CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT #2
I may not have appeared disheveled anymore, my still-damp hair cascading in irregular waves down the dark blue of my dress, and I smelled much more like a lady, as Vayen had impolitely pointed out.
But I felt disheveled on the inside and drinking would, at the very least, assist with caring a bit less about that burden.
“So,” I began, drawing Vayen’s eyes back to my own. “Scholar Whick and Haize have the same imbuement. Rootcraft.”
She dipped her chin in a nod.
“You said Whick got that from his other half. If it’s not too improper to ask, what exactly is that other half?”
“We call them Dwellers,” Vayen said. Her thumb traced the imperfections on her mug handle as she spoke. “Most live within Morwyn, in the tunnels carved out by the ancient Knotholm trees.”
“They live in the ground?”
“As I said, most do.”
“I can’t imagine.” I tilted my head as the women tracing glyphs clasped their hands together in excitement.
One of them, the smallest of the lot, shyly glanced away when our eyes met.
They seemed to be studying the symbols on the walls.
I imagined Haize might not take kindly to that, but the slight shake of his head whenever he walked by them was more dismissive than anything else.
My eyes narrowed reflexively when the thought popped into my head.
“Why wasn’t Whick’s home covered in glyphs? ”
“He doesn’t practice anymore,” Vayen said with a sigh that heaved her whole chest. “Whick’s been a friend to my people for as long as any of us can remember.
Twenty-three years ago, when everything changed, he and his husband had actually been here, in Cobble Crossing, preparing to return home from their journey to Grenloch.
They got separated when the Threshold appeared.
His husband was on one side, and he on the other.
As I’ve heard it, Whick spent days wandering through the gloom, calling out to him, searching…
but he never found him. Depths, he never even made it to the other side.
He’s been trapped in Grenythwood ever since. For some reason, he’s unable to cross.”
The drink’s warming buzz trickled down my limbs as she spoke, mingling with the ache that squeezed my heart. “What happened to his husband? Even if he can’t cross himself, surely Whick sent others out searching for him?”
“He did, of course. But the man had vanished. Some wonder whether the creatures who were in the path of the Threshold when she appeared might have been absorbed by her.” Vayen’s eyes were very nearly haunted as she went for another sip of her drink.
“I don’t believe that, personally. I wager he was taken by something, or someone.
Probably suffering just as much as Whick is, though hopefully not at the bottom of a carafe. ”
“You think he’s still alive?” I said through my surprise.
“I do,” Vayen confirmed with a solemn nod. “The Threshold… she prohibits Whick from crossing to this very day. I theorize she wants to keep them apart, though I can’t imagine for what reason. I hope one day to find out.”
I puffed out my cheeks with an exhale. “That explains the state of him, then.” I finished off my mug before placing it on the edge of the table. When Vayen only nodded in agreement, I added, “Why’d he agree to use his imbuement on my artifacts, if he’s no longer practicing?”
“I cross frequently enough,” she explained. “I make it a point to ask around, keep an eye out. On his behalf.”
I withheld the praise that hovered on my tongue.
After all these years, she had kept her hope alive, even though Whick seemed to have forgone his.
It was a lovely sentiment. Involuntarily, my gaze wandered to the citrus peel cookies I’d vowed not to consume.
Without the context of my being here, the act could also be seen as selfless. Annoyingly so.
“Sounds like you might not be the worst human in all of Morwyn on an average day,” was the best I could do.
I elongated my neck and raised my chin away from her, unwilling to discuss the matter further.
She offered only a humored snort in reply but I pretended not to hear it.
Fortunately, Haize appeared holding two squat pots with gnarled handles on each side, topped with fitted lids.
He was very nearly delicate as he placed each pot before us.
With a quick glance spared for my empty mug, and a near-imperceptible nod from Vayen, Haize snatched up my drink and disappeared behind the bar.
I removed the pot’s lid in earnest, inhaling deeply as an aroma unlike any other wafted towards me.
It smelled rich, with the familiar subtleties of peppered spice and bitter herb nestled in the strong scent of meat.
