Page 17 of Anwen of Primewood (The Eldentimber #2)

P eople loiter in the city of Crayhope, waiting for the festival to begin.

We stand amid tents and caravan carts in a camp made up of several different troupes. Merchants and performers loiter about, eager to get on with the festivities. We’re not the only spectators taking in the sights, but I feel conspicuous nevertheless.

“Do you see him?” Irving asks me as he scans the crowd.

“No,” I answer after a man who I thought might be Dimitri turns around.

The performer notices me staring and flashes me a grin. Sunlight glints off the front row of his golden teeth, making it nearly impossible not to stare. A braided goatee falls to his bare abdomen, and there are markings all over his chest and arms.

I turn away to hide my grimace. He’s certainly not Dimitri.

“What kind of paint does that man have on him?” Marigold whispers once we’ve walked a little farther, fidgeting with her braid.

“It’s not paint,” Bran answers. “They’re tattoos.”

I notice several men have marks of all different designs and shades on their bare arms. I don’t remember Dimitri having one, but who knows what he may have been hiding under his clothes.

My cheeks burn at the thought.

“What’s a tattoo?” Marigold asks, her voice as disgusted as it is intrigued.

Marigold goes white when Bran explains.

Though we arrived just in time for the festival, there is very little excitement. It seems the troupes are biding their time while the local marquis decides whether or not the festival will proceed after the recent, sad news of Prince Lionel of Vernow’s dragon abduction.

Traveling merchants and street performers linger by their carts, swatting flies and grumbling amongst themselves. Until the marquis makes his decision, nothing can be sold.

No one looks familiar, and that worries me. Surely I would recognize a member of Dimitri’s troupe if I saw one.

Disappointment rests heavy on my shoulders as I look up into the blue, late summer sky. I don’t think they’re here.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Galinor says, tired of walking aimlessly. “Let’s ask someone.”

An older Bandolian man stands near us. There’s a large gold hoop through one ear and a chain around his neck. Silver streaks his once-black hair. Despite his age, he still wears it long, and the length of it falls just above his waist.

With sharp eyes, he studies Galinor as the prince strides toward him.

“Do you know a man named Dimitri?” Galinor asks, not bothering with small talk.

“I might.” The peddler’s focus lands on Galinor’s money pouch, and he gives the prince a pointed look.

Undaunted, Galinor tosses the man a copper coin.

“There are a lot of Dimitris,” the man says, running the coin through his fingers.

I step forward. “He’s a Bandolian prince.”

Galinor gives me a look as if to say, don’t get too close . I ignore him.

“Ah, that Dimitri.” A smirk lifts the man’s age-worn face. “I might know that Dimitri.”

He raises his eyebrows at Galinor expectantly. The prince scoffs, but this time, he flips the man a piece of gold. The peddler’s face lights with greed, and he eagerly bites the coin. Satisfied it’s real, he tucks it into his pouch.

“Is his troupe here?” Galinor asks.

“No.”

“Do you know where he is?”

The man chuckles, sounding truly amused. “I’m not his keeper. I have no idea where he might be.”

Apparently finished with the conversation, the man tilts his head as if instructing us to move along. Galinor hesitates, and it looks as though it’s taking a great deal of self-control for him not to throttle the man. After several tense seconds, he shakes his head and turns away.

We continue our search, but every answer is the same. Recognition flashes in the nomads’ eyes, but their responses are cryptic at best. We’re not one of their own, and they won’t help us.

Irving shrugs when we are once again sent on our way. “Silence is a good creed amongst thieves, liars, and cheats.”

I’m never going to find Dimitri.

“What do we do?” Galinor asks.

We’ve arrived back at the copse of trees where I’ve left Danver. I whistle for him as the men discuss our plan. When he doesn’t come, I push my way through the bushes.

“Where are you going?” Marigold asks.

I glance over my shoulder. “To find Danver.”

Galinor works his jaw. I think he might argue, but instead, he says, “Don’t go too far.”

I walk through the trees, looking for the fox. I hear the great, rumbling purr before I see Pika, but even with the warning, I almost shriek when she barrels through the brush at me.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper as I try to catch my breath from the surprise.

Danver trots up behind the glasseln. Apparently, the two have bonded. Pika falls at my feet, rubbing her back on the grass and begging to be scratched.

I crouch down to stroke her ears. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Anwen?” Galinor calls. Judging from the distance of his voice, he is close. “I thought I…” Galinor’s eyes go wide when he sees the glasseln stretched out at my feet. On ce the initial shock wears off, he narrows his eyes at the large cat. “What are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, helpless. “I can’t believe she followed us all this way.”

