CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ALYSSUM
Without seeking an invitation, Vayen brought me to the oversized entrance of the Scholar’s dwelling. She swung the heaving door open unceremoniously, her hand resting on the small of my back as she ushered me inside.
I controlled my sharp inhalation at her touch.
I wasn’t used to such physical contact, and I might have given her a questioning look if it weren’t for the perfect, stifling air that greeted my frozen limbs.
I didn’t know why we were here, or what this Scholar wanted with Rowland’s brooch, but I did know it was warm.
“Oh, praise the stars,” I said as I cupped my hands over my mouth and breathed into them.
Vayen did not echo my sentiment, but instead trained her silver eyes on the spiral staircase lining the first level of the house, no doubt anticipating the Scholar’s arrival.
His stumbling steps echoed from above. I imagined it would take him a moment to safely find his way, so I turned my attention to his disorganized, mess of a dwelling.
The brown walls were thick and rounded, as evidenced by the deep-set windows, most of which appeared to have been used for lounging.
Those larger sills were laden with vibrant pillows and blankets, seemingly strewn about in disarray.
Wherever there wasn’t a window, the walls were hidden behind crookedly stacked bookshelves brimming with ancient-looking texts whose names seemed to have worn away from excessive use and loose pages that would probably never reunite with their kin.
Some books even lay sprawled on the floor, littering the stained, dark purple rugs that overlapped one another to obscure a majority of the rock flooring.
There was a large, roaring hearth on the far side of the room with a twirling chimney made of the same rock-like material as the walls.
It wound up, up, up, until it disappeared through the roof.
In front of the hearth were several mismatched thrones and a low table made of dark wood that had reached its capacity for objects—half-wound scrolls scattered between stacked wooden bowls, fallen ink pots accompanied by crooked quills, and clay carafes that I imagined supplied the liquid the man imbibed.
Askew from the table stood a larger, rather wide throne, its plush purple cushion sunken and discolored.
“He… he lives here?” I mumbled to Vayen under my breath, grateful for the warmth but also very concerned for this Scholar’s well-being.
“Not as nice as what you’re used to?” she asked without looking at me.
“That’s not what I—”
But I ceased speaking when heavy boots began their booming descent down the staircase.
“So it’s true,” the man said, gaze instead trained on his feet. His voice was a deep rumble; it was as if thunder itself had been caged in that barrel chest. Quite notably, his speech was absent the rolling, tumbling cadence of drunkenness I’d expected.
Vayen raised an eyebrow. “You thought I was lying?”
“One can never be certain,” he mused, a singular palm gripping the banister as he neared the lower level. “That wolfish smirk belies your true nature, Videa.”
I could feel Vayen’s scowl as she wrapped a hand around my upper arm and pulled me to the hearth. My mouth opened in objection at the way she handled me, but as the flames licking at the sooty mantle further warmed my thawing face, I forgot what exactly I’d been ready to protest.
I stood by a rack of garments—cloaks, scarves, boots, and gloves—in every shade of purple, hung in complete and total disorder. One particularly large cloak, thick with plum-colored fur and embroidered in true Scholarly fashion, looked so warm I had to dissuade myself from easing into it.
“You wanted to see her,” Vayen said, gesturing towards me with an outstretched hand. “Here she is.”
I studied her tentatively. “Why would he want to see me?”
The man’s tipsy gait was rather treacherous as he made his way down the last few steps, pausing only once his boots scuffed the rug-covered rock.
From the outdoor balcony, I couldn’t make out his features, but now I was able to get a proper look at him.
It was true—without his hair and eyes, that squat stature in and of itself would dissuade anyone from believing this man had the blood of Sor coursing through his veins.
At first glance, he was confounding. At second, there was more to be found: full lips, proportionate features, and high cheekbones hinting at a formerly handsome and chiseled face, now buried beneath whatever sorrow filled his carafes to the brim.
Ignoring my question entirely, the man attempted to remove the dark purple cloak that swaddled him.
The wrinkled, stained fabric was frayed and fading, and as he tossed it unceremoniously to the ground, sending an empty ink pot tumbling across the floor, I needn’t wonder why.
Beneath he wore a matching tunic untied at the neck, displaying a sparse patch of coiled, pale-blonde hair along his expansive chest. His similarly dilapidated pants were tight-fitting, as though he’d nearly expanded beyond their limits.
