The Villain Keeper (3 page)

“Just breads and muffins here,” the baker told Caden. With a smile he handed out a tray of samples. “They're all vegan, all natural. Take some.”

Caden didn't know what “vegan” meant, so it likely had no equivalent in his language, but he took three pieces—one for himself, one for Sir Horace, and one for Brynne. Outside, he ate the bread and untied Sir Horace. Caden's piece was chewy and healthy tasting, and he approved. Sir Horace, however, spit his out onto the street before Caden mounted and they returned to the park.

Brynne was fidgeting on the bench. “No one knows of magic,” she said while Caden climbed down. “And two people tried to take me away when I said I slept in the park.”

Caden handed her the bread and looked to the walkways—“sidewalks,” in the local tongue. Many stared at Sir Horace, and one had yelled at Caden when Sir Horace had relieved himself. None looked like Paladins or sorcerers, for that matter.

They needed to be practical. It was possible they'd be stranded for longer than a day or two. The square was nice enough, but it was open and unprotected. “We need to find a better place to stay.”

Brynne narrowed her eyes. “Yes, prince, that was my point.”

As twilight fell, they searched together for a campsite, Caden atop Sir Horace, Brynne beside them. There were larger roadways beyond the downtown, divided into three and four lanes. The metal transports—cars—moved fast on them. They crossed under one busy roadway to get to a wooded area with houses, and finally made camp in the cedars between the downtown and a large inn with stone stacked walls and a large rolling red roof.

Caden surveyed his supplies—one small pan, a satchel, and a worn compass invented by the desertsmiths of Summerlands. The compass was an essential tool for any soldier, especially an Elite Paladin. The lid was engraved with a gentle snake, a tribute to the Sunsnake that turned the deserts. Inside it had a small lever with three settings. With the lever in the center location, it would navigate direction. Move the lever up, and it could test if a plant was edible. Move it down, and it directed the user toward freshwater.

For the next two days, they investigated. Each morning, Brynne cast her spell of understanding. It wasn't natural like Caden's gift of speech. It was fleeting magic
that drained her energy and had to be renewed daily. She searched for information on moon phases and sun patterns, for spellwork, and for any way to strengthen her magic or help her discover the way home.

Caden was relegated to more practical tasks. He strengthened their shelters with twisted branches and cold mud, then hunted for food. He used his compass and satchel to find and collect edible tubers, berries, and drinking water. Afterward, he joined Brynne to explore the city. By the time they regrouped at the campsite on the third night, she was grumpy and Sir Horace was restless.

“The beast and I are hungry,” Brynne said, and frowned at the roasting tubers on the fire. “I can steal us real food. We'll need some soon.” Although not her friend, Sir Horace whinnied in obvious agreement.

The setting sun cast shadows through the cedar branches. Through gaps in the trees, Caden saw the first lights turning on in the city below. The noise from the roads was growing loud with cars.

He turned to Brynne and glared. “Future Elite Paladins don't steal,” he said. “These will sustain us for now. They can for several days.” Brynne looked as if she intended to steal food anyway. Caden sighed and tossed Sir Horace one of the tubers. “Eat it, Sir Horace. It will quell your hunger.”

Sir Horace neighed and stomped at the frozen earth. The ground cracked under his hooves. Hot breath billowed from his nostrils like chimney smoke.

Brynne sat on a log that Caden had arranged as a bench and stretched her legs. “You understand that foul beast can't talk back, don't you?”

Her beauty aside, he grew tired of her insults. True, they were stuck here together and had formed an alliance. But he'd found food; he'd built shelters. It was time for her to do her part. “You need to complain less and be useful. Find us a way home already.”

She arched a delicate brow. “My magic's the only thing that kept the forces that pulled us here from delivering us straight to them. You'd likely be dead if not for me.”

She'd said that before. “So you think,” he said.

Her face scrunched up like he was the one annoying her. “So I know, prince.”

She seemed quite certain for someone who couldn't identify said forces, couldn't give a reason they'd been pulled from their different kingdoms to this strange world, and couldn't find a way back to the Greater Realm.

This he didn't say, but Brynne frowned like she knew his thoughts. She twisted her hands together and stared down at them. When she spoke, her voice was small. “It's not a simple spell. The more I learn . . .” She took a deep breath and continued. “The moon is different here. The phases change swiftly. I estimate a mere fourteen days from full moon to new one. And the sun casts different light. No one seems to know of magic.” She looked away. “I think it will take years for me to master a spell to get home.
At least four, maybe more. Even then, I might not have the power to get all three of us home.”

He heard her words but couldn't process them. “What?”

She reached as if to pet Sir Horace, but Sir Horace snorted and jerked away like the proud stallion he was. Backed by the setting sun, she seemed to glow. “We're stuck here. Based on my skill and the best alignment for a travel spell, it'll take years to return us. I'm certain. You, me, and”—she paused to level a sneer at Sir Horace—“the beast are trapped.”

For a moment, he stared at her, caught by her dark beauty, but he was no fool. He knew who she was—a sorceress of questionable motives, a girl from a people of magic and thievery.

“You're wrong,” he said.

Her confident expression seemed about to crack. “I'm not,” she said.

Caden had a dragon to slay. His father was waiting. “I won't stay here.”

She laughed, and, for the briefest moment, looked like she might cry. “Caden,” she said, “we don't have a choice.”

F
rom the hillside, Caden watched night fall. The city glowed with white and yellow lights. Without clouds, the sky above was filled with stars, though none grouped in patterns he recognized. The moon rose. Already it was under three-quarters full.

He turned back and prepared some tubers he had collected for dinner. Brynne stood over him. She opened her mouth to likely throw out a comment about his cooking, but was interrupted by voices from the road below.

“Got some strange reports about the hillside. And someone said they saw a girl 'round here,” a man said.

