Chapter Four
Dietan
At nightfall, I manage to slip out of my room without anyone noticing. Marcus and Jared both pushed to join me for my protection, but I convinced them to stay behind. It’s easier for one man to move about without drawing attention than three.
Most of my men have set up in the inn for the night, preparing for my bride search in the morning.
To avoid being seen by the guards stationed outside my room, I quietly make my exit out the window, just like we used to in our school days.
Even though nobody has the authority to stop me, even a prince is powerless to quell the spread of gossip amongst his men.
However, I doubt they would guess that the future king needs to meet with a sorceress.
I creep across the grass, pulling a well-worn cloak around myself, hiding my hair underneath a wide-brimmed felt hat. A neckerchief obscures my face. That should do it. I look like a farmer—or at least I hope I do.
Even with the little information my father’s spies were able to provide, I need more to find the general location of the sorceress, and I have to start somewhere.
The Raven’s Beak Tavern.
I head to Evandale’s main social hub to talk to some locals. In front of me, the wooden building sits low and squat, with a thatched roof. From the outside, I’d expect some damp, depressing watering hole, but light and laughter spill out of the open doors, and I’m drawn to it as a bee to a flower.
Once I step inside, I’m greeted by a cozy warmth that’s rare in Lundenwic. The tavern is packed, and I feel entirely invisible, which immediately puts me at ease. My shoulders relax as I take in the surroundings: mismatched tables and chairs, the soft glow of lamps overhead.
The air is thick with smoke from tobacco and the roaring fireplace.
I grab a table in the far corner, away from most of the other patrons.
I don’t take off my hat, but I keep a sharp eye on the room, scanning for anyone who might be open to a conversation.
Most of the folks here are either deep into their drinks or engrossed in chatter with their companions. I’m the only one sitting alone.
Across the bar, I spot, who I can only assume, is the resident barmaid. I am overcome with an awareness that despite this being my kingdom, this is her domain.
She has a mug of ale in one hand and the other on her very lovely hip. She refuses to pass the ale to an inebriated chap who is currently in her crosshairs.
“But I would be good to ya. A good husband. I promise.” He pleads.
“I know you’re better at talking out your ass than reading signs but Harvest Mother, Aldus, you know the rules.” She points, exasperated, to a sign behind the bar that has a litany of rules including one peculiar one—no marriage proposals. I’m struck by the need for this rule.
“But my heart beats for only you,” he tries again.
“That’s what you said to Julia Falgren just last week.” The barmaid retorts.
Some of the patrons around them snicker at this comment and nod their heads. The barb is true.
A point for the barmaid.
He reaches for the beer in her hand. She pulls it away.
The bar roars in laughter. I chuckle as well. This is more entertainment than I was bargaining for.
She squats down to Aldus’ level and eyes him long and hard until he looks like a little boy instead of a grown man.
“Next round is on you.” She tells him loud enough so the whole bar can hear before reaching into his pocket and taking out a few coins. The man doesn’t even flinch. In fact, he acts as if the pleasure is all his.
She turns around to resume her rounds, the bar cheering for the free libations. For good measure, she brings his beer with her.
Touché, barmaid.
But there is a fleeting look of subtle sadness in her eyes, as she takes a sip from the mug. Despite my own distaste for the institution of marriage, a vibrant woman like her deserves more than slurred proposals from the town drunks.
She spots me alone and without a drink, and as if on cue, the feisty barmaid approaches my table.
“What can I get ya?” she asks, thrusting out one hip like she did before. It really is a nice hip.
My eyes lift to meet hers and I notice the light dusting of freckles that grace her cheeks.
She’s nothing at all like the wispy, giggling, delicate women paraded in front of me in every town. No, she’s striking in every way.
“Ordering something or just gonna waste my time, like old Aldus over there?” She asks.
“I promise I won’t propose.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Do you have a menu?” I ask and I’m met with a blank stare from her piercing dark eyes.
“It’s a list of foods on offer, written on a piece of parchment?” I continue, hesitantly.
“I know what a menu is, but this isn’t that kind of establishment. You either know what you want, or we don’t have it,” she says impatiently.
“Do you have ale?” I ask cheekily.
She gives me a long, hard look, and I realize my attempt at a joke didn’t land. “We do but I doubt you can handle it,” she says flatly.
