Page 19 of Anwen of Primewood (The Eldentimber #2)

“ W hat are we supposed to do with a caravan cart?” Galinor demands.

“We’ll follow the troupes,” Irving says, looking incredibly proud of his new purchase. “The girls can sleep in it, and we’ll blend in.”

As Galinor and Irving bicker about the cart, I walk through the dark woods back to Crayhope, needing time away from everyone to think. Fires in lit urns glow down the streets in the village, illuminating the large group of people who have gathered in the square. Intrigued, I make my way to them.

A man at the front of the crowd addresses us, but I can’t see him or quite make out his words. No one pays me any attention as I shoulder my way through the audience to get a better view.

But before I reach the front, applause breaks out, along with a great collection of joyful shouts and whistles. The reason for their exuberance quickly travels to where I stand near the back .

The festival will continue as usual.

A dark figure dressed in jester’s garb swings from atop one of the shops in the square with a lit torch in his hand.

I stand on my tiptoes, hoping for a better view.

The man drops the torch to a pyre in the center of the square, and it lights.

The people around me cheer at the sight of the tall, hot flames, which apparently mark the beginning of the festivities.

Girls with tambourines dance and sing, others join with lutes and flutes, and everywhere people laugh and cheer.

I walk amongst them, soaking up the merriment surrounding me. But my heart aches when I think of Dimitri. I’m here, in his world, amongst his people.

A hand settles on my shoulder, and I spin around.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Galinor says. “I’m not sure it’s wise to wander alone in the evening.”

I glance around. Already, mead and wine flow freely. It won’t be long before the merriment becomes darker. Still, I don’t want to return to the others yet.

I hold out my hand. “Stay with me?”

All around us, people dance and sing, but we two are in our own tiny world, immune to the chaos. A girl with a flute travels past, trilling a melody that’s joyful yet haunting.

Finally, Galinor takes my hand. A thrill runs through me, but I try to act nonchalant as I tug him toward the crowd that has gathered nearby.

A trio of acrobats begins their act. They roll and jump onto each other’s shoulders, and then they vault to the ground with impressive twists and somersaults.

Spectators toss coins into an overturned hat, which has already gathered quite the collection.

The audience must be feeling generous on the first night of the festival.

Galinor stands close, his arm pressed against mine.

After a few moments, we walk farther down another street, following the fiery urns. A woman sits inside an open tent near us. Her black hair falls down her back, and she wears scarves over her face. A glass ball rests on the table in front of her, and a strange, unnatural mist swirls from within.

“Have your fortunes told, young lovers,” she says when she spots us, beckoning us forward.

I freeze, not only from the assumption she made, but also from the too-eager look in her dark eyes. Magic is forbidden, and yet, there is still that pull.

What could she tell us?

Galinor gently tugs me along. To the woman, he says, “No, thank you.”

I’m relieved to be away…but also disappointed.

Softly, so the words won’t travel back to her, I ask Galinor, “Do you think she could have told us where to find Dimitri?”

Galinor takes my shoulders in his hands, angling me so I face him.

“Humans aren’t gifted with magic. When we call on it, it comes from dark, forbidden places.

Magic twists the truth we desire. It’s a dark force, whispering beautiful lies, and nothing useful comes from it. We’ll find Dimitri on our own.”

“What about the changeling stone, Galinor?” I glance over my shoulder, still feeling the pull toward the fortune teller. “Am I evil for using it? Is my father evil for wearing it all those years?”

Galinor eyes soften. “The changeling stone is fairy magic. Magic is their gift, and they can share it with whomever they wish. Dragons, fairies, unicorns, ancient gimlies—their magic isn’t evil. They don’t draw it from the dark. It’s simply a part of them.”

I’m very aware of how close we are, of how near his face is to mine. I hold my breath, wondering what I would do if he leaned forward.

As though Galinor doesn’t feel the same spark, he takes a step back, dropping his hands from my shoulders.

“Are you hungry?” He nods toward the center of the square. Already, delicious, sugary aromas drift from bakery carts.

I nod and step away, pushing my disappointment behind me—where it belongs. I can dwell on it later.

Galinor offers his arm, his eyebrows raised. “Anwen?”

I meet his eyes, and my heart stutters when I slide my fingers over his sleeve. Tucked next to him, we continue to the center of Crayhope.

It’s dark when I wake, not yet morning. Still sound asleep, Marigold softly snores next to me.

