Chapter Five
What I need is an alibi. I thought Kay might actually squeal when I told her I was heading to Ruben’s for the rest of the evening, even though I reiterated the just friends line countless times.
I need to work out how to convince her that that’s all we are, but there’s no way I can do that and explain our current situation.
Kay is still innocent enough to envisage marriage to the man of her dreams; she wouldn’t be able to fathom the possibility of having sex with someone just because it feels good.
She’d expect moonlit strolls through the slums, planning out the future together, children, a home …
That’s what she wants. A happy ever after. And she deserves it.
Me? I’m just grateful for every week we survive.
‘So where are you going tonight?’ Ruben asks again as I walk out with him, a bag slung on my back. ‘I know we never mentioned whether we were doing this with other people, and I’m not trying to say you can’t do whatever you want, of course you can, but you know—’
‘I’m not fucking anyone else, Ruben,’ I tell him.
‘You’re not?’ A look of relief flashes on his face.
‘I mean, if you could find someone who could keep me warm and supply me with constant food, then you might have competition.’ I wink.
He shoves me from the side as he grins. ‘So damn cruel.’ He laughs. ‘But seriously, what’s the plan?’
I let out a long sigh. Of all the people in the slums, Ruben is probably the one I trust the most – or at least more than Rula, who’s the entire reason I’m doing this – but I’m still not sure if I want to tell him the truth.
But in the end, I decide someone should know, in case it all goes horribly wrong.
He’ll look after Kay for me, I’m sure of it.
‘I’m heading to Etta’s temple in the third,’ I admit quietly, aware of the listening ears in the slums’ shadows.
‘To pray?’ he questions, a slight frown marring his forehead.
‘To hope she answers my prayers,’ I say elusively. Thankfully, he doesn’t press.
‘Well, I’ll be your excuse whenever you need me.’
‘Listen, if I don’t come back …’
Alarm flares in his eyes. ‘Why wouldn’t you come back, Rose?’
‘It’s complicated. I just need to know that if something does happen and I don’t make it back, I need—’
‘Me to look after Kay?’ he finishes the sentence. ‘You don’t need to ask. Of course. Always.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, trying to clear my throat of the lump that has lodged there. ‘Also, Tella has been more persistent than usual. While I’m out tonight, can you just keep an eye on her? Without her knowing, obviously, since I’m supposed to be with you.’
‘I can do that,’ he says, but his jaw is clenched. ‘But what do you mean, more persistent than usual?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ I hope. Though from Ruben’s expression, he doesn’t believe me. Needing to break the tension wrapping around him, I reach up and peck him on the lips. ‘Don’t read into that,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.
He lets me. ‘Don’t worry. I’m very kissable – I get it.’
With an exaggerated roll of my eyes, I turn around.
Casting one last look at him over my shoulder, I start my journey to the temple and my first ever heist.
Stealing is one low I haven’t stooped to. Well, except from the birds.
Everyone here needs everything they’ve got, and I won’t take a damned thing out of someone else’s hands.
Not yet, anyway. My mind flashes to the little girl who stole the egg from me. Maybe I do have another level of desperation to drop to.
Not a pleasant thought.
I head into the sixth ring without difficulty. The setup of Wrohelm is unlike any of the other cities in Morathka. Six rings of increasing wealth surround the inner circle – the High Hold. That’s where the palace is. The king’s court.
It also holds the barracks where the knights are trained and, if they’re lucky, deemed worthy enough of bonding with a dire wolf. I used to dream of bonding with a wolf. I clung on to it well past the time I knew it was impossible.
The High Hold was where I lived for years. Where I believed I belonged.
Until my mother was labelled the Queenkiller and we were stripped of our magic and cast out. Of course, none of that loss compared to the agony of losing our infant brother, Florian.
I still find myself dreaming of the palace far too often. Dreaming of returning to a home that’s stocked with eggs, milk, flour, and every other type of food we could ever dream of. Where I don’t have to rely on Ruben to stop me and my sister from freezing to death.
