Everyone else is dead.


    They should never have tried to cross the no-woman’s-land. The Severhine patrol shoots on sight. The Drakonians will capture or kill her. And the soldiers of Carthal will simply hand her over.


    Her water flask is almost empty. She hasn’t eaten for two days. Why go on?


    Mountains loom ahead. It feels like they’ve been half a day away for ages now, getting no closer. But as dawn breaks—


    *


    Their journey began when Valerie and Avon boarded a passenger ship from the city harbour, Avon flicking a few coins the boatmaster’s way to give them a private cabin and storage for their luggage. This was not the short trip to the northern shore and the moorland owned by Avon’s family. Instead, they crossed the full breadth of the lake, all the way to the western shore where the Duke and Archbishop of Arden made their homes in the merchant town of Wyford.


    Their ship entered the harbour beneath a shining full moon. A pebble beach swept along the shore, empty except for a few small fishing boats dug into the ground. As the passengers disembarked, coaches jostled for space around the dock while their drivers tipped their hats, eager to offer a ride. Avon’s coin ensured they were first in line.


    The town possessed nothing like the grandeur of Drakardia, but it held its own lively sort of charm. Gas lamps revealed streets of cobblestone packed with colourful stalls, and though some were dark and shuttered, she was surprised at the number of merchants still hawking their wares. Jewellery, cloth, wine… One man carrying an enormous sack of oranges followed them for several minutes, insisting they buy his special fruits.


    Valerie made the mistake of poking her head out of the carriage window. “What do you mean, special?”


    “These oranges are unique, my lady. Fruits from the enchanted groves of Maskamere, riper and juicier than anything you’ve ever tasted and a potent aphrodisiac—”


    She scoffed. “Since when?”


    “I promise! I guarantee, buy my oranges and your gentleman will be like a rampaging stallion—”


    “That’s quite enough,” said Avon, leaning over to shutter the window. “No, thank you.”


    They left the fruit seller behind. Valerie stifled a laugh. “He didn’t seem to hate magic that much.”


    “The lower classes are fickle,” said Avon. “Speak to them of witchcraft and they’ll cower and curse. Offer them a cure-all and they’ll believe any old nonsense. When I came to Jairah, I found a thriving black market of supposed magical trinkets. Your people fleeced mine with all kinds of fakery. Very few of them possessed any real power.”


    “So you have to sort out the charlatans from the real thing.” She gave him an impish grin. “Lucky you’ve got me.”


    He gave a droll shrug. “Lucky me.”


    It was fun to tease him, but she meant it. They were here to search for evidence of sorcery, after all.


    Her working theory was that a silvertree lay hidden somewhere in the mountains of Arden. Trees grew in all sorts of places in the wild, and who was to say that some animal or bird hadn’t swallowed a seed in Maskamere and deposited it in the mountains? That would explain how the locals might come to know magic and to possess enchanted objects like the strange black claw.


    But it didn’t explain how the man had used the claw to ward her off in the first place. How could it have any effect in a place without magic? He had been outside the range of the silvertree seed she had hidden on her person, so it couldn’t be that. Maybe he carried a silvertree seed too. They were precious and rare—the silvertree at St. Maia had only borne fruit twice in her lifetime, and as per custom a Priestess of the Sun had come to collect them. But was it impossible that one or two might have found their way into Arden?


    The marketplace vanished behind them. A church towered over every other building, its spire stretching up into the night sky. Valerie and Avon disembarked here, passing through the iron-wrought gates decorated with twin wyverns to the home of Lord Rutherford, the Archbishop of Arden.


    Of course, he wasn’t expecting them.


    The butler who answered the door asked them several increasingly suspicious questions before the Archbishop himself wandered into the hallway in his nightgown and slippers.


    “Lord Avon? Divine mercy, what are you…?”


    “My apologies for arriving unannounced,” said Avon, “but I’m afraid we couldn’t wait for an invitation.”


    Naturally, Rutherford couldn’t turn them away. They sat down for supper in a cosy parlour lit by a crackling fire. Avon explained the reason for their visit: they needed directions. Where was this monastery he had spoken of? And what was the nearest village?Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    “Oh, goodness,” said Rutherford. “Well, let me see…”


    While he and Avon bent their heads over a map, Valerie was on edge, hyper vigilant in case the man with the black claw appeared. Only the butler had attended them so far. But he was old and portly, while the man who had warded her off with the claw was younger, maybe thirty or forty, tall and intense. She couldn’t forget the way he had stared at her, the foreign words slipping from his lips. He wasn’t Drakonian or Maskamery.


    Rutherford marked the location on their map. “I take it you intend to visit? It’s a long way, my lord. Why don’t you stay here for the night? You can leave with fresh legs in the morning.”


    He called for the butler, who appeared and bowed.


    “We appreciate your hospitality,” said Avon. “We’ll be out of your way first thing in the morning; I wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”


    “Oh, not at all…”


    “Do you have a valet? The man who drives you to the capital, could we borrow him? We’ve come without our own servants.”


    If the Archbishop thought this strange, he was polite enough not to mention it. “I would recommend hiring one of the outfits in town. They have many capable drivers.”


    Avon’s mouth tightened. She saw that he didn’t have an immediate response.


