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Labyrinthia’s stormy season was unforgiving. During the tumultuous change from summer to autumn, the gentle showers that had graced the city for months were traded for raging tempests that seemed to emerge from thin air. A thin band of dark clouds above the glittering horizon could overtake a clear sky within moments, sometimes faster than garrison sentries could sound a warning. The weather seemed at times to be a living entity, hellbent on destroying the city however it might. Heavy gales blew loose shingles from rooftops, gutters filled to overflowing with rain that seemed to fall in every possible direction at once. Hailstones flattened fields, ruining entire harvests in the span of a single afternoon. Lighting arced and thunder roared, sending skittish children face first into their mother’s skirts.
Any Labyrinthian with an ounce of sense knew to flee in the direction of the nearest shelter whenever one of these storms reared its ugly head. The couriers, who often boasted that nothing—including witchcraft—could keep them from their appointed rounds, thought twice before venturing out into the flood, their bulging bags swaddled in water-resistant oilskins. The only others to dare challenge the storms were members of the Order. The knights of the garrison refused to let a little rain and wind keep them from their patrols; while the weather might deter cutthroats and petty criminals, witches were another matter entirely. It was entirely possible that Bezella and her accursed ilk thrived under such harsh conditions.
As Leader of the Order, Zacharias Barnham was not exempt from inclement weather patrols. He took his turn in the rotation without complaint, firmly of the belief that storms were nothing more than a test in perseverance and fortitude. A true knight did not shy away from physical discomfort; it was a chance to prove one’s mettle beyond the confines of the battlefield. Being cold or wet was a temporary ailment, certainly not life-threatening to anyone hale and hearty enough to face the elements.
As their superior, he made a point to be a living example for the rest of the garrison. He rode the waterlogged streets with his head held high, his thick cloak billowing in the heavy wind. Each flash of lightning served to highlight the golden crest of his helm; neither he nor his steed flinched at the answer rumble of thunder, loud enough to rattle windowpanes. Water streamed from his armor, droplets cascading down the sides of his well-conditioned saddle to the cobblestones below.
This day, the weather seemed to take his stoicism as a challenge and did everything in its power to retaliate. The rain worked its way between the rivets of his armor, soaking deep into his tunic to chill his skin. The outer layer of his cloak was a sodden mess, and its double-lined interior couldn’t keep out the worst of the cold. Icy droplets mercilessly pelted his cheeks and jaw, each pinprick like shards of glass against his wind-chafed skin. He bore it in silence, his shoulders squared in sheer obstinance. If his horse could brave the elements while bearing the weight of its master’s load, then he too could ignore his own discomfort in favor of the task at hand.
The only consolation on his desolate patrol was the lack of foot traffic. No handcarts blocked the roadways, the side streets free of wagons and the hitching posts empty. There were no children running underfoot without a care or playing in the gutters, no housewives waving him down to settle minor disputes between neighbors. There was not even a—he suppressed a shudder at the memory—stray dog left to startle his horse.
There was, however, one thoroughly drenched High Inquisitor.
He first caught sight of her from the crest of the eastern bridge that spanned the length of the river at its widest point. Truth be told, he was more surprised that she hadn’t noticed him first. Lady Darklaw had an uncanny way of sneaking up on unsuspecting knights, grilling them on the particulars of their duties and then watching them squirm under her merciless gaze. Of course, he was never one to spend time twiddling his thumbs when there was work to be done. She’d never catch him idling on the job, but that didn’t stop her from appearing out of thin air whenever he thought himself to be alone.
However, the pounding rain and roaring water beneath the bridge must have covered the sounds of his approach; she kept her back to him as she trudged down a muddy footpath alongside the churning riverbank. He slowed to a stop, watching with mounting confusion as she made her way along the slippery path. The High Inquisitor was one of the last people he would have expected to be caught out in the rain and furthermore… she was not dressed for the occasion. Most Labyrinthians forced to brave the storm would have bundled themselves in every spare scrap of cloth they could find—scarves, gloves, caps—in a vain attempt to keep themselves as dry as possible.