Caden turned. Sir Horace stood at attention. Brynne went wide-eyed and chewed on her bottom lip.

The man spoke again. “This way, boss,” he said. He sounded closer. “You know, it's been over seventy-two
hours. Odds are we aren't gonna find her.”

“I know, Jenkins,” a second, deeper voice said, “but I promised I'd keep looking.”

“Yeah,” Jenkins said. “No stone unturned. Right?”

“Something like that.”

Caden hoped Brynne understood the men. She spoke the Ashevillian tongue with the aid of her spells, but the magic was fleeting and it was late in the day. “Get out of sight,” he whispered.

“I've had enough of your orders, Caden,” she said, but she became serious and battle ready. She stepped into the eastern shadows, becoming one with the night.

Caden patted Sir Horace's neck. “Quiet, friend,” he said, and led the horse to the cover of the thick cedars that framed their camp's uphill side.

Brynne had questionable ethics, but she was his ally until they found their way back to the Greater Realm. Neither of them knew why they'd been targeted by the spell that brought them here. Perhaps these men were the ones who'd cast it. If they were after Brynne, she would fight, and Caden and Sir Horace would battle beside her.

The men broke sticks and twigs as they approached. Leaves crunched. Either they were not trained in stealth or didn't care that they sounded like approaching thunder cattle.

Near the camp's perimeter, the noises stopped. The men were so close Caden could see their dark forms beyond
the trees. He crouched behind a bush. Sir Horace was as still as a statue behind him, Brynne a shadow in the east. Caden's hand twitched near his blade. With fate's favor and the camouflage he'd built, he, his horse, and the fledgling sorceress would go unnoticed.

Fate, however, was not with them this night. A moment later, one of the men pushed through the cedars and stepped into the camp. He was tall and lanky. Against the moonlight, Caden made out red hair, a dark uniform, and a weapons belt. “Whoa,” the man said. “Whatta you think about this?”

The second man tromped past the evergreens. He was shorter, older, and stockier. His hair and eyebrows were bushy and graying. He, too, wore a dark uniform and weapons belt. Not spellcasters, then. City guards. Policemen, by the local tongue.

“It's organized, well hidden,” the stocky one said. “Not your typical squatters, Jenkins.” He circled the camp and shone his light on the shelters, on the post Caden had fashioned for Sir Horace, on the tall hiking stick Caden had whittled with his sword. “All this stuff needs to be bagged, tagged, and processed.”

The lanky one, Jenkins, strode to the fire pit. He shone his light on the coals and on Caden's pot of cooked tubers sitting atop. With a nudge of his dirty boot, he tipped the pot and its contents to the ground. “Still warm.”

It'd taken Caden most of the morning to collect and
prepare the tubers so they were edible. That was valuable time he'd have preferred to have spent searching for a way back to Razzon and its dragons. His hard-found dinner steamed on the cold ground. He clenched his jaw and pulled his fingers into a fist.

The stocky one squinted toward the camp's edge and toward Brynne. He shone his light around the branches, not quite seeing her but sensing her. Sometimes magic hid people. Sometimes it made them more noticeable. “Police! Who's there? Come out, now.” They would find her at any moment.

Caden brushed dried leaves from his pants and stood. The peril of an unknown land was no excuse for poor grooming, and a prince always protected those in his care, even the pretty, wicked ones who didn't deserve it. He stepped from the branches. “I'm over here.”

The policemen spun around and shone their lights at his face. The stocky one stepped forward. Jenkins put a hand on his weapons belt. No matter. Tall and clumsy and old and short were no match for him. Caden had his sword.

“You're not Jane,” Jenkins said.

Caden didn't know who this Jane was, but he certainly was not her. “I'm Caden, prince of Razzon, eighth-born son to the honorable King Axel.” He glared at Jenkins and pointed at the spilled roots that were now dirt-covered and limp in the cold air. “That was my dinner.”

“Dinner?” Jenkins said. “You're kidding, right?”

“Tubers, you've ruined them.”

“Lucky you.” Jenkins stepped closer. “How old are you, kid?”

“Old enough.”

The stocky one peered at Caden. “I'm going to need to talk to your parent or guardian or whoever built this camp right now.”

Caden bristled. “I built the camp.”

Seemingly stirred by the conflict, Caden felt Sir Horace fall in line behind him. His hot breath tickled Caden's neck; his magnificent presence guarded over him. The men's eyes went wide.

Jenkins frowned at Caden, at his clothes, at the sharp sword across Caden's back, at Sir Horace. “You know,” he said, “the fine for having unlicensed livestock in the city limits is five hundred dollars.”

To call a steed like Sir Horace “livestock” was unforgivable. He was a Galvanian snow stallion, trained by the Elite Guard, and deemed the eighth finest horse in the Greater Realm. If Caden were brasher, he would attack these guards out of pure principle.

From the east, Caden felt Brynne's amusement, even though he couldn't see her. For his part, Sir Horace flattened his ears, bared his teeth, and snapped at Jenkins's light.

“Whoa!” Jenkins jumped back. “Kid, get that animal under control.”

Caden didn't appreciate the tone. He didn't appreciate these men riffling through his things and doubting his camp-building abilities. He raised his chin. “Sir Horace is justifiably insulted.”

The stocky one glared at Jenkins and then motioned to himself. “I'm Officer Levine,” he said. “Are you out here by yourself, son?”

“Do you see anyone else?” he said.

“You've got two shelters.”

More and more, it seemed these men knew nothing of Caden or Brynne. It was possible they weren't the ones who stranded them. Still, it was smarter to be cautious. The second shelter was Brynne's, but Caden didn't mention her. Instead, he nodded to Sir Horace. “Sir Horace prefers a roof,” he said, which was, in fact, true.