Chapter 44
Sacale was humid and hot, but at least it was familiar.
Their wagon rumbled down the cobbled street, Quentin gripping the reins tight. It wasn’t too crowded. Vendors lined the streets, propping up their wares.
Most were selling whiskey. It was what the mountain port city was best known for, after all.
Delaynie fell against him when they hit a pothole in the worn road. She was so warm, and her coconut and vanilla scent slammed into him. She quickly righted herself, spine rod straight on the bench. She pulled her cloak tighter around her despite the muggy warmth, tugging the hood lower.
A muscle feathered in Quentin’s jaw.
There had been no more incidents as they’d traveled through the rest of the Vathan jungles and across the Onitan border.
The map the guard had given him was accurate and true, helping them hold course to the overgrown road winding its way through the jungle.
It ended at a rocky ravine, the Attlehon Mountains rising above them.
Home. Or some semblance of it. Even if just for a little while.
Quentin had breathed a sigh of relief as they’d left the jungle behind them, giant wolves and monsters of the night forgotten.
But even as they’d followed the road through the mountains and to the merchant city of Sacale, Delaynie had refused to talk.
Quentin tried. Every night he tried to pull that spark from her, the one he’d seen on that first night. She refused to answer, instead curling into a corner of their wagon and lying there, quiet and unblinking.
Even now, seated beside him on the bench, she was so muted. As if the little wolf she was had been chased away by the true beast of the dark.
She was in there somewhere. That wild spark hadn’t gone out; she was just hiding it away, and he would find out why.
Quentin glanced around the street, trying to make sense of where they were.
He’d never been to Sacale, though Sebastian and Matheo had invited him dozens of times.
They’d spoken endlessly about the winding, mountainous beauty of their home, and while Quentin had been interested in the whiskey, he’d never wanted to leave the vibrant comfort of Verith.
He’d never regretted that until this exact moment, when he realized they were as good as lost.
Quentin pulled the reins with a soft huff of frustration, guiding the mule to the side of the street. He hopped down from the wagon, running his hands over the beast’s flank and down his legs. There was nothing wrong with their trusty companion. But if he did this long enough…
“Everything all right there, son?”
Perfect.
Quentin straightened, an easy smile already on his lips. The speaker—a middle-aged man pushing a cart laden with meats, vegetables, and, of course, whiskey—watched him with uncertain curiosity.
Another thing Sebastian and Matheo had shared with him: though Sacale was a port city and its people were friendly, it was also isolated by the mountains. They would help a stranger in need but would be wary about it.
“Oh yes, thank you. Just making sure the old boy is doing all right.” Quentin patted the mule’s flank. “We’ve traveled a long way.”
“I can see that,” the man said gruffly, scanning Quentin. He hid his grimace at what he knew the man saw: grime-covered clothes and dirt-stained faces. “What brings you to Sacale?”
“We’re here to see some old friends. Speaking of—could you help us with directions? It’s been a few years since I’ve been here, and I’m afraid I’m a little turned around.”
The man nodded, still wary. “Where to?”
Quentin swallowed, smile still plastered on his face. “The Riqueti Estate?”
The man’s curious look turned a bit barbed. Quentin couldn’t blame him; they looked like bedraggled peasants. Certainly not the kind of people who sought an audience with the Riquetis.
“I know we’re a little worse for wear,” Quentin said sheepishly. “You can imagine why the lady and I are so eager for a hot bath.”
The man glanced at the cart, eyes widening as he noticed Delaynie for the first time. The way she was huddled in her cloak, she was easy to miss.
Usually, there was nothing about Delaynie that was easy to miss.
“Of course,” the man finally said. He pointed down the street. “Take a left at the next cross street. Follow that to the south end of the city. The Riqueti Estate is the last one before you reach the sea. It’s hard to miss.”
Quentin smiled and extended a hand, which the man took after a slight pause. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I know the lady appreciates the help.”
The man nodded again, averting his eyes and backing away. “Safe travels,” he murmured before disappearing into the crowd.
Quentin hoisted back into the cart, snatching up the reins. Their wagon lurched again down the road.
Sacale was a city of canvas and red-gold stucco.
The roofs were all a sun-washed-red tile, windows thrown open to welcome the coastal breeze.
It was tucked within a small valley in the Attlehons that opened to an even smaller bay, just large enough to hold the thriving port.
