Chapter 7
Mythos’s gate is just as imposing in the inky black and grays of night as it is during the day. Two braziers burn atop the towering stone wall, where a guard trains his bow on me. His chainmail glints in the firelight. “Halt!” he yells, eyeing my weaponry. “What brings you to Mythos?”
“I’m a traveler seeking lodging,” I answer.
He yells something over his shoulder, and a scribe scurries out from a door in the wall. She yawns as she checks my documents, then scribbles my name on her parchment. “Welcome to Mythos,” she mumbles. Then she trudges back into the wall, where an oil lamp illuminates cramped beds.
Beyond the gate, the road continues to slope upward. The capital was built along the gradual incline of Mount Drottheim’s base. Its snow-capped peak overlooks the city as if the gods rest atop it. Now, the mountain cuts the sky apart, a mysterious void of stars.
A memory pulls me to the eastern wall. I scale a trellis that winds up the side of a floral shop and peek over the wall.
The landscape is beautiful, the rippling night sky reflected in the Bay of Teeth.
Each bobbing light from boats moored at the docks is a bright star swaddled in inky black.
Verdant forests trace the coastline, then continue for miles.
Dad and I spent an eternity admiring this sight the first time he brought me to Mythos. The memory fades as I climb down.
I jump the last few feet, and a sharp pain jolts up my ankles. That was a moronic idea after walking for hours. I need to find Hawthorn Inn and rent a bed before the blisters on my feet pop.
Some of the half-timber shops I pass are dark. Others are warm with candlelight. No one would be awake in Nettlerock save the nightly patrol. Here, idle chatter spills through open windows. It’s invigorating how a place can be alive even as dawn approaches.
I wander the streets and consider asking for directions just as I spy a tavern overflowing with music and raucous laughter.
Two drunks stumble out, singing in ear-splitting discordance.
A patrolling guard barks at them to be quiet, and they sway down another street.
The sign hanging over the doorway is painted with five-petaled white flowers.
In cursive are the words Hawthorn Inn. Maybe this bit of luck is a good omen.
In the doorway, I pause to revel in the sharp aroma of spiced autumn stew.
The cacophony is even louder inside: bawdy mistresses fawning over gamblers, the shuffling of cards on rickety tables, and an off-key minstrel howling an ode to Elowyn.
Someone throws an apple wedge at him. He scowls, then trudges toward the hearth with his lute.
I’m so transfixed by the chaos that a couple has to push past me to leave.
Three goblin females wearing boots and thick wool shawls speak in a dialect indecipherable to me. One has the Lesser Gift of mimicry and impersonates the others with eerie perfection. They all burst out laughing.
I don’t see the fae Prince of Death anywhere.
Behind the bar counter, a broad-shouldered orc fills cups of ale from kegs. His hair is braided down his back, and his skin is the color of pine needles. He must be the innkeeper.
I slam my hands against the counter. “Excuse me! I’m looking for someone!” I hope this is the right inn. “Do you have any fae staying here?”
The orc turns, ale sloshing out of the cups. “I’ve a full tavern here, girl. We rarely serve fae patrons. They’re a troublesome lot. Perhaps you’re looking for my servant.” The orc gestures at an unseelie fae that’s wiping down a table.
The fae is only as tall as my hips, and his cloven hooves are comically large compared to the rest of him. Two ovine horns curl through his hair.
My fists clench. What if I misremembered the name of the inn? What if the prince decided I wasn’t worth waiting for, and he left already?
The orc innkeeper’s cups tremble, and ale streams down their sides. He sets them all down, his intimidating growl making me hesitate to apologize for letting my magic slip out.
“Never mind,” I quickly say. “What’s your rate for a room?”
“We’re sold out of rooms,” he replies, sliding an ale down the counter to a waving patron. “I even rented out the kitchen boy’s!”
How many rooms do they have? Two? “Can you give me directions to another inn?”
The innkeeper laughs, any irritation forgotten. “From what I’ve been told, that was the last room in the city. You should’ve known better than to arrive the night before Norwynhald.”
Shit, I forgot that the autumn equinox is tomorrow.
We don’t do much to celebrate it in Nettlerock.
Families can only afford to splurge on one holiday a year, and most choose the winter solstice since there’s less work to be done when the fields are frozen.
I’ve heard that in Mythos, every festival celebrating the Divine Five gods is extravagant.