Instead staying the night in Irving’s new caravan cart, we opted to pay for a room in the crowded inn. The one Marigold and I were given is barely larger than a cupboard, and I think we might have been better off in the cart .

I sit up, careful not to jostle Marigold. I peek out the shutters and peer at the night sky. The horizon is as black as pitch.

Dawn isn’t coming anytime soon.

There’s a cold chill in the air, and faint music drifts through the open window. Despite the time, the festivities are still in full swing. I drum my fingers against the windowsill, acknowledging that it would be a dangerous time to walk the streets alone.

I close the shutters and only pause a moment before slipping on my boots and tying my corset belt over my bodice. As a last-minute thought, I pull a long velvet scarf over my head and shoulders to hide my conspicuous blonde hair.

Tonight, I want to blend in with the troupe members.

Tapered candles burn in glass lanterns, and their flickering glow lights the halls. Wax pools around the bases, and the wicks threaten to snuff out soon. It must be later than I realized if the candles are that low.

The inn isn’t a beautiful one. The boards are graying, and they creak with each step I take. Threadbare rugs dot the floors in alcoves and nooks, and they too are faded and old. Our linens on the bed were clean, though, and that is what is most important.

A few old men linger in the main room. Red embers from a dying fire burn near their table where they nurse their drinks and smoke, their conversation low and somber as is fitting for the hour.

An efficient-looking barmaid, obviously used to working the night hours, wipes the long wooden counter at the back of the room. She looks up when she spots me but only nods in greeting as I pass. Moments later, I’m out the door and entering the village square.

I shiver under my wrap, nervous. I follow the street, making my way to the fortune teller’s tent. Perhaps she’ll be asleep, and I’ll have to turn around.

The thought makes me pause. She’s most likely already retired for the night. I should go back now, slip into bed and pretend I never left.

But I move on, almost unnaturally drawn forward.

I hesitate in the street when I see the tent is still tied open. Inside, the fortune teller sits, her head bowed over her ball, with a man across from her. He seems mystified by the colored clouds swirling in the glass orb, almost as if he’s in a trance.

My stomach knots, and I chew my bottom lip, deciding this was a very bad idea. Hugging my scarf close, I turn to leave.

“Wait!” The woman turns her head toward me sharply and holds a commanding hand in the air. “Wait,” she says again, her voice softer.

I stop like a deer in the wood, too spooked to run. The fortune teller dismisses her customer, and he leaves with a strange, bemused expression on his face. He walks right past me, but his mind is too far away to even meet my eyes.

The woman waves me toward the chair opposite her ball. “Come.”

“I…I don’t think—“

“You came all this way to see me, didn’t you?”

I did …

Her eyes crinkle at the corners, making me think she’s smiling under her scarves. “I don’t bite.”

Reluctantly, I sit in the chair and then cringe. It’s still warm from the man before me.

“I didn’t come to have my fortune told,” I tell her hastily.

The woman slides the now black, empty ball to the side of her silk-covered table.

“You are searching for someone,” she says, her voice dark and lilting.

I blink, startled. Galinor’s warning echoes in my mind, and I stand so quickly, I almost knock the chair over. “This was a mistake. I have no money anyway.”

The woman grabs my hand, holding firm. “I’m not reading your fortune, child,” she says, agitated. “I am giving you information. Sit down. ”

I fall back onto the chair with a thump. Fleetingly, I wonder if I should argue about her calling me a child. She’s not much older than I am, if at all. Unless she’s somehow harnessed magic to stay young…

Deciding I don’t want to know, I keep my thoughts to myself.

I meet her eyes and withdraw my hand. “What information?”

She clasps her hands on the table and tilts her head, studying me intently. “You are looking for Dimitri, Prince of Bandolia.”

I hesitate before I answer. “I am, yes.”

“His troupe was here yesterday morning. They and several others left when the festival’s future was uncertain. ”

I lean forward. “Where did he go?”

“The others with him were traveling to the Castle Lenrook. The queen will give birth soon, and there will be a great celebration.”

“Which road did he take?”

“I don’t know.” The fortune teller motions to a stack of cards on her left. “I can tell you if you wish…”

I stare at the cards, both intrigued and terrified. After several moments, I shake my head.

“Your choice.” She once again lays her hands on the table. “If you do not wish to have your fortune read, I’ve given you all I can.”