Lady Darklaw had nothing, not even a cloak. Her ceremonial uniform might have offered some meager protection in the form of long sleeves and tights, but she was dressed in her everyday office gear. The fine black sleeves hung loosely from her arms, drooping under the drenched fabric’s weight. Waterlogged strands of hair fell from her elaborate braid, sticking to the back of her neck. As he watched, the heel of her boot slid in a patch of mud and she nearly slipped, catching herself at the last minute on the fieldstone wall separating the footpath from the row of houses opposite.
As she righted herself, his gaze landed on the pale band of thigh between her skirt and her boots. He averted his eyes at once, his sense of propriety dampened only by the thought of how cold her legs must be. Without anything to protect them from the wind and rain, they would be sore and chafed before nightfall. Even so, he hesitated before calling out to her, his desire to be of use at war with the fear of accidentally insulting her with an offer of help. He wasn’t sure what aid he could offer, beyond the invitation of an escort.
More than once his hands tightened on the reins, a small voice inside his head urging him to continue along his normal route. It would be easier—perhaps beneficial—to pretend that he’d seen nothing out of the ordinary. For all he knew Lady Darklaw was in the middle of a case; she often handled difficult assignments on her own, and did not like to be bothered when on the scene. In addition, she had proven her resilience time and time again during training at the garrison. If the raging storm didn’t bother him, then surely she had no qualms about facing it in nothing more than her uniform. She was the High Inquisitor Darklaw, the Storyteller’s right hand, the bane of witches, and… and….
And a lone woman, caught in the rain.
He bit back a curse, turning his horse to follow her down the narrow path. Even if she scolded him for it afterwards, he couldn’t find it in himself to leave her to face the elements on her own. If she intended to be there, then he would continue on his way. If not, well… he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He called out to her, his voice nearly drowned by a loud crack of thunder that seemed to rock the very earth beneath their feet. By some miracle she heard him, looking over her shoulder and then turning completely when she recognized him.
“High Inquisitor.” The wind changed, snapping back his cloak and forcing her to hold a palm over her eyes in order to see him through the rain. He maneuvered so that his horse would take the brunt of the wind, squinting down at her with a painstaking smile. “Fine weather for a walk, is it not?” To her credit, she had the sense to look embarrassed as she brushed the sodden bangs from her creased forehead.
“Yes, well.” She pursed her lips, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stepped closer to the scant shelter his horse provided. “I made the mistake of going into the woods without my cloak and was… caught off guard.” He watched her carefully as she spoke. Every muscle in her body was tensed, clenched against movement, yet it wasn’t enough to entirely suppress the tremors wracking her limbs. Her cheeks were flushed, either from shame or—Teller forfend—the beginnings of a chill-induced fever. “There’s nothing to be done about it now.”
“An unfortunate happenstance, to be sure.” Why was she wandering the woods at this time of evening? Her lack of excuse did not escape his notice, but now was not the time to draw attention to it. It would do no good to press further, since it was none of his business in the first place. “In that case, allow me to offer you a ride home.”
“You needn’t concern yourself, Sir Barnham.” Despite her curt protest, her arms tightened until she was all but hugging herself for warmth. He half-expected to see her lips turn blue. “I don’t live far, and I’m not—”
“I insist.” Ignoring her bewildered frown, he reached down and offered her a hand. If she truly thought him insubordinate, then he would gladly pay the price for it later. Luckily, his helm covered his eyes; from her current vantage point, she’d see little more than the stubborn set of his jaw. In any case, his stance was the more prudent. “T’would be faster than trying to stagger your way through this mud.”
“But—” Still she hesitated, her eyes locked on his outstretched hand with an indefinable expression.
“Come now,” he coaxed gently, wagging his fingers. “You’re clearly freezing, milady. What you need is a change of clothes and a nice, warm cup of tea. The sooner we get you home, the better.”
“I…. Very well.” She took his hand in a shockingly firm grip, pulling herself onto the saddle in a single fluid motion. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” she added, more to herself than to him. He held the reins in one hand, unfastening his cloak with the other. He settled it over her shoulders, taking care that the soggy outer layer didn’t touch her wet clothes. She jolted in surprise when it fell across her eyes, gloved hands grabbing at the gold-embossed hem.
