Page 13

The beast snorts, clearly more interested in the prospect of rest than my wistful planning.
This village, much like the one I left, isn't much to look at—a handful of shops, homes with vegetable gardens, a smithy, and what appears to be a small temple to some local deity. Perfect. The kind of place travelers pass through, not to. The kind of place where a woman alone might go unremarked upon.
I dismount at the village stable, wincing as my feet touch solid ground. The stable boy—a lanky teenager with a spray of freckles—takes the sapela's reins with a curious glance at my travel-worn appearance.
"Just passing through," I say before he can ask, pressing a few extra lummi into his palm. "Extra feed for her, please. She's earned it."
The boy nods, pocketing the coins with a gap-toothed smile. "Marda's place makes the best stew in the valley," he offers, nodding toward a building with cheerful yellow shutters. "If you're hungry, miss."
My stomach growls at the mere mention of food, though it immediately clenches in that familiar warning way. I've learned to eat when I can, between bouts of sickness.
"Thanks," I mumble, shouldering my pack.
The restaurant—if it can be called that—is warm and dim inside, smelling of herbs and fresh-baked bread. My mouth waters as I push through the door, a small bell jingling to announce my arrival.
A few locals look up from their meals, but their gazes slide away just as quickly. A trio of men argue good-naturedly over some village politics at a corner table. An old man dozes by the hearth, a half-empty mug of tea forgotten at his elbow.
"Be with you in a moment!" calls a voice from somewhere behind a swinging door.
I choose a table near the back, positioned so I can see everyone as my anxiety mounts. My fingers drum against the worn wooden tabletop as I scan the room, cataloging possible threats, escape routes?—
"What can I get for you?"
I startle, hand instinctively going to the knife at my belt before I register the woman standing beside my table. She's around my age, maybe a few years older, with warm brown skin and curly hair pulled back in a scarf. Her hazel-green eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, and she carries a basket of bread that makes my empty stomach contract painfully.
"Just... whatever's hot," I manage, suddenly aware of how grimy I feel. "And water, please."
The woman sets down the bread basket without asking.
"On the house," she says, her gaze lingering on me in a way that makes me want to shrink into my travel cloak. "You look like you've come a long way."
I tear off a piece of bread, hoping she'll leave if I start eating. "Just passing through."
Instead of leaving, she leans slightly closer, lowering her voice. "Are you in need of help?"
The bread turns to ash in my mouth. I swallow hard, forcing my expression to remain neutral even as panic flutters in my chest. "I'm fine," I say, too sharply. "Just hungry."
She holds my gaze for a beat too long, then nods. "Of course. Well, I'm Harmony, if you need anything. I'll get your stew."
She's halfway across the room when it hits—that sudden, violent lurch in my gut that's become all too familiar. I clap a hand over my mouth, shoving back my chair with a scrape that draws several startled looks.
The back door. I bolt for it, nearly colliding with Harmony as she returns with a steaming bowl.
"Excuse me," I gasp, pushing past her and flinging myself outside just in time.
There's a small garden plot behind the restaurant, and I barely make it to the edge before emptying what little was in my stomach onto the soil. Wave after wave of nausea has me doubled over, eyes watering, cursing Araton's name between heaves.
When it finally passes, I stay hunched over, trembling and hating the weakness in my limbs. A soft hand touches my back, and I flinch away instinctively.
"Here," Harmony says, offering a damp cloth. "For your face."
I straighten, swiping the cloth across my mouth with as much dignity as I can muster. "Sorry about your garden."
Her mouth quirks in a half-smile. "The zynthra could use the fertilizer."
I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a strangled cough. "I should go."
"You should sit down before you fall down," she counters, firm but kind. "How far along are you?"