26. Zerion
ZERION
The tavern reeks of unwashed bodies and stale ale, the kind of establishment where questions aren't asked and memories conveniently fade with enough coin.
I pull the rough wool hood lower over my face, the coarse fabric scratching against my skin—a deliberate discomfort that keeps me alert.
The honey mead before me tastes like it was filtered through a stable floor, but I nurse it slowly, watching the entrance through lowered lashes.
Dawn came too early this morning, forcing me from silk sheets that still carried Kessara's scent.
I'd studied her sleeping form in the pale light—lips slightly parted, dark hair spilled across the pillow like ink on parchment.
The sight stirred something dangerously possessive in my chest, a need to protect that went beyond mere obligation.
The tavern door creaks open, admitting a figure in weathered leather who moves with military precision despite his common clothes. Draven's eyes sweep the room once before settling on my corner table. He approaches with the casual gait of a working man, but I catch subtle tension in his shoulders.
"Rough morning for traveling," he says, settling into the chair across from me. His voice has the accent of the outer provinces rather than his usual clipped military tone.
"The roads were passable." I gesture to the barmaid, who hurries over with another tankard. "How long until our associates arrive?"
"Soon. They sent word through the usual channels." Draven accepts his drink without enthusiasm, understanding the necessity of maintaining appearances. "Should be no more than a few minutes now."
The mead suddenly tastes even more vile as urgency claws at my chest. "The manor?"
"Secure. Double patrols, additional guards at all entry points. Your instructions were followed precisely." He takes a careful sip, grimacing slightly. "The children remain in the library with Master Ramin. No incidents to report."
Relief floods through me, though I keep my expression neutral. "And Kessara?"
Draven's weathered face almost cracks into what might be amusement. "Sharp as ever, my lord. She cornered me about the increased security not two hours after you departed. Demanded explanations I couldn't provide."
"What did you tell her?"
"That questions regarding estate security should be directed to you." His tone remains carefully neutral, but there's something almost approving in his eyes. "She wasn't satisfied with that response."
A smirk tugs at my lips despite the gravity of our situation. Of course she wasn't. Kessara has never accepted evasive answers, not from me and certainly not from my guards. It's one of the qualities I find most maddening and most admirable about her.
"She knows something's wrong," Draven continues, lowering his voice as a group of merchants enters the tavern. "Kept the children inside despite their protests about visiting the stables. Her instincts are excellent."
"Naturally." I remember the night I first found her in my orchard—how quickly she'd assessed the situation, calculated her options, chosen defiance over surrender. "She survived years of keeping her family alive through wit alone."
The tavern door opens again, admitting two men in travel-stained cloaks who scan the room with professional interest. Draven nods almost imperceptibly.
"Our associates," he murmurs.
The two men approach with the unhurried gait of common travelers, but their eyes hold the sharp awareness I pay handsomely for. The taller one slides into the remaining chair while his companion remains standing, positioned to watch the tavern entrance.
"Gentlemen." I keep my voice low, barely audible over the raucous laughter from a table of dock workers. "What news?"
"Lady Dareth remains in town, my lord." The seated spy pulls a worn leather pouch from his belt, extracting what looks like a gambling token but speaks in the clipped tones of a professional. "She's taken rooms at the Silver Swan Inn. Expensive accommodations for an extended stay."
Draven's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. The Silver Swan caters to wealthy merchants and minor nobility—hardly the sort of establishment one chooses for a brief social visit.
"How extended?" I ask.
"Three weeks so far. The innkeeper expects her to remain at least another fortnight." The spy's weathered fingers trace patterns on the scarred wooden table. "She's been quite generous with her coin. Tips well, asks few questions, keeps irregular hours."
The standing operative clears his throat softly. "There's more, my lord. Yesterday evening, we observed Lady Dareth meeting with the same traders your guards reported near the estate road."
My blood becomes ice water in my veins. "Where?"
"The old grain warehouse on Merchant's Row.
Abandoned for years, perfect for private conversations.
" His voice demonstrates the flat professionalism of someone accustomed to observing dangerous people.
"The meeting lasted nearly an hour. We couldn't get close enough to hear specifics without risking exposure. "
"How many traders?"
"Four men. Armed, experienced. The kind who ask payment in advance and don't leave witnesses." The seated spy meets my eyes directly. "They departed separately, but all took the northern road toward the port cities."
Draven leans forward slightly. "Mercenaries?"
"Most likely. Well-equipped, disciplined movement. Not common brigands or desperate sellswords." The standing operative shifts position, maintaining his watch on the tavern. "Lady Dareth provided them with something—documents, possibly coin. Too distant to determine specifics."
Rage builds in my chest like molten metal, but I force my expression to remain neutral. Selmyra's desperation has apparently driven her beyond mere social manipulation into genuinely dangerous territory.
"Current whereabouts?"
"The traders departed last night. Lady Dareth returned to the Silver Swan and hasn't emerged since dawn." The spy produces a small piece of parchment. "Room schedule, meal preferences, servant interactions. Everything we've observed."
I palm the information without examining it. "Continue surveillance. I want hourly reports on her movements."
"And if she attempts to leave town?"
The question hangs in the stale tavern air. Part of me wants to order immediate action—confront Selmyra, demand explanations, end this threat before it fully manifests. But decades of noble intrigue have taught me patience.
"Follow at a distance. No interference unless she approaches the estate directly."
The taller spy shifts in his chair, fingers drumming against the scarred wood. "About our compensation..."
His companion nods toward the leather pouch still resting on the table. "Standard rates, as agreed."
I reach into my coat and withdraw a heavy sack that clinks with the unmistakable weight of gold. The sound draws brief attention from nearby tables before conversations resume. I place it between us with deliberate care, the leather bulging with enough coin to keep these men comfortable for months.
"Your discretion is worth considerably more than standard rates."
The seated spy tests the weight, his weathered face betraying nothing as he estimates the contents. "Generous, my lord. Very generous."
"Generosity ensures loyalty." I lean back slightly, watching both men process the implications. "Continue your surveillance. Report anything unusual immediately."
The standing operative pockets his share with practiced efficiency. "Understood, my lord. We'll maintain distance but stay close enough to matter."
They rise together, the taller man tucking the information pouch inside his travel cloak. Both move with the unhurried confidence of professionals who understand exactly what they're being paid to accomplish.
"Good hunting, gentlemen."
They nod and make their way toward the tavern entrance, separating naturally as they step into the morning light. One heads toward the market district while the other disappears down a narrow side street. Within moments, they've melted into the flow of common folk going about their daily business.
I remain seated, nursing the vile mead while watching Draven from across the table. His weathered face carries the weight of unspoken concerns, the kind of expression that comes from years of anticipating trouble before it arrives.
Silence hangs between us, filled only by the tavern's background noise—drunken laughter, the scrape of chairs against worn floorboards, the barmaid's weary sighs as she collects empty tankards. Finally, I set down my drink and meet his eyes directly.
"I want the estate gates reinforced."
He nods, already calculating logistics in that methodical way that makes him invaluable. "And when Kessara demands explanations?"
I drain the last of the terrible mead, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. "She'll receive them when I decide the time is right."
Draven studies my face for a minute. "You believe Lady Dareth means genuine harm?"
I don't know what Selmyra is trying to accomplish—whether she intends kidnapping, intimidation, or something far worse. But the image of those mercenaries meeting with her in the shadows tells me everything about her desperation.
"I know I'll stop at nothing to protect my family."