While Verith was a center for trade, Sacale was where the merchants kept their homes and would therefore always be a place of wealth.
Even with closed borders, Onita still needed trade. Citizens from other kingdoms could not set foot on the soil, but they sure were willing to take Onitan gold.
Quentin hoped for a day when Mariah actually sat on her throne. When those borders would finally open and Kreah and Vathans and Luexrithians could walk these same cobblestone and sun-kissed streets.
Just not those gods-damned pirates.
“Are you sure we can trust him?”
Quentin blinked in surprise at Delaynie’s soft question. “Who?”
She nodded back the way they’d come. “That man you spoke to.”
“Oh.” Quentin shrugged. “Why would he lie? What would he gain?” He turned to her. “Why? Are you worried about something?”
But she’d fallen silent again, staring out at the bay that had opened below the city.
Quentin sighed but didn’t push her further. Whatever had spurred that question, it was a start. One he would take.
The street gradually grew quieter and smoother, the houses spaced farther and farther apart. Groves of walnut and orange trees sprouted up between the residences, shielding the road with their thick boughs.
At the end of the road—just as the man had said—stood a towering manor on a sprawling estate. A wrought-iron gate crossed the road, staffed by two guards. They emerged from the shadows, one blocking their path, the other walking to the side of the cart.
“Hello, friends,” the guard said. “Do you have business with the Riquetis?” He sounded friendly yet skeptical and perhaps a little amused.
Quentin kept his scowl to himself as he twisted, reaching into one of their packs. He pulled out the sealed letter and handed it to the guard.
“We’re friends of Sebastian and Matheo Riqueti. That letter should give you whatever other information you need.”
The guard blinked in shock. He broke the seal, unfolding the parchment. His eyes grew comically wider as he read the words, and his jaw was slack when he glanced back up at Quentin.
“I…yes, of course,” he stammered, refolding the letter. He handed it to his companion with a nod, who jogged to open the gate and continued up the winding path. The first guard gestured to the now-open gate, bowing slightly.
“Please, do come in,” he said. “And welcome to Sacale.”
Mr. and Mrs. Riqueti stood together in the manor entryway, beaming.
It was impossible for Quentin not to return the smile.
Though he’d never been to Sacale, he had met them before when they’d visited Verith—both for business and to see their sons.
The merchant and his wife had always been kind and open and warm, the kind of people who could make anyone feel at ease.
Their cart pulled to a stop and the lady of the house rushed down the steps of her manor. Quentin hardly had time to leap down from the bench seat before she was on him, bundling him up in a great hug.
“Oh, how wonderful it is to see you again, Quentin!” She released him, gripping his arms tight. “It’s been far, far too long. I hope you haven’t gotten into too much trouble.”
Quentin winked, grin deepening. “You know me, Mrs. Riqueti,” he said. “Trouble is my favorite thing to get into.”
She swatted him gently. “You always were a cheeky one,” she said. “I was so proud when I heard you’d been Selected. Don’t tell the others, but aside from my sons, I was always rooting for you the most.”
Quentin’s chest warmed, something unfamiliar spilling from his heart. Alda Riqueti had always been like this. He didn’t remember much of his own mother; nothing besides her strawberry-blonde hair and an alleyway covered in blood.
Knowing Alda Riqueti was the closest Quentin had ever come to knowing what it felt like to be loved by a mother.
Quentin swallowed past the lump in his throat, giving Alda a small nod. “Thank you. Truly.”
Mrs. Riqueti warmed even more at his subdued response. Her gaze shot over his shoulder, landing on the cart. Something sparkled in her expression. “And who is this?”
The cart creaked as Delaynie stepped down from the bench. Her hood had fallen back, the once-tidy braid atop her head now limp and mussed. The lengths of her auburn hair fell around her face and down her back.
He was about to introduce her when Delaynie’s hand shot out. She smiled—politely, even if it was a little forced. “Lady Delaynie Albellane. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Riqueti.”
Alba’s eyes widened. She clasped Delaynie’s hand.
“Lady? Oh, what a treat this is turning out to be. You are most welcome here, Delaynie.” She called up to her husband who waited outside their open doors, “Leandro! Tell the staff to ready rooms for our guests. And to set the table for two more. I’m sure they are anxious for a hot bath and a nice meal. ”
Leandro nodded to his wife, still smiling. His gaze drifted to Quentin. “Great to see you again, Quentin. Welcome to Sacale.”