Author's Preface
Merkra: Every time I think about Atania telling Penelope to go fuck herself, I get a little tingly inside. Is that normal?
Brief silence
Solana: Fletcher is in a bit of a precarious situation. Freya has pinned him into what I would describe as a lie of omission.
Merkra: Hold on. My boy hasn’t lied about anything. He’s just trying to protect a little girl. You can’t blame him for that.
Solana: From whom? Freya? Outside of Fletcher himself, possibly the most kind individual in this tale?
Merkra: Okay, that’s fair, but she’s also part of a rebellion to which the Deviltouched are essentially weapons of war to the other side.
Solana: She’s a child. You think Melrhos would want a child harmed?
Merkra: Personally, no of course not, but I think Melrhos is a man of principle. If I child stood in the way of him saving his people from further torment. I don’t think he’d bat an eye.
Solana: We have very different views of the man, apparently.
Merkra: Maybe so, all I’m saying is I don’t blame him for his hesitation.
Solana: I understand. I think that’s a fair stance to take. Do you recall when I told you about the ruling class from Ashoria?
Merkra: I think so. I barely pay attention to Etosian politics. It was a number or something, right?
Solana: The Thirteen. Let’s pick up where we left off with Fletcher, then I’m going to tell you some fun facts about one of them from this time.
“Now is the time to be honest with me, Mr. Lightfoot.”
Freya’s voice ricocheted through his skull like a ball bearing. There was an entire conversation happening around him, he was certain she was even engaged in it, but he could not keep track.
“She’s of no consequence to the rebellion.” Fletcher swallowed hard, locking his eyes closed as he answered.
“That is not what I asked you. Who is she?”
“It’s not a simple thing to explain.”
“Then don’t explain.”
Fletcher opened his eyes a moment, confused, just for her to nod to the stone tablet still sitting between them.
“Show me.”
Trust had always come hard for Fletcher. He was happy enough to make friends, even stick his neck out for people, but opening himself up to others was a different matter. He stared down at the stone tablet and took a deep shuddering breath.
“I don’t know how this thing works. There are memories in my head that aren’t mine. Can you see those?”
Freya’s brows furrowed, and she stared at him, having dropped out of the outside conversation herself now. After a few moments, she nodded and placed her hands on the tablet again without offering any explanation to the others.
Fletch glanced around the table, but if any of them were curious, they didn’t say anything. He rubbed sweaty palms against his trousers before reaching out and placing his hands on the tablet again.
The relaxing ocean he normally fell into was gone; replaced by churning waters that left him sick at his stomach. The once pink and gray clouds above were now dark and thundering, projecting images of what he could only assume were Freya’s parents walking down the dock at the Emerald Isles.
He could smell the ship Freya waited on, fresh lacquer and burning herbs. Not like any ship he’d ever been on. She’d lived a life of opulence once. The clouds shifted. Lightning struck the water he was barely treading, sending a pulse through his body.
Fire.
The clouds showed flashes of Freya’s frantic escape from her cabin. Her nanny lifting her up, screaming in pain, as she tore up the stairs to the deck to get the young girl to safety. Then she was flying backward. Up at first. As her last action, Freya’s loving caretaker had flung her from her arms as a hail of burning arrows hit her and the deck of the ship.
Lightning struck again. Closer.
Fletcher flew out of the water, and out of his chair. Selene had grabbed him by the shoulders and ripped him from the chair. His head was spinning. A metallic taste filled his mouth. Every sound around him was like they were testing the acoustics in an empty theater.
“Fletcher!” Leonie rushed to Selene’s side as she gently sat him on the ground. “Fletcher, are you alright?”
“Hmm? Yeah…” Fletcher reached up to rub his face, then understood the concern. Blood. It was pouring from his mouth, leaking from his nose and tear ducts, and even bubbling out of his ears. “Fuck…”
The next few hours passed in blurred fragments.
Freya had hovered over him, similarly bleeding, and drew runes in the air.
Selene carried him into the den and laid him on the couch.
There was definitely a shouting match back in the dining room, but he was too out of it to catch any of it.
Fletcher wasn’t certain how long he’d slept, but the smell of eggs and bacon and the gentle hum of a tune accompanied by the soft tones of a piano finally broke his slumber. He opened his eyes.
Vision still intact.
That’s good.
He slowly sat up and blinked at the onslaught of morning light silhouetting Leonie from behind. They were playing something. Something he didn’t recognize? That was concerning.
“What is that?”
The playing stopped, and Leonie stood, scurrying to his side. “Breakfast. How are you feeling?”
“No, the song.” Fletcher pointed over to the piano. “I didn’t recognize it.”
“Oh, well, that’s because I wrote it.” They grabbed the plate from the table and offered it to him.
“It’s beautiful.” He took the plate and bit into a piece of bacon. “I didn’t know you wrote music.”
“I’m a person of many talents.” Leonie smiled at him. “How are you feeling?”
“Better now.” He said, setting the plate in his lap and stretching. “Yesterday was a long day.”
“Seemed that way.” Leonie sat their hand on his knee but otherwise remained silent. After he’d finished the plate and sat it on the table, they offered him a glass of juice and spoke again. “Freya wanted to extend her apologies. She got to you fast enough that any damage done she was able to heal.”
“Is she okay? I thought I saw her bleeding too.” Fletcher took a sip from the glass and placed it on the table.
“She’s fine. Selene was able to get her free first, which normally would have taken you out as well.” Leonie swallowed slightly, bringing their pinky up to trace along their lower lash line. “You were still locked to it, and I couldn’t pull you away.”
“Hey. It’s alright.” Fletcher reached out and slipped his hands inside theirs. “Everybody is fine, no harm done.”