“We’ll just have to see then, won’t we? A pint, if you could, kind lady. And what’s the specialty of the house?”
“Not sure someone like you would think our offering is good enough.”
I raise my eyebrows. “And what type of person am I?”
Her gaze flicks over my hands, my face, and my threadbare cloak.
There’s no way she can figure out who I really am, but sparring with her sets my blood pumping.
“You’re someone who’s accustomed to tiny delicacies on fancy platters.
Things that wobble and take too long to cook,” she says, expertly describing the aspic-laden dishes served at court.
“We mostly serve salt ham and biscuits here.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I happen to love both of those things,” I say smugly.
“Is that so?”
“Can’t think of anything better.”
One corner of her lip quirks into a half smirk, the first I’ve seen her smile all night. “Coming right up. Watch you don’t choke on our ale, milord.”
Yeah, so maybe I’m not fooling anyone with the threadbare cloak. I sigh, watching her as she turns and walks away, a strand of her raven hair falling from her bun. This woman is unlike any other I’ve met and I need to know more.
Laughter from a nearby table draws my attention. A group of men my age laughs heartily, pounding their fists on the table. Then I see him.
One man’s curly hair and loud and braying laugh turn my blood to ice. After a moment, I realize my eyes have played a cruel trick on me. It’s not a ghost but a case of mistaken identity. For it can’t be Cedric… Cedric is long dead.
The spot between my shoulder blades starts to burn, and I straighten my back to ease the discomfort.
Oh no, not now. Not here. But the memory is a painful one that I can’t escape, as hard as I try.
The eerie laughter of two mischievous boys, the war room, the glint of the rings in the moonlight, the look on Cedric’s face as I reached for the rings, the darkness.
So much darkness. That night my world changed forever.
I shudder at the memory. I try to center myself in my chair, counting my breaths just as my father’s witan taught me to all those years ago, to control the Rings’ powers within me. I remind myself I’m safe at the tavern and not ten years old anymore.
I jump when the sassy barmaid slams a mug of brown ale on the table along with a plate of biscuits and ham.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” she apologizes.
“No, it’s all right,” I manage to say, coming to myself. “Thank you.”
The barmaid’s gaze softens, and she looks at me a little longer than necessary. When she turns to go, I reach out to stop her, just short of touching her wrist.
“I was actually wondering…” She looks my way again, and I forget my next words. Her piercing eyes lock directly onto mine, and I struggle for the nonchalance that usually comes naturally. “I, uh, was hoping you could help me locate someone. I heard she might live here.”
That piques her curiosity. She raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Who’re you looking for?”
“I think she goes by the name Veteria?” It’s the only lead I have. I asked the royal councilors in Loegria about the history of the rings and combed through every crumbling, ancient scroll I could find, and that’s the one name that keeps coming up.
Supposedly, Veteria is the last surviving Vindar, a band of warrior witches and knights who decades ago kept Alarice safe—until they were disbanded and hunted to all but extinction, along with their magic. But not Veteria. She survived.
Free magic is dangerous magic, my grandfather, King Elgar often says. It’s unsurprising that the darkness brewing in the Waste has gained strength in the Vindar’s absence; we could sure use them now.
These days, most people who claim to know how to use the Whisting are hacks and charlatans trying to sell something.
But lately there has been word of a sorceress who allegedly used the Whisting to hold back a river after a dam burst, saving an entire village from certain destruction.
After that feat, she went into hiding, but rumor has it that she settled in Evandale.
I would bet my coin that the sorceress in question is Veteria.
The barmaid lifts her chin ever so slightly, peering down at me. “And who wants to know?”
“Forgive my lack of manners. I’m D—” I almost blurt out my real name, forgetting that I’m trying to keep a low profile. “Dario.” It’s the only name I can think of. Dario? Really? I swear I couldn’t think of a sillier name if I tried.
“Okay, Dario,” she says, her tone making it clear she agrees with my own assessment of the name’s merits.
“Yeah, I know her. She lives in the woods on the outskirts of town just north of here. She’s our best healer.
Taught most of the wise women here all they know.
” She tucks a hand in her apron pocket, and I wonder what small healing magics this barmaid might possess.
My heart can’t help but leap at the thought.