Chapter Seventeen
“Fine,” I say, in a tone that conveys how not fine it is.
I back out of the dining room, and I definitely do not slam the door shut the way I want to, but rather nudge it gently into
place. I consider lingering near the two-way hearth on the possibility that their voices will carry. But no, I’m above eavesdropping.
Later, maybe I can get Titus to tell me about their conversation.
The temperature has dropped and the wind has picked up, sending more detritus into the common room. The stone pillars framing
the walls still stand, though they are black with soot. It gives me hope that we can repair the inn, given the right materials.
But how do we buy the materials without paying guests? Without Da to make the repairs? Without Anja to tend the vegetable
garden and milk Willow and Juniper? Without me to help Ma make deer jerky and preserve fish and forage berries and chop firewood
and . . .
I don’t know how Ma will survive the winter without me.
At least we still have chickens. I find them in the weedy garden, pecking for bugs.
One red hen has managed to flutter over the fence, but she flutters right back when I rattle the food bucket.
They all follow me toward the coop, chattering loudly.
I look around for Horseshoe, our oldest rooster, but he’s nowhere to be found.
Maybe he escaped during the chaos. I hope he’s out there somewhere, enjoying his freedom.
I feed the chickens and shut them into the coop for the night. I check the nest boxes for eggs, but there are none. The hens
are less likely to lay after a traumatic disturbance. But I’m optimistic we’ll have fresh eggs in spring, if not sooner.
Ma and Titus are probably still talking, so I head to the woodpile and start chopping. Jaco must have brought fresh logs,
because there are plenty to choose from. I get into a rhythm—set it on the block, swing and split, toss them onto the pile.
The impacts jar my wrists and shoulders, and I remind myself that in spite of Titus healing me and making sure I have enough
to eat, I’m still not at full strength. But after a while it doesn’t matter. I’ve always taken comfort in hard work, and I
ignore the pain, falling deeper into my rhythm; set, swing, split, toss.
“Bria.”
I’m so startled I drop the ax onto the chopping block.
“Sorry,” Titus says. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
I wipe sweat from my forehead. The world is deep into evening twilight now, and Titus’s features are buried in shadow. Even
so, I’d recognize him anywhere. The way he carries himself, the set of his jaw—I’ve memorized everything about him without
even noticing.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. “I’m surprised you’re on your feet.”
“Healing your mother was . . . complex. I hope I did well by her, but I could use a lot more training, and—”
I reach up and grab his shoulder. “Thank you, Titus. I know you saved her. Even I could tell how bad it was.”
His gaze drifts to my hand. I let go.
“So what did you and Ma talk about?”
“This and that.”
I glare at him.
He grins. “She shared her Gift with me.”
“What?”
“She said it was only fair that we exchange a Gift for a Gift. I asked her to keep my visit here a secret, and she agreed.
Also, if you decide to leave with me, you have her blessing to go, though I expect she’ll grumble about it.”
My mouth hangs open. I would never get that many concessions out of my mother in a single conversation. “The only people who
knew my mother’s Gift were Da and Grandda. You might be the only person in all the Sunderland who knows now.”
He gives me a sheepish shrug.
“You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?”
Titus is still grinning. “She’ll keep my secret; I’ll keep hers.”
“Traitor,” I grumble.
“And I’m afraid I must leave right away. Tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
His grin fades. “I have to be in Cathira before Sunderday. Besides, the king is sure to find me again. If I stay, I’ll bring
down more trouble on your ma and your inn.”
“Well, I’m coming with you. I’m a Grimsvolder and an Angarsold besides. We are not oath breakers.”
He frowns. “I thought you’d say that.”
“You don’t have to look so happy about it.”
“I don’t feel right taking you away from your home and your mother.”
“And I don’t feel right leaving. But I also don’t feel right breaking my oath. So I’m going to do the thing that makes me
feel the least amount of not right, which is doing my duty as your shield maiden.”
His frown deepens. “Bria, there will come a time when you can’t follow. The gods won’t allow it. You’ll have to let me go
alone.”
Without the hard work of the ax to keep me warm, the sweat on my body is starting to feel like icicles on my skin. “I know,
Titus. I know. Cerastes chose you, not me.”
I head back to my half-destroyed inn, not bothering to see if he follows.
On Titus’s and my insistence, Ma takes one of the guest rooms for the night, with its large, comfortable bed and dedicated
fireplace. Titus is way too large for the kitchen cot, so he ends up in the other guest room, and I’m the one stuck with the
cot. Which turns out to be fine; compared to sleeping on the ground out in the open, it’s pure luxury.
