The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (12 page)

“Let us take things as they come, shall we?”

Chapter Eight

I listened to that inane girl for nothing.

Ermentrude will never let me live that little scene down.

When did we get a new stable boy? Surely that can’t be young Aaron. He’s grown a mile! I should have more food sent down to his mum, gods only knows how much he must be eating.

I will never wear that many petticoats again.

At least he’s not prattling on.

Marian’s mind skipped from one thought to another like a baby deer frolicking in a field. Hop, skip, jump, tra, la, la, la, la. She didn’t bother to rein in her thoughts, there was little point. She and Robin had a tentative peace right now, best to enjoy it while she could. After she paid the
eric
she would know whether he was going to continue following her around or if he would have the decency to make himself scarce until it came time for her to repay him.
No sense fretting about it, no sense fretting about it, no sense fretting about it. Murder is wrong. And expensive.

She reached down to touch her bow where it was fastened to her saddle. The stable boy must have been Aaron. He would know to make sure she was armed, no matter where she was going. The smooth wood calmed her nerves, filled her thoughts with happy memories of hunting, traversing the forest with no one babbling in her ears, haranguing her about her duties and what she
should
be doing. What her parents would want her to be doing.

Familiar pain washed over her and she lowered her head, let it flow through and past. They’d been dead for three years. Why did it still matter to her what they thought? If they were proud of her?

They wouldn’t be. You killed a man. If anything, you’re a big step closer to being the monster they warned you—

Cold sweat broke out on Marian’s forehead as she remembered the presence of the fey beside her. Fear crusted her nerves like a layer of blood-chilling ice, and she was struck with the certainty that somehow her thoughts were written across her face, there for him to read.

It took her three miles to get up the nerve to glance at him, to see if that alien gaze was locked on her, boring into her private thoughts. He wasn’t looking at her. Rather, he was staring ahead, a blank stare that suggested his attention was focused inside his own mind somewhere. There was a tiny crease between his brows.

Marian curled her hand to cup the saddle horn, resisting the sudden inexplicable urge to put her finger on that crease. She hadn’t been wrong when she’d compared him to chocolate cake. He was tempting, a guilty pleasure that was difficult to forget once she’d had a taste. And they were alone now, which only made the fantasy trying to invade her thoughts all the more persistent…

Refocusing on the road, she put all her concentration on remaining quiet and unremarkable so as not to draw his attention.

Perhaps he will get bored after all.

As soon as they left the countryside for the town it was clear that word of Marian’s grisly deed had spread. No one wanted to make eye contact with her, not even the eligible bachelors whose mothers usually shooed them out to meet her any time she came into town. For a well-propertied, single woman to ride into town and not be propositioned, flirted with, or showered with un-asked for advice was unheard of.

I should have shot someone years ago.

They arrived at the courthouse without molestation, though the buzz of hushed voices in their wake suggested they were very much the center of attention. Marian ignored the gossip, more than happy for them to talk about her as long as she didn’t have to interact with them.

As always, she couldn’t help but observe that the building that housed the main court and the sheriff’s office was a fair reflection of the sheriff himself. It was a simple rectangle of black stone, absent any superfluous decoration or adornment. The window glass was not colored or etched, and the windows were naked of any sort of dressing. The plain copper lantern hanging near the door was unlit, looking rather forlorn on its dull, but rust-free iron hook. Similarly, the chimney offered no smoke to the sky, no heat to the already warm day. If Marian were the fanciful sort, she might even imagine the droplet shaped shingles of the roof were the tears of those who had gone to see the sheriff before her and received his customarily unsympathetic and very final judgment.

There weren’t many people milling about the courthouse, but there were a few that paused to give Marian a considering look as she hitched her horse to the post outside. They immediately dropped their gazes when she looked at them, bodies tensed as if she would fall upon them any moment like a raging hound. With her newfound infamy, no one seemed to pay Robin any mind. In fact, no one had so much as glanced at him since they’d arrived in town.

