He looked at her expression, and she knew they would be talking about it later. She gave him a little shove to move him along and stood in the shadows off the porch, hugging herself for warmth from the sudden chill of the night air. She had a bad feeling about his new job. It disturbed her. The thought of losing him in a war—she did not even want to think about it.
Phae walked to the barns where the new barrels had been unloaded earlier that week. The barn door was open and she strolled in, seeing the stacked barrels just inside. The job was already done, and Winemiller had probably done it. She smiled fondly. The barrels were made of oak, imported from the north and constructed by Winemiller’s brother-in-law in Stonehollow. Uncle Carlsruhe was a carpenter and gifted at making sturdy barrels. The smell of oak was one of her favorite scents. She ran her hands across the rounded slats, enjoying the feel of the grain against her palms. It was in the barn where she had hid in just such a barrel and first used her magic. Being there reminded her of it.
Slowly, she walked down the row of barrels, feeling each one, pausing to approach one, now and then, and to smell it. The smell of oak flavored the wine. It was a family secret.
A body detached from the shadows in front of her. Her first thought was that Master Winemiller was finishing his day late and starting to come back to the house. She nearly thanked him for stacking the barrels. She hesitated, realizing it was not his shape. It was no one from the orphanage at all.
Terror froze her in place.
“I have traveled to every kingdom within these lands. I have seen the Vaettir of Silvandom fly amidst their tall trees. I have visited the forges of the Cruithne and witnessed their experiments with chemicals and gemcraft. I abhorred my visit to Havenrook and the gambling Preachán who risk everything on a shake of the dice. I have supped with the King of Wayland and his many dukes and thought how the Aeduan race multiplies faster than the others. But I encountered no hospitality whatsoever in Stonehollow. They are a suspicious bunch and keep to themselves. I hardly learned anything during my first visit. With those in Stonehollow, you must earn their trust before you earn their hospitality.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
I startled you,” the man said in a firm voice and with an accent she did not recognize. As he stepped away from the shadows, Phae saw the black tunic and white collar marking him as a Rike of Seithrall. There were no Rikes in Stonehollow. His very presence startled her. She wanted to flee, but her muscles wouldn’t move.
As the light from the nearest window exposed his face, her shock increased. Not only was he a Rike, he was also Vaettir-born, meaning he had to be from Kenatos. He had dusky skin with slightly slanted eyes. A healthy crop of hair covered his head, though not long. His face was earnest and serious, his expression slightly disapproving. Was she required to kneel in front of him? How was she supposed to know what customs were proper in Kenatos?
She barely found her voice. “I…I must go,” she whispered, edging away from him.
“No,” he said, holding up a warning hand. He studied her shrewdly. “Yes, it is you. Even the hair marks you. Child, you are in grave danger. The Arch-Rike of Kenatos is hunting you. I found you first and must lead you to safety. There will be Finders set loose to track you down. He may even send someone to kill you. The Quiet Kishion. You must pack your things and go with me to a safe haven. Take me to Master Winemiller. I will explain this all to him.”
If his presence had not already terrified her out of her wits, the warning nearly turned her legs to water. Her stomach did a spasm of dread and she took a distancing step backward, ready to flee. Who was this man, and what sort of greeting was this?
“Are you not a servant of the Arch-Rike yourself?” She backed away from him but he followed her, his face vanishing in the shadows. Her power would not work with him in darkness. They needed to be able to lock eyes for her magic to work.
“I am Prince Aransetis of Silvandom,” he said, his voice growing more dreadful. “I was sent here on an urgent matter to save your life. To protect you from harm. What is your name, child?”
She was dumbfounded. “You came all this way, and you do not even know my name?” Distrust swelled inside her.
She glanced at the opening of the barn, trying to judge if there was enough room to sprint for it. Anger began to replace the fear, and her fingers started to tingle with pricks of heat. She was not totally defenseless, but she had never summoned the flames to harm anyone before. She was not certain she could do that.
“You do not understand the danger,” he said, reaching out and grasping her wrist, preventing her from bolting.
She struggled against his grip, but it was like iron.