Page 49

“The Queens.”

“Queens?” Dawsyn’s eyes round. She turns to look at Ryon.

He nods. “Queen Alvira and her wife, Cressida.”

“You’ve met them?”

He laughs darkly. “No, girl. I do not wish to have my wings hacked from my back. They might be human, but their guard is more an army.”

Dawsyn smirks. “Thought you weren’t afraid to take on a kingdom alone.”

“I have no desire to kill humans. The pure-bloods have slaughtered enough of them.”

“So noble,” she mutters, turning back to the Mecca. Before she can move closer, an uncertainty grips her, one she’s rarely felt. “Will… will they recognize me? I mean, will they recognize that I am not… of them?” Her voice weakens at its finish, and she loathes it – loathes that Ryon hears it.

This time, he does not restrain himself. His hand comes gently to her shoulder, his fingers brushing her collarbone. The weight of it is warm, foreign, but not unwelcome. She is careful not to react to it.

“Youarethem,” he tells her. “They will hardly believe otherwise.”

A shudder leaves her, and she shrugs to hide it, letting his hand fall away. She feels the absence of its soothing weight and is unnerved. “Come on then, my hybrid.”

The closer the road takes them to the heart of Terrsaw, the muddier it gets. They pass a wagon, and Dawsyn’s sense is stolen as she lays eyes on the remarkable animals that tow it, enormous creatures that gleam in the sun – horses, Ryon calls them. They pass more and more of the Mecca’s people, and then they are well within the perimeters of the town.

Lines sling between high windows, heavy with pegged clothing. Here, the streets reek of mildew and sewerage. The people are harried, too busy or tired to pay them any mind as they weave among the buildings, following a gentle decline.

Slowly, the road turns to rock and then to cobblestone, the windows become adorned in shutters, the doors are painted and polished. The people change, too. No longer a spectrum of brown and gray. Here, children run with leather shoes underfoot, their cheeks fuller. Their mothers holler at them with burlap bags slung over their arms, thick skirts clean of muck. The men wear fine cloaks around their shoulders, some riding horses or pulling smaller wagons laden with wares.

Some turn their heads as Dawsyn and Ryon pass. They see a darkhaired woman in fine clothing with a face alight in wonder and a man with the hands of a brawler and the height to match.

Dawsyn marks each face that looks their way, but they slide over her and land on Ryon, and then they dart away. The farther they explore, the more Dawsyn begins to thaw, and soon, she is paying attention to the details of the Mecca, of Terrsaw.

She never imagined there could be so many people. They swamp in places, to carts bearing nuts, fruit, root vegetables, grains, greens, liquor. Some of the doors are labeled in paint, though she cannot read them.

“Do you know written words?” she asks Ryon. “What do they say?”

“That is a haberdashery. That over there is a tavern. That is a healer’s room… an apothecary… a dressmaker…”

Dawsyn whirls. She understands half of what he points out and must fill the gaps with what she can see through their windows. “Do people give money for these things?”

“Yes,” Ryon says, eyeing a cart with steaming bread.

The proprietor behind it gives him a wary glance. Ryon hands the old man some coins from his pocket and takes two of the small loaves, slick and golden.

He holds one out to Dawsyn. “Here.”

“I cannot pay you back.”

“Don’t I know it, girl.”

Dawsyn grins and takes it, bites into the soft and warm crust, and is immediately consumed by its taste. Sweet and something else…

“It is butter,” he tells her. “And sugar.”

Butter.Sugar. More words she heard from her grandmother’s lips that have lingered inside her like dormant ghosts.

They walk on through the marketplace, Ryon quiet beside her, ever wary of the patrons that pass them by but pay little attention. The closer to the center they get, the finer the buildings and people become. The palace looms overhead, its turrets visible over the steepled rooftops.

Dawsyn’s footsteps quicken, moving against the flocks of people who seek to skirt the palace shadows.