Page 39 of The Demon’s Collar (The Bard’s Demon #1)

Ero: Bags, Books, and Bad Ideas

Bardic Advice from Eroithiel von Dua to future generations: A good friend will help you. A great friend will mock you until you help yourself.

T he light of high noon blinded me when I burst from the temple door. I dodged the statue of Haz and stumbled onto the pathway leading back to the camp.

I needed sleep—but I knew I wouldn’t get it. The world had a sharp, buzzing edge. My collar dug into my heaving throat.

Fuck.

I wanted answers. I wanted to scream. I wanted to stop seeing the angry Temple Mother’s face and her limp form skewered on the swords—an image I already knew had burned irreparably into my mind’s eye.

I turned toward the woods, planning to put distance between myself and the camp so I could think—but I ran into someone. Hard. It snapped me out of my spiral long enough to breathe as I fumbled through an apology .

Tavish gave me a half-hearted smile. “Happens all the time. I was actually waiting for you.”

I frowned. Tavish was perhaps the only person in Brü’s little party that I still felt I barely knew.

He was everything medium—height, build, features, temperament.

I still, even after making a few separate mental notes to ask, didn’t know what role he served in the group.

And beyond that, I was sure we’d never exchanged direct words outside of basics like “passing on your left” on the trail. Why would he be waiting for me?

“Do I need to report to Brü?” I asked.

Tavish smiled. “No.”

I looked heavenward, at my wit’s end with mysteries big, small, and medium, but he took pity fairly quickly.

“B?k asked me to gather the tomes you’re after.” He nodded toward the temple. “He said I’d find you here when I finished. Are you ready to have a look?”

Well, that was unexpected.

Something warm and slippery turned in my chest. I’d asked B?k about the Fated’s library—but his wild reaction at the time had pretty clearly indicated I would never see it. Now he’d asked Tavish to curate a collection? Had he gone soft, or was there a catch?

Definitely not the former. Which probably meant the latter. The question was, did I care?

I licked my lips. A sense of doom pressed down on me, urgently suggesting that I was almost out of time. For what? The gods only knew. But the urge to act vibrated just beneath my skin.

“Let’s go,” I said, swallowing down every question that threatened to betray my inner turmoil.

Tavish nodded toward the path that led beyond the temple, farther away from the bustling camp center toward a sparse bit of woods with a few scattered tents. We walked in silence.

Although the sun blazed overhead, the clouds to the west promised storms. I picked at the Temple Mother’s words as we walked.

In the year to come, you will be tested—and you will fail.

I scratched the skin where the collar chafed.

You will let your friends down, and worse—you will betray your own blood.

I twisted my fingers together. Initially, I’d assumed the words were an accusation about how I would harm the family I still had yet to find…

but could it have been a reference to my mother instead?

The family who’d already betrayed me? It would make sense.

B?k wanted me to find hidden meaning in letters from Finchton, presumably meaning they held significance for the war.

But that didn’t explain the bit about my friends. I had no friends in Finchton. I had no friends anywhere except here. How would betraying my mother let the Fated down?

“This is us,” Tavish said, startling me once again merely by existing in close proximity. He pointed to a small tent standing apart from the rest. “Oh—and here. I made this for you.”

He pulled a small black leather satchel from his cloak and handed it to me. Tiny silver stitches decorated the seams, and the Fated eye was embroidered on the front. Although well-crafted, the bag didn’t look like it would hold more than a potion or two.

“Thank you,” I said automatically, admiring the artistry if not expecting to find the piece useful.

Tavish’s smile returned, this time with a teasing edge. “Do you know what it is?”

“A…bag?”

He laughed. “It’s a little more than that.”

He took it back and unclasped the silver latch. A silky black fabric spilled out. It looked like a fancy feed sack—but when Tavish slid his arm inside, it kept sliding. Far past the visible depth. It was like B?k’s satchel.

“I made them for the others too,” he confirmed. “It’s not the biggest, but it should keep your bow and lute safe. Those are both marvelous pieces.”

I cast him a curious sideways glance as I slid my bow, lute, and the broken piece of staff into the bag experimentally. The fabric hugged them in place, keeping them from bouncing into each other.

