Chapter 26 Wren
Afew days later, Cassiel requests to go to a tavern he used to frequent before he lost his sight. I know far better than to question this.
“Where is it?” is all I ask.
He gives me instructions and we set off immediately. I’ve not visited it before, but it isn’t hard to get there. It’s a remote place, outside of the city wall, frequented by travellers. It’s unassuming from the outside, rundown but quiet on the afternoon we choose to visit.
“This place?” I query as we dismount, tying up the horses.
Cassiel smiles. “Don’t judge with your eyes, Thornvale.”
He strides forward, cane in hand—straight into a low-hanging awning. He lets out a sharp exhale, stumbling back a step.
I muffle a snort. Cassiel shoots me a dangerous look.
“I am so sorry—” I start.
“Are you laughing at a blind man walking into something?”
“I mean… I’m trying not to,” I say, well aware that the amusement in my voice betrays me.
“I can’t believe this.” Cassiel places a hand over his heart in mock offence. “My own guard, mocking my suffering.”
“I said I’m trying not to!” I pause, trying to sober myself. “Does your head hurt?”
“Yes, quite a bit, actually,” he admits, rubbing the sore spot.
I sigh, stepping closer. “Come here, precious prince,” I say, tilting his chin towards me. “Let me see.”
My fingers brush lightly over the spot, testing for swelling. He holds still. There’s no blood, only the smallest of bumps. He’ll probably have a bruise tomorrow. “I think you’ll live.”
“How reassuring,” he murmurs. “Though I can’t say the same for my dignity.”
I bite back another smile. “Oh, that died long ago.”
Cassiel huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Remind me why I let you guard my life again?”
“Because no one else will tell you when you’re being an idiot,” I remind him. “And I think you find that quite refreshing.”
A smile plays in the corner of his mouth. He tucks his arm into mine. “Tell no one.”
“About the awning, or the fact you’re an idiot—”
“Oh, shut up,” he says, elbowing me in the side. “Come. Lead me inside.”
The tavern’s wooden door creaks as I push it open, releasing the scent of old books, spiced ale, and burning logs.
A warmth rolls over us. It’s dimly lit, mostly by lanterns that cast golden glows on the walls, illuminating quotes and lines of poetry scrawled in different hands, some neat, some messy.
A few are carved directly into the wood.
Bookshelves line the farthest wall, stacked haphazardly with tomes that have clearly been read and reread a hundred times.
In the corner, an older man sits on a low stool, weaving a tale to a small gathering of patrons.
His voice rises and falls like the tide, and I catch fragments of a story about a cursed knight and the lover who saved him.
The tables are scattered, most of them round, each with a collection of mismatched chairs.
Some patrons sit alone, noses deep in books, while others speak in hushed tones over drinks.
A few travellers in worn cloaks frequent the place, their boots muddy from the road, their weapons resting within easy reach.
Despite its unassuming exterior, the place thrums with quiet energy, the kind that promises stories and secrets in equal measure.
Cassiel moves confidently towards the bar, though I remain close in case he collides with anything else. The barkeeper, a broad-shouldered man with a greying beard, looks up from drying a tankard and stills.
“Well, well,” he says, setting the cup down. “Haven’t seen you in some time.”
Cassiel smiles, resting a hand lightly on the worn countertop. “Well, I haven’t seen anyone in a long time.”
The barkeeper goes deathly silent.
“That was a joke, Arlen,” Cassiel says. “You’re allowed to laugh. She always does.”
He gestures over his shoulder. I’m not standing there, so I quickly shuffle into position, offering a polite wave. “Serawen Thornvale,” I say. “The prince’s lackey.”
“You’re not my—” He glares. “See what I have to put up with, Arlen? Honestly. She’s the worst thing about this whole blind business.”
Arlen clearly doesn’t know what to make of the two of us. He starts pouring drinks instead. “Heard about the accident.” He says. His voice lacks pity, just simple acknowledgement. “Good to see you up and about.”
“Good to be up and about,” Cassiel replies. “Mead still any good?”
Arlen huffs. “Better than whatever they serve in the city.” He slides two tankards in our direction. “And your usual table’s still where you left it.”
I glance at Cassiel, surprised by how familiar he seems with the place. He feels my look and smirks. “I used to spend a lot of time here.”
I look around again, taking in the books, the walls covered in words, the storyteller still spinning his tale in the corner.
“You come for the stories,” I realise.
Cassiel’s smirk softens into something almost fond. “The mead isn’t bad either.” He takes a couple of coins out of his purse and slams them down on the counter. “I think those are the right ones,” he says. “Don’t short change me now, Arlen. My guard has a terrible temper.”