Only one pant leg was tucked into those mammoth buckled boots.
The man grunted as he lumbered to a bookshelf by the door that housed an impressive display of tankards.
“You must be Elvadir’s girl,” he said finally, the heavy words rolling and vibrating through the air.
My attention snapped to Vayen, her expression passive as the Scholar began peering inside carafes, presumably attempting to locate more drink for his dry lips.
Depths. Bjorn had mentioned knowing a Scholar in the area.
If this man knew Bjorn, and if they had been in communication since my crossing, there was no denying my title.
But the very thought of admitting my surname beckoned my heartbeat to a steady gallop.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I do not belong to anyone,” I tried through the growing thickness in my throat. The full-bodied scoff the man emitted my way was unbecoming.
“A princess and a liar. I foresee this will not be a fruitful visit,” he muttered into an empty carafe.
“You know who I am then,” I confirmed with a deep, steadying inhale.
He offered me only the dramatic roll of his painfully light blue eyes, as if the very question insulted his intelligence.
“And you?” I asked Vayen with crossed arms.
She bowed her head as she rested a bare forearm atop the sooty hearth.
“For how long?”
“A while now,” Vayen answered vaguely.
“Does everyone know?” My chest constricted with the possibility that all of the people I had grown close to were lying to me. “Does Milo?”
“No.” Vayen’s eyes never left mine. “Winnie and Berig know the truth. No one else, unless you’ve told them.”
I clicked my tongue against my teeth, staring at the ground.
If they knew all this time, why not say something?
And why wait until now to expose me? Unless they’d only just decided to do what any sane person would and collect the handsome reward undoubtedly placed upon me.
The illusion of safety I had tried to shroud myself in had begun to pull apart at the seams.
“I am not going back to Lunamor,” I said suddenly, stepping further into the opposite corner to distance myself from her.
It hadn’t been half a day since I’d cursed myself for not bringing my dagger, yet there I was, once again disappointed with my lack of preparedness.
I surveyed my surroundings in search of a weapon, a panicked scan of the piles of books and forgotten supper bowls yielding no promising results, before Vayen raised her palms in submission.
“No one is trying to take you back to Lunamor. You have my word.”
Our gazes met. That burst of emerald around her pupil danced in the firelight. I waited for blackness to swallow the odd colors, as it usually did when we locked on one another, but it never came.
“You’re not?” I imagined my hesitancy was palpable as I forced out the question. “Neither of you?”
The squat Scholar made a deep utterance of triumph as he located more drink. “I couldn’t give a troll’s ass where you go.”
Well, that was a relief. Sort of.
“Then why am I here?”
“I’m only willing to see you as a favor to this one.” He tilted his head in Vayen’s direction, subsequently stumbling sideways. Miraculously, he managed to grab hold of the table’s edge and right his posture with a huff.
“Perhaps you should sit,” I offered.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbled, even as he made his way to the largest throne and thrust himself onto that squashed cushion.
He extended a too-large hand in Vayen’s direction while gulping from his tankard with the other.
Froth clung to his upper lip as his baritone voice filled the room. “Artifacts.”
Vayen retrieved the ruby brooch from deep within her pocket before dropping it into his palm.
“Give him your moonstone,” she said to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Your moonstone pin. The one you never leave your bedchamber without.”
How could she possibly know that? I pressed my lips together as I assessed her, my distaste for this adventure growing.
“I’m not giving him my mother’s pin,” I said with a scoff.
“Why not?” Vayen asked. Her narrowed gaze was at odds with the airy patience of her words.
“I… I don’t even know his name.”
Vayen pressed her eyes closed with a sigh. “His name is Whick.”
“And what does he want with my moonstone?”
“He wants to eat it,” Scholar Whick muttered sarcastically under his breath, as if this were the most ridiculous conversation he’d ever been privy to.
“He’s joking,” Vayen said quickly, casting the man a dark glare. “I have a suspicion about you that I would like to confirm. Whick is certain I’m wrong, and if I am, I’ve been careless with your time. Should that be the case, I will return you to your bedchamber at once.”
“And?” I pressed.
“And… I will answer any and all questions you have that are within my power to answer.”
“Within your power to answer?” I repeated skeptically.