There was something odd about that, but the puzzle was quickly wiped from Marian’s mind as she entered the courthouse. The scent of the building closed around her as soon as the door clicked shut. A strange mixture of cloying dust and the unmistakable stink of iron. The iron made her skin itch even under the oil, and she struggled not to fidget as the fine material of her gown suddenly felt as if she’d cut it from a potato sack. For a moment the walls seemed to close in on her, the white paint slapped over the black stone doing little to warm the room that was dominated by the presence of the stone-faced sheriff.

Sheriff Tyre sat at his desk, tucked into the corner of the antechamber, next to the door that led to the main courtroom farther in. It was a strategic vantage point, giving him a view of everyone who entered while simultaneously limiting the number of directions that could offer an attack. A painting hung on the wall behind him to the left, a macabre depiction of men and women engaged in depraved acts of cannibalism, mutilation, arson, and murder. The sinful acts were made somewhat more sinister by the brightly colored reds, blues, yellows, and greens that portrayed them, the cheerfulness of the paint adding to, rather than subtracting from, the gruesomeness of the picture.

The owner of the desk worked silently, his quill scratching softly over the parchment before him. Black hair curled against his shoulders, tickling the silver hem of his cloak that he wore even while indoors. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, framing a mouth set in a soft, thin line. His vest, a dusty-coal colored material lined with slashes of silver, was held closed by matching leather strings threaded through silver eyelets, the hilt of a dagger just barely visible at his side. He didn’t raise his eyes until Marian stood close enough to his desk that her skirts brushed the legs.

He held out his hand. “Four hundred pounds or the deed to your property.”

Marian’s temper rose like an old friend, heating her blood and narrowing her eyes. She pressed her lips together, firmly keeping her hand from straying to the pouch at her side that held the needed gold.

“I would ask you again to reconsider. Four hundred pounds is—”

“Lady Marian, I have no time for useless conversation. Four hundred pounds or the deed to your property, please.”

No emotion showed on his face, nor in his eyes. He looked for all the world like a statue carved from marble and shadow, even his voice bland and matter of fact. Not cruel, not angry, just…matter of fact. Marian gritted her teeth and nearly tore the strings off the pouch as she ripped it from her belt. She thumped the heavy sack into the sheriff’s upturned palm with more force than was necessary, taking smug satisfaction in the way his head jerked up and his fingers were nearly crushed between the money and the unforgiving surface of his desk.

“There is your four hundred pounds.”

Something moved through the sheriff’s eyes as he looked at her, really looked at her. Dark brown eyes settled on her like twin weights, heavy and unmoving. Marian’s fingers shifted against one another, instinct prompting her to reach for a bow she hadn’t brought inside, to grab an arrow she wasn't carrying. Instantly, she missed the indifference the sheriff had shown moments before.

“Four hundred pounds?”

The bland voice was gone, his tone holding something distinctly more aware, more…interested. The hairs on the back of Marian’s neck rose and she straightened her spine, jutted her chin out.

“Yes. As commanded.”

“I seem to recall you being quite insistent yesterday that you could not possibly raise such funds. You were rather passionate about what you perceived as blatant unfairness on my part.” He laid his quill and the sack of coins down and pressed his hands against his desk, palms flat, as he leaned forward. “Tell me, Lady Marian, where did you get the four hundred pounds?”

“I don’t believe I’m required to give you a precise accounting of every coin,” Marian said stiffly. “If that is all I am required to pay, then I’ll bid you good day and be off.”

She started to turn, but the sheriff rose to his feet, the abrupt movement startling her into stillness. There was a sort of…wildness to his energy now, an eagerness Marian had never seen in the always-composed man of the law. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he’d been about to grab her, physically force her to reveal the source of her newfound funds. But that would be brash—a word one would never used to describe the sheriff.

“Lady Marian, I would hate to see theft added to the rather egregious act of murder already on your record. You will, I’m sure, see how much better it would be for you to give me the name of your benefactor.”

