Chapter 30
Blaze
After the peaceful tranquillity of the forest, the bustling province of Wellwall is something of a shock to the system.
All around us, the air is thick – from the acrid grey smoke funnelling out of crooked chimneys to the sweet-smelling, multi-coloured vapour lingering above stalls selling anything from love potions to honeycakes.
Terrathian men in green waistcoats spill out of taverns, puffing on cherrywood pipes, or stand gathered round fires built to ward off the cool breeze blowing in from the north.
Judging by the unseasonable chill in the air, it appears King Balen is growing restless.
My gaze lingers on the chain round Fox’s neck, trying not to smirk as I picture his uncle holed up in the Marble Palace, puzzling over a useless replica. I only wonder how long it’ll take him to find out the truth – about the Eyes, and about Grandmother’s decoys.
We wouldn’t have risked coming here at all if it weren’t for Cedar throwing a shoe. He’s plodding along grumpily, muzzle twitching as we pass a cart of shiny pink apples. Fox gives in and buys him one, tossing another to me. I catch it deftly in one hand.
He nods approvingly. ‘Your reflexes are getting better.’
‘I know,’ I reply, a little smugly.
The corners of his mouth quirk upward. I’m just raising the apple to my lips when he snatches it right out of my grip and takes a large bite.
‘But there’s always room for improvement,’ he adds, grinning at me while he chews.
I snatch it back, trying my best to scowl.
I can’t help noticing that things between us have felt …
different these past few days. Grief is heavy, and ever since he told me about Freya, Fox seems lighter.
He was reluctant at first, defensive to the point of anger.
Yet it wasn’t me he needed to confront, but rather his own loss.
His refusal to let himself feel it. I looked at him, and I saw myself.
For years, I bottled up my grief as though it were poison in a glass vial.
I swallowed it down again and again, in the hope that one day it would run dry. But I was wrong.
Sometimes, the only way to survive pain is to accept it.
Scout pokes her head out of Fox’s satchel and licks his hand. Her unexpected arrival is yet another reason for his good humour, though I can’t seem to account for her absence.
‘She’s a wild animal – she goes where she pleases,’ Fox had insisted, as said wild animal curled up to sleep in his lap.
The road is wide and winding and lined with all manner of stores – apothecaries and butchers, glassblowers and cobblers, even a tailor claiming to sell the finest Vosti silks.
It’s not long before the sign we’re seeking swings into view. The blacksmith, a squat man with an unkempt beard, stands outside his forge, hammer in hand.
‘My horse requires a shoe,’ Fox tells him.
‘Please,’ I add pointedly.
The blacksmith shakes his head. ‘Won’t be ready till tomorrow.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ Fox says firmly. ‘We need it now.’
‘Can’t be done. I’m snowed under. The Baron’s ordered a ton of new weaponry for his fighting pit.’
‘Fighting pit?’ I repeat.
‘Mm-hm. There’s nothing the Baron of Wellwall enjoys more than a brawl. Come back in the morning at first light.’ He gestures vaguely. ‘You’ll find an inn round that corner.’
Fox frowns and tugs me aside to talk privately. ‘I don’t like this,’ he mutters.
He’s right to be cautious. We were supposed to be in and out before anyone gave us a second glance.
‘It’s not ideal,’ I agree. ‘But you said yourself that without a properly fitted shoe, Cedar could end up injuring himself.’
Fox rakes a hand through his hair, his expression torn.
‘Besides,’ I continue, ‘the people believe that you’re on a ship bound for the far corners of the earth and that I’m holed up in a safe house.’
I glance in the direction of the inn. Foolish or not, I can’t deny that the idea of a few hours of comfort appeals to me. ‘Just think, a meal that doesn’t involve digging through soil. Proper beds. Pillows. Pudding …’
Fox rolls his eyes, but I can sense his resolve beginning to weaken.
‘It’s just one night,’ I add.
‘Fine,’ he says, handing Cedar’s reins to the blacksmith. ‘Just one night.’
The inn itself appears fairly rundown – a patchwork of crumbling bricks threaded with moss and covered in browning ivy.
Yet the view beyond the doors is a vast deal more inviting.
The hall is littered with stools and spindle-legged tables piled high with food and wine, and suspended from the beamed ceiling are several cast-iron chandeliers dripping wax.
A fire crackles in the hearth, enveloping the room in a delicious wave of heat.
Patrons crowd the bar, while others are hunched over tankards of mead.
A group of young men sit with their heads together at the far side of the room, half obscured by a large barrel of ale.
I edge round a cluster of raucous old women towards a table tucked in the corner, directly underneath a portrait of Queen Aspen.
