Chapter 27
Maeve arrives in my room the next morning with a hot bowl of pottage, a tonic to numb any residual pain, and a potion to help me heal. “You’re banned from physical training for four days,” she says.
I groan as I take the tonic and potion from her. “Bad news first thing in the morning?”
She tuts. “The quickest way you’ll recover is by doing nothing.”
Gods, that’s depressing.
“How’s Finnian?” I ask her.
“He’ll have a scar. But nothing as bad as you or I would have,” she says. “He’s lucky that he’s fae in that regard.”
I don’t miss what she’s indirectly saying. He’s unlucky that he’s fae in so many other ways. “I’m glad that he’s healing,” I murmur, but guilt still rattles inside me. If I hadn’t gotten us caught, he wouldn’t have been bitten.
I gulp down both liquids, hoping the tonic will dull the tight ache across my back.
Then I levitate the spoon from the pottage to my mouth, spilling only a little.
It’s delicious, the carrots softened and rich broth spiced with thyme.
I taste venison and pause. We couldn’t ever afford to add meat to our pottage at home.
Maeve watches me levitate another spoonful. “That’s one way to stay in bed all day.” She chuckles and fusses with my blankets. “Rune told me he’d still like to speak with you. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Oh, right. The celebration he mentioned.”
She straightens the tray on my lap and reaches for the door. “Eat.” Smiling, she leaves.
I finish the pottage, savoring the last creamy sip. Levitating the tray to the table, I notice a book that wasn’t there yesterday. The cloth cover is bare, but I recognize it from last night. It’s Desmond’s book of faery tales.
I flip through it, skimming the pages. Each tale is handwritten in his perfect cursive. He couldn’t have written this. He especially wouldn’t have left it here for me.
Intrigued, I begin to read.
One story is written in the perspective of a banshee who, offended by the human family who lived near her faery door, would foretell the death of every housefly in their kitchen with ear-splitting screeches. She drove the family mad until they drowned themselves in their well.
Another is told by an orc lutist. He claims that fae lured him to the Hollowlands with the promise of riches if he could perform at a revel without opening his left eye.
Upon seeing a merrow so beautiful that he couldn’t help but admire her unobstructed, he fails.
On his way back home, a crow pecks out both of his eyes.
He bleeds to death, and the story ends with his lament that he never learned the merrow’s name.
I groan as I blink, adjusting to the dim light of the room. Desmond’s book is splayed on my belly.
Nog glares at me, then continues sweeping the floor with a broom.
“Did I fall asleep?” I ask her.
Her jet black eyes are cold as she glances at me. “I am not your keeper, girl.”
Fair enough. “How long has it been since sunrise?”
“Three hours ago. You slept yesterday away like that lazy cat.” She jerks her chin at Min, who’s curled up in the other bed, furry ears twitching in her sleep. Then Nog shuffles out of the room without another word.
Slowly, I slide out of bed and set Desmond’s book on the table. Steam wafts from the metal bathing basin; Nog must’ve filled it with hot water just before I woke. Either she hates me less than she appears to, or her hospitality runs that strongly. I wish I could thank her without offending her.
The tub is only half full, so my sutures will remain dry.
I scrub two days’ worth of dirt and sweat from my skin and carefully rinse my hair.
After toweling off, I look inside the armoire and find a cotton dress hand-embroidered with blooming flowers in vibrant hues, dainty butterflies flitting between them. It’s fit for a faery.
A loud knock shakes the door.
My pulse flutters. “One moment!” I step into the dress and button it up the front. Another kindness concerning my injury. “Come in!”
I already know what I want to ask Desmond. Was his book a hobby or a royal duty? Did he make up the stories, or did he actually sit and listen to these narrators yap? I can’t fathom him having the patience. And how could the orc tell the story of his own death? Maybe it’s a stroke of fae artistry.
The door swings open.
“Glad to see you’re still awake,” Rune says. He leans against the doorframe, dressed in dark pants and a white tunic that pulls tightly across his chest. His black hair is down today, glass beads threaded into several strands.
Disappointment tightens my chest, but I quickly smile to hide it. “I’m feeling better already.”
“Do you feel alright enough to join me in my office?” Rune nods at Min. “I wouldn’t want to disturb her sleep.”
I almost shrug, then think better of it. “Sure.”
Rune eyes Desmond’s book, but says nothing about it as he holds the door open for me.
