Page 23 of Deadly Maiden

Choices. Always there are choices.

“Hoy!” someone says softly, shocking me into freezing.

Have I been seen?

“Wyntre!” he whispers. “Come with me.”

I swallow and turn my head.

It’s Bern, one of the Master of Bollingham’s trusted guards. He is often posted at the ramps when we stop at static towns to trade. His official uniform of red tabard and black britches with the insignia of the rock and rose reassures me. He wouldn’t betray the town if you gifted him a dragon’s hoard.

Least, I think he wouldn’t? After two days alone, slinking along, watching for others watching for me, I am seeing an ambush in every flicker of movement. Late yesterday I had to abandon the horse. The land was lacking places to hide on horseback.

He beckons to me, silently, then mouths a word that I think iscome.

When he heads toward the house and tower of Master Thander Munk, I decide I should follow. We take the rear steps up to the back door, with the bronze knocker shaped like a fish. The master does love his seaside accessories. At some time during the past, the top of the tower was remodeled like a lighthouse. We take a left and go down the hallway to his reception room, where he usually conducts business. I’ve been here on school excursions, and once with Father to get a permit approved.

The door is open. Thander Munk, stoneborn master of Bollingham, has risen from his wide chair, his hand offered. The seeming slowness and clumsiness of his body hides his strengths—humility, wisdom, and from rumor, the ability to adapt. Bollingham has survived many disasters and wars.

Like their golems, they are stone creations. Unlike them, they are sentient and call themselves the stoneborn, but no one knows their origins or how they came to be.

I shake his hand. The hardness of his blue soft-stone flesh is tempered by the gentleness of a man who knows his strength. As he smiles, the fissures of his face shift, forming mini chasms in the rock.

I smile up at him, knowing that for a while I am safe. His seven feet of weighty presence makes the floor creak, and sadly reminds me of what I will be missing. No one messes with golem towns and their masters. Or not for long.

“Welcome back, Wyntre. Please. Be seated. We have much to tell you. Instructions to give. There is also some food coming, if you are hungry?”

Food?I’ve barely eaten for two days. I nod then take in the rest of his words.

“Oh. Instructions?” I sit, though, in the green, well-padded armchair set out before his desk, mindful of my petty age and inexperience. “Is Father okay?” I’m not courageous enough to ask if he lives.

Lumbering, Thander returns to his own seat positioned beside his desk. We are surrounded on three sides by walls of many-hued books. Most are not fiction. Histories, journals, and various record-keeping tomes comprise the majority of the shelved books. The school excursion rules allowed us to select a few to read. One of mine was a pictorial history of battles. I expected glorious tales of valor, it was quite detailed, horrifying, and gory.

Though I almost shut it, instead I found myself engrossed in the whys, wherefores, and results of the wars of our past.

“Your father is doing well and healing, but I had him transported to the next golem town, Darsum, at an intersection point, yesterday.”

I shut my mouth, waiting for more details.

His lips curve. “The wound was not grievous. However, it was dangerous to keep him here. Darsum is larger, better equipped in many ways. We told King Madlin’s enforcers they do not have permission to set foot in our towns in search of either of you. Wyntre, I thought you would return.”

I nod, wrinkle my forehead in worry. “I had to know.”

“Of course. If the enforcers return without permission, there will be war. I will not have war over this. You cannot stay, though your father is less of a quarry and will be kept safe.”

“I see.” I heave a sigh, which turns out shaky. I expected nothing more, but still…

“You may take gear from our stocks, weapons, and even a mount from the stable.” He opens a book on his desk and fingers through the pages, dragging them across, tapping sections. “Yes, yes. And your father left you a letter, and a small box. Bern will give you the box on the way out.”

“Thank you.” I hug myself. Is it shock making me tremble? The reality of having to find my own way in the world after this? Perhaps. When I came in here, I relaxed too much.

He leans forward to hand me a large, well-stuffed envelope. I try to act normal, and he probably knows I am not, for concern is evident in the stone furrows above his eyes.

“You will always have temporary haven in our golem towns, dear. Providing you are discreet. But you will need to leave here within the hour to avoid detection.”

I study the envelope that is sealed with a circle of melted black wax with a crow stamped upon it. Is this Father’s or my parents’ seal? I don’t recall him using one.

Carefully, I snap the seal, somewhat afraid of what this might contain. I remove a thick sheaf of papers. Five layers, five pages. The top page is in his handwriting, and has been scrawled hurriedly, judging by my memory of how he writes.

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