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

I don’t like walking. I’d like it less if Dimitri had taken my boots as well, so I suppose I should be grateful I fell asleep with them on—not that it kept him from snatching back the necklace.

I shake my head and run my hand through my snarled curls. It would have been nice if he’d left me a comb.

Despite how upset I am, I still can’t believe Dimitri did this to be cruel. I don’t know what happened, but he wouldn’t have left me like this.

Yet, he did.

“No, he didn’t!” I yell to the forest around me, startling several birds that have taken to following me, flitting from tree to tree. One peers at me from the safety of a bush, and I glance down at him. “Sorry.”

Despite my tired feet and growling stomach, I won’t go home until I have the changeling stone back. I will find it—and Dimitri with it.

“Come on, Danver,” I call over my shoulder when the little fox darts down a rabbit trail. Like always, he listens and returns to me.

We continue west, which is the way the caravan must have traveled. Near the edge of Primewood, I will reach a small village, and there I must choose one of three roads. I have no idea which one they may have taken.

The rumble of horses alerts me someone is approaching from behind. I dart into the trees, hiding behind their thick trunks. It’s the third time today I’ve done this. Eventually, one of these groups is bound to be my father’s men.

I watch the animals approach, but this time the horses are only pulling a wagon. The old farmer smokes a pipe, puffing out the smoke in a leisurely manner. He looks like he hasn’t a care in the world.

This may be my chance.

I step into the road and wave an arm. “Sir?” I call out, giving the man plenty of warning to slow his wagon.

The man draws his horses to a stop, puffs out another lungful of smoke, and then tilts his straw hat back on his head.

“I’ve lost my horse. May I ride on the back of your wagon?”

The farmer scratches his jaw and squints in the bright morning sunlight. “I don’t give rides to your kind.”

“I’m not from one of the traveling troupes,” I say.

He narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side, challenging me.

“I swear, I’m not,” I insist, and then I motion to my skirts. “I can’t explain this, but I’m not a street performer. ”

The man shakes his head and clucks his horses on.

“No—wait!” I cry, lunging forward. “Do I have an accent?”

Thankfully, the horses stop, and the farmer scrunches his brow. “No, you don’t.” He takes another puff from his pipe. “Found yourself in trouble, have you?”

With a heavy sigh, I nod. “I have, sir.”

He mulls my request over and finally nods to the back of the wagon. “Be quick about it.”

“Oh, thank you!” I snatch Danver out of the brush and hop up before the man notices the fox in my arms.

Our progress is slow, but it’s faster than walking, and I’m grateful for that. I try to make small talk, but the farmer is a man of few words. By noon, the afternoon sun is hot, and I’m starving.

“Where are you headed?” I ask, stroking Danver’s fur as he sleeps across my lap. My legs dangle from the back of the wagon, and I watch the road we’ve already traveled.

“Estlebrook,” the farmer answers.

“Are you selling your pumpkins?”

I look back at the wagon full of gourds. The man glances over his shoulder, looks at the pumpkins, and turns to me. He then raises an eyebrow, silently suggesting my question was a foolish one.

I shrug. “It’s a little early in the season for winter squash, isn’t it?”

The man grunts and then turns back to the road. He doesn’t want to talk.

That’s fine .

I curl my hair around my finger, once again wishing for a comb. I stare at the trees; I stare at the road.

“Who do you sell your pumpkins to?” I ask, turning around again. The wagon comes to a halt. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet, I swear.”

“I’m not going to keep twisting my neck like an owl,” the farmer answers. He motions to the empty seat next to him. “Get yourself up here.”

I scurry from the wagon and climb the steps to settle down next to the farmer, leaving Danver to nose around in the pumpkins.

“Your fox better not eat anything back there.”

I shake my head, surprised he noticed Danver at all. “Oh, no. He might eat a mouse or two if he finds them, but he won’t eat the pumpkins.”

The farmer grunts, and the horses continue on.

“I’m Winnie,” I say, using a nickname my family hasn’t called me since I was old enough to read.

He gives me a wry smile. “Ergmin.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Ergmin. Thank you for the ride.”

A little brown bird with a bright orange chest settles on the wooden rails next to me, hopping a few times before it finds a perch it likes.

“I know who you are.” Ergmin speaks to me but eyes the bird.

My spirits sink. “You do?”

“What are you running from, Lady Anwen?”

“How did you know?”

He nods to the back. “The fox. ”

“Oh.”

“I also tried to sell those pumpkins to your father a few days ago. He told me it was too early for winter squash as well.”

