Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
The smell of starch hits me as soon as I walk through the doors to the tavern. It’s loud tonight. Voices of many fill the room, spilling out under the door into the cold night.
Shouts of drunkards, and the voice of a bard and his band in the corner make me feel disoriented as I stand in the doorway. But after the day I’ve had, I need a little distraction.
I take slow steps up to the bar. “A pint of ale, please,” I say, feigning confidence when I feel so out of place.
But this is the exact seat my father used to sit in, where he would come after a long day's work, where he would let us take small sips of his ale even when we were young. I remember feeling so reckless in those moments. I didn’t know what reckless was back then, not the way I do now.
I smile when the barman places a pint in front of me, not wasting a moment before taking a sip of the amber liquid.
It was reckless of me to pick up those vials today, but it was even worse of me not to whisper a word about them to Hazel and Cedar when I finally stepped back through that crack and into the bare bones of my old house.
The vials might be nothing, but if that were true, then why would my mother hide them so well? Why would they be hidden in a room that only I could enter, with a whole list of other things that had no explanation?
Whatever the reason, whatever my mother was involved in, Hazel and Cedar don’t need another secret to keep, because that’s exactly what happened today is—a secret. This was my family, so it’s my responsibility to bear the weight of whatever this is, not theirs.
I keep trying to ignore the sound of my own voice whispering to me in the darkest corners of my mind.
That whatever I experienced in that house was otherworldly, it was something that shouldn't have been possible, yet it was.
And if I ever tried to explain it, I fear how many days I would have left above ground.
Maybe that’s simply another reason why I didn’t say anything about the vials to my friends. I had already walked through a glowing fissure in the wall—one that they couldn’t see—and came back with my mother’s old journals. I think that is enough on its own.
We swore we wouldn’t speak of it—any of it. Not the way that Cedar and Hazel watched me vanish into thin air, and not the way a pile of books fell into the room through an invisible doorway before I did too.
I find myself wishing that my mother had some secret mixture that could erase their memories, or something that could take me back in time so I could search the house without bringing the two of them with me. Because now it’s not just me that’s in danger, it's them too.
That councilman came to my apothecary searching for potions. I wasn’t lying then when I said I knew nothing of the sort, but now I wonder if that’s exactly what dissolved on my tongue mere hours ago.
I try to shake away the thoughts as I take a generous gulp of the ale in front of me, but it’s no use. My mind is a blur.
I don’t know where to go from here, what to do with the vials hidden in my pocket. It feels like a risk simply knowing they exist, but I can't fight the compulsion to know exactly what is swirling around in that glass, along with what is written in those journals. I have to know.
I rode back to my cabin through the forest, leaving Hazel and Cedar to walk through town so Cedar could get back to the library.
I placed the journals down on the table with a thud, some of them nearly sliding onto the floor.
But I couldn’t bring myself to flip the page, too scared of what I might uncover if I did.
I wanted to leave that for another day, knowing that once I opened those books, I wouldn’t be able to close them.
Not until I understood the secrets my family was hiding.
I take another sip of the ale, more of the amber liquid sliding down my throat than I had intended. I squint my eyes as I swallow it down, unsure if I fancy the taste.
Silas would laugh in my face if he saw me struggle with the drink. He fancies ale just as my father did. He loves it and makes his way to this tavern more weekends than not.
The liquid rolls in my stomach as I think of the look on his face earlier, the uncertainty. Maybe he knew that we were lying but couldn’t figure out why. I couldn’t blame him; I've never lied to him before.
With a twang of the bard’s small guitar, the room suddenly turns eerily quiet. Hushed tones replace obnoxious cackling and roaring conversations. A shiver works its way up my spine even as the room bursts with warmth from the hearth that is stoked in the corner.
A dark shadow appears beside me, big hands grasping the edge of the bar, and I feel my senses sharpen as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I look up ever so slightly to see the barman walking over to where I’m seated, his eyes laced with worry—either that or fear. He clears his throat before lifting his chin as he looks at the person beside me. “Can I help you?”
“We are from The Royal Shield.” The deep voice beside me nearly rattles my cup of ale. I swallow sharply at the gruff syllables from his mouth.
