Chapter 3

Nope. He was every bit as screwed as he’d originally thought.The Mage Underground had been a nice surprise, but he should have known better than to assume his troubles were over just because he had stumbled upon a few well placed allies. The enchanted blade at his throat was proof that what his brother once crudely chanted about assumptions was perfectly accurate; assuming did in fact make an ass out of you. 

So how exactly had he ended up on his back with a blade at his throat mere hours after leaving the city behind? Well, suffice it to say he had become careless. 

The morning started out wonderfully. He awoke warm and well rested, in a soft bed. His clothes had been laundered and replacements packed for him, along with basic travel provisions. He’d eaten a hasty but filling breakfast of oat mash and started out. He kept to the side streets, avoiding the main thoroughfare in case his disappearance had been reported to the Watch by his family either as a missing person or a mage hunt. 

By the time he reached the gate between the market district and the slums, it was nearly dark and there was a steady stream of shifty eyed travelers headed in the same direction. He tugged at his hood, acutely aware that his brother may as well have been a celebrity in this part of town, and while the two of them shared few enough features, there was enough of a family resemblance that a keen observer would make the connection. 

The sickly sweet smell of the latest variety of addictive substance mingled with the stench of long unwashed bodies and the cloying mix of perfume and incense. Fyron wrinkled his nose in distaste and forced himself to adopt a confident but casual stroll, covering the remaining distance to the city gate as quickly as he dared. Hoping with everything he had that he could make it out of the city before true dark.

Passing from the inner slums to the outer was marked by a gradual but glaringly obvious shift in architecture and atmosphere. Where the buildings of the inner slums were shabby but sound, the shelters of the outer slums could hardly be called buildings, being little more than two or three walls and a, more often than not, holey roof, all made of subpar, cast off building materials and other refuse from the wealthier districts. 

The deeper he traveled into the slums, the more his skin crawled with the feeling of being watched. He quickened his steps but forced his gait to remain casual, his shoulders relaxed. He tucked his thumbs into his belt, his right hand hovering close to his only physical weapon, a small ornate dagger he had been gifted when he came of age. 

At long last, the city gate loomed into view, its guards probably retired to the guardhouse for the night to drink and play dice. Given that fact, he had two choices, either find a quiet, fairly safe, corner to wait in until dawn, or rouse a guard from his leisure to let him out, risking recognition. 

Goosebumps chased a chill down his spine as the feeling of being watched intensified. He had come to the conclusion hours ago that the feeling was much more than mere paranoia. He had even allowed himself to assume the worst so he could prepare for it. What if Corsha had sold him out? His family’s home had been struck by lightning, what if it had burned as the tree of fate had? What if  his pursuer were a mage killer sent by his father? There was no choice, really. Even if his nameless, faceless follower were nothing more threatening than an impoverished street urchin, that child could tell someone of his whereabouts. He couldn’t take that chance. He had to get out tonight, and pray his pursuit didn’t follow. 

He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and rapped on the guardhouse door, “Here goes nothing.”

After what seemed an eternity of silence, Fyron raised his fist to rap again, but the door abruptly swung open to reveal a grumpy guardsman, hair in disarray and dark circles bruising the puffy skin beneath his eyes.

“What?”

Fyron crossed his fingers, praying his voice came out confident and authoritative. Rather than thin and panicked, “Sorry to trouble you, but I was held over and unable to leave before the gates closed. Is there any way you could let me out? I must be on my way, or I’ll be late to my next assignment.”

The guard ran a shaky hand through his already mussed hair, glancing longingly back inside the building, no doubt at his cot before waving Fyron toward the small door set into the main gate, “Fine. But you better have everything you need, because I don’t care if there are thieves, assassins, bears or a volcano on the other side, you're not getting back in before the gate officially opens at dawn.”

“I understand. And thank you. If I miss this assignment, I can kiss my future in the family business goodbye.”

A wide yawn and a disinterested grunt were the only sympathy Fyron’s fictitious sob story evoked, “Yeah, yeah. Get going.”

Fyron allowed himself a triumphant smile as the door slammed shut behind him. Was he alone and mostly unarmed outside the relative safety of the city walls? Well, yes. But he had escaped. 

He shifted his pack higher on his shoulder and set out in the direction of the woods, hoping to find a decent shelter he could use to catch a few hours of sleep before heading for the Underground’s safe house the Raven’s innkeeper had marked on his map. 

The woods were farther from town than he had expected, his steps began to falter as the adrenaline produced by his escape wore off. He blamed the interminable distance on his fatigue, on his very brief look at the map, on the inky darkness and stubbornly continued on. 

By the time he reached the tree line, he was seeing double and taking one step sideways for every two forward. He didn’t bother finding a hollow tree, or an abandoned burrow, or a sheltered outcrop. Instead, he collapsed against the trunk of the first tree with roots spaced widely enough to accommodate his form and drew his cloak over him, falling asleep within minutes. 

That was the carelessness that led to the blade at his throat. In his excitement at escaping the city and the exhaustion that followed, he hadn’t noticed his ever persistent pursuer returning to haunt his steps. So imagine his surprise when he woke up on his back, a lithe female form straddling his chest and an enchanted dagger pressed to his throat. 

He froze, his panic clearing the cobwebs from his mind and allowing him to notice every minute detail. Details like the tremors in the assassin’s hand, the smell of burnt flesh, the cool breeze that caressed his cheeks and stirred her hair, and the swirling clouds that mirrored his emotions and his magic.

A flash of gold caught his eye as the sun cleared the hills on the horizon. Binding sigils? Burnt flesh. Was she fighting her orders? He needed more information.

“Were you ordered to kill me?”

The young woman’s eyes widened, but she nodded stiffly.

“You don’t want to, do you?”

A tear slid free as she shook her head slowly.

He held his empty hands up, showing his lack of weaponry and reached for her hip, where he’d seen the flash of gold, “May I ?”

The pressure on the blade doubled and he gasped as the delicate skin at his throat split and allowed blood to flow in a tiny, barely there trickle. Then the pressure lessened again and he saw her nod faintly.

He laid a hand on the searing hot runed disk, ignoring the burn as he met her eyes, “What if, and hear me out, what if I could break this binding and free you? Is that something you would want?”

Amber eyes widened with shock and she nodded, “Why would you…?”

Fyron smirked as he gathered his magic for the task ahead, “Well, I don’t want to die. Simple enough? I’m no fighter and my only weapon is no match for your fancy dagger. My magic is slow to build and hard to control. My only chance at surviving my encounter with you is to help you.”

She clenched her jaw, tossed her dagger aside and nodded resolutely, “Do it.”

“Well, then. Brace yourself, love, because this, this is going to hurt.”