Gray fumbled with his shirt and jerked the curtains across the window.

Swearing, he flew across the cold floor and cracked the door open.

‘Good,’ grunted Barin. His pale legs poked out of the bottom of his striped nightshirt and his hair was washed. He gave a huge yawn. ‘You’re still dressed. Room ten wants a small supper taken up. Lavender tea, crumbly cheese, and shortbread.’

Room ten was their best room, large with an ensuite, and a view of the small paddock they had out back for the travellers' horses during the day.

The best room would undoubtedly have the booth-brat from dinner.

Gray’s heart sank. He slipped out of the door.

‘Yes,’ Gray said.

‘Eh?’

‘Yes, Barin.’

‘Tidy yourself up,’ he said. ‘They’ve been leaving huge tips.’

Gray did as he bid, and Barin fussed with Gray’s shirt, scrubbing out a grease stain, and trying to disguise where buttons had fallen off.

‘Smile,’ said Barin. ‘Be polite. Bring me the tip before you go to bed. I’m going to hit the hay.’

Barin lumbered off, and Gray listened to the muffled sounds of his footsteps as he climbed back down the stairs.

Gray sighed, trying to not imagine what the girl would say when she saw it was Gray serving her and not Alistair, and tiptoed down to the kitchen, and made up a tray with the shortbread, cheese, and tea.

Gray went up the stairs and balanced the tray on his knee so he could rap on the door to room ten.

There was a moment, right before the door opened, that Gray realised it wasn’t the girl inside.

The footsteps were wrong.

Heavy and slow.

An old man opened the door, with a scraggly grey beard he’d wound around his neck. The table behind him was covered in books and papers and he had black ink smeared over his left hand.

His clothes were so rich.

Gold thread. Dozens and dozens of buttons in the southern style. And runes, stitched all over his shirt, his scarf that hung long down by his knees, and on the cloak he’d thrown haphazardly on top.

There was something odd about his face, and it took Gray a moment to spot what it was.

His eyes. Bright. Too bright.

Mage.

The older the mage and the more powerful, the more their eyes looked unnaturally luminous. This mage must’ve been very old, and very powerful.

He smiled at Gray vaguely. ‘What time do you call this?’

The room was shadowy - lit only by two small lamps, and he’d left one of the windows open. Cold air brushed Gray’s cheeks, and the dewy smell of the paddock wafted in. A large pet crow perched on the impressive bed head, sleeping.

‘Your supper, sir?’ said Gray. ‘Did you ..?’

‘Did I? I suppose I did.’

Gray hesitated on the threshold, as the old mage continued to smile. The mage’s distracted gaze settled on Gray’s face. Gray didn’t suppose he was much to look at, after working. His skin was greasy from standing over the scrubbing sink. He had a scab, on his right cheekbone, from a scuffle at school with a couple of boys before Alistair realised what was happening and tore them off. He was painfully aware of his crappy boots.

‘Aren’t you cold, sir?’ Gray said, recovering himself. ‘Is there a problem with the latch on the window?’

Setting down the old mage’s supper on top of his bed, Gray fussed with the window, getting it closed. When Gray turned back around, the old mage was dunking the shortbread into the tea, hunched over his books at the table.

‘Anything else can I help you with?’ Gray said.

‘No.’ The old mage pointed a knotted wand at the huge candelabra overhead, muttered a word Gray didn't catch, and the room filled with strikingly bright candlelight.

The old mage waved a hand dismissively and Gray strode across the room to leave, eager to fall into bed.

‘Wait,’ the old mage said.

So fast, Gray almost missed it, he tossed a coin. High into the air.

Gray fumbled, taken by surprise, then caught it.

It was an ardent.

Gray had never held an ardent before. An ardent was more than they made in a week at the tavern.

This ardent had a gash across the centre, as though it had been marked by a dagger at some point. Perhaps, marked as it was, the old mage couldn't use it.

‘I - are you sure?’ Gray said. ‘I can’t-’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Here.’

And he tossed Gray a second ardent. It spun and glinted in the bright light. Gray tracked it with his eyes and caught it. Then, another.

