Chapter 11
Torver prays.
He prays silently to the place inside him where a god would be that the bothy will be empty.
But as they approach, he can hear deep, rumbling laughter. There could be anyone inside. A legion of criminals, perhaps even a squad of Enforcers.
In any case, the stone hut sounds as if it’s full of—Torver grimaces—men.
But it might be worth it in exchange for a cool, stone interior, a hearth to boil river water on, and some food.
Three things for which sun-addled, dehydrated, and entirely famished Torver is willing to risk it all.
Not thinking it through, he reaches for the rusty door handle.
And is stopped by a frantic squeeze of Bassen’s arm, linked through his.
“What about Lavellin?” she asks.
Torver turns. Two pairs of eyes fix him in place.
“Yes, what about Lavellin?” The fae puts its weight on one foot. Its hip swings out petulantly.
And with that, the thought it may be a spy crosses Torver’s mind unbidden—a thought he tries to push away. Even if it is here to work against them, they have more immediate issues. Beast below, he’s glad that Bassen stopped him before he opened that bothy door.
“You look fae,” he says, eyes raking over it.
“I should hope so,” it replies evenly.
Even with the headcloth hiding its ears, it glows as if lit from within. Its canines are long, sharp, tipped with gold. Its face is smooth, hair long, lips full and flush. It moves with a feminine grace, hinging from its narrow waist—but its chest is flat and strong, its stature tall, voice deep.
It could look human. Perhaps. If viewed through a fog.
But it’s something else in the clear air in front of him, something unnerving.
“I thought you said this headcloth would be enough.” Lavellin runs a hand over the fabric.
Bassen appraises it. “I’m not sure about up close.”
Lavellin rolls its eyes.
“Am I really that beautiful?” it drawls, throwing its hair over its shoulder. “Is it simply so obvious that I’m not one of you?”
It laughs and preens for them, which almost pries another smile from an unwilling Torver.
“I know you’re joking,” Bassen grumbles. “But yes.”
Lavellin’s chuckle fades slowly. Its expression changes to one of apprehension.
It says, “I didn’t want to do this…”
“Do what?” Torver frowns.
Lavellin removes the fabric from its head and it stands before them in its full glory.
The elongated ends of its ears poke through its hair, its skin butter-soft and poreless, eyes so disarmingly large and green that Torver feels pierced when it looks at him.
Its expression shifts to one of almost painful concentration.
Then the air between them moves.
Lavellin’s ears and canines shrink, the gold tips of its teeth become white, its skin dulls, its eyes turn an ugly shade of blue. Its hair even loses its glimmer, changing to a dirty blond colour. It stands before them, diminished.
Torver’s mouth drops open—another magic it can do? Is there no limit to its skills? He burns with irritation.
“Why the fuck didn’t you do that in the first place?” he hisses.
Lavellin doesn’t reply, its face tense and eyes locked on his in steady concentration. Its cheeks are tinged with the pink of held breath.
“Lavellin.” He pushes its sweat-damp shoulder and its concentration breaks.
A small gasp shutters from its mouth, its face releasing as its appearance snaps back to normal.
“I didn’t do that in the first place because glamouring is a lot of effort.” Its voice is edged in annoyance. “So much effort that I can’t even speak when I’m doing it. And I know how much you would miss my dulcet tones.”
Despite himself, Torver feels a jolt of sympathy. Although, he can’t pretend that the thought of it being unable to speak isn’t slightly appealing.
“I can’t do it for too long,” Lavellin warns them. “But it’s a useful magic to have. I can also glamour things that aren’t myself—if you ever see me stupified in concentration staring at someone, you can assume I’m glamouring them.”
“Show-off,” Torver grumbles.
Lavellin ignores that. “So, shall I do it? We couldn’t sleep in there, but we could stay there long enough to see if they have food, cool down out of the sun, rest…”
Torver raises a brow. That sounds like a dream, but—
“You want to rest?” he laughs, smug. “So you admit that the mighty and powerful fae get tired?”
“I’ve been rowing the three of us all day. Yes, I’m tired,” it tuts. “Still stronger than you, though.”
Bassen gets between them, shooting Torver a warning look that says behave. She turns to Lavellin.
“So,” she says, a hand on her hip. “We can’t stay in there for long and you won’t be able to bicker with Torver because you’ll be concentrating too hard to speak?”
“Essentially.”
