Page 11

Vintare isn’t so much a town as it is an outpost for frostbitten travelers. Tucked deep in the dip between two misshapen peaks, the scattered collection of buildings—some no more than shacks to shield from the wind—rings a central square of hard-packed snow. Large barreled firepits pepper the area, bastions of welcome beckoning us in from the elements.

It is barely midafternoon and already dusk is pressing down upon us, the meager day yielding to greedy night. At this elevation, the sky feels so close you might reach out and run your fingers along the underside of a cloud, snatch a handful of mist straight from the heavens. As I take in the settlement sprawling before me, a tiny oasis of warmth against the endless chill, I cannot deny there is something starkly beautiful about it. Despite the biting cold, despite the unfortunate circumstances that led me here, I find my eyes widening to drink in every detail.

People are bustling about in shapeless mountain garb. They eye us warily as we limp inside the town limits—covered in dried venom, filthy from long days in the wild, the men strapped with more weapons than an armory. None of them greet us. Most keep their eyes firmly averted.

I don’t blame them for their surreptitious glances any more than for their scurrying out of our path. We are a hair-raising lot. We look like trouble at best, and we smell even worse.

The inn is instantly recognizable, seeing as it is the only structure taller than a single story. Several horses are tied to posts in front—mountain stock with blond hair feathering their hooves and thick, furry coats, bred to withstand the plummeting temperatures. Beside them, to my unexpected delight, I see two teams of black-and-white sled dogs lashed to a pair of sleek carved sleighs, awaiting their masters’ return. They are so large, I almost mistake them for wolves…until I spot their lolling tongues and wagging tails.

With Onyx hooked to a post outside, happily munching from the communal hay trough, and Farley once again slung between Uther and Mabon, we step onto the porch and approach the front door. The building is constructed in a stacked-log style, with frosted windows gouged at uneven intervals. Through the thick glass panes, light and laughter trickle into the night—the latter of which ceases the moment we step over the threshold, the snow caking our boots melting onto the planked wood flooring.

Every head whips to the door with undisguised curiosity. Conversations halt midword. The fiddle player’s note falls off with a tuneless screech of strings. For a long while, there is only silence as they examine us, and we them. Vintare may be a mountain outpost, accustomed to travelers of all kinds, but our appearance is such that it could shake the unshakable.

The innkeeper, bless her, recovers first. With nary a word to us, she snaps her fingers at the two male servants standing behind the bar and points at Farley. “Bring him back into the healer’s chambers. Get him settled, best you can manage.”

The manservants do not hesitate before lurching into motion. Her word is law, her authority absolute. As Farley is transferred into their care, the innkeeper turns her attention to the rest of us. She sees me, the sole female figure amid a collection of savage warriors, and bustles my way in a swish of brown skirts.

Scythe and Jac both tense at my sides, but she does not even spare them a glance. Her rounded frame pushes directly to me, and as she gets an up-close glance at my face, she gasps.

“Heavens, my lady! Whatever happened to you?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I was kidnapped mid-execution, nearly died of a raging fever, narrowly escaped demise on a decrepit rope bridge, and battled a den of carnivorous cyntroedi?”

She blinks at me, eyes like saucers.

Scythe’s elbow digs sharply into my side, a clear warning to shut my mouth. His voice is tense. “We’ll need two rooms. Adjacent, if possible.”

The innkeeper doesn’t even look at him. Her gaze is locked on my face, the picture of motherly concern. Or what I imagine to be motherly concern, as I’ve never had a mother of my own. “She’ll be getting a bath, first and foremost. I don’t know where you heathens hail from, but in my inn—”

“Madame,” Jac interrupts, his tone infused with ill-concealed amusement, “you might want to look at whom you’re speaking to before you start tossing insults.”

Her light brown eyes move first to Jac, then to Scythe, at which point she pales and immediately begins spewing apologies. “Oh! Pende—I mean, Prince Penn! Your Highness—” A blush steals up her cheeks as she struggles to recall his proper title. Her hands fist nervously in front of her apron. She settles on “ Prince Pendefyre ,” taking a trembling breath. “I did not recognize you beneath the helm. I should have. I beg your deepest pardon for the mistake. It will never happen again, I assure you.” She dips into a belated curtsy, her movements out of practice.

My body stills, every muscle turning to stone as her words process.

Prince.

She said prince.

Prince Pendefyre.

I guess that explains his men’s calling him Penn.

Because he isn’t Scythe at all.

