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  ERRANT

  The Compendium

  L. K. FLEET

  All cover art illustrated and designed by Laya Rose (https://layaroseart.com/)

  CONTENTS

  Content Notes

  Map

  Errant, Volume One ebook cover

  I. Calamity’s Dance

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  II. For All the Harvests to Come

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Errant, Volume Two ebook cover

  III. The Queen of Seljac

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  IV. Chance, Truth, and Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Errant, Volume Three ebook cover

  V. Birch Goldforest

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  About the Author

  CONTENT NOTES

  These novellas contain mentions of intimate partner violence. There are also depictions of violence and mentions of blood and murder. There is an explicit scene of consensual sex.

  I

  CALAMITY’S DANCE

  1

  Aspen had uprooted and transplanted herself too many times and now she didn’t belong anywhere, least of all the lone tavern in this tiny little town. The public and the troupe of actors packing the tables slung their arms around each other and laughed. They’d come to carouse together, not to drink in silence.

  But Cheyford didn’t boast much choice for beer or entertainment. The play she’d bought a ticket to on a whim had been a religious to-do, something called Calamity’s Dance, not to Aspen’s liking except for the magnetic presence of the actor playing Calamity and a couple of impressive explosions. The beer was bitter as shit.

  All these years living among the People of the Earth and she still hadn’t gotten used to the way they preferred their alcohol. Beer shouldn’t be bitter. No food should be bitter. If she put something in her mouth, her first reaction shouldn’t be to spit it back out.

  This close to the capital, everything tasted bitter to Aspen. It was reckless to drift anywhere near Harstead when she’d last fled it in the dead of night, accused of a murder she hadn’t committed. Aspen had almost forgotten who she was back then. Maybe, by now, so had everyone else.

  The noise of the crowd swelled, crested into a drinking song, and sloshed back down into shouted conversations. She should’ve just found somewhere sheltered by the roadside and gone to sleep after the play. Taverns were rarely worth the trouble. But Aspen had been hoping to see Calamity one more time—the actor.

  According to what had been called out at the end of the play, she was a woman by the name of Charm Linville, but Aspen couldn’t think of her as anything but the role she’d played. She’d been so dedicated to her work. Committed. Purposeful. Every step of the dance, she’d known where she was going.

  Aspen envied that.

  And she wanted to see what the real Charm Linville was like.

  The name of this place was The Full Flagon. Anyone in Cheyford who wanted a drink had to come here, and most of the cast were already raising glasses in celebration. Aspen’s table had a view of the main entrance, the kitchen exit, the stairs to the second floor, and most of the windows. Nothing would get by her—and nothing would keep her here if she didn’t want to stay. The main entrance was too far for a quick getaway, but there was a promising window two tables down if it came to that.

  “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing all alone?”

  It was one of the actors from the play. Not the one Aspen wanted to see, though.

  The actor leaned an arm on her table. They were Sun, tall and slender with yellow, slit-pupiled eyes, wearing a shirt that bared one tawny shoulder and a smattering of green scales. A brown leather cord with a mirror-shard pendant hung from their neck—Earth magic, and an expensive bauble for an actor. They were twenty-five years old at most. A child.

  “I’m not pretty or young,” Aspen said dryly. Pretty had never been her style. Handsome on a good day, maybe. Today wasn’t anything special. She never wore anything but trousers. Her white shirt was patched and worn nearly to transparency, one hard tug away from shredding into an unsalvageable pile of thread, but her snakeskin vest covered the worst of it and was practical besides, full of pockets for money and knives and anything else a woman might need. It made her look more intimidating, too, although Strength and Ayzeh had always assured her she didn’t need any help with that.

  Aspen had, at least, rinsed off in a cold stream before the performance. There was no dirt streaked across her face—nothing to hide the first hint of wrinkles about her eyes. She’d even washed her hair, and there was enough gray in the short strands these days to alert anyone to just how long she’d survived.

  The actor was still brazenly resting a naked arm on the tabletop. Strange choice of clothing for Falland’s damp, cold weather at this time of year, especially since, as a rule, People of the Sun preferred the hot, dry climate of their homeland. They soaked up heat and light like their dragon ancestors. The ancestry thing was probably more rumor than legend, but either way, Ayzeh had never fucking shut up about it.

  Chilly weather or not, People of the Sun also dressed to show off their scales. The actor’s shimmering green ones would be uncommon even in the Sun Realm, but here in the hills they’d be an alluring rarity. Harstead, though, where the theater troupe was based, was a big city, home to all kinds—even Aspen herself for several years.

  “You like my scales?” the actor asked.

  Aspen rolled her eyes. “First I’m a pretty young thing, and now you’re trying that line?” She put her feet up on the chair across from her to discourage any other ideas the Sun might have. Nothing about Aspen, from her severe short haircut to the sharp line of her mouth, said approachable.