I couldn’t identify any of the vegetables floating in the dark brown broth, but none looked inedible.
The meat itself caught my eye, all but calling my name as I seized the oversized spoon that balanced in the crook of one of the pot’s crooked handles.
It sliced through the tender meat with ease, and I had to swallow against the growing thickness in my throat as my entire body demanded I eat every last bite of this stew at once.
“This glyph here, on the side?” Vayen tapped one with her finger, its red hue catching my eye. “It keeps the stew hot, but not too hot. So you won’t burn your tongue.”
She was right. The well-seasoned, cooked-to-perfection meat melted in my mouth, its uniquely sharp flavor not at all off-putting as I swallowed a whole chunk. It was the perfect temperature.
“Praise the stars,” I muttered aloud. “I was under the impression our castle had the most talented chef in all of Morwyn.”
“Well, as a Lunamorian, she’d be quite limited,” Vayen said as she lifted the lid from her own pot.
“Limited?” I didn’t even have it in me to be insulted. My entire life, in that very moment, was nothing more than mouthfuls of stew.
Haize wordlessly dropped a plate of torn bread and two mugs onto our table before retreating once more. He stopped only when Vayen addressed him, though he didn’t turn around.
“Only needed one mug for the lady,” Vayen called out. She received no response in return.
I was too consumed with my stew to care, though I did grip the handle of my mug and take a full swig before swiping a piece of bread and dunking it into the steaming broth.
I may not have been acting the part of a lady, but woolhorn stew might very well have been the last meal I had the privilege to remember, so I discarded royal manners and ate in the way my ravenous hunger demanded.
The drink probably wasn’t helping matters much.
“You were saying something about how limited we Lunamorians are?” I attempted to refocus our conversation, though her attention seemed divided between me and the second mug of drink Haize had placed at our table.
“You wanted to know who ‘she’ is?” Vayen said, all humor vanished from her expression. “You’re about to find out, and I’d like to apologize in advance.”
When the tavern door flew open, a deep inhalation rose Vayen’s chest and her eyes fluttered shut in a manner that appeared nothing short of resigned.
Interest piqued by the dramatic entrance and Vayen’s less-than-thrilled reaction, I tilted my head to the side to get a better look, only to be met with a pair of bright green eyes studying me just as intently as I studied them.
The woman did not break our stare the way I anticipated, but instead held my gaze, not even sparing a glance for the rest of the tavern’s patrons.
It wasn’t until she tore herself away from me to focus on Vayen that her expression sharpened into something I was glad not to be on the receiving end of.
Without that look, she would have been downright unassuming.
She had delicate features, small yet structured, with a swooping, upturned nose and curled lips that I imagined wielded venom with little provocation.
Her light brown hair was pin-straight, sat perfectly tucked behind small ears, and reached well past her navel.
Her attire, much too fine for this village, betrayed any delicacy to be found in her willowy frame: a deep, sea-washed blue top, laced loosely in the front to showcase the swells of her breasts, with ties threaded through golden rings that caught the flickering sconce light in the tavern.
Over top she wore a cropped leather vest, displaying the natural curve of her waist before drawing the eye to a dark ruffled skirt cut shorter in the front than the back.
Her heeled, knee-high boots barely scuffed the floor as she drew one long leg in front of the other, making her way directly to our table.
Her walk was that of a self-assured woman—precise movements, with a grace that must have been tirelessly honed.
The sway of her hips may have been exaggerated, but it achieved what I imagined to be the desired effect; this woman was dripping with a sharp, overwhelming sensuality I could never hope to embody.
Her swagger also served to highlight the singular curved dagger strapped to her hip, its blade broad and intricately etched with a swirling pattern down its edge.
The handle, carved from pale jade with a sporadic inlay of golden gems, arced into a full guard that would save her knuckles from a retaliatory strike.
You’d have to be more than prepared to protect yourself from passing thieves and bandits with a treasure like that dangling for all to see, and I had every impression that she was.