The Villain Keeper (2 page)

Head over feet, Caden fell. Beside him, Sir Horace went around and around, tail over muzzle, his frightened whinny piercing and loud in the red haze.

Within moments, a figure plummeted down beside them. Her hair trailed behind her like a train of dark fabric. She seemed as caught as them, and they became three:
Caden, his horse, and the girl, falling into red.

Like a braid of blood and fire, the bad magic seemed roped around her waist. She thrashed and tugged at it, and her hands glowed gold.

With one hand, Caden caught Sir Horace's reins; with the other he reached for the girl. No one should die alone. Not Sir Horace, not this girl. “Grab my hand!” he yelled.

She looked up and clutched for him. Their fingers locked. Their tumbles evened to a fast fall.

Caden felt air roar by his ears. Wind rushed against his back. They sped toward something. Their end, he feared. When his sixth-born brother, Chadwin, had been killed six months ago, his father had cried. Caden tried not to think of the pain and disappointment he'd cause by dying.

The girl squeezed his hand and shouted, “We're stopping!”

They weren't stopping. Never had Caden moved at such a speed, and the pull from the magic seemed to be only growing stronger. “What?”

He'd but a moment to wonder when the golden glow from her hands flared. It burned through the red haze like a small sun. Like rocks thrown from tower walls, they slammed into hard ground.

Caden hit back first. He gasped for breath. Above him, the sky was dark and star filled. No snow fell. Sir Horace landed at his side. His flank rose and fell with
hard breaths. The girl crashed on her stomach with her cheek pressed to the ground.

She stumbled to standing. Caden rolled over and did the same. They were on a road, but a strange one. It was smooth like pressed dirt, yet hard like stone. To his right, he saw a bookshop. To his left, a wide window with a display of chocolates. He recognized the wares but not the language on the signs. On the walkway beside the road, the streetlights weren't lit with magic or fire. They seemed to have captured lightning.

He turned to the girl and, now free of the haze, knew her at once. It was Brynne. He'd known her since he was four and she'd irritated him for just as long. Last he'd seen her, her people had been traveling toward work in the Summerlands. He frowned. That was also the last he'd seen of his prized gnomish dagger.

She was dressed in the silvers and golds of spellcasters. The practiced magic of their order always shone in those colors. Her sleeves and high collar were embroidered with red and blue threads, reminders of the sister colors of the dark magics. Red for magic born of hot emotions like anger and jealousy. Blue for destruction and indifference. It was always these magics and dark motives that loosed dragons. From what Caden had seen of sorcerers and dragons, it was a warning too rarely heeded.

With a blink, the dazed look in Brynne's eyes
disappeared. It seemed she also recognized him. “You!” she said and peered at him. “This has to be your fault, prince.”

Caden had been moments from slaying a dragon, from returning home to his family. He was the one who should be angry. “What have you done, sorceress?”

“Me?” she said. “I was napping”—she motioned to the ground and to the sky—“and then I was ensnared. With you.” She pointed at Sir Horace. “And it.”

“Sir Horace is not an it,” Caden said and crossed his arms. “And neither he nor I cast this trapping spell.”

She put her hands on her hips. Her cheek was scraped. “Well, I didn't do it,” she said.

“You're the only spellcaster I see,” he said.

Around them, the city sparkled. There were square buildings of metal, stone, and glass. Many had red or brown canopies above the walkway. Come morning, the area would likely be busy.

Where the road forked, there was what looked like a small park nestled between the buildings and roads. The gentle sound of running water came from within it. Sir Horace rolled to his feet and trotted toward it, his tongue hanging from his muzzle.

Brynne narrowed her eyes. “That magic wasn't mine,” she said, but her words came out weak. Her face paled. “My magic saved us.”

Caden rushed to catch her as she fell. Truth be told, red glowing magic traps didn't seem like the work of her or her
people. But if Brynne hadn't ensnared them, who had—and why?

Like an afterthought, his sword clattered down beside them. He lowered Brynne to the ground and glanced around once more. Around them, the air was strange and cold. This was most certainly not their world.

N
othing was more important to Caden than slaying a dragon, and he needed to get out of the strange city and back to doing just that. He'd been so close to his goal. He bit back his frustration. All quests were ripe with obstacles. He would overcome this one.

In the morning light, the city around him seemed more foreign. It was surrounded by mountains, but they were small and worn and looked shades of blue and gray. They weren't the sharp, snow- and rock-covered slopes of the Winterlands. The buildings were also small—most a mere three to five stories—and many had simple geometric ornamentation. Even the tallest, a glass and metal structure, failed to touch the clouds. They were nothing like the soaring towers and ornate castles of the Greater Realm.

On the road between the park and the walkway, a
smelly metal transport puttered by him. The streetlights turned off by themselves, seemingly aware morning had broken. People began to trickle into the area.

Caden was stiff from sitting on the bench and keeping guard. At least his enchanted coat kept him warm. He stood, loosened his muscles, and straightened his posture. His brown hair, which he kept regulation short like the Elite Paladins, was mussed, and he flattened it in hopes of a more dignified appearance.

In the night Brynne had snuggled close to a kneeling Sir Horace. She'd rested long enough, though. Caden nudged her with his foot. “Wake up, sorceress.”

She snapped open her eyes and frowned like it took a moment for her to place where she was. Sir Horace was also rousing. He pushed to standing and his shadow fell over Caden and Brynne.

Brynne stood and was silhouetted by the winter sun. She was as tall as Caden, and at twelve years, ten months, and two weeks, she was one day older, a fact she never let him forget. Her dark hair hung to her waist. Her gray eyes glinted silver like she was born under the moon. With a glare, she sniffed her sleeve. “I smell of horse,” she said.

