Chapter 7 Lena
SEVEN
LENA
It turned out the White Bear was a tavern.
Lena stood outside of the large wooden building with her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders, her nose scrunched against the bittersweet scent of ale and overripe turnips.
The place was already filled with townsfolk, and Lena spotted the telltale worn leather of a few travelers’ boots as she wove her way through the crowds.
Good. At least her presence here wouldn’t stand out.
She’d spent most of her time searching for the White Bear without considering how, exactly, she was going to get the Raven’s attention.
She doubted he did his work out in the open, approaching every newcomer with the promise of escape on his lips and a price list in his hands.
No, even someone who’d chosen Deyecia as his base of operations couldn’t be that reckless.
He’d work from the shadows. Watching. Listening.
Waiting for an opportunity to fall into his lap.
All Lena had to do was give him one.
She took her time, studying the crowds the same way she would study a pack of wolves. The servers passing out drinks and bowls of warm stew would be a good place to start. Or the group of men and women playing a game of Fates beside the hearth. All she needed to do was get one of them talking.
Lena’s eyes landed on the young woman behind the bar.
With her spill of dark hair and the confident tilt of her chin, she was the sort of girl Lena would have taken to her bed during lonely nights traveling the Wilds.
She’d been standing there since Lena had walked in, smiling and giving orders.
Definitely the owner. Or at least someone with enough authority to know if a smuggler was conducting business in her place of work.
Lena sipped at the honeyed wine she’d used one of her last few coins to purchase as she watched the woman for a while longer, trying to calm her racing heart.
The incident with the Ehmar heir and the Fist had shaken her more than she’d thought.
She hadn’t let herself look back after she’d left the hunters behind, but their distant, pain-filled screams hadn’t taken long to fall silent, and the memory of what that silence had meant had Lena bouncing her leg restlessly beneath the table.
Thankfully, the tavern was empty of silver threads, but Lena knew they were there, just at the edge of her consciousness, waiting to obey her commands.
Lena’s fingers tightened around her tankard hard enough to hurt. Enough waiting around. If the smuggler was here, she was going to find him. Tonight.
She pushed to her feet, leaving the half-full tankard behind.
No one paid her any attention as she wove through the thinning crowds, angling her body to make sure she didn’t accidentally skewer anyone with the end of her bow.
Fates, how did people live like this? There were more people in this room than Lena saw in two whole winters back in the Wilds.
She was already starting to miss the endless expanse of the frozen forest—where she could slip away and disappears from the world.
The Wilds were unforgiving, but at least they didn’t pretend otherwise.
There, Lena knew what to expect. She knew how to survive.
But here, amidst the bustling crowds and stone streets, Lena didn’t know anything at all.
That isn’t true, she told herself as she approached the bar, fingernails digging into her palms. She was Lenora Vesthir, daughter of one of the greatest storytellers in the Wilds. If anyone could convince the smuggler of Wyrecia to help them flee the empire, it was her.
Lena slid onto one of the rickety wooden stools beside the bar.
“What can I do you for?” the barwoman asked, already pulling out a tankard from some hidden compartment.
Lena smiled, hoping the gesture looked more genuine than it felt. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”
The woman’s dark brow arched. “Is that so?”
“Yes, I … I was wondering if you knew where in the city I can find a Raven. I’ve heard they frequent here.
” She kept her voice low, a whisper amidst the music and laughter of the tavern.
But Lena knew the dark-haired woman could hear her by the way her eyes narrowed.
The air around the barwoman glimmered just for a moment, silver threads flickering into the empty space, and pain sliced through Lena’s forehead as she shoved down the urge to reach out to them.
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you mean,” the woman answered.
Lena’s heart stopped. Started again. “Are you sure?”
She tried not to let her desperation show, but hopelessness had begun to spread through her chest like wildfire. She’s lying. She had to be, because if she wasn’t, and the Raven really wasn’t here—
The woman was looking at her with a mixture of suspicion and pity.
Lena forced herself to smile. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I’ve traveled a long way, and I—I was told I’d find what I was looking for here.”
For the briefest moment, the woman’s expression faltered. The threads around her flickered like flames in the wind, and Lena’s hope flickered with them.