We walk to his office, which he unlocks by pricking his thumb and pressing the bead of blood to the doorknob. “Ward magic,” he tells me. “Keeps Finnian out, not that his sticky fingers would dare rummage around in here.” Snapping his fingers, the mage lights flicker to life.
Rune’s sumptuous office is crammed with furniture.
Two high-backed chairs with upholstered cushions face either side of a thick-legged desk, scenes from our pantheon’s scripture carved into the wood.
The bookcases lining the stone walls boast more eclectic objects than tomes.
A milky crystal ball sits on a velvet pillow beside a golden drinking horn adorned with a family crest that I’m sure isn’t Rune’s.
On another shelf is a ring set with a cushion-cut ruby larger than my fingernail.
My jaw drops as the light reflects on every finely cut facet.
“With the marks from that ring alone, you could all live like kings,” I tell him. “You would never need to steal again.”
It must be the wrong thing to say because Rune sucks in a sharp breath. “Objects as fine as these are not mere investments, Cyn. They’re trophies. They define our success.”
Stepping toward the shelves, I try to see the loot not as heaps of preserved food in my family’s cellar and snug clothing on their backs, but as what Rune considers them: trophies.
I can’t.
“Clearly you’re successful enough to leave this cave for a castle.”
He shrugs. “Where would the mystery be in that? We wouldn’t want just anyone waltzing up to our door. There are untold benefits in being elusive. Why don’t we sit? These chairs belonged to the Thane of Horalden and deserve some use.” He closes the door, then squeezes past me to the desk and sits.
“What did you want to speak about?” I don’t sit. Not yet. Despite the thieves’ trust in him, my magic has already grasped the bejeweled dagger on his desk. Just in case. Of everyone here, I know Rune the least.
“I wanted to congratulate you on stealing the map.” He grins, and I’m wise enough to grin back.
“Thank you.”
“Were you caught?”
I grimace. “Unfortunately. The housecarl saw my face before Brandur knocked her out. She didn’t see his and Finnian’s, at least.”
Rune dismissively waves his hand. “I bet she didn’t remember a hint of your charming countenance when she woke. And your stealth will improve with time.”
Charming. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What a relentless flirt.
“Now, the reason I needed to speak with you. . . It’s about the fae.
” He grabs his dagger and spins the hilt against the gleaming wood.
“Desmond and Aurielle. Although I fear Finnian has become far too comfortable with them. Even though his allegiance is to the guild, sometimes blood runs thicker than water.”
I finally take the seat across from him. “It always runs thicker than water.”
Rune chuckles. “I’m sorry?”
“In the literal sense, blood is always thicker than water.” I shift in the chair. It’s too plush. Everything about this room is too much of something.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes. In the literal sense.”
There’s a dramatic pause.
“How well do you know our two guests? Surely you’ve heard rumors of the unrest in the Hollowlands. Have they mentioned anything to you about it?”
Mentioned anything to me? I snort. “All they trust me with is small talk.” I don’t tell him the truth, that they’ve formed a legion against Avedor’s wishes.
An instinct whispers in the back of my mind that it’s unwise to add fuel to the fire, and surely the lord of thieves would know already.
So I pretend I’m clueless. “Why do you ask?”
Rune’s dagger spins one full turn, then two.
“Nothing, perhaps. However, they’ve picked an interesting time to hunt for a lost tomb.
From what I’ve heard, the Avedoran military has doubled down.
The guards, the patrols, the sentries. Why wouldn’t dear Desmond want to be home protecting his kingdom with a Gift as powerful as his? ”
Wait, Desmond told Rune what his Gift is? He trusts Rune more than me?
The guildmaster’s face falls in apology when he sees the betrayal on mine.
“I thought he told you, honestly. But I’m afraid it’s not my secret to give.
” He shakes his head as if admonishing Desmond.
“Would you like some brandy?” He produces a bottle and two crystal glasses from a hidden drawer in his desk.
“No thanks.” The last thing I want to do with the sourness in my stomach is add alcohol. “Was that all?”
“You should consider joining the guild,” Rune says as he pours himself a glass.
“A Gift like yours is just that to a thief—a gift. Not to mention you’re courageous and resourceful, and dare I say, you have a thief’s hunger for prosperity.
It’s not every day that one meets a highly accomplished tomb raider. ”
How could anyone not let flattery like that soften them at least a little?
Even the shame I felt after taking the housecarl’s necklace is buried by a sea of possibilities.
I could belong here if I put my morals aside.
Really, truly belong. And give my parents enough marks that they could leave their toilsome life in Nettlerock behind for good.
