Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

Nicholas turned her hand over, pressing one last burning kiss into her palm. “Then may the best pirate win.”

“HURRY IT UP, WILL YOU?” OWEN WASN’T A LARGE MAN BY ANY MEANS, but his voice could absolutely thunder when the situation called for it. He had lifted his mask, and was scanning the dark line of the forest for Nicholas. Sophia was right, then. The old man had noticed he was gone, and more quickly than he would have expected.

“I managed to get turned around,” Nicholas said, limping up to him.

The other man took in the sorry state of his stained robes. “What kind of fool falls while taking a piss?”

“You do.” Sophia had moved so quickly, looping in a large circle back up to the trail behind Owen, that neither man noticed her until she brought the rock crashing down on his head.

The whites of his eyes flashed as he crumpled. Nicholas watched in appreciation as Sophia stripped the robe and mask off him and set about rolling Owen off the trail, into the forest, where the mountain did the rest of the work in carrying him away.

“Did you finish your business?” she asked innocently.

“Did you?” he pushed back. Julian had gone ahead with Etta, and while there was much he wished he could have said to his half brother, there was likely quite a bit more that needed to be spoken between the formerly betrothed pair.

A gong sounded from above, where the graceful temple sat at the top of the trail. Nicholas straightened his mask and accepted Sophia’s offered shoulder as support for the last few yards of their climb. They passed through the structure with its airy, open foundations, the upward slant of its roof, to find an enormous white tent pitched in the center of its stone courtyard. So, then; they would not be trampling over a sacred place. Good. Perhaps the Belladonna still had some scraps of decency clinging to her tattered soul.

The scent of wine and spirits floated to him on the next autumn breeze, followed by the sweet notes of fruit. A short distance from the tent, a table was elegantly piled with food, though it had clearly already been ravaged by the others. The Belladonna stood beside it, waiting for them.

“Help yourselves, of course,” the Belladonna said, turning to greet a man who, Nicholas thought, must have been a priest or a monk, based on his ceremonial robes, different from the ones the travelers donned. He seemed harried, hovering near the tent but not daring to enter. The woman shooed him away by blowing a kiss.

“Is he a guardian?” Nicholas asked.

“No. Return a few legendary national treasures and you’ll be surprised by the favors people will do for you,” the Belladonna said. “And the things they’re willing to forget.”

Sophia snorted, drawing the woman’s eyes over to her. The Belladonna hummed thoughtfully but said nothing. “If you are ready, follow me. The rest of your party is already situated.”

The tent was far larger than it had appeared on the outside, so much so that he wondered if it might be one of the Belladonna’s illusions. The central aisle led up to a raised and gilded table, on which a dark wooden box had been placed. Two masked men stood on either side of it, swords in hand, as if prepared to slice any who dared to reach for it. If he hadn’t felt it just then, that chill creeping over his skin, the tremor in the air, Nicholas might not have believed the astrolabe to be inside.

“Do you…” Sophia whispered, sounding almost faint. Feel that?

The Belladonna jerked her head around. “Silence. Here. Here is your place.”

Lining the long aisle were stalls, divided by heavy white fabric that looked, to Nicholas’s biased eye, like sailcloth. At least one dark shape of a man or woman appeared to be sitting in each, backlit by a lantern or an arrangement of candles. So that was it, then—how she had managed to further the anonymity of the bidders and, likely, the winner who would be taking any of her auctioned goods home.

Where is Etta?

“You,” she said, brushing his shoulder with her long, curling nails, “are designated as a bidder. Present your offer when I call for the fourth bidder—should you survive that long.” As she leaned in closer, he breathed in that same earthy scent, as if she were a dark forest wearing a woman’s skin. “There’s still time, of course.”

Nicholas ignored the tremor in his heart as he said softly, “Good evening to you, ma’am.”

The Belladonna stood to the side, lifting the entrance to their stall. Inside, the Ironwoods were lifting their masks to taste the proffered food and wine, but they instantly slid them back into place. Sophia stepped in beside him, edging around the room to avoid too much notice that she was not, in fact, Owen.

“There he is!” Ironwood said as the curtain shut behind them. Still mercifully in possession of his good mood. “Now it begins.”

His footsteps were soft against the rugs and pillows provided; there was little else, beyond a few candles and a small wooden table. Nicholas surrendered himself heavily to the floor. The bruises and cuts he’d acquired were a low throb of pain, but they were nothing compared to the fire searing his veins. Instead of letting himself notice the twitching of his left hand, he focused on the foul smell of the pipe someone was smoking in the stall beside theirs. The Belladonna had placed them directly in the middle of the stalls, but save for that whiff of bad air and the murmur of the Ironwood men around him, he could not hear or see evidence of any of the other bidders. He could not even hear the wind outside.

The gong sounded again. With a kick of his heart, Nicholas turned back toward the curtain draped over their stall’s entrance, and beyond that, the muted shapes of the Belladonna and her guards.