“Hey, get back here!” Captain Brennan Hawke called out, his voice stuttering as he thundered down the rickety wooden stairs threaded through Rowan Estates. Despite the neighborhood’s lofty name, the cramped collection of row houses zigzagging through The Scatter was a chaotic, unkempt labyrinth. And to his annoyance, the perfect place for a fleet and clever thief to lose a city guard on a busy Midsummer night.
Brennan emerged from the narrow cave of buildings onto an open street. A blast of chatter, laughter, and music crashed over him, scents of grilled savories and baked sweets filling the air. Festival-goers bedecked in yellow daisy crowns, or waving sunflower-gold banners and ribbons ambled over the cobblestones and sidewalks. Nobody noticed he was there. Even a keeper of the peace in full armor with a mage-treated sword at his side would fade into such a raucous crowd.
“Curse it all,” Brennan huffed under his breath, retreating into the quiet of the alley. He’d lost the thief, and further pursuit would be a waste of his time. Though he had to admit, this thief had proven to be an intriguing challenge. “I suppose I should call it a night.”
He didn’t move from where he stood, sweat dampening his short brown hair, a scowl twisting his lips. Giving up and heading back to the Garrison to dictate case-closed reports to a scribe didn’t sit right, and a splinter of worry stabbed at his thoughts. He remembered a conversation from earlier in the day, something Valiant Rana had said.
Reports of strange goings-on in the last couple of days at the Northtemple Cemetery were circulating around the rumor mill. Nothing official, the other soldier noted, but whisperings from folks who had gone to the temple or graves to pay their respects to lost loved ones or The Source’s light during the Midsummer holiday. Rana said at least two other Valiants heard accounts of dark figures darting through the sleepy, tree-canopied grounds marking the oldest part of the cemetery, of chanting in an unknown language, and shocks of eerie leymagic. Nobody had found proof, but the tales were unsettling.
If the days leading up to the summer solstice stirred up strange activity, what might happen this Midsummer Night?
“They’re connected,” Brennan whispered. Rana’s talk of unsavory activity, the brazen thief who’d gotten away with an antique dagger from the Ahran Archives, and who he’d chased across the city in the summer heat. They were all part of this.
“Guess it’s time for another run,” he said to himself with a dry laugh. He would sort this out, even if it meant missing his own Midsummer celebrations with his friends at the Duskcat Inn. A shame, because Melwyn’s honey-sweet Solstice Ale was out of this world. Then again, the idea of running this thief down and learning more about how she’d stolen from the Archives was even more interesting. It had been a while since he’d had a good chase, and a worthy challenge.
Brennan drew a deep breath, then shot out of the alleyway and down a side road towards the Northtemple Cemetery, tiredness melting like morning mist in the sun. The thrill of the chase consumed him. The thief in black would learn the hard way that crossing the Easthaven Valiant Corps was very unwise. He would see to it personally.
__
Leneah gazed down at the cobbled street far below, her feet tingling, an acrid taste on her tongue. It always had to be heights. Dangerous leymagic, no problem. Angry archivists and shouting Valiants, just another day’s work. But jumping however many stories to avoid being caught by said shouting, tall, powerful and uncannily clever Valiant…
“You can’t hide!” The soldier’s robust baritone voice rang out, farther away than before, but still close enough to send a frisson of warning down her spine. She shook herself. If she could summon courage to do what she had to, she could put some actual distance between them. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her robes, fists clenched and palms sweating. Her right hand knocked against the bag slung over her shoulder with a muffled clang. The Starfall Dagger. She’d escaped the Archives with it, though it had taken every trick in her arsenal to make it happen. And so very much depended on her delivering it tonight.
“This is way bigger than you, Len. Get it together, curse it all,” she chided herself. Her own scolding echoed through her mind in the voice of her mentor, Archmage Miir, who would have her head if she failed. Leneah recited a quick prayer to The Source, then as an afterthought, a hasty petition to Saint Eskala. Most popular in Canrish and the Dominion, Eskala, a beautiful woman always accompanied by a wild fox, was the patron of underdogs and those fighting impossible odds.
Right now, Leneah completing this mission felt distressingly far-fetched. She took a deep breath, gathered her robes close and leaped. The second she cleared the balcony, she sketched a rune in the air, gold flecks of her leymagic sparking around her like fireflies. The ground rose to meet her in a gut-flipping rush, and she bit her lip, fighting not to cry out. It was over in seconds. A warm breeze enveloped her, setting her down on both feet.
“Oh, thank the Source,” she whispered, residual terror spilling chills along her arms. She didn’t have time to waste thinking about her stupid fear of heights. They had trusted her with this mission, and she could not fail. Leneah clutched her satchel to her side and ran. Her robes billowed behind her, snapping in the air like sails. Blurry impressions of jostling crowds and houses decked with gold and white lanterns slid over her peripheral vision, giving way to silent clusters of trees and night-shadowed parks.
“Almost… there…” Her breath was shallower than before, sharp pain stitching over her ribs. Discomfort or persistent soldiers be damned, she had to get to the Northtemple grounds first so that months of work weren’t lost.
Leneah had promised herself not to disappoint the Order. Every mission they gave out was important, and it was an honor to be chosen for this one. She gritted her teeth, shoved locks of rusty red hair that had escaped back into her dark hood, and lost herself in the shadows of the Midsummer night.
Lizzie Sinclaire 