But then she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” Her attention drifted to the door of the tavern, where a group of men wearing city guard uniforms had just come in. Her brow furrowed. “You should go,” she said, already turning away.
Lena didn’t have the strength to stop her.
She didn’t have the strength for anything at all.
Darkness had fallen over the city by the time Lena emerged from the tavern.
The streets that had not so long ago been filled with life were now almost empty, the candlelight of makeshift shrines to the current emperor and his Fateweaver were Lena’s only guiding light.
She moved without direction, her body acting on impulse.
Without her heart to guide her, the only thing Lena knew how to do was run.
This isn’t something you can run from, Lena.
Tears pricked her eyes at the memory of Finaen’s voice.
Of his face when he’d found out what she’d become.
For so long, Lena had kept her visions hidden from those she loved in fear they would turn their backs on her once they recalled what her abilities meant: that Lenora Vesthir was a descendant of the bōden, the first worshippers blessed by the Sisters of Fate—and that she had the potential to become the next Fateweaver.
It was a truth she’d run from her entire life. And when her visions had grown stronger, when the ache in her wrist became too frequent to ignore, Lena had run from that, too. So when Finaen had seen the truth, Lena thought she’d been angry with him because he’d wanted her to stop running.
Now she wondered if that anger had been because a part of her knew he was right.
She couldn’t go back to him. Not after she’d left him to pick up the pieces of a situation she hadn’t been brave enough to face.
But without a smuggler’s help, there was nowhere left for her to go.
She could attempt to cross the sea by herself.
Or go back to the forests and pray to the Old Gods that the Fateweaver’s power didn’t drive her insane.
Whatever she did, she couldn’t stay here.
Not with so many guards and acolytes roaming the streets.
She was just about to turn around and leave the city when the soft scrape of boots against stone filled the air.
Her dagger was drawn in the space of a heartbeat. One second she was standing alone in the middle of the street, her hopelessness threatening to devour her whole.
The next she was pressing her blade to someone’s neck.
Eyes the richest shade of brown Lena had ever seen darkened in surprise.
The boy was a fair few inches taller than her, his thick, black hair a mess of curls that fell to his jawline.
Even in the low light, Lena was close enough to make out the smattering of freckles across his nose, just a few shades darker than his rich olive skin.
His gaze dropped to the blade at his throat and back up to Lena’s face again. “Is this how you greet everyone you meet?”
“Who are you?” she hissed, pressing her blade a fraction harder against his skin. He didn’t look like one of the imperial hunters, and he certainly didn’t act like one, but that didn’t mean he could be trusted.
Lena knew that better than anyone.
Even with the blade against his throat, the freckled boy smirked. “The answer to all of your problems.”
Lena’s eyes narrowed. “I highly doubt that.”
“Oh? Well, then I guess you don’t need to flee the empire. My mistake.”
Lena’s hand shook, betraying the calm expression she’d forced into place.
“You’re the Raven.”
“The one and only, although if you insist on playing rough, you really ought to call me Casimir.” He grinned. “What shall I call you?”
Lena frowned. This couldn’t be the man her mother had told her about all those years ago. He was too young. Too … arrogant. But she was quickly running out of options. It was only a matter of time before someone saw them. Before one of the guards she’d seen earlier patrolled this part of the city.
Or before the prince she was bound to serve hunted her down.
“Kelia.” Her mother’s name stuck in her throat, the pain a welcome reminder of why she was doing this. She risked a look over her shoulder, toward the dark city beyond. “Do you have somewhere we can talk?”
The smuggler flashed another infuriating smile. “My home isn’t far. Although I do insist you remove your dagger from my throat before I take you there.”
Lena hesitated. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t need to trust me,” he said, an emotion she couldn’t quite place darkening his expression. “You just need to trust I can give you what you want.”
Lena swallowed. “And what’s that?” she asked, close enough to feel his breath against her cheek.
His eyes roamed her features in a way that left Lena feeling strangely raw. “Freedom.”
The word sparked something in her. She might not have trusted him, but … he was the only chance she had of escaping her fate.
And so, not taking her eyes off the smuggler, Lena lowered her blade.