Chapter 10
We reach the bustle of Grimulf Square. Pennant banners stretch between rooftops, the flags rippling in the light breeze.
The timber frame homes bordering the cobblestone square are the largest I’ve seen yet, with flower boxes hanging from fourth-story windows.
The first floors are shops with their doors propped open, wealthy denizens milling in and out with full satchels.
A fiddler whose magic amplifies sound plays a brisk folk song I’ve known since I first learned to walk. Dancers skip in lines, linked arm in arm, then swivel to change partners. I nod my head to the rhythm as we walk.
“You’d think they’d hire a singer who could carry a tune,” Desmond mutters.
“What singer?” I slow down to focus on the melody, but I still don’t hear vocals. The bards are hard to see through the crowd.
Desmond pauses. I almost thump into his back. “I forgot how superior fae hearing is to humans,” he says with a smirk.
“It must be from the ridiculous size of your ears.”
His shoulders shake with quiet laughter. At least his mood has recovered enough that he’s no longer patronizing me.
Goblins chatter in self-isolated groups. Their skin varies in shades of gray, and their ears are flared like the fae. They’d look almost human, if it weren’t for their black, glossy eyes. The irises are large and swallow most of the space where white should be.
Three orcs pass us as they chomp on turkey legs and sip ale. Their boisterous laughs overpower the crowd as they stop to watch a juggler. The performer juggles miniature versions of herself, a Gift of either illusion or multiplication.
Yet I don’t see a single fae.
At the southern edge of the square, an Elowynite arch-minister oversees the line of congregants waiting to burn their offerings in the blazing brazier.
Two of our gods, Elowyn and Haldren, are praised today in hopes they’ll grant Avedor a bountiful harvest. There’s a faint whiff of charred paper orisons amidst the acrid scent of burnt meat and fruit.
We weave through the crowd toward the eastern side, where the market stalls are. A towering statue of Elowyn overlooks her celebration, arms outstretched and palms cupped toward the sky. Her braid twists down her back, and at her side is Fenris, her sacred wolf companion.
Desmond scoffs.
Our pantheon of the Divine Five is the only religion tolerated in Avedor.
Elowyn, the goddess of wisdom, heads the pantheon.
Orcs favor Rhea, the goddess of war. Most goblins are agnostic, but some worship the Divine Five.
Haldren, the god of prosperity and fertility, is a favorite in Nettlerock.
Then there’s Aedros, the god of altruism.
The last is Osian, our god of the afterlife. It’s improper to worship him except through giving tribute at funerals. There’s a rumor that necromancers erected a temple for him somewhere in the north, but none are alive to tend it.
I pause, inhaling a heady whiff of roasted garlic and dripping meats. My stomach growls as we pass a stallkeeper hawking baked squash, another with candied nuts, and yet another selling roasted pig feet.
True to his promise, Desmond stops at a stall with warm pans of spiced sweet rolls. Diced dates and golden honey ooze between the swirls of the dough.
After he pays, I grab one, ready for the first mouthwatering bite. Then I hear a young child cry out ahead of us. A sweet roll is icing-side down on the cobblestones in front of him. His face reddens and his lip trembles. He looks up at his mother, his bleary eyes wide and imploring.
She shakes her head with a sorrowful frown. I know what that look means. She can’t afford to buy him another roll. I feel a pang of empathy. If I weren’t poor, I could’ve bought Evie any fabric she wanted to make a dress.
I kneel in front of the child. “Here.” Then I hold out my sweet roll.
He stares at me, shocked. Then he snatches the roll as if afraid I’ll change my mind. His mother smiles at me in gratitude, and they continue on their way.
Desmond watches me, his brows furrowed like he’s curious.
Then he strides on ahead, crossing his arms as we leisurely stroll down the alley of vendors.
Or at least I’m leisurely. He frowns, his shoulders drawn taut.
He looks around like the only thing that would satisfy him would be setting the stalls on fire.
“You could at least try to enjoy yourself,” I tease him.
“I refuse to indulge in luxuries that my people can’t afford,” he says. “We had festivals once. Now food is scarce, our religion is sacrilege, and few want to celebrate when hope is all but withered.”
“Oh.” I suck a drop of the sweet roll’s honey off my thumb, but its sweetness is suddenly sickly. “That’s why you didn’t rent a suite? To honor the fae?”
Desmond nods.
His austerity makes sense now. No wonder he wanted to avoid Norwynhald, and I feel guilty for dragging him here. I didn’t know.
We walk in tense silence.