The likeness is impressive, with the artist even having managed to capture her slightly dreamy countenance.
By all accounts, the Grove – the towering forest the queen called home – is in mourning for its fallen leader. Leaves whisper and wail, the trees drooping under the weight of their grief. Being Terrathian, she was buried – laid to rest in the earth for all eternity.
It’s only then I notice Fox’s expression, the guilt creasing his brow.
‘Want to sit somewhere else?’ I ask.
He swallows, then shakes his head and drops on to a stool.
I take the seat opposite and begin to pick at a bit of dried wax, avoiding his gaze. I wonder what the people of Wellwall would do if they knew the boy who killed their queen was sitting in their midst.
‘What was she like?’ I ask. ‘Queen Aspen.’
‘Gentle,’ he tells me. ‘Powerful. Unfailingly kind, even to me. Though I always suspected she was a little scared of me, too.’
I huff a laugh. ‘The whole palace was scared of you.’
Fox drops his voice to a whisper. ‘And you, Storm Weaver?’ The grin spreads across his face as slowly as the blush spreads across mine. ‘Were you scared of me?’
Yes.
‘No,’ I lie.
At that moment the innkeeper – a sturdy, ruddy-cheeked woman in a gravy-splattered apron – plonks a flagon of floral-smelling ale on the table between us. ‘Pleasant evening, my dears. What brings you to Wellwall?’
Fox bestows upon her his most dazzling smile. ‘Just passing through.’
The innkeeper beams back at him and pours us both a cup of ale before winking at me. ‘He’s easy on the eyes, isn’t he?’
Feeling myself turn from pink to crimson, I reach for my cup and take a large gulp as an excuse not to answer her.
‘You know, I’ve been told I look like the Earth Cleaver,’ Fox says mildly.
I choke on the ale and begin to cough.
The innkeeper pats me on the back. ‘Really? Well, he’s a devil, no doubt, but I’ve heard he’s a handsome one.’
Fox jerks his chin at me. ‘She certainly thinks so.’
If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under.
That’s when the three of us become aware of a disgruntled growling sound. It appears Scout is beginning to lose her patience.
Clearing his throat, Fox pushes his satchel further under the table with his foot and rubs his stomach theatrically. ‘I seem to have worked up an appetite.’
The innkeeper bustles off to fetch us some food.
I glower darkly at him, but the severity is somewhat discredited by an uncontrollable bout of hiccups.
‘What?’ Fox says innocently.
‘You –’ hiccup – ‘are –’ hiccup – ‘unbelievable.’
Though I find myself mellowing considerably when the innkeeper returns with plates heaped with roasted rabbit, salted rye bread, potatoes swimming in butter and sprinkled with rosemary, carrots, cabbage and green beans, and, for dessert, two helpings of gooseberry pie and cream.
I close my eyes while I eat, savouring every mouthful.
‘Sure you’re not missing my root stew?’ Fox asks.
‘Quite sure.’ I crack open an eye and watch him slip the rabbit off his plate and into his satchel for Scout. ‘Aren’t you keeping some for yourself?’
‘I don’t eat meat,’ he tells me.
‘Ever?’
He shakes his head.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t believe in killing animals.’
I arch a brow. ‘Only people?’
He shrugs, stabbing a carrot. ‘People can be cruel, and inherently selfish. But not animals. A wild animal kills because it’s in their nature. A person kills because they choose to. For them, it’s instinctive. For us, it’s personal.’
I frown, chewing slowly. ‘But … but they say you’re a hunter. That you hunt magical creatures for sport.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Fox agrees. ‘They also say I’m a slaver. That I snatch innocents and condemn them to a life of servitude.’
‘And you’re telling me you don’t do either of these things?’
‘You seem unconvinced.’
‘Can you blame me?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I can’t.’
I study his face as I swirl the contents of my cup. ‘Just because the Cleaving was an accident doesn’t mean you haven’t done other deplorable things.’
‘True. And believe me, I’ve done many deplorable things.’ He smirks a little. ‘But I have nothing to gain from refuting these claims, especially since I had a large hand in concocting them. All the best lies have an element of truth. It made concealing what I was really doing so much easier.’
‘Which was?’ I eye him sceptically.
‘I did hunt magical creatures,’ he admits, spearing a potato. ‘But not to kill them, or turn their bodies into trophies.’
‘Then why?’
‘Because I wanted to study them. Most of the books you’ve read about the Otherlands are outdated.
Countless native species have gone undiscovered for years, and not just animals, but plants, too.
A great number are deadly, but many possess healing qualities that outrival anything I could forage here. Like lachrymortis, for instance.’
‘What’s lachrymortis?’ I ask.