I shrug. It is too early. They’ll rot in storage before winter is over.

“I should return you to the Baron.”

I sigh. “Please don’t.”

Ergmin doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t slow the horses either. We continue on to Estlebrook.

The sun is low by the time we reach the town. I stretch as I climb from the wagon and then call to Danver. I let him down, and he runs to the back of the stables.

I stare at the inn in front of me, shifting from one foot to the other, thinking.

“You don’t have money, do you?” Ergmin asks.

I bite my lip and shake my head.

The farmer tosses me a coin. “Don’t get yourself into too much trouble.”

“Thank you,” I call to him as he drives his wagon away.

The copper should be enough for a room and perhaps a meal if I’m lucky. A stream runs just outside the town, and I can drink from it even if I can’t afford food. At least I won’t die of thirst.

I push through the door. Several seated men take in my appearance, staring at my outfit with appreciation. I ignore them, curse Dimitri again for stealing my gown, and march to the woman behind the bar .

She eyes me and shakes her head. “I don’t want any trouble.”

I slap the coin on the counter. “I’m not from a traveling troupe, and I won’t be trouble.”

She snorts and scoops the coin up. “You won’t be turning my inn into a house of ill repute.”

I gasp, taken aback. “How dare—”

“That goes for the lot of you over there!” the woman snarls at the seated men.

They laugh and jeer, and she waves a rag at them, cursing them all before her eyes travel back to me. “If you’re not offering, girl, you should change your clothes.”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t have anything else to wear.”

The woman clucks her tongue. “You have a story?”

I glance around the inn. “I got myself in a bit of a sticky situation, and now I’m trying to sort it out.”

“Hmmm,” she says. “My name is Inger.”

“Winnie,” I reply, using the nickname again. “Do you know of any festivals to the west of here?”

Inger narrows her eyes as she sets a bowl of stew in front of me. I’m so hungry, I dive in without any thought to manners.

“I thought you weren’t a performer,” Inger mocks. “Why are you looking for festivals?”

I gulp down half the bowl and then make myself slow down before I’m sick. “I’m looking for a troupe. They have something of mine.”

Inger thinks about my question. “There were many men who traveled through here on their way to the marriage tournament in Lauramore, but I would think it should be ending soon. ”

Of course—Princess Pippa’s tournament.

“Do you know anyone traveling that way?” I ask.

Inger eyes the men. “None that I would send you with. It takes at least a week to travel to Lauramore anyway. It will be over before you get there.”

I chew my lip, thinking. Tournaments usually have a festival at the end. Perhaps Dimitri plans to attend that?

“What about Glendon?” I scrape the sides of my bowl with the spoon. “Is there anyone you know who will be traveling there?”

If I can make it to Glendon, surely I can find someone to take me the rest of the way to Lauramore.

Inger shakes her head. “You’re going to need to take a carriage. You have money?”

“You have my only coin.”

Inger frowns. “You can earn some from me. You know how to wash linens? Scrub pots?”

Inwardly I cringe, and I don’t answer her right away. Admitting I have no idea how to do either of those things will tell her more than I am willing to share.

She brushes her hair out of her face, studying me. “I figured as much,” she finally says, taking my silence as an answer. “Hurry up and finish your meal. You have much to learn.”

After spending several weeks working as an inn maid, I’m finally on my way to find Dimitri.

I lean out the carriage window with Danver perched on my lap, and together we take in the sights.

The palace of Lauramore is directly in front of us.

Just as I remember from the time my family came when I was young, a waterfall cascades from the mountain terrace, falls next to the palace like a long, white ribbon, and crashes into a pool on the terrace below.

On the same level as the pool, but farther down into the meadow, an arena has been constructed.

Flags wave in the breeze, but the seats are empty.

I’m not as concerned with the arena as I am with the cluster of peasants, traveling merchants, and entertainers who have made a temporary camp not far from the structure.

I recognize no one.

“It was quite the tournament,” a young man says from next to me, his eyes trained on Danver.

I glance at him. “Was?”

He nods. “It ended a few days ago. Haven’t you heard?”

I shake my head, waiting for him to continue. He raises his eyebrows, surprised.

“Who won?” I ask, hoping he’ll continue.

“Prince Lionel of Vernow.” He chuckles when I cringe. “But he cheated, broke the Dragon Treaty, and was carried away by the largest red dragon seen in years.”

I laugh. “You jest.”

The man shakes his head. “No, it’s true.”

“Why hasn’t this news reached Primewood?”