Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You even know what kinda place this is, girl?” A burly man stands before me, his forearms thick as tree trunks, wiping the surface of the bartop.
He has thick, curly reddish-brown hair and a scraggly beard.
The man’s dark brown eyes hold a serious gaze that sends a bolt of nervousness down my spine.
Behind the man are several stacked wooden barrels, each with a spigot protruding from the wood. They bear a worn and slightly rustic appearance. Some of them leak onto the floor, causing my boots to stick.
“Umm…” I glance behind me, taking in my surroundings one last time.
The tavern is dim, illuminated only by a few oil lanterns. Groups of men and women fill several small clusters of tables scattered around the space as they eat and drink—the scent of ale wafts through the air, accompanied by a strange undertone of… piss.
Two men fight nearby. They yell obscenities at one another, slurring their words.
Blood streaks across their knuckles as they throw fists.
One picks up a barstool, slamming it across the back of the other to knock them over.
The tavern erupts in cheers as the patrons thoroughly enjoy the spectacle.
Others place bets on who will win, sliding coins back and forth to one another.
“I need a job…” I say hesitantly, tearing my focus away from the fight and back to the man behind the bar.
The barkeep is seemingly unfazed by the chaos. He huffs, grabbing something and tossing it at me. “See how you fare for an afternoon.”
I catch the stained apron in my hands and unfold the mess of fabric. I’ve never worn an apron before. Pulling the cloth over my head, I tie the strings behind my back and adjust it over my dress.
The warlord would establish a favorable reputation. If people discover who I am, their trust in me will erode. This means I must create as many positive associations as possible so that people will come to my defense.
“Ale and wine cost one bronze. A plate of roast is one silver. Vegetable pottage is three bronze, got it?” He spouts a list of prices to me. “When folks leave, clear off the table and wipe it down so others can sit there. And if anyone tries skippin’ out without payin’ you, come get me.”
“And you are…?”
“Alastor.”
“I’m Rae.” I smile, shortening my name to hide my identity. While most Elvarrans likely don’t know who I am, it's best to take as many precautions as possible to blend in.
He grunts before walking away to help someone on the far side of the bar. I turn to look at my surroundings. The fight between the two men comes to an end, and everyone returns to their conversations.
“You, halfling girl! I need a refill.” A voice shouts from across the room.
Glancing over, I see an older Elvarran raising their tankard at me.
I pause for a moment. Halfling girl, not human girl.
The distinction jolts me. Many Elvarrans must have assumed that I am a halfling already.
Do they really believe no human would ever cross the Northern Alps and settle in Khalessor?
Maybe that assumption will work in my favor. Let them keep calling me that.
I walk over to him, pluck the empty cup, and return to the bar. After Alastor fills it, I drop it off at the table, and he hands me a bronze piece. This isn’t so hard… perhaps having employment is easier than I thought.
“What can I get for you?” I make a round to a patron who has recently arrived.
“Vegetable pottage.” An older woman says, passing me three coins.
“Of course.” I smile, picking up the coins. I return a few moments later with her bowl, setting it on the table. Grabbing a rag from the bar, I wipe down a dirty table. I accidentally overhear the men talking beside me, three soldiers likely unwinding from a long day.
“This bloodshed is unnecessary,” one of the soldiers says, slamming their tankard on the table with a thud. He has unruly, dark hair and brown eyes. “Another king dead. And yet we still can’t access our magic.”
“I heard whispers of a resistance forming against the blade,” the second soldier says in a hushed tone. He has short black hair, deep umber skin, and ice blue eyes.
My body freezes. A resistance… against the King? If the other Elvarrans didn’t want him to kill the humans, then I must find out what is happening. Rumors are often more potent than the truth, and an excellent one can turn the tide in any court.
“I heard the curse is the King's fault,” the third soldier whispers before leaning back in his seat. He’s young, with blonde hair and blue eyes.
“I heard the king of Rykaris is threatening to stop defending the Grimhold Crossing if he doesn’t comply,” the first soldier replies.
Desperate to hear more, I keep wiping the same table.
Grimhold Crossing is one of two travel routes between the north and south.
Crossgate is the other. Many battles and squabbles break out over these two mountain crossings, as whoever controls them could control the flow of humans and Elvarrans across the border.
“Woman!” One of them calls for me.
“Yes?” I stand upright, turning to face them with a smile.
“Another ale.” He pushes his empty tankard towards me.
“Right away.” I pluck it from the table and move to the bar.
Carrying food and drinks to patrons in exchange for the whisperings of the townspeople is more valuable than any money Alastor could give me. I need to find this resistance and determine their plan. If I help them take down Wrath, I can finally be free.
“Raelys?” I hear a voice call my name.
I set the drink down at the table and turn to see who it is. Standing in the entryway is Sebastian, dressed in a crisp navy coat with silver embroidery. His brown hair is slightly disheveled from the wind, yet his expression is relaxed.
“Hello, Sebastian.” I cross the room to him.
“You work at the Whispering Willow?” Sebastian asks suspiciously.
“I do," I reply vaguely. We don’t know each other well enough to have a detailed conversation with so many people around us. “Do you visit often?”
