Page 7 of Truth's Blade

Whatever the reason, she couldn’t leave it for sale.

“Done,” she said, pulling her small coin purse from her shoulder bag and counting out the coins.

The stallholder took them in a way that reminded her of a magician’s sleight of hand, delicately removing them from her palm with long, surprisingly slim fingers, and then they were gone.

He would make a good thief.

She picked up the box, felt the tingle against her skin, and slid it into her bag. The sudden dimming of light was a relief.

“Where did the paints come from?” she asked.

“I’m from Cattha,” he said, although that didn’t answer her question. “On my way to Taunen.”

“Well, safe travels to you,” she said, and turned away.

“You’ll need to find some brushes,” the man called from behind her. “I don’t have any, but a few carts down, old Dame Carvaggo might have some.”

“Thank you.” She glanced back briefly, saw he had begun to pack up in earnest, and tried to remember if she had any brushes herself, but when she stopped at Dame Carvaggo, the lady was selling three for a single coin, so she bought them and turned toward the river and the bridge, drawn by the dance of afternoon light on the water.

She crossed the square and made her way to the promenade. There was no railing, just a straight drop down into the wide, slow waters of the Malin River, which meandered through the town—the border marker between Kassia and Cervantes and Grimwalt.

A goat bleated, and she turned to look.

It had bounded up from the lower bank at the side of the bridge, which, unlike where she stood, sloped down more gently to a narrow bar of sand rather than dropping straight into the water.

She stared. For a moment, she wondered if she had been so blinded by the box of paints earlier that she was mistaking the sunlight reflecting off the river for the brightness of the glow she could see around the goat’s neck.

She watched as the goat moved closer to the pillar at the start of the bridge. It was tied to the bridge by a long coil of rope, but underneath that was something spell worked that was looped around the goat’s neck—either a piece of string or twine.

If she thought the box of paints was bright with magic, the twine was a sun to the paintbox’s moon. As she stared at it, it became a golden cage around the animal, and then it was a golden collar again.

The goat pawed at a scattering of offerings to Malin, the river spirit who kept the land fertile. There were flowers, thetraditional wooden cups with Malin’s face carved into them, and even a woven basket.

She had seen many things left in tribute over the years, but never a living creature.

As she stood there, staring, a woman walked over the bridge and placed an apple, another of the favored tributes to Malin, in front of the informal shrine.

“Don’t eat this, creature,” she said, pointing at the goat.

“If the goat is a tribute, then it doesn’t matter if it eats the apple,” Melodie said. “It’s all tribute to Malin.”

The woman turned to look at her, suspicious. “The goat is your tribute?”

Melodie wasn’t a Grimwaldian native, and had never left a tribute to Malin. She shook her head.

“Someone’s trying to have their goat fed for free,” the woman said, looking at the goat with dislike. She bent down, picked the apple back up and threw it into the water.

The goat turned and ran down the bank, and when Melodie leaned over, she saw it standing on the thin edge of sand, looking at the apple as it swirled in the eddies and then was whisked off by the current.

When she turned back, the woman was walking away.

The goat came back up from the river and nosed through the flowers and handmade gifts. Suddenly, it lifted its head and seemed to stare behind her.

She turned and saw it was the old man who’d sold her the paints. He had crossed the square and stood a little way back.

She brushed her hand over her bag. The chances of two things so saturated in powerful spell work being so close together at the same time defied coincidence.

“The goat is yours?” she asked as the old man eventually drew level with her.

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