Lyrian Ashenbark's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Lyrian stood, brushing chalk dust from her hands. That was when she saw the prints. Wet boot marks circled the chest. They were not hers. She followed them to a narrow gap between two brick pillars at the back wall. A shadowed alcove waited there, just wide enough for a person to stand and watch. The flagstones inside were scuffed. Someone had stood here for hours, listening to her chalk scrape. On the ledge inside the alcove lay a wooden flute, carved from pale cypress, a black crack running its length. Lyrian picked it up. It was still warm. Whoever held it had left only moments ago. She ran. Out through the moss-draped arches, into the gray light. She followed the wet prints across soft ground until they stopped at a small wooden dock she had not noticed on her way in. Iron chains hung loose from the posts. A boat had been tied here. The water still rocked from its leaving. Lyrian stood on the warped planks and watched the ripples spread. They had seen her copy the symbols. They had seen her fail. And they had chosen to slip away rather than speak. She turned the cracked flute in her hand. The watcher had left it on purpose. Not a threat. An invitation. Whoever they were, they knew the script — and they wanted her to follow.