Page 43

“You can’t just—”

I turn back, flashing him a look. “I can, soldier. I can.”

Half expecting Henrik to follow me, I walk from the bailey and onto the street. He must decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth because he lets me go.

Two guards, however, follow at a distance, looking as if they’ve been instructed to keep an eye on me.

I would like to be irritated, but their presence isn’t altogether unwelcome—especially when they scowl at the old beggar who leers at me and my sapphires, causing him to turn tail.

They leave as soon as I reach my destination. I wave as they go, and they respond with shy grins, realizing they weren’t as stealthy as they thought.

The Denmel Inn and Tavern has a cheery red door, with evergreen and dried berry wreaths fixed to each front window. There’s a small yard to the right of the stone building, surrounded by a short iron fence, several pots of autumn-blooming flowers, and oil lamps atop short poles. Patrons take dinner on the patio, enjoying the last of the nice weather before the storm moves in.

After I secure my room in the inn, I wander into the adjoining tavern. It’s a busy establishment, and almost all the tables are full. After scanning the bar, I find one open stool between a Woodmore elf and a skinny woman who’s laughing a bit too loudly to be sober. I slide into it, wrinkling my nose at the sticky smudge marring the wooden surface in front of me.

When the barman glances my way, I raise my hand to let him know I’d like service.

“Dinner, drink, or both?” the man asks when he joins me a few moments later. He gives the patron next to me a wary look before he adds, “We have venison stew tonight.”

As expected, the elf stiffens.

Even though I’m starving, I nod to the bowl of bland vegetable soup in front of my quiet elven companion. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

The barman leaves, and I drum my fingers on the bar, avoiding the sticky spot. Glancing around the large room, I note the abnormally large number of Woodmore elves at the tables. What are they doing this far north? Don’t they usually stay in their vineyards in the far south, relishing the temperate climate and peaceful wine-making lifestyle?

A few minutes later, the barman returns with my supper.

“Anything else I can do for you?” he asks, flashing me a smile.

He’s good-looking, with light brown hair and dimples that dot his cheeks. I mean, he’s not as handsome as Henrik, but—

I stop the thought abruptly, shivering. In the last few days, my mind has wandered places it has no right to go.

“What’s the local news?” I ask, dipping my spoon into the thin soup.

The man laughs. “You mean the gossip?”

With a shrug, I say, “News, gossip—what’s the difference?”

Looking amused, he ignores a man who calls for him down the bar. “Both are based in fact, though one is usually skewed.”

“Give me whichever is more interesting.”

The man yells again, but the barman hollers back, “If you hadn’t spilled half of it down your shirt, Otto, your tankard would still be full. I’ll get there when I get there, and you’ll be patient, or I’ll toss you into the street.”

He then turns to me, leaning his elbow on the bar. “Allow me to give you the best of Denmel’s news. Farmer Tucker’s daughter ran off with a traveling peddler a few weeks ago, and Old Renford lost an entire flock of chickens to a pair of foxes last night. Someone vandalized Erhud’s rain barrel, and Goodwife Lisella’s horse threw a shoe.”

“Denmel is teeming with excitement,” I joke as I eat the nearly tasteless soup.

“Don’t be too quick with hasty judgments—I’ve saved the best for last. You see, several hunters have reported that aynauths are suddenly on the move and venturing into the lower elevations.”

I look up with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Truly?”

“That’s the word. They’ve been spotted following the local deer population.”

Without meaning to, we both glance at the man next to me.

But the elf studiously ignores our conversation, instead focusing on the journal that he’s furiously scribbling in.