The Spymaster’s Prize: A Fantasy Romance Tale (Artisan Magic Book 2)

Throughout most of her life, Elia had been praised for her skill as a listener. She was everyone’s ear, a confidant for much of her family and all of her friends, yet as she stood in her father’s office now, she blinked and shook her head, uncertain she’d heard right.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she clasped her hands before her stomach, a tell of nervousness she’d never been able to shake. “How many did you say?”

“Six dozen,” her father repeated, his voice touched with pride. “It’s sure to win over the entire merchant board. Ask my clerk for whatever you need to make it happen.”

Elia couldn’t make herself smile. She prided herself on her baking. Her maple cakes were a favorite of anyone who tried them. But baking them was a task, and to need so many at once? She hardly knew how to begin. They’d reached the height of winter, too, the last year’s stores of maple sugar and syrup all but gone. There were people who kept such things in reserve, of course, for emergencies. Elia was not certain her father’s desire to win the favor of his colleagues for a new business venture constituted an emergency, but who was she to disagree?

The crinkles at the corners of her father’s eyes deepened, the first sign she’d waited too long to reply. His pleasant expression grew strained.

“Of course,” Elia said. “I’m sorry, I was just running a tally in my head. I know I don’t have enough supplies at home to make everything.” Who ever would? She doubted even King Gaius had enough baking supplies in his pantry for six dozen cakes. Six dozen! By the Light, where would she find enough pans?

“Perfect.” Her father clapped his hands once in what she assumed was meant to be a sign of delight, but the way he rubbed his palms together afterward showed it was all business to him. Nothing out of the ordinary; everything was. Her father was of noble blood, a politician, and for him, business never ceased.

Elia’s fingers laced a little tighter. He said nothing else, so she took it as a dismissal and bowed her head. “I’ll go speak to the clerk, then. You said four days?” She fought not to cringe. Having so little time struck her as madness, but surely she’d be able to enlist help. She’d have the whole household staff at her disposal to make such a task happen. Had she more warning, she might have asked her cousin. There were no kitchens larger than what Thea now had at her disposal, but Elia wasn’t so bold to think she could arrive with such a demand and no spare time to plan for it.

“Yes, by that morning. We’ll be meeting with the merchant board at noon.” The lines around her father’s eyes softened with a more genuine smile. “Thank you, my dear. I knew I could count on you.”

“Of course.” Elia returned his smile and curtsied before she excused herself from his office. She held her breath until she was safely on the other side of the door. With her back to the solid maple, she released it in a slow, controlled exhale.

Oh, she wanted to scream.

“Another scheme, is it?” The clerk behind the front desk didn’t look up, but by now, he didn’t need to. Bertan had been her father’s clerk since before Elia was born. He knew her as well as he knew his own children, and perhaps better than her own father did.

Elia squeezed her eyes closed. “I’m going to need maple sugar. Lots of it.”

Bertan raised a brow. “Not a good time of year to shop for maple sugar. It can’t wait a month or two? We’re not far off from the sap runs now.”

“I think this being the worst time of year to shop for it is exactly why he wants it.” Elia lowered her voice and crept toward the clerk’s desk. “Something to impress the merchant board, he said.”

The old clerk grunted. “And a chance to flaunt his wealth. Well, I’ll draw you a guarantor letter. Give me just a moment.” He slid his papers aside and took a fresh sheet, then pulled his tray of writing implements closer.

“Thank you, Bertan,” Elia sighed. She wrung her hands until he finished the letter and passed it across the desk. With her father’s name on it, no one would deny her the amount of supplies she’d need, regardless of the expense.

The clerk nodded and waved her away, so she folded the letter and slid it into the pocket of her skirt.

Four days to gather enough supplies for seventy-two cakes, then bake them all. She ran the numbers in her head. She’d need flour, eggs, firewood. Light have mercy, she’d have to borrow the ovens of neighbors. Maybe their staff, too. Why had she agreed? This task was lunacy.

Because her father wouldn’t be refused, that was why. And because she didn’t know how to tell a stubborn man no, though she was loath to admit that part. She set her jaw and pulled on a heavy coat. Two cups of sugar, so a pound for each cake, plus a little extra in case of accidents or emergencies. Eighty pounds would do. A lavish gift, to say the least.

“Whatever he’s doing, I hope it’s worth it,” she muttered as she pushed outside.

