There was something he was missing, some pattern that he wasn’t seeing. Hana had died at midsummer, an event the wolves foretold. Now it was midwinter, and the wolves were back, and his father was heading to a meeting with an unknown informant.
His father’s words came back to him. Perhaps the king of Arden has hit on a new tactic.
No. Oh, no.
“Da!” Lurching to his feet, Adrian careened out the door of the tavern. Breathlessly, he scanned the market square, but he didn’t see his father. Which street would he take to Southbridge? Since he was late, he’d probably take the most direct path, down the Way of the Queens to the river.
Fighting through the market day crowds, Adrian turned onto the Way and ran, dodging carriages and families out for a stroll. The cobbled pavement was perilous, and layered with snow and ice. It was like one of those dreams, when you try to run and your feet seem to be glued to the ground. Several times he nearly fell, and once he was nearly run down by a teamster, who swore at him as he streaked past.
Now he was almost to the river, and he still didn’t see his father. If he’d turned off into one of the side streets or alleys, Adrian would never find him in time.
When Adrian finally spotted him, far ahead, he was nearly to the bridge, the bouquet of flowers still in his hand. Adrian put on speed, already working on what he would say. I know you’re street-savvy and all, but I think you’re walking into a trap.
He was so focused on his father that he scarcely resisted when somebody grabbed him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth. His attacker pulled a hood over his head, and began dragging him backward. Adrian could feel magic buzzing into him, no doubt an immobilization charm. But Adrian was wearing a clan talisman alongside his amulet—a pendant that absorbed attack magic.
He pretended to go limp, and when his captor adjusted his grip, Adrian came up off the balls of his feet, hearing a crunch and a screech of pain as his head smashed into cartilage.
When the grip on him loosened, Adrian twisted free and tried to dodge into the alley, but plowed straight into someone who held him tightly against his body, so Adrian couldn’t reach his amulet or yank away the hood.
Learn to use all your senses, his father always said. That way, if you’re blind, you can use your ears and your nose and your hands instead.
From the feel of the man’s body and the angle at which he held him, Adrian could tell that he was tall, spare, and gifted. He could also feel something metallic and jingling that hung at his waist under his robes. Not an amulet. But what?
“Don’t let him touch the jinxpiece,” one of them growled.
“I’m not an idiot,” Alley Man snarled. “Take the boy. Our agreement was that I wouldn’t be personally involved in this.” The voice seemed familiar, and there was a scent about him—a familiar scent—that Adrian couldn’t place.
As they made the handoff, Adrian managed to strip back the hood. He was surrounded by cloaked and hooded men. He saw his father in the distance, already midway across the bridge. “Da! Help!”
His father heard, and turned. The flowers fell to the bridge deck like jewels scattered on the pavement as he drew his sword in one fluid movement and charged at them.
All around Adrian, swords hissed free. While his captor was distracted, Adrian brought both feet down on his instep.
The wizard howled, something smashed down on Adrian’s head, and he landed flat on his face on the icy cobblestones, twisting his ankle.
“Careful,” somebody growled. “Don’t hit the mageling too hard. We want him alive.”
Mage. That was what they called wizards in Arden.
Close by, Adrian heard the clatter and clash of swordplay, smelled the acrid scent of wizard flame, heard somebody scream as a blade hit home. Black spots swarmed in Adrian’s vision as he tried and failed to prop himself up. Tried not to spew onto the stones.
Finally, he rolled onto his back. His vision cleared enough that he saw his father, surrounded by six or eight swordsmen, fighting like a fury in the stories with flame and sword. He was backing toward him, trying to get close to Adrian, but he hadn’t escaped the bite of the blades. His cloak was already sliced through in several places and spotted with blood.
It took everything Adrian had to sit up, then straighten to a standing position. He swayed, then shouted, “Leave him alone!” Gripping his amulet, he stood up next to his father and launched a flaming volley of his own, putting all of his frustration and fury into it, driving the assassins back.
“No, Ash! Run! Get to the river if you can,” his father shouted, pivoting and cutting down another swordsman. “Get into the river and dive.”
“I’m not leaving you. We can win this.”
That was when his father staggered, the tip of his sword drooping a little. He looked at the assassins, tried to lift his sword again, but it was as if it was too heavy.