“I’ve never tasted a sweet roll,” I tell him, unable to meet his gaze. “We’d never waste marks like that. Not when the famine almost cost us our lives.”
“And what saved you?” he asks.
I glance around to make sure no one is listening. I’ve never told anyone, not until Beula asked where Evie was shot.
I look up at him. “I raided my first tomb.”
He stops, and the crowd parts around him. His gaze turns discerning, then contemplative. I never expected to have a conversation like this with him.
Desmond starts to speak. Then he shakes his head and resumes walking. I think he wanted to ask me something, but I have no idea what.
“Were the festivals like what the stories say?” I ask him. “Mortal bards glamoured to strum their lutes until their fingers fall off, delicacies heady with enchantments. . . the village elders warned us to stay away from fae revels.”
He glances at me with a bored frown. “All stories are fiction. Every word chosen reveals a bias. If you want to understand someone, you listen to the stories they tell. You always learn more about the storyteller than the subject.”
It’s a cynical view of storytelling that my village would disagree with. “What about books?” Reading doesn’t appeal to me, but maybe that’s because I was stuck with the same three books at home.
“Also subjective, but more tolerable since you can skim any rambling,” he answers. His annoyance trickling through our bond hints that he wishes he could time-travel through all of my rambling.
“You didn’t answer my question. Were fae revels like the stories?” I ask.
The surging crowd around us slows as we pivot a corner of the square. His gaze cuts to mine, stoic. “Yes.”
Knew it. “Then tell me more. It’d be nice to hear from a fae prince’s own lips about what they’re like.”
I see a spark of hesitation in his eyes, a sign that he’s torn between indulging me and brushing me off. Then he shuts down, his shoulders stiffening and jaw tightening. “I don’t tell stories. It would be a waste of time.”
“Guess I’ve learned something about you already, then.” I wait for him to meet my gaze. Then I tell him exactly what I think. “You’d rather act mysterious than open up to anyone.”
His eyes narrow with a ruthless frost, a glimpse of the darkness that lurks within him. “Your hour is running out. Perhaps you should explore the festival instead of regaling me with your supercilious insights.”
I roll my eyes at his dismissal. As I turn to leave the crowd, my bow whacks an older man, who mutters a string of expletives at me. “Sorry!” I exclaim, and he trudges away with a huff.
Desmond extends his hand to me with a grimace. “Your bow sling, before you poke someone’s eye out with it. I’ll watch your pack, too.”
I hesitate. If he planned to run with my things, he would’ve done it last night. I hand over both my pack and bow sling. “Your hood makes you look like a criminal.”
“Noted, and disregarded.”
Heading off into the square, I relish the break from his sarcasm.
The music reaches its finale and ceases as the bards prepare for another song.
Instead of dancing, I approach the royal dais that runs along the northern edge of the square.
Maybe I can glimpse the royal family and determine if it was Eldon that Desmond spoke with in the inn.
A shimmering protective ward around the dais refracts the sunlight. Mythos guards in mail armor and red sashes patrol; no assassin stands a chance against them.
“We should join the deployment to the Hollowlands,” one guard says to another. “Better pay, I hear.”
“D’you know why they’ve doubled recruitment efforts? Go there, and you’ll disappear forever. . . or return mad as a rabid dog. Don’t be a fool,” the other rebukes.
I shudder. The situation there must be tenser than I imagined.
The onlookers part, revealing Queen Orla Meirden. Atop her gathered black hair rests the Crown of Avedor. It’s supposedly enchanted so only the Meirden line can wear it, but that’s the sort of legend royals would want someone to believe.
Sitting beside the queen is Prince Eldon. His hair is auburn like the queen’s first consort, and he’s around ten years older than I am. He doesn’t look it. A surplus of meals and leisure indoors shaves years off someone’s face. The thought sours me.
He’s definitely the man who spoke with Desmond. The same gold signet ring shines on his finger. Yet, his broad smile and merry laugh are so different from how he acted last night. I’d bet my marks that the real Eldon is the one I saw in Hawthorn Inn.
Further down the dais, Prince Ronan sits half-asleep, his chin resting on his palm. Princess Cara, the final Meirden sibling, arches a brow at him in withering judgment. Rumors say Ronan dismisses every potential betrothal. I’d tease Evie if she were here.
The bards break into a lively song for couples’ round dancing. Accordions mingle with fiddles and tin whistles, a frame drum keeping time. Excited denizens gather, grasping hands as they race to the center of the square. I know this one. It’s popular in Nettlerock.