Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Desmond
It smelled like fucking fish.
Desmond Alvanti would throw up if he didn’t get away from this Angels awful port soon. How he’d lived his entire life in the isles, worked near the docks, and never noticed how horrific a place like this reeked was beyond him. Perhaps not everything was better on the continent.
His boots splashed through puddles pooling in the gaps between the cobblestones, fallen leaves plastered into holes worn over time. Horses and carts clamored every which way and men shouted to their companions.
A line of run down taverns, inns, and shops lined the wide roadway along the docks, thatched roofs weighed down from the recent rain and signs declaring vacancies—or lack thereof—and deals on seasonal items for ships about to depart.
Everything from liquor and dried meats to Mystique ink, to oil for lanterns or incense, to cards and instruments for entertainment on board.
Desmond picked up a toy lyre outside a woodworker. One glance told him the deals were overpriced for the cheap shit they offered, even compared to the quality on the Constellation Isles.
He scoffed, dropping the poorly crafted toy and turning to head down the street, not that he had a destination other than not here. The clouds were heavy and grey along the coast, and he didn’t want to be caught in the rain.
“Why are there so many people?” Desmond grumbled, ducking to avoid a crate two warriors were carrying overhead, nearly smacking into the sword strapped to his back. “For Fates’ sake, watch it!”
“You’re quite cranky,” Myrella answered from behind him, said warriors lifting the crate perfectly over her small stature so she didn’t have to duck. She flashed them an appreciative smile, a stark contrast to the shadows rimming her eyes.
“It reeks,” Desmond muttered, scanning the road. A building ahead bore a sign for horse rentals. “Come on.”
The stables opened onto a small park, trees shadowing the horses as they grazed. A sanctuary, for which he couldn’t read the signs, framed the other side of the grassy expanse, a waist-high wrought iron fence and weeping cypher trees sectioning it off from the rest of the establishments.
Myrella scampered after him. “The smell? That’s all that’s bothering you?”
Desmond glared at her in time to catch her brow hiking. He waited for her to go on.
In their two-week journey from Lyra, he’d learned Myrella Corvus may be unassuming, but she was hardly silent. Every thought on her mind found its way out of her mouth. Even when she tried to stifle them, he couldn’t count to twenty before all her wonderings were spilled.
Most days, it was entertaining. They made a fun pair—despite the horrible circumstances that brought them from Lyra to the continent—drinking and playing games to distract themselves during the journey across the Faelish Waters.
But as they’d gotten closer to the capital city, his anticipation had wound tight.
He wished she’d spit out whatever she was thinking.
The past few nights on the boat he’d been less than pleasant company. No matter how aware he was of his attitude, he wasn’t able to stop himself.
Valyn may have been Emmeline’s destination, but there were some very convincing reasons why he shouldn’t go to the capital. Reasons that would spawn very bad ideas if he thought about them too long.
But that was an impulse he’d have to control.
“Just the damn smell,” he grumbled, ducking beneath an awning as the clouds opened above and a light rain pattered across the stones.
Myrella grinned up at him. “Really? Are you sure it’s not—”
“Ah, ah!” Desmond cut her off, holding up a finger.
Water drops clung to her dark hair and rapidly fluttering lashes.
“It’s nothing. If anything gave you any idea otherwise, you’re dreaming it up in the pretty little sunshine-filled head of yours.
” He tapped her temple as if to seal her lies in there.
Myrella feigned a very serious expression, her brows pulling together as she nodded, lips twitching. “Of course. I must have imagined it.”
Desmond squinted at her, but he had to admit, it was a relief she found moments to smile. Many of the nights on the journey here had ended with her tears. His, too, sometimes. It had developed an alliance between them. A friendship.
Although, when her taunting smirk returned, Desmond thought she was more of an aggravating little sister than a friend.
And he certainly shouldn’t have told her anything he wanted hidden, given her proclivity to talk.
Regret poked at his mind, but a few too many drinks and way too many days looking at the inside of that cabin had loosened his lips.
He’d have to pretend otherwise. Pretend the problem away until he found either a solution or an iron will.
“Keep walking, little dreamer.” Desmond turned back toward the stables, but he’d barely taken a step before Myrella gripped his wrist. “I know you can’t ride well, but one horse is cheaper than two anyway, and—”
“That’s not it—”
“—we need to get out of this damn fish-infested port—”
“Desmond!” she whisper-shouted.
He flicked a look down at her. Her sunken cheeks were pale, shadow-framed eyes wide and stricken. He spun to the street, scanning the carts and ships. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you see who I’m seeing?” she muttered, leaning around his broad frame.
Myrella wasn’t looking at the docks or the horribly overpriced shops, nor was she looking at the stables ahead. Her gaze was on the sanctuary neighboring the grassy square.
“Who are—”
But he didn’t even get out the full question before he found the familiar, perfectly trimmed head of silver hair and a trademark pristine navy cloak hemmed in expensive silk, a Lyra sigil broach clasping it.
Desmond narrowed his eyes at the figure striding out of a hut attached to the sanctuary.
His best friend’s sword was heavy against his back as he growled, “What in the Fatesdamned realms is the Temple Master doing on the continent?”