I expect to be up all night, my mind spinning, spinning, spinning with guilt about leaving, worry for my mother, still so
many unanswered questions about Titus’s quest. I’m surprised to wake into a bright morning and realize I slept like a fallen
log.
Ma has built up the fire in the hearth and is buzzing about the dining room like a woman half her age, gathering dishes and utensils, plucking a sprig of sage from the drying rack, wiping down the table as though it’s not already perfectly clean.
“Oh, look at that, you’re awake,” she says flatly, and I wonder if she woke me on purpose. “We have guests.”
“What?” I whip off the quilt and sit straight up. “It’s nearly winter!”
Ma begins setting the table. “They’ve been traveling since first light, and they’re hungry.”
I jump up and fold the quilt. I could use a fresh set of clothes, but I don’t know that I have the time to hunt some down.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Greet our guests; Titus is helping them stable their mules. Then change the bedding in the guest rooms. When you’re done,
join us for breakfast. I’m making oat porridge. I’m so glad I saved that honey!”
Quickly, I unbraid and rebraid my hair. Ma hands me a wooden cup with water, and I splash a little on my face, then swish
it around in my mouth before spitting it into the hearth. She gives my cheeks a reddening pinch, and then—as though I’m not
seventeen years old and a woman grown—she swats me on the bottom as I exit the dining room.
I must have slept late, because the sun is high, sending dappled shade through the trees, and chickadees are warbling that
it’s the most beautiful day in the whole history of days. Our stable is behind the inn and past the garden, tucked against
the cliffside for shelter. A path winds up the hill from there to pastureland for grazing, but guests must pay extra for that.
It’s a lean-to style stable, with six stalls all open to one side and a hitching post for overflow. Da always dreamed of building a fully enclosed carriage house with ten berths. We would have been able to afford it in a year or two.
Willow and Juniper share the largest stall at the far end; they don’t like humans much, but they sure do like each other,
and so long as they’re together, they’ll tolerate a daily milking without too much fuss. Their ears flick as I approach, and
Juniper lets out a low moan. It’s as enthusiastic a greeting as I’ve ever had from them.
In the next berths are Apple and Blackwind, who seem content to munch on fresh hay.
A rickety wagon is parked at the near end of the stable, heaped with belongings. A blanket hangs off the edge like a tattered
flag, as though it once concealed everything but has since been ruined by wind and rain. A little boy about five years old
sits on the edge of the wagon, his bare, dirt-blackened feet swinging back and forth. The boy’s sister—no older than seven—wrestles
with a nanny goat, trying to coax her into the stable.
Beneath the eaves, Titus is brushing down one of two dapple-gray mules, while a man and woman in dirty cloaks tend to the
mud-caked hoof of the other. I hope the mule has not pulled up lame, but if so, they got here just in time.
“Hello,” I say. “Welcome to the Three Corners Inn.”
The man stands, brushes off his knees, and takes my proffered hand. “I’m Calvus,” he says. He has close-cropped brown hair
and deep worry lines in his forehead that I’m certain are permanent. “This is my wife, Ovidia.”
Corthan names. They’re a long way from home.
The woman, Ovidia, looks up at me with a quick smile and wave, but goes right back to cleaning out the frog of her mule’s foot. She has pretty eyes with long lashes, and a jawline to make most men jealous.
“We won’t be staying long,” Calvus says. “Just one night to rest the girls.” He indicates the mules. “Then we’ll be on our
way to Ysavo.”
It’s hard to keep my expression pleasant. “The king’s road takes you past the base of the Spires,” I tell him. “The highest
mountains in the Sunderland. It’s impassable this time of year.”
Calvus shrugs. “We’ve made it this far.”
There’s a gauntness to his face, a hard gleam of desperation in his eyes. This family has been through something harrowing.
“Well, we’ll have guest rooms ready for you soon, and some oat porridge with honey.”
The little boy gasps, and his swinging feet go still.
“Wash up at the creek when you’re ready, and come on in. I’m Bria Angarsold, and it’s very nice to meet you. I see you’ve
already met Titus.”
“Titus?” the little boy says, staring in awe at the giant boy grooming his mule. “My name is Titus too!”
“It’s a strong Corthan name,” I tell him, with an amused glance at my Titus, who is giving the boy a shy grin. Of course Titus
didn’t think to introduce himself.
“We’ll have to decline the porridge,” Calvus says.
“Da!” the boy whines.