I knew already. Of course I knew. As soon as I realized he bore no true allegiance to King Eld’s army, I’d assumed his name itself was likely a fabrication. Still, suspecting a thing and hearing it officially confirmed are two entirely separate realities. My mind rearranges all I’ve seen and heard these past few days, since he thundered into my life. I struggle to reconcile the beast of a man beside me with royalty.

Royalty.

He is a prince of a bloody Northlands kingdom.

But which one?

I can picture the northern territories—a stretch of glacial tundra spanning beyond the Cimmerian Mountains—but at the moment, I can recall only the name of the most famous. The most barbaric.

Ll?r.

King Soren rules that frozen iceberg beyond the Avian Strait, his brutality as far-reaching as his archers’ arrows in battle. I can be grateful at least that I have not fallen into his hands…though, for all I know, Prince Pendefyre is a direct relative of that notorious brute.

A brother, perhaps?

A cousin?

A son?

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Scythe— Penn —is saying from beside me. “We mean to pass through without any fanfare, not advertise our presence here. Ridiculous royal protocols only draw unnecessary attention. Better if you treat us like any of your other guests. I trust you understand?”

She is already pale but somehow seems to pale even further as she rises from her hasty curtsy. “Of course. I’m sorry, Your Hi—I mean, my lord.” Her throat works as she swallows down her nerves. “I’ll see to your rooms right away.” Her eyes move once more to me. “I assume the lady will have her own chambers?”

“Your assumption is unwarranted.”

My heart quails at his flat contradiction. The innkeeper must see my horrified look because, prince or no, she pins Penn with a steely glance that suggests she is not to be trifled with.

“The lady is barely able to stand upright. She needs a proper bath and fresh clothes and, more than likely, a moment of peace judging by her haggard appearance.” With that, she steps firmly forward, slides an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me from the huddle of warriors who’ve ensconced me from all sides. “Come, lass. We’ll get you cleaned up and tucked into bed. Nothing like a warm meal and clean sheets after an ordeal.”

I hear Penn sigh, a deep rattle of resignation, but he does not object. I’m too tired to protest as the kindhearted woman leads me across the tavern to a creaky set of stairs tucked behind the bar.

I do not look back at the men.

But I know they watch me go—along with every other set of curious eyes in the inn.

I gape at the girl staring back at me from the mirror’s age-fogged surface. My reflection is unrecognizable. If I passed myself on the street at market, I wouldn’t pause. I look like a skeletal stranger. A shadow of my former self—cheeks hollowed, bones jutting. Beneath the layer of filth, there are rings of exhaustion bruising my eyes and a gaunt, guarded look in their silvery depths that makes me flinch.

“Come, my lady.”

I turn to look at the innkeeper. While I used the chamber pot tucked discreetly behind a trifold privacy screen—a luxury, after weeks of crouching in the shrubbery to relieve myself—and examined my ghastly reflection, she and two scullery maids have been busy filling a deep tub with steaming water, one bucket at a time. Their efficiency makes the arduous task look easy when I know it to be anything but.

“You don’t need to call me that,” I half whisper, feeling heat steal across my cheeks.

“Call you what?”

“My lady.”

“Oh?” Her brows arch. “And why is that? You’re my guest here, are you not?”

“It’s just…” I gesture lamely at my ears, their pointed tips poking through the matted pale mane tangled around my head. “I’m no lady. I’m just…a halfling.”

She stiffens. “And whyever should a thing like that matter?”

I blink at her, not sure what to say. For that very thing has mattered a great deal to a great many people, ever since I learned the ways of the world.

She takes a purposeful step toward me and, in a precise move I cannot fail to miss, tucks her orderly, gray-streaked bob behind an ear. An ear with a tapered point at the tip.

An ear just like mine.

“You’re in the Northlands now, child,” she says simply, ignoring my startled gasp. As if that explains everything. As if the Northlands aren’t just as treacherous as anywhere else in Anwyvn—if not more so.

I decide not to push for an explanation as her hands clasp mine and she tugs me gently toward the bath.

“Come now. Let’s see what’s under all this dirt and dust, shall we?” She snaps her fingers at the two girls hovering by the tub. “Marta, Inga—help me get her out of this dress. While you wash her, I’ll find something suitable for her to wear. She’s not so far off my niece’s size, I should think…And this…” She grimaces as she eyes my formerly mint-green, now many-hued garment, its fabric streaked with a multitude of putrid stains. “This must be burned without delay.”

