Page 19 of The Ever King

With a tug, I used the rigging of the skiff to haul me onto the dock. For another breath, then two, I drew in the air of the land. Different than the Ever, yet the same in many ways. Sweet and fragrant. Not with the cool winds of my realm, there was more heat here. More savory herbs and cloyingly sweet scents.

I’d left my tricorn hat on the ship and covered the black scarf on my head with a knitted, woolen cap. The gold hoop in my ear was tucked in my trousers, and the ruby-hilted cutlass was in the hands of Tait with a hefty threat he’d lose those hands if a scratch were to be found on the blade.

We’d armed ourselves through the pirated supplies from old battles with earth fae—seax swords, axes, daggers, and a few of the strangely captivating blacksteel weapons had been pillaged across the centuries before the Chasm closed.

“Here.” Celine handed me a small glass vial with murky fluid inside. “For the eyes.”

She motioned dropping a few specks of the vial over her eyes. Teeth hidden, dressed in simple clothes, without my blade, the most notable feature that I did not belong here were my eyes.

I blinked through a sting from the drops, then tossed the vial into the waves.

“Well?” I opened my arms, facing Celine.

“Nothing but a common earth fae.” She adjusted her thick belt around a tattered dress. No mistake, she’d burn the thing the moment she could.

With a sack of stolen grain slung over my shoulder, I stepped toward the flow of crowds.

Larsson drifted back to us, taking a place on my left. Head down, he had a bit of straw between his teeth, and a black strip of leather tied his dark hair off his neck. Celine took my other side. She played her role well. A woman overwhelmed by the vastness of a place. More than one man stopped to help her retrieve the linens she kept dropping.

They were so taken by her praise, they never took note of her hand swiping purses from belts or knives from sheaths.

“Gods, did every bleeding soul on land convene to one damn place?” Larsson frowned when we trekked a slope to the top of a wooden staircase that would lead us into the trade square. Bodies packed the space, haggling, chattering, and utterly unaware the sea had returned.

“Come on. We need to find where he sleeps.”

“How do you know the earth bender will have it with him?”

“The call drew us here, didn’t it? Means it’s here.” I spoke briskly, but my mouth twisted in a grin. The deeper reason was my little songbird wouldn’t break a promise, and she promised to look after it always.

Tall buildings shaded the square. Some made of wood, others of pale stone. Moss and a few shelled creatures dotted the crags. There were carts and tables lining the cobbled paths, stacked in all manners of trade. Pelts from their mammoth forest creatures, gutted eels and fish, bangles made of wood and jade, and bright masks with feathers and ribbons decorating the neutral features.

A wooden spear handle shot out in front of me. Without lifting my chin, I rolled my eyes to meet those of a girthy man in a black gambeson. Two swords lined his waist, one a bronze blade with a raven hilt. By his side was another man, dressed the same, with two scars like fingernail marks on either cheek.

“State your trade,” the first said.

“Grains,” Larsson muttered. His accent had shifted to something refined and strange. Aboard the ship, he spoke with a constant hum of revelry and a touch of darkness.

“At the festival?” The two guards glanced at each other.

“Folk need feed even at festivals, do they not?”

The guards scoffed. The first poked at the sacks in our hands. Little time went by before they gestured us forward.

“Welcome to Crimson Festival, grain sellers.”

The guards mocked our measly trade. No ribbons or gold to sell, true, but we’d pillaged long enough, it was always a better disguise to be unassuming. The dull and dreary commoner rarely earned a second glance.

Babbling excitement was everywhere. Even the most common of folk chattered on about games and feasts. What was the celebration?

The more we followed the roads that wrapped around the fort, the more my blood pounded in my head. A pull forward I couldn’t sever. We were close.

As the latecomers of the festival trade, we were forced to set down our sacks near a woman who was chopping off the heads of strange, gangly birds with a bit too much force.

“Ah, thought I’d be alone this turn again.” She used the bloody knife to point at one of her birds. “Not many like the smell of river pheasant. I find it has a nice tangy scent.” She laughed and swiped her dark, sweaty hair off her brow.

“Not afraid of a little blood, lady,” Larsson grumbled.

“Selling oats, are you?” She swung her knife, eyes on our sacks instead of the bird.