“I’ll think about it.” Then I stand, looking over his collection one last time as I head to the door.
“Cyn?” Rune asks. His dagger stills.
“Yes?” I grip the doorknob, waiting for him to continue.
Several seconds pass. Wariness flares in his teal eyes. “Be careful.”
Before I can ask to what end, he sips his brandy and his frown fades. I doubt he’d be candid even if I did ask, if the way he danced around his suspicions of the fae was any indication. So I nod, then leave his office.
Four days pass, and with each, I heal. Nikolai has returned from his visit with his family to go over his next assignment with Rune.
Right now, the two of us are in the guild’s kitchen.
The room is stiflingly warm from the lit wood-fired oven.
Nikolai watches me pinch the crust of my tart de bry against the baking pan.
“That looks delicious already,” Nikolai says.
“I hope it tastes delicious. It’s been at least a year since my sister and I made this, and I’m working from memory.”
“Your sister?”
Shit.
I avoid Nikolai’s questioning gaze as I pour the egg and brie batter over the crust. No one here has shown me anything but kindness, so I’m not sure why I’m still hesitating to open up to them. Maybe it’s time to start.
“She makes the best tarts,” I quietly say. “We pick berries every summer and save up to buy flour from the village miller.”
Nikolai smiles at me. It’s warm and affable, the opposite of someone who might plot against my family. “I have a sister too. My parents would never admit that Nina is the favorite, but she is the one who didn’t fall victim to a thief’s perilous life.” He winks.
I slide the pan into the oven. I didn’t expect to have a conversation about our families, but I surprisingly feel at ease. “What are your daughters like?”
“Lucy has to be bribed with lollies to sit still. Lora is shy, always following Lucy like a shadow.” His gaze unfocuses as if he’s recalling a memory. “They’re the best kids in the world.” Then he perks up. “You’ll have to let me know how your tart de bry tastes when it’s finished.”
“You mean you’ll have to let me know how it tastes. I baked it for everyone.” My throat is tight with guilt as I meet Nikolai’s gaze. “It’s an apology gift. For getting us caught on the heist.”
“They’ll love it,” he assures me, as if sensing that I’m nervous. “We all make blunders on our early jobs, Cyn. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. The others told me you unlocked the vault when Finnian’s Gift couldn’t. You also found the map. I’d say the heist was a success.”
My cheeks flush from his praise. “Thank you. But nothing changes that Finnian was hurt.”
He hums. “Well, Finnian is fond of cheese.”
That’s good news. It felt wrong to not apologize to him outright, even if it’s rude to the fae. So I decided that I wanted to do something for him. Something for everyone.
I fidget with my apron, letting my hopeful smile warm me. “I hope he likes it. It’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
Then we chat until the tart is ready, and I’m glad for Nikolai’s company. As I pull it out of the oven, the filling is golden, crisp, and raised to a perfect puff.
The second the tart is off the heat, the puff deflates with a flatulent wheeze.
Nikolai laughs. Something about the whole thing has me breaking into laughter too, and we giggle until our sides hurt.
“What happened to your poor tart?” Nikolai chortles.
“I overbaked it. Sorry.” I wince as I prod the crust. “I hope it still tastes alright.”
Nikolai claps my shoulder. “I’m sure it will. You know, you haven’t joined in on a midnight game yet. Someone needs to dethrone Maeve, and it might as well be our new recruit!”
From anyone else, I would think it was just a courtesy. His earnestness warms me even more than the invitation itself. Yet there’s no way they’d want me there after what happened on the heist.
“I shouldn’t,” I tell him, even though it hurts.
“Nonsense.” He waggles his finger. “You’ll meet us in the game room just before midnight, or I’ll drag you there.”
“You mean the training room?”
He laughs so hard it shakes his whole body. “Boy, they really do uphold the code with an iron fist. No, the game room is a sanctuary for guild members; no visitors or clients allowed. I suppose that’s why you haven’t been shown it yet. You haven’t taken the pledge.”
Pledge? Oh, no. That’s not happening. I shake my head. “When the tomb raid is over, I’m going back home.” Surely, out of everyone, he’d understand.
“Don’t worry about it.” He waves his hand. “Meet me in the kitchen tonight, and I’ll convince the others. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll need a nap if I’m burning the midnight oil.”
“Of course.” I smile as he cuts himself a slice of the tart.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes, savoring it. “It’s delicious, Cyn. Even if it had a touch of gas.” Then he winks as he walks away.