“That sounds perfect,” she says and barges through them to push open the bothy door. Chuckling as Lavellin scrambles back under its glamour, Torver follows.
He had expected the door to creak dramatically. For it to squeal open to reveal a crowd of criminals all hunched around a pot of thin broth, sharpening knives and counting blood-spattered yan.
Instead, the well-oiled door opens easily and their entrance causes a brief and conspicuous silence, like laughter and amicable conversation have been interrupted.
Six pairs of politely smiling eyes investigate the newcomers from various positions on the floor—crouched over a card game, sprawled on a straw mattress while filing fingernails, polishing a pair of boots next to a cup of tea.
The frame certainly doesn’t have the melodrama that Torver had imagined.
The air is fragrant with the smell of lamb, and Torver can see not a watery broth, but a thick stew bubbling away on a fire at the edge of the room.
The man tending it seems to be mancing the flames bigger and smaller for his own amusement, making the stew bubble furiously and simmer quietly in turn.
Torver’s empty stomach lurches at the scent.
There seems to be another pot of water, and Torver nurtures a small hope that they might even have something stronger.
“Um, hello.” He cringes when he finds himself doing a little wave. “Mind if we join you?”
The burliest of the men shrugs. His dark hair is cropped close to his head and he has a swirling, black tattoo winding around his neck.
“Come in and rest a while,” the man says, his voice low. “Not safe out there, you know. Did you hear some filthy Rath breached the border? Probably came to snatch more children—got to have your wits about you. Shepherd’s stew in the pot—help yourselves.”
Torver and Bassen share a look before the man gestures to a spare corner with his playing card.
He turns back to his travel companions and continues the joke he had presumably been telling before their arrival.
Torver doesn’t quite get it—he supposes the setup is really what makes these things—and the men all burst into gruff, manly laughter.
Bassen and Torver exhale simultaneously in relief. Lavellin, looking both human and slightly in pain, just gazes blankly ahead, sweat gathering above its lip.
They go to the free corner and, lacking any supplies, sit straight on the cool flagstones.
They feel soothing under Torver’s overheated body, but he tenses when Bassen hesitantly removes her cloak.
From the corner of his eye, he watches the room.
But, to his relief, no one bats an eyelid that there is a young woman with a shock of white hair.
These men must be travelling to the Wen, rather than from it.
“Seems alright, doesn’t it?” Torver says quietly, leaning close to Bassen and Lavellin so that the other bothy-goers can’t hear. His mouth waters with the smell of the stew. “This will do for a while, until we’re rested. Won’t it?”
Bassen nods, looking around at the sparse furnishings of the stone hut. “It will… But Lavellin, you should probably have a lie down. You must be aching like mad.”
Lavellin barely reacts to her words; all it can manage is to shake its head slightly.
“Oh get off it, Lavellin.” Torver rolls his eyes. “We both saw you sweating and huffing on that boat. Your arms must be killing you. Go on, admit it.”
Slowly, its dull blue eyes turn and meet his as it arranges its face into the half-there semblance of a sly expression. The effort makes a bead of sweat gather at its temple and roll slowly down its face.
Bassen hits him on the shoulder.
“Behave yourself, Torv,” she says through gritted teeth. “Stay here and make sure it’s relaxed, I’ll get us some food and water.”
Bassen crosses the room, speaks with the man closest to the bubbling pot of stew, arranges the borrowing of bowls and spoons.
She offers him two tan for the stew itself and for some of the large pot of boiled river water cooling on the windowsill, but the man—smooth-shaven and about her age—won’t hear of it.
Not in the spirit of the bothy, he says.
While this is going on, Torver regards Lavellin wickedly. Unable to help himself.
“So you really can’t speak while you’re doing this, can you?” He can’t hide the devious edge to his voice.
Its eyes widen slightly and Torver’s mind fills with all the ways he can put it off. Not enough to make the glamour drop, but just enough to make it squirm; payback for the amount of times he’s had to look at its bare torso in the short time they’ve known each other.
But before he can put his plan to action, one of the six men dotted around the bothy strolls over and shakes his hand.
“The name’s Lowick, mind if I join you?” The large man has the accent of the west coast and the farmland on the undulating hills there. He addresses the question to Lavellin, looking at it through wide pupils.
“Not at all, not at all,” Torver says, smiling brightly while he inwardly winces. He’s bad at talking to big, manly men, never quite knows what to do with his hands. He deepens his voice to compensate, to sound as laddy as he can. “More the merrier, innit?”