Chapter 13
I reached Bridgedale with minimal trouble. Okay, I got turned around a couple of times, but some nice merchants helped me right myself. My days were consumed by endless riding, while nights were spent foraging and reading by firelight. The solitary book in my possession made me ache for my modest library back home. I couldn't reasonably ask the merchants if they had one for sale—I needed to conserve my coin for what lay ahead.
After crossing over the border of Sunneva, I realized two things. First, Sunneva's obsession with solar imagery was suffocating. Phrases like "Sunneva, Kingdom of the Sun," "Blessed by the Sun," and "Sun Blessed" were everywhere. This tiny town was practically drowning in brilliant golden orbs with dazzling rays in all styles. I shuddered to think what the capital might look like. The thought of a sun-shaped capital with a golden castle made me chuckle despite myself.
Second, I noticed that Sunneva's fortunes were significantly better than Esmeray's. My experience of Esmeray was limited to the small settlements bordering the woods, which marked the boundary between the two kingdoms, but the contrast was already apparent. Esmeray's towns were modest, with surrounding areas bearing scars of destruction. Blackened ruins dotted the landscape like festering wounds, while broken fences and abandoned fields told stories of lives hastily abandoned. Some villages near the woods had been entirely wiped out by the war, leaving the inhabitants weary but clinging to hope for an end to the conflict. This Sunnevan town appeared marginally better off, with most of the surrounding farmland relatively unscathed. Shop signs had faded under the relentless sun. Ironically, the only elements untouched by this dullness were the golden sun emblems plastered across the streets, benches, fountains, and bridges. They gleamed with a golden radiance, a constant reminder of the symbol they embodied.
I pressed on along the path as the sun began its descent. Golden light bathed the town square in a hazy glow. I spotted a baker's stall getting ready to pack up for the day. My stomach growled at the sight of a solitary muffin on display. The baker regarded me with an impatient arch of his brow, clearly wanting to finish cleaning up and close shop for the day.
Rummaging in my pocket for coins, I asked, "What's the price for that muffin?"
"Two silvers," the man replied curtly. He watched me count out the coins onto his stall, arms crossed. He gave me a solemn nod in acceptance.
I grabbed the muffin and surveyed the square. "Any recommendations for a good ale around here?"
He pointed down a distant road. "The Sunlit Tankard's down that way". "It's a bit rough, but they'll leave you be if you don't cause trouble." The baker wiped his hands on his flour-dusted apron and lowered his voice. "Mind the regulars near the back wall—they're fond of their dice games and don't take kindly to strangers watching too close." He gathered his remaining wares, that warning hanging in the air.
While the sun's rays still painted the sky, I searched for a vantage point near the tavern's alley to observe my contact's arrival before our meeting. I found a sturdy crate wedged between two buildings, perfectly positioned to give me a clear view of the tavern's entrance. Keeping to the shadows, I summoned the darkness, concealing myself as I settled onto the crate. From this hidden vantage point, I watched the tavern while forcing down the disappointingly bland muffin. The dense, dry crumbs felt like sawdust in my mouth, each bite more tasteless than the last. The alley stayed quiet at first. As twilight deepened, patrons began trickling in. The crowd filtered through—working girls, off-duty guards, the occasional rough sort, but no one with my target's distinctive gait appeared.
As darkness claimed the sky, I rose and stretched, attempting to calm the nervous fluttering in my stomach. Approaching the door, I let the darkness fall away, bracing myself for whatever lay beyond. The sharp tang of stale ale and pipe smoke drifted through the weathered door, mingling with bursts of raucous laughter from within.