Bell detours towards the kitchen table. “Sorry, not you. Bastard, get back here!”
He grabs something from the table, then runs over to rejoin Rakos. A sinuous, furry shape wiggles in his hands.
“Is that… yours?” Rakos asks.
“She was playing with a keyring.” Indignation colors Bell’s face. “Which would have been really useful about thirty minutes ago.”
Furious shouting sounds from downstairs. Rakos swears and heads for the door.
“Same rule applies to the ferret,” Rakos tells Bell as he moves. “She can keep up or get left behind.”
“Would serve her right,” Bell mutters in Rakos’s wake.
Rain drenches them as soon as Rakos throws the door open. Bell yelps behind him but doesn’t protest as they hurtle into the deluge.
Fifty yards of cleared rock separate the waystation from the thick forest. Clutching the hoe, unused muscles burning, Rakos sprints for the tree line. He’s too weak, and water cuts through his unbuttoned coat. With Bell splashing behind him, Rakos isn’t sure he’ll even hear any pursuers coming, much less have the strength to fight them off.
But nobody else appears before they crash into the surrounding forest. The rain abruptly cuts off under the canopy, the deluge reduced to a patter.
“Keep moving,” Rakos says.
He doesn’t know why there was so little backup at the waystation—not to be arrogant, but three people aren’t enough to restrain him. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on that now. They need to move, in case more enemies arrive.
“Wait. Rakos.” Bell’s water-dark hair clings to his forehead, and droplets slide like tears down his cheeks. He clutches a fur-lined bag to his chest.
“We don’t have time to rest,” Rakos says, even though he’s about half a minute from collapsing himself. He needs a real night’s sleep. “If you fall behind—”
“Where are you going?” Bell asks sharply. “My companions and ship are on the coast. They should be close, but I don’t know what direction it is. If you accompany me there, I can get you supplies, and you won’t have to deal with me dragging you down anymore.”
Even bedraggled and shivering, there’s a surprising confidence in him. A reminder that this same trembling fawn tackled Kaspar in the dungeon, likely saving Rakos from a dagger in the back. Rakos shouldn’t underestimate him.
Rakos leans against a tree, letting the hoe rest on the ground. Bell the wandering minstrel is less pathetic than he first appeared, and Rakos has been incredibly careless. Blame it on the hangover from his five-day coma. He’s now an enemy of Prince Vana, a fugitive for reasons unknown, and he’s already told Bell his real name.
Sarka would tell him to be more careful—in less polite terms.
So, instead of agreeing to Bell’s tempting proposition, Rakos asks, “What’s a Silaisan minstrel doing arriving by ship here? We’re far from any port.”
“We were blown off course,” Bell says.
“Sure.” Rakos looks him up and down. Handsome, fragile, definitely not a fighter. “I suggest you and your companions cut your losses and get the fuck out of here. No offense, but you aren’t cut out for scalestone smuggling.”
Scalestone is Draskora’s most treasured resource. Veins of it run deep through the northern and central mountains, its influence permeating the land itself. Scalestone amplifies magic and causes the purple eyes characteristic of the Draskoran heartland. But most importantly, scalestone is vital for dragons. Everyone knows they nest in it. Only House Dire and the dragon corps know they need it to fly and breathe fire too.
As long as Draskora is the only country on the continent with scalestone, it’s also the only country with dragons. House Dire is intent on keeping it that way, and smuggling scalestone carries a brutal death sentence.
Strangely, Bell relaxes at the accusation.
“I’m really just a minstrel.” He pushes his sopping bangs back from his forehead. “Trust me, I didn’t want to go to Draskora. We were heading for Silaise, but the storm knocked us off course.”
Rakos snorts. “Sure.”
“What about you? Murderer, blood mage?” Bell’s eyes light up. “Pirate?”
Rakos’s eyes fall on the hoe. “I’m a farmer,” he says, and regrets it immediately. Who the fuck would believe that?
But Bell must know as little about farmers as Rakos does, because he doesn’t question that part. “Why were you in that cell, though?”
“Great fucking question.” Rakos tries twisting water out of his hair. It doesn’t help. “I guess I pissed off His Royal Highness somehow.”