“Thank you,” I said again, but with a bit more oomph this time. “Is it plane magic? Is that what you do for the Fated?”

“It is plane magic, but it’s just a hobby.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Stealth is my actual expertise.”

The truth of that was immediately obvious.

I’d noticed Tavish—just enough to learn his name—but never enough to really see him.

Not in the field, not in camp. Hell, I’d barreled into him outside the temple when he was standing in plain sight and then all but forgot he was beside me moments ago as we walked together. He was good.

I made a brand-new mental note to pay more attention to Tavish the next time I grew bored during a ride. Assuming there is a next time, my nerves interjected.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Tavish pulled the tent flap back and motioned me inside. Stacks of books waited on a table. Not a library’s worth, mind you. But at least twenty.

“Do me a favor?” he said, nudging me as I passed. “Don’t remove any of these from the tent. Lord Austvix would have my head. He didn’t technically sanction this.”

I gave him a quick salute, already scanning for the oldest-looking tome.

I wasn’t exactly sure what a “centuries-old book” would look like, but it seemed fairly safe to dismiss anything with paper too bright or a binding too tight.

I opened the cover of the most likely candidate—a worn leather history—and frowned. It was dated 1265. Only 48 years old.

Nevertheless, I searched it.

I’d been born in 1291 amid a tumultuous few years for Finchton.

The year before my birth, the bordering human kingdoms to our east and west were at odds.

My mother invited the royals of each kingdom for peace talks—only to betray them both.

Accounts of the betrayal varied deeply. No human ruler, it seemed, wanted to admit to falling victim to fae tricks.

Nor did they wish to lob accusations of wrongdoing at the queen after the dust settled and ?she managed to maintain power.

Yet the fallout had involved an open multi-sided battle with significant casualties for all, including Finchton.

In fact, even Finchton’s own histories noted that for nearly a fortnight, the kingdom’s future hung in the balance.

Simple math told me I’d been conceived at the peak of the tri-kingdom conflict.

The accepted story was that my mother had used a charismatic merchant for a bit of good old-fashioned stress relief, then opted to see the resulting pregnancy through.

Thus my surname. But the two rulers my mother had fooled were both human men—and so were a fair number of their generals.

I’d read enough about war to wonder whether something else had happened in the heat of that battle.

The book I opened confirmed for the fourth or fifth time that the eastern kingdom eschewed the known gods of the land in favor of a mythological unified human god. That made it unlikely that my father hailed from the east, where there were no temples at all and even fewer devotees.

I snatched a different book. A record of lineages.

But in this one, the page on Finchton left my name out entirely.

It wasn’t even included with the merchant’s surname.

I slammed the book shut and opened three more simultaneously, flipping the pages with my tendrils as I scanned and waited for anything worthwhile to catch my eye.

Nothing. Three more books. And then three more after that.

I must have been at it for hours when the first clap of thunder sounded in the distance, pulling me from my cloud of concentration.

I shot a quick glance at the tent flap. It was already dark.

I blinked, bleary-eyed from the hours of pointless focus.

An entire afternoon and evening whiled away, just for another series of dead ends.

“Not what you’re after?” Tavish asked.

I gave a small start, having once again forgotten that I had company.

“Stop doing that,” I groused.

He laughed. “Sorry, but you’re good practice. The fae are better at detecting me than most.”

“I’m not fae,” I said, perhaps more grumpily than was warranted.

But then I caught sight of his face. Really caught sight.

He was no longer medium anything. His hazel eyes were a deep and striking swirl of ochre and sage.

His hair, which I was certain had been unremarkable before, had a shiny brown gleam, and his jawline was the stuff of songs.

He truly had been using his cloaking magic this entire time.

Based on the smug look on his face, he enjoyed my reaction.

Even his voice was two notches deeper when he spoke again. “What exactly are you after in the histories that’s so elusive, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I stared with open fascination. Tavish was basically a stranger—and apparently by his choice—so, my instinct told me to hold my cards even closer to my chest. But in sheer frustration, I laid them on the table instead .

“My father,” I said. “Last year, a Temple Mother told me I would find him in a ‘centuries-old book.’ I’ve been searching ever since.”

Tavish arched an eyebrow. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“In fae years?”