Page 28 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams (Fated to the Sun and Stars #3)

Corrin

I t’s been a long time since I walked the streets of Elmere. For all its supposed importance, it’s a city like any other, with poor neighborhoods and rich ones, roads filled with carriages and horses, shops busy with vendors and customers.

What it isn’t is anything like Hallowbane.

Here you don’t have to always be looking over your shoulder for the next person who’s going to swindle you, or watching out for a ruined, driven mad by ephilin, who’s ready to rip your head off.

Here the serious silhouette of the palace watches you from up on the hill, reminding you that there’s always some higher power nearby ensuring that order prevails.

In this kind of city, people know their place.

The gutter rats stay in the gutter, and the lords stay in their noble houses.

How boring. Nobles and gutter rats are all the same when you get a few drinks in them anyway, and at least in Hallowbane a man’s fortune can rise—or fall—on the toss of a coin. There’s no hierarchy, no certainty, no safety except for what you build for yourself. Makes life much more interesting.

“You better not be leading me on some wild goose chase,” comes the sharp tone of my traveling companion.

I turn to glance at the fae woman. Although I’m used to her wearing a glamour, there’s still something unsettling about the diminutive person standing beside me.

Maybe it’s because I know that in reality, she’s as tall as me, stronger too.

It’s a bit like traveling with a viper that looks almost entirely like a fluffy rabbit.

Except her eyes. In any form, those stay bright with a dangerous intelligence. They narrow in my direction now.

“Trust that I wouldn’t prolong this little jaunt of ours any more than necessary,” I say. “Especially considering I never wanted to come in the first place.”

“I don’t trust anything where you’re concerned, Wadestaff,” she says.

“Then rest easy knowing we’re nearly there,” I say, gesturing down the next street. “It’s just on the corner. And not to repeat myself, but I’d really prefer Mr. Wadestaff. Even just Corrin will do, Lady Damia.”

She flinches a little at my use of her title, and she glances around cautiously, though no one is paying us any attention. I’ve noticed she doesn’t like her noble appellation, so naturally I use it as often as possible, particularly whenever I need to remind her to play nice.

“Point taken, Mr. Wadestaff,” she says.

I nod in acknowledgment and head toward the building on the corner.

It must’ve been a fine piece of architecture once, but now cracks decorate the plaster, and the paint on the windows has started to peel away.

Still, the displays behind the windows make up for it, showing off fine oil portraits of lords and ladies and colorful landscapes of the Trovian countryside.

“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Sure you will,” she says, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

“And I’ll just hand you all the gold we brought too, shall I?

I wasn’t born last decade. I’m not letting you out of my sight.

Anything you say to that man, you’ll say in front of me.

” The serpent I know lies hidden beneath her collar gives a lazy hiss of agreement.

I try to keep my expression casual, as if I’m unbothered by her blatant suspicion. I should be unbothered, after a lifetime with people wary of my very name.

“Alright,” I say. “But try to tone down the intimidation tactics, would you? This is a business associate, not some enemy you’re meeting in battle. ”

She tilts her head, then surprises me with a smile. “Where you’re concerned, Mr. Wadestaff, I’m not sure they’re all that different,” she says. So the smile was at my expense—should’ve expected that.

We push our way into the shop, the creaking of the door announcing our presence. A man in his fifties, with graying hair and a thick, gingery mustache comes through from a back room. He wipes his hands on a paint-flecked apron as he greets us.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

“Mr. Tunier?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s me,” the artist says.

“We’ve been admiring your paintings,” I say, gesturing to the host of canvases around us. “But we were wondering if you had something a little less unique ?” I stress the last two words.

“Ah,” the artist says, his stance changing. He looks at us with fresh eyes and a knowing expression. “Perhaps something with more class?”

“That sounds right up our alley,” I reply.

He ducks back through the doorway, indicating for us to follow. We descend into a cellar where incendi lamps light a studio. A drawing desk is positioned at one end, and the walls are lined with easels stacked beside shelves full of parchment and art supplies.

“It’s nice to meet you in person at last, Mr. Wadestaff,” Tunier says as he leads us over to a table.