She'd no reason to complain. Horse was a good smell. “The sooner we get home, the better for us all,” Caden said. “Magic us back.” He could still track and slay the dragon. He knew where it was, knew of its fire character. If they hurried, the dragon could still be his.

Brynne bit at her bottom lip and glanced around. “Let me think on things.” Then she closed her eyes as if trying to sense the unseen. Her brow broke with sweat. After a moment, her cheek twitched, she opened her eyes, and rocked on her feet. Caden reached out to steady her, but she shoved him off. “The spell that brought us here was strong, but it's fading. I'm not sure I can track it and find a path back.” She twisted her hands together. “And I'm not sure how such a return spell would even work.”

Caden frowned. “I thought you were skilled.”

Brynne put her hands on her hips. “Magic isn't that simple, Caden,” she said. “And the magic that brought us here was powerful and
dark
.” She motioned to the road and shops around them. “I can't just wave my hands and bring us from here to home. I don't even know where
here
is.”

Perhaps she could be more useful with more information. “I can find that out,” he said. He was tired of sitting and waiting. It was time to speak with the locals. “Wait.”

Brynne looked annoyed with the order, but plopped down on the bench and waited. Across the road, there was a shop with paintings of cats in the windows. A woman was unlocking the door. She wore a green coat and balanced on shoes with sharp-looking heels. While Brynne and Sir Horace watched from the small park, Caden approached her. Best he stay on guard. Obviously, the shoes were weapons.

He cleared his throat to get the woman's attention.

The woman turned to him, key partially twisted in the lock, and stared at his sword. Then her gaze flickered to his right and widened. No doubt she was impressed at the majestic sight of Sir Horace on the square across the road.

Caden leaned back into the woman's line of sight. “What is this place?” he said.

He'd spoken in the Greater Realm's common tongue, but the weapon-heeled woman scrunched up her face like she didn't understand. Caden felt his stomach turn. All peoples of the Greater Realm knew the common tongue. He'd hoped this world wasn't as foreign as he suspected, but it seemed more and more that it was.

For her part, the woman frowned. “Sweetie,” she said, “I don't understand you.” Her tone was smooth, there was a pleasant drawl to her vowels, and she sounded kind. He felt more confident she wouldn't attack him with her shoes.

Also, while she may not have understood him, Caden understood her. Any language he heard, he could master. It was his gift of speech, bestowed on him when he was an infant. Like his father and brothers, and all princes or princesses born in Razzon, he'd been given a gift—a talent to aid him through the turmoil that was the royal life. His brothers were each given a gift to aid in battle. Valon was gifted with leadership, Maden with strength, Lucian with stealth, Martin with accuracy, Landon with fortitude, Chadwin with agility, and Jasan with speed.

By the time Caden was born, eighth prince of Razzon,
all the best ones were taken. In a moment of desperation, the Royal Bestower gifted Caden with speech—a talent that in no way helped with his swordplay, gave no advantage in battle, and was rumored to have last been gifted to a rogue princess of the merchant people.

It was, however, useful in speaking with strange women in strange lands. He adjusted his words to match the rhythm she'd used. He felt the long vowels form on his tongue and the smooth cadence dance on his lips. “Where am I—” and because a prince was always polite, and it floated in Caden's mind as the polite thing to say, he smiled and amended his words to “Where am I, ma'am?”

She seemed to soften at that. People often softened when Caden concentrated on his words. “College Street and Broadway,” she said, and twisted the key until the lock clicked. “Are you lost?”

Caden wasn't lost. He was stranded by dark magic with his horse and an untrusted sorceress. “I'm not where I need to be.” He crossed his arms and looked at the hard, gray road beside them. A shiny, red transport zoomed by. Her reply didn't sound like the name of a realm. He tried again. “I need the name of the world.”

The woman looked confused. “What do you mean?”

In Caden's royal opinion, it wasn't a difficult question. He kept his questions to the sharp-heeled woman simple and direct after that, and returned to Brynne and Sir Horace with new knowledge. He switched back to their common
language. “This is the ‘downtown' of the land of Asheville. It's part of Carolina of the North, which is in the south.” None of it made sense. Sir Horace and Brynne wore twin expressions of confusion. Caden sighed. “Also, she says her shoes aren't used for combat.”

“That doesn't help me much. I've never heard of such places.” Brynne seemed to consider. “We should find a local magic worker. Magic brought us, magic will get us home.”

Sir Horace nuzzled Caden's shoulder. Caden reached and brought him closer. “No, we should find the local Paladins.” He considered. This was a strange place. “Or this realm's equivalents. Paladins always render aid.”

Brynne rolled her eyes and stretched. “Paladins always render trouble, prince. Everyone knows that.”

While she couldn't devise a spell to return home, she did know one that would let her understand the local language. She cast it, and they split up. While Caden and Sir Horace went in search of more answers, she went to find magic.

None of the twenty-two people Caden approached knew of Paladins or sorcerers—not the woman with three kids, nor the man walking two dogs, nor the girls with packs on their backs—none of them. None knew of any dragons prowling the small mountains visible around the city either.

As the sun started to set, Caden tied Sir Horace to one of the self-lighting streetlights and went into a bakery.
Inside, it was warm and smelled like baking breads and the sweet pulp of venombark berries. The baker had brown skin and a rainbow-colored shirt. The counter was filled with rustic-looking breads. Caden forced his gaze from the delicious-looking food and addressed the baker. “I need to find a Paladin,” he said in the Ashevillian tongue. Though he didn't really want to, he added, “or a sorcerer.” At this point, he'd be happy to find a gnome.