Chapter 20 #2
I carefully remove my clothes before smoothing the wet rag over my skin.
Then I begin to wash my clothing, piece by piece, in the bucket.
The rain got off most of the grime, but I take my time with the soap.
Washing and rewashing until it’s all clean.
I hang them to dry by the fire, put one of the bedsheets on the floor in front of it, and lie down, luxuriating in its warmth.
I stare up at the ceiling. The walls are thin.
I hear everything—from moving around, to people relieving themselves to …
guests very aggressively enjoying themselves.
For some reason, that makes me think of Raker. I wonder what he’s doing in his room. Is it possible he’s found someone in this town? I think about the way he cut those trees down, how it released some of his frustration.
Does he need a release in another way?
What the fuck, Aris?
I shake away the thought. Raker seems like he would gut someone for even getting near him. And even if he did find someone to bed here, that is none of my business …
A knock on my door has me jolting upright. By the time I open it, wrapped completely in a bedsheet, only a tray awaits. The smell of hot soup hits me, and I nearly fall to my knees. Bread. There’s bread.
I drag the tray inside and waste no time sinking to the floor and eating my dinner there, too hungry for anything resembling restraint. My hands tremble as I lift the bowl to my lips and drink.
The moment the hot liquid hits my stomach, it lurches, but I keep drinking, hoping I don’t make myself sick. I eat every bite of bread.
Then I lie on my back and enjoy the feeling of a slightly full stomach.
Hours pass like this, listening to the groaning of the inn, until hunger finds me again.
I curse the fact that I don’t have another set of clothing, before putting mine back on—they’re mostly dry—and slowly making my way downstairs, coin in hand.
I half expect to see Raker doing the same thing.
I half hope to see him, just so I won’t have to eat alone.
A warrior is staring up at me as I take the last step. But it’s not Raker.
“Look what we have here,” a deep voice drawls. “A human.” He’s sitting with an entire table of immortal knights, all in gleaming armor. A half dozen empty glasses sit in front of them. Just my luck.
I ignore him as I walk to the bar. I drop my coin, and the redheaded barmaid barely spares me a look before taking it, returning with a pile of unfamiliar carved metal, then a bowl of steaming soup.
My mouth waters when its smell hits me. I could devour the entire pot.
I begin to eat, as the chair beside me groans under the weight of a fully armored immortal.
Fantastic.
I keep my eyes on my soup. My inattention only seems to make him more interested.
“What is a mortal doing so far on our side? So close to the mists?” A thought seems to occur to him, and he slams his hand down onto the bar.
“Right. The quest. It’s about that time now.
” This close, I can smell the ale on his breath.
He only gets closer. “Humans are so ugly. So blemished. But you … you’re one of the prettier ones. ”
Wow, thanks, I think. I keep slurping my soup, hoping it will disgust him enough to leave me alone.
He doesn’t. He just studies me closer, ogling my body.
I see the moment his gaze finally lands on my back.
And the sword there. It took him a while, like he didn’t even entertain for a moment that I would have a weapon of value.
His easygoing grin fades. “Say, how did a girl as spindly as you get a sword like that?”
I sigh.
This is the best soup I’ve ever had. And he’s not letting me fucking enjoy it.
I gently place my spoon back into my soup. Slowly, I turn toward the annoying warrior. Voice sweet as honey, I say, “I won it when an immortal idiot interrupted my dinner.”
The bar goes silent.
Shit. You know, I probably shouldn’t have said that. But I did, so I lift my chin and don’t let a hint of my instant regret reach my face.
A second passes. Another.
Then the grin returns. The immortal warrior puts his hands up, stands, but in his eyes I see the shadow of something like fury, that I would dare stand up to him. Me, an insignificant mortal.
Fuck. And I was trying so hard to be pleasant.
The bar doesn’t return to its full swing of conversation.
I feel eyes on me as I finish the rest of my soup.
Even the barmaid is looking at me with a mixture of respect and pity that tells me I picked the wrong knight to talk back to.
All I want to do is go back to my room, lie in front of the hearth and pass out, but the group of warriors is still there.
Still glancing over at me. I don’t want them to know which room I’m sleeping in.
So I leave the bar and slip out into the rain-slicked streets. I’m grateful when I don’t hear steps behind me.