“You too, Mr. Tunier. And this is my assistant, Miss Adder,” I say, enjoying the insulted glare Damia throws me at the name.

Tunier gives her a polite nod, but his attention quickly returns to me. “You’ve sent plenty of work my way over the years. I’m grateful.” He pulls a long cylinder from a shelf, untying the leather cover on one end.

“My friends accept only the best, Mr. Tunier,” I reply. “So naturally, it was you I thought of when we realized we needed some…administrative help.”

“You flatter me,” Tunier says, pulling a scroll out of the tube and unrolling it across the table .

Damia steps closer toward me, and for a moment, the sharp smell of paint and ink is replaced by her scent as she leans over the table to examine the parchment.

It’s unusual—woody, with a hint of spice, like incense.

I bend down too, studying the work on the scroll.

The seal certainly looks a perfect match for the ones I’ve seen before: an intricate design of a house crest with a name woven into the floral design beneath.

“The city’s been crawling with nobles lately,” Tunier says. “They’re all coming for the coronation, of course…”

He trails off, as if expecting some response, but when Damia and I remain silent, he presses on.

“I heard about what happened in Hallowbane too, Mr. Wadestaff,” Tunier says, tutting. “Terrible business.”

“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone deliberately casual.

Thinking about what happened in Hallowbane makes me want to break things—but I know better than to let my true feelings show, even in front of allies.

Today’s allies could be tomorrow’s enemies, and no one is entitled to know my vulnerable spots.

“It’s all been quite inconvenient. But no matter. ”

“I imagine you’ll be looking for some, er, liquidity in the coming months,” Tunier continues.

I glance up at him, and the meaningful nod he gives me tells me what he’s getting at.

He thinks we want this seal to rob the palace—or at least all the rich people crowding into it for the coronation.

It makes more sense than good old Corrin Wadestaff turning political agitator. I smile at the artist.

“It’s true that some of the blue-blooded visitors to Elmere might’ve caught my eye,” I say, and Tunier returns my smile eagerly.

“Very clever of you, Mr. Wadestaff.”

I look back down at the seal, reading the name. “It’s excellent work, Mr. Tunier. But…Baron Hornifold?” I read the name with a touch of distaste.

He chuckles. “Not the most auspicious moniker, I agree, but he’s got some land all the way up in Artifract, and no one but the local peasants ever see him, apparently, so he’s a safe bet. All that’s left is for you to sign, and it’ll be ready to go. ”

I reach down to pick up the parchment, only for a hand to dart out and catch my wrist.

“If you wouldn’t mind speaking with me for a moment upstairs, sir ,” Damia says, a menacing glint in her eyes.

Tunier looks between us curiously. To avoid rousing his suspicions, I quickly murmur something in agreement, climbing the stairs back up to the empty shop.

“You’re not going to sign that seal,” Damia snaps at me the moment we’re alone.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because we need the signature of whoever’s going undercover in the palace to match that seal.

And it certainly isn’t going to be you.” She paces, clearly frustrated.

“That was never the plan. You were supposed to join later with the others.” She shakes her head, annoyed with herself as much as me.

“I thought he wouldn’t have filled in the name yet. ”

“And how was I supposed to know that?” I say. “You’ve been deliberately keeping me in the dark this whole trip.”

“Because I don’t trust you ,” she repeats slowly.

“Oh really? I had no idea.”

She ignores my sarcasm, continuing to pace.

“Seeing as the title’s male, it’ll have to be Stratton now.”

I laugh. “That preening fae? He’d try to bed every noblewoman he passes, drawing far too much attention to himself. Besides, does he even know the first thing about Trovian high society?”

“He knows a damn sight more than someone like you,” she sneers.

“I see,” I say, folding my arms. “Because I’m just some common criminal, I couldn’t possibly pass for a baron.”

“Exactly,” she says. I can’t deny her conviction stings a little.

