Chapter 19 #2
An array of curious bottles and vials sat near the tub. Their contents caught the light in hues of amber and rose, oils swirling within the glass.
I reached for one of the smaller bottles and uncorked it.
The scents of apple blossoms and sage rose with a sigh.
I poured a small measure into my palm and worked it through my hair.
The silk-dark strands clung and loosened in turn, slipping between my fingers as the soap frothed to a delicate lather.
The warmth seeped into my scalp, down the curve of my neck, until the ache in my shoulders began to ease.
Another vial yielded an oil the color of gold.
I smoothed it over my skin, the texture rich and unfamiliar.
Steam curled around me, softening the edges of the room, until it felt as though I were dissolving into the heat itself.
For the first time in many days, the scent of earth and blood was gone.
The soft sound of the room door opening and closing reached my ears. Noting my pruning fingertips, I emerged, wrapping a large drying cloth tightly about me.
Mav was already dressed in dry clothes, his hair damp and clean, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He stood near the window, watching the rain.
Padding a few paces out of the washroom, I stepped behind the privacy screen. I donned the underlayers with ease, but the dress was impossible to manage on my own.
After a moment of quiet struggle, I gave in to the flush rising up my neck. I stepped around the screen. “Could you…assist me?” I asked, avoiding his gaze.
“With?”
“The laces. I cannot reach.”
Mav hesitated for a moment, then dipped his chin and crossed the room.
I held my breath as he came to a stop behind me. His fingers found the first tie, slower than they needed to be. The brush of his knuckles against my spine sent a shiver through me, though this time it had nothing to do with the cold.
Excitement and fear warred within me—two sides of the same flame.
His nearness set every nerve alight, yet I was equally afraid of what it might reveal.
I was tempted to lean back, to feel him fully, but some fragile instinct kept me motionless.
After so long being touched only out of ownership or obligation, true wanting felt foreign.
When the final length was tightened, I turned to face him. Our gazes collided. His hands hovered in the air, uncertain without a task.
On instinct—or perhaps folly—I reached for him. My fingers closed gently around his wrists, guiding them to rest at my waist.
Mav startled at the contact, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet.
Neither of us moved for several heartbeats.
His palms were wide and warm against me, his breath uneven as his gaze dropped—first to my mouth, then lower, then back to my eyes with a hunger he did not bother to hide.
The tether thrummed between us, alive and urgent with longing, the emotion strong enough to send heat rushing through my veins.
Every warning, every reason to resist blurred until all that remained was this aching, consuming want.
Mav is my ally, my tether for this awakening. Nothing more.
The words rattled through me in a chorus I did not believe. We hardly knew each other. Yet, the weight of his hands on me bore a certain inarguable rightness. One could be grateful for his protection and loyalty, as well as his…broad shoulders, strong arms, and infuriating smirk—
No. This is madness.
“Mav,” I breathed, though I hardly knew if the word was plea or warning.
His hands tightened, drawing me nearer. He bent his head, his forehead nearly brushing mine. His lips parted.
A sharp knock extinguished the heat between us.
“Quinn? Mav?” Branrir called, muffled through the door. “We’re heading down to eat.”
I stumbled backward. Mav exhaled a ragged curse and scrubbed a hand over his face, glaring at the door as if he intended to set Branrir aflame.
“Yes, we shall join you momentarily,” I managed, breathless.
“Splendid. I’ll let the others know.” Branrir’s footsteps receded down the hall.
Neither Mav nor I could bear to look at one another as we exited the room.
We were ushered to a small table in the back corner of The Wandering Root’s dining room, near a window blurred with the ongoing rain. Vesper promptly claimed the stool closest to the fire and stretched himself out with a yawn.
The food arrived in a glorious parade: thick cuts of roasted meat seasoned with unfamiliar herbs, boiled root vegetables slick with oil and salt. I did not recognize half of what I tasted, but it was all rich and comforting.
Thistle submerged a slice of dark bread into her bowl and moaned dramatically. “If I die tonight,” she said, “bury me with this gravy.”
Mav, seated beside me, gave her a tired smile. “Noted. I’ll ask Shubre for the recipe to include in your funeral rites.”
Vesper cracked an eye open from the hearth. “If anyone’s dying tonight, it’s me. I’ve drowned.”
“You’re dry now,” Branrir said.
“I’ll never be dry again,” Vesper whined.
Branrir cleared his throat and unrolled the map, pinning the corners down with various dishes. His fingers traced the route we’d taken.
“We’re here,” he said, tapping a cluster of tangled lines. “One day’s ride south of Aurillion. We can make it to the city and to the castle in time if the weather clears. Now we just need to figure out how to get an invitation.”
