Chapter 19
NINETEEN
THE STREETS OF CYNING WERE NARROW, FRAMED BY ROWS OF wooden buildings so overhanging that Thia feared they might crumble, the sky a sliver between. The cobbles themselves might have been pretty, but they were coated in a putrid combination of dirt, garbage, and human refuse.
People were everywhere. Funneled between buildings, there was barely space to breathe, let alone move. Elbows knocked into her, jarring her injured wrist, and a cart would have crashed into her outright had Thran not yanked her back at the last second.
“Thanks,” Thia said, pulse hammering in her throat.
She straightened, brushing nervous hands down her jerkin as the cart tore down a side street, the driver bellowing warnings as people leapt out of the way of hooves and wheels.
She stared at the labyrinth in front of them, overwhelmed, following the twists of buildings upward to the black tower that loomed above it all. “Now what?”
Thran peered down at her, rubbing the stubble that had come in again since they’d left Aelfort. “Knock on doors,” he suggested. “Stop people in the street.”
Thia swallowed. The thought made her cringe, but for Oskaren’s sake she didn’t see what choice they had. “Let’s split up then. We’ll cover more ground.”
Thran nodded.
“And if you find someone”—goddamn lack of phones—“um, just head back to the others. Don’t wait for me.
I’ll do the same. And if you haven’t found anyone by sunset…
” She didn’t want to give up. But at that point, who knew what condition Oskaren would be in.
“Go back to the barn and see if I’m there with a healer.
Otherwise come back and keep searching.”
To her surprise, he shook his head. “There’s a curfew, lass. Anyone out past sunset will be arrested.”
Thia blinked. “Oh.”
“Aye,” he said. “We should meet here before dark. Find an inn and continue our search at dawn.”
“Okay.”
With a mutual nod of agreement, they turned and set off in different directions.
Thia took a deep breath, steeling herself as people barreled past her, never stopping to make eye contact or apologize.
She squared her shoulders, thinking of Oskaren’s shivering form to give her the courage to interrupt a stranger.
She scoured the faces closest to her, trying to pick a target and decided on a family of three who had come through the outer gate.
She had just opened her mouth to stop them, when someone collided with her back.
She turned, wincing. “Excuse me,” she started.
The man walked on, ignoring her.
There was a woman approaching from the opposite direction, basket in hand. “Hey,” Thia tried again, louder this time. The woman stopped. “I need a healer.”
She shook her head and brushed by.
Shit. Thia was no good at this. She wasn’t assertive enough. She’d done her best to avoid people most of her life, and now that was going to get Oskaren killed.
There was a man on a horse rounding the corner, his clothes bright and luxurious. Thia waved her good hand, and when he didn’t acknowledge her, she lurched forward and touched his boot. “Please,” she started.
He peered down at her with a disgusted yelp and kicked his horse into motion. It trotted away from her, and he did not spare a backward glance.
Deciding people at the gates were too focused on their destinations, Thia set off deeper into the city. She turned left and knocked on the first door. No answer. Another door. This one opened, but was quickly slammed in her face by a woman with a child on each hip, a third clutching her leg.
Urgency clawed Thia’s throat. She pushed her way down street after street, but no one would help. Few were polite; one man was kind but only told her that healers never worked without pay, and the likes of her couldn’t afford the fare.
She walked until her feet ached, until her throat was raw from screaming over the city noise to get people’s attention. She was thirsty, and her stomach rumbled painfully. She prayed Thran had fared better.
But when the sun was gone beyond the walls of the city, and the sky began to darken, she returned to the gate to see that he hadn’t. He was waiting with a furrowed brow that relaxed when he noticed her approach.
“No luck?” he asked, as she halted in front of him.
“No one would help. No one would even look at me.”
“They’re afraid.”
Thia’s gaze jumped to his. “Of me?”
“Of everyone. They’ve lived too long in the shadow of the Lightning Tower.”
Thia shivered. She couldn’t let herself dwell on that tower, and the king within. She had to focus on saving Oskaren.
“We best get off the streets.” His sight was on the horizon. “Come. I saw an inn that way.” He set off in the opposite direction, leaving Thia to fall into step behind him.
To her relief, the inn wasn’t far, perhaps ten minutes or so.
They reached it just as the Lightning Tower lit up.
This close, the pillar of energy was terrifying.
It flashed for only its usual second, but it cast the city in an eerie yellow glow, and the boom of thunder that accompanied it nearly sent Thia to her knees.