He was damn cracked. Gray grinned, and stuttered way too many thank yous.

‘Here.’ The old mage pulled off his silk, rune-stitched scarf, wadded it up, and threw it at Gray, too.

Gray caught it, trying not to look concerned. ‘You want me to hang this up for you?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’ll look better on you than me. And I don't need it now.’

‘Thanks, but I'm not taking your scarf, sir.’

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Gray made to hang it on the hook on the back of the door.

‘Wear it, or I'll take offence,’ the mage said.

Gray slowly looped it around his neck, shifting under the mage’s bright gaze. ‘Thank you.’

‘That’s all,’ the mage said.

Gray fled.

Outside Barin’s room, one floor up, Gray knocked sharply.

‘What?’ Barin’s voice was rough from sleep.

‘It’s me,’ Gray said, speaking through the door. ‘The tip.’

Barin moved so fast, the door flying open. He snatched two ardents out of Gray’s palm.

‘Clochaint,’ he breathed.

The third ardent - the one with the gash - was stashed in Gray’s left boot. Gray prayed the stitches held together until he got up into his room.

If Barin caught Gray with the coin, perhaps Gray could argue he thought it was worthless. It might save him from a hiding.

Barin held up the coins, his eyes gleaming. ‘He mean to give you this much?’

Gray shrugged. ‘I’m pretty tired, Barin.’

Barin ignored him, turning the coins over in his hand, his expression shrewd.

‘Night, then,’ Gray said, turning away.

‘Hold it.’

Gray froze, one foot on the stair. The ardent was hot and uncomfortable under the ball of his foot.

‘Come back here,’ said Barin.

Gray chewed his lip and stood in front of him.

‘What’s that?’ Barin pointed at the scarf.

‘Do you want it?’ Gray said. ‘He gave it to me, but you can have it. He insisted. He was a little …’

‘No, just, you serve him, whenever you see him.’ Barin held up the ardents. ‘You get me more of these from him, every day, for the rest of his stay, and I’ll be a happy man.’

Gray lowered his gaze. It was hard for him to be excited about this. He doubted Barin would like him any more if he brought in ten ardents a day. ‘He’s not … all there. I don’t know if we should-’

‘Just keep him happy. Keep me happy.’

Barin shut the door in Gray’s face.

Gray hesitated outside the door, and then traipsed back up to his room.

‘Ali? You here?’ He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

Silence. No Alistair. He was still out.

Gray filled the bath with hot water in their adjoining bathroom, clumsy with fatigue. He slowly took off his shirt, and then unwound the leather strap from his wrist, revealing an ugly red X burned into his skin.

He hated looking at it. He hated the stark red, and deeply grooved lines. He would’ve always kept it covered, if sweat, oil, and grime didn’t get trapped under the leather wrap.

He slid into the bath, dunking his head under the soapy water. He scrubbed himself hard, and then went, dripping, into the shower, to wash again.

Alistair would always tease Gray about how he liked to be clean. He’d call Gray twenty different slurs for mage, grinning ear-to-ear, every time he caught Gray scrubbing himself free of grease and dirt (which would be several times a day if he had the chance).

‘If anyone saw your bathing habits,’ Alistair would always say, ‘you’d be carted off to the mage guild in a second.’

No one had ever carted him off to the mage guild, though.

No one had come looking for him.

Not Krupin, the dark sorcerer who collected apprentices like an obsessive hoarder. Krupin - who’d been expelled from the kingdom of Lismere nine years ago, with a huge effort from the army. Not Wilde, the sorcerer who’d murdered Gray’s family, before joining Krupin in hiding.

Not Lismere’s treasure leagues. That branch of the army were glorified thieves, who collected valuables for the crown, along with magical objects, creatures and - sometimes - unregistered mages.

No one looked at him twice.

Gray got ready for bed and then lay down so he could stare at the patch of starry sky and tiled rooftop peaks through the window. The window was their personal exit. They used it to sneak out across the rooftops to go to the alehouse. Sometimes they’d just sit out there, and chat and stare at the ruins and the ancients’ tombs on the mountain above, Alistair, Gray, and sometimes Harriette, with smuggled bottles of apple cider.

