Quill of Thieves

Chapter 7

The detritus trail stuttered off the cobbled street and disappeared down a snowbank.

Astrid wasn't sure how she still stood on her own two feet as she stopped at the edge. The screeching bounced against her skull in a painful staccato, like the two powers within her were struggling to find a compatible resonance. She looked back at Matthias. His hand still clamped above her extinguishing cuff, his fingers long enough to wrap right around it.

She shook him off. "I think it's down there."

He grasped onto the back of her cloak. "What, exactly, is it?"

Astrid shrugged. "We're about to find out."

The slope of the bank was steep. Astrid dug the toes of her boots into the thick snow to keep from slipping. It was made all the more difficult because Astrid's very blood hastened her forward, tugging at her navel, yanking her closer.

Closer still.

Her feet ran down the last few meters before sliding to a graceless stop.

It was lucky the boy was already unconscious.

Astrid hadn't given much thought as to what she would do when she actually found the source of her magic's threat. And, without a doubt, this boy was the threat. Her magic stilled so completely in his presence that she fell to her knees beside him. 

Matthias, on the other hand, must have brooded the entire trek about what part he would play in this adventure. He lunged forward, shoving Astrid face-first into the snow, his blood-sword unsheathed before Astrid could utter a protest. He pointed it directly over the boy's jugular, the tip unwavering.

"This is it?"

He sounded rather disappointed.

Astrid nodded and pushed back her hood to get a better look at him. The Forgotten Son. But could it be? Perhaps Matthias was right; the boy didn't look especially threatening. He couldn't have been older than herself. Despite the chill, his skin held a bronzed pallor that wasn't often seen on those this high up the mountain. Beneath the shaggy, damp mop of black hair atop his head was a small pool of blood. She looked back at the mound she and Matthias had just climbed down; there was a long indentation in the snow like something had been dragged down it.

He must have fallen and hit his head.

Beside him lay a pebble.

Astrid laughed, tossing the stone at Matthias. "This feels eerily familiar."

"Be serious," Matthias snapped. He swatted the pebble away with his hand and scowled at her. "What are you doing?"

Her hand paused. It hovered above the boy's cold cheek. Startled, she realized her magic was already concentrated in her fingers as if it had forgotten the cuff shouldn't have allowed it to flow so easily. She hesitated. His lips were nearly blue, the blood still seeping from his forehead. What was she doing? If this boy was who she thought him to be, she should be the one with the sword pointed at him. Not Matthias. She should drag him back to the fortress as a prisoner, at least, and hand him over to her mother and the Monverta.

She slipped her hand back into her sleeve and sat back on her heels, watching him. "Who are you?" 

To her surprise, he moved. Matthias's sword didn't waver when the boy's dark lashes fluttered against his round cheekbones. "Abel," he moaned, his neck flopping to the side.

Had he heard her? Was that his name?

Astrid glanced at Matthias once before rolling back her sleeves with a renewed determination. "I'm going to heal him."