A spark of something bright flickered in my chest. Hope, perhaps, or a sense of purpose. It had been so long since I had seen the capital. A lifetime. Several, depending on how one counted. I opened my mouth to say as much—when a voice, rough and gravelly, cut through from the next table.
“Good luck with that.”
We all looked up at once.
The speaker was a male troll, bulkier than Shubre, with a wide, blemished-notched face and arms like scarred tree trunks. He sat alone, sipping something viscous and steaming. He twisted around to address us.
“Durik,” he said proudly. “Durik Stonecleave. Last honest troll in the trade routes.”
“That’s not saying much,” Vesper mumbled.
Durik’s grin was all teeth around his tusks, one of which had either been filed down or cut off. “I’d like to offer you a trade,” he said. “I happen to have an invitation to the Spring Jubilee.”
We all went still.
Thistle drummed her fingers against her tankard. “And how did you come by this invitation?”
“A handful are always sent to Drautsmire, but the king never expects any trolls to attend. We find the invitations to be far more useful as bargaining chips.”
“Well then, show us,” Branrir challenged.
Reaching into a grimy canvas pack slung beside his chair, Durik pulled out a handkerchief and unwrapped it.
Inside lay an invitation. The parchment shimmered like morning frost. Elegant, scrawling script wove across the page.
Violets bloomed and shed their petals across the corners in a slow, mesmerizing loop.
“Hmm,” Branrir leaned closer. “May I?”
Durik handed him the invitation.
Branrir tilted the seal to the light, sniffed the edge of the parchment, and even tested a corner with the tip of his tongue. “It’s authentic,” he declared.
“Of course it is, human,” Durik grumbled, snatching the invitation back.
Mav didn’t miss a beat. “You said you wanted a trade. What is it you’re after?”
The troll leaned back and grinned. “I want my spoon back.”
Thistle nearly spat out her wine. “Your...spoon?”
“That’s right.” He thumped a meaty hand on the table for emphasis. “Family heirloom. Part of a seven-piece antique set. Been in the Stonecleave line for nine generations.” He sniffed. “Filthy little goblin stole it.”
A groan escaped Mav as he shuddered. “Please don’t say the g-word.”
“Goblin,” Durik repeated, enjoying himself far too much. “Plucked it right out of my pack while I was bartering with a Tremor for some cursed dirt.”
“I’m sorry, cursed dirt?” Vesper asked, then held up a paw. “No. You know what—never mind. Continue.”
“Goblin slipped into the crowd,” Durik went on, “Took my spoon straight to Rouzbeh.”
The word landed with a weight I did not understand. All of my companions visibly tensed.
“Of course it’s in Rouzbeh,” Thistle muttered. “Where else would a stolen spoon end up?”
“Rouzbeh?” I asked, looking between them.
“The goblin black market,” Branrir explained. “Nasty place. Illegal trading, cursed objects, bad food, worse company.”
“Is it...new?” I ventured.
Thistle lifted a shoulder. “To you, maybe. Hard to say. It’s been expanding over the last few decades.”
An additional inconvenience of sleeping through centuries was that entire underground economies sprang up.
“And you’re sure your spoon is there?” Mav asked, rubbing at his temple, as if this entire conversation gave him a headache.
“Yes,” Durik grumbled.
Vesper flicked his tail with a suspicious glance. “Why not go buy your spoon back?”
A throaty, phlegmy scoff sounded. “Goblins don’t trade in coin. They trade in unfair bargains and curses. Never make a deal with a goblin.” Durik shook his head, regret painting his features. “The spoon can’t be purchased. You’ll have to take it.”
Mav’s jaw dropped. “Wait—you want us to steal it from the goblins?”
Durik nodded. “I can’t go back there. Last time, I barely left with my life. Now they know my face, and it’s too dangerous to show it again.”
Tension settled in the air as my companions deliberated.
Thistle’s eyes narrowed at Durik. “If we retrieve your spoon, you’ll give us the invitation?”
“Yes.”
Branrir extended a hand. “Then we’ve got a deal.”
The troll clasped Branrir’s hand in a shake before wrapping the invitation and tucking it into his bag.
“But don’t cheat me. I’ll know if you bring back a replica.
This is exactly what it looks like,” Durik said, handing a small sketch to Thistle.
“I found it in a shop called Prongs, there’s a large fork on the sign, you can’t miss it. ”
We had reached an accord. A ridiculous, possibly dangerous agreement—but it was our only path to the capital.
As I glanced around the table at the others, I was perplexed to find they seemed more afraid of this place than any foe we had faced thus far.
A sense of anxious anticipation wove around us as the decision solidified.
We were going to Rouzbeh.
The goblin black market.
To steal a spoon.