I might be insulted if it weren’t the gods’ honest truth. The dress isn’t even fit for cleaning scraps, at this point. I don’t put up a fuss as Marta and Inga whip it off me along with the woolen tunic and my tattered shift, clucking under their breath when they see how my ribs poke through my skin, how my hips and stomach have gone concave after the bitter months of flight stripped my former curves, day after day. They stare for a long moment at the strange triangular pattern between my breasts but curb their curiosity—for which I am eternally grateful. I have no answers when it comes to the supposed Remnant mark I bear.

They are gentle as they pull off my boots and socks, unraveling the cloth-strip bandages I’d applied last time we made camp. Before the bridge, before the mountain, before the cyntroedi. Before Jac or Farley or Mabon or Uther. Before I learned Scythe was Penn, and a prince at that.

Was that only last night?

It doesn’t seem possible.

Tears fill my eyes as I sink into the warm tub. It takes all my strength to keep them from spilling down my cheeks as the girls begin to wash me—dousing my head with scoops of water, lathering my hair with coarse soap that smells of evergreens. No one has touched me with anything resembling kindness in so very long.

Physical contact is something I took for granted in all the years of my youth. There was never a time growing up when I was farther than a few steps from strong arms, from a steeling embrace. Eli may not have shared my blood or my race, but he showered me with all the affection of a father nonetheless. Most of my neighbors were good, kind folk, who accepted me without protest, for all that I was different. While halflings on the mainland were being executed in mass numbers, the peninsula remained a tolerant sanctuary.

And then, last summer, came Tomas. The baker’s apprentice with the quick smile and the flour-dusted hands. He may never have entertained a serious future with the healer’s halfling ward—not when he could have his pick of any perfect girl in our secluded hamlet—but he had touched my body with reverence and called me beautiful in the dark, when there was no one else around to hear.

It was not meant to last. Not for long, not for more than a handful of stolen nights in a summer meadow. But in his embrace, I got my first glimpse at a different sort of comfort, the kind that makes your heart ache and your skin burn. The kind that lights a fire inside your veins warm enough to ward off the chill of loneliness.

I’ve needed every scrap of warmth I could conjure since I left Seahaven behind. The real world is colder. Crueler. It is a rare person who offers another comfort instead of seeking to satisfy their own; who gives freely instead of taking. I had begun to wonder if I’d ever again feel the touch of another’s hands in any form other than violence. And so, as fingers work through the many snarls and tangles of my hair, as my nails are brushed clean of dirt and my tired limbs are wiped with perfumed washcloths, I allow myself to float outside my body for a time, my mind completely disconnected from everything except the sensation of water around me, lulling me like a warm embrace.

It takes two full drainings and refillings before the bathwater runs clear and I am deemed, at last, suitably clean. My skin is red from their scrubbing and has long since gone clammy. My fingers are pruned at the tips. Marta and Inga wrap me up in a warm towel and pat my body dry before I catch cold.

Edwynna, the innkeeper, returns briefly to the bathing chamber with a bundle of clothing in her arms. I don’t ask where she found the undergarments and dress, merely thank her for doing so. They are too big for me but blessedly clean, the thick muslin fabric smelling of soap and dyed a faded reddish color that brings out the golden strands in my white-blond hair. They loop a braided bronze sash low on my waist, belting the fabric close to my frame. Its tassels hang almost to my feet, which are shoved into maroon slippers a half size too large.

Once I am dressed, Inga sits me down on a padded bench in front of the vanity mirror and brushes out my damp mane in luxurious strokes that make me want to purr like a cat. It has grown quite long since my last trim, falling well past my waist. Her deft fingers work quickly, braiding the top half into a thick circlet of tendrils around my crown, leaving the rest free to fall down my back in a cascade of loose curls.

“There.” She smiles at me, catching my eyes in the reflection. “You look quite lovely, miss.”

Lovely is a stretch, though I do look significantly better than before. I am definitely still haggard, my eyes shadowed from unchecked exhaustion…but I am clean, clothed in a freshly laundered dress, and have been combed and clucked over with more kindness than at any other time in recent memory. I feel like a new woman.

“Thank you,” I murmur, trying out a smile. It does not quite reach my silver-blue eyes as they slide to Marta, who holds an armful of wet towels. “Both of you.”

“It’s our pleasure, my lady.”