“What’s the point? I’m already wet.” She glanced back at him with a puzzled scowl, the angle making her cheeks look more flushed. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought her flustered. By what? He laughed to himself at the thought. There was nothing for her to be concerned over; if anything, it was he who should have balked at the thought of sharing a saddle with her, as though they were lovers on a cozy autumn ride— He quickly pushed away the traitorous thought, busying himself with tucking the cloth between them so that no part of her would be in danger of brushing against the rain-chilled metal of his breastplate.
“’Tis not to keep you dry, but rather to keep you warm.” He forced himself to look her directly in the eyes, holding his gaze steady until she turned away. There was nothing to hide; no one would see them riding together like this, and if they did… well, it was easily explainable. He was doing this as a favor to his superior, nothing more. A good deed, nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of. Certainly nothing to be flustered about.
He consoled himself with the thought that he would have done the same for any Labyrinthian woman caught in the rain. She was not special, at least in that regard. Even if they did fit well together on the saddle, her slight frame slotted perfectly between his thighs as though they were two pieces of a single puzzle—No. He shook his head firmly, taking up the reins and adjusting his grip to accommodate her. I am above such thoughts.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to give directions,” he stated, staring resolutely at the road ahead of them. “’Tis only just occurred to me that I don’t know your address.” She drew the cloak closer around her, pointing towards the river with a sigh.
“Follow this road to North Parade Avenue, then turn left instead of right.” He snapped the reins with a wet flick, following her lead and trying to keep them as far beneath the overhang as possible without jumping the wall. The rain continued to pound down around them, water sneaking down the back of his neck without the hood of his cloak to protect him. Thunder rumbled in the far distance, jagged flashes of lightning painting the sky in shades of slate gray and murky blue.
Riding with another was a strange sensation, to say the least. He hadn’t shared a saddle since his squire had learned to ride. Try as he might to keep his thoughts from straying, he couldn’t help but notice how intimate a position it was. Their bodies had no choice but to move in subconscious tandem, subject to the whims of his steed as it tried to navigate around standing water. More than once he caught himself winding an arm around her waist to steady her, jerking away at the last possible moment. They reached an incline and she unconsciously leaned back against his chest, her head nearly tucked into the join between his neck and shoulder.
His lungs burned, unable to take a deep breath while she sat so near to him. He even imagined that he felt her body heat through the cloak, although of course it was impossible with both the thick fabric and a full set of armor between them. His attention was divided between her and the road ahead, afraid to move lest he so much as accidentally brush a finger against her spread thighs. He feared he might go mad, driven to distraction as he was, though the only real danger was in being accidentally gored by one of her hair accessories.
She seemed no more at ease, her shoulders hunched and hands clenched into fists in an iron grip on the saddle. He couldn’t see her expression from his current position, but he could feel the tension radiating off of her. Thankfully he didn’t have to worry about her comfort; she’d quickly warmed to his cloak, wrapping it securely around her and sheltering herself from both wind and rain within its folds.
They traveled along the footpath in absolute silence, neither willing to be the first to speak. He found his mind wandering back to the reason she’d given for being caught outdoors in the first place… or lack thereof. He could only assume it was for an assignment, perhaps on direct orders from the Storyteller. There was no other plausible reason to venture so far from the city’s outermost boundaries.
Everyone in Labyrinthia knew that the woods were dangerous. The trees grew close and thick, their thick canopy stretching from the city walls to the endless sea. There were only a few marked paths on the very edge of the tree line; any citizen who dared stray beyond them was in grave danger of being lost entirely. Mothers warned of ghosts and monsters that would steal any child unwise enough to wander off the paths. Others claimed the woods were filled with the souls of damned witches and their condemned victims. Even if they were only stories meant to frighten young children, it was nevertheless dangerous.
The junction for North Parade Avenue sat at the top of the hill, the footpath widening until it became one of the cobbled side streets that branched from the broad avenue. The normally busy street was empty, rain dancing off the pale stones and pouring from the eaves. Many of the richly furnished shops were closed due to the weather; the glazed windows on the upper floors glowed with cozy warmth as merchants enjoyed an evening in. The café was the only restaurant still open, every table filled with Labyrinthians who could afford to shelter the storm over high tea.