  And yet.

  “So?” The Sun, to their credit but Aspen’s frustration, wasn’t so easily scared away. “Oh! Introductions. I’m Anafya Imlama Shefye, but most People of the Earth can’t pronounce it, so they call me Flickering. Flick to my friends. It’s ‘she’ unless these are blue, in which case it’s ‘he.’” She touched her shoulder where the green scales were exposed.

  The name meant “a match to light a flickering torch.” Ayzeh had taught her a lot of Asemnu, the Sun language. A friendlier person might have said so. Aspen took another drink from her mug and grimaced.

  “Earth beer is shit,” Flickering agreed. And then, as if sharing opinions on beverages made them friends, Flickering grabbed a chair from the table behind her and pulled it over to sit with Aspen.

  A good fighter, Integrity had taught her, knew when to push an attack and when to fall back and evaluate. Aspen dropped her feet to the ground, as much of an invitation as she was willing to extend. “Aspen. She. All the time.”

  “And not a pretty young thing.” Flickering grinned as if they were sharing a joke. “You prefer ‘handsome older woman,’ then?”

  “I prefer ‘woman trying t
o drink her shitty beer in peace.’”

  Undeterred, Flickering’s smile spread into something radiant. She tilted her shaved head toward Aspen. “I could call you lady.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Fine, fine. Just Aspen it is. That’s a Wood name. But you don’t have—” Flickering gestured at her head to indicate antlers.

  Aspen said nothing.

  “Sorry, rude question. Our troupe has a couple People of the Wood and they both have these gorgeous antlers.” Flickering’s gaze turned curious, which made Aspen far more wary than her earlier flirting did. “Anyway, we don’t meet many People of the Wood on the road. And I know you aren’t following the troupe. I’d remember a woman like you.”

  “I’m a wanderer,” Aspen said blandly. Flickering, with her unique eyes and shiny scales, attracted attention. Everything about Aspen, from the dark colors she wore to the drink she’d ordered, was meant to deflect attention. Being unremarkable kept her alive.

  “Watch where you put those hands!”

  Aspen recognized the voice as the principal actor in the play, the woman she’d been privately calling Calamity. Her tone was playful, but there was a note of warning in the words. It was a delicate balance, one Aspen was used to hearing from vulnerable people who wanted to redirect someone’s attention without risking their anger.

  Aspen put a hand on one of her knives as she zeroed in on the scene. In the middle of the tavern, at the big table, Calamity was perched on the lap of a large, hairy person deep in their cups. She was still dressed in the purple bodice and skirts of her costume. Resting in her cleavage was a mirror-shard necklace identical to Flickering’s, the other half of a matched pair. She hadn’t been wearing that during the play. Flickering and Calamity might be partners or lovers. That was none of Aspen’s business, and especially not something she should be thinking about right now.

  Calamity slapped lightly at the drunk’s shoulder, and her pout undermined her scolding. The drunk’s eyes glazed over. They focused on her mouth, but not the words coming out of it.

  Calamity, or the actor who played Calamity, had a mouth worth staring at. Lush, full, deep pink, the upper lip a perfect bow. Her other features were equally as remarkable—smooth, light brown skin, a wide, rounded nose, and large brown eyes with a luxuriant fringe of dark lashes. Traces of black stage makeup lingered around her eyes and gold wire glimmered in her hair. She drew all the eyes in the room.

  It didn’t mean people were allowed to take advantage of her. The drunk found the slit of her dress. Calamity’s thighs, like the rest of her, were thick. It would be easy to train her to crush a person’s head between her legs.

  Not that Aspen had time for that now.

  The drunk crawled one hand up Calamity’s thigh. Aspen shuddered. She’d felt enough unwanted touch for a lifetime, touch that cloaked itself in gentleness when really it was anything but, and she couldn’t let it happen to anyone else.

  Aspen jumped to her feet.

  “No, don’t,” Flickering began.

  Aspen brushed off her words and then her hand when Flickering tried to slow her. She grabbed the drunk’s hand and removed it from Calamity. “You heard the woman.”

  “Yeah, watch where I put my hands.” The drunk groped Calamity’s breast and stared defiantly at Aspen.

  “Apologies,” Aspen told Calamity before she lifted the woman by those rounded hips and set her on the table. With Calamity no longer keeping Aspen from the drunk, Aspen was free to grab their wrists. She pressed her thumbs against their veins to cut off the blood flow. Their hands twitched, and their face twisted in pain.

  “What are you doing?” Calamity demanded. She grabbed Aspen’s shoulder and jerked it back. Aspen didn’t expect an attack from the victim and she stumbled and lost her grip on the drunk.

  “This drunk was giving you trouble,” Aspen said.

  The drunk sneered at Aspen, bolstered by Calamity taking their side. “The only one causing trouble here is you.”