I know getting back there is an impossibility. Not without a Retterheld, and even if the drunk fool was right, I’m not sure I could even enter, let alone survive it. The Retterheld’s for nobles, and since being stripped, I’m not even sure if I count as one anymore.
Such daydreams are pointless, and it probably causes more hurt than good to imagine a future that’s so much better than my present, but then maybe that’s the whole point.
Maybe I like the pain of remembering what we’ve lost because it drowns out the pain pressing in on us now.
Gaining access to the fifth ring is easy, and the fourth ring is still largely hassle-free. There’re only two bored knights here and no dire wolves. They’re letting the crowds stream in and out without checks. Lazy, but I won’t complain as it works in my favour.
The fourth ring and its occupants are still too poor for anyone to bother stealing much. That’s the king’s way of thinking, anyway. When you’re actually poor, you know there are even levels of nothingness.
In my mind, the people in the fourth are rich. They have food, jobs, and shelter. Their homes may be hovels in comparison to those in the High Hold, but they’re solid little structures, miles above the ramshackle lean-tos in the slums, and they’re warm and dry.
Yes, the fourth are richer than they know.
Like Korvane, I once considered those living in the fourth ring dirt poor.
No hot water. No fires fuelled by magic to heat their homes.
But the fact that they have water at all, not to mention proper fireplaces with chimneys that channel the grey smoke up into the clouds rather than being forced to allow it to fill their homes in exchange for the meagre heat the fire provides, is a gift we in the slums long for.
It’s early evening and the stalls are still busy. People have finished their jobs for the day and are coming out to buy food, clothes, and whatever else they need, and as several pairs of eyes turn to me, I realise my mistake.
I left the slums without a hood.
My bright white hair – evidence that I’ve been stripped – is on full display. As such, it means I’m easily recognisable as likely to be part of the Queenkiller’s family.
I used to get the same looks in the slums, too. Hear the whispers rattling around me. I think it gave them a sick sense of satisfaction, seeing how far someone can fall. But I’ve been there for so long they don’t even notice me anymore.
I weave my way through the bustle of men and women, absorbing the scents of roasted nuts and meats that fill the air, and I wonder how I’m going to do this unseen. There’s no way I’ll make it to the third like this, let alone into the temple itself.
Looks like I’ll have to start my planned thievery early.
I turn my attention to the stalls to see if there’s something small I can take that will cover my hair, but as I approach, every merchant’s eyes are like a hawk on me.
It’s hardly a surprise. Even without my distinguishing hair colour, I’m dressed like a slum rat.
There’s no chance of my slipping something off a table unseen. The moment I try, they’ll call for the knights or, worse, just deal with me themselves.
All Morathkians learn combat as soon as they can walk; even the slum kids learn to kick, punch, and scrap. They don’t learn all the forms, like I once did – they don’t swing axes or throw knives – but they all know how to stab.
If I try to steal from one of these merchants, I’ll never make it to the Goddess’s Garden.
I recede from the stalls but don’t give up. Rather than heading to the next gate and aiming straight for the third ring, I make a detour.
I know from my father how vulnerable a drunk man can be. Too many times to count, he came home without his coin – though I was never quite sure if he drank it all or if it was stolen, the way he claimed.
Because of him, taverns have never been my favourite of places, but it’s not hard to locate the nearest one from the noise roaring out of it. As I open the door, I’m hit by a wall of warmth and alcohol. My vision blurs and I stagger back.
‘You okay, love?’ a woman asks. From the croak in her voice, she must be in her eighties, and who knows what state her hearing is in, particularly if she spends her time in loud taverns like this one.
Still, I can barely offer her an audible reply. ‘I … I …’
As she meets my gaze, I notice the peculiar colour of her eyes. Such a deep brown they border on garnet red. Yet as I try to get a closer look, I notice how her attention shifts to my hair. Fuck.