Gray wanted to tell Alistair that he got it. Wanting to leave.

But they couldn’t. Not yet.

When they left, they’d do it properly, and they’d do it together.

-

A streak of light from the rising sun woke Gray.

Gray curled his toes under the warm blankets, blinking against the gentle light. Alistair breathed deeply in the bed next to his. Early morning birds sang.

Then, a tiny tree griffin landed on the windowsill.

Gray sat bolt upright in bed, sleepiness falling away.

‘Alistair,’ he said, trying to keep his words smooth, and not hoarse, ‘you have to see this. Wake up.’

Tree griffins were a little larger than a chicken. Gray had seen them three times in his life. Each time they’d slinked into town from the forest they’d caused mayhem. One had stolen coins out of people’s hands. One had flown into the butcher’s shop and grabbed the meat on display, and last year, a territorial family of them had made a home in an old tree in the town square.

The one on the windowsill stared at its own reflection in the glass, fluffing his tawny and gold feathers, his tufted tail held high. The griffin looked … kind of angry, if Gray was honest.

‘Alistair.’

The tree griffin heard Gray before Alistair did. It clicked its beak and flew off.

‘What?’ said Alistair, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Gray excitedly told him about the griffin, shivering in the morning air, pulling on his pants and buttoning up his shirt. Then, he showed Alistair the ardent from last night.

‘We can use it,’ Gray said. ‘One of us gets a scholarship to one of the academies in Dierne, and we use this to travel there, find somewhere to live. We’d be set. I’ve looked at the brochure for the Alchemy Academy in Dierne, and it looks amazing. Ali. Ali … you listening?’

Alistair frowned, running his hands through his messy hair, his blankets pushed down around his ankles.

‘He gave you an ardent?’ Alistair took it from Gray’s hand and turned it over. He fingered the mark marring the coin.

‘Three,’ said Gray. ‘Barin’s got the other two, but don’t tell him-’

‘And a scarf. Why?’ Alistair said, sharply.

‘I,’ Gray said, off balance. ‘He’s rich.’

‘You stay away from him, yeah?’

Gray took the ardent back off Alistair, stowing it carefully under his mattress again. ‘He’s all right. It’s safe.’

The rare mages they got in the tavern, a decent percentage of them would rave, or speak in riddles. Too much Other blood, people would say. They weren’t the sanest group of people, which, considering their power, was a tad disquieting.

They’d all been harmless - even gentle - though, and definitely not worth the suspicious whispers that followed them, Gray thought.

Alistair made a noncommittal sound, turning his back on Gray as he got changed.

Gray tried to hide his frown, as he silently laced up his boots.

‘Barin sends you up to a guest’s room late at night again, you come get me. You wake me up.’ Alistair roughly dragged a comb through his hair, his back still to Gray. ‘Maybe I should talk to Barin.’

The last thing Gray wanted was a fight between Alistair and Barin first thing in the morning, over nothing.

‘Seriously,’ Gray said, ‘it’s fine. He was nice, the old man.’

‘You aren’t this naive, right? You were raised in a tavern. You know about these things. Some older man starts giving you money and gifts - he’s not being nice.’

‘Oh.’

There’d been a few moments in Gray’s life when he wanted the ground to split open and swallow him up. This was top of the list.

‘Nothing happened,’ Gray said. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘No?’

Gray shook his head, a hard knot sitting uncomfortably in his chest, and busied himself buttoning on his braces.

‘I only tell you to put you on your guard,’ said Alistair. ‘You’re like a baby deer. You need to be tougher, you need to be smarter. I can’t be around to protect you all the time.’

Gray bristled. Protect me? Alistair hadn’t even damn well been there, he’d been at the alehouse with Rosie.

Besides, being Alistair’s step brother was an exercise in constant vigilance. Alistair made stupid, self-destructive decisions daily. Gray was always pulling Alistair back to himself.

Shrugging into his threadbare jacket, Gray muttered, ‘Fine.’

‘All right.’

Alistair swept out of the room.