I collect the tankards and head towards the table in the corner. Cassiel follows, cane banging against the furniture. “Towards you,” I remind him. “I have a terrible temper towards you. I’m as patient as a saint with everyone else.”
Cassiel smiles. “You’re fairly patient with me too,” he says, taking his seat.
“Another compliment, prince? Do be careful. I’ll have trouble guarding you if I can’t fit my big head through the door.”
Cassiel chuckles into his tankard. I take a sip of mine.
It’s not strong, and my fey blood prevents me from becoming easily inebriated.
It’s deliciously sweet, though not a patch on the nectar we serve in the Moonhollow.
I’ve a sudden longing to share that with Cassiel, and then feel ridiculous for such a thought ever entering my mind.
Cassiel will never go to the Moonhollow.
He’ll never drink pure nectar juice or our blackberry wine.
He’ll never hear our music or dance at our revels.
He’ll never experience the golden springs or inhale the scent of magic.
My eyes sweep the room. It’s a better use of my time than imagining Cassiel in the forest. The patrons are a mix of travellers, merchants, and scholars, their worn cloaks and ink-stained fingers a testament to the road and the stories they gather along the way.
Everyone seems unremarkable at first… until I spot three figures sitting in the far corner.
They’re dressed plainly, but almost too plainly. Their muted browns and greens blend into one pristine, homogeneous colour. There’s not a speck of dirt on them. The candlelight bends oddly around them, illuminating the subtle shimmer of glamour, like the skin of a bubble.
Fey.
My breath stills.
There’s no need to panic. They haven’t followed us here. There’s no reason to suspect they mean us any harm. I’ve frequented many a tavern myself. They should be allowed to be here.
But still, something about them unsettles me. I don’t like the way they’re watching us.
I keep my movements natural, relaxing my posture even as my mind sharpens. I doubt they recognise me—my glamour is minor, just enough to mask my eyes—but I drop it anyway. At a distance, the gold is less of a giveaway than glamour marks.
A plan forms swiftly. I down my tankard and whip out a knife, scrawling a faint etching on the bottom.
A listening rune. Cassiel is paying attention to the storyteller and doesn’t have any inkling of what I’m doing, and I carefully angle my tankard away from the fey.
The etching finished, I take it to the bar for a refill, only to slip the barmaid a coin.
“Place this on the table next to theirs.”
She gives me a look, but takes it without fuss.
On the way back, I swipe an empty tankard from another table, and daub a matching rune on the bottom. “Lista,” I whisper, drawing on the air around me. The ancient fey word for a listening spell.
The enchantment hums to life, and faint voices filter through the tankard. I lift it to my ear, grateful Cassiel can’t see this. I lean towards the wall, hiding what I’m doing as best I can from anyone else.
“…reckon we could have some sport with that one,” one of them says.
A slow, cold anger curls in my stomach.
The other hums. “He’s got a guard with him.”
“He’s got one guard with him.”
“That’s got to be Prince Cassiel, right? If we hurt him, his mother—”
“His mother would give us a fortune for his safe return.”
I tighten my grip on the table’s edge.
Cassiel, oblivious, takes a sip of his mead. “Fancy a game of darts, Thornvale?”
“Ssh,” I tell him.
“Did you just ‘ssh’ me?”
“Cassiel, I need you to be quiet.”
He freezes. “Is there a problem?”
“Maybe.”
“Wren, tell me—”
I reach across with my free hand and catch his.
Cassiel goes still at the touch, his fingers tense beneath mine.
I lower the tankard, mind racing. The fey are considering kidnapping him.
I could fight them, but I have no idea what magic they possess—or if there are more of them hidden in the tavern.
We need to leave. Now, whilst they’re still debating it.
I keep my voice low and steady. “We’re going.”
Cassiel frowns. “What? But I—”
“Now.” I squeeze his hand for emphasis, then stand, keeping my movements calm so as not to draw attention. He hesitates, but something in my tone must strike him, because he doesn’t argue. He simply rises, cane in hand.
I guide him towards the door, keeping my body between him and the fey. We make it halfway across the tavern before I hear movement behind us. The unmistakable scrape of chairs, the shuffle of boots.
Damn it.
We step outside into the cool evening air, but the moment the door swings shut behind us, I hear it open again.
“Keep going,” I say. We reach the horses. I untie them both from the post, force Cassiel onto his, turn his horse towards the road—
The three fey stand between us and the road.