They turned left, following the avenue as it wound its way towards the Square. The townhomes on this side of the Great Archive were built on an incline, each row of tightly packed homes accessible by stone stairs that arched over the gutters. They were no less grandiose than the ones nearer to the garrison, with terraced fronts painted in every stately color imaginable. Silk curtains framed many of the windows, and each home’s window boxes fairly overflowed with blossoming ferns, perennials chosen specifically for their autumnal beauty. Beneath the shelter of the terrace, candles burned in wrought iron lanterns attached to the stone façade.
While not the grand manors of Labyrinthia’s elite, the people who lived in these homes were nevertheless well off. Many housed merchants, or minor lords and their families. Barnham knew of a few retired officers who, having been injured in the line of duty and given due compensation, had made this neighborhood their home. While not the exact height of nobility, it was still a far cry from the garrison’s spartan lifestyle.
The fact that the High Inquisitor could afford small luxuries didn’t surprise him in the slightest. She was a single woman of high stature, after all. The townhomes in this neighborhood were befitting of her status, and would easily house both her and a small entourage of servants. And—he had to admit—he knew nothing of her life before becoming the High Inquisitor. He remembered the Parade where the Storyteller had declared her to be next in line for the title. He could not, however, recall who had been High Inquisitor before her. There had to have been someone, but…. He simply could not remember.
Perhaps the previous High Inquisitor had also been Darklaw. It was highly likely that the title was an inherited one; he knew of no other Darklaws in Labyrinthia. However, it could have also been a nom de guerre used to protect her living family from any angry witches seeking vengeance for a fallen sister. Or, better still, Darklaw might have been a title granted to her by the Storyteller in return for her years of loyal service. He had no way of knowing beyond prying questions, and no intention of asking them.
“It’s that one on the left,” she said suddenly, stirring him from his thoughts. “The one with the red flowers.” He followed her finger to see a townhouse with a beautiful oaken door; beneath the flickering lantern, a large circular planter was filled with the same red flowers that favored the city so well. They grew in the cracks between cobblestones and carpeted the verdant fields left fallow between harvests. Some people saw them as a beauty, others a nuisance—especially when the petals had to be dipped from the fountains and rain barrels each spring.
“You like them?” he asked without thought, calling for his horse to slow as they reached the front stoop. He bit his tongue immediately, mentally berating himself for the ridiculous waste of a question. Of course she liked them! Why else would they decorate her home? What did it matter, anyway? He wasn’t about to show up on her doorstep with a bouquet and—
“My servants choose which flowers to plant.” Her tone was curt as they stopped beside the door. He noticed that the knocker was emblazoned with a stylized eye, the same four-cornered symbol that adorned her uniforms and even the palms of her gauntlets
. A family crest? “But….” He paused mid-dismount, balancing on the stirrup as he waited for the rest. Her next words came in a jumbled rush. “I do like them. The flowers.”
“I see.” He leapt from the stirrup to the stoop, patting his horse before reaching up to help her. The cloak slid from her head as she dismounted, swathes of fabric pooling on the stone at her feet despite falling no farther than her shoulders. Her hand clutched his as she steadied herself, small fingers curled against his palm. He waited patiently for her to release his hand, only to grow nervous when she showed no signs of letting go.
“M-Milady?” He cleared his throat pointedly, unsure if he should be the one to pull away. She kept her eyes trained on the ground between them, studying the growing splotches made by the water that dripped from their clothes.
“I suppose I should thank you,” she finally mumbled. This time, it was impossible to mistake the blush that bloomed across her cheeks. It softened her expression in a way he’d never seen before, a pale pink highlighting the apples of her cheeks and spreading to the curls that framed her face. His heart gave an answering lurch at the sight, the tips of his ears beginning to burn beneath his hood.
