16. Chapter Fifteen #3
But that wasn't the most concerning part of it all.
Fae. A potential Fae god, here in Anamcroí. Impossible. I thought of the Elder Sgàthánwing’s words. Fae do not walk the Seventh Realm.
And yet, one was right in front of me, leveling with me in a quiet stand-off. If he knew my secret, then I also knew his—and I was sure that he wanted something from me and was silently scheming all the ways in which he would get it.
This was very, very bad.
Branwyn slid a goblet toward me, grin fading when she saw my face. Her gaze dropped to my wrist, where his hand had been, then flicked back up. She knew me well enough to know that I'd just had a vision.
My mouth went dry. I forced a swallow, forcing my fingers to curl around the cup as if nothing had happened, though my skin still felt flayed open.
Davorin leaned back, saying nothing. He just sat there with that knowing smile and those eyes that had seen too much.
I excused myself with what I prayed looked casual. The corridor to the wash rooms was mercifully dim. Stone walls muffled laughter and dice. My pulse hammered against my ribs, louder than the fiddle.
Godsdamnit. If Tairngire’s alias was Eryndor Vale, a king from one of Aeos Sítheann's fairytales, and he had known Davorin by name, that meant he knew.
Knew there was a Fae walking Anamcroí unbidden.
It shouldn’t have been possible, according to everything I’d read about the mysterious race. And yet I’d seen it. Felt it. Aeos Sítheann itself, pressing into me the instant that Davorin grabbed my wrist.
I braced against the washroom wall, my breath scraping my throat.
My head was spinning. I knew that Tairngire was capable of hiding his divinity when he chose to do so, but I thought that gift was something only gods could do.
Was that true? Or could any Fae also dim themselves, remove themselves from the Weave?
The worst part of all of this was that Davorin had witnessed a vision take me, and I didn't know whether or not I could trust him.
Damnit, I needed to go check on Branwyn.
When I slipped back into the pub, the atmosphere hit me like a tidal wave.
It seemed louder than before, every sound assaulting my ears.
I made my way back to the table and found Davorin lounging lazily, one arm slung over a chair.
Branwyn sat opposite him, her cheeks flushed from the wine, laughing too easily.
She twirled her goblet stem like a girl sixteen moons younger.
I knew her too well not to see it. She was enchanted.
Not glamoured—Branwyn was far too clever for that—but softened, lured by whatever subtle Fae trickery Davorin had undoubtedly wove into the air.
I slid back into my seat, spine stiff, and caught an unfamiliar scent.
Sweet, cloying—mead steeped with honeycomb and wildflowers.
A scent that begged for indulgence. It curled into my chest, coaxing me toward the full goblet Branwyn had left.
I narrowed my eyes, darting them between my only friend and this imposing threat.
I shouldn’t take a drink. Every bone in me screamed I shouldn’t.
One of us needed to stay alert. But my faculties were being invaded.
Drink, I heard a strange, coaxing voice echo in my head, let loose for once.
You’re far too stiff. Besides, you deserve this, don’t you?
A night out with your friend? To enjoy the company of an exotic stranger?
You constantly fight against the chains that bind you, this is your chance to break them. Go on…take a sip. You want this.
My fingers wrapped around the stem. I hesitated for a short moment, then the sweet wine was burning down my throat before I could stop myself.
Davorin’s gaze flicked to me, laughter in it, before shifting back to Branwyn. He was mid-story, some tale of a ship caught in a storm off Vethryn Hold. His voice was warm, like honeycakes on a hot day. The tavern noise dimmed as he spoke.
Branwyn was giggling.
Giggling.
The untouchable Crone of Anamcroí had her chin propped in her palm, hanging on his every word like a maiden in love.
I scrunched my nose in disgust, pressing the goblet rim too tightly against my lip.
Suspicion invaded every part of me. I was starting to come back to my senses, but the truth was, Davorin didn’t feel dangerous.
Strange and unusual sure, a little smarmy around the edges—but also, familiar in a way that just didn’t make any sense.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the honey-sweet scent drifting through the air. But for the first time in years, I actually wanted…to laugh.
Which should have terrified me, but I was enthralled.
His stories spilled one after another, stitched with wit and rhythm that pulled even the dice players nearby into half-listening. Tales of slipping past kings with jewels in his boots, of crossing mountains in dead winter with nothing but firelight and arrogance to keep him alive.
Branwyn drank it in, her laughter loud enough to draw looks. I took another sip of wine, watching him more than listening—tracking his hands, the glimmer of intelligence behind the charm.
Because beneath every jest was something else.
Truths tucked like needles in silk. A city name here, an old phrase there.
Things no ordinary mercenary should know.
Familiarity continued to pump through my senses, though it truly didn’t belong.
I didn’t know this man, but that vision had given me a sense of… what was that? Trust? Companionship?
When Branwyn leaned forward to ask about some foreign queen, I set my goblet down. Hard. All of these contradictory feelings were overwhelming, so I grabbed at what seemed to be the last bit of my sanity.
“This is all very entertaining,” I said, my eyes narrowing. “But what’s your angle, Kesh?”
His smirk slid toward me, lazy but edged. It quickly morphed into a look of surprise, like he couldn’t quite believe that I’d managed to ask him a serious question.
“Angle?” He tasted the word like wine too sweet on the tongue.
I waved a hand through the air. “You walk into taverns dressed like a storybook villain, see through glamours you shouldn’t, and sit at our table spinning tales. You want something. Everyone around here does. So, what is it for you?”
“What I want,” he said slowly, weighing each word, “is freedom.” A pause. “And maybe…company that doesn’t bore me to tears,” he said, quieter.
The answer was too simple, yet it didn’t feel like a lie.
But I knew it wasn't a complete truth, either.
“So what say you, Seer? Do you live a little tonight, or let him control who you associate with?”
Confirmation that he knew exactly who I was, and he was offering nothing but companionship. The fact that he also seemed to dislike Tairngire was winning him bonus points with me.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until Branwyn’s elbow nudged me under the table, her grin wicked as ever. That was all it took. If the realms were about to go up in flames, I might as well take some risks.
I decided to live a little.
An hour and three more glasses of wine later, Branwyn finally pried herself away from the tavern with a grin that said she’d enjoyed herself far too much at my expense. She hugged me tight, then vanished into the square, glamour flickering once in the torchlight before she was gone.