Penelope stared at him with wide eyes, and her worry throbbed in my mind right alongside my own concern. What did Conley want?
I reached out with my magic, but Conley’s thoughts were scattered and turbulent, like fall leaves swirling on a gusty breeze. All I could really tell was that he was extremely agitated.
“Now,” he growled.
Penelope slammed her lunch box shut, set it aside, and surged to her feet. I also set my lunch box aside and stood up.
“Follow me,” Conley growled again.
He strode past us. The two men pushing the wheelbarrows walked by as well, but the other four miners stood there, clutching their pickaxes.
Penelope shot me a regretful look, then headed after Conley. The four miners hefted their tools—weapons—their message crystal clear. Come along, or else.
All around the plaza, the other miners kept their heads down, and another, stronger cloud of tension drifted through the air. No one was going to question Conley, much less try to stop him and his enforcers from doing whatever they wanted with the wheelbarrows—and me.
Despite the obvious danger, curiosity surged through me, along with more than a little eagerness. After weeks of running around the countryside chasing rumors, I finally had a chance to discover what was really going on. So I fell in step beside Penelope, with the four miners closing ranks behind me. Together, we all followed Conley away from the mine.
* * *
Conley swaggered through the plaza and along the main thoroughfare beyond as though he owned it. He called out greetings to several merchants, although they too ducked their heads and focused on their goods, lest they attract too much of his attention. I wondered if Conley had frightened or bribed them to look the other way. Perhaps both. Well, his grip on the mine was rapidly coming to an end.
Penelope and I trailed Conley and his men about a quarter mile down the street. The crowd was much thinner here, and Conley paused and glanced around before ducking into an alley. The merchants and miners were still averting their eyes, and Penelope and I had no choice but to follow the foreman.
As we walked along, I skimmed the minds of the six men.
Someone needs to grease the wheel on this thing . . .
Why couldn’t we do this after lunch?
Going to drink my fill at the tavern tonight with my cut of the money . . .
That last thought all but confirmed my suspicions that the wheelbarrows were full of tearstone.
I reached out with my magic again, this time searching for Topacia and trying to locate her warm presence, but she must have been deeper in the city, because I didn’t sense her. Even if I did call out to her, there was no guarantee she would hear me. Usually only mind magiers, or those with strong, special bonds like Grimley and me, could mentally communicate with each other with any regularity over great distances. Although, sometimes if I was close enough, I could whisper thoughts to Topacia, given our long-standing friendship.
I reached out yet again, this time searching for Grimley. I easily sensed his cool, solid presence, like he was the stone masthead attached to my internal ship, but our connection was weak, indicating that he was miles away. He must have gone hunting with the other gargoyles in the countryside.
I was on my own.
Beside me, tension and guilt radiated off Penelope, the emotions strong enough to cause my gargoyle pendant to grow warm against my skin. Her worry increased my own, but unlike Penelope, I wasn’t concerned about Conley, his men, or where we were going.
No, mine was an old, familiar, insidious fear—that I would lose control of my magic, of myself, and drown in the sea of thoughts and storm of emotions swirling around me. That I would become frozen, paralyzed, useless. That people would get hurt—that people would die—because I was too fucking weak to save them.
Just like Uncle Frederich, Lord Hans, and the other Andvarians had died during the Seven Spire massacre.
Phantom screams ripped through my mind, causing my heart to pound and sweat to gather on the back of my neck. I raised a shaking hand to my chest. I couldn’t touch the gargoyle pendant, since it was still tucked underneath my clothes, so I settled for pressing it against my heart. The silver base dug into my skin like a hot coal, but the discomfort helped me to shove away the horrible memories. My fear, guilt, and shame lingered, though. I had never been able to get rid of them.
Cowardice tended to stain one’s heart for all time.
“Gemma?” Penelope whispered. “Are you okay? You look sick.”
Her worry churned in my stomach again, but this time, I blocked it out, along with my own fear. The pendant cooled against my skin, and I dropped my hand from my chest.
“I’m fine,” I whispered back.
Penelope gave me a disbelieving look, but we had no choice but to keep following Conley.
The foreman led us through several alleys. None of the men said a word. Penelope and I didn’t speak again either, and the only sounds were the muffled tink-tink-tinks of the chunks of ore rattling around inside the wheelbarrows.
Conley ducked into yet another alley, and I slowed down, glancing around. Dented metal bins overflowing with spoiled food and other garbage, broken glass littering the ground, a wide crack zigzagging through one of the walls. An eerie, unwelcome sense of déjà vu filled me. This was the same alley I had come through this morning, and I had a sneaking suspicion I knew exactly where we were going—and even worse, whom we were meeting.
Conley marched out the far end of the alley, through the trees, and into the clearing beyond. He stopped near the center of the open space, and the two men set down their wheelbarrows. The other four miners spread out, still holding their pickaxes, while Penelope grabbed my arm and jerked me to the side.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you involved in this.”
Surprise filled me. Had she done this before? Was she part of Conley’s crew?
Before I could ask Penelope any questions, half a dozen men stepped out of the trees on the opposite side of the clearing.
No crests adorned their black tunics, leggings, and boots, but they were all wearing purple cloaks that clearly marked them as Mortans. People in Blauberg didn’t wear that color because they didn’t want to be mistaken as being from the other kingdom. The men were clutching swords with the ease and familiarity of seasoned soldiers, and they all oozed cool confidence, unlike Conley, Penelope, and the other miners, who were radiating rigid tension.
The Mortans parted, and a seventh man strode into the clearing. He was more than six feet tall, with short black hair, hazel eyes, bronze skin, and a body that was all thick, solid muscle. Heavy stubble darkened his square jaw, and he would have been handsome, if not for the cruel twist of his lips.
He too was wearing a purple cloak, and a fancy cursive M surrounded by a ring of strix feathers was done in gold thread on his black tunic, over his heart. The Morricone royal crest marked him as a captain, although instead of a sword, he was holding something much more unusual—the end of a long coldiron chain.
The captain stopped and yanked on the chain, as though it were attached to some poor dog that he wanted to drag forward and whip to within an inch of its life.
“Come on,” he growled. “Don’t make this any harder on yourself.”
He gave the chain another yank. The captain must have had some strength magic, because another man stumbled into the clearing. This man’s hands were bound in front of him with coldiron shackles that were attached to the chain, and a coldiron collar glinted around his neck.