“No thanks is necessary!” He laughed, the sound high and nervous. “I was merely… that is, I am glad to have been of assistance.” Still she clung to his hand, her slender fingers white-knuckled where they curved against the jointed metal of his gauntlet. He was certain that, had his hand been bare, they would have been easily encompassed by his own. The visual image left him flushed, the burning sensation quickly spreading across his own cheeks. This has to stop!
“L-Lady Darklaw—” he prompted helplessly, flexing his fingers beneath hers. She looked up, lips parting at the sound of her name. Raindrops clung to the ends of her lashes, glittering in the flickering light from the lantern above them. “Is something the matter?” he croaked, throat dry and pulse loud in his ears. She said nothing, her free hand clutching the cloak tight at the base of her throat as she took a step closer.
“P-P-Perhaps I s-should return to….” He gulped, biting his tongue to forcibly stop his mindless stammering. Her eyes called to him, beautiful and endless as the depths of the whitecapped ocean beyond the garrison walls. They seemed to request something more of him, but… what? It wouldn’t do to leave her wanting, and yet he could not fathom what the trouble might be. The answer seemed to lay just out of reach, leaving him as fumbling and foolish as a schoolchild who had neglected his studies.
“To what?” His poor heart skipped a beat entirely at the sound of her voice, so sweet and smooth. It was missing its sharp edge, the brusque tone that she usually adopted when doling out commands. She searched his face, her pleading gaze flitting from one brow to the other. He took pity on them both, allowing a single moment of weakness as he lifted the golden helm with one finger. Her eyes widened when they found his, tongue darting out to swipe at a drop of water on her lower lip. Something passed between them, a jolt that raised the hair on his arms and left his heart racing.
“My patrol,” he managed, unsure of what exactly he was protesting. He was surprised that she could hear his hoarse whisper over the sound of the rain. “I should—‘tis growing late—”
“Oh… yes, of course.” Finally, he had broken whatever spell held them in its thrall. She stumbled back, blinking the water from her lashes as she pulled the cloak from her shoulders. “Forgive me,” she muttered, sounding more like her usual self as she fought with the heavy fabric, “I’m not sure what came over—”
“There is nothing to forgive.” He bit back a nervous smile when she thrust the cloak at him, her dour expression ruined by the lingering blush on her cheeks. “As I said,” he added gently, “I was happy to be of assistance.”
“Well.” She ignored his questioning glance, instead locked in a staring contest with the eye motif on the door knocker. Her arms were crossed again, one hand rubbing at her face before irritably shoving the wet curls behind her ears. “You’ve done your duty, sir. I believe I can take it from here.” He was not the true target of her ire; that was clear enough. She seemed to be more upset with herself, perhaps even a little embarrassed, though he couldn’t imagine why.
“I shall leave you, then.” He bowed, taking her lack of response as his cue to go. He swung the cloak across his shoulders, pulling the hood over his helmet and lowering the helm. “May we next meet beneath more auspicious skies than these.” He mounted his horse and took up the reins, offering her one last nod. “Good evening, High Inquisitor.”
“Sir Barnham.” Her lips barely moved. Unable to think of any last pleasantries, he turned and rode into the storm without a word. When he reached the end of the avenue he turned, looking over his shoulder without knowing exactly what it was he hoped to find. She remained where he’d left her, her expression too far away to discern in the growing twilight. He raised a hand in farewell and she returned the gesture, her glove nearly invisible in the shadows beneath the lantern.
He turned the corner quickly, shaking his head as he flicked the reins. What on earth was that all about? The cold rain felt good against his flushed face, heart hammering against his sternum as he rode across the Square. ‘Tis of no importance, he assured himself firmly, adjusting the hood so that it lay evenly across his helmet. Lady Darklaw was right: he had performed his duty. No more, no less. There were many plausible excuses for her behavior, each more sensible than the last, and even if she had—
He shook his head again. It did no good to overly dwell on such matters. His horse shifted restlessly beneath him, snorting as it shook water from its dripping mane. The wind tore the soft words of encouragement from his lips as he leaned forward to pat its broad neck, smoothing its white coat beneath his hand. His lips pressed into a thin line as he lifted his face to the sky, letting the downpour wash away the last traces of heat from his skin.
He could not afford any distractions on the job.