I’d hoped I could simply go to bed after my bath, but I’m promptly ushered out of the bathing chamber, down the stairs, and into the tavern. In my hours of absence, a boisterous energy has infused the barroom. The tables are packed with patrons standing shoulder to shoulder, metal mugs of mead and ale frothing over the rims as they clank them together with cheers to good health. The fiddler is in high spirits, a lively jig spilling from his strings as the bow ebbs back and forth like a wave kissing doggedly at the shore.

Inga keeps one hand at the small of my back as she steers me through the crowd. Besides Edwynna and her girls, I note only one other woman in the whole room—a fearsome-looking fur trader with a cloak made from a white bear pelt, watching the door like she expects danger to step through it at any given moment. Her cold eyes shift toward me, and I immediately drop my gaze to the floorboards.

She is not my only observer. I feel the weight of many stares as Inga propels me forward. When I see where we are headed, relief and dread war for dominance within me. Jac and his men—minus one redhead with a shattered leg and an easy laugh—are gathered around a large oak table against the far wall, a position of honor beside the roaring fireplace. They all look freshly bathed, their hair still damp, their skin ruddy from scrubbing with coarse soap.

In the shadows closest to the wall, I can make out only the vaguest outline of another man. The breadth of his shoulders, the firm line of his torso. His face is hidden by darkness, his features disguised by the helm he wears, even now.

I halt a few paces away, digging my slippered heels into the hardwood when Inga tries to urge me onward. Jac is the first to spot me. His gaze, ever watchful, scans across the sea of revelry for potential threats. It skims right over me at first, passing by only to jerk back with a snap of his head. He sits up straighter in his chair as his eyes drink me in, a head-to-toe sweep.

“Skies!” He whistles so wolfishly, heat rises to my cheeks despite my best efforts. “Almost didn’t recognize you without goo in your hair, Ace!”

It seems my nickname is catching.

Mabon and Uther both pivot on their stools to get a look at me. Inga puts more pressure on my spine, forcing my feet into motion, and I smile wanly as I yield, walking toward the unoccupied stool beside Uther. I tell myself it is because his gray eyes are kind. Not at all because it is the farthest possible position from the shadowy corner where His Highness himself is holding court.

“Bloody hell, you look almost…female.”

“ Almost? ” I roll my eyes. “What an overwhelming compliment. Thanks so much, Jac.”

Mabon snorts into his ale.

I hop up on the stool, slippers swinging in the air, and give Inga a goodbye wave as she disappears back to her duties. Jac watches her go, his eyes fixed on her buxom behind with blatant interest.

“She’s married,” I tell him, relaying information I learned while she brushed out my hair. “Five years now. Her husband is a whale oil trader in the Frostlands. Happy as can be. They’re expecting their first child by midsummer.”

Uther chuckles and elbows Jac, who is scowling at me.

My smile widens as Mabon pushes an untouched pint of ale in front of me. My hands shake slightly as I lift it to my lips and take a deep pull, foam coating my upper lip. “Thank you, Mabon.”

“Least I can do, lass.” He scratches at his bald head, looking sheepish. “After your help in the cave, I mean.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You could’ve done far less,” Uther notes, his gray eyes steady as ever as they hold mine. “Most hardened soldiers would’ve fainted on the spot or run screaming for their mothers.”

“I never had a mother,” I say unthinkingly. “And I have no one left alive to run to, screaming or otherwise.”

Quiet descends on our table, an island of solemnity in a sea of laughter and music.

“How is Farley?” I ask after a long sip, thinking a swift change of subject is in order.

“Putting up an awful fuss, per usual.” Jac drains his own ale. “The display of melodrama is astounding. When he gets back to Caeldera, he should audition for a troupe of traveling players. Try out his act onstage.”

“His leg is broken,” I feel compelled to point out. “He’s got to be in considerable pain.”

Mabon grunts in soft acknowledgment.

“Did the healer give him something to dull his senses?” I ask, looking from one man to the other. “Or put him to sleep while the bone was set?”

“Small hiccup with the healer.” Jac sighs. “Turns out, he’s not here.”

“What?”

“He was called away to another outpost on the other side of the range. Blacksmith found himself on the wrong end of a hot forge yesterday. Grisly scene, by all accounts.”