My body deflates under the weight of my belongings, and I lean onto the sticky counter for support. This is Elowyn punishing me for leaving my family a shitty note, isn’t it?
“Do you have any lockable rooms?” I ask. “Even a supply closet?”
“Afraid I don’t. I don’t even have enough rooms for this lot.” He gestures at the tavern crowd. “Most of ‘em come to drink themselves silly till dawn. Maybe you could do the same.”
“Thank you, but I’ll pass.” I won’t be anything but sober when I find the prince. Otherwise, he’d probably swear me to some lopsided bargain. I leave the counter and weave between the tables.
There. Cloaked in the shadows of the corner, Desmond sits with hands laced on the table, deep in conversation with another hooded man.
I slow, straining to listen as I approach. Two tables away from them, the seats are open. I slide into a chair and tune out the minstrel.
“Time is running out,” the other man murmurs. “My allies are becoming restless.” He rolls the thick golden band on his little finger back and forth. Its center is flat and engraved, a signet ring.
What stands out to me the most is the inner lining of the man’s cloak. It’s ermine, a fur that only the highest of the nobility could afford. It draws more than a few looks from a nearby table of gamblers. Desmond glares at them, and they quickly avert their gazes.
“Don’t they know patience is one of Elowyn’s virtues?” Desmond wryly replies to the man. “I’ll be ready, but be prepared to placate them in case anything goes wrong.”
The other man’s voice lowers. “Nothing better go amiss. Both of our lives are on the line, but I won’t hesitate to implicate yours to save mine. It’s nothing personal. That’s just how these games are played.”
“Believe me, I do better than play. I win.” Desmond leans forward just enough to make the table feel smaller. “And if you break our deal, you’ll wish you never played at all. It’s nothing personal.”
In his fist, something glows purple.
The other man’s chair scrapes back. His shoulders stiffen, and he stares at Desmond’s hand as if it holds a curse. “Then we are at an understanding,” he says, his voice strained.
He stands, and I catch a glimpse of him. His widened eyes are as dark as slate, and there’s something familiar about his long, straight face. The connection hits me so suddenly that I almost gasp. Those were Ronan’s eyes, but on an older man.
Prince Eldon, the Crown Prince of Avedor, swallows so thickly that his panic is palpable. “Until the moon,” he says. Then he departs for the door in swift strides, his gaze fixed ahead.
That was strange. Why would the prince of the Hollowlands meet with Avedor’s crown prince in a tavern? I toy with the hem of my tunic as I ponder their conversation. Nothing about it sounded related to the tomb raid, but the timing must mean it’s connected somehow. Unless I’m overthinking—
“Who’s the stalker now?” the fae asks, sliding into the seat across from me.
I flinch, my knees banging into the table. Desmond smirks.
“I didn’t want to interrupt.” Frowning, I rub my knees to work off the bruise. “Who’s your friend? And do you always threaten to kill each other?” I want him to admit he met with Eldon without realizing I recognized him. I also don’t want that purple glow anywhere near me.
“We’re not friends,” he answers, his clipped tone almost defensive.
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. So much for transparency. Then he reaches into his satchel, pulls out a worn leather tome, and opens it to read.
My jaw drops; I quickly force it up. “Aren’t you going to bring me up to speed on your plan?”
“Not tonight. We’re surrounded by opportunists and mercenaries.” He subtly points with his thumb at a woman sipping ale in the corner.
She’s unremarkable at first glance, with wool clothes and a gambeson vest, leather bracers on her forearms, and no visible blades.
Then I notice the thread-thin scar encircling her neck and her predator stillness as she watches each table, eventually making eye contact with me.
The woman’s face twists into a growl, and frost crackles from her fingertips across her mug.
A shudder runs down my spine as I look away.
“I wouldn’t recommend catching the White Wolf’s interest,” Desmond says. He pauses to sip his flask, but doesn’t look up from his book. “One touch, and she’ll freeze you from the inside out.”
Maybe it would be wise to keep my voice down. If anyone else overhears and wants in on the tomb raid, it would mean going home with a smaller share. Yet curiosity chews at me. I feel like a dog that’s had a bone dangled in front of it.
“You have to tell me something tonight,” I hiss to Desmond. “I have questions.”
He turns the page, unbothered. “And how many do you have? A dozen? Fifty?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“Narrow it down to five. Then I’ll listen.” It was spoken with the uncompromising authority of an order, even though he never met my gaze. He flicks a stray curl away from his eyes and continues to read.