‘Oh … Gods be kind to me,’ she murmurs quietly.
A sliver of weight falls in my stomach. So many times I’ve heard that response, and it normally comes before they back away. That’s the best result.
The less preferable one is when they start yelling at me. Yelling at me for being the Queenkiller’s family. Cursing my mother’s innocent name.
Once or twice it’s even resulted in me taking some punches.
Backing away with a shocked look is a far better result, but rather than leaving the way I expect her to, the aged woman moves closer and places a hand on my shoulder.
‘Sit down?’ she says. ‘You should sit down. Come.’
‘No, not—’ I tell her, looking around me. ‘I can’t.’
My heart drums against my ribs as my eyes scan the patrons. Most of them are standing or sitting, clanging their tankards together while chatting and laughing. But one or two are already passed out drunk, slumped on chairs or the ground. People sidestep them as they skirt past.
They’re the ones I can’t look away from. It’s as though I’m expecting him to be there.
Father.
There were so many times that we’d find my father lying cold in taverns just like this one, his breathing so shallow it was hard to tell if he was alive. I’d have to feel around for a pulse, just to check. Just to be sure.
I remember wondering what I would do if one day there wasn’t a pulse. Would it be a relief? One less burden I wouldn’t have to deal with? That was what I thought. That yes, it would be a relief.
That was, until the very next week, when it finally happened. When no amount of shaking or throwing water over him stirred him from his drunken stupor. Because for the first time it was not drink that gripped him, but Mortidem himself.
But there was no relief. Just more loss.
And now the guilt of that thought cripples me.
After all the heartbreak I’ve been through, I didn’t know it was possible to feel any more, but guilt still gnaws at my gut, and I keep thinking that maybe Father knew. Maybe he somehow knew I’d had that thought. That I felt life would be easier without the burden of him, too, once Mother had gone.
I tell myself there was no way he could have known. Father was a wind weaver – an exceptionally formidable one, yes, but there was not an element of mind magic in there. If he had known my thoughts, it would only have been because my face had betrayed them.
I know it is just guilt that makes me feel this way. At least, the rational part of my brain does. The other part though … the one held fast by loss and pain … that one has a harder time believing.
‘Love?’ the woman says to me again, dragging me out of the dark recesses of my memories.
This time I look at her properly, noticing her thin cloak of deep purple. It has several holes along the hem and hood, but it has a hood, which is better than anything I have. And truthfully, I’d much rather borrow one than steal one.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, thinking quickly and offering a smile. ‘I want to go to Etta’s temple to pray, but I can’t get into the third.’ I gesture to my hair. ‘I don’t suppose I could borrow your cloak, could I? I’ll bring it back.’
She tilts her head to the side, as if observing me in a manner that goes beyond simply what the eyes can see. ‘Yes, you will, won’t you?’ she asks in a way that tells me it is no question at all.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and an unease churns through my stomach, and I’m about to say not to worry, that I will find another solution, but before I can, she’s already pulling the cloak from her back.
‘Of course you can borrow it, child. Really, it is the least I can do.’
‘I … I …’ There’s something about the way the woman looks at me that unnerves me. Maybe it’s the fact that she hasn’t sworn at me or thrown something at me? I’m not used to kindness these days.
I know well that any gift inevitably has a blade buried in it, but if this gift is barbed, I can’t see how.
‘Thank you,’ I tell her, stretching out my hand for it, but she wraps it around my shoulders herself, even going so far as to clasp the button at the top.
‘Take care, my child,’ she says. ‘I’ll be here when you return. To talk.’
Okay, maybe there is a barb. She’s distinctly odd. Perhaps she’s lonely, in need of company?
‘Thank you,’ I reply, already planning to return the cloak subtly and sneak out of the place before she notices.
Drawing the fabric tighter around me, I turn back to hurry out the door before she can change her mind about lending it to me.