Pika stands, saunters to Galinor, and presses her head against his abdomen.

Galinor stands still. With a wary voice, he asks, “What is she doing?”

I roll my eyes. “She wants you to pet her.”

Galinor cringes, but he slowly— very slowly —gives her an awkward pat on the top of her head. Elated, Pika rubs against him, almost knocking him over.

“She likes you!” I exclaim.

“Wonderful.”

“At least we know she won’t eat you,” I tease.

Galinor gives me a withering look. “You’re going to have to keep her hidden, at least while we’re in Crayhope.”

I nod.

It takes several tries, but finally, Pika stays while we leave to find the others. I glance back to make sure she doesn’t follow.

Bran, Dristan, and Marigold speak quietly when we return. They look up, their expressions almost guilty when they see us.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, and then I narrow my eyes when I realize a member of our party is missing. “Where’s Irving?”

Dristan clears his throat. “He, uh…”

Why are they looking at me like that? My stomach tightens. What’s happened ?

Marigold finally steps forward, her eyes full of pity. “There was a woman. He disappeared with her a few minutes ago.”

A woman? I scrunch my brows, trying to understand. Once I realize they’re worried I’ll be hurt, I laugh. There’s little Irving can do to upset me now.

They gape at me, but I only shrug. “He’ll be back soon enough.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” Dristan asks.

I glance through the trees at the street performers loitering in the village square, and then I look back at our party. “I have an idea.”

“I can’t sell you anything,” the crabby merchant says, glaring at the castle in the distance. “Not until the marquis makes up his mind.”

I shift my weight, thinking. “What if you pull your cart back to the road and we do our business there?”

As the man mulls it over, his mouth tightens into a thin line. “I’d lose my spot.”

We’re on the edge of the city, nowhere near the squares.

“It’s not a good spot anyway,” I point out.

Grumbling, the man fetches his grazing horse. “You had better make this worth my while.”

I nudge Galinor, but the prince only grunts. For unknown reasons, he doesn’t love my idea.

The man finally moves out of the square, and we meet him by the fork in the road .

“What are you buying?” the merchant asks, taking stock of us. For the first time, it seems to register we’re not a ragtag bunch.

His eyes light up as I pull all the scarves and two large bolts of silk from his cart. I glance at him. “Do you have any trim? Any tassels?”

The merchant tents his hands, tapping his fingers eagerly. “I have delicate woven gold trim from Orick and lovely strands of shells from Ptarma.”

“Yes, yes,” I say, nodding. “We’ll take those as well. What about jewels?”

He climbs the steps of his wagon with his portly legs, gives us a promising smile, and then inserts a key into a locked side compartment.

He pulls out a box and opens it with a flourish. “Exquisite unworked jewels from across the seas.” He leans in close as if he were going to tell us a great secret. “They were bound for Triblue’s royal court, but they were misplaced . I will extend my excellent deal to you fine patrons.”

Dristan and Bran exchange a look, but they say nothing.

The man holds a crystal out for my inspection. “Finest diamond you will ever lay eyes on.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s clear quartz.”

The merchant bristles. “I assure you, it is not.”

I roll the stone in my hand. “I assure you, it is.”

Marigold steps forward and eyes the stone. “Most assuredly quartz. It lacks an octahedral fracture.”

The merchant glares at Marigold. “It’s a very rare type of diamond. ”

“Then I’m sure we can’t afford it.” Galinor plucks the stone from my hand and gives it back to the man. He motions toward my hefty pile of goods. “How much for all this?”

The man pockets the cheap crystal and taps his lips. “All of that? I can give you the excellent deal of twenty gold coins.”

“Ten,” I interrupt before Galinor can pay the man.

Has he never bartered? The naive prince was already reaching into his coin pouch.

The merchant turns to me, pretending I’ve shocked him. “These are fine goods, but I see you are a scrupulous woman. I suppose I can drop as low as…eighteen gold pieces.”

“Twelve or we will walk away,” I counter.

The man’s face scrunches up in a sour look. “Fourteen, final offer.”

Elated we’re getting such a good price, I say, “Deal. Galinor, pay the man.”

The prince flashes me a look I can’t decipher and produces the money.

Arms full, we haul our goods back to our patch of forest. I keep my eyes open for Pika as I lead the others into the brush and away from prying eyes. Thankfully, she seems to be staying back.

Once we’re alone, Dristan sifts through our treasures. “Now that we have it, just what are you going to do with all this?”