I notice the flicker of uncertainty in the barman’s manner, but he masks it well, his gaze locked in battle.
“Okay,” he says, his voice even more uncertain than his face, as if he doesn’t know what that means.
But I do.
The Royal Shield is the king’s guard, the men who are tasked with patrolling Rynwood, most of them stationed in the capital, Zorindale, where the king sits in his castle. We’ve never seen them anywhere close to here, so having one stand right against my shoulder sends my mind spinning once more.
One of the hands beside me clenches before the man’s rumbling voice speaks again. “We have been sent here under King Wyndbrook’s command, instructed with working for Mayor Hawthorne as he reports this town is…” He taps his fingers on the bar top. “Out of order, if you will.”
My eyebrows pull together, as do the barman’s. The king has sent his guards for the mayor? What in the world does he think he needs protecting from? If anything, we need protection from him. Are his callous councilmen not enough?
“So ply my men with some ale, will you? They should be compensated for having to come to a place as tiresome as this.”
The barman simply nods, getting away from the man beside me as swiftly as possible. I don’t blame him. His energy is like a weapon.
The first King Wyndbrook was a kind man, a man who cared for his people and saw them whenever he could. I remember stories of the day he came to visit Sylvan. He brought delicacies from the castle with him—oversized fruits and shining pastries—and the people spoke about it for weeks.
But then he got sick, and his son was crowned as the new king soon after, with his common-born wife Elowen crowned as his queen.
They ruled together for years, with Wyndbrook following his father’s lead in the way he treated his people.
I wonder how much influence Queen Elowen had over that, because the witch hunts in the north started shortly after her passing two years ago.
Almost as if King Wyndbrook could barely stand to see another common-born woman after losing his wife.
We, of course, didn’t hear of them until much later, the news spreading down the continent in horse carts and hushed tones.
I risk letting my gaze rise, taking in the sheer number of men dressed in all black who have flooded the already crowded tavern.
Conversations quietly pick up again, everyone returning to whatever they were doing before, but I cannot breathe. Not when I remember what Mr. Bagley said those weeks ago about Lenthara.
The only people who were walking the streets were the occasional men dressed in black from head to toe.
This town is slowly becoming something else. Something it never used to be. First, it’s a mayor and six councilmen to accompany him. Now it’s a whole guard? Men who will no doubt be roaming the streets of Sylvan, transforming this town into something akin to a ghost town. It makes it hard to think.
I’ve wanted my apothecary to be a safe place—I’ve wanted to be a safe place—but I don’t know if I can be that anymore, not now that I carry so many secrets in my pockets. If I get caught, anyone who knows me could be prosecuted alongside me, and now there are even more eyes watching than ever.
The shield beside me turns around, leaning back on his elbows as he looks around the tavern. “You wouldn’t be one of the people giving the mayor trouble, would you?”
I wait a moment, hoping his question is directed at someone else, but when no answer is spoken, I realise the guard is addressing me.
My heart beats deep in my chest, as if it is hiding behind my lungs, seeking shelter of some sort. “Of course not, sir.” I keep my gaze fixed on the wooden bar top, not daring to meet his eyes.
The weight of the dagger in my other pocket keeps me grounded in my seat. I never thought I would carry a dagger around in my skirts, but things have changed.
Fear is a feeling I seldom felt before Mayor Hawthorne arrived. Now, I’d say I feel it more often than not. And the weight of the steel is quickly becoming a comfort.
The man hums as the bard picks up his tune once more. “That’s good.” His voice is deep and gravelly. “Pretty girls like you are best when they’re compliant.”
I don’t loosen my breath until the man has sauntered to the other side of the room.
I finally look up to see his broad stature as he talks to the other men around him.
All of them dressed as Mr. Bagley said, black from head to toe.
A few of them are even sporting black cloaks down their backs, including the man who just sent a shiver up my spine.
I silently wonder if that marks him as some kind of superior.
I jump when a palm rests on my lower back. Whipping around, I automatically reach for my pocket, only to find that the person who touched me was Silas.