“I’ve rubbed shoulders with more Trovian nobles in my establishments than I can count. And let me tell you,” I switch my Hallowbane twang to a clipped, upper-class accent. “It’s not all that difficult to fake some class. ”

Her eyebrows rise in surprise, and I keep going. “Although I know aristocrats like you like to think you’re inherently above the rest of us, all that really separates us is some inbreeding and a pretentious voice.”

I think I see the corners of Damia’s mouth twitch in amusement, but then she’s glowering at me again, and I’m sure it was just a trick of the light.

“Alright, let’s say you could pull it off,” she says. “There’s no way I’m letting you walk into that palace unsupervised.”

“So tell Tunier to make some adjustments.” The words are out of my mouth before I consider what I’m saying.

Why would I even want to be front and center for this assassination?

Damia only told me I’d be needed for the exit strategy, and here I go volunteering myself for the main event.

Why? Just so I can prove her wrong about me? Impress her?

Obviously not. That would be ridiculous. I brush the notion aside as we head back downstairs and explain to Tunier that we want to include another name.

“Of course,” he says. “It shouldn’t be too much work to add a spouse’s name to the seal. They leave room on the bottom for just that reason.”

He gives Damia a wink as he taps the blank space beneath the ornate lettering.

“Looks like the baron’s about to get himself a pretty baroness,” he says with a grin.

His smile quickly fades under the icy cold of Damia’s glare.

“We’ll pick it up tomorrow after you’ve made the addition,” I say to Tunier. “As for payment…”

I look to Damia, and she produces the purse of florins Harman provided.

“Half now, half tomorrow, when we actually have the seal complete and in our hands,” she says.

Tunier looks to me. “I see now why you keep her as an assistant. She’s very savvy,” he says. “But I wonder if perhaps my original price doesn’t quite cover it.”

Damia stiffens. “I thought you said adding another name wouldn’t be that much work? ”

“Well, no.” Tunier strokes his mustache. “But if you’re planning some kind of heist up at the palace that’s dependent on my seal to get you in…it seems only fair I see a cut of the haul.”

His voice is friendly enough, but I see the greedy glint in his eye. Anger brews in my stomach. He obviously thinks I’m weakened since the attack on Hallowbane—that I’ve been reduced to the point of being vulnerable to manipulation.

Well then, I’ll just have to show him that the infamous Corrin Wadestaff hasn’t been brought low. I summon my shadows, calling to them from the corners of the studio, only to blink in confusion when I realize Damia’s not beside me anymore.

No, instead she’s somehow vaulted across the table and is standing with a knife to Tunier’s throat.

“Listen here, you dirty little forger,” she murmurs as the painter trembles beneath her blade. “You don’t have the right to demand anything of us. We’ll pay you an extra florin for the new name, but not a coin more.”

There’s a low hiss as Damia’s serpent emerges from beneath her collar and winds its way around Tunier’s neck.

“Oh my gods,” he yelps, eyes wide, head frozen in place. “Get that thing off of me!”

“That thing is my friend Barb, and she’ll pierce your carotid artery the second I give the order. I’d give you, hmm…ten minutes after that—at most—before you’ve conned your last con.”

A bead of sweat runs down Tunier’s temple.

“ Or you could stop being greedy and stick to our original terms. Your choice.”

The woman smiles like she’s having the time of her life.

“I…” Tunier swallows, his throat bobbing against the scaled band still shifting around his neck. “I’ll add the name for free. No charge. Please. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Tunier,” Damia says, and she withdraws her knife, holding out her other hand so Barb can wrap herself around the fae’s wrist, flicking her tongue happily.

Tunier sags in relief when she finally steps away.

“Let me make the change now; it’ll only take ten minutes,” he says. His eyes are fixed on Barb’s bright, black pupils, seemingly hypnotized by them. “Then you can be on your way. There’s no need to come back tomorrow. Really.”

As he makes the alteration, I watch the small serpent slowly slither back down beneath Damia’s collar. She pats the area fondly and sheathes her knife, a contented grin on her face.

She’s more than entitled to be pleased with herself.

Frankly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so quickly reduced to a quivering puddle of fear.

It’s nothing short of magnificent, and when those clever green eyes look over to me, I suddenly realize this mission might be much more fun than I expected.