Page 37 of Reign

“I’ll write to the King and tell him you’re still settling into the role,” the esquire said, his tone heavy with resignation. “Good night, Fitzroy,” he added, striding toward the exit where I lingered, hidden from view.

Hastily, I slipped through the camp and into the shelter of the woodland, vanishing between the trees. Crouched in the shadows, I waited for the esquire to retreat to his tent, when a muffled voice drifted on the breeze.

“Bash,” I whispered toward the darkness.

No reply.

I edged farther into the forest, anxiety prickling my skin as I feared the noise was from a hidden enemy.

Among the foliage, I spotted a figure I recognized.

Bash was perched on a tree stump, surrounded by wisps of white mist.

My ears pricked to the sound of his voice, but his words were lost in the rushing winds. Slowly, I stepped closer, curious to know to whom or what he was speaking.

A creature, small enough to drink from a thimble, fluttered just above his head.

“Thee’ar unfetred.” You are unshackled, Bash said.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I realized Bash was speaking in Yfelle.

“Thou praien an dæy thee’ll hoppian oe musike macode’be cricc’n frogga.” I pray one day, you will dance to music made by crickets and frogs, he continued.

At first, I thought it was a butterfly, but the glowing orb of effulgence surrounding the hovering thing gave it a mystical radiance. Its teardrop-shaped wings reminded me of a luna moth, but it bore a human face. Bash tapped a steady rhythm on his thighs, and the creature danced joyously in the moonlight, swaying the rags it wore in time with the drumming.

I stepped forward, my heavy footing landing on a mound of rotting wood. My boot cracked through the decayed timber with a sharp crunch that revealed my lurking presence. Bash’s head snapped in my direction.

“Gæn hydan.” Go hide, he said.

“Bash,” I whispered once more.

He flinched at the sound of his name.

As his eyes met mine, the creature fluttered out of sight.

“Smith, why are you awake?” he asked, standing abruptly.

I’d caught Bash speaking in the forbidden language, and there was only one explanation—he was magic. A wave of relief washed over me; at last, I’d found someone who shared my burdens. Yet it was obvious Bash didn’t share in my reassurance—his unease was palpable.

“I was cold,” I said, shivering. “I noticed you were gone, so I came to find you.”

Bash nodded, nervously rubbing his palms together.

“What was that?” I asked, my curiosity drawn to the creature that had just darted out of sight.

“A pixie,” Bash murmured.

“Are you well versed in magical creatures?”

He shook his head. “I was just helping her free her trapped wing. She’d gotten it caught between two branches.”

“Were you casting spells?” I probed, hoping he’d confess and maybe even teach me.

“No—I… I’m not a wizard,” Bash replied, though his hesitation betrayed him—I was certain he was lying.

“I heard you speaking in Yfelle,” I pressed.

I waited for him to deny it, to spin some elaborate excuse for how I’d misheard. But instead, he simply stared at me, wide-eyed, his mouth slightly agape.