“Benefactor?” Marian cursed the breathy note that had stolen into her voice. She fought the urge to look behind her at the still strangely silent Robin, striving for the calm she called on during a hunt, that peace that held her no matter how dangerous the beast she was after.
Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out.
“I—”

“I am her benefactor.”

Marian and the sheriff both jerked their attention to the speaker. Shock stole her voice as she found herself face to face with a stranger where she’d expected Robin to stand.
Another glamour.

The fair blond fey was now a brown-eyed brunet, though his face remained soft and pale. He wore a midnight blue shirt, the gold-banded sleeves fastened at his wrists with gold cufflinks. A short-sleeved maroon coat also hemmed with gold hung down to his ankles, framing stiff brown boots better suited for a life at court than hunting in the forest. The colors were bold, the fabric thick and obviously expensive. He bowed his head at the sheriff while Marian gaped.

“Good morning, sheriff,” he said politely. “I do apologize for interrupting, but if I might shed some light on this situation, I’m sure I can lay your fears about Lady Marian’s character to rest.”

Marian didn’t dare turn around, didn’t dare look at the sheriff. She had no idea what expression was painted across her face right now, and she didn’t like her chances of carrying off this ruse if she saw that same stomach-churning intensity on the sheriff’s face as he looked at the beguiling fey.
When this is over, I’m going to shoot him. Again.

“You see, some months ago, I had asked Lady Marian for her hand in marriage.” He smiled ruefully, the sad, somewhat sheepish expression of a rejected suitor. “She turned me down. You can imagine my surprise when I heard from her rather late last night. As well as my joy to discover she had reconsidered my proposal.”

Now the sheriff was looking at her. Marian could feel his stare as surely as if it were the sharp tip of a spear pressing into the bone of her spine. She set her face as best she could and faced him.

“You have agreed to marry this man, Lady Marian?”

Inch by inch, she ratcheted the corners of her mouth up into what she fervently hoped was a smile. “I…have.”

Not one iota of intensity leached from the sheriff’s eyes. “Strange. It seems it was only yesterday that you were quite averse to the very idea of marriage.”

“Only to that miserable sack of flesh you called a cousin,” Marian answered sweetly, a real smile sliding effortlessly over her mouth.

The sheriff dipped his head in acknowledgment of the insult, but the bulk of his attention seemed reserved for Robin and his disguise. Slowly, he reached behind his desk and opened a drawer. Something heavy and metal grated against the bottom of the wood and he withdrew a small dark metallic sphere. Marian fought the urge to lean back as she recognized it as an iron bearing. The sheriff offered it to Robin.

“If you would be so kind as to hold this for a moment?”

Robin arched an eyebrow. “You wish me to hold ammunition?”

“Please.”

Marian’s pulse picked up speed, blood racing through her veins. Robin was fey. If he touched that iron, his glamour would shatter. And she was starting to suspect that the sheriff somehow knew that.

Cursing the people of Scythia and their willingness to believe in the supernatural much more easily than the sensible people of the five grand kingdoms, Marian readied herself to make a run for it.

 “I didn’t do it! You can’t prove I did it! Let go of me!”

As one, Marian, Robin, and the sheriff swiveled to face the shrieks of protest piercing the air of the courthouse. The unholy noise was coming from a man clapped in irons being dragged between two bulky guards. His hair was disheveled, his clothing torn, but it was obvious that he was—or had been—a noble. What remained of his clothing was silk and fine satin, the fabrics a deep blue and pale sea green. A finely crafted leather band hung from a lock of his hair, holding onto the ends in a knotted mess and swinging crazily from side to side as the man struggled.

“Do you know who I
am
?” he screamed.

The sheriff dropped the iron ball to his desk, glaring at the guards fighting to subdue the loud-mouthed criminal. “What are you doing? Take him to the jail! Let him rot there until he can keep a civil manner in a court of l—”

A flurry of movement erupted between the guards and their prisoner, the noble’s hands snatching something from the guard’s side. An all too familiar sound, something flickering through the air mere inches in front of Marian’s face…