Leonie let out and sharp huff. “No harm? I about had a heart attack.” They squeezed his hands and nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
He’d not expected such a reaction from them. They’d become close friends, sure, but this wasn’t the response of a friend. At least not any he’d ever had. Fletcher gave them a soft smile and gestured to the piano with his chin. “Does that song have words?”
***
Days passed. He dove headfirst into his routine. The nightly sets at Jinty McGinty’s were the only thing he could hold onto. Fletcher had come to Etos to make sure the man he’d loved once was alright. Now he was apparently a key piece of a rebellion that he hadn’t known about six months ago.
He told himself the nausea was from the sea, not from the thought of approaching the same docks he’d just watched the king’s soldiers attempt to kill a child. The image left his nerves wrecked. Even for his meeting with the king he hadn’t been really nervous until Penelope brought up Reggius, but the cool sweat running down his spine betrayed his sense of resolve. Now, however, several docked ships flew flags of different countries, including an Ashorian one.
Two Gifted escorted him from the ship, through the little port town, and into the castle proper. At the base of the stairs in the entry hall, twelve familiar guards stood at attention. Armor the color of ash, pitted and weathered with the marks of countless battles, and a thick mantle of fur around each of their shoulders ablaze in fiery hues of orange, red and yellow. The Dawnflare Guard would not be here without their mistress.
Fletch was led past them into the dining hall where the heavy scent of roasted meats and herbs hung in the air. He laughed softly at the thought of the soldiers’ mistress eating meat, which drew a look from his escorts.
“We’ll leave you here to set up. The king and his guest should be here within the hour. He’ll expect you’re ready by then. Do you need anything?” The dark brown eyed Gifted asked.
“Thanks for the escort.” Fletcher shook his head and swung the lute from behind his back.
He climbed up on the stage, sitting on the edge and plucking at the strings as he waited. Every few minutes a new servant would walk in with another platter of food, each with more and more meat. It was almost like the King Vilrut was actively trying to insult his guest.
“Fletcher Lightfoot.” The singsong voice drew a tingle down his neck.
Penelope stepped into the room, her young ward in tow. He returned the little girls wave with a wiggle of his fingers as his sprite leapt from his lute to buzz around her. Penelope glanced at the girl with a cocked head as she chased after his sprite, then skipped over to him.
“Why does Yasha always act strangely around you?” Penelope tucked a wild curl behind her ear, and the corners of her stretched lips twitched.
Yasha. Fletcher wondered if that’s the name her parents had given her, though he doubted it. He gave a slight shrug, looking past the manic redhead to the girl sprinting around the table and giggling.
“No idea.”
Penelope bounced onto the stage almost as tall as she, in a feat only a Gifted could pull off and knelt down at his side. He continued to play as though her invasion of his personal space wasn’t enough to make him piss himself.
“No… something doesn’t add up. I don’t know what it is about you.”
“Rakish charm?” Fletcher offered with a shrug.
“I suspect that’s a part of it.” She pressed a finger to the tip of his nose. “There is something else, though.”
“I’m also strikingly handsome, or so I hear.” He focused on his string plucking, but he could smell the danger on her. She could snap his neck in a moment, and from the stories he’d heard impulse control was not her forte.
“Also true.” She tapped his nose. “Still not what I’m looking for though.”
Her hand fell to her side and she stared at him a moment longer before hopping off the stage. “Come, Yasha.”
“Awww… Can’t we stay for dinner? I want to dance to Fletcher’s music!” Yasha slumped her shoulders.
“No, King Vilrut has special guests. Maybe next time.”
Yasha grumbled but followed Penelope out the door, turning to wave in his direction. He lifted a hand, but as the bright orange sprite flew back to his shoulder, he got the feeling it wasn’t for him. Fletcher looked down at the little ball of light and shook his head. The woman may have been gone, but that tightness in his throat—the one that told him it was time to run—hadn’t dissipated.
Outside the odd servant coming through to ensure the table was set, and the food was staying warm, no one else came into the dining hall until the king himself. Fletcher got to his feet as he entered, followed by a host of well-dressed people he didn’t recognize. Until the last one. Fletcher wet his bottom lip and started to play.
The Thirteen, the ruling party that controlled the territories of Ashoria, didn’t have an official head. Unofficially, it was Lady Saralynne Dawnflare. Tall, with beautiful, rich skin, and vibrant red braids, she walked with her head held high at the head of the twelve guards in her house’s colors. The Dawnflare guard spread out through the room, but the Lady’s burgundy eyes landed on him. One corner of her mouth twitched just slightly, and her furrowed brow relaxed.
Fletcher played through the dinner without a break. He rarely needed one, but three hours with nothing to wet his throat was causing his voice to break. Getting down from the stage meant possibly facing Lady Dawnflare and he wasn’t certain how, or if, he could do that. The only question was how he got out of here without having to face her.
The Lady answered that question for him. After finishing his last song, she left the group she’d been sharing a drink with and approached the stage.
“You’re far from home, Fletcher.”
He closed his eyes and took a breath before turning to look at her. “A bit of a habit, My Lady.” Fletcher bowed, fist to his gut.
The pinprick white pupils at the center of her eyes glanced to each side before she stepped closer to the stage. “I hope you’re not playing that terrible song about a young man who can’t keep his nose out of places it shouldn’t be.”
Fletcher scrunched up his face. He didn’t have any songs about…oh. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a shrug. “It’s a crowd favorite. I understand you don’t like it, but some people need to hear it.”
Saralynne let out a deep sigh, and he could feel the stern, authoritative gaze strip down any lie he could think to lay out. The head of the Thirteen had not always been a politician. When he’d known her, she was something of a rebel herself.