“Promise me,” Barclay pleaded. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
“I promise,” Selby said.
Barclay sighed. “Good. I’m sorry I was mean to you.” And he relaxed enough to fall asleep with his charm clutched between his fingers, hoping that he didn’t dream of an adventure.
FOUR
Dullshire was a town of slights. Everything, from the buildings to the lampposts, leaned on a slight tilt—a remnant of Gravaldor’s earth-breaking magic from seven years ago. The roads were slightly cobbled, with stones loose enough to kick and trip over. The clocktower in the main square was slightly behind. The town wall was slightly crumbled.
The people were slightly paranoid.
Charms dangled on the ledge of every window. Pitchforks and torches rested on each porch, always at the ready.
Barclay glanced at these pitchforks warily as he walked down the street. He resisted the urge to yet again examine the Mark on his shoulder. It’d continued to thrash and prowl across his skin when he’d checked this morning, and though the bright gold hadn’t darkened, his thoughts were still in nervous tangles. Not even walking into the library helped calm him.
Mrs. Havener, the librarian, peered at him from behind the desk. Though very slender, she always wore a heavy Winter coat and three pairs of mittens layered over one another, making her look like a stuffed scarecrow. Barclay had never known if this was because Mrs. Havener was perpetuatlly cold or because she was very proud of her wife’s prolific knitting.
“Are you feeling all right, dear?” she asked. “Your cheeks are all flushed!”
Barclay raised a hand to his face, and it was hot to the touch. “I feel fine,” he lied, making his face flush even deeper.
Mrs. Havener reached for a stack of books behind her and slid them to Barclay.
“We have new books from the city! This one is The Extensive History of the One Hundred Kingdoms.…” Indeed, the tome was large enough to be mistaken for a leather-bound trunk. “The Encyclopedia of Foraging Finds… Ordered that one for Mr. Pilzmann… Oh! And this one I ordered especially for you, Barclay.”
She handed him a copy of an adventure story titled Myths of Monstrosity. Its cover featured a dragon’s head staked on a sword.
Normally, Barclay would thrill at such a story of danger and heroism. But now he cringed, thinking of Mitzi and the girl and everything that had happened in the Woods.
“I—I think I’ll take the history one for now.” He groaned as he picked up the gigantic book.
Mrs. Havener’s face fell in disappointment. “I thought you loved adventure stories.”
“I’m not really the adventure type,” he barely managed to squeak out.
Then he thanked Mrs. Havener and left, hoisting the massive book into his arms. He headed in the direction of the town hall, and the closer he walked, the more decorations he passed.
There was a festival in Dullshire tonight, celebrating events from not just one kingdom but two. Because Dullshire was so rural and insignificant, none of the neighboring kingdoms that surrounded the Woods had bothered to lay proper claim to it. Occasionally a tax collector came from one duchy or a trader visited from some far-off realm, but the people of Dullshire were quite confused by it all. So, always preferring to be safe than sorry, the town celebrated the holidays of all of its nearby kingdoms. Today marked both the coronation of Konig Gebherd of Humdrum and the birthday of Princess Katrin of Diddlystadt.
Though Master Pilzmann had given Barclay and Selby the day off to celebrate, Barclay wasn’t so sure he wanted to join the festivities. As much as he’d like to sample the food, he knew he shouldn’t be calling attention to himself in case someone discovered the Mark.
But even if it was for the best, it was hard not to stop as he passed the town square.
There was dancing—couples skipping to double-timed beats with arms linked, fiddlers and drummers playing along from the balcony of the town hall. Food stalls lined the edges of the courtyard, beckoning Barclay closer with smells of apple dumplings and potato pancakes. The decorations were dizzyingly colorful: the blue and gold streamers of the Humdrummish flag clashing with Diddlystadt’s vibrant orange, black, and green. There were no balloons, of course—balloons had been banned since that disastrous jousting match between Mr. Bielke and his goat last year—and the lawmakers had recently forbidden all tournaments of beanbags or hopscotch. But even in a town full of rules, there were still plenty of ways to have fun.
Without even meaning to, Barclay had wandered into the center of the square, still carrying The Extensive History in his arms.
“Barclay?” someone said behind him, making him turn.
Selby motioned to him from a nearby table, which he was squeezed into with his many siblings. He clutched a half-eaten bratwurst on a stick in one hand, and even though it wasn’t a mushroom, he suddenly looked unhappy to be eating it.
“W-what are you doing here?” Selby asked uneasily.
Barclay glanced longingly at one of the stands, wishing he had some money. “I was just passing by.”
Beside Selby, his siblings cheered. Barclay looked to the center of the square, where a very blond, very pink man was being wheeled in circles in a cart.
“What’s going on?” Barclay asked.
“B-because of the konig’s birthday—”
“You mean the konig’s coronation,” Barclay corrected. “And the princess’s birthday.”
“R-right. They’re giving a prize to the man in Dullshire with the m-most children, and my dad won.”
Barclay wasn’t surprised, as Selby had more siblings than he could likely count. In the center of the square, a Dullshire lawmaker awarded Selby’s father with, in lieu of a trophy, an especially large ham.
“Why are you stuttering so much?” Barclay asked him. Selby only stuttered when he was nervous.
“I…” He flushed extra pink. “I’m nervous about apple smashing and hammer throwing later.” This made sense to Barclay, who was also made easily anxious when it came to sports. “The families with the most wins gets a real trophy.”
Barclay’s shoulders sagged. He’d been to enough of Dullshire’s festivals to know how these games worked—without a family to compete with, Barclay would be excluded.
“And b-because Master Pilzmann’s looking for you,” Selby blurted.
“He is?” Barclay asked fretfully. “Did he say why?”
“No.”
“Did he look angry?”
“No.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
At that, Selby took an especially large bite of his bratwurst, and promptly choked on it. After several moments of coughing—with both Barclay and one of Selby’s sister taking turns whacking his back—Selby swallowed his mouthful and managed, “I’m going to get a drink.” And then he fled.
Barclay, now alone amid such a large crowd, felt twice as terrible as he had that morning. No doubt Master Pilzmann wanted to scold him for his behavior last night. Maybe Barclay would even be fired as an apprentice, and then what would he do?
Not ready to face his fate, Barclay headed somewhere else: the gloomy graveyard tucked behind a hill outside of town. Barclay tensed as he reached the gate in the wall that surrounded Dullshire. A large banner hung over it.