Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer by James Shade Page A

hoops or the tight bustier, she imagined herself at fancy balls, tending to the affairs of a lord’s house, caring for children.
    Since then, the realities of surviving in a world of thieves, and taking care of her brothers and father, had overwhelmed those pubescent fantasies. Avrilla thought she had given up the prospect of children of her own. She had even left the sadness of it behind. Jaeron's awkward words rocked her.
    Uncertainty. It was not a feeling she dealt with well. She was comfortable with the expectations for her future being set. Even Father's death has not really changed that. The loss had shocked her, of course. She tried to sort out the anger, the fear, and the frustration. But she was not ready to believe that it changed the basic precepts of their existence. They would continue to steal, barter, fight, do whatever it took to survive in Islar. And perhaps they could find justice for their father.
    She felt the tension creep up her neck and the cold tears once again on her cheeks. Who would want her? She was an orphan with no prospects and no dowry. She could imagine no one less desirable except perhaps one of the city’s whores.
    She wiped her face angrily into her elbow, sensing the salty remnants of sweat and tears in the cloth. She looked down at herself. She was thin and flat-chested, sprinkled with sun-sparked freckles over her chest and arms. She bore obvious scars on her hands, arms, legs. Even her hips were not pleasingly wide, and once brought the remark from Lady deChel that she was not built for childbearing. Ink stained her fingers and dirt crusted under her nails.
    No! She shook her head in disgust. Her fantasies were best left in the past. She had no need to be pretty.
    “Who’s there?” a voice quavered from the front of the barn.
    Avrilla put her hands on her kukris and stepped back into the shadows. She needed to be capable, observant, and if necessary, deadly. There was nothing else.

Seventeen
    J aeron heard fear in the timbre of the strange voice, and a protective righteous anger layered underneath. It was the farmer or one of his hands. They had not left in time.
    He looked at Chazd. His brother had already cocked his crossbow and was loading a bolt in the weapon. He reached over and touched his brother’s arm, mouthing a silent ‘no’ when Chazd looked at him. Jaeron did not want to hurt the man.
    “I will call the Guard! Who’s there?”
    “Excuse me,” Avrilla’s voice responded from somewhere below.
    Jaeron came to his feet, hand reaching for his sword. What was she thinking?
    “You there! Come on out here!”
    “I’m sorry to have startled you, good sir. I’m afraid my brothers and I lost track of time last night and were not able to make it into the city before the gates were closed.”
    Yes, that’s right. Jaeron nodded and saw Chazd doing the same. The thought had come unbidden, with no disagreement until Jaeron consciously registered his sister’s lie. By Teichmar! She was doing it again!
    “Even so, we are having trouble locating our cousins. We are without work and without a place to stay. It should be okay for us to shelter here for a couple of days?”
    His sister’s voice had phrased it as a question, but Jaeron felt the power of magical suggestion in the words. Her voice seemed to carry a hidden vibration that entered his mind and settled at the base of his neck. Now that he had the sense of it, he was able to ignore the effect despite it reaching right into his brain. It felt eerie, unnatural.
    Jaeron had a unique insight into the supernatural. Most children of Bormeer were brought up hearing stories of magic and of fantastical creatures. The legends of Kolmar and Sophir, the Goblet of Altrumak, and the frightful tales of the Tainted of Malfekke were well known. Priests, especially of the outlawed religions, were rumored to have been able to heal the sick or cure the insane through special rituals and prayer. And the chief advisors to the