remember!” she fibbed, perhaps too cheerfully. “I know quite a bit. I thought you casted a different kind. That’s where the confusion was coming from.”

Lance was unamused. He turned back to the fire and shook his head.

She noticed he also had a shell and two wing tips that poked out.

“I don’t fly,” he said as if reading her mind.

He narrowed his eyes, “In case you were wondering.”

“Oh,” Wynn said sheepishly.

As more silence descended upon them, Wynn thought of more questions. She looked back at Beryl, who was rubbing his hands near the flames again. “What’s your story?”

“What?” Beryl asked.

“You know, your history. Where you’re from and where you’re going,” she explained. From the looks of your packs, it seems I’m not the only one going on a journey.”

Beryl glanced at Lance, who gave a slight shake of his head.

The beetle-wark shook his head. “Can’t say.”

“What? Why not?” Wynn asked.

Beryl shrugged and looked away. “Just because.”

“Okay then,” Wynn said. She swished her tail against the ground. “Next question…why were you two poking around that tower?”

“Also, can’t say,” Lance said.

Wynn swished her tail, exasperated. “Okay, can you at least say why you’re in Bloomrot Gully, of all places?”

Lance got up and stretched. “I think that’s enough questions. We’re parting ways anyway once this rain lifts.” He looked at Beryl. “How about we get started on soup?”

Beryl looked up eagerly and sprang to his feet.

Puzzled and now a bit unnerved, Wynn watched Lance search for his pack, while Beryl brought in a small silver pot of rainwater from outside. He hooked it onto a wooden spit as Lance laid out dried leaves and herbs.

Wynn laid back, her mind buzzing with possibilities. She thought back to the books and trinkets Lance scooped up, and a startling thought entered her mind. She sat up, her eyes wide.

“Are you two rogues?” she blurted.

They both paused to gape at her.

“What? Lance asked.

“You know, thieves,” Wynn said. She stood up in case she needed to make a hasty retreat. It just crossed her mind that a rogue probably wouldn’t take kindly to their cover being blown.

“Were you hired by a giant criminal caster boss in some secret magic society in the underbelly of the Agrestal Lands?”

Lance blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Is that why were you stealing spell books and stuff?” Wynn asked, backing up. “You had some quota to fill?” It’s just like the bandits in the play The Glass of the Thief’s Mirror.

Beryl glanced away. “I mean, no one seemed to want em’,” he defended. “Is that stealing?”

“Well,” Wynn said nervously, “am I right?’

Lance exchanged a glance with Beryl. They grinned.

They nodded. “Yep, you caught us,” Lance said. “You’re super perceptive.”

Wynn gasped in surprise. “You’re serious?”

Lance leaned against his staff. “What can I say? Villainy is too much fun.”

“And the pay is fantastic,” Beryl chimed in, his wings buzzing as he spoke.

“We cursed a whole village for serving a bowl of soup cold.”

Wynn was horrified.

“Also stole an emblem off their king’s crown without them noticing,” Lance added.

“Then cursed another village for serving chowder too hot,” Beryl added.

“One time I resurrected an army from the dead—just to scare the locals,” Lance said.

“Cursed a village just because,” Beryl said.

Lance nodded. “And that was all last week.”

“Wait, last week?” Wynn stammered. A cold wave of dread settled over her shoulders. If they were capable of all that in a week, who knew what they were capable of in general? Maybe they were even more destructive than the caster she was after. Just the thought made her stomach clench.

Beryl started snickering and eventually it exploded into the two of them laughing. Beryl rolled on the ground while Lance doubled over.

Realization dawned on Wynn. She felt herself simmer with a heat that rivaled the boiling of the pot. The fur along her back bristled.

“You liars!” she yelled at them.

They continued their laughter and Wynn’s anger grew. She picked up her pack and placed it on her back.

“You know what, I don’t have time for this!” she said, annoyed. “Serves me right for wasting time trying to get to know a couple of venture-smitten larks.”

“Hey, ouch,” Beryl said, ceasing his laughter. He looked up at her, frowning.

“And you are thieves!” Wynn added. “Those dusty books still probably belonged to somebody, and you just took ‘em.”

Lance huffed. “Yeah, somebody who’s probably long dead.”

“Well, maybe their kin owns them now,” Wynn said.

Lance raised a brow. “You mean that that clearly abandoned tower that’s probably been sitting for decades, maybe a century—that someone’s just going to appear now to claim it?”

“Well, that makes it worse!” Wynn said, exasperated. “You never take things from abandoned ruins. They could be cursed or enchanted or something.”

Lance blinked. “Uh, that’s not—never mind. Look Wynn, we were just joking around—there’s no need to take it to heart.”

“Maybe it seems funny to you, but it’s anything but to me!” she said. “If you don’t want to speak about your past, that’s fine. But that was too…”

Terrifying, she almost admitted. But she bit her tongue and looked away.

It was now clear to her: she had rambled not because she’d noticed something or was curious. It was fear. Fear and frustration that had been bubbling for too long inside her and wanted out.

Beryl looked at her puzzled. “Too what?”

“Too close to home,” Lance realized.

“Just forget about it.” Wynn felt a twinge of unease and shook her head. “Look, I didn’t mean to pry. If you want, I’ll leave you two be.”

Frazzled, she turned and began to walk away.

“We’re trying to find someone,” Lance said.

Wynn turned, surprised. Beryl also gawked at him.

Lance steadily met her gaze. “We’re looking for a very powerful caster with the ability to cast and manipulate shadows. He can even—shift forms.”

Wynn felt her stomach clench.

Lance continued, “He has a reputation for using his magic to steal things. And I mean important things, not old, fraying books.”

Wynn’s heart pounded. It can’t be.