The streets of Samara were blanketed with snow, though the main walkways had been cleared. She pulled the collar of her coat close and turned her eyes to the sky. There were few places one could find that sort of supply, but Elia knew one. That she’d befriended a number of sugarmakers through her love of baking was convenient, yet more troublesome than her father probably realized. The clouds threatened more snow, but it was still early in the day. The sap run could begin early; the people she needed would be in the sugarbush, checking the trees, preparing for their busiest season.

“And we’ll just have to hope we catch them out there.” She patted her pocket and crossed her arms before she began the long march to the city’s edge. The streets were all but empty, the cold unwelcoming, but she couldn’t afford to wait for the sugarmakers to return for a hot evening meal.

Beyond Samara, bare maple trees brushed the sky, like hands clawing at the clouds. The slender branches swayed in the breeze, the soothing motion softening what might otherwise have struck her as a frightening scene.

In the distance, a few small, dark spots moved between the trees, confirming her suspicion her friends would be hard at work. But those just outside Samara were the king’s maples. The sugarbush belonging to her friends was farther out, beyond the gentle roll of hills, nestled in a crook of the river.

She hugged her coat close and tromped through the snow, determination etched on her face. It was a good thirty minute walk in the best of weather, when summer’s cicadas buzzed overhead and the grasses were grazed low by cattle herded through the woods. Now, in the snowiest part of the year, she suspected it would take her twice as long.

Before she was halfway there, the snowfall began. The soft patter of snowflakes landing filled the air, a peaceful backdrop for her thoughts.

At least she could work through the rest of the numbers. There would be butter to get and cream for making icing, which at least could be done with the fine powdered beet sugar that was less expensive and easier to get.

The snowfall thickened and Elia had just worked out how many cakes would fit in an oven at once when she crested the hill beside the familiar sugarbush where her friends worked. Muffled shouts rose to greet her, but not the friendly sort she’d expected. She froze.

Below, among the trees, a handful of men battered a lone figure in the snow.

Her mouth fell open. A fight among workers? Or something else? She took a step backwards. Her boot crunched at the wrong moment, a lapse between voices, and someone spun toward her. She didn’t have to understand to know the shout that followed and the finger jabbed in her direction meant nothing good. The men turned.

Elia’s eyes shot to the figure on the snow as one hand reached out in a feeble attempt to catch someone’s ankle. Peretor. The friend she knew best.

A handful of strangers surged up the hill. Instead of turning to run, she darted forward and snatched a broken branch from the ground. She brought it up hard as one of the men reached for her, cracking the branch against the side of his head. The rotten wood shattered, but it was enough to spill him sideways. He tumbled into the legs of another and they both slid down the snowy hill.

A third man launched himself toward her and she rammed the remnants of her branch into his stomach. His breath escaped in a bark, but his hand latched around the branch and tried to pry it from her grip. She let go without warning and he fell backwards.

“Peretor, get up!” Elia shouted. She scrambled for another branch and tried to press forward. Her friend groaned and tried to climb to his feet, but he only made it halfway before a pair of men seized him by the arms and dragged him toward the thick part of the woods.

Elia ran after them, ducking beneath the arms of a man who tried to catch her. “Peretor!” She only made it a few more steps before someone snared her by the back of her coat and dragged her backwards. She lurched sideways and tried to strike with her tree branch, but he caught her wrist and twisted her arm, and she fell to her knees.

“Sticks against knives, honey,” the man snarled as he brandished a dagger. The tip tilted toward her throat and Elia’s eyes widened.

“Take her, too,” someone said as he circled to the front. “Maybe she knows something.” He held a hand to his temple, where she’d struck him good. Blood trickled down the side of his head.

Her stomach sank. “Something about what?” What had she gotten herself into? Why would anyone want Peretor? He was just a sugarmaker!

The man with the dagger dragged her to her feet. “Mouth shut. If the boss decides you aren’t worth it, maybe he’ll let you go.”

A few snickers rose from the others, indicating that was unlikely.

Her hand tightened on her branch. As soon as her knuckles whitened, a man seized its other end. She gritted her teeth, but couldn’t match his strength and he wrenched it from her grasp.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Money? My father can offer that.”

“Answers are all the boss cares about,” the dagger holder replied. “Now move.”

