14
“Syth,” says the prince. “I want you to know—”
Fear quivers in my throat, and I pull my hand away. “We should keep going. The snow is only going to get worse. We don’t want to be caught in a blizzard.”
I turn my back to him and continue up the trail. The scuff of his boots pursues me, but he doesn’t speak again.
By the time we pass the first few cottages of Weaver’s Canyon, the snowfall has thickened. By tomorrow morning, it will have covered the trail and rendered it dangerously impassable. We got here just in time.
We move farther into the village, shrouded in our cloaks and hoods.
I peek out from beneath the shelter of my hood occasionally, looking for an inn, a pub, a tavern, any gathering place where we might find shelter and food.
Up ahead, I spot a log building lit up with so many lamps that it glows like an amber fireplace in the blue of the snowy evening.
“There.” I point ahead, then pull my fingers back into the cloak. “Let’s head for that one.”
The sign, blurred by falling snow, proclaims the place to be “Barclay’s Tavern.” We duck onto the large porch before the entrance, and as we stamp the snow from our boots, I scan the area, including a notice board by the front door.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“What?” Vawn follows my gaze. “Oh, shit.”
Nailed to the notice board is a poster emblazoned with Vawn’s face, drawn with all its striking angles and smirking beauty. And beneath the sketch is a price.
I stare at the number, trying to comprehend that amount of money. Trying to quantify it in terms of what I could do with it. The things I could buy. A house, two full glyph sets, and so much more.
“You should do it,” Vawn says.
I throw him a glance, but his face is so deeply shadowed beneath the hood that I can’t read his expression. He is a fugitive cloaked in darkness, while his image smiles with vicious clarity from the poster.
“That’s ‘fuck you’ money,” he says softly. “That’s ‘change your life forever’ money.”
“You think I would turn you in?”
“You stared at it long enough. I thought you might be considering it. After all, they’re not planning to kill me, at least not right away.
That’s what we heard from the assassin in Zeletas, right?
They want me alive. I’m useful, somehow.
Maybe for my gift, maybe for my heritage. Maybe for certain royal secrets.”
“They’re willing to hurt you in order to catch you,” I say.
“And they put no value on my life at all. So no, Vawn, I will not give you up to be a prisoner, a slave, or a pawn. We can’t linger here.
I need to hide you, and then I must find someone to repair the carpet.
My face isn’t on the poster—they’re not looking for me.
So I’ll put you somewhere safe, and then I’ll take care of Severin. Come on.”
Finding a safe place to hide Vawn, one where he won’t freeze to death overnight, is more difficult than I anticipated. My first thought is a stable, but Weaver’s Canyon doesn’t have many of those. Its people travel above the forests and mountains, not through them.
Desperate, I lead the prince up a steep, narrow lane bordered by quaint little houses. One of them has a sign tacked to the fencepost of its tiny garden, a sign which bears one word: “Rooms.”
“Here.” I tow Vawn along the path, through the whirling snow. We pause at the door, and I peek under his hood. “You shouldn’t have shaved this morning. A little scruff might have helped disguise you.”
“I hate scruff. It itches.”
“Such a baby. I’ll go in first and see if there’s a room available. Maybe the proprietor won’t look closely at us, or maybe I can smuggle you into the house later.”
“Before I freeze.”
“Yes, preferably before then.”
Vawn steps away from the door and sets his back to the wall, his hooded head bowed against the snowstorm. I rap sharply and wait.
Moments later, a thin woman appears, holding a curious toddler back with one hand. “Yes?”
“Do you have a room available? My brother and I need a place for the night.”
“Travelers? At this time of year?” She frowns. “Did you come by carpet?”
If I tell her we walked most of the way, she’ll get suspicious, so I nod. “Yes, we did. But we had an accident, and our carpet was damaged. We were hoping someone here could repair it. We’ll pay, of course.”
“Oh, yes.” Her face brightens. “Please come in. I can give you a room, and I’m a licensed carpet repair technician.”
I know that light in her eyes. It’s the hunger of a desperate woman who finally sees hope ahead, much closer than she expected.
“Wonderful. Just one more thing—my brother has a large scar on his face and he’s very self-conscious about it, so please don’t think him rude if he keeps his face covered.