“But you can’t exactly speak freely about it because he could be anyone in the Dark Agrestal,” Lance explained. “I know it sounds absurd, but it’s the truth.”

“The caster of the malignant shadow,” Wynn thought out loud.

Beryl’s eyes widened. “You’ve heard of him.”

“Heard of him? He’s the reason I’m out here. I’m looking for him!”

“Us too,” said Beryl.

Wynn looked between the two, her mind whirling again. “So that means we’re all here…”

Lance nodded. “For the same reason.”

Above, the clouds rumbled.

“THANK YOU AGAIN FOR THE soup,” Wynn said. The steam from the small clay bowl brushed her snout as she waited for it to cool.

Beryl looked up from his own bowl. “It’s mostly just a few dried herbs in water,” he admitted.

Beats stale biscuits, Wynn thought.

“So let me get this straight,” Lance said. “He just stole something from your village.”

“Yeah, under the cover of night,” Wynn confirmed.

“What did he take?” Beryl asked.

“Er—a family heirloom,” Wynn blurted. It was technically the truth. “Not worth much but very important—to my family.”

She stopped to sip some soup. They weren’t kidding about a few herbs in water. It’s so plain,’ she thought.

“Well, it has to have some importance,” Lance said.

“Maybe sentimental value?” Beryl offered.

Lance furrowed his brow, “If it’s something Brume went through the trouble of getting, it has to be more than that.”

“Well,” Wynn fiddled with her bowl, swirling the soup inside. It’s an old, gilded chest passed down in my family,” she said, hoping it would satisfy their curiosity. I can’t exactly share what’s inside, but just know it’s important, and I must get it back.”

“Maybe it’s a priceless antique?’ Beryl said.

“I suppose…” said Wynn. She turned to Lance.

“How about you,” she asked Lance, “why are you two looking for him?”

“Same reason,” he said. “Also a priceless heirloom.”

Beryl burped as he finished his soup and nodded. “Very important too.”

“Like what?” Wynn asked.

Lance looked away. “Just know it’s important.” He sipped his soup and said nothing more.

Wynn swished her tail, feeling her impatience grow. “Look, I told you what he took,” she pressed. “At least tell me a bit more.”

Beryl looked to Lance, who sighed.

“He took a mottle-veil cloak made from silk of mottlefly, a rare wilder,” he said. “It’s one of the few in existence.”

“So, it’s an expensive cloak,” Wynn said.

“To an average lark, it is a mere cloak,” Lance said. “But to a caster it’s a dangerous tool. It allows a caster to shift their appearance. Brume can only use it to shift minor parts of his appearance, like grow a beard or change his eye color. But over time, he’ll be able to do far more than that. Due to a mishap, it’s in his hands and we need to get it back.”

Wynn looked up to see that the clouds had begun to part, allowing the moon’s radiance to glow along swaths of cloud.

“I guess that makes things more difficult,” she muttered.

Lance eyed her.

“You’re not actually going after him, right?” he inquired.

Wynn looked back at him.

“Of course I am,” she said. “Just because he’s some big bully with magic doesn’t mean he can just walk away with what he stole.”

Lance huffed. “Bully? He’s far worse than that. Maybe you don’t realize the magic he’s capable of.”

“I’ve seen his magic,” Wynn said, “and I’m not afraid of him.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re afraid or not,” Lance said. “That fact is that he’s a skilled caster—there’s no way you’re lasting a second against him.”

Wynn glanced away. “I have a plan to get it back. I just need to find him in the Dark Agrestal and figure out how to swipe the chest back.”

“Wow,” Beryl said, “you sound closer than we are to finding—”

Lance whipped around and shushed him, an irritated look on his face.

Wynn pricked her ears forward and turned. “Wait, closer to what?”

Lance shook his head. “It’s nothing, just—”

Wynn narrowed her eyes. “You said finding, right? That means you don’t even know where he is!” She let out a laugh. “And here you are criticizing my plan.”

“Not yet,” Lance said. “We’ve been…talking with local folk to figure things out. And now we know he’s somewhere in the Dark Agrestal. Most likely around the Awlt.”

“But you don’t know where in the Dark Agrestal,” Wynn pointed out. “But I do.”

“Yeah, well, enjoy your head start, or whatever.” Lance looked away at the trees in the distance.

“No, that’s not what I’m getting at,” Wynn said. “I know where to find him, but like you said, I may not—um—fare well against him alone.”

“Like, zero chance,” he mumbled.

“But you’re a caster too. And you know how his magic works.”

Lance looked at her. “True.”

“So maybe we should …” Wynn said.

Beryl curiously looked up from his second bowl of soup.

Lance raised a brow. “You’re saying we should work together?”

Wynn nodded. “I think that would help both our odds of getting our stuff back.”

Lance frowned. “I don’t know,” he said wearily.

“Just a temporary truce,” Wynn said. “Afterwards we part ways and never have to talk to or think of the other again.” Truthfully, she wasn’t too thrilled to be working with the caster either, but in the words of Sir Wattlen from The Vinnthicket’s Ghost, “Some beasts are best faced not alone.”

Wynn held out a paw. “So?”

Lance sighed. “I guess it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world…”

Ouch, Wynn thought.

“Fine.” He shook her paw.

Beryl finished his third bowl of soup and let out a hearty sigh. He then looked at them, confused. “Did I miss something?”

Lance glanced at him, puzzled. “Hey, where’d you—” He glanced to the right to see his bowl of soup missing. He glared at Beryl, daggers in his eyes. “Beryl!”

Beryl grinned and flew off while Lance picked up a staff.

Wynn watched as he hurtled wisps of light towards the moving target. Beryl taunted him, waggling his hands over his head as he dodged and weaved past trees.

Well, they’re certainly no odder than Trussel, Wynn thought.