Elia’s mouth pressed tight, though now that she no longer had any sort of weapon in hand, fear was quick to replace whatever spurt of courage she’d found. She leaned away from the blade and tried to see where her friend had been taken, but the snowfall had grown thicker and flakes landed on her eyelashes, forcing her to blink hard.

They marched her toward the dense part of the woods, past where the maples were easy to walk about and toward the thick patches of brambles that kept most people at bay.

“Don’t slow down,” her escort growled. He pressed the dagger closer, until its cold edge stung against the corner of her jaw.

What little bravery she had left evaporated and she trembled in his grasp. She should have turned around. She should have run away. If she’d gotten closer to the king’s woods, she would have been able to call for help. Crying for aid now would only bring whatever brutes had her captive down on her faster, and that knife was too close for comfort. Perhaps if she could convince him to relax, get that dagger away from him…

A scream split the air before she could finish the thought.

The dagger jerked away from her skin, freeing her to turn her head as her captor twisted back.

A dark blur launched itself into the cluster of men with a roar, so big that for a half second, Elia thought it was a bear instead of a man. His axe swung for another man, its sharp edge already bloodied.

Her captor abandoned her and launched himself into the fight. The men spiraled around the newcomer, darting in to jab with little blades, scattering like mice whenever his axe swung.

She should have run. Instead, her eyes darted into the thick of the forest, where they’d taken Peretor.

“Go!” the newcomer bellowed.

Elia bolted for the forest.

A frustrated yell swelled behind her.

Brambles tore at her coat as she moved. Frigid wind gusted and snow thickened, filling in the tracks Peretor’s kidnappers left behind. She hiked her skirts up to her calves and ran, ignoring the thorns.

Howls of pain and anger filled the forest at her back, carried on wind that howled back.

A shadow in the snow resolved into a figure in front of her. Elia yelped and skidded to a stop as he swung a sword for her chest. She stumbled backwards and collided with a shape so firm, she thought it was a tree until a hand seized her arm.

“Not that way,” a deep voice growled beside her ear. He thrust her to the ground as the man with the sword came in for another strike. His axe dripped crimson onto the white snow as he swung, intercepting the swing and lurching forward. A broad hand closed around the swordsman’s neck and slammed his head into a tree.

Before the swordsman hit the ground, the axeman turned to take Elia’s arm once more. He dragged her to her feet, none too gently, and exhaled hard. The snowfall had thickened fast; every direction looked the same. He growled wordlessly under his breath and chose a direction, pulling her along behind him. Droplets of blood marked their path, and it was only after they’d gone a short way that she realized the splashes of red against the crisp snow came from the wrong side. His axe was in his other hand.

“You’re bleeding,” she gasped.

“Keep moving.”

With his hand clamped around her arm, she had no choice.

The woods had swallowed them. Brambles were everywhere, forcing them to change their path again and again. They turned so many times, Elia lost all sense of direction and forced herself to stare at the stranger’s dark cloak. Beyond him, she saw nothing but smudges of gray, marking trees among the driving snow.

No one followed them. Elia was no longer sure they were alive to do so. She swallowed hard, belatedly realizing she was no better off, still captive, still dragged through the forest against her will. “We’re getting lost.” The trees groaned in the wind; she raised her voice to make herself heard.

“Then you’d better pray,” his gruff voice replied.

Her heartbeat never slowed, and she found herself doing just that. Oh, Light, preserve us.

A shadow ahead caught her attention. Something waited, low and boxy, a manmade structure among the trees.

Her savior—or captor—lurched toward it.

“Is that a cabin?” She couldn’t help asking, some part of her desperate for reassurance that they wouldn’t freeze.

She got no reply, but as they came closer, she saw the door. A thick lock hung from it. He let her go and took the lock in hand to brush snow from its surface. The whole thing was crusted with ice. A low growl of frustration escaped him and he drew back.

Before she could ask what he was doing, he brought his axe down hard. Wood cracked and splintered as he struck it twice more. On the third strike, the wood around the latch shattered, and the door swung open.

He thrust her inside first and she stumbled over a stray piece of firewood in the middle of the room. Then he stepped in and slammed the door shut.

Dim light filtered in through dirty windows, letting her make out the shapes of furniture and, when she turned, the way his face twisted with pain as he leaned back against it and slowly sank to the floor.

For all that her heart had been drumming, now it thundered.

A blizzard raged, they were lost, and now, she was trapped.