Paragon - Book I

The Name Game

It feels so strange to travel through Keesark as a Smith-caller. Allayria catches herself twice nearly raising a hand to call a bird to her, as she would often do in her previous rendezvous to the kingdom. She had learned very early on that no one attends much to a Roften orphan around the northern borders.

Her nervousness does not arouse any suspicions though. It's not uncommon now for Iaves to go through weapons when they stop for the night, polishing and sharpening them in the dying rays of the suns. There is always a watcher, and Allayria's body sluggishly adapts to the truncated, fractured periods of rest with great irritation.

Still, Iaves jokes cheerily as they walk and Ben shows her which trees are best to climb here. He finds great amusement in her stories of treetop nesting all over the kingdoms and, with more knowledge of Keesark than he had had of Roften, he delights in pointing out which types are weight-bearing and scalable and which are not. And Meg, when she can spy them, calls fruit down from the trees and tosses them back to her friends. Somehow, she always manages to hit Iaves on the nose when he's not looking.

When they finally reach Solveigard, Allayria finds a tall, gray city pluming with smoke and ash. People move through it like waves, rushing in through its cracks and ebbing and flowing with the growing tide. There are guards everywhere.

At last they have reached a place that the three know much better than Allayria, and she feels disoriented, unsure of this city with its twisting nooks and crannies.

Even so, Allayria knows they are going to the underside of the city. She can tell by the subtle shift in cleanliness, the crumpling ruination of the architecture. She sees more hoods and scarves as they go further in, and gets the pin-prickling feeling she should pull up her own. A flush of desire creeps up her hands again, and she wants to project out in that silent voice:

I am nothing. I am unimportant. Move along.

They go to a place called The Open Arms, a dingy and somewhat seamy establishment where they rent a room from a silent, well-lined woman who seems to recognize the others and stares a beat too long at Allayria.

The room is small, crammed with four cots and a small water closet, but it has a window and Allayria sticks her head out, looking up at the white clouds and blue sky.

"Magda's a good sort," Ben is saying when she comes back inside. "She'll keep quiet about us being in town, with the right incentive."

"She's made it a life's practice of being selectively blind," Meg quips from a cot, a foot dangling in the air. "Where to first?"

"We meet with the Brothers of Wren," Ben says, pulling out a notebook and scribbling something down. "They should be able to give us an update on Keno, as well as the usual."

"The Brothers of Wren?" Allayria prompts.

"Two blokes with a knack for coming across hard-to-find objects," Iaves supplies. "They know us pretty well—we're repeat customers."

"I'm not sure if they're really brothers," he adds thoughtfully.

"We have a drop we need to do with them," Ben says. "Those old Solveig texts on the gothi."

Allayria starts. Gothi, she muses, her brow crinkling. How does she know that name?

"So me and who else?" Iaves asks, looking around.

"I'll go," Allayria volunteers, but Ben shakes his head.

"They don't like strangers," he explains. "No, Meg will go with Iaves. You and I will be the lookouts."

"Lookouts?"

Iaves laughs.

"Never show up to a meeting with the brothers without an extra pair of eyes on your back," he tells her.