Brennan stood in front of the Northtemple Cemetery gates, assessing his surroundings. Ornate carved stone and iron curlicues peeked through tangles of bellflowers and ivy. A heavy silence hung over the place. Every creak and rattle of his armor, each inhale and exhale felt like a shout–especially when dealing with such a talented thief. He reached for the gate but balked, instincts taking over. A tiny piece of parchment was stuck to the handle, bearing a spiky symbol written in shimmering purple ink.
“Magework,” he muttered and backed away. Was it some kind of trap? Or a sign, a way to send a message to a band of thieves or other unsavory types trying to run outside of the law. Something about this magic didn’t feel right. At least, it didn’t feel like the thief he’d been chasing. The leymagics she had used up to now were elegant and pure. They were about efficiency and fulfilling her purpose. This felt dark. Even though he had gloves on, he didn’t touch it. He knew how nasty magic traps could be. He memorized the symbol: an eye against a spiked sigil that hurt his head to look at for too long.
Brennan peered around the shadow-shrouded cemetery entrance. Several sets of footprints marred the grass in front of the gates. Off to the more heavily wooded side, the wrought-iron fence bent inward, warped by the branches of an ancient oak that eroded the stonework beneath the metal. He padded over and vaulted the fence, landing with a thud. He winced as his hauberk jingled and his scabbard banged into his thigh.
Idiot, he thought, standing as quietly as he could manage. He listened, hoping the racket had drawn no unwanted attention.
“Don’t move a muscle,” a light, feminine voice sounded from behind him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck with the thrill of danger and something he couldn’t quite name.
Definitely unwanted attention. Mostly.
“I said stand still,” the voice was closer this time, the stranger’s breath tickling against his ear. “I know exactly where to shove my dagger through your armor so I can get to that nice little place between your ribs.”
“How did you sneak up on me?” Brennan couldn’t hide the annoyance in his voice, both that she had surprised him and at how her proximity piqued his curiosity in a way that made him feel reckless. He wasn’t used to being on the wrong end of a blade.
“How do you think?”
“Leymagic,” he spat.
“Oooh, full marks for the smarty pants Valiant. Now hush.”
Brennan stiffened at the unmistakable jab of a dagger to his ribs, right in the seam where two sections buckled together. The stranger hadn’t been lying about knowing how to hurt him.
“Believe it or not, soldier boy, we’re on the same side.” Her voice softened, the threat melting away like snow in the midsummer heat. She sounded no older than him, her Easthaven accented Tan’shi precise and clear.
“What side is that?” Brennan replied, unsure if the harshness in his tone was directed at her or himself.
“The Source’s light, goodness, and all the peoples of Ahra.”
He didn’t expect that answer or the earnestness of her tone.
“What about the law, thief?” He shot back, fingers twitching with instinct. He stopped himself from drawing his weapon—he still didn’t know who he was dealing with.
His eyes watered as the pressure on his ribs intensified. In a heartbeat, there was nothing but a whoosh of air as his would-be captor stepped backward. Brennan spun, sword drawn and buckler raised, his mouth dry in anticipation of his first genuine look at his opponent.
A woman a head shorter than him and clad in black stood watching him. She lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender, shaking away the hood of her cloak. Moonlight shone on the coppery hair spilled around her shoulders, her pale, unsmiling face tilted up so she could more easily level a glare at him. The fire in her eyes lit something within him that had been dormant for far too long. But now was not the time.
“Let me finish what I came here to do, soldier. Terrible things will happen if I can’t—”
A scream tore through the air, shuddering and keen with terror. Humanoid, not beast or fowl.
“What the hells was that?” Brennan gazed around him, jumping when something tugged on his sleeve. A hint of cinnamon and spice, common to leymagic restorative potions, let him know it was his adversary. “I have to finish–” the woman started, but he cut her off.
“Damn it all, stop skulking around me like a shadow. You’re going to get yourself stabbed,” he huffed in frustration.
“Please,” she begged, voice small. “I need to leave. Now. Follow if you have to, but for heaven’s sake, be quiet. Trust me. More than you could realize depends on this.” She again grabbed his sleeve, pulling at it as if she were trying to emphasize her words in a way he’d understand.
The desperation in her grip was clear as he studied his thief. Her eyes were wide with obvious fear, and shining—were those tears streaking down her cheeks?
She wasn’t lying. Years of combat experience and service as a city guard had taught Brennan what terror looked like. And more, in hunting her, he had forged some kind of connection. He had seen her methods, seen the honor in her thievery. No one had been harmed during her theft, though it would have been easier for her if she had done otherwise. What he sensed from her was simple goodness. He scrubbed a hand over his face with a resigned sigh.
“Fine. But at the first sign of any danger to Easthaven and its people, I’ll do what they have trained me to do. I’m a Valiant Captain after all,” he added.
“A captain?” She sounded surprised, then swirled into motion, hood back in place. “That’s good. It means I can count on your training and help tonight,” she said, more serious than before. She angled a tiny smile up at him—faint, hesitant, but something in the curve of her lips and the brightening of her eyes transformed her. Brennan’s heart thudded out of time, just for an instant.
What had she done to him?
Magic indeed, he thought. Magic, midsummer, the thrill of the chase… Source only knew why he was going along with this. But it was the Source itself he felt guiding his decision.
“Lead the way,” he started, then paused.
“I’m Leneah.”
“Brennan,” he answered, using his given name.
“It’s nice to meet you, Valiant Brennan. Here’s hoping we can meet again under better circumstances.” Leneah turned and darted ahead, silent as a shadow, toward the Northtemple Cemetery Mausoleum, and for some fey reason, he took off behind her.
Lizzie Sinclaire 