And he doesn’t speak. He was kicked in the face by a horse as a child, and he has never been quite right since then. He needs quiet and privacy.”
The woman’s eyes widen, pity in her gaze. “Of course. Bring him in. I’ll show you the room, and then we can discuss payment.”
“Come on, Laramie,” I call loudly to Vawn. “The kind lady is letting us stay here.”
I know he heard everything I said to her. To his credit, he plays along, shuffling into the house with a faint grunt or two. He remains hunched in his cloak as the woman leads us through the main living area of the house.
I spot at least five children in addition to the toddler. Perhaps the woman’s husband is dead or gone, and she’s struggling to feed her family. That would explain why she doesn’t ask more questions. She doesn’t want to risk losing a couple of lodgers by being too inquisitive.
The room is on the first floor at the rear of the house, near a back door, which pleases me. It will be easy to get out that way if anyone comes for us.
“It’s a little drafty,” says the woman apologetically. “But we’ll get a fire going and you’ll be warm as toast. There are plenty of blankets on the bed as well. I hope you and your brother don’t mind sharing it?”
I survey the cramped bed, which looks barely large enough for two children, let alone two adults. The beds at Barclay’s Tavern were probably much wider.
“We’ll make do,” I tell her. “Laramie, stay here while I speak with the lady. Do you understand?”
Vawn grunts from beneath his hood. I take the carpet case and his satchel, along with mine, and follow the woman back to the main room.
“Zeph,” she says to a thin boy of eight or nine years. “Go to the guest room and make up the fire.”
The boy scurries off. I don’t like anyone being in the room with Vawn while I’m not there to control the situation, but I have no choice. I need to make this deal, and I must learn to trust the prince to take care of himself.
When the woman states the price of the room and tomorrow’s breakfast, I’m relieved. There’s enough money in my coin purse to cover the cost, along with another night’s lodging if we need it, with a little left over.
“Show me your carpet.” The woman snaps her fingers to a couple of the children, and they hurry to clear off the large table in the center of the room.
I unlatch the carpet case and unroll Severin on the table’s surface. His glow is muted, and some of his fibers flicker.
“Severin, this is our new friend—” I pause, looking up at the woman.
“I’m Gwin,” she says. “You named your carpet?”
“Yes,” I reply simply. “Severin, Gwin is letting me and my brother Laramie stay here tonight, and she is also going to mend you.”
Severin’s tassels flutter weakly. “I am much obliged, Gwin. I hope you will not take offense if I request some information about your experience and credentials?”
Gwin glances at me. “He’s an odd one, isn’t he?”
“Wonderfully so.” It’s both an admission and a defense. I splay my hand on the carpet, stroking him lightly, and the unicorn hairs flare brighter in response. “Please indulge him by telling us both about the experience you have with carpets.”
“Before I bore children, I worked at the local weaving labs for six years,” she says.
“I still have my training seals and my original license. But my first pregnancy was difficult, and I was forced to stay in bed. By the time I could return to work, my bench had already been filled. I became pregnant again, and again… and over time, my license lapsed. When my husband died, I tried to renew the license, but I’ve been absent from the bench for too many years, and the Weaver’s Guild won’t give me a new one unless I repeat the two-year training program, which costs more than my husband used to make in a year.
Without a current license, I’m not supposed to weave carpets or conduct repairs on them. ”
“So this repair could get you into trouble,” I conclude.
“If the Weaver’s Guild found out about it.” Her tone is crisp, defensive, edged with a plea. “No one has to know.”
“Of course not. No one has to know about this, either, except for the person to whom you sell it.” I take out the vial of glyph paint and set it on top of the carpet.
The Rauveron Guild symbol is engraved into the stopper, along with the symbol of the current year. There’s no mistaking what it is.
“A sample from the Zeletas paint drop?” Gwin exclaims. “How did you get this?”
If wanted posters for the prince have made it here, the news of what happened at the Guild’s paint drop may have traveled this far as well. She might already know that all the new samples were confiscated by the Redemptive Authority, which means a version of the truth will have to do.
“I stole it,” I confess.
Her gaze drops to my glyphs, but she doesn’t comment on them.
I lower my voice, leaning toward her across the carpet. “I’m sure you understand need and despair. You know what lengths a woman will go to for the love of family.”
Her lips tighten and she nods.