    “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she said. “Lord Avon wanted to bring it up discretely with your valet to spare him any embarrassment, but…” She saw the Archbishop’s brow furrow and continued: “He stole something from me. A keepsake. Only… it’s not just a keepsake. It’s enchanted.”


    The tips of the Archbishop’s ears turned red at the start of her story. By the end, it had spread to his nose and cheeks and he was spluttering as if he’d choked on his tea. “Never! Surely not! He wouldn’t—an enchanted object? I…”


    “You needn’t worry, Your Grace,” said Avon smoothly. “We’ll settle this amicably. No fuss. But we do need the keepsake back.”


    Rutherford looked up at his butler, who had been acting deaf all this time. “Stealing? Ghen is one of the mountain folk, but he’s loyal as a hound, I would never have thought… Still, we must investigate, mustn’t we?”


    Mountain folk! Her heart leapt. Surely that couldn’t be a coincidence.


    “Your Grace?” the butler prompted.


    Avon rose to his feet. That seemed to provoke a decision from the Archbishop, who followed suit and snapped his fingers.


    “Go on then, assist Lord Avon. Ensure his personal property is returned to him, and prepare the guest room for their stay.”


    “Very good, Your Grace.”


    The butler showed them out. Valerie hurried after the pair of them, but Avon stopped her when they reached the hallway.


    “I’ll speak to Ghen,” he said. “Take Lady Valerie to our room.”


    The butler didn’t protest.


    She did. “But—”


    His right hand curled around the hilt of his sword. His left felt warm and heavy on her shoulder. “Do as I say.”


    His tone annoyed her more than anything. He’d gone all imperious again. But she swallowed her response, stepping back. If the man they were looking for had the claw, she wouldn’t be able to approach him anyway.


    Avon headed for the servants’ quarters with Rutherford. That left Valerie stuck with the butler, who obeyed his orders but in a way that she felt was somehow judgemental. Was it the supercilious eyebrow raise as he showed her into the guest room? The barely concealed sigh as he made up the bed? Or perhaps the way he bade her good night, in a tone that felt mildly sarcastic.


    Valerie ignored him. She retreated into the guest room, a modest affair containing a double bed, oak wardrobe and dresser, closing the door behind her. She’d forgotten how sparse the Drakonian aesthetic could be. Their buildings were either grandiose and magnificent or miserable and austere, nothing in between.


    The real problem was somewhere downstairs. This Ghen, the Archbishop’s valet, could easily deny that he’d stolen the claw. How would Avon handle that?


    Valerie changed into her nightclothes as quietly as she could, listening for any sign of a ruckus below. She removed the silver locket from her hair and placed it on the dresser underneath her lace hair net. Since no servants had accompanied them, she would have to take care of her nightly routine herself.


    That could only occupy her for so long. She couldn’t sleep. Valerie paced around barefoot, a pit growing in her stomach. She thought she heard raised voices and her skin prickled. Avon had the sword, but if they were facing something truly unknown…


    She cursed herself for staying behind. Valerie hurried to the door and then did a double take, remembering the locket on the dresser—


    The door opened. She whipped around, and Avon entered with a triumphant smile, holding up a small, shiny black object.


    Elation rushed through her. “You got it!”


    “As my lady requested,” he said, and then frowned. “Does the ward…?”


    He stepped forward. Valerie was already closer to him than yesterday’s encounter. For a moment, she didn’t know why that bothered her, and then it hit her.


    Magic.


    She was standing inside a magical field which shouldn’t have existed since she’d moved outside the range of the locket on the dresser.


    Valerie stared at the black claw, heart racing. She sensed no warding spell. Avon had moved towards her without hitting any obstacle. He took another step, or tried to, then stopped, his eyes widening.


    “There,” he said. “The barrier.”


    Like her, he’d encountered an invisible wall. Valerie bit her lip, then closed the distance between them, reaching for his hand. Her fingers touched the curved black talon, and her senses burst into fractious, joyous life. The shadows in the room darkened; the lamplight burned with passionate intensity. She heard Avon’s every breath, his heartbeat and her own, and she smelled him too, the slight sheen of sweat beneath his clothes.


    Most of all, she sensed that pulse of magic beneath her fingertips. Raw and tiny, but potent nonetheless.


    It felt exactly like the silvertree seed.


    The black claw was not an enchanted object. It radiated magic just like the silvertrees.


    “Maska,” she whispered.


    She realised that she was trembling when Avon enclosed her hands in his. “Do you sense it? Did you break the ward?”


    “No… I mean, yes, I sense it, but…”


    He tried to move again and stopped. “No. The barrier is still there. Why can’t I…?”


    Valerie glanced behind her, an answer forming in her mind along with a growing sense of panic. Why hadn’t she told Avon sooner? How was she going to explain this without lying to him?


    “I’m sorry,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to his. “I got it wrong. It didn’t ward me off. It was…” She stopped, licking her lips.


    “What?” Avon’s tone became dangerous.


    She pulled away from him. Then, slowly, her heart weighing heavier with every step, she walked over to the dresser and picked up the silver locket. As soon as she turned around, she felt the barrier pushing against her. She held the locket aloft. Avon was still holding the black claw. Somehow, they repelled each other.


    Avon stared at the locket, and the colour drained from his face.