“It’s a peculiar place,” he comments. “I’ll enjoy it more now that your beauty graces it.”
His coquetry makes me giggle, and I let his dashing looks captivate me for just a moment before refocusing on my work. “Enjoy your evening, Sebastian.”
“You as well,” he replies, sitting at the table with the three gossiping soldiers.
Moving around to each table, I check in on the patrons. Some make small talk with me as I work. The rumble of activity dwindles as the fast-paced rush slows. I pick up six empty tankards and carry them to the bartop for Alastor to clean.
“You ain’t so bad,” Alastor grumbles.
“Truly?” I say with excitement.
“Come back in two days at noon,” he replies, placing three coins on the bartop and sliding them over to me.
Plucking the coins from the surface, I tuck them into my satchel. “Thank you!”
Alastor grunts in place of a response.
Turning, I leave the Whispering Willow with a newfound sense of accomplishment.
Having some money will allow me to bribe people, forming an elaborate web of knowledge.
I don’t know exactly how I’ll use the information yet, what quiet uttering will become my golden ticket, but I do know that what is happening around me is vital to my survival.
The east side of town is more scrappy and arduous than the streets near the castle. A foul stench lingers in the air. In a nearby alley, I see two cloaked figures with thick black hoods over their heads. They speak in quiet tones and exchange something between them in the shadows.
Someone cuts off my path, stepping in front of me. “You! Halfling girl.” Their raspy voice startles me. “Lookin’ for a cursed object? Or how ‘bout an elixir?”
The man has one eye, the other covered with an eyepatch. He sneers at me. His clothing is ragged, frayed at the edges. Behind him is a worn-down cart filled with strange-looking objects and trinkets, glowing crystals, and various glass jars with swirling liquids.
“No… I don’t need to curse anyone,” I reply hesitantly, stepping away from the peculiar merchant.
A nearby tent opens, and a woman saunters out. She wears a rumpled dress, her hair a mess of tangles, as she wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes meet mine, and I can see a quizzical expression on her face as she watches me.
She is beautiful, like a dangerous seductress. Dark brown eyes. Long brunette hair. Cheeks dotted with dozens of freckles that complement her pale skin. Her bodice and dress hug every one of her curves, a ruinous temptation from every angle.
“That ain’t for you.” The merchant blocks my line of sight with his body. “Less you lookin’ to make a lil’ extra coin… awfully pretty for a halfling.”
A strike of fear shoots through me. I nearly sprint away, needing to flee as soon as possible. I get a short distance down the street before a little girl approaches me, holding a dented tin cup.
“Got a spare coin… lady?” the little girl asks. She is frail and unkempt, her thin frame barely filling out the tattered clothes that hang loosely around her. Strands of frizzy brunette hair frame her dirt-smudged face as she begs for money.
“How old are you?” I ask softly, placing my hands on my knees and bending down to look at her closely.
“Twelve,” she replies, still holding the tin out for me.
“What’s your name?”
“Violet.”
“You quit talkin’ to me daughter!” someone yells at me from across the street.
Standing, I turn and look for the source of the voice.
An old man sits on the ground with his legs crossed, equally downtrodden in appearance.
He’s doing nothing, while his small daughter begs for coins in the street.
Another girl sits beside him, this one slightly older.
She has tears streaming down her cheeks, wiping her face with the heel of her palm.
“Father, please—”
“Quit yer sniveling!” He reaches out, backhanding the girl. “And make me some damned money.”
Unrelenting rage fills me as memories of Margaret’s abuse flood to the surface. She left permanent scars that won't heal, no matter how much time passes. My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my skin as I do my best to control myself.
“Get lost, halfling cunt!” the man yells at me.
I snap.
“What did you call me?” My voice booms throughout the street as I surge forward, taking elongated strides toward him as I pull my dagger.
The older girl beside him screams, dropping to her knees and burying her face in her hands. As she bends over, the scars on her back come into view—deep, brutal lines that someone must have left with a whip.
I raise my blade to strike when the man bolts from his place, scurrying off like a rat.
He leaves his two daughters behind, turning down a small alley and disappearing.
Stopping my approach, I slowly lower the dagger to my side.
The street around me is deadly silent, and the onlookers stop as they watch with bated breath.
Sighing, I put my weapon away.
So much for developing a good rapport with the locals; there will be rumors circulating the castle by dawn about how the halfling girl almost slaughtered an Elvarran. This gossip will stay with me for quite some time, harming the reputation I’m trying to craft.
The girl is still on her knees, shaking with fear. “Please don’t kill me,” she cries.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say softly. “What’s your name?”
“Aurelia.” She raises her head to look at me, eyes rimmed in red.
“How old are you?”
“N-nineteen…”
My chest aches. What an awful existence these poor girls are living. I take two of the three coins from my shift and hand them to her. “Here. Try to get an inn for the night or some food.”
Aurelia shakily reaches out, taking them from me. She wears a pale, tattered dress that is stained and thinning at the hem. Her brunette hair is unkempt, and her skin is sallow and malnourished.
The younger one, Violet, hugs my leg. “Don’t leave us, nice lady.”
I hesitate, unsure of what I have gotten myself into.