My eyes widen—not at the imagery, but at the realization that there is no healer here. Which means Farley…

I’m off my stool and around the table before any of the men have time to react. I make it three paces past the fireplace when a hand shoots out from the shadows, hooks me by the braided belt at my hips, and hauls me backward. An oof of air escapes my lungs as I stumble on my slippers and collide with something granite hard. A chest, I realize, when a low voice rumbles from it, directly into my ear.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“To set Farley’s leg,” I say instantly, ignoring the shiver that moves down my spine. “Even if the healer isn’t here, I’m sure there’s a stockroom of herbs and supplies. I’ll—”

“Eat.”

Shaking off his hold, I spin around to fix him with a glare. In the shadows, Penn’s eyes are two glowing embers. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll eat.”

My spine stiffens. “I told you—”

“You can tell me whatever you wish. But before you do, you’re going to sit and you’re going to get a warm meal in your stomach.”

“You can’t force me—”

“I’ll spoon-feed you if necessary,” he returns bluntly. “But I shouldn’t have to. If you’re clever enough to set a broken bone, you should also be clever enough to realize you need a clear mind to do it. Not to mention a fair bit of strength. You claim you want to help Farley? Then you’ll help without your head spinning from hunger.”

My mouth snaps closed.

Gods damn it.

He’s right. A meal will do me good, clear some of the cobwebs from my overtaxed mind. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m of little use to Farley in my current state.

Penn sees on my face the moment I cave to his logic. He doesn’t say another word—merely jerks his chin at the stool on the other side of the table and, with a broad hand at my middle, gives me a gentle push out of his shadowy corner. I keep my gaze downcast, unable to meet anyone’s eyes as I stumble back to my seat in my too-large slippers. My stomach roils as I swallow my pride.

It tastes bitter.

Thankfully, the stew Marta delivers a few moments later is anything but. Thick, tasty broth swims with soft carrots and chunks of tender meat. The spoon in my hand trembles as I tamp down the urge to shovel the contents of my bowl into my mouth at embarrassing speed.

As we eat, the men—mostly Jac and Uther—chat about their campaign, describing a skirmish they faced last week against a clan of Reavers from the ice shelf on the western coast who are encroaching a bit too close to sovereign borders. The Cimmerian Mountains, I learn, are considered neutral territory. Too vast to be ruled by any one king and far too wild, they are shared by all Northlanders from the three kingdoms—Ll?r, the Frostlands, and Dyved.

The names pop back onto the mental map of Anwyvn in my head like they’ve always been there, merely obscured for a time. Dyved sprawls to the west. Ll?r dominates the east. The far smaller Frostlands occupy the sliver of glacier between them at the northernmost tip of Anwyvn.

Each kingdom protects its main trade routes through the mountains but otherwise leaves the range to govern itself. As such, it is a lawless place, home to as many exiles and fugitives as monsters and snow beasts. The men grin as they tell me this, as though it is an amusing anecdote instead of a terrifying fact that will cause me to lose sleep at night.

For the past ten months, their unit has been assigned to clear out a particular stretch of snowy passes that lead in and out of the kingdom they call home.

Dyved.

“Can’t let just any monsters wander down into Caeldera.” Jac swallows his last sip of ale and immediately waves a hand at the barkeep, requesting another. “The only beast permitted to prowl those streets goes by the name of Pendefyre.”

“Jac,” a deep voice warns from the corner.

Jac’s grin is lopsided from drink, but he manages to muffle his voice. “Right. Low profile. Got it.”

Penn is keeping to the shadows. Given Edwynna’s reaction earlier, when she realized her inn was hosting royalty, I think that is a wise choice. No wonder he never takes off the helm. Even this high in the mountains, a prince of Dyved would be recognizable. Not to mention a potential target for the nefarious Reavers I’ve heard so much about.

My eyes drift across the tavern, examining the men at the surrounding tables. A mishmash of hair colors, races, and body types, with grizzled beards and wind-burned cheeks. Their cloaks are lined with fur, their shoulders draped with animal pelts. Most have double-bit battle-axes leaning beside their stools as they play rounds of a card game I don’t recognize. A fair few of them glance our way as fresh hands are dealt and new bets placed. I pray it is in curiosity, rather than ill intent. We have enough to deal with already without adding more enemies to our list of concerns.

I drink the last sip of my tea—I’d pushed away the ale as soon as I realized there was a need for my healing skills—and hop off my stool. My eyes cut to the shadowy corner where I know Penn is staring back at me.

“Farley,” I say simply.

I turn and walk away from the table. This time, no hand reaches out to stop me. After a moment, I hear the distinct jolt of several pairs of boots hitting the floorboards, following in my wake.