It doesn’t take me long to reach the immortal woman’s house. The light is on. Through the weathered window, I see her sitting at a table, poring over a book, reading by the light of a few scattered candles.
Before I can think better of it, I rap my knuckles softly against the glass.
Her head lifts immediately. Her eyes are fierce and protective—and they only slightly soften when they see it’s me. For a moment, I wonder if she isn’t going to let me in. She seems to be leaning in that direction. Then, with a sigh, she stands and walks over to the door. Opens it.
“Has there been trouble?” she asks. Her eyes flit up, toward where the boys sleep, and I know she’s likely regretting potentially having brought danger to her door.
“No,” I say quickly. There wasn’t really trouble … I hope. “I couldn’t sleep.”
She frowns. “Right. I have something for that, actually, if you want to take it.” With more than a little trepidation, she moves to the side and lets me in. The moment I step inside, the heat of the hearth hits me. My shoulders drop. Tension leaves me, in a rush.
This … this feels like a home. A place worn down by memories.
I can see them in the scuffs in the floorboards, in the scratches on the walls, in the sagging of certain cushions on the furniture, in the drained color of the carpet left near the window.
The house is quiet. The boys are sleeping.
But as I walk through to the living room, I can almost hear laughter stored in between the floorboards.
This house wears its memories. Just like mine did.
Glass clinks as the immortal woman rummages through rows and rows of vials. She searches with deft fingers, a fold between her brows, until she produces a violet liquid. “There,” she says. She turns to me. “Open your mouth.”
I blink at her.
She cocks her head at my hesitance. Her look says, If I wanted to harm you, I could have done it a long time ago.
It’s true. She was armed when we met, after all. And though I lied about why I’m here … my inability to sleep isn’t a lie at all. We have a long day ahead of us. My exhaustion could mean the difference between life and death.
I open my mouth. Two drops pierce my tongue.
Then she’s putting the vial away. I’m swallowing something that tastes faintly like flowers. “You’re … a healer.”
She nods.
It makes sense now. Why she would see knights often. And, judging from the behavior of the ones at the inn, it also makes sense why she would want to keep her children away from them.
She sits back down in her chair, the wood gently creaking. Then, a bit warily, she motions to the seat in front of her table, a simple stool. “The elixir will take a little while to work. Sit.”
Slowly, I do. She studies me. “You’re on the quest, then?”
I nod. No use in pretending otherwise. She looks me over. I wonder what she’s seeing. The undernourishment? The lack of any real, true muscle? The cuts already on my cheeks and hands?
“I assume … I assume you have a good reason” is all she says. A good reason for throwing myself into near-certain death for a cup of magic are the words she likely meant.
I can see in the shadow of concern on her face that she doesn’t think I’ll make it until the end. I can’t blame her.
But she can help me. If she’s a healer … if she knows about the mists, and the places beyond here …
“What is the Bone Woods? Is it dangerous?” I know the map. Now I realize what the lightly shaded area is. It’s unnamed, and takes up a large swath of land. Going around it would take several days we don’t have. Going through would be far easier …
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. A forest made of bone. And yes. Very. The mist is a prison. Housing creatures even the gods leave alone.”
The warm room seems to suddenly go cold. “Why?”
She lifts a shoulder. “They say they’re as old as the gods themselves. Older, maybe. All I know is entire armies have gone into the mists … never to be seen again.”
That sounds like a legend. I’ve learned by now that anything on this side is possible. But if she’s right … What is powerful enough to do that, beyond a god?
“Why go in at all, then?”
She purses her lips. I can see she’s weighing how much to say. How much to keep to herself. In the end, she must decide that I will likely die anyway, because she says, “There is a godsword in those mists.”
Godsword. That’s what Raker called the glowing crimson one, with the unsettling power.
“Which god’s sword?”
She shakes her head. “That I do not know. But heirs of Great Houses, and even gods themselves, have sent countless people inside looking for it.” She shrugs. “None of them return.”
My next question is dangerous. “Why don’t the gods go themselves?”
She just looks at me with her glittering violet eyes. I can see the simmer of something. She looks up. Not at the gods. At what she clearly cares about more—her children. Her words are measured. “The gods don’t put themselves in perilous situations. Not anymore.”
Not anymore? “Why?”