  The entire tavern’s attention was trained on Aspen, each gaze the point of an arrow. Too much of a scene already. She couldn’t afford more. Slow and with control, she took a step back. The middle of the room was the weakest position. The window exit was looking like a better and better option.

  The drunk puffed out their chest and seized her wrist. “Apologize to the lady for interrupting her fun.”

  The hand on Aspen’s wrist had rough fingers and a tight grip. It almost sent her to a place she couldn't afford to go. She ripped her arm away.

  Her sleeve ripped with it.

  The tear ran all the way up to her bicep. The fabric hung in tatters, exposing the black tattoo on the inside of her forearm. A stylized rendering of a hanging scale in balance. Aspen sucked in a breath, but held all other reactions in check. Being marked by her past was unfortunate, but at least the Hanging Scale operated mostly in the shadows. No one here would recognize the symbol.

  The drunk’s face drained of color. They pointed at her tattoo.

  Well, fuck.

  “You burned my village,” they bellowed. “I’ve seen that tattoo before! The Hanging Scale! You people burned my village to the ground! You’re here to finish the job and make me stay quiet!”

  Shit, shit, shit. “I didn’t. I’m not—I wasn’t there. It was—” This was fucking useless. The entire goddamn tavern glared at her while she stuttered. She wouldn’t believe herself.

  A sweat droplet ran down the back of her neck.

  How many people were here? Thirty? Aspen was good, but she couldn’t fight thirty people. Outrun, maybe, if she could get to the window—

  “Mort, baby,” said Calamity in a soothing tone, still perched on the table, her graceful fingers cupping the drunk’s cheek. Her voice was pitched to carry like she was on stage. “Mortification, sweetie, my dear Mort, you’ve had too much to drink, even for a big strong man like yourself. I don’t know what you think you saw, but that tattoo’s no scale. It’s a Moon glyph that means ‘charm,’ just like my name. It’s an honest mistake, of course, and Moon glyphs are hard to read even if you know them, which almost nobody does, but I promise you I know that tattoo like I know my own name.”

  Aspen angled her forearm toward her body in case somebody in The Full Flagon could read Moon glyphs.

  Charm—her stage name suited her exactly as well as “Calamity”—kept talking to Mort, sort of the way you’d talk to a spooked horse, except Aspen never used such a sensual tone on Mouse.

  Well, Aspen never used a sensual tone ever.

  The tavern’s attention didn’t prickle the back of her neck anymore, but the tension in the room hadn’t gone slack. Everyone was listening to Charm.

  “She got it for me, see? She got my name tattooed right on her arm. You know how you were asking me where I’m from, who my People are, Mort? Well, the secret’s out now. I’m a Moon witch, and that right there is my wife. Her name is Aspen. She loves me so much she got my name glyph tattooed right on her arm.”

  How does she know my name? Aspen tightened her jaw to keep her mouth from falling open.

  “I know, I know, if I’m a Moon witch, why can’t I do some miraculous transformation, like turning you into a newt? And why don’t I have white hair? Well, I’m not much of a witch, really. Just like not all People of the Sun can do fire magic, not all Moon witches can do transformations. As for my hair, well, you know my dedication to the theater, Mort.” She leaned toward him and dropped her voice to a perfectly calibrated stage whisper. “I dye it.” Charm ran her hand down the overflowing river of dark brown curls that poured over her shoulder to rest on her even more overflowing bosom, successfully drawing Mort’s attention downward.

  Aspen’s, too. She looked, felt manipulated, forced herself to focus on Charm’s face instead, and then dipped down for one last appreciation of her breasts. That bodice really did display them to spectacular effect.

  “You see how she’s looking at me, Mort? That woman is head over heels in love with me, and don’
t tell me you don’t know the feeling because I know you do, Mort, I make my living this way. I’m sorry you got drawn into this silly little game we like to play, but let’s not let any harm come of it. My wife will buy you a drink. My wife will buy everybody here a drink, and then the two of us will be on our way and we can all forget this ever happened.”

  Charm met her eyes, nodded at the barkeep, and Aspen obediently tossed one of several purses of coin she kept in her vest. A cheer went up.

  Charm hopped down from the table—Aspen did not think about how the movement jiggled her breasts, or if she did, it was only so she could effectively play the part of a besotted wife—and sashayed over to Aspen.

  Branch, leaf, and root, her hips swung like one of those little pendulums the Earth witches used to put people in trances.

  Then Charm went up on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around Aspen’s neck, and kissed her full on the mouth. The soft press of her lips—the soft press of her whole body—undid Aspen. Charm ran her hands down Aspen’s arms and caught her by the waist. The threat, the tavern, the lies, all of it fell away. Aspen pulled Charm close and chased the faint taste of lemon deep into the sweetness of her mouth.