Sorcerer's Ring (Books 1 ,2, and 3). Morgan Rice

pouring from Firth’s pouch, into the man’s palm.

      Gareth waited, the seconds stretching forever, increasingly worried they were being had.

      “You’ll take the Blackwood,” the man finally responded. “At your third mile, fork on the path that leads up the hill. At the top, fork again, this time to the left. You will go through the darkest wood you have ever seen, then arrive at a small clearing. The witch’s cottage. She will be waiting for you—with the vial you desire.”

      Gareth peeked from his hood, and saw Firth prepare to leave. As he did, the man reached out, and suddenly grabbed him hard by his shirt.

      “The money,” the man growled. “It is not enough.”

      Gareth could see the fear spread across Firth’s face, and regretted having sent him for this task. This slovenly character must have detected his fear—and now was taking advantage. Firth was just not cut out for the sort of thing.

      “But I gave you precisely what you asked for,” Firth protested, his voice rising too high. He sounded effeminate. And this seemed to embolden the man.

      The man grinned back, evil.

      “But now I ask for more.”

      Firth’s eyes opened wide with fear, and uncertainty. Then, suddenly, Firth turned and looked right at him.

      Gareth turned away, hoping it was not too late, hoping he was not spotted. How could Firth be so stupid? He prayed he had not given him away.

      Gareth’s heart pounded as he waited. He anxiously fingered the fruit, pretending to be interested. There was an interminable silence behind him, as Gareth imagined all the things that might go wrong.

      Please, don’t let him come this way, Gareth prayed to himself. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll abandon the plot.

      He felt a rough palm slap him on his back. He spun and looked.

      The cretin’s large black, soulless eyes stared into his.

      “You didn’t tell me you had a partner,” the man growled. “Or are you a spy?”

      The man reached out before Gareth could react, and yanked down Gareth’s hood. He got a good look at Gareth’s face, and his eyes opened wide in shock.

      “The Royal Prince,” the man stumbled. “What are you doing here?”

      A second later, the man’s eyes narrowed in recognition, and he answered himself, with a small, satisfied smile, piecing together the whole plot instantly. He was much smarter than Gareth had hoped.

      “I see,” the man said. “This vial—it was for you, wasn’t it? You aim to poison someone, don’t you? But who? Yes, that is the question…”

      Gareth’s face flushed with anxiety. This man—he was too quick. It was too late. His whole world was unraveling around him. Firth had screwed it up. If this man gave Gareth away, he would be sentenced to death.

      “Your father, maybe?” the man asked, his eyes lighting in recognition. “Yes, that must be it, mustn’t it? You were passed over. Your father. You aim to kill your father.”

      Gareth had had enough. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, pulled a small dagger from inside his cloak, and plunged it into the man’s chest. The man gasped.

      Gareth didn’t want any passersby to witness this, so he grabbed the man by his tunic and pulled him close, ever closer, until their faces were almost touching, until he could smell his rotten breath. With his free hand, he reached up and clamped the man’s mouth shut, before he could cry out. Gareth felt the man’s hot blood trickling on his palm, running through his fingers.

      Firth came up beside him and let out a horrified cry.

      Gareth held the man there, like that, for a good sixty seconds, until finally, he felt him slumping in his arms. He let him collapse, limp, a heap on the ground.

      Gareth spun all around, wondering if he had been seen; luckily, no heads turned in this busy marketplace, in this dark alley. He removed his cloak, and threw it over the lifeless heap.

      “I am so sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” Firth kept repeating, like a little girl, crying hysterically and shaking as he approached Gareth. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

      Gareth reached up and backhanded him.

      “Shut your mouth and be gone from here,” he hissed.

      Firth turned and hurried off.

      Gareth prepared to leave, but then stopped and turned back. He had one thing left to do: he reached down, grabbed his sack of coins from the dead man’s hand, and stuffed it back into his waistband.

      The man would not be needing these.

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      Gareth walked quickly through the forest trail, Firth beside him, his hood pulled over his head, despite the heat. He could hardly conceive that he now found himself in exactly the situation he had wanted to avoid. Now there was a dead body, a trail. Who knows who that man may have talked to. Firth should have been more circumspect in his dealings with the man. Now, the trail could end up leading back to Gareth.

      “I’m sorry,” Firth said, hurrying to catch up beside him.

      Gareth ignored him, doubling his pace, seething.

      “What you did was foolish, and weak,” Gareth said. “You never should have glanced my way.”

      “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what to do when he demanded more money.”

      Firth was right: it was a tricky situation. The man was a selfish, greedy pig who changed the rules of the game and deserved to die. Gareth shed no tears over him. He only prayed no one had witnessed the murder. The last thing he needed was a trail. There would be tremendous scrutiny in the wake of his father’s assassination, and he could not afford even the smallest trail of clues left to follow.

      At least they were now in Blackwood. Despite the summer sun, it was nearly dark in here, the towering eucalyptus trees blocking out every shaft of light. It matched his mood. Gareth hated this place. He continued hiking down the meandering trail, following the dead man’s directions. He hoped the man had told the truth and was not leading them astray. The whole thing could be a lie. Or it could be he led them to a trap, to some friend of his waiting to rob them of more money.

      Gareth chided himself. He had put too much trust in Firth. He should have handled this all himself. Like he always did.

      “You better just hope that this trail leads us to the witch,” Gareth quipped, “and that she has the poison.”

      They continued down trail after trail until they reached a fork, just as the man said they would. It boded well, and Gareth was slightly relieved. They followed it to the right, climbed a hill, and soon forked again. His instructions were true, and before them was, indeed, the darkest patch of wood Gareth had ever seen. The trees were impossibly thick and mangled.

      Gareth entered the wood and felt an immediate chill up his spine, could feel the evil hanging in the air. He could hardly believe it was still daylight.

      Just as he was getting scared, thinking of turning back, before him the trail ended in a small clearing. It was lit up by a single shaft of sunlight that broke through the wood. In its center was a small stone cottage. The witch’s cottage.

      Gareth’s heart quickened. He entered the clearing looking around to make sure no one was watching, to make sure it was not a trap.

      “You see, he was telling the truth,” Firth said, excitement in his voice.

      “That means nothing,” Garrett chided. “Remain outside and stand guard. Knock if anyone approaches. And keep your mouth shut.”

      Gareth didn’t bother to knock on the small, arched wooden door before him. Instead, he grabbed the iron handle, pushed open the two-inch-thick door, and ducked