All That Glitters by Auston Habershaw Page A

injuries, but the knight was nowhere to be found. He looked everywhere in the Astrally modified tent—­under the table, under the cot, behind the weapon stand—­until, finally, there was only one place left to look: the chest.
    Tyvian took a deep breath and opened the lid. There, folded up like a pocket handkerchief and stuffed inside, was the bruised and barely conscious body of the young Sir Jenwal. Tyvian sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps I should have been more specific, sir. Of all the things the Lady Hool does to overeager suitors, biting is only the most common.”
    He reached into the chest and removed Sir Jenwal’s signet ring; the knight only moaned in protest. The ring was much less understanding—­it seemed to hiss on his hand, but Tyvian ignored it. Just to spite it, Tyvian decided to nick the wine, too. Life was too short to pass up good wine, ring be damned.
    T hree days later the four of them were crowded inside a private compartment aboard the Eretheria-­Saldor express. They had been riding for almost twelve hours, the spirit engine screaming past the green pastures and azure ocean vistas of southern Eretheria at top speed. The sun had set while they wound their way into the Tarralle Mountains, and now, as they picked up speed heading down the other side, the Sovereign Domain of Saldor and its titular capital city was no more than an hour or so in their future.
    Tyvian felt a certain dryness at the back of his throat that he had come to associate with unease. The Quiet Man back in Derby still unsettled him—­it was only raw luck that he had survived, honestly. Indeed, this entire enterprise—­his decision to return to Saldor, his plan for crossing the border, everything—­was almost entirely based upon luck. Tyvian felt as though he was going mad, somehow. He wondered—­not for the first time during their trip—­if Artus wasn’t right about him. Maybe his judgment was off. Maybe the damned ring had finally robbed him of his edge.
    â€œThe border between the counties of Eretheria and the southern end of the Saldorian domain is the Vedo River, which we are crossing right about now.” Tyvian pointed to a map he had laid out across the table in their cabin, indicating a major branch of the Trell River that split off from just north of Bridgeburg and ran all the way south to the Sea of Syrin.
    Only Artus was looking at him. Brana had stuck his head out the window and was letting his tongue loll, inhaling the seaside air in great gulps. Hool was growling at him, just an edge of fear in her voice. “Get back inside! You will fall out and die! Brana! BRANA!”
    Artus looked worried, “Won’t they catch us once we get there? I mean, we aren’t stowaways, but we are smugglers, sort of, and . . . well . . .” Artus looked at the gnolls haplessly; Hool was dragging her pup inside by his belt while Brana howled.
    Tyvian sighed. “Hool and Brana definitely count as contraband, yes. The shrouds they’re wearing aren’t technically illegal, but they’re definitely frowned upon and will attract attention if detected. Saldor is a place that takes security very seriously, as you will soon see. What’s more, the Defenders will be using auguries to scry the future to a limited extent, so they will know within a reasonable degree of accuracy what is going to happen and who they are going to find when they search the train, before they actually search.”
    Artus looked like he had just been stabbed. “Wh-­What? Seriously? They can see the bloody future? ”
    Tyvian shrugged. “To a certain extent. Scrying has its limits.”
    â€œI am waiting for your stupid plan to start making sense,” Hool said. She picked up the teapot from the end of the table and drank from the spout. “I am tired of having to act like a human. It hurts my back.”
    â€œUnfortunately