Heat washed over her, hungry and strange, and then it was gone, leaving her panting.
Thran was grim as he ushered her into the alcove of the inn’s entrance. “That’s curfew. Hurry.”
The inn was a decrepit place, wooden beams damp and rotting.
The sign above read The King’s Command, and Thia wondered if that was its original name or if they had been forced to change it at some point upon King Caradoc’s rise to the throne.
Thran pressed the creaky door open, and Thia scrambled after.
She was short but still had to duck through the arch to enter.
Inside was dim and musty, a hearth on the far wall empty of flame.
There was a bar to the left, only one patron seated at it, his face obscured by a hood.
After the noise of the city, it was eerily quiet, the only sound the creak of wooden steps as a young woman in a plain brown dress descended.
She had white skin that looked as though it couldn’t remember the touch of sunlight, her hair a pale gold swept into a bun.
She glanced between Thran and Thia. “You cut it close.”
Thran nodded. “We was lookin’ fer a healer.”
Thia’s attention flickered to the older man. His accent had definitely changed, the words clipped, more tentative. He flashed her a meaningful look, and she hoped her face was clear of surprise.
“Hard to come by these days,” the woman said. “I’m Mara. How can I help you?”
“Need a room fer me ‘n’ my daughter, if you’ve got it,” he said.
“Oh, we’ve got it,” Mara replied. “Few spend the night in Cyning, if they can help it.” She sounded bitter. There were purple circles under her eyes visible even in the dim, a weary stoop to her shoulders. “Letter of entrance?”
Thran showed her the parchment the guards had provided and she nodded. “Thank you.”
“Do you run this place by yourself?” Thia asked.
Mara glanced at her. “Since my father was called in the last conscription.” She bowed.
“A great honor to serve His Majesty.” It was hard to tell, since she was a stranger, and her tone was light and airy, but Thia thought there was a hint of sarcasm in it.
She straightened. “I’ll show you to the room. ”
They followed her upstairs and down a hall that was just as damp and dark as the rest of the inn.
She paused at a door halfway down the hall.
“It will be sixteen coppers for the night,” she said, and Thia admired her confidence.
“Twenty and I can scrounge up some bread, though I can’t promise it’s fresh. ”
Thran pulled out the coin pouch from Lord Sagan. “We’ll take th’ bread,” he said, depositing the requested amount.
Mara’s hands closed around the coins a little too quickly, her knuckles a little too white. At the hunger in her eyes, Thia wondered when the last time was that the woman had been paid. She departed, leaving them to inspect their lodgings.
Two twin beds marked either side of a room barely the size of Grandma Winnie’s closet back home. There was a small window at the far end, a nook below it perfect for sitting, which seemed to occur to Thran as well, as he crossed the room and sank into it.
Thia closed the door behind her. “Nice accent.”
“Sorry,” he said, and seemed to genuinely mean it. “I didn’t want to draw attention.”
“To what?”
He looked at her, then away, and she thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he slowly raised his sleeve, revealing a mark on his wrist—no, not a mark, a tattoo. Of a flower, in black ink. “An Aster,” he said, tracing it with his thumb. “The mark of a scribe.”
Thia sat on the bed farthest from him, closest to the door, and stuffed her hands under her thighs. “A scribe?”
“Keepers of history. At least we were, before the purge.” He read the question on her face and continued. “Every scribe was ordered to the Lightning Tower, upon accusations of falsifying information. Most were killed.”
Perhaps Thran was in more danger here than Dess. It hadn’t occurred to her, but everyone in Black Forest was displaced. Guilt squirmed in her stomach. “How did you—”
A knock sounded at the door.
Thran tugged his sleeve down abruptly. “Come in.”
Mara entered, a tray of bread and two cups of water in hand. She’d managed to scrounge up some cheese as well, though its white flesh was interspersed with suspicious green spots.
“Yer too kind,” Thran said, voice changing again. He nodded at the cheese.
Mara set the tray on the table and departed with polite well wishes for their rest. Thia ripped the bread in half, handing a chunk to Thran, along with some water.
“Thanks, lass,” he said.
“You’re good at that,” she commented, referring to his accent shift.
He took a sip of water. “It’s not difficult. That’s the cadence of my youth, before I studied.”
“How did you survive the Lightning Tower?” He’d fled surely. Left some other poor soul to die in his place.
But he said, “I never made it that far,” and tore into the bread.