Clytia copied the third chapter of Questions on Proverbs onto rough paper, carefully stitching it together with the sections she had already revised, then set down her pen.
By the time she finished, it was already noon, yet Diya and Nolan had not returned, and the girl kept glancing toward the door.
Just then I heard a “thump, thump, thump” at the door—pounding hard enough to rattle the wood on its hinges.
Nolan—or Diya—back? I froze, then realized those two would never knock so crudely.
Clytia plainly realized it too. She bent at the waist and edged backward, quiet as a mouse.
“Who is it…? Did the baron put out a warrant after all? But didn’t Nolan check—didn’t he say the baron hadn’t issued one?”
So I was thinking when a shout bellowed from outside:
“Open up! Open up!”
“Anyone in there? Open the door! Or I’ll break it down!”
Whoever it was meant it; the door shook under blow after blow. From the corridor came a buzz of voices and the shrieks of neighbors—like a crowd massed outside.
Nolan’s rented place was one of those wooden row-tenements, laid out almost like an apartment block. I guessed the neighbors on both sides were getting harassed too.
The door began to give. Clytia snatched up the dark-red cloak by the jamb, threw it on, and tiptoed toward the back of the apartment—
Fortunately we had a preplanned escape route. The girl stepped onto a chair, climbed onto the table, pushed up a loose board overhead, and a way up opened.
She wriggled into the crawlspace, pulled the board back into place, then crept through the sealed attic. After a spell of crawling through dust and webs in that cramped dark, she saw the plank hatch at the far end.
Cold wind knifed in when she lifted it. Every hair stood on end. Clytia eased her body out, gripped the outer rafters, checked left and right for witnesses, then slid down a post and dropped into the muddy yard behind the wooden building.
I glimpsed a dozen shadows shifting out front, like they were about to sweep around and encircle. Clytia watched a moment, tightened her cloak, pulled up the hood, and started thinking how to slip past the wall ahead.
“No—wrong!” I felt it at once, and Clytia halted so sharply it jolted the breath. She turned.
Someone stood behind the house.
A man—or a woman?
I steadied myself and looked. A tall figure: short-haired, rough-hewn like a man, but a woman; if the hard angles of her face and the vicious scar weren’t enough to say so, then the mail shirt beneath a moss-green mantle and the greatsword slung across her back were. Everything about her warned: a warrior.
So that was it—this ruckus wasn’t a warrant from a baron at all. It was because of the woman in front of us.
“Little sister, if you don’t turn around and just walk away, I can still pretend I didn’t see you. Okay?”
The threat in her voice was obvious, though there didn’t seem to be killing intent. Clytia glanced left and right and asked:
“Who… are you?”
“My name’s nothing you need to—hm?”
Clytia had just calmed when a grunt rumbled up from the warrior’s throat. The black cloak twitched; her outline blurred.
Clytia hadn’t time to turn. In an instant the woman was behind her and clamped a hand around her neck.
“Mm—ugh!” Clytia couldn’t make a sound. Her legs kicked, struggling; blackness pressed in.
“Tch. Tough little thing…”
The moment the woman said it, I snapped my eyes open and whipped both arms upward.
Clang!
A chain lashed from beneath the cloak toward the woman’s eyes. Her hold pinned Clytia’s arms, but she didn’t know there was a chain between them.
Her reaction was lightning-fast; she ducked. I’d meant to smash her eyes with iron and force her to let go, but the chain just scraped her scalp and caught at the back of her neck.
“Hah?” she blurted, startled. It seemed to alert the searchers out front. Shouts and pounding feet were already angling toward the little yard behind the building.
“There—go, after her! Behind the house!”
“Let go! The ones chasing me are coming! You’ll be dragged into this!”
“Mm… ugh!”
Was this woman dim? She was the one choking me; me “letting go” wouldn’t fix that. But with my throat crushed I couldn’t tell her so.
I was gathering my focus to use force—magic—when my feet suddenly left the ground.
The woman hoisted me and sprang. With a single bound she cleared a wall ten-odd feet high. Behind us rose a clamor of blows and shouts—not guards, but city thugs in homespun, short knives and throwing axes in their fists. An axe hissed past the wall and smashed into the ground with a bang.
The woman glanced back, saw the thugs scrambling over as well, then broke into a run and dove into the alleys of the Lower City (Romern).
She moved so fast she turned my sense of direction to mush. By the time I got my bearings, the tenement was nowhere in sight.
“Where… is this…” I looked around and saw a giant windmill looming ahead—then realized she had carried me up onto the windmill’s roof.
She had released my throat by then, only clamped a hand over my mouth. We hid behind the mill’s vanes and watched the street below, where the pack of thugs spilled from the alley and blundered about like headless flies before scattering away.
“All right, little sister—no screaming. I’ll let go, and you let go of me. Deal?” She drew her gaze back and spoke slowly.
I nodded. She took her hand away; I slipped the chain loose, dropped to one knee on the roof, and worked feeling back into my numb arms.
“If you’d just gone limp and fainted… this would’ve been simpler.”
She sighed—then fell abruptly silent. I flicked a glance at her and found her looking at me with a strange expression.
Under that stare my skin prickled. Suddenly she lunged for me; because I’d been on edge the whole time, I jerked back on instinct—
—and stepped on a loose tile.
We were on a mill roof! My balance went. I windmilled my arms; she snagged my wrist in a vise and hauled me away from the eaves.
Heart still pounding, I steadied myself—and felt her grip like iron around my wrist as her voice went cold:
“Little lady? What is this?”
“Damn it—she’s seen the shackles!” My heart leapt to my throat. From those few exchanges I already knew how dangerous she was. With my half-baked black magic, could I get away from her?
“Who put this on you?”
My mouth opened. No answer came. I could only sneak a look at her face—then saw something I hadn’t seen in this world for a long time, something hard to name.
Honor, loyalty, dignity, the itch for power, cold severity—the warriors of Erandel wore such masks often in the lists or at court. But on this warrior’s face I saw an expression called righteous anger.
“Ah—I see. Some noble or merchant running slaves in secret, isn’t it? I know—this country’s law ended slavery a hundred years ago and still can’t stamp it out. So tell me—who would lay hands on a child this age?”
She gripped the iron ring tight on my arm, then crouched to meet my eyes and softened her voice:
“Little one—ah, did I scare you? It’s all right. Look—I’m not a bad person. Not scary, see?”
While she spoke, her hand moved to her own face. The scarred, fearsome visage outside—just an uncannily real mask.
Beneath it, under hair cropped to an inch, was a beautiful face marked by time. Her slightly elongated ears seemed to declare a strain of blood not wholly human.
“Y-your name—what is it? Are you… Da… Da…” Looking at that face, something stirred in memory. A warrior of nonhuman blood… Right. No unknown.
“Oh? Is my name really that famous?” The woman laughed, then spoke plainly:
“Yes. I am a wanderer from the Pale Forest. My name is Dariel, a humble ranger.”
It was her after all.
Dariel—if I could know that name, then of course it had to be because of the source novel.
Truth is, the moment she took off the mask I remembered her. A short-haired, female half-elf warrior—how could I forget a mark like that?
What’s more—she was one of the teachers who trained the protagonist, Nolan, in the original.
Such a coincidence? Why would I run into her? No—because Clytia has already stepped into Nolan’s life, meeting those bound to him is inevitable.
“Ah—am I your admirer, then? I’m a little embarrassed…” Sensing my startled gaze, Dariel released my wrist and took two steps back.
“Anyway—call it my apology. Let’s change places and talk.”