Page 22 of Reign

I shook my head. He was farther from the truth than I was from home.

“I’m starting a new life.”

“Good for you,” Bash said. “The end is nigh for us.” He let out a heavy sigh. “We were traveling with a group of ten seamen from the Headlands, but someone caused a bit of trouble when we stopped over in the Middlelands. Now we’re a day behind the rest. I won’t bore you with the details, but…”

He gestured toward Fletcher. “Sticky fingers here, gets grabby after a few ales. His thieving hands found their way into the pocket of a nobleman.”

“I got accused of stealing,” Fletcher said, punching his fist into his hand as if reliving the altercation in his mind.

Bash chuckled. “You don’t like being accused of stealing, do you, cousin?”

Beneath his cap, Fletcher’s expression remained stern. “No.”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head like he was disappointed. “A brawl broke out, and it took some lengthy negotiations to persuade the Baron of Middleston to release Fletcher from the dungeons.”

Fletcher grinned, raising his hands to wiggle his ring-stacked fingers. “Was worth it,” he declared proudly, showing off his shiny loot.

* * *

It was dark by the time we found somewhere to rest. Beneath a canopy outside of an old inn, we took shelter. A flaking yellow circle was painted on the swinging signboard above the entrance, shining brighter than the cloud-wreathed crescent in the sky.

“The Full Moon,” Fletcher announced, pointing at the sign. “Let’s hope we can stay here till sunrise.”

The inn looked ancient and tired. Barren, gray branches of wisteria held the crumbling bricks together, while the purple leaves of frostbitten ivy tucked itself into the nooks. Though the thatched roof sagged with decay, an amber glow seeped through shuttered windows, and plumes of smoke chuffed out of a sugarloaf-shaped chimney. The warmth was inviting.

Inside the shelter, a carving of a winged creature was etched into a weathered wooden plank. I ran my fingertips across the fading etchings, trying to understand what they meant.

“This was once a stable,” Bash said, nodding toward the pens on the far side. “Somewhere for weary travelers to keep their steeds—or wyverns—while they rested.”

Arthur nudged a moldy bundle of straw with his boot. “No animal’s been here for a very long time,” he muttered, glancing up at the leaking roof.

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine what it might feel like to ride a wyvern. But I couldn’t.

“Do you think any wyverns remain in Lyonesse?” I asked, hoping that one day I’d soar above the gray clouds and glimpse blue skies.

“Yes,” Fletcher replied, tapping the carving with his finger. “The first time we saw one—weren’t we all barely twelve or thirteen?” He glanced over at Bash and Arthur, and they both nodded in agreement.

“Ten years ago, now—I stood on the dock when it came flying over the horizon. My father brought it down with a single arrow.” He mimed pulling a bowstring and released it with a theatrical twang. “It plummeted from a great height, crashing into the water.” He shuddered. “It must’ve felt like being stabbed with a thousand shards of glass. When the tide washed it ashore, the seamen examined it—magnificent thing, with fishlike scales, enormous talons, and mesmerizing purple eyes—”

“Knights chopped off its head,” Bash interrupted, his usual grin replaced with a scowl. “They mounted it on a spike outside the Lord’s castle, like some trophy.” He spat on the ground. “It made me sick.”

As Bash sneered at the memory, a rustle emerged from a bale of hay. At first, I thought it was the wind, but the dried grass shifted erratically—as if something was trapped inside.

“Wiccean?” Wizard or witch? a squeaky voice called out from within the bundle before us.

Arthur leaned close, pressing his mouth to my ear. “I think that was Yfelle,” he murmured, his trembling hand tightly clasping my arm.

My heartbeat thrummed in my ears—anxiety slicked my skin. I knew that one wrong reaction might reveal that I understood the forbidden language. And if these men discovered I was a witch—there was no guessing how savagely they’d react.

A small, shadowy figure darted from behind the bale and retreated into the stable’s farthest corner.

“I thought I could smell the stench of magic,” it hissed, sniffing the air like a hound. “But I must be mistaken. Do you speak the language of men?”

Without hesitation, the four of us moved as a pack, shuffling out of the stable and onto the gravel track under the inn’s amber light.

The creature scuttled out from the shadows cast by the canopy, stepping into the dim moonlight. Its body resembled that of an infant, but its face was wizened, like an elderly man’s. Draped in what looked like an old potato sack, it crept forward on bare, hairy feet that were as scraggly as its pointed chin.

Worry and wonder warred within me as I beheld something magical.