Chapter 30 #2
‘According to legend, there was once a Magi warrior who died bravely in battle,’ Fox says.
‘Yet he was favoured by the Gods, and as his wife wept over his body, from her spilled tears grew an ancient tree. It was said that if you drank from its veins, it could heal any wound. It was destroyed during the war, but I possess the two remaining vials of elixir.’
‘Oh.’ I blink, taken aback. Then my eyes narrow once more. ‘And … and what about the slaving? How do you explain that?’
Fox takes a deep breath. ‘Ever since my grandfather won the war, the people of the Otherlands have lived in fear of the slave ships that arrive every year to take their children.’
I grimace, thinking of Elva.
‘It’s true that my own ship was used to transport slaves,’ he continues. ‘But I wasn’t taking them, I was … returning them.’
I stare at him.
‘I knew the routes the Ostacrian slavers followed,’ he continues.
‘It wasn’t difficult to hijack their ships.
My crew and I styled ourselves as pirates.
We took everything. Sometimes we’d even take the slavers themselves and abandon them on a distant isle with no means of getting home.
Other times …’ He trails off, reaching across the table to brush his fingers against mine.
I catch a glimpse of blood-slicked decks, the sound of desperate pleas before the men are tossed overboard, their screams swallowed by the sea as the waiting sirens drag them under.
‘Well, as you can see, they got what they deserved.’
My lips part in surprise. ‘And the slaves?’
‘We took them back to the Otherlands. Left them in boats just off the shore.’
‘How often did you do this?’
‘As often as I could, but never enough to be noticeable,’ says Fox.
‘A handful of alleged shipwrecks could slip under the radar, but not dozens. I had to be careful. I couldn’t save them all, but I could save some.
’ He catches sight of my incredulous expression and shrugs a shoulder.
‘I told you before, I abhor injustice. To enslave another person, to take away their freedom – there is nothing more unjust, more immoral, than that.’
Slowly, I set down my knife and fork and fold my arms, my mind spinning. Fox watches me, his green eyes scanning my face.
Eventually, I mutter, ‘I can never figure you out.’
Which makes him smile.
We finish our food, scraping up every mouthful of gooseberry pie. I even save my last piece of rabbit for Scout.
The inn continues to fill up around us, a cacophony of voices and laughter.
It doesn’t escape my notice that several heads turn in our direction, gazes snagging on me and lingering.
With relief, I realize that it’s not recognition I see in their eyes, nor the hatred or fear I’ve learned to expect as a result.
Instead, the looks are oddly … appreciative.
I’m not so naive as to be unaware of my own appearance.
I am my mother’s daughter, after all. It’s just that in my experience, the way I looked never had any bearing on how I was treated.
With a reputation like mine, beauty proved of little consequence.
In truth, I considered it wasted on me. But here, I’m not the Storm Weaver.
These people don’t look at me and see a murderer, or a changeling, or a freak.
They don’t see a future queen or a fugitive.
They just see a girl. Someone to be admired, not reviled.
Yet while flattering, I admit I find even this favourable attention somewhat uncomfortable, and so, it appears, does Fox.
I watch as one boy nudges his friend and whispers something, then pales as he catches sight of Fox’s expression.
I sip my ale, not entirely sure whether this possessive display is all part of the act. Yet I soon find myself at risk of choking a second time, for when the innkeeper shuffles over to refill my cup, Fox leans back in his chair and announces, ‘We’d like a room, please.’
‘Two rooms,’ I correct, glaring at him.
The innkeeper smiles knowingly. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’
I blush.
‘Something like that,’ Fox says breezily.
‘What’re you doing?’ I hiss, kicking him under the table.
‘You really want to risk being separated?’ he whispers back, wincing. ‘Besides, my brother didn’t exactly offer me the keys to the treasury before I was hounded from the palace. I can barely afford this meal, let alone Cedar’s shoe.’
The innkeeper clicks her tongue. ‘Well, then, what’s it to be? One room or two?’
‘One.’
‘Two.’
The woman plants her hands on her hips, clearly amused.
I change tack, glancing admiringly round the inn. ‘You seem like you run a respectable establishment here.’
Fox raises an eyebrow.
The innkeeper puffs out her chest. ‘That I do, dear.’
‘Then I’m afraid we can’t possibly share a room,’ I declare triumphantly. ‘Because we aren’t married.’
‘Well, not yet,’ says Fox.
I stare at him, dumbstruck.
He smiles affectionately at me. ‘My bride-to-be is understandably concerned for her reputation, but I simply can’t allow her out of my sight. Especially not with these vultures circling. It would be only a matter of time before one of them carried her off.’
I could strangle him.
The innkeeper winks conspiratorially at us, then taps her nose and passes Fox a large bronze key. ‘One room it is.’
He barely has time to hand her a few coins before I’ve snatched the key and stormed off towards the staircase. I’ve barely made it halfway when I’m stopped in my tracks by a low whistle, followed by an unfamiliar voice. ‘Wait! You there.’
The speaker is one of the men in the opposite corner, those partially concealed by a barrel of ale.
My heart plummets into the soles of my boots. For crowded round the table, their silvery